A daughter of patricians

Contents

CHAP. PAGE

I. A FATEFUL NIGHT ..... I

II. GIOVANNI CORREGGIO ..... 14

Introduction

The strange French Canadian marriage law on which this novel is founded has been, peculiar as it may appear, endorsed by British Courts in the province of Quebec. It is but natural that the French-speaking portion of the population, which, it may be added, greatly outnumbers that of the English, should uphold the claim, put forth by the Catholic Church, as to its supremacy (supremacy even greater than that of the Civil Law) in all matters pertaining to the sanctioning of marriage ; but, upon the other hand, it is not to be wondered at that adherents of other denominations bitterly resent such claim, and are contending that the Courts, by their mandates, have practically made the faith of the Catholic Church a State religion in the vast province of Quebec. Although this marriage law has been in existence ever since the conquest of Canada by the British, it is, for reasons shown in the novel, in reality only now becoming in some

X

INTRODUCTION way generally known and its far-reaching meaning understood.

*•••••

As it is quite a frequent thing for the daily press in Canada to give the names of persons who have been cured of diseases, considered hopeless by physicians, by direct miraculous intervention at the Church of Ste. Anne de Beaupre, there can be no charge of exaggeration made against the author at scenes, weaving themselves through A Daughter of Patricians , and happening at the foot of the miraculous statue of Bonne Ste. Anne. The tiers of crutches, purported to have been left by those whom miracles have cured (an actual photograph of which is shown at page 1 60), will give the reader a very fair idea of how exceedingly frequent miraculous manifestations in the church must be.

The Author.

Montreal.

CHAPTER I “ Anon through every pulse the music stole

And held sublime communion with her soul.”

THROUGH the snow-laden air the sonorous tones of Gros Bourdon, the largest bell in America, could be heard echoing and re-echoing miles away from the old Gothic towers of Notre Dame Church, in Place d’Armes Square, Montreal. As he thundered out his summons to the faithful to attend the grandest fete of the year, ten sister bells, almost as majestic as he, blended their brazen voices with his so vociferously as to thrill the whole massive edifice with sympathetic vibrations.

Although upon the hour of midnight, the snowcovered streets were dark with people hurrying to the great church, whose imposing nave and tiers of lofty galleries could accommodate eighteen thousand souls.

It was Christmas Eve : to the devout French Canadian the night of nights ; the anniversary of the birth of Him who, nineteen hundred years ago, came to preach goodwill to men. To-night, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-six,

i was to be given a musical festival, so imposing in character as to attract the faithful and music-loving for many miles around. Artists, well known for their skill on stringed instruments, were to lead a monster orchestra and swell the imposing chorus of a thousand male voices.

For over an hour the yawning doors had been swallowing up the ever increasing multitude, when there drove up to the church a handsomely equipped sleigh, and there stepped from it an elderly gentle¬ man, who with much solicitude assisted to the slippery sidewalk a young lady. Despite the furs which muffled her, it was easy to see that her figure was of more than ordinary grace.

Slipping her arm beneath that of the gentleman, she said, in a tone bordering on anxiety, “ I hope, papa, we shall not be too late ; if we are ” (here her voice changed to one of bantering menace), “ I shall surely lay hands on that musty collection of birds, mammals, and reptiles, and for ever destroy the fascination they have for you ; their total annihilation, I am sure, is the only thing which will ever cure you of your shameful habit of always being late.”

This dire threat had in no wise the effect it should have had upon its recipient : he gave a delighted little laugh, peered proudly through his spectacles at the attractive threatener, tucked her hand more snugly under his arm, and said in a tone of the most reprehensible levity, “ What a ferocious, war¬ like little woman ! And only six months out of the convent, too ; I tremble with apprehension for the future.” But his manner changing to one of tender earnestness, he went on : “I too hope, dearie, that we shall not be late ; I have been thinking of this pleasure for you for weeks, and if I spoiled it I should feel like destroying the collection myself.”

