Part 8

On hearing this the good sisters were more puzzled than ever. One thing, however, was certain. Elsbeth was the medium through which the evil spirit gained entrance. Through her he was trying to draw the Mother Superior into his toils, and thus work the ruin of the convent.

After sifting conflicting opinions, they decided that she should be confined within her room for a month. During that time she was not to see nor hold converse with any one. Food and drink would be placed at her door at regular intervals.

The first days of confinement were lonely. The lute was gone. There was nothing for company. Nor did the first week of confinement have any effect upon exorcising the demon. Each night the trembling old women gathered in the Superior’s room to watch with terrified eyes while the motionless lute made music.

Elsbeth’s only amusement was to stand on tiptoe and look out through the swinging square of the window. It was so high that she could not see anything immediately below. One day while she was standing on tiptoe peering out, her knees, trembling with the strain, struck a projection of the grooved wood, and she felt the wall yield as if a door were there.

Getting down on her knees, she scrutinized every curve of the decorative wood to see if a spring could be found. She knew the room had belonged to the old Baron who built the castle, and that it was unlike the others. Since the hidden spring--if such an one there were--did not disclose itself to the eye, she determined to follow with her fingers every scroll of the panel, pressing evenly upon each in turn.

About half-way up to the lower edge of the window, at about the height where her knees had been, a whorl of polished wood slipped from sight. The panel swung out and the level lake lay before her. Leaning out, she found that the stairway which she had seen from the edge of the water was within reach. This was the old Baron’s place of secret exit.

That night, when the unknown serenader touched his lute, she opened the door, swung lightly to the stair top and motioned silence. The listening sisters, who heard the music begin, then cease abruptly, were filled with thankfulness. After waiting an hour and hearing no recurrent sound, they crept back to their beds, secure in the thought that the exorcising of the demon had begun.

In a little boat at the foot of the stairs sat a man holding a jeweled lute. It seemed to Elsbeth that she had always known him. He looked just like the men with whom she had been acquainted for years in her dreams. Like them, he was dark and young. Like them, too, he was handsome and had come to fetch her in a boat. He wore the costume of an Hungarian nobleman of the middle of the sixteenth century: a light blue mantle fancifully braided, of Polish cut, thrown coquettishly over one shoulder, called in those days _kabodion_; black velvet breeches, a round-topped hat and a tight-fitting dress coat, such as were worn by men of birth, called _mente_. Years of silence had thrown her so completely upon herself for companionship that it had become difficult to tell the real from the unreal. The one who waited in the boat was merely a proof of the reality of dreams.

He, on his part, saw a girl-woman of magnificent proportions coming swiftly down the steps. Upon her head a halo of little curls shone in the light. Her face was very white, but in her eyes there was the look with which La Fiorita had gone to meet her lovers. So familiarly did she hasten to him that he felt himself drawn within the magic circle of her day dreams, where nothing was impossible, and held out his hands impulsively to help her to a seat.

Yet, how can any one tell in what other life we have met, how close the tie that bound us, whose fibers vibrate on in this!

“Where shall we go?” he asked, admiration shining in his eyes.

“Down there, around the bend of the lake, where the sisters cannot hear our voices.”

He bent to the oars, and a silver furrow stretched behind them. Meanwhile Elsbeth looked attentively at her companion. His youth pleased her. He was the only one she had met who was young like herself.

Prince Ràkoczi was about twenty-eight. He had been married some years to an Italian woman many years his senior. The Princess--known as the Princess of the Bloody Heart, because of a heart of rubies which she invariably wore--was descended from the Italian house of Montanelli. The head of this house was known throughout Europe for the making of skillful and artistic instruments of torture. It was due to her father, Alonzo Montanelli, that in that age murder had reached the dignity of a fine art, and was accompanied by the exquisite decorative setting that befits a fête. The name, Montanelli, was password to every torture chamber of Europe.

Once around the bend, she said: “Where are we going?”

“To my chapel yonder.”

“Shall we be alone?”

“Quite alone.”

“Then I will play upon your lute.”

“You shall have another like it for yourself,” he said, handing it toward her, while the moon found the heart of a crimson stone and flashed red light upon his hand.

At sight of the richly lighted chapel, her eyes shone like a little child’s at sight of a Christmas tree. So great was her capacity for happiness that she forgot the past in the pleasure of a moment.

He led her into the chapel. “You cannot imagine what I thought when I first saw you. I thought that you were the original of a picture that hangs here. That Magdalene is not a painter’s dream. It is the portrait of the woman whom my father loved. During my mother’s life the picture was not hung. It was only after I came into possession of the estate that it was taken from its place of concealment. It is La Fiorita, a dancing girl whom my father knew in Venice in his youth.” Looking up, Elsbeth saw a voluptuous Venetian beauty, whose face stirred vague memories.

