“Why surely you are not going away, reverend father?” cried she: “Did you not promise to pass the night in the haunted chamber? Christ Jesus! I shall be left alone with the ghost, and a fine pickle I shall be in by morning! Do all I could, say all I could, that obstinate old brute, Simon Gonzalez, refused to marry me to-day; and before to-morrow comes, I suppose I shall be torn to pieces by the ghosts and goblins, and devils, and what not! For God’s sake, your holiness, do not leave me in such a woful condition! On my bended knees I beseech you to keep your promise: watch this night in the haunted chamber; lay the apparition in the red sea, and Jacintha remembers you in her prayers to the last day of her existence!”
This request Ambrosio expected and desired; yet he affected to raise objections, and to seem unwilling to keep his word. He told Jacintha that the ghost existed no where but in her own brain, and that her insisting upon his staying all night in the house was ridiculous and useless. Jacintha was obstinate; she was not to be convinced, and pressed him so urgently not to leave her a prey to the devil, that at length he granted her request. All this show of resistance imposed not upon Flora, who was naturally of a suspicious temper. She suspected the monk to be acting a part very contrary to his own inclinations, and that he wished for no better than to remain where he was. She even went so far as to believe that Jacintha was in his interest; and the poor old woman was immediately set down as no better than a procuress. While she applauded herself for having penetrated into this plot against her lady’s honour, she resolved in secret to render it fruitless.
“So then,” said she to the abbot with a look half satirical and half indignant—“so then you mean to stay here to-night? Do so, in God’s name! Nobody will prevent you. Sit up to watch for the ghost’s arrival: I shall sit up too, and the Lord grant that I may see nothing worse than a ghost! I quit not Donna Antonia’s bed-side during this blessed night. Let me see any one dare to enter the room, and be he mortal or immortal, be he ghost, devil, or man, I warrant his repenting that ever he crossed the threshold!”
This hint was sufficiently strong, and Ambrosio understood its meaning. But instead of shewing that he perceived her suspicions, he replied mildly, that he approved the duenna’s precautions, and advised her to persevere in her intention. This she assured him faithfully that he might depend upon her doing. Jacintha then conducted him into the chamber where the ghost had appeared, and Flora returned to her lady’s.
Jacintha opened the door of the haunted room with a trembling hand; she ventured to peep in, but the wealth of India would not have tempted her to cross the threshold. She gave the taper to the monk, wished him well through the adventure, and hastened to be gone. Ambrosio entered. He bolted the door, placed the light upon the table, and seated himself in the chair which on the former night had sustained Antonia. In spite of Matilda’s assurances, that the spectre was a mere creation of fancy, his mind was impressed with a certain mysterious horror. He in vain endeavoured to shake it off. The silence of the night, the story of the apparition, the chamber wainscotted with dark oak pannels, the recollection which it brought with it of the murdered Elvira, and his incertitude respecting the nature of the drops given by him to Antonia, made him feel uneasy at his present situation. But he thought much less of the spectre than of the poison. Should he have destroyed the only object which rendered life dear to him; should the ghost’s prediction prove true; should Antonia in three days be no more, and he the wretched cause of her death.…. The supposition was too horrible to dwell upon. He drove away these dreadful images, and as often they presented themselves again before him. Matilda had assured him that the effects of the opiate would be speedy. He listened with fear, yet with eagerness, expecting to hear some disturbance in the adjoining chamber. All was still silent. He concluded that the drops had not begun to operate. Great was the stake for which he now played: a moment would suffice to decide upon his misery or happiness. Matilda had taught him the means of ascertaining, that life was not extinct for ever: upon this assay depended all his hopes. With every instant his impatience redoubled; his terrors grew more lively, his anxiety more awake. Unable to bear this state of incertitude, he endeavoured to divert it by substituting the thoughts of others to his own. The books, as was before mentioned, were ranged upon shelves near the table: this stood exactly opposite to the bed, which was placed in an alcove near the closet-door. Ambrosio took down a volume, and seated himself by the table: but his attention wandered from the pages before him. Antonia’s image, and that of the murdered Elvira, persisted to force themselves before his imagination. Still he continued to read, though his eyes ran over the characters without his mind being conscious of their import.