Cuddling his arm closer, she answered teasingly, “ Who ever heard of such arrant nonsense ! You know full well that you would not destroy one musty feather, or deprive a reptile of a dried varnished scale, for a dozen daughters.”

They had been moving steadily along the wide approach to the church with the eager crowds, and were at last ascending the steps leading to the mass¬ ive doors. How lightly their hearts beat, and how little each dreamed of the dire events the inexorable Fates would weave into their lives, should they cross the sacred threshold !

In her eagerness to ascend the steps the young girl stumbled. The misstep was noticed by a superstitious habitant close behind, who hastily made upon his breast the sign of the cross, and dropped farther behind.

At last the doors were passed, and she stood in the body of the gorgeous edifice. In the bewilder¬ ment at the scene which opened before her, she scarcely noticed that the scarlet-clad beadle, who stood near the door with monster crook and impos¬ ing mien, had bowed to her father and was leading them down the main aisle to two, fortunately, vacant seats in the nave of the church. Well might her sensitive heart be thrilled. Before her was a sea of upturned faces fixed on the great orchestra and choir high up in the organ-loft, where towered an organ of colossal dimensions. A thousand gleaming candles, mingled with a multitude of subdued electric lights, dazzled her eyes and brought out with startling vividness the brilliant colours on the artis¬ tically frescoed walls, on the solemn imposing pillars supporting tiers of vast galleries, on the beautiful resonant dome, on the numerous figured saints, on carven niche and tall pinnacle.

She seemed scarcely to breathe as she slowly took off her wraps, and then turned her beautiful clearcut face to the marvellous altar, or apse, which rose straight to the very ceiling, scintillating with unnumbered lights and carrying masterpieces of sculpture.

In the centre of the apse, suspended on a great cross, was the life-sized, scarred image of the Saviour ; while crouched at the base of the emblem of suffer¬ ing were the three sorrowing Marys. Numerous statues of the apostles and martyrs of the Church, surrounded by groups of angels, completed a scene upon which the habitant gazed with affecting awe.

With a long-drawn inward breath, the girl finally turned her eyes to a small altar on her right, where sternly sat the Church’s greatest saint — Saint Peter — in his hands the massive keys that were to for ever bind, or loosen. The extended foot exposed his carven great toe, well - nigh lost to all human semblance through the unnumbered kisses pressed upon it by the countless seekers after peace.

The subtle influences surrounding her caused a thrill of devotion, almost painful in its intensity, to possess her. But presently a burst of melody from the organ-loft, blending with the answering voices of the priests who were gathered about the altar, announced the commencement of the impressive ceremony, and attracted her attention. Never be¬ fore had she witnessed such a scene of stately pomp and grandeur as now ensued — the pomp of princes could not have surpassed it. On the dais, fronting the gleaming apse, with his back turned to the multitude, was a prince of the Church, the Canadian cardinal, clad in vestments of the richest texture and most gorgeous hues ; directly behind him came four boys, carrying the long princely train which hung majestically from his shoulders ; follow¬ ing them were numerous acolytes, bearing candles of unwonted size, swinging golden censers, and carrying, in upraised hands, the holy sacraments ; while, finally, behind them again, came officiating dignitaries of the Church, also clad in garments of beauteous design and varying shades.

The multitude of faces peering at this scene from the densely packed galleries, the quaint clothing in which many of the habitants were clad, the chanting voices of the priests, mingled with the feeling of strangeness at witnessing such a scene in the early watches of the morning, transported the imagination back to mediaeval times, when in the dark back¬ ground of such impressive scenes often loomed the grim spectre of the Inquisition.

The impressionable nature of the fair girl was wrought up to a keen, nervous tension long before the occurrence of the events which were about to completely change the whole tenor of her life.

