The Betrothed Part 9

"Villain! scoundrel! talk to your equals," said Don Roderick; "but thank the habit you bear for saving you from the chastis.e.m.e.nt which is your due. Begone this instant, and with unscathed limbs, or we shall see."

So saying, he pointed imperiously to an opposite door. The friar bowed his head, and departed, leaving Don Roderick to measure with hasty and agitated steps the field of battle.

When he had closed the door behind him, the father perceived a man stealing softly away through another, and he recognised him as the aged domestic who had been his guide to the presence of Don Roderick. Before the birth of that n.o.bleman, he had been in the service of his father, who was a man of a very different character. At his death, the new master expelled all the domestics, with the exception of this one, whom he retained on account of two valuable qualifications; a high conception of the dignity of the house, and a minute knowledge of the ceremonial required to support that dignity. The poor old man had never dared even to hint disapprobation of the daily proceedings at the castle before the signor, but he would sometimes venture to allow an exclamation of grief and disapproval to escape him before his fellow servants, who were infinitely diverted by his simple honesty, and his warm love of the good old times. His censures did not reach his master's ears unaccompanied by a relation of the raillery bestowed upon them, so that he became an object of general ridicule. On the days of formal entertainment, therefore, the old man was a person of great importance.

Father Christopher bowed to him as he pa.s.sed by him, and pursued his way; but the old man approached him with a mysterious air, and made a sign that he should follow him into a dark pa.s.sage, where, speaking in an under tone, he said, "Father! I have heard all, and I want to speak to you."

"Speak at once, then, good man."

"Here! oh no! Woe be to us if the master suspect it! But I shall be able to discover much, and I will endeavour to come to-morrow to the convent."

"Is there any base plot?"

"There is something hatching, certainly; I have long suspected it; but now I shall be on the look out, and I will come at the truth. These are strange doings--I live in a house where----But I wish to save my soul."

"G.o.d bless you!" said the friar, placing his hands on his head, as he bent reverently towards him; "G.o.d reward you! Do not forget then to come to-morrow."

"I will not," replied the domestic; "but go, now, for the love of Heaven, and do not betray me."

So saying, he looked cautiously on all sides, and led the way through the pa.s.sage into a large hall, which fronted the court-yard, and pointing to the door, silently bade him "Farewell."

When once in the street, and freed from this den of depravity, the father breathed more freely; he hastened down the hill, pale in countenance, and agitated and distressed by the scene he had witnessed, and in which he had taken so leading a part. But the unlooked-for proffer of the servant came like a cordial. It seemed as if Heaven had sent a visible sign of its protection--a clue to guide him in his intricate undertaking--and in the very house where it was least likely to be found. Occupied with these thoughts, he raised his eyes towards the west, and beheld the sun declining behind the mountain, and felt that he had but a few minutes in which to reach the monastery, without violating the absolute law of the capuchins, that none of the brotherhood should remain beyond the walls after sunset.

Meanwhile, in the cottage of Lucy there had been plans agitated of which it is necessary to inform the reader. After the departure of the father, they had continued some time in silence; Lucy, with a heavy heart, prepared the dinner; Renzo, wavering and anxious, knew not how to depart; Agnes was apparently absorbed with her reel, but she was really maturing a thought, which she in a few moments thus declared:--

"Listen, my children. If you will have the necessary courage and dexterity; if you will confide in your mother; I pledge myself to free you from perplexity, sooner than Father Christopher could do, although he is the best man in the world." Lucy looked at her mother with an expression of astonishment rather than confidence, in a promise so magnificent. "Courage! dexterity!" cried Renzo, "say, say, what can I do?"

"Is it not true," said Agnes, "that if you were married, your chief difficulty would be removed, and that for the rest we would easily find a remedy!"

"Undoubtedly," said Renzo, "if we were married--The world is before us; and at a short distance from this, in Bergamo, a silk weaver is received with open arms. You know how often my cousin Bartolo has solicited me to go there, and enter into business with him; how many times he has told me that I should make a fortune, as he has done; and if I never listened to his request, it was--because my heart was here. Once married, we would all go together, and live happily far from the clutches of this villain, far from the temptation to do a rash deed. Is it not so, Lucy?"

"Yes," said Lucy, "but how----"

"As I said," resumed Agnes, "courage and dexterity, and the thing is easy."

"Easy!" exclaimed they, in wonder.

"Easy," replied Agnes, "if you are prudent. Hear me patiently, and I will endeavour to make you comprehend my project. I have heard it said by persons who knew, and moreover I have seen one instance of it myself, that a curate's _consent_ is not necessary to render a marriage ceremony lawful, provided you have his presence."

"How so?" asked Renzo.

"You shall hear. There must be two witnesses, nimble and cunning. You go to the curate; the point is to catch him unexpectedly, that he may have no time to escape. You say, 'Signor Curate, this is my wife;' Lucy says, 'Signor Curate, this is my husband;' you must speak so distinctly that the curate and the witnesses hear you, and the marriage is as inviolable as if the pope himself had celebrated it. When the words are once uttered, the curate may fret, and fume, and scold; it will be of no use, you are man and wife."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Lucy.

