Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  “What fate?” demanded Vivaldi, stepping back; “Speak, I conjure you!”

  But the monk was gone, and the darkness of the hour baffled observation as to the way of his departure.

  “Dio mi guardi!” exclaimed Bonarmo, “this is almost beyond belief! but let us return to Naples; this second warning ought to be obeyed.”

  “it is almost beyond endurance,” exclaimed Vivaldi; “which way did he pass?”

  “He glided by me,” replied Bonarmo, “and he was gone before I could cross him!”

  “I will tempt the worst at once,” said Vivaldi; “if I have a rival, it is best to meet him. Let us go on.”

  Bonarmo remonstrated, and represented the serious danger that threatened from so rash a proceeding. “It is evident that you have a rival,” said he; “and your courage cannot avail you against hired bravos.” Vivaldi’s heart swelled at the mention of a rival. “If you think it dangerous to proceed, I will go alone,” said he.

  Hurt by this reproof, Bonarmo accompanied his friend in silence, and they reached without interruption the boundary of the villa. Vivaldi led to the place by which he had entered on the preceding night, and they passed unmolested into the garden.

  “Where are these terrible bravos of whom you warned me?” said Vivaldi, with taunting exultation.

  “Speak cautiously,” replied his friend; “we may, even now, be within their reach.”

  “They also may be within ours,” observed Vivaldi.

  At length, these adventurous friends came to the orangery, which was near the house, when, tired by the ascent, they rested to recover breath, and to prepare their instruments for the serenade. The night was still, and they now heard, for the first time, murmurs as of a distant multitude; and then the sudden splendor of fireworks broke upon the sky. These arose from a villa on the western margin of the bay, and were given in honour of the birth of one of the royal princes. They soared to an immense height, and, as their lustre broke silently upon the night, it lightened on the thousand up-turned faces of the gazing crowd, illumined the waters of the bay, with every little boat that skimmed its surface, and shewed distinctly the whole sweep of its rising shores, the stately city of Naples on the strand below, and, spreading far among the hills, its terraced roofs crowded with spectators, and the Corso tumultuous with carriages and blazing with torches.

  While Bonarmo surveyed this magnificent scene, Vivaldi turned his eyes to the residence of Ellena, part of which looked out from among the trees, with a hope that the spectacle would draw her to a balcony; but she did not appear, nor was there any light, that might indicate her approach.

  While they still refted on the turf of the orangery, they heard a sudden rustling of the leaves, as if the branches were disturbed by some person who endeavoured to make his way between them, when Vivaldi demanded who passed. No answer was returned, and a long silence followed.

  “We are observed,” said Bonarmo, at length, “and are even now, perhaps, almost beneath the poinard of the assassin: let us be gone.”

  “O that my heart were as secure from the darts of love, the assassin of my peace,” exclaimed Vivaldi, “as yours is from those of bravos! My friend, you have little to interest you, since your thoughts have so much leisure for apprehension.”

  “My fear is that of prudence, not of weakness,” retorted Bonarmo, with acrimony; “you will find, perhaps, that I have none, when you most wish me to possess it.”

  “I understand you,” replied Vivaldi; “let us finish this business, and you shall receive reparation, since you believe yourself injured: I am as anxious to repair an offence, as jealous of receiving one.”

  “Yes,” replied Bonarmo, “you would repair the injury you have done your friend with his blood.”

  “Oh! never, never!” said Vivaldi, falling on his neck. “Forgive my hasty violence; allow for the distraction of my mind.”

  Bonarmo returned the embrace. “It is enough,” said he; “no more, no more! I hold again my friend to my heart.”

  While this conversation passed, they had quitted the orangery, and reached the walls of the villa, where they took their station under a balcony that overhung the lattice, through which Vivaldi had seen Ellena on the preceding night. They tuned their instruments, and opened the serenade with a duet.