When they rowed back to the convent, the moon was low in the sky. The lake was dull and tarnished. In the tops of the trees a crisp wind shivered that told of dawn.

During the days that followed, Elsbeth was glad of her imprisonment. She escaped the sisters’ prying eyes. They who live in solitude are skilled in reading the heart.

Each night the Prince came for her, and they drifted down the lake, explored its recesses, improvised upon their lutes within the chapel, or reclined upon the steps to talk of love. In this way a month passed away.

To the good sisters of St. Euthymius the month had brought comfort. The evil spirit was controlled and put to flight. They could sleep in peace, their timid old hearts untroubled by fear. Now the lute hung silent upon the wall. There had been no recurrence of the melody. The prayerful penance of Elsbeth had exorcised the demon.

The Superior called a council. It was agreed that Elsbeth should spend another month in prayer and silence. When the word was brought to her, she received it humbly. The Superior’s heart was filled with gratitude. Her patience was bearing fruit.

One night, after the beginning of the second month, when Elsbeth and Prince Ràkoczi entered the chapel, he rushed to fasten the door that communicated with the castle.

“Why do you do that?” inquired Elsbeth.

“The Princess has arrived. Of course there is little danger of her coming here. Yet it is best to be safe.”

Then they forgot about her in their love and joy in each other, and set about perfecting plans for Elsbeth’s escape from the convent.

“Listen, little one,” the Prince continued, drawing her to him, while the candles struck rich colors from his braided _kabodion_ and accented the pallor of his face. “It is arranged for to-morrow night. A larger boat and two oarsmen will come for us here. They will row us to the end of the lake. There an old servant will await us with a carriage. He will take you to a hunting lodge of mine, to the east of here, near the Bohemian Forest. There, as soon as I can make arrangements, I will join you, and together we will go to Italy. I have a present for you for to-morrow night, too--a dress and a jewel, brought all the way from Stamboul. You shall put it on, and we will celebrate our marriage here at the altar--”

“What was that--a knock?”

“Yes.”

“The Princess?”

“It must be. No one else would come. We must be quick. I will get into that chest there, beneath the picture. Turn the jeweled fruit to the right. That locks it. Then go to the altar and say your prayers. If she questions you, your quick wits must frame an answer.”

When Elsbeth unbolted the door, a tall, gaunt woman approaching middle age swept in. She wore a long, dark, cloaklike garment of _morit_, and a violet-colored _kazabajka_, while her hair was partially hidden beneath a white _csepesz_. Suspended from her neck was a ruby heart. She had narrow, side-glancing eyes, a long oval face, and thin lips. Her expression indicated cruelty.

“My fair nun, how came you here--and at this hour?”

“Most gracious Princess,” replied Elsbeth, bending in salutation, “last night I had a dream in which I saw The Virgin of the Red Girdle poise in the air above the Ràkoczi chapel. That, as the gracious Princess knows, bodes ill. I made a vow to avert the ill by prayerful intercession at the altar.”

“And you chose night, good sister, for your beneficent purpose?”

“By day, most gracious Princess, I am occupied with convent duties. Therefore I sacrifice to it the hours of sleep.”

“But the Prince--does he help you? Where is he?”

“The Prince? Your Highness will see that I am at my prayers alone, and with your gracious permission I will return to them.”

The Princess made a signal of dismissal, and Elsbeth knelt with her rosary at the altar.

Princess Ràkoczi was too astute and too well versed in the intrigues of that subtle age to take the nun’s smoothly spoken words at their face value. She saw, too, that the nun was a woman of great beauty. The disfiguring garb could not hide that. She made a tour of the chapel. Around the outer edge, at the base of the walls, were placed coffers in which the church silver, the relics, and the priestly vestments were stored. From time to time, as she made this tour of inspection, she glanced sharply at Elsbeth, to see if she were intent upon her beads. When she had completed the circuit, she paused at Elsbeth’s right and bent to look at the gem-decorated carving of the chest that stood beneath the picture of La Fiorita. As she bent down, she heard a sharp sound. Looking up, she saw that the rosary had dropped upon the marble altar and that the nun’s hands were trembling.

“I have found him!” she thought. “What a lesson I will teach them!” Jealous rage pinched her pale features to a cruel thinness. Aloud she said: “Good sister, I thank you for your unselfish watchfulness.”

Elsbeth rose and remained bowing while the Princess passed out. When she had been gone a sufficient time for safety, the nun bolted the door and released the Prince.

