Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  “You have it already, Signor,” replied the man.

  “True,” said the Monk; “ascend softly, or our steps may awaken her.”

  “You said I was to wait at the foot of the stairs, Signor, while you” —

  “True, true, true!” muttered the Confessor, and had begun to ascend, when his attendant desired him to stop. “You are going in darkness, Signor, you have forgotten the lamp. I have another here.”

  Schedoni took it angrily, without speaking, and was again ascending, when he hesitated, and once more paused. “The glare will disturb her,” thought he, “it is better to go in darkness. — Yet— “. He considered, that he could not strike with certainty without light to direct his hand, and he kept the lamp, but returned once more to charge Spalatro not to stir from the foot of the stairs till he called, and to ascend to the chamber upon the first signal.

  “I will obey, Signor, if you, on your part, will promise not to give the signal till all is over.”

  “I do promise,” replied Schedoni. “No more!”

  Again he ascended, nor stopped till he reached Ellena’s door, where he listened for a sound; but all was as silent as if death already reigned in the chamber. This door was, from long disuse, difficult to be opened; formerly it would have

  yielded without sound, but now Schedoni was fearful of noise from every effort he made to move it. After some difficulty, however, it gave way, and he perceived, by the stilness within the apartment, that he had not disturbed Ellena. He shaded the lamp with the door for a moment, while he threw an enquiring glance forward, and when he did venture farther, held part of his dark drapery before the light, to prevent the rays from spreading through the room.

  As he approached the bed, her gentle breathings informed him that she still slept, and the next moment he was at her side. She lay in deep and peaceful slumber, and seemed to have thrown herself upon the mattress, after having been wearied by her griefs; for, though sleep pressed heavily on her eyes, their lids were yet wet with tears.

  While Schedoni gazed for a moment upon her innocent countenance, a saint smile stole over it. He stepped back. “She smiles in her murderer’s face!” said he, shuddering, “I must be speedy.”

  He searched for the dagger, and it was some time before his trembling hand could disengage it from the solds of his garment; but, having done so, he again drew near, and prepared to strike. Her dress perplexed him; it would interrupt the blow, and he stooped to examine whether he could turn her robe aside, without waking her. As the light passed over her face, he perceived that the smile had vanished — the visions of her sleep were changed, for tears stole from beneath her eyelids, and her features suffered a slight convulsion. She spoke! Schedoni, apprehending that the light had disturbed her, suddenly drew back, and, again irresolute, shaded the lamp, and concealed himself behind the curtain, while he listened. But her words were inward and indistinct, and convinced him that she still slumbered.

  His agitation and repugnance to strike encreased with every moment of delay, and, as often as he prepared to plunge the poinard in her bosom, a shuddering horror restrained him. Astonished at his own feelings, and indignant at what he termed a dastardly weakness, he found it necessary to argue with himself, and his rapid thoughts said, “Do I not feel the necessity of this act! Does not what is dearer to me than existence — does not my consequence depend on the execution of it? Is she not also beloved by the young Vivaldi? — have I already forgotten the church of the Spirito Santo?” This consideration reanimated him; vengeance nerved his arm, and drawing aside the lawn from her bosom, he once more raised it to strike; when, after gazing for an instant, some new cause of horror seemed to seize all his frame, aud he stood for some moments aghast and motionless like a statue. His respiration was short and laborious, chilly drops stood on his forehead, and all his faculties of mind seemed suspended. When he recovered, he stooped to examine again the miniature, which had occasioned this revolution, and which had lain concealed beneath the lawn that he withdrew. The terrible certainty was almost confirmed, and forgetting, in his impatience to know the truth, the imprudence of suddenly discovering himself to Ellena at this hour of the night, and with a dagger at his feet, he called loudly “Awake! awake! Say, what is your name? Speak! speak quickly!”