  Vivaldi’s voice was a fine tenor, and the same susceptibility, which made him passionately fond of music, taught him to modulate its cadence with exquisite delicacy, and to give his emphasis with the most simple and pathetic expression. His soul seemed to breathe in the sounds, — so tender, so imploring, yet so energetic. On this night, enthusiasm inspired him with the highest eloquence, perhaps, which music is capable of attaining; what might be its effect on Ellena he had no means of judging, for she did not appear either at the balcony or the lattice, nor gave any hint of applause. No sounds stole on the stillness of the night, except those of the serenade, nor did any light from within the villa break upon the obscurity without; once, indeed, in a pause of the instruments, Bonarmo fancied he distinguished voices near him, as of persons who feared to be heard, and he listened attentively, but without ascertaining the truth. Sometimes they seemed to sound heavily in his ear, and then a deathlike silence prevailed. Vivaldi affirmed the sound to be nothing more than the confused murmur of the distant multitude on the shore, but Bonarmo was not thus easily convinced.

  The musicians, unsuccessful in their first endeavour to attract attention, removed to the opposite side of the building, and placed themselves in front of the portico, but with as little success; and, after having exercised their powers of harmony and of patience for above an hour, they resigned all further effort to win upon the obdurate Ellena. Vivaldi, notwithstanding the feebleness of his first hope of seeing her, now suffered an agony of disappointment; and Bonarmo, alarmed for the consequence of his despair, was as anxious to persuade him that he had no rival, as he had lately been pertinacious in affirming that he had one.

  At length, they left the gardens, Vivaldi protesting that he would not rest till he had discovered the stranger, who so wantonly destroyed his peace, and had compelled him to explain his ambiguous warnings; and Bonarmo remonstrating on the imprudence and difficulty of the search, and representing that such conduct would probably be the means of spreading a report of his attachment, where most he dreaded it should be known.

  Vivaldi refused to yield to remonstrance or considerations of any kind. “We shall see,” said he, “whether this demon in the garb of a monk, will haunt me again at the accustomed place; if he does, he shall not escape my grasp; and if he does not, I will watch as vigilantly for his return, as he seems to have done for mine. I will lurk in the shade of the ruin, and wait for him, though it be till death!”

  Bonarmo was particularly struck by the vehemence with which he pronounced the last words, but he no longer opposed his purpose, and only bade him consider whether he was well armed, “For,” he added, “you may have need of arms there, though you had no use for them at the villa Altieri. Remember that the stranger told you that your steps were watched.”

  “I have my sword,” replied Vivaldi, “and the dagger which I usually wear; but I ought to enquire what are your weapons of defence.”

  “Hush!” said Bonarmo, as they turned the foot of a rock that overhung the road, “we are approaching the spot; yonder is the arch!” It appeared duskily in the perspective, suspended between two cliffs, where the road wound from sight, on one of which were the ruins of the Roman fort it belonged to, and on the other, shadowing pines, and thickets of oak that tufted the rock to its base.

  They proceeded in silence, treading lightly, and often throwing a suspicious glance around, expecting every instant that the monk would steal out upon them from some recess of the cliffs. But they passed on unmolested to the archway. “We are here before him, however,” said Vivaldi as they entered the darkness. “Speak low, my friend,” said Bonarmo, “others besides ourselves may be shrouded in this obscurity. I like not the place.”


  “Who but ourselves would chuse so dismal a retreat?” whispered Vivaldi, “unless indeed, it were banditti; the savageness of the spot would, in truth, suit their humour, and it suits well also with my own.”

  “It would suit their purpose too, as well as their humour,” observed Bonarmo. “Let us remove from this deep shade, into the more open road, where we can as closely observe who passes.”

  Vivaldi objected that in the road they might themselves be observed, “and if we are seen by my unknown tormentor, our design is defeated, for he comes upon us suddenly, or not at all, lest we should be prepared to detain him.”

  Vivaldi, as he said this, took his station within the thickest gloom of the arch, which was of considerable depth, and near a flight of steps that was cut in the rock, and ascended to the fortress. His friend stepped close to his side. After a pause of silence, during which Bonarmo was meditating, and Vivaldi was impatiently watching, “Do you really believe,” said the former, “that any effort to detain him would be effectual? He glided past me with a strange facility, it was surely more than human!”