"Do you think," said Agnes, "that the thirty years I was in the world before you, I learned nothing? The thing is as I tell you."

The fact was truly such as Agnes represented it; marriages contracted in this manner were at that time held valid. Such an expedient was, however, not recurred to, but in cases of great necessity, and the priests made use of every precaution to avoid this compulsive co-operation.

"If it be true, Lucy!" said Renzo, regarding her attentively, with a supplicating expression.

"_If_ it be true!" exclaimed Agnes. "Do you think I would say that which is _not_ true? Well, well, get out of the difficulty as you can, I wash my hands from it."

"Ah, no! do not abandon us!" said Renzo; "I mean not to suggest a doubt of it. I place myself in your hands; I look to you as to a mother."

The momentary anger of Agnes vanished.

"But why, mamma," said Lucy, in her usual modest tone, "why did not Father Christopher think of this?"

"Think you that it did not come into his mind?" replied Agnes; "but he would not speak of it."

"Why?" exclaimed they, both at once.

"Why?--because, if you must know it, the friars do not approve of it."

"If it is not right," said Lucy, "we must not do it."

"What!" said Agnes, "do you think I would advise you to do that which is not right? If, against the advice of your parents, you were going to marry a rogue--but, on the contrary, I am rejoiced at your choice, and he who _causes_ the disturbance is the only villain; and the curate----"

"It is as clear as the sun," said Renzo.

"It is not necessary to speak of it to Father Christopher," continued Agnes. "Once over, what do you think he will say to you? 'Ah! daughter, it was a great error; but it is done.' The friars must talk thus; but, believe me, in his heart he will be well content."

Lucy made no reply to an argument which did not appear to her very powerful; but Renzo, quite encouraged, said, "If it be thus, the thing is done."

"Softly," said Agnes; "there is need of caution. We must procure the witnesses; and find means to present ourselves to the curate unexpectedly. He has been two days concealed in his house; we must make him remain there. If he suspects your intention, he will be as cunning as a cat, and flee as Satan from holy water."

Lucy here gained courage to offer her doubts of the propriety of such a course. "Until now we have lived with candour and sincerity," said she; "let us continue to do so; let us have faith in G.o.d, and G.o.d will aid us. Father Christopher said so: let us listen to his advice."

"Be guided by those who know better than you do," said Agnes gravely.

"What need of advice? G.o.d tells us, 'Help thyself, and I will help thee.' We will tell the father all about it, when it is over."

"Lucy," said Renzo, "will you fail me now? Have we not done all that we could do, like good Christians? Had not the curate himself fixed the day and the hour? And whose is the blame if we are now obliged to use a little management? No, you will not fail me. I go at once to seek the witnesses, and will return to tell you my success." So saying, he hastily departed.

Disappointment sharpens the wit; and Renzo, who, in the straightforward path he had hitherto travelled, had not been required to subtilise much, now conceived a plan which would have done honour to a lawyer. He went directly to the house of one Anthony, and found him in his kitchen, employed in stirring a _polenta_ of wheat, which was on the fire, whilst his mother, brother, and his wife, with three or four small children, were seated at the table, eagerly intent on the earthen pan, and awaiting the moment when it should be ready for their attack. But, on this occasion, the pleasure was wanting which the sight of dinner usually produces in the aspect of the labourer who has earned it by his industry. The size of the _polenta_ was proportioned to the scantiness of the times, and not to the number and appet.i.te of the a.s.sailants: and in casting a dissatisfied look on the common meal, each seemed to be considering the extent of appet.i.te likely to survive it. Whilst Renzo was exchanging salutations with the family, Tony poured out the pudding on the pewter trencher prepared for its reception, and it appeared like a little moon within a large circ.u.mference of vapour. Nevertheless, the wife of Tony said courteously to Renzo, "Will you be helped to something?" This was a compliment that the peasants of Lombardy, however poor, paid to those who were, from any accident, present at their meals.

"I thank you," replied Renzo; "I only came to say a few words to Tony; and, Tony, not to disturb your family, we can go and dine at the inn, and we shall then have an opportunity to converse." The proposal was as agreeable as it was unexpected. Tony readily a.s.sented to it, and departed with Renzo, leaving to his family his portion of the _polenta_.

They arrived at the inn, seated themselves at their ease in a perfect solitude, since the penury of the times had driven away the daily frequenters of the place. After having eaten, and emptied a bottle of wine, Renzo, with an air of mystery, said to Tony, "If you will do me a small service, I will do you a _great_ one."

"Speak, speak, command me," said Tony, filling his gla.s.s; "I will go through fire to serve you."

"You are twenty-five livres in debt to the curate, for the rent of his field, that you worked last year."

"Ah! Renzo, Renzo! why do you mention it to me now? You've spoiled your kindness, and put to flight my good wishes."

"If I speak to you of your debt," said Renzo, "it is because I intend to give you the means of paying it."

"Do you really?"

"Really; would this content you?"