The chanting voices abruptly ceased, and the priests seated themselves around the altar. For a few moments a deep, expectant silence reigned. A slight rustling in the organ-loft caused the attention to be attracted to it : a young man of poetical, foreign cast of countenance had stepped to the front, where every eye could see him, and was slowly raising his violin to his shoulder. For the briefest space he seemed to hesitate as he glanced at the vast expectant audience — after long years of arduous study abroad he was to informally play to the great public which, in the future, was to do him such homage.

It was known the composition he was to play — his own — was the tragic story of the Christ : the story which has so wonderfully fired the genius of the great masters in all the arts ; the story which has been perpetuated in such multitudinous forms ; whose interest but increases with the march of years, and which longing humanity never wearies of hearing. To the piece he had given the simple but pregnant title of Nazarenus.

A look of sympathetic concern mantled the girl’s expectant countenance as she noted the expression of hesitancy flit across the player’s face ; but it fled the moment he drew his bow softly across the strings, and there floated through the church a wave of harmony, sweet as the fabled music of the spheres.

Such was the marvellous simplicity and in¬ genuity with which he unfolded the simple, yet grand old theme, that a child could have followed it: — “For unto you is born this day.” The joyous opening strains might have been sung out in seraph voice, instead of played, so perfect was the accord of the strings with the soul of the player. So grand and consummate was the opening portrayal of the ecstatic rejoicings of those who had watched so long for His coming, and of their adoration of the new¬ born King of kings, that the hearts of the vast audience awoke to a still keener conception of the sublime event they had met to commemorate.

But presently, through the triumphant opening strains, were heard creeping subtle, monotonous notes : the rejoicing grew less and less, until, finally, it ceased altogether — the story was changing ; the quiet of His boyhood was being told. Soon the vast dome was whispering back a refrain so even, dreamy, and touching, that it melted the heart and brought tears to the eyes of the girl who sat so quietly drinking in the weird, tender melody.

The dark, impassioned face of the player drooped abruptly over his instrument, a magnetic light stole into his eyes, and his sinewy fingers took a firmer hold of the bow. With the change in his manner had come a change in the music ; aweing whisper¬ ings of the stupendous drama, which was so to affect the world, were being shadowed forth. The wistful face of the girl had also changed, and in her eyes was to be seen that peculiar expression one so often sees in the eyes of a child when it apprehensively awaits disturbing events to which its imaginings have given birth.

From the kingly instrument were now surging tones of passionate warning — urging the wicked to flee from the wrath to come — denunciations, loud and clarion - like, against the whited sepulchres, the Scribes and Pharisees — and anon harmonious breathings of forgiveness to the erring and penitent. Threading deeply through it all were moaning, dramatic notes, pregnant with impending disaster.

A growing unrest had spread itself over the vast body of listeners. And now, with masterly con¬ ception of his theme, the player with a change of key swept away the warning notes, and boldly took up the events they had so wondrously presaged — of which the Temptation in the Wilderness was the first. Shrieking from the strings came outburst after outburst of horrid demoniacal glee, vividly revealing the triumph of the sombre hierarchy of hell over the power given its chief, for forty days, to tempt Him to yield to the frailties of the race whose image He had so gladly assumed.

No tremor lest he might now fail dismayed the player. With closed eyes, he stood as utterly oblivious of the listening multitude as though it did not exist ; his soul had swept through the gloom of the ages and was seeing the horrors of that dire siege which, by the grandeur of his genius, he was interpreting to his spellbound hearers. And now gruesome sounds, stolen by the enchanted strings from the caverns of the Prince of Darkness, filled nook and cranny of the mighty edifice, and the tumult of hell, over the recurring defeats of its grim monarch by the lowly Nazarene, was heard and under¬ stood by all. On and on went the weird portrayal of the stupendous temptation, until the imaginations of the ever superstitious habitants were completely mastered, and hands in all parts of the church were seen making the sign of the cross.

The effect upon the girl was startling : her bosom heaved rapidly, while her eyes gleamed under the mastering excitement which held her captive.