  “What is it you mean? enquired Vivaldi.

  “Why, I mean that I could be superstitious. This place, perhaps, infests my mind with congenial gloom, for I find that, at this moment, there is scarcely a superstition too dark for my credulity.”

  Vivaldi smiled. “And you must allow,” added Bonarmo, “that he has appeared under circumstances somewhat extraordinary. How should he know your name, by which, you say, he addressed you at the first meeting? How should he know from whence you came, or whether you designed to return? By what magic could he become acquainted with your plans?”

  “Nor am I certain that he is acquainted with them,” observed Vivaldi; “but if he is, there was no necessity for superhuman means to obtain such knowledge.”

  “The result of this evening surely ought to convince you that he is acquainted with your designs,” said Bonarmo. “Do you believe it possible that Ellena could have been insensible to your attentions, if her heart had not been pre-engaged, and that she would not have shewn herself at a lattice?”

  “You do not know Ellena,” replied Vivaldi, “and therefore I once more pardon you the question. Yet had she been disposed to accept my addresses, surely some sign of approbation,” — he checked himself.

  “The stranger warned you not to go to the villa Altieri,” resumed Bonarmo, “he seemed to anticipate the reception, which awaited you, and to know a danger, which hitherto you have happily escaped.”

  “Yes, he anticipated too well that reception,” said Vivaldi, losing his prudence in passionate exclamation; “and he is himself, perhaps, the rival, whom he has taught me to suspect. He has assumed a disguise only the more effectually to impose upon my credulity, and to deter me from addressing Ellena. And shall I tamely lie in wait for his approach? Shall I lurk like a guilty assassin for this rival?”

  “For heaven’s sake!” said Bonarmo, “moderate these transports; consider where you are. This surmise of yours is in the highest degree improbable.” He gave his reasons for thinking so, and these convinced Vivaldi, who was prevailed upon to be once more patient.

  They had remained watchful and still for a considerable time, when Bonarmo saw a person approach the end of the archway nearest to Altieri. He heard no step, but he perceived a shadowy figure station itself at the entrance of the arch, where the twilight of this brilliant climate was, for a few paces, admitted. Vivaldi’s eyes were fixed on the road leading towards Naples, and he, therefore, did not perceive the object of Bonarmo’s attention, who, fearful of his friend’s precipitancy, forbore to point out immediately what he observed, judging it more prudent to watch the motions of this unknown person, that he might ascertain whether it really were the monk. The size of the figure, and the dark drapery in which it seemed wrapt, induced him, at length, to believe that this was the expected stranger; and he seized Vivaldi’s arm to direct his attention to him, when the form gliding forward disappeared in the gloom, but not before Vivaldi had understood the occasion of his friend’s gesture and significant silence. They heard no footstep pass them, and, being convinced that this person, whatever he was, had not left the archway, they kept their station in watchful stillness. Presently they heard a rustling, as of garments, near them, and Vivaldi, unable longer to command his patience, started from his concealment, and with arms extended to prevent any one from escaping, demanded who was there.

  The sound ceased, and no reply was made. Bonarmo drew his sword, protesting he would stab the air till he found the person who lurked there; but that if the latter would discover himself, he should receive no injury. This assurance Vivaldi confirmed by his promise. Still no answer was returned; but as they listened for a voice, they thought something passed them, and the avenue was not narrow enough to have prevented such a circumstance. Vivaldi rushed forward, but did not perceive any person issue from the arch into the highway, where the stronger twilight must have discovered him.

  “Somebody certainly passed,” whispered Bonarmo, “and I think I hear a sound from younder steps, that lead to the fortress.”

  “Let us follow,” cried Vivaldi, and he began to ascend. “Stop, for heaven’s sake stop!” said Bonarmo; “consider what you are about! Do not brave the utter darkness of these ruins; do not pursue the assassin to his den!”

