While these considerations occupied Ellena, and it appeared that any certainty would be less painful than this suspense, she frequently looked round the chamber in search of some object, which might contradict or confirm her suspicion, that this was the death-room of the unfortunate nun. No such circumstance appeared, but as her eyes glanced, with almost phrenzied eagerness, she perceived something shadowy in a remote corner of the floor; and on approaching, discovered what seemed a dreadful hieroglyphic, a mattrass of straw, in which she thought she beheld the deathbed of the miserable recluse; nay more, that the impression it still retained, was that which her form had left there.
While Vivaldi was yet entreating her to explain the occasion of the horror she betrayed, the attention of each was withdrawn by a hollow sigh, that rose near them. Ellena caught unconsciously the arm of Vivaldi, and listened, aghast, for a return of the found, but all remained still.
“It surely was not fancied!” said Vivaldi, after a long pause, “you heard it also?”
“I did!” replied Ellena.
“It was a sigh, was it not?” he added.
“O yes, and such a sigh!”
“Some person is concealed near us,” observed Vivaldi, looking round; “but be not alarmed, Ellena, I have a sword.”
“A sword! alas! you know not — But hark! there, again!”
“That was very near us!” said Vivaldi. “This lamp burns so sickly!” — and he held it high, endeavouring to penetrate the furthest gloom of the chamber. “Hah! who goes there?” he cried, and stepped suddenly forward; but no person appeared, and a silence as of the tomb, returned.
“If you are in sorrow, speak!” Vivaldi, at length, said; “from fellow-sufferers you will meet with sympathy. If your designs are evil — tremble, for you shall find I am desperate.”
Still no answer was returned, and he carried forward the lamp to the opposite end of the chamber, where he perceived a small door in the rock. At the same instant he heard from within, a low tremulous sound, as of a person in prayer, or in agony. He pressed against the door, which, to his surprize, yielded immediately, and discovered a figure kneeling before a crucifix, with an attention so wholly engaged, as not to observe the presence of a stranger, till Vivaldi spoke. The person then rose from his knees, and turning, shewed the silvered temples and pale features of an aged monk. The mild and sorrowful character of the countenance, and the lambent lustre of eyes, which seemed still to retain somewhat of the fire of genius, interested Vivaldi, and encouraged Ellena, who had followed him.
An unaffected surprize appeared in the air of the monk; but Vivaldi, notwithstanding the interesting benignity of his countenance, feared to answer his enquiries, till the father hinted to him, that an explanation was necessary, even to his own safety. Encouraged by his manner, rather than intimidated by this hint, and perceiving, that his situation was desperate, Vivaldi consided to the friar some partial knowledge of his embarrassment.
While he spoke, the father listened with deep attention, looked with compassion alternately upon him and Ellena; and some harassing objection seemed to contend with the pity, which urged him to assist the strangers. He enquired how long Jeronimo had been absent, and shook his head significantly when he learned that the gate of the avenue was fastened by a double lock. “You are betrayed, my children,” said he, “you have trusted with the simplicity of youth, and the cunning of age has deceived you.”
The terrible conviction affected Ellena to tears; and Vivaldi, scarcely able to command the indignation which a view of such treachery excited, was unable to offer her any consolation.
“You, my daughter, I remember to have seen in the church this morning,” observed the friar; “I remember too, that you protested against the vows you were brought thither to seal. Alas! my child, was you aware of the consequence of such a proceeding?”
“I had only a choice of evils,” Ellena replied.
“Holy father,” said Vivaldi, “I will not believe, that you are one of those who either assisted in or approved the persecution of innocence. If you were acquainted with the misfortunes of this lady, you would pity, and save her; but there is now no time for detail; and I can only conjure you, by every sacred consideration; to assist her to leave the convent! If there were leisure to inform you of the unjustifiable means, which have been employed to bring her within these walls — if you knew that she was taken, an orphan, from her home at midnight — that armed ruffians brought her hither — and at the command of strangers — that she has not a single relation surviving to assert her right of independence; or reclaim her of her persecutors, — O! holy father, if you knew all this!” — Vivaldi was unable to proceed.