“You shall not have another experience like this!” he said, clasping her in his arms.

“But to-morrow night?”

“She would not spy upon us two nights in succession.”

On the way across the lake, the sparkles of light upon the water were not more numerous than the words of love which he lavished upon Elsbeth. They erased from her mind the disagreeable occurrence. She thought only of the morrow, of escape--and of the gorgeous gown and the jewel that had come from Stamboul.

As soon as they left the chapel, the Princess had the door unbolted, and entered, followed by two men bearing a chest identical in size and design with the one that stood beneath the picture. In obedience to her command they exchanged them, and took the former chest back to the castle.

The next night found Elsbeth on the stairs waiting eagerly. When Prince Ràkoczi came, she took the package he gave her and ran back to her room. When again she came out, she wore a short white satin princess dress, heavily embroidered in seed pearls. It was cut low and square at the neck, and flared at the bottom. It resembled in style and cut the votive robes made for statues of the Virgin. About her neck was a cross of diamonds. The convent cloak was thrown over her arm, to be used in case of need.

No sooner had they entered the chapel and seen to the safe bolting of the door, than with kisses and caresses he led her to the picture of La Fiorita. Moving a few steps away, he paused and looked at her.

“You cannot imagine how greatly you resemble that picture. In certain ways the faces are identical. The difference is that you have not lived so much. That is the woman my father loved. This is the woman whom I love. As she was the grief of his life, you will be the happiness of mine--” An imperative knock interrupted him.

Elsbeth donned the cloak and hood, drawing it carefully over the whiteness of her gown. Then she unbolted the door. Graciously the Princess entered.

“My good sister, I am going to take you from your prayerful duties for a few moments to-night to gratify a curiosity of mine.”

“I shall be most happy to serve you, Gracious Princess,” murmured Elsbeth.

“I have heard,” she continued, “that beneath the fingers of a pure woman the opal loses its angry fire and becomes white like a pearl. It is my wish to find out if that is true. Now on that chest there--the one beneath the repentant Magdalene--opals are set. You, of course, having had no occasion to observe the chest, have not seen them. I will make the test in the light of this candle, if you will come. Now observe the decoration on the chest front, a procession of wise men bearing offerings to the infant Christ. It was designed and made by Maestro Benedetto da Majano and is well-nigh priceless. Notice the rich softness of the wood--its depth of color. Do you see how it poises between the shades of brown and red? Look at that kneeling figure there, holding up a plate filled with fruit. The fruit in the center of the plate is made of opals. Now place your finger upon the central one, the apple. It represents, I fancy, the forbidden fruit of the tree of life.

“That’s right. That’s right. Remarkable! Remarkable! It has grown pale--see! So have you, good nun. Why is that? Why does your hand tremble? Hold it more firmly, that I may see. There!--there!--Now press your fingers on that central stone.”

Elsbeth obeyed. As she did so, a shriek rang out, so heartrending, so horrible, it curdled the blood. Again a shriek of mortal anguish--then silence.

Above her, stern and erect, Princess Ràkoczi towered, her thin face illumined by the pointed candle. Without a word she gathered up her rustling robe and walked away.

When she had gone, Elsbeth lifted the chest lid. “Merciful God!” she cried. “Help! Help! Help!” Again and again she called, until her throat felt numb and weary.

When she pressed her finger to the opal, she had touched a spring that released round, needle-like darts of steel, which had been concealed beneath the satin lining. The body within was shredded into ribbons. In the space of a moment it had become an unrecognizable mass of pulp. Across it lay a silver heart, shining dimly, and beside it two tiny marble Cupids held chains of roses, which were dotted with blood.

Madly she grasped the steels, attempting to tear them away. But she succeeded only in making deep wounds in the palms of her hands. She ran to the castle door, determined to have revenge. The door was fastened on the other side. When she beat upon it and tried to call for help, she found she could not speak. Her throat was paralyzed. She was dumb.

The next morning, when the sisters of St. Euthymius came to tell her that they had decided to release her from her confinement, they found her lying upon her bed, robed in white satin and pearls, a cross of diamonds upon her breast. When they spoke to her in their astonishment at the sight that met their eyes, and asked for an explanation, she pointed to her mouth. They understood. She had taken the vow of eternal silence. Then she held up her hands. The palms were dotted with spots of red. They fell upon their knees in reverence and adoration, crying: “A miracle! _The stigmata! The stigmata!_” They saw, too, that her face was changed, and that her hair was streaked with white.

For the remainder of her life, which lasted twenty-five years, Saint Elsbeth was never known to break her vow of silence.