  Ellena, aroused by a man’s voice, started from her mattress, when, perceiving Schedoni, and by the pale glare of the lamp, his haggard countenance, she shrieked, and sunk back on the pillow. She had not fainted; and believing that he came to murder her, she now exerted herself to plead for mercy. The energy of her feelings enabled her to rise and throw herself at his feet, “Be merciful, O father! be merciful!” said she, in a trembling voice.

  “Father!” interrupted Schedoni, with earnestness; and then, seeming to restrain himself, he added, with unaffected surprise, “Why are you thus terrified?” for he had lost, in new interests and emotions, all consciousness of evil intention, and of the singularity of his situation. “What do you fear?” he repeated.

  “Have pity, holy father!” exclaimed Ellena in agony.

  “Why do you not say whose portrait that is?” demanded he, forgetting that he had not asked the question before.

  “Whose portrait?” repeated the Confessor in a loud voice.

  “Whose portrait!” said Ellena, with extreme surprise.

  “Ay, how came you by it? Be quick — whose resemblance is it?”

  “Why should you wish to know?” said Ellena.

  “Answer my question,” repeated Schedoni, with encreasing sternness.

  “I cannot part with it, holy father,” replied Ellena, pressing it to her bosom, “you do not wish me to part with it!”

  “Is it impossible to make you answer my question!” said he, in extreme perturbation, and turning away from her, “has fear utterly confounded you!” Then, again stepping towards her, and seizing her wrist, he repeated the demand in a tone of desperation.

  “Alas! he is dead! or I should not now want a protector,” replied Ellena, shrinking from his grasp, and weeping.

  “You trifle,” said Schedoni, with a terrible look, “I once more demand an answer — whose picture?” —

  Ellena lifted it, gazed upon it for a moment, and then pressing it to her lips said, “This was my father.”

  “Your father!” he repeated in an inward voice, “your father!” and shuddering, turned away.

  Ellena looked at him with surprise.

  “I never knew a father’s care,” she said, “nor till lately did I perceive the want of it. — But now.” —

  “His name?” interrupted the Confessor.

  “But now” continued Ellena— “if you are not as a father to me — to whom can I look for protection?”

  “His name? “repeated Schedoni, with sterner emphasis.

  “It is sacred,” replied Ellena, “for he was unfortunate!”

  “His name?” demanded the Confessor, furiously.

  “I have promised to conceal it, father.”

  “On your life, I charge you tell it; remember, on your life!”

  Ellena trembled, was silent, and with supplicating looks implored him to desist from enquiry, but he urged the question

  more irresistibly. “His name then,” said she, “was Marinella.”

  Schedoni groaned and turned away; but in a few seconds, struggling to command the agitation that shattered his whole frame, he returned to Ellena, and raised her from her knees, on which she had thrown herself to implore mercy.

  “The place of his residence?” said the Monk.

  “It was far from hence,” she replied; but he demanded an unequivocal answer, and she reluctantly gave one.

  Schedoni turned away as before, groaned heavily, and paced the chamber without speaking; while Ellena, in her turn, enquired the motive of his questions, and the occasion of his agitation. But he seemed not to notice any thing she said, and, wholly given up to his feelings, was inflexibly silent, while he stalked, with measured steps, along the room, and his
face, half hid by his cowl, was bent towards the ground.

  Ellena’s terror began to yield to astonishment, and this emotion encreased, when, Schedoni approaching her, she perceived tears swell in his eyes, which were fixt on her’s, and his countenance soften from the wild disorder that had marked it. Still he could not speak. At length he yielded to the fulness of his heart, and Schedoni, the stern Schedoni, wept and sighed! He seated himself on the mattress beside Ellena, took her hand, which she affrighted attempted to withdraw, and when he could command his voice, said, “Unhappy child! — behold your more unhappy father!” As he concluded, his voice was overcome by groans, and he drew the cowl entirely over his face.

  “My father!” exclaimed the astonished and doubting Ellena— “my father!” and fixed her eyes upon him. He gave no reply, but when, a moment after, he lifted his head, “Why do you reproach me with those looks!” said the conscious Schedoni.