The friar again regarded Ellena with compassion, but still in thoughtful silence. “All this may be very true,” at length he said, “but” — and he hesitated.
“I understand you, father,” said Vivaldi— “you require proof; but how can proof be adduced here? You must rely upon the honour of my word. And, if you are inclined to assist us, it must be immediately!
— while you hesitate, we are lost. Even now I think I hear the
footsteps of Jeronimo.”
He stepped softly to the door of the chamber, but all was yet still. The friar, too, listened, but he also deliberated; while Ellena, with clasped hands and a look of eager supplication and terror, awaited his decision.
“No one is approaching,” said Vivaldi, “it is not yet too late! — Good father! if you would serve us, dispatch.”
“Poor innocent!” said the friar, half to himself, “in this chamber — in this fatal place!” —
“In this chamber!” exclaimed Ellena, anticipating his meaning. “It was in this chamber, then, that a nun was suffered to perish! and I, no doubt, am conducted hither to undergo a similar fate!”
“In this chamber!” re-echoed Vivaldi, in a voice of desperation. “Holy father, if you are indeed disposed to assist us, let us act this instant; the next, perhaps, may render your best intentions unavailing!”
The friar, who had regarded Ellena while she mentioned the nun, with the utmost surprize, now withdrew his attention; a few tears fell on his cheek, but he hastily dried them, and seemed struggling to overcome some grief, that was deep in his heart.
Vivaldi, finding that entreaty had no power to hasten his decision, and expecting every moment to hear the approach of Jeronimo, paced the chamber in agonizing perturbation, now pausing at the door to listen, and then calling, though almost hopelessly, upon the humanity of the friar. While Ellena, looking round the room in shuddering horror, repeatedly exclaimed, “On this very spot! in this very chamber! O what sufferings have these walls witnessed! what are they yet to witness!”
Vivaldi now endeavoured to soothe the spirits of Ellena, and again urged the friar to employ this critical moment in saving her; “O heaven!” said he, “if she is now discovered, her fate is certain!”
“I dare not say what that fate would be,” interrupted the father, “or what my own, should I consent to assist you; but, though I am old, I have not quite forgotten to feel for others! They may oppress the few remaining years of my age, but the blooming days of youth should flourish; and they shall flourish, my children, if my power can aid you. Follow me to the gate; we will see whether my key cannot unfasten all the locks that hold it.”
Vivaldi and Ellena immediately followed the feeble steps of the old man, who frequently stopped to listen whether Jeronimo, or any of the brothers, to whom the latter might have betrayed Ellena’s situation, were approaching; but not an echo wandered along the lonely avenue, till they reached the gate, when distant footsteps beat upon the ground.
“They are approaching, father!” whispered Ellena. “O, if the key should not open these locks instantly, we are lost! Hark! now I hear their voices — they call upon my name! Already they have discovered we have left the chamber.”
While the friar, with trembling hands, applied the key, Vivaldi endeavoured at once to assist him, and to encourage Ellena.
The locks gave way, and the gate opened at once upon the moonlight mountains. Ellena heard once more, with the joy of liberty, the midnight breeze passing among the pensile branches of the palms, that loftily overshadowed a rude platform before the gate, and rustling with fainter sound among the pendent shrubs of the surrounding cliffs.
“There is no leisure for thanks, my children,” said the friar, observing they were about to speak. “I will fasten the gate, and endeavour to delay your pursuers, that you may have time to escape. My blessing go with you!”
Ellena and Vivaldi had scarcely a moment to bid him “farewel!” before he closed the door, and Vivaldi, taking her arm, was hastening towards the place where he had ordered Paulo to wait with the horses, when, on turning an angle of the convent wall, they perceived a long train of pilgrims issuing forth from the portal, at a little distance.