Such was his occupation when he fancied that he heard a foot-step. He turned his head, but nobody was to be seen. He resumed his book; but in a few minutes after, the same sound was repeated, and followed by a rustling noise close behind him. He now started from his seat, and looking round him, perceived the closet-door standing half unclosed. On his first entering the room, he had tried to open it, but found it bolted on the inside.
“How is this?” said he to himself; “How comes this door unfastened?”
He advanced towards it, he pushed it open, and looked into the closet: no one was there. While he stood irresolute, he thought that he distinguished a groaning in the adjacent chamber: it was Antonia’s, and he supposed that the drops began to take effect. But upon listening more attentively, he found the noise to be caused by Jacintha, who had fallen asleep by the lady’s bed-side, and was snoaring most lustily. Ambrosio drew back, and returned to the other room, musing upon the sudden opening of the closet-door, for which he strove in vain to account.
He paced the chamber up and down in silence. At length he stopped, and the bed attracted his attention. The curtain of the recess was but half drawn. He sighed involuntarily.
“That bed,” said he in a low voice, “that bed was Elvira’s! There has she passed many a quiet night, for she was good and innocent. How sound must have been her sleep! and yet now she sleeps sounder! Does she indeed sleep? Oh! God grant that she may! What if she rose from her grave at this sad and silent hour? What if she broke the bonds of the tomb, and glided angrily before my blasted eyes? Oh! I never could support the sight! Again to see her form distorted by dying agonies, her blood-swollen veins, her livid countenance, her eyes bursting from their sockets with pain!—to hear her speak of future punishment, menace me with Heaven’s vengeance, tax me with the crimes I have committed, with those I am going to commit.…. Great God! what is that?”
As he uttered these words, his eyes, which were fixed upon the bed, saw the curtain shaken gently backwards and forwards. The apparition was recalled to his mind, and he almost fancied that he beheld Elvira’s visionary form reclining upon the bed. A few moments consideration sufficed to re-assure him.
“It was only the wind,” said he, recovering himself.
Again he paced the chamber; but an involuntary movement of awe and inquietude constantly led his eye towards the alcove. He drew near it with irresolution. He paused before he ascended the few steps which led to it. He put out his hand thrice to remove the curtain, and as often drew it back.
“Absurd terrors!” He cried at length, ashamed of his own weakness——
Hastily he mounted the steps, when a figure dressed in white started from the alcove, and gliding by him, made with precipitation towards the closet. Madness and despair now supplied the monk with that courage, of which he had till then been destitute. He flew down the steps, pursued the apparition, and attempted to grasp it.
“Ghost, or devil, I hold you!” he exclaimed, and seized the spectre by the arm.
“Oh! Christ Jesus!” cried a shrill voice; “Holy father, how you gripe me! I protest that I meant no harm!”
This address, as well as the arm which he held, convinced the abbot that the supposed ghost was substantial flesh and blood. He drew the intruder towards the table, and holding up the light, discovered the fe
atures of…… Madona Flora!
Incensed at having been betrayed by this trifling cause into fears so ridiculous, he asked her sternly, what business had brought her to that chamber. Flora, ashamed at being found out, and terrified at the severity of Ambrosio’s looks, fell upon her knees, and promised to make a full confession.
“I protest, reverend father,” said she, “that I am quite grieved at having disturbed you; nothing was further from my intention. I meant to get out of the room as quietly as I got in; and had you been ignorant that I watched you, you know it would have been the same thing as if I had not watched you at all. To be sure I did very wrong in being a spy upon you—that I cannot deny. But, Lord! your reverence, how can a poor weak woman resist curiosity? Mine was so strong to know what you were doing, that I could not but try to get a little peep without any body knowing any thing about it. So with that I left old Dame Jacintha sitting by my lady’s bed, and I ventured to steal into the closet. Being unwilling to interrupt you, I contented myself at first with putting my eye to the key-hole; but as I could see nothing by this means, I undrew the bolt, and while your back was turned to the alcove, I whipt me in softly and silently. Here I lay snug behind the curtain, till your reverence found me out, and seized me ere I had time to regain the closet-door. This is the whole truth, I assure you, holy father, and I beg your pardon a thousand times for my impertinence.”
