Part 40 (1/2)

”Thank G.o.d,” cried Cornelia, joyously, ”you are moved, touched! The voice of blood is again stirring within you; you will be reconciled to him, will spare him! Oh, say you will!”

Severinus raised his head and leaned against the window-sill; the tears that Cornelia had seen in his eyes were dried. ”Do you believe that a pupil of Loyola will listen to the voice of blood? Do you know what the saint, who is our protector and pattern, did? He burned, unread, the letters from his own family, that he might break off all ties with the world; and I, should I spare the enemy of my church because he is related to me? Should I allow my zeal in G.o.d's cause to grow cold because my heart warms with a mere animal instinct? No, Cornelia, my brothers are in Christ; he who does not belong to him is no brother of mine.”

”Cruel, hard-hearted man!” cried Cornelia, in horror. ”I do not know whether it is compa.s.sion or terror that seizes upon me, but my soul trembles at the power of an illusion which can thus petrify the n.o.blest heart.”

”Petrify!” cried Severinus. ”Oh, do not speak so, child that you are!

Have you ever cast a glance into this 'petrified heart'? Have you a suspicion of the strength of the love I must tear away from earth and consecrate to G.o.d? Have you ever heard the outcry of the tortured man when he is obliged to accomplish his regeneration from earthly to heavenly things? Do you know how mighty nature writhes and struggles and groans under the p.r.i.c.kly iron ring of the cilicium?[2] You are spared these agonies, because G.o.d requires only the easiest sacrifices from you; but we, who are appointed to be the imitators of Christ upon earth, are compelled taste them to the dregs. We must fulfill our great task, and no human eye is permitted to see that the sacrifice it admires trickles from the warm heart's blood.”

”My poor Severinus!”

”Do not pity me; I want no one's compa.s.sion. I only want you to understand me; the more difficult the victory, the greater the fame. I shall one day be proud of my tortures. But I must labor without rest or sleep, and watch over myself at every hour, for the enemy is cunning, and if he chooses can clothe himself in the garb of an angel.” His large eyes rested ardently upon Cornelia.

”Severinus,” she answered, sadly, ”do you take me for this false angel--me, who preach nothing to you except the first and simplest laws of Christianity? Do you think the 'foul fiend' is in me, because I oppose a belief which rejects the purest impulse of nature as a mere animal instinct, if it is not of use to its plans,--denies the tie G.o.d himself has hallowed, if it bars its progress; and acknowledges nothing which does not----”

”Redound to the greater honor of G.o.d,” interrupted Severinus. ”Yes, we do all for the honor of G.o.d. That is the word which permits no false meaning; the path from which we cannot deviate an inch; the object from which we dare not turn our eyes, even though we trample underfoot the bodies of our dearest friends. He who opposes us must fall, for we cannot allow ourselves to be stopped. For the honor of G.o.d we live, and are ready to die.”

”And are you sure that in this you act only for the honor of G.o.d? Are you sure you do not abuse this great word as a pretext for an act of selfishness?”

Severinus looked at her inquiringly.

She struggled with her Feelings, and then began, gently: ”Tell me, my friend, if in the execution of a punishment commanded by the order a Jesuit should also find the gratification of a personal desire for revenge, would he not profane the cause of G.o.d by making it his own?”

”Certainly,” replied Severinus, in a hollow tone, fixing his eyes upon the floor.

”There are many kinds of pa.s.sions, of which the man who ardently desires only what is right is scarcely conscious, because he does not even allow them to take the form of a thought; yet they are there, and the so-called foul fiend undermines in them the more securely, because concealed, the toilsomely-erected structure of virtue. Let me quote an example. Suppose a Jesuit hated an enemy of his order, not only because the order hates him, but because he is loved by a girl who is dear to the Jesuit himself?”

Severinus started; a deep flush suffused his face.

Cornelia continued: ”Suppose he used against him the weapons the order placed his hands, not for the sake of the church, but to serve the instincts of his own jealousy, and should suddenly perceive what he had not confessed, even to himself, what would be his duty then?”

Severinus was now as pale as he had before been red. He stood like a marble statue, not a breath stirred his breast; but at last his delicate lips opened to utter the words, ”Then it would be his duty to resign the work he would profane to another, who could perform it with pure hands, solely for the sake of G.o.d and the order.”

”Well, then, Severinus, do what you believe to be your duty. I have nothing more to say.”

A deep silence followed. Severinus still stood motionless, and Cornelia did not venture to look at him; she did not wish to read the pale face.

She was terrified at what, for Heinrich's sake, she had done to this n.o.ble man, and involuntarily feared the results.

Severinus slowly approached her, laid his hand upon her head, and said, ”Let us bid each other farewell.”

Cornelia looked up. The pure features expressed no bitterness, no anger, only the repose of an immovable resolution. ”Farewell?” she asked, in surprise.

”For life!”

Remorse suddenly seized upon her. She had overstepped the bounds of womanly delicacy, and pitilessly a.s.sailed the heart which, in spite of its errors, she had always seen rise superior to every weakness. She now felt for the first time how much she should lose in him, and, with sincere shame, bent down, and before he could prevent it, pressed her lips to his hands. ”Severinus, can you forgive me?”

”I have nothing to forgive,” he replied, gently drawing back.

”Where are you going?”

”To Rome.”