  “It is the monk himself!” exclaimed Vivaldi, still ascending; “he shall not escape me!”

  Bonarmo paused a moment at the foot of the steps, and his friend disappeared; he hesitated what to do, till ashamed of suffering him to encounter danger alone, he sprang to the flight, and not without difficulty surmounted the rugged steps.

  Having reached the summit of the rock, he found himself on a terrace, that ran along the top of the archway and had once been fortified; this, crossing the road, commanded the defile each way. Some remains of massy walls, that still exhibited loops for archers, were all that now hinted of its former use. It led to a watchtower almost concealed in thick pines, that crowned the opposite cliff, and had thus served not only for a strong battery over the road, but, connecting the opposite sides of the defile, had formed a line of communication between the fort and this outpost.

  Bonarmo looked round in vain for his friend, and the echoes of his own voice only, among the rocks, replied to his repeated calls. After some hesitation whether to enter the walls of the main building, or to cross to the watchtower, he determined on the former, and entered a rugged area, the walls of which, following the declivities of the precipice, could scarcely now be traced. The citadel, a round tower, of majestic strength, with some Roman arches scattered near, was all that remained of this once important fortress; except, indeed, a mass of ruins near the edge of the cliff, the construction of which made it difficult to guess for what purpose it had been designed.

  Bonarmo entered the immense walls of the citadel, but the utter darkness within checked his progress, and, contenting himself with calling loudly on Vivaldi, he returned to the open air.

  As he approached the mass of ruins, whose singular form had interested his curiosity, he thought he distinguished the low accents of a human voice, and while he listened in anxiety, a person rushed forth from a doorway of the ruin, carrying a drawn sword. It was Vivaldi himself. Bonarmo sprang to meet him; he was pale and breathless, and some moments elapsed before he could speak, or appeared to hear the repeated enquiries of his friend.

  “Let us go,” said Vivaldi, “let us leave this place!”

  “Most willingly,” replied Bonarmo, “but where have you been, and who have you seen, that you are thus affected.”

  “Ask me no more questions, let us go,” repeated Vivaldi.

  They descended the rock together, and when, having reached the archway, Bonarmo enquired, half sportively, whether they should remain any longer on the watch, his friend answered, “No!” with an emphasis that startled him. They passed hastily on the way to Naples, Bonarmo repeating enquiries which Vivaldi seemed reluctant to satisfy,
and wondering no less at the cause of this sudden reserve, than anxious to know whom he had seen.

  “It was the monk, then,” said Bonarmo; “you secured him at last?”

  “I know not what to think,” replied Vivaldi, “I am more perplexed than ever.”

  “He escaped you then?”

  “We will speak of this in future,” said Vivaldi; “but be it as it may, the business rests not here. I will return in the night of tomorrow with a torch; dare you venture yourself with me?”

  “I know not,” replied Bonarmo, “whether I ought to do so, since I am not informed for what purpose.”

  “I will not press you to go,” said Vivaldi; “my purpose is already known to you.”

  “Have you really failed to discover the stranger — have you still doubts concerning the person you pursued?”

  “I have doubts, which tomorrow night, I hope, will dissipate.”

  “This is very strange!” said Bonarmo, “It was but now that I witnessed the horror, with which you left the fortress of Paluzzi, and already you speak of returning to it! And why at night — why not in the day, when less danger would beset you?”

  “I know not as to that,” replied Vivaldi, “you are to observe that daylight never pierces within the recess, to which I penetrated; we must search the place with torches at whatsoever hour we would examine it.”

  “Since this is necessary,” said Bonarmo, “how happens it that you found your way in total darkness?”

  “I was too much engaged to know how; I was led on, as by an invisible hand.”

  “We must, notwithstanding,” observed Bonarmo, “go in daytime, if not by daylight, provided I accompany you. It would be little less than insanity to go twice to a place, which is probably infested with robbers, and at their own hour of midnight.”