During this speech the abbot had time to recollect himself: he was satisfied with reading the penitent spy a lecture upon the dangers of curiosity, and the meanness of the action in which she had been just discovered. Flora declared herself fully persuaded that she had done wrong; she promised never to be guilty of the same fault again, and was retiring very humble and contrite to Antonia’s chamber, when the closet-door was suddenly thrown open, and in rushed Jacintha pale and out of breath.
“Oh! Father! Father!” she cried in a voice almost choked with terror, “What shall I do! What shall I do! Here is a fine piece of work! Nothing but misfortunes! Nothing but dead people, and dying people! Oh! I shall go distracted! I shall go distracted!”
“Speak! Speak!” cried Flora and the monk at the same time; “what has happened? what is the matter?
“Oh! I shall have another corse in my house! Some witch has certainly cast a spell upon it, upon me, and upon all about me! Poor Donna Antonia! there she lies in just such convulsions as killed her mother! The ghost told her true! I am sure the ghost told her true!”
Flora ran, or rather flew to her lady’s chamber: Ambrosio followed her, his bosom trembling with hope and apprehension. They found Antonia as Jacintha had described, torn by racking convulsions, from which they in vain endeavoured to relieve her. The monk dispatched Jacintha to the abbey in all haste, and commissioned her to bring father Pablos back with her without losing a moment.
“I will go for him,” replied Jacintha, “and tell him to come hither; but as to bringing him myself, I shall do no such thing. I am sure that the house is bewitched, and burn me if ever I set foot in it again.”
With this resolution she set out for the monastery, and delivered to father Pablos the abbot’s orders. She then betook herself to the house of old Simon Gonzalez, whom she resolved never to quit till she had made him her husband, and his dwelling her own.
Father Pablos had no sooner beheld Antonia, than he pronounced her incurable. The convulsions continued for an hour; during that time her agonies were much milder than those which her groans created in the abbot’s heart. Her every pang seemed a dagger in his bosom, and he cursed himself a thousand times for having adopted so barbarous a project. The hour being expired, by degrees the fits became less frequent, and Antonia less agitated. She felt that her dissolution was approaching, and that nothing could save her.
“Worthy Ambrosio,” she said in a feeble voice, while she pressed his hand to her lips; “I am now at liberty to express how grateful is my heart for your attention and kindness. I am upon the bed of death; yet an hour, and I shall be no more. I may therefore acknowledge without restraint, that to relinquish your society was very painful to me: but such was the will of a parent, and I dared not disobey. I die without repugnance: there are few who will lament my leaving them—there are few whom I lament to leave. Among those few, I lament for none more than for yourself; but we shall meet again, Ambrosio! we shall one day meet in heaven: there shall our friendship be renewed, and my mother shall view it with pleasure!”
She paused. The abbot shuddered when she mentioned Elvira. Antonia imputed his emotion to pity and concern for her.
“You are grieved for me, father,” she continued; “Ah! sigh not for my loss. I have no crimes to repent, at least none of which I am conscious; and I restore my soul without fear to him from whom I received it. I have but few requests to make; yet let me hope that what few I have shall be granted. Let a solemn mass be said for my soul’s repose, and another for that of my beloved mother; not that I doubt her resting in her grave. I am now convinced that my reason wandered, and the falsehood of the ghost’s prediction is sufficient to prove my error. But every one has some failing: my mother may have had her’s, though I knew them not: I therefore wish a mass to be celebrated for her repose, and the expence may be defrayed by the little wealth of which I am possessed. Whatever may then remain, I bequeath to my aunt Leonella. When I am dead, let the marquis de las Cisternas know that his brother’s unhappy family can no longer importune him. But disappointment makes me unjust: they tell me that he is ill, and perhaps, had it been in his power, he wished to have protected me. Tell him, then, father, only that I am dead, and that if he had any faults to me, I forgave him from my heart. This done, I have nothing more to ask for than your prayers. Promise to remember my requests, and I shall resign my life without a pang or sorrow.”
