CHAPTER II.
The week was ended; it was Saturday, the eve of the ordination. The busy hands were at rest; harvest was garnered, the doors of the overflowing barns would hardly close. And the church too was to reap her harvest; the seed of faith, which the pious monks had sown, twenty years ago, in the heart of the tiny foundling, had grown fair and strong and full in ear. Donatus had just preached his first sermon before all the brethren; with a beating heart he had pronounced the final "Amen," his eyes flashing with sacred fires; his words had seemed to fly over the heads of the assembled brethren as if winged by the Holy Ghost. Nay, even after he had ended, the echo of his words sounded in the building, and they listened devoutly till it had quite died away. Then the Abbot rose and clasped the young man to his heart,
"Marvellous boy!" he exclaimed. "You came to us, a stranger, and we thought that we knew from whence you came, and believed that we should give to you out of our superfluity and teach you out of the stores of our wisdom. But now you give to us of your abundance and teach us by your wisdom so that we are fain to ask, 'Whence are you?' For it was not in the snows of the wild heath where you were picked up, nor between our humble convent-walls that you received such a divine revelation."
Donatus kissed his uncle's hand. "Oh father," he said softly, "I kiss your faithful and fatherly hand in all reverence, for it is the hand that has led me to that sacred fount whence I have drawn living waters for your refreshment. Nothing is my own, I have received everything from you, and to you I give it back, and whatever I am, that I am through you! I thank you, my father--I thank you, my brethren! To-day--on the eve of that sacred day--the day of my new birth in the Lord--let me offer you all in one word the thanks of a life-time."
And all the brethren--with the exception of that one who was always irreconcilable--crowded round him and grasped his hands affectionately. Aye! it was a rich and glorious harvest to the Lord that they were celebrating that day, and they were proud of it--proud of having brought up the boy so well--proud that they had all been so wise, and so good to him. Then the Abbot led him to the chapel that he might there make his last confession before the holy and solemn festival.
Long, long did Donatus kneel before the confessional, and the iron grating against which he pressed his brow was wet with his tears. For a secret sin had weighed upon his soul these three days past. "Oh father, father!" cried he from an oppressed heart, "I, your son, no longer appear before you pure as I did a few days since. Father! I dread to tell you. My eyes have drunk of the poison of woman's beauty and it courses through my veins like a consuming fire. Always--always--I see before me the light curling hair, the rosy cheeks, the white throat as I saw it when her robe fell back, when she took off the clasp--the whole lovely form and figure. Augustine speaks truly when he says, 'the eyes every day cast us into all sin and crime; what has been created that is more subtle than the eye?' My heart was pure, it harboured no thought but of God; but these eyes, subtle to betray me, have cast me into temptation, they have destroyed the peace of my soul, for even now they still bring the sinful image before my mind again and again. They paint it on the blue sky, on the pillars of the church, on my prayer-book--nay, on the altar-cloth. I see it wherever I turn my eyes, it comes between me and my prayers. Oh father, how dare I, with this snare in my soul, bow my head to receive the consecrating oil; will it not hiss and dry up as if it were poured on hot iron?"
"Calm yourself, my son," said the Abbot. "There can be no virtue without a struggle. To be tempted is not to sin, and I know that during the last three days you have mortified and scourged yourself severely, and for three nights have not sought your bed, but have knelt here on the stones of the chapel pavement. He who does such penance for a small fault must certainly win grace and pardon! But it is true that all sin comes of a wanton eye, and it is written in the VIth chapter of Matthew, 'If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light; but if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness.' So guard your eye henceforth, my son, and keep it single, that it may not gaze on forbidden things and that you may continue chaste and pure before God and man."
"Yes, father!" cried Donatus, raising his hand to Heaven. "And I here swear in the sight of all the Saints that I will act in accordance with your precepts. Never again shall my eye rest on the form of woman, never shall it be raised above the hem of her garment where it sweeps the ground, never will I be betrayed into a wish or a desire, or else may God's Grace abandon me, and may He cast me into the deepest damnation."