Vivaldi drew back; yet dreading every moment, that he lingered near the monastery, to hear the voice of Jeronimo, or other persons, from the avenue, he was sometimes inclined to proceed at any hazard. The only practicable path leading to the base of the mountain, however, was now occupied by these devotees, and to mingle with them was little less than certain destruction. A bright moonlight shewed distinctly every figure, that moved in the scene, and the fugitives kept within the shadow of the walls, till, warned by an approaching footstep, they crossed to the feet of the cliffs that rose beyond some palmy hillocks on the right, whose dusky recesses promised a temporary shelter. As they passed with silent steps along the winding rocks, the tranquillity of the landscape below afforded an affecting contrast with the tumult and alarm of their minds.
Being now at some distance from the monastery, they rested under the shade of the cliffs, till the procession of devotees, which were traced descending among the thickets and hollows of the mountain, should be sufficiently remote. Often they looked back to the convent, expecting to see lights issue from the avenue, or the portal; and attended in mute anxiety for the sullen murmurs of pursuit; but none came on the breeze; nor did any gleaming lamp betray the steps of a spy.
Released, at length, from immediate apprehension, Ellena listened to the mattin-hymn of the pilgrims, as it came upon the still air and ascended towards the cloudless heavens. Not a sound mingled with the holy strain, and even in the measured pause of voices only the trembling of the foliage above was distinguished. The responses, as they softened away in distance, and swelled again on the wasting breeze, appeared like the music of spirits, watching by night upon the summits of the mountains, and answering each other in celestial airs, as they walk their high boundary, and overlook the sleeping world.
“How often, Ellena, at this hour,” said Vivaldi, “have I lingered round your dwelling, consoled by the consciousness of being near you! Within those walls, I have said, she reposes; they enclose my world, all without is to me a desart. Now, I am in your presence! O Ellena! now that you are once more restored to me, suffer not the caprice of possibility again to separate us! Let me lead you to the first altar that will confirm our vows.”
Vivaldi forgot, in the anxiety of a stronger interest, the delicate silence he had resolved to impose upon himself, till Ellena should be in a place of safety.
“This is not a moment,” she replied, with hesitation, “for conversation; our situation is yet perilous, we tremble on the very brink of danger.”
Vivaldi immediately rose; “Into what imminent danger,” said he, “had my selfish folly nearly precipitated you! We are lingering in this alarming neighbourhood, when that feeble strain indicates the pilgrims to be sufficiently remote to permit us to proceed!”
As he spoke, they descended cautiously among the cliffs, often looking back to the convent, where, however, no light appeared, except what the moon shed over the spires and tall windows of its cathedral. For a moment, Ellena fancied she saw a taper in her favourite turret, and a belief, that the nuns, perhaps the Abbess herself, were searching for her there, renewed her terror and her speed. But the rays were only those of the moon, striking through opposite casements of the chamber; and the fugitives reached the base of the mountain without further alarm, where Paulo appeared with horses. “Ah! Signormio,” said the servant, “I am glad to see you alive and merry; I began to fear, by the length of your stay, that the monks had clapped you up to do penance for life. How glad I am to see you Maestro!”
“Not more so than I am to see you, good Paulo. But where is the pilgrim’s cloak I bade you provide?”
Paulo displayed it, and Vivaldi, having wrapt it round Ellena, and placed her on horseback, they took the road towards Naples, Ellena designing to take refuge in the convent della Pieta. Vivaldi, however, apprehending that their enemies would seek them on this road, proposed leaving it as soon as practicable, and reaching the neighbourhood of Villa Altieri by a circuitous way.
