"And a letter from you, was our first comfort!" was the inward response of the Marchioness, though her lips made no reply. She left that to the calmer reason of her husband.
The letter, her thoughts referred to, was from de Montemar to Ferdinand, in answer to one, wherein he enlarged on Marcella's changed wishes with regard to a monastic life. When Louis came to that subject, without being aware of the clearness with which his words unfolded his own heart, he wrote as follows:
"I begin to think my probationary conflicts, instead of confirming my spirit, have, in some cases at least, a contrary effect. I felt so much in reading your sister's wish to bury herself from all she has hitherto blessed with her virtues, that—I wish I could for ever be kept in ignorance of the time when she is really professed. At least, Ferdinand, do you refrain from telling it to me, and I shall not dread to open your letters."
Ferdinand shewed this paragraph to his mother. The lamp in his own soul had discovered sleeping love, in every unconscious line. The Marchioness had observed the powerful impression which de Montemar made on the memory of her daughter, when she first admired his filial enthusiasm in the Val del Uzeda. From that hour, her distaste, as well as her religious opinions, was adverse to a monastic vow. But when her awakened sensibility comprehended the feelings of her brother; though unconscious of the new principle within her, which pleaded his cause even against her own heart, she became willing to sacrifice herself for his happiness. In Barbary, as in Spain, she found nothing but what increased her admiration, even to reverence, in the devoted son of the misled Duke de Ripperda. And, being so devoted a son, it never crossed the pure heaven of her mind, that any idea of her, but as a sister of Mercy, could ever occur to his heart. She believed, that she also thought of him as a "thing enskied and sainted," and that his remembrance would be as innoxious to her peace, after they had separated for ever in this world, as that of the most lovely characters she had read of, who were now in the grave; but whose society would be one of her felicities in the life to come.
But she deceived herself. The sting was in her heart. She saw Louis de Montemar no more, but his image was ever before her, his words, his looks, his actions; and, finding the secret of her soul, in its anguish and her despair; she every hour urged her parents to shut her up from the world, which contained the object who made her feel that she was no longer mistress of herself. This fatal secret she revealed to no one. It preyed upon her heart, and her life; and, not until the Marchioness was secluded with her in the convent of the Ursalines, did she penetrate its depth and power. She also had wept in silence, over what she had too soon discerned; this unhappy, unuttered passion: and a sad immature grave, seemed ever opening before the feet of her most loved child.
But, when her eyes fell on the paragraph concerning Marcella, in the letter from Louis to Ferdinand, she became convinced that the tenderness was mutual; and that mutual was the hopelessness and misery.
Without appearing to design any peculiar communication to her daughter, she read the letter to her; and dwelt with particular emphasis on that comprehensive sentence. Marcella listened, as if transfixed by a shaft. She durst not receive its import; she feared there would be crime in even wishing it real; although her abbess aunt had put a decisive on her monastic intentions, by telling her there would be positive guilt in her becoming a Catholic nun, with her religious reservations.
"Not a nun!" murmured she to herself, "but I have never been allowed to consider myself with any connection with the world. I feel as if I sinned in the very wish! and I must be a recluse." She leaned her throbbing head upon her hand. "My child," said her mother, tenderly drawing near her; "what do you think of de Montemar's animated gratitude, in these touching sentiments?"
"That it is gratitude!" replied Marcella, rising with a forced smile, "and I am obliged to him for anticipating a pity, which my aunt teaches me, I cannot with conscience put myself into the condition to merit."
"And do you see no more than gratitude and compassion here?" asked the Marchioness, re-reading the passage, and holding her daughter's arm while she did so. "Were I to speak what I think, this matchless young man loves you!"