  “Reproach you! — reproach my father!” repeated Ellena, in accents softening into tenderness, Why should I reproach my father!”

  “Why!” exclaimed Schedoni, starting from his seat, “Great God!”

  As he moved, he stumbled over the dagger at his foot; at that moment it might be said to strike into his heart. He pushed it hastily from sight. Ellena had not observed it; but she observed his labouring breast, his distracted looks, and quick steps, as he walked to and fro in the chamber; and she asked, with the most soothing accents of compassion, and looks of anxious gentleness, what made him so unhappy, and tried to assuage his sufferings. They seemed to encrease with every wish she expressed to dispel them; at one moment he would pause to gaze upon her and in the next would quit her with a frenzied start.

  “Why do you look so piteously upon me, father?” Ellena said, “why are you so unhappy? Tell me, that I may comfort you.”

  This appeal renewed all the violence of remorse and grief, and he pressed her to his bosom, and wetted her cheek with his tears. Ellena wept to see him weep, till her doubts began to take alarm. Whatever might be the proofs, that had convinced Schedoni of the relationship between them, he had not explained these to her, and, however strong was the eloquence of nature which she witnessed, it was not sufficient to justify an entire confidence in the assertion he had made, or to allow her to permit his caresses without trembling. She shrunk, and endeavoured to disengage herself; when, immediately understanding her, he said, “Can you doubt the cause of these emotions? these signs of paternal affection?”

  “Have I not reason to doubt,” replied Ellena, timidly, “since I never witnessed them before?”

  He withdrew his arms, and, fixing his eyes earnestly on hers, regarded her for some moments in expressive silence. “Poor Innocent!” said he, at length, “you know not how much your words convey! — It is too true, you never have known a father’s tenderness till now!”

  His countenance darkened while he spoke, and he rose again from his seat. Ellena, meanwhile, astonished, terrified and oppressed by a variety of emotions, had no power to demand his reasons for the belief that so much agitated him, or any explanation of his conduct; but she appealed to the portrait, and endeavoured, by tracing some resemblance between it and Schedoni, to decide her doubts. The countenance of each was as different in character as in years. The miniature displayed a young man rather handsome, of a gay and smiling countenance; yet the smile expressed triumph, rather than sweetness, and his whole air and features were distinguished by a consciousness of superiority that rose even to haughtiness.

  Schedoni, on the contrary, advanced in years, exhibited a severe physiognomy, furrowed by thought, no less than by time, and darkened by the habitual indulgence of morose passions. He looked as if he had never smiled since the portrait was drawn; and it seemed as if the painter, prophetic of Schedoni’s future disposition, had arrested and embodied that smile, to prove hereafter that cheerfulness had once played upon his features.

  Though the expression was so different between the countenance, which Schedoni formerly owned, and that he now wore, the same character of haughty pride was visible in both; and Ellena did trace a resemblance in the bold outline of the features, but not sufficient to convince her, without farther evidence, that each belonged to the same person, and that the Confessor had ever been the young cavalier in the portrait. In the first tumult of her thoughts, she had not had leisure to dwell upon the singularity of Schedoni’s visiting her at this deep hour of the night, or to urge any questions, except vague ones, concerning the truth of her relationship to him. But now, that her mind was somewhat recollected, and that his looks were less terrific, she ventured to ask a fuller explanation of these circumstances, and his reasons for the late extraordinary assertion. “It is past midnight, father,” said Ellena, “you may judge then how anxious I am to learn, what motive led you to my chamber at this lonely hour?”

  Schedoni made no reply.

  “Did you come to warn me of danger?” she continued, “had you discovered the cruel designs of Spalatro? Ah! when I supplicated for your compassion on the shore this evening, you little thought what perils surrounded me! or you would— “

  “You say true!” interrupted he, in a hurried manner, “but name the subject no more. Why will you persist in returning to it?”

  His words surprized Ellena, who had not even alluded to the subject till now; but the returning wildness of his countenance, made her fearful of dwelling upon the topic, even so far as to point out his error.