"Hold, pause, mad boy! That is a curse and not an oath," cried the horrified Abbot. "God's grace is far greater than your sick soul can imagine; He pities even the sinner, and judges him after the measure of his strength, not according to his guilt. Would you prevent God's grace and pronounce your own damnation when He in His eternal and fatherly mercies would most likely pardon you? Whither will your youthful vehemence carry you? Man may not purify himself by blind self-destroying zeal, but by faithful and humble submissiveness, by silent fulfilment of duty, by incessant inward struggles. Take this to heart, son of my soul, and may the Lord pardon you your wild mood; for you will fall again, and many a time, and must often need His saving grace."
It was now late; the door of the chapel closed behind the Abbot. Donatus' confession was over; he remained alone, praying on the steps of the altar.
There is silence in earth and Heaven, not a breeze stirs the air, there is not a sound in the valley below. All is at rest after labour accomplished, waiting for Sunday, the day of rejoicing.
For all the human beings down in the valley belong to the Church, literally body and soul, and when the Church rejoices they too rejoice. A church festival is a festival for them, and they know no others; on the eve of such a festival each one lays him down to sleep full of pious thoughts, so that no sinful dreams may scare away the angels which come down in the night to prepare the souls of the sleepers for the sacred day that is about to dawn. Silent, but busy the guardian spirits soar and float from hill to vale all the night through, till the sun rises and its first rays stream through the little cottage-windows, falling on the closed eyelids that open again to the light. Then the wakers rub their eyes with a wonderful sense of rapture. Sanctification lurks sweetly in their souls though hidden as yet and not fully understood, but in a few hours the consecrated lips of the Church will speak the words of absolution; then it will flash into consciousness like a revelation from Heaven.
The young novice for whom the festival was prepared was still lying on his face before his praying-stool, just as the Abbot had left him the evening before. All the night through he had lain there and prayed without moving, the bridegroom of Heaven; he had triumphed through fervent prayer, and overthrown all that was earthly. He had purified himself in the fires of devotion, and his soul burned and glowed whole and undivided for Her, the celestial Bride. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks pale with watching and prayer. For what prayer could indeed be strong, eager, and fervent enough to merit that grace of which no mortal is worthy, and least of all he--he the weak and erring novice who had scarcely mounted the first step towards perfection.
The morning-sun streamed brightly down on the towers and pinnacles of Marienberg, and threw golden disks of light through the circular panes on to the pavement of the silent chapel. The penitent saw them not, it was still night to him, for he lay there with his face closely hidden in his clasped hands.
The bell rang for matins; up flew the angels from the valley to rouse the bridegroom, and he felt their palm-branches waving over his head. He roused himself from his acts of contrition, and hastened to the dormitory to dress, that he might appear in festive attire as a bridegroom, to receive that invisible Bride to whom his whole heart went forth in rapture.
Meanwhile down in the valley all were awake and busy; all souls were purified from sinful thoughts, and water from the sparkling mountain springs served to cleanse all bodies from the soil of labour. Rosy baby faces came out from the fresh moisture under their mothers' busy hands, like flowers after rain, with their bright shining eyes that looked undimmed upon the world. And many a wrinkle of care and weariness was washed from the brow of the old by the pure wonder-working glacier waters; the every day frock of frieze was exchanged for a decent Sunday dress of stuff, camlet or even better material. The maidens put on white linen gowns--the garb of innocence--not without a happy thrill of veneration, for they were to accompany the bridegroom as bridesmaids, when he walked in procession round the church; then they went out into the little gardens, resplendent with the glories of summer, carefully holding up their white gowns in the narrow paths that they might not sweep the dewy borders; they plucked the ever-sacred elder which must never be wanting at any solemnity whether joyful or sad; a few sprigs of hazel because under it the Blessed Virgin once took shelter in a storm, for which reason it has ever since been blest with peculiar and marvellous powers; then the juniper with its blackberries, from which the wholesome juniper-spirit is extracted, that they burn to counteract the evil spring-mists; tall-grown lilies and humble daisies--which blossomed under Mary's tears when she was forced to fly into Egypt; marjoram, rue, and thyme--potent against all devilry; rosemary, hawkweed, and ground-ivy--all sacred blossoms and plants that grow under fortunate stars. Of these the girls made the festal garlands, carefully selecting the flowers according to their emblematic significance. Last of all they clambered up to break off some boughs of the Rosa pomifera, which first sprang from the innocent bloodshed by a pure maiden; which grew luxuriantly, high up on the wall, and when they tried to pull a branch that was too tough to yield, a sparkling shower of dew was shaken down upon them so that they had to take hasty flight with laughter and clamour as though from some saucy teasing companion. Presently the tramp of horses coming from the direction of Mals broke the morning stillness. One of the girls in the garden farthest from the village peeped over the wall at the approaching party. A lady was riding foremost, she had given the reins to the horse and came rapidly onward, followed by two women on horseback and a few men servants; by her side rode a tall knight to guide and protect her. Close to the wall the lady paused and signed to the astonished girl. "Here--are they not going to ordain one of the monks up at the monastery to-day?" she called out.