The white robe and the diamond cross which came down from heaven when she was made the bride of Christ possessed greater healing efficacy than any relics in Hungary. Their power was oftenest called into service by maidens and young lovers, until Saint Elsbeth became the patron saint of the heart. Through these relics Saint Euthymius became the richest convent in all Hungary and the most widely known for the piety of its inmates.

There are certain days of midsummer when the convent is gratuitously open to the public. Then the room with its tiny window overlooking the lake is shown, where the miracle was wrought, and the white satin robe and diamond cross came down from heaven to honor Saint Elsbeth, who was the bride of Christ.

THE OPAL ISLES

_Vivere ardendo é non sentire il malo!_[9]

GASPARA STAMPA.

(To live intensely, to be impervious to wrong!)

We were sitting over our after-dinner cigars, my host, Gustav Berençy, and myself, when the conversation touched on love. Without pausing to consider the effect of the question or its evident infringement of guest-right, I boyishly asked him why he had never married.

Gustav Berençy had been the friend of my grandfather. They had known each other in Paris in their youth. I remembered hearing my grandfather say that Berençy was not only the handsomest, but the most distinguished man he had met. Looking out upon the luxurious park-setting of his seaside home, I could not help wondering why he had always lived alone.

As I asked the question, I saw that the eyes looking into mine were dimmed for a moment, as if by a veil of grief.

“I _am_ married,” he replied; “not by the law of man, but by something more sacred--the law of the heart, which is God’s law.”

“I beg your pardon,” I hastened to make reply, repenting of the ill-timed question. “I had not heard of your marriage, nor indeed,” I added, “of your wife’s death.”

“No, of course not,” was the answer, “because I do not know myself whether she is alive or dead. In all these years I have not been able to tell. She is here with me, in the great room there above,” indicating with his hand a wing of the house.

“I do not believe I understand,” I murmured awkwardly, trying to hit upon a fitting answer.

“Very likely you do not, because I do not.” Grief like a shadow flitted across his face. For the moment it looked aged and strangely weary.

“Of course you do not understand, because I do not. For fifty years she has been there--in that room. For fifty years my heart has not wavered in its allegiance to her, and yet I do not know, as I have told you, whether she is alive or dead.”

We sat in silence, while my host looked reminiscently out across the sea, as if somewhere in its spaces he sought the mystery’s solving. A sensation of fear swept over me, which, however, I controlled upon the instant. I was ashamed of my folly. This genial, courtly gentleman was not mad. In the eyes that looked into mine there was none of the maniac’s frenzy. On the contrary, they were gently meditative, and pregnant with thought and grief.

“No,” he said, reminiscently, lighting a fresh cigar, whose white smoke in the gentle evening floated up and blended aureole-like with the thick whiteness of his hair, “no, I do not mind telling you why I have never married, as the world puts it. It is a strange story. I doubt if you will believe it. But you are leaving on the morrow, and I shall never see you again. Besides, I am old, you know. I am eighty.”

With a sad smile he waved aside my polite demurrer. “Fifty years is long enough to keep a secret, is it not?” he continued. “And it might be well in after years for some one to know the truth. It might help her.”

Involuntarily my thoughts flew to the great silent room above, where for fifty years the woman had lain who was neither alive nor dead. Little did I guess what was housed there, as my heart beat eagerly with anticipation.

“I was born, as you know, in France,” said my host. “My mother died at my birth. My childhood was spent in a monastic school on the gloomy coast of La Bas Bretagne. There I did not see much childish merriment, as you may imagine. Shortly after graduating, when the subject was being discussed as to whether or not I, the younger son, should take holy orders--and at that time of my impressionable youth I was not greatly averse to the idea, so accustomed had I become to monastic discipline--my father and my brother died, leaving me heir to the name and fortune. Thus duty, rather than inclination, kept me in a world of which at that time I knew nothing.

“Finding the loneliness of the old home unendurable, I went to Paris. There I saw something of life. When at length dissipation palled upon me, I gave myself over to study and to art. It was then that I met your grandfather. Finally, I determined to make the _grand tour_, which in those days was _de rigueur_ for young men of wealth and position. I sauntered across Europe, pausing wherever caprice seized me, idled carelessly across Asia, dallying with my art the while, reached its eastern coast, and found myself confronted by the great Pacific. Here, not knowing what else to do, but without a definite goal in view, I took passage for a cruise among the islands of Polynesia. Some months later, when I had satisfied my curiosity in regard to the South Seas, just after leaving the Austral Isles, a typhoon struck us and we were wrecked upon an outlying coral reef. The steamer was virtually cut in two. The entire crew were drowned with the exception of the first mate, one sailor, and myself.