The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

whisht! whisht! 'Tis it. And thou shalt have thy share. But betray me not.”

      “Monster!” cried Janet, drawing back from him with repugnance; “what, rob the blessed Virgin of her chain, and give it to an—”

      “You are none,” cried Clement exultingly, “or you had not recked for that-Mary!”

      “Ah! ah! ah!”

      “Thy patron saint, whose chain this is, sends me to greet thee”

      She ran screaming to the window and began to undo the shutters.

      Her fingers trembled, and Clement had time to debarass himself of his boots and his hat before the light streamed in upon him, He then let his cloak quietly fall, and stood before her, a Dominican friar, calm and majestic as a statue, and held his crucifix towering over her with a loving, sad, and solemn look, that somehow relieved her of the physical part of fear, but crushed her with religious terror and remorse. She crouched and cowered against the wall.

      “Mary,” said he gently; “one word! Are you happy?”

      “As happy as I shall be in hell.”

      “And they are not happy at the convent; they weep for you.”

      “For me?”

      “Day and night; above all, the Sister Ursula.”

      “Poor Ursula!” And the strayed nun began to weep herself at the thought of her friend.

      “The angels weep still more. Wilt not dry all their tears in earth and heaven and save thyself?”

      “Ay! would I could; but it is too late.”

      “Satan avaunt,” cried the monk sternly. “'Tis thy favourite temptation; and thou, Mary, listen not to the enemy of man, belying God, and whispering despair. I who come to save thee have been a far greater sinner than thou. Come, Mary, sin, thou seest, is not so sweet, e'n in this world, as holiness; and eternity is at the door.”

      “How can they ever receive me again?”

      “'Tis their worthiness thou doubtest now. But in truth they pine for thee. 'Twas in pity of their tears that I, a Dominican, undertook this task; and broke the rule of my order by entering an inn; and broke it again by donning these lay vestments. But all is well done, and quit for a light penance, if thou wilt let us rescue thy soul from this den of wolves, and bring thee back to thy vows.”

      The nun gazed at him with tears in her eyes. “And thou, a Dominican, hast done this for a daughter of St. Francis! Why, the Franciscans and Dominicans hate one another.”

      “Ay, my daughter; but Francis and Dominic love one another.”

      The recreant nun seemed struck and affected by this answer

      Clement now reminded her how shocked she had been that the Virgin should be robbed of her chain. “But see now,” said he, “the convent, and the Virgin too, think ten times more of their poor nun than of golden chains; for they freely trusted their chain to me a stranger, that peradventure the sight of it might touch their lost Mary and remind her of their love,” Finally he showed her with such terrible simplicity the end of her present course, and on the other hand so revived her dormant memories and better feelings, that she kneeled sobbing at his feet, and owned she had never known happiness nor peace since she betrayed her vows; and said she would go back if he would go with her; but alone she dared not, could not: even if she reached the gate she could never enter. How could she face the abbess and the sisters? He told her he would go with her as joyfully as the shepherd bears a strayed lamb to the fold.

      But when he urged her to go at once, up sprung a crop of those prodigiously petty difficulties that entangle her sex, like silken nets, liker iron cobwebs.

      He quietly swept them aside.

      “But how can I walk beside thee in this habit?”

      “I have brought the gown and cowl of thy holy order. Hide thy bravery with them. And leave thy shoes as I leave these” (pointing to his horseman's boots).

      She collected her jewels and ornaments.

      “What are these for?” inquired Clement.

      “To present to the convent, father.”

      “Their source is too impure.”

      “But,” objected the penitent, “it would be a sin to leave them here. They can be sold to feed the poor.”

      “Mary, fix thine eye on this crucifix, and trample those devilish baubles beneath thy feet.”

      She hesitated; but soon threw them down and trampled on them.

      “Now open the window and fling them out on that dunghill. 'Tis well done. So pass the wages of sin from thy hands, its glittering yoke from thy neck, its pollution from thy soul. Away, daughter of St. Francis, we tarry in this vile place too long.” She followed him.

      But they were not clear yet.

      At first the landlord was so astounded at seeing a black friar and a grey nun pass through his kitchen from the inside, that he gaped, and muttered, “Why, what mummery is this?” But he soon comprehended the matter, and whipped in between the fugitives and the door. “What ho! Reuben! Carl! Gavin! here is a false friar spiriting away our Janet.”

      The men came running in with threatening looks. The friar rushed at them crucifix in hand. “Forbear,” he cried, in a stentorian voice. “She is a holy nun returning to her vows. The hand that touches her cowl or her robe to stay her, it shall wither, his body shall lie unburied, cursed by Rome, and his soul shall roast in eternal fire.” They shrank back as if a flame had met them. “And thou—miserable panderer!”

      He did not end the sentence in words, but seized the man by the neck, and strong as a lion in his moments of hot excitement, hurled him furiously from the door and sent him all across the room, pitching head foremost on to the stone floor; then tore the door open and carried the screaming nun out into the road.

      “Hush! poor trembler,” he gasped; “they dare not molest thee on the highroad. Away!”

      The landlord lay terrified, half stunned, and bleeding; and Mary, though she often looked back apprehensively, saw no more of him.

      On the road he bade her observe his impetuosity.

      “Hitherto,” said he, “we have spoken of thy faults: now for mine. My choler is ungovernable; furious. It is by the grace of God I am not a murderer, I repent the next moment; but a moment too late is all too late. Mary, had the churls laid finger on thee, I should have scattered their brains with my crucifix, Oh, I know myself; go to; and tremble at myself. There lurketh a wild beast beneath this black gown of mine.”

      “Alas, father,” said Mary, “were you other than you are I had been lost. To take me from that place needed a man wary as a fox; yet bold as a lion.”

      Clement reflected. “This much is certain: God chooseth well his fleshly instruments; and with imperfect hearts doeth His perfect work, Glory be to God!”

      When they were near the convent Mary suddenly stopped, and seized the friar's arm, and began to cry. He looked at her kindly, and told her she had nothing to fear. It would be the happiest day she had ever spent. He then made her sit down and compose herself till he should return, He entered the convent, and desired to see the abbess.

      “My sister, give the glory to God: Mary is at the gate.”

      The astonishment and delight of the abbess were unbounded.

      She yielded at once to Clement's earnest request that the road of penitence might be smoothed at first to this unstable wanderer, and after some opposition, she entered heartily into his views as to her actual reception. To give time for their little preparations Clement went slowly back, and seating himself by Mary soothed her; and heard her confession.

      “The abbess has granted me that you shall propose your own penance.”

      “It