"Yes--the bell will ring directly," was the answer.
The lady threw her bridle to the rider by her side and sprang from the horse before a servant could come to her assistance.
"Will you give me your linen frock?" she went on. "I will pay you for it as if it were a royal robe."
The girl laughed; she thought the lady was jesting.
"Come round and let me in," commanded the stranger.
"Dear Countess--I beg of you--what have you taken into your head?" whispered the knight.
"I am going to the consecration of this priest," said the Countess laughing. "But I must not be recognised and shall mingle with the peasant girls--do you understand?"
"But consider, I beg of you, such a proceeding is most unbecoming for you," remonstrated the knight.
"I know best what is or is not becoming for myself. You others must ride off by another way, up to where the ruins of the old fortress of Castellatz will afford you shelter against sun or rain; there you must remain concealed till we proceed on our journey."
"Could we not find shelter in the convent itself," said the knight, "as we did lately with the Duchess?"
The Countess laughed. "And do you think those strict old gentlemen would receive a wandering maid-of-honour--particularly on a day so solemn? You little know them. Do as I desire you, my Lord, and your obedience shall meet with its reward," she added with a meaning glance of such promise as brought the blood to her companion's cheeks for joy.
"Oh! what a beautiful wreath," she exclaimed, as she went to the girl who stood waiting for her. "You must give me that too." Her long train disappeared behind the wall and the little door closed behind her. There was nothing left for the knight but to console himself by doing her bidding and to ride slowly away.
"What can she want up there?" muttered he, shaking his head and carefully leading away her horse by the bridle. If the horse could have spoken it might have told him--it had carried her on its back that day when she had entered the convent-yard and had seen the young monk for the first time.--But snort and blow as it would it could say nothing and the little procession moved off in silence, behind the village, and through the dewy woods up to the lonely hill of Castellatz.
The great bell of Marienberg was already tolling, the bell that was the wonder of the whole neighbourhood and whose mighty voice could be heard afar over hill and valley. The boys of the village had long since gone up to help to pull the rope, for the sound of that bell had a particular sanctity, and besides it was excellent fun to fly up and down hanging to the rope. The maidens with their large bunches of flowers walked properly close to their parents, and their hearts beat in their young breasts with high and holy festival joy. Thus they all mounted the hill in devotional silence, and high up over the church door stood troops of angels with seraphs' wings more radiant than the sun, inviting the people who came pouring in from far and near in their holiday dresses, to enter their Father's hospitable mansion where they were welcomed with incense and myrrh and green garlands.