The tension on the mind of the listeners was for a time again relieved ; for weaving happily with the harmonious, yet hellish discord, were rhythmic chords of joy, leading anon to strains of triumph, portraying the gladness at His victory over the great Enemy of mankind. Following the joyous strains came an even bewitching refrain ; yet it was but the tone picture of the Master’s short-lived peace after the great temptation, and but preceded the mockery of the trial in the Judgment Hall.

Not one of the varying shades of emotion, as they flitted across the face of the player, had escaped the eyes of the highly strung girl, and it was with feelings of renewed apprehension that she saw the look of repose, which his face had taken on when he had drifted into the restful refrain, once more fading into shadows — shadows which her quick intuitions told her were sure heralds of another scene in the swiftly moving passion play that was being depicted in such wondrous tone pictures.

With the delicacy of an zEolian harp, the strings again expressed the player’s changing mood, and sinister notes, lifelike in their semblance to the awe¬ inspiring and frenzied tumult of a mob whose heart is charged with religious hatred, soon marred the brief peaceful modulations.

With an involuntary movement, the girl clasped her hands and bent forward.

The musical unfolding of the mock trial was masterly in the weird power of its imagery. Under the spell of his own genius the player seemed to have absorbed the language of every emotion. Leaping from the imprisoned strings, and echoing to the very summit of the apse, came shouts hoarse with hatred, groans of derision, bursts of ironical laughter, and discordant murmurings, all so marvel¬ lously vivid that the devout realised now, indeed, how fearful was this, the world’s greatest judicial murder.

Under the influence of the entrancing strains there loomed before the mind’s eye, out of the vista of years, the great hall of judgment, at one end the enthroned vacillating Pilate, and before him the Prince of the House of David, surveying with wistful mien the wrathful concourse so wildly clamorous for His death. Rapidly, and with exceeding skill, the musical fantasia portrayed the striking incidents of that brief legal mockery.

And now the final scenes are being reached, and from the violin come wild and piercing staccato notes and chords, and there is heard, as though it were spoken, that dreadful, never-to-be-forgotten cry, from the race chosen of God, “ Crucify Him ! Crucify Him ! — His blood be upon us and our children ! ”

“ Mon Dieti , cest terrible ! ” — the exclamation fell from the lips of an aged habitant , as he listened,

IO with blanched face, in a corner of one of the vast galleries.

“ Mary, have mercy upon them for the murder of thy Son ! ” whispered the trembling lips of the agitated girl. Transported by the vivid music, she had forgotten that the tragedy portrayed was nine¬ teen centuries old.

Before the narration of the journey to the cross, a short intense silence again ensued. When it was broken, the church once more rang with the uproar of the infuriated mob. But, rising above the lyric pandemonium, was distinctly heard a strange march, with distressing wistful breaks in it. The heart of the girl melted ; fain would she have been with Him and have borne the cross, the piteous frequency of whose fall delayed and enraged the mob in its eager march to Calvary.

Raising her eyes to the player’s face, she was again affected by the change passing over it : his eyes suddenly closed ; his shoulders straightened with a quick, nervous movement ; a lock of dark hair fell over his brow, and his sensitive lips parted with nervous eagerness. At last he had come to the final event in the world’s woeful drama — the crucifixion. Imposing beyond words was the beauty of its musical unfolding. Under its hypnotic spell the veil was lifted, and the souls of the listeners soared through the centuries, and saw, as if in the flesh, the last scenes of the piteous drama.

The swiftly moving bow was now filling the incense-laden air of the church with all the tumult of that day, as the maddened soldiers delved, and reared the cross on which to crucify Him of whom the prophets had so long spoken.

A brief pause, and then through the great church resounded sickening, dogged, chromatic chords, heart-

I I

rending in their truth of monotonous hammer-falls. Convulsively the girl clasped her hands ; she almost cried aloud for very pity. But the tension of her mind was not yet to be relieved ; for rushing im¬ mediately upon the harsh hammer-like thuds, came anew a pandemonium of shouts, cries, groans, and mocking revilings, and there rang in her ears the words, “ And they wagged their heads at Him. . . . And they reviled Him, saying, ‘ If Thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross. . . . Let God deliver Him now ! ’ ”

In vain she hid her face and tried to shut out the scene upon which hung a world’s redemption. The musical phantasmagoria was not yet concluded, and as she sat and still listened, she felt that if the end were not soon, her overwrought nerves must surely break.