They soon after arrived at the tremendous pass, through which Ellena had approached the monastery, and whose horrors were considerably heightened at this dusky hour, for the moonlight fell only partially upon the deep barriers of the gorge, and frequently the precipice, with the road on its brow, was entirely shadowed by other cliffs and woody points that rose above it. But Paulo, whose spirits seldom owned the influence of local scenery, jogged merrily along, frequently congratulating himself and his master on their escape, and carolling briskly to the echoes of the rocks, till Vivaldi, apprehensive for the consequence of this loud gaiety, desired him to desist.
“Ah Signormio! I must obey you,” said he, “but my heart was never so full in my life; and I would fain sing, to unburden it of some of this joy. That scrape we got into in the dungeon there, at what’s the name of the place? was bad enough, but it was nothing to this, because here I was left out of it; and you, Maestro, might have been murdered again and again, while I, thinking of nothing at all, was quietly airing myself on the mountain by moonlight.
But what is that yonder in the sky, Signor? It looks for all the world like a bridge; only it is perched so high, that nobody would think of building one in such an out-of-the-way place, unless to cross from cloud to cloud, much less would take the trouble of clambering up after it, for the pleasure of going over.
Vivaldi looked forward, and Ellena perceived the Alpine bridge, she had formerly crossed with so much alarm, in the moonlight perspective, airily suspended between tremendous cliffs, with the river far below, tumbling down the rocky chasm. One of the supporting cliffs, with part of the bridge, was in deep shade, but the other, feathered with foliage, and the rising surges at its foot, were strongly illumined; and many a thicket wet with the spray, sparkled in contrast to the dark rock it overhung. Beyond the arch, the long-drawn prospect faded into misty light.
“Well, to be sure!” exclaimed Paulo, “to see what curiosity will do! If there are not some people have found their way up to the bridge already.”
Vivaldi now perceived figures upon the slender arch, and, as their indistinct forms glided in the moonshine, other emotions than those of wonder disturbed him, lest these might be pilgrims going to the shrine of our Lady, and who would give information of his route. No possibility, however, appeared of avoiding them, for the precipices that rose immediately above, and fell below, forbade all excursion, and the road itself was so narrow, as scarcely to admit of two horses passing each other.
“They are all off the bridge now, and without having broken their necks, perhaps!” said Paulo, “where, I wonder, will they go next! Why surely, Signor, this road does not lead to the bridge yonder; we are not going to pick our way in the air too? The roar of those waters has made my head dizzy already; and the rocks here are as dark as midnight, and seem ready to tumble upon one; they are enough to make one despair to look at them; you need not have checked my mirth, Signor.”
“I would fain check your loquacity,” replied Vivaldi. “Do, good Paulo, be silent and circumspect, those people may be near us, though we do not yet see them.”
“The road does lead to the bridge, then Signor!” said Pa
ulo dolourously. “And see! there they are again; winding round that rock, and coming towards us.”
“Hush! they are pilgrims,” whispered Vivaldi,” we will linger under the shade of these rocks, while they pass. Remember, Paulo, that a single indiscreet word may be fatal; and that if they hail us, I alone am to answer.”
“You are obeyed, Signor.”
The fugitives drew up close under the cliffs, and proceeded slowly, while the words of the devotees, as they advanced, became audible.
“It gives one some comfort,” said Paulo, to hear cheerful voices, in such a place as this. Bless their merry hearts! theirs seems a pilgrimage of pleasure; but they will be demure enough, I warrant, by and bye. I wish I” —
“Paulo! have you so soon forgot?” said Vivaldi sharply.
The devotees, on perceiving the travellers, became suddenly silent; till he who appeared to be the Father-director, as they passed, said “Hail! in the name of Our Lady of Mount Carmel!” and they repeated the salutation in chorus.
“Hail!” replied Vivaldi, “the first mass is over,” and he passed on.
“But if you make haste, you may come in for the second,” said Paulo, jogging after.
“You have just left the shrine, then?” said one of the party, “and can tell us” —
“Poor pilgrims, like yourselves,” replied Paulo, “and can tell as little. Good morrow, fathers, yonder peeps the dawn!”
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 182