The floor of the church trembled under the feet of the crowds that flocked in, and those who could not find room within knelt down outside; for a long, long way round the church the eye could see nothing but kneeling figures, and as the people could not come in to the church, the Church went forth to the people. Just as in spring-time the streams overflow their banks or as a too full heart overflows in moments of supreme joy, so the Church in her hour of highest happiness outstepped her walls of stone and poured her blessing on the crowds outside. When the ceremony of ordination and the high mass were over the solemn procession came out under the open heaven. "They are coming--they are coming!" cried one and another; and amid the ringing of bells, the roar of the organ and the jubilant strains of flutes, harps, psalteries and cymbals, out they marched with banners flying, in white surplices; first the musicians, then the choristers, swinging the censers, while the girls formed a line on each side and strewed flowers in the way. Then came the standard bearers with the banner with the image of the Virgin, which was embroidered by the Lady Uta; the deacons with lighted tapers in their hands forming an escort for the Abbot who carried the Host, and gave his blessing to all; last of all the troop of priests with the newly ordained brother in their midst, walking under the protection of the sacred banners that had been dedicated to the convent by pious hands. The kneeling people reverently made way on each side so that the procession might pass through and bestow salvation on all sides. A scarcely suppressed cry of admiration trembled on every lip, as the young priest made his appearance. He wore a long white surplice, the Alb, which was girt round his slim form with a golden girdle; a richly embroidered stole was crossed on his breast and from his shoulders fell the black folds of his cope, while on his head, as signifying innocence and purity, rested the festal chaplet and a wreath of white roses--he came onwards, his head modestly bent, as if the honours of this day were crushing him to the earth.
The girls strewed his path with the flowers and plants of good omen that they had gathered in the morning and his feet fell softly on them, so close was the green carpet they made. But suddenly he started as if he had trodden on a thorn. It was only a word that struck him, and with the word a glance. "What a pity!" one of the girls had said to herself, and as he involuntarily looked round, his eye met a glance so appealing, so touching, from such a lovely face--and that face! he knew it so well. And yet how could it be? A peasant-girl and that haughty maid-of-honour, how could they be alike? But the resemblance was so striking that he stood as if blinded by a flash, struck to his inmost core; only for a second, no longer than it takes to draw a deep breath or to snatch a flower as you are passing by, but his foot stumbled as he walked on, as if he were in too great haste to make up for some long delay. On they went, making three circuits round the hill, each wider than the last, till the very last of the crowd of believers had shared the blessing for which he had waited so patiently.
Out at the farthest edge of the hill, almost at the brink of the precipice, knelt a poor, pale woman with grey hair, miserably clad in rags; she looked longingly up at the young priest as if she were gazing at celestial bliss. And close beside her, also clothed in rags, crouched a being of strange aspect--half child, half girl--with a mass of reddish-brown hair, and large round eyes with golden lights in them under dark brows that met in the middle; eyes that looked dreamily out on the world as if the soul behind them were sleeping still at mid-day, and yet moved in its sleep--as a golden owl spreads its gorgeous plumage in the sunshine while night still reigns to its dazzled eyes, "dark with excess of light." But the strange looking little creature started up as if suddenly awakened, and grasped the woman's arm in alarm. "Look there, is that an angel?" she asked, pointing to the slight figure of Donatus who was coming near them--now close to them, and the child trembled and shrank back, as from some dread apparition, behind her companion, who furtively put out her lean hand, and seizing a fold of his robe pressed it to her lips. "Donatus, my son, do you not know me?" she murmured. The young man looked enquiringly at her. She held up before him a tiny cross of rough wood made of two sticks nailed together, and as if by the waving of a magic wand all the long years vanish, and he sees before him the autumn-tinted arbour where one evening--so long ago--he played at the feet of "his mother," as he had always called her--he sees the little grave-mound, and on it the cross that he himself had made; then they snatch him from his mother's arms, the cruel dark man seizes him, he sees her weep and clings to her knee--and a home-sick longing for all that has vanished, for the warm shelter of a mother's breast--the bitter home-sickness of a life-time is reawakened in his heart.