Without warning, the taunting outburst at the cross ceased to pulsate on the air : there was a silence, almost like that of the grave, and then the violin filled the church with an outburst of human fear, dreadful in its agony. Following quickly upon the lyric cries of terror, came crash after crash of bass chords. As they rumbled to a crescendo in the mighty dome, piercing wails, conjured up by the gifted player, were again heard ; only to be swallowed up, however, in the crashes, which again succeeded each other in relentless succession. To the ears of the girl, and to those of the multitude of listeners, came the vivid words, “ And behold the veil of the temple was rent in twain, and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent, and the graves were opened ! ”

The deep hazel eyes of the girl no longer see the pale face of the player, although they are fixed upon it ; her eyes are now on Calvary’s height, watching the maddened flight of those who had crucified Him as they strove to escape from the riven heavens, the yawning earth, and emptying tombs.

Unconscious of her action, the girl partially rose to her feet, her fascinated eyes still fixed upon the face of the player.

The last tremulous notes were just dying away, and the hand of the player, which had wielded the magic bow, was falling to his side. His eyes opened just as she reached her feet, and he saw below him a beautiful girlish face, its enraptured eyes fastened on his own.

She stood but for a moment. When the face vanished, he turned slowly and sat down, thinking, in a dazed way, that he had looked upon some beauteous vision which the divine strings had for a moment conjured up. So vivid was the impression the face made upon him, in his wrought mood, that he scarcely heard the loud murmurs of admiration rising from the vast concourse. He was conscious, though, of the proud words of praise spoken to him by the aged priest who had led the choir, and to whom he was indebted for kindnesses which but few men ever give.

In answer to the old man’s words of commend¬ ation, the player earnestly whispered that he would rather have his admiration than the praises of the whole world ; but startled the priest, immediately after, by abruptly asking, “ Did you see her, pere — she who stood up for an instant in the body of the church ? ”

The audience, however, had risen, and Father Lacoste had time only to cast a puzzled glance at the player, to whom he was so passionately attached, before giving the signal to the choir to begin the closing song of praise.

As the priest turned away, the musician stepped i3 impulsively to the railing which screened the choir, and, drawing aside the curtains, looked eagerly down at the crowds as they surged towards the exit ; but it was in vain he sought for the vision again.

The chorus was almost through, and he was about to draw the curtain and turn sorrowfully away, when his gaze chanced to travel once more to the main aisle, and there, almost beneath the choir, was the face that was to be with him so long as life should last. Either the magnetism of his gaze or the wish of her own heart gave him his desire, for just as the galleries were about to hide her from him she suddenly looked up — their eyes for the briefest space met once more.

CHAPTER II GIOVANNI CORREGGIO “Exalted souls

Have passions in proportion violent ;

Impos’d by nature on pre-eminence.”

WINTER had gone, and the glorious skies of Canadian summer were stretched far and wide over the land. It was an early morning in July, and the sunshine was creeping up the massive walls of the old presbytery nestling by the side of the church which, the Christmas previous, had resounded to the thrilling strains described in the last chapter.

Slowly the sunlight creeps higher and higher up the walls till at last it darts through an ancient latticed window, and throws a cheerful light into a room made picturesque with massive, old-fashioned furniture. The absence of all feminine adornment in the room is revealed at a glance, yet withal it has an air of much comfort and decided refinement. On the walls hang paintings of many fathers of the Church who, in bygone years, wrought mightily for its advancement. Interspersed here and there among the solemn faces are pictures, too, of famous masters in the world of music — nearly all of whose biographies were to be found among the many volumes on the long bookshelves a little to the right of the fireplace. In the middle of

GIOVANNI CORREGGIO the room stands a table littered with books of music, and a little distance from it a finely carved organ.