  Another deep pause succeeded, during which Schedoni continued to pace the room, sometimes stopping for an instant, to fix his eyes on Ellena, and regarding her with an earnestness that seemed to partake of frenzy, and then gloomily withdrawing his regards, and sighing heavily, as he turned away to a distant part of the room. She, meanwhile, agitated with astonishment at his conduct, as well as at her own circumstances, and with the fear of offending him by further questions, endeavoured to summon courage to solicit the explanation which was so important to her tranquillity. At length she asked, how she might venture to believe a circumstance so surprinsing, as that of which he had just assured her, and to remind him that he had not yet disclosed his reason for admitting the belief.

  The Confessor’s feelings were eloquent in reply; and, when at length they were sufficiently subdued, to permit him to talk coherently, he mentioned some circumstances concerning Ellena’s family, that proved him at least to have been intimately acquainted with it; and others, which she believed were known only to Bianchi and herself, that removed every doubt of his identity.

  This, however, was a period of his life too big with remorse, horror, and the first pangs of parental affection, to allow him to converse long; deep solitude was necessary for his soul. He wished to plunge where no eye might restrain his emotions, or observe the overflowing anguish of his heart. Having obtained sufficient proof to convince him that Ellena was indeed his child, and assured her that she should be removed from this house on the following day, and be restored to her home, he abruptly left the chamber.

  As he descended the staircase, Spalatro stepped forward to meet him, with the cloak which had been designed to wrap the mangled form of Ellena, when it should be carried to the shore. “Is it done?” said the ruffian, in a stifled voice, “I am ready;” and he spread forth the cloak, and began to ascend.

  “Hold! villain, hold!” said Schedoni, lifting up his head for the first time, “Dare to enter that chamber, and your life shall answer for it.”

  “What!” exclaimed the man, shrinking back astonished— “will not her’s satisfy you!”

  He trembled for the consequence of what he had said, when he observed the changing countenance of the Confessor. But Schedoni spoke not: the tumult in his breast was too great for utterance, and he pressed hastily forward. Spalatro followed. “Be pleased to tell me what I am to do,” said he, again holding forth the cloak.

  “Avaunt!” exclaimed the other, turning fiercely upon him; “leave me.”

  “How!” said the man, whose spirit was
now aroused, “has your courage failed too, Signor? If so, I will prove myself no dastard, though you called me one; I’ll do the business myself.”

  “Villain! fiend!” cried Schedoni, seizing the ruffian by the throat, with a grasp that seemed intended to annihilate him; when, recollecting that the fellow was only willing to obey the very instructions he had himself but lately delivered to him, other emotions succeeded to that of rage; he slowly liberated him, and in accents broken, and softening from sternness, bade him retire to rest. “Tomorrow,” he added, “I will speak further with you. As for this night — I have changed my purpose. Begone!”

  Spalatro was about to express the indignation, which astonishment and fear had hitherto overcome, but his employer repeated his command in a voice of thunder, and closed the door of his apartment with violence, as he shut out a man, whose presence was become hateful to him. He felt relieved by his absence, and began to breathe more freely, till, remembering that this accomplice had just boasted that he was no dastard, he dreaded left, by way of proving the assertion, he should attempt to commit the crime, from which he had lately shrunk. Terrified at the possibility, and even apprehending that it might already have become a reality, he rushed from the room, and found Spalatro in the passage leading to the private staircase; but, whatever might have been his purpose, the situation and looks of the latter were sufficiently alarming. At the approach of Schedoni, he turned his sullen and malignant countenance towards him, without answering the call, or the demand as to his business there; and with slow steps obeyed the order of his master, that he should withdraw to his room. Thither Schedoni followed, and, having locked him in it for the night, he repaired to the apartment of Ellena, which he secured from the possibility of intrusion. He then returned to his own, not to sleep, but to abandon himself to the agonies of remorse and horror; and he yet shuddered like a man, who has just recoiled from the brink of a precipice, but who still measures the gulf with his eye.

  Chapter 20