And then--the procession of lofty inaccessible beings moved on, and he with them! One more unperceived glance round, one hasty look; he saw the poor soul stretch out her arms after him, and then fall forward on her face. He had not been able even to ask her the simple question, "Mother, where do you live and where can I find you?" He saw that she was starving and he could not even carry a bit of bread to her who had nourished him so that he had grown to strength and manhood, to her who had given her heart's blood for him! And two bitter tears dropped trembling from his lashes and fell into the daisies, which had sprung from the tears of the Mother of God as she fled homeless into the desert--and the little flowers seemed to look up at him with answering eyes, and to ask, "For which mother are you weeping?" His eyes fell for shame before the innocent blossoms that he trod under his foot. The unutterable sorrows of the Virgin-Mother were revealed to him in all their greatness through the woes of his outcast foster-mother; what must She have suffered who bore to see the God who was her son slain like a lamb! And could he weep over the sorrows of the nurse who had not borne him--who need not see him die as Mary had seen her divine son--nailed to the cross by cruel hands? "Mary, eternal Mother--forgive, forgive that I could forget Thee for the sake of any earthly woman. My tears are Thine alone--and I could weep for another!--forgive, forgive!" Thus he prayed and raised his eyes in penitence to the floating banner which went on before him, waving in all its splendour in the fresh mountain breeze.
This was the blessing that the daisies had brought him and he thanked the hand that had gathered them. If only it were not the hand of the rosy girl with alluring eyes who had made him start and stumble by her resemblance to the lady who had robbed him of his peace? How much fairer too was she in the simple linen frock than the haughty maid-of-honour in her sinful attire! and the two were so alike, so indistinguishable that it might be easily thought that the peasant girl was in fact the maid-of-honour herself.
Oh! Heavenly Mercy! again these earthly thoughts, and on his festal-day--his wedding-day! For the first time in his life he had passed beyond the shelter of the cloister-walls, and he felt already how the world stretched forth its arms to tempt him--fear and trembling came upon him. Could those arms reach him in the midst of all this wealth of mercies? Woe unto him! for the greater the grace the more fearful the retribution if it were not deserved--the greater the elevation the deeper the fall. "Beware, beware," he said to himself, and a cold sweat of anguish stood in drops on his shaven head under the chaplet of roses.
The circuit was over, and it was high time, for he felt that he was on the point of fainting; the night spent in prayer and scourging, the fervour which had fired his blood were taking their revenge and he was exhausted to death. The procession turned towards the church again, the white-robed maidens forming a passage as before; once more he stood in their midst, he the pure and pious youth who of all men could never divine how the operation of a blessing could turn to a curse in the unhallowed soul! Another glance at that sweet face with its blue eyes would be rapture--but he resisted it. With a beating heart and tightly closed lids he walked on, and only breathed again when he found himself once more within the cool, protecting walls of the church.
The ceremony was over, the crowd was dispersing, all was silent again; he was alone, prostrate before the altar and still wrapt in prayer. But the maidens of Burgeis had stayed to pray too--the old folks would go slowly and they could soon overtake them; they would not go away so long as the young priest remained there. At last he rose and they pressed round him, as round a saint; they were eager to lay the few flowers they had left, at his feet on the altar steps--and the first to touch him--on whom his eye unconsciously fell was she--whom he dreaded and yet longed for! She was standing close to him like a bride in her white dress, crowned with a festal wreath of flowers; half-shy, half-forward, her eye full of intoxicating invitation. How happy must the man be into whose hands she would resign that maidenly crown as now she lay the flowers at his feet! And without knowing or intending it, his lips repeated the words she had spoken before, "What a pity!" But as the faint murmur left his lips it seemed suddenly to grow to an avalanche in his ears and to sound like the crashing thunder-roll that follows it. Could he say this--he, and to-day! And his oath of yesterday! Alas! what was sacred, what was sure? The walls of the church tottered, the flames of the tapers danced before his eyes in wild circles, he felt dizzy, he saw nothing but bewitching eyes, glowing cheeks, and white arms stretched out towards him. He must be steadfast, he must not fall or they will reach him, bend over him, ensnare him with their love-spells. If he can only get as far as the door of the sacristy without falling--if he can reach that he will be safe! But it is so far, so much too far, he can support himself no longer--he falls; there--they are there--they fling themselves upon him, he feels soft arms supporting his head--one glance into the dewy blue eyes that are close to his--. And he is lost--his consciousness drowned in a deep blue sea.