Standing near the fireplace, with his arm resting on the mantelpiece, and looking with contracted brow towards the window, is he who so weirdly fired the hearts and imaginations of the multitudes the past Christmas Eve. His tall figure, measuring but a shade less than six feet, is well proportioned, and reveals that grace of bearing so exceedingly attractive in those of highly wrought, artistic temperaments, when attuned to perfect physical organisms. His handsome dark eyes, warm brown skin, and entire cast of countenance, strongly be¬ speak a foreign origin.

More and more emboldened, the sunlight steals yet farther into the room ; yet its cheeriness utterly fails to attract the attention of the thinker or interrupt his abstraction.

So deeply are his thoughts engrossed that he fails to hear the opening of the door behind him or see the imposing, noble - looking priest standing on the threshold. Quickly noting the dejection in the attitude of the young player, the priest hastily closed the door, and strode towards him, a troubled look coming into his face. Reaching the young man’s side, and laying his hand on his shoulder, the priest said in a tone of keen regret, “ Giovanni, mon gargon , still brood¬ ing? How is it to end? Would that you would fight more determinedly against yielding to this fancy ! ”

“ Fight against it more determinedly, pere ! ” exclaimed Giovanni, with a touch of vehemence, turning to the priest ; “ it would avail me nought. If you knew how, during the months that have gone since that night, I have striven to banish the persistently haunting face, and how peculiarly un¬ availing every effort has been, you would no longer think I have made but feeble efforts to master these moods possessing me.” He restlessly threw himself into a chair.

Standing beside him, and resting his wrinkled hand on the curly dark hair of the young man, Father Lacoste said, tenderly as a woman, “ Pauvre Giovanni ! Perhaps I am too impatient, and do not make allowance enough for the passionate Southern blood in your veins.”

Giovanni was touched with the love and sympathy in the old priest’s voice, and said, “ Would, for your sake, perei that I had come from a less dreamy and ardent race ! Such a fancy would then have died early, instead of growing with time.”

“Nay, nay, Giovanni, give voice to no such wish; I would not have you different from what you are for all the world holds ; it is from your impulsive race that you have inherited the divine fire in your soul.”

Giovanni looked thoughtfully at the floor and said in a low voice, “ Sometimes the idea comes to me, perey that if I could but see her once more, and know really who she is, curiosity would be satisfied, and power would come to banish her persistent image from my memory.”

Father Lacoste had lived for three-score years and ten, and the wayward human heart was to him as an open book. Slowly shaking his head, he said patiently, “ You but deceive yourself, Giovanni ; the physician does not seek to cure a disease by accentuating its cause. It is useless, Giovanni ; but I cannot believe, as I have said before, that the face

GIOVANNI CORREGGIO

I 7

you think you saw was anything else than the creation of your vivid fancy ; you know how great was the strain upon your imagination that night, and ” —

Rising hastily and walking to and fro, Giovanni broke out : “No, perey no, I am harbouring no delusion ; she was no creature of fancy. I saw her the first time as distinctly as I now see you. She was standing alone in the centre of the great church, her grand tragic eyes fixed on mine, an expression in them that I know will be with me for all time. I saw her, the second time, as clearly as before, though but for a moment, as she disappeared be¬ neath the galleries, her wistful eyes meeting mine once more.”

Seeing the pain at these words, which the priest strove in vain to hide, Giovanni stopped his restless walk at the priest’s side, and said in changed, regret¬ ful tone, “When I recall, pere, ‘all the sorrow I have given you since that night, conscience is keen in its reproaches. Knowing how intensely anxious you were that I should return to Paris, immediately after the Christmas holidays, and finish my studies, it was but natural you should have been sorely hurt that weeks stole by before I went, and still more so upon my revealing, on the day of my departure, that my many mysterious absences from you had been spent in haunting churches and other places, in the hope of again seeing the face that was so affecting me.