Ambrosio engaged to comply with her desires, and proceeded to give her absolution. Every moment announced the approach of Antonia’s fate. Her sight failed, her heart beat sluggishly, her fingers stiffened and grew cold, and at two in the morning she expired without a groan. As soon as the breath had forsaken her body, father Pablos retired, sincerely affected at the melancholy scene. On her part, Flora gave way to the most unbridled sorrow. Far different concerns employed Ambrosio; he sought for the pulse whose throbbing, so Matilda had assured him, would prove Antonia’s death but temporal. He found it—he pressed it—it palpitated beneath his hand, and his heart was filled with ecstacy. However, he carefully concealed his satisfaction at the success of his plan. He assumed a melancholy air, and, addressing himself to Flora, warned her against abandoning herself to fruitless sorrow. Her tears were too sincere to permit her listening to his counsels, and she continued to weep unceasingly. The friar withdrew, first promising to give orders himself about the funeral, which, out of consideration for Jacintha as he pretended, should take place with all expedition. Plunged in grief for the loss of her beloved mistress, Flora scarcely attended to what he said. Ambrosio hastened to command the burial. He obtained permission from the prioress, that the corse should be deposited in St. Clare’s sepulchre: and on the Friday morning, every proper and needful ceremony being performed, Antonia’s body was committed to the tomb.
On the same day Leonella arrived at Madrid, intending to present her young husband to Elvira. Various circumstances had obliged her to defer her journey from Tuesday to Friday; and she had no opportunity of making this alteration in her plans known to her sister. As her heart was truly affectionate, and as she had ever entertained a sincere regard for Elvira and her daughter, her surprise at hearing of their sudden and melancholy fate was fully equalled by her sorrow and disappointment. Ambrosio sent to inform her of Antonia’s bequest: at her solicitation, he promised, as soon as Elvira’s trifling debts were discharged, to transmit to her the remainder. This being settled, no other business detained Leonella in Madrid, and she returned to Cordova with all diligence.
CHAP. X.
Oh! could I worship aught beneath the skies,
That earth hath seen,
or fancy could devise,
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand,
Built by no mercenary vulgar hand,
With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair,
As ever dressed a bank, or scented summer air.
COWPER.
His whole attention bent upon bringing to justice the assassins of his sister, Lorenzo little thought how severely his interest was suffering in another quarter. As was before mentioned, he returned not to Madrid till the evening of that day on which Antonia was buried. Signifying to the Grand Inquisitor the order of the cardinal-duke (a ceremony not to be neglected when a member of the church was to be arrested publicly), communicating his design to his uncle and Don Ramirez, and assembling a troop of attendants sufficient to prevent opposition, furnished him with full occupation during the few hours preceding midnight. Consequently he had no opportunity to enquire about his mistress, and was perfectly ignorant both of her death and her mother’s.
The marquis was by no means out of danger: his delirium was gone, but had left him so much exhausted, that the physicians declined pronouncing upon the consequences likely to ensue. As for Raymond himself, he wished for nothing more earnestly than to join Agnes in the grave. Existence was hateful to him: he saw nothing in the world deserving his attention; and he hoped to hear that Agnes was revenged and himself given over in the same moment.
Followed by Raymond’s ardent prayers for success, Lorenzo was at the gates of St. Clare a full hour before the time appointed by the Mother St. Ursula. He was accompanied by his uncle, by Don Ramirez de Mello, and a party of chosen archers. Though in considerable numbers, their appearance created no surprise: a great crowd was already assembled before the convent-doors, in order to witness the procession. It was naturally supposed, that Lorenzo and his attendants were conducted thither by the same design. The duke of Medina being recognised, the people drew back, and made way for his party to advance. Lorenzo placed himself opposite to the great gate, through which the pilgrims were to pass. Convinced that the prioress could not escape him, he waited patiently for her appearance, which she was expected to make exactly at midnight.
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