‘As he spoke, Isidora looked round her helplessly – every object was a confirmation of his arguments – she shuddered and submitted. But as they walked on in silence, she could not help interrupting it to give utterance to the thousand anxieties that oppressed her heart.
‘But you speak,’ said she, in a suppressed and pleading tone, – ‘you speak of religion in words that make me tremble – you speak of it as the fashion of a country, – as a thing of form, of accident, of habit. What faith do you profess? – what church do you frequent? – what holy rites do you perform?’ – ‘I venerate all faiths – alike, I hold all religious rites – pretty much in the same respect,’ said Melmoth, while his former wild and scoffing levity seemed to struggle vainly with a feeling of involuntary horror. ‘And do you then, indeed, believe in holy things?’ asked Isidora. ‘Do you indeed?’ she repeated anxiously. ‘ I believe in a God,’ answered Melmoth, in a voice that froze her blood; ‘you have heard of those who believe and tremble,3 – such is he who speaks to you!’
‘Isidora’s acquaintance with the book from which he quoted, was too limited to permit her to understand the allusion. She knew, according to the religious education she had received, more of her breviary than her Bible; and though she pursued her inquiry in a timid and anxious tone, she felt no additional terror from words she did not understand.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘Christianity is something more than belief in a God. Do you also believe in all that the Catholic church declares to be essential to salvation? Do you believe that’ – And here she added a name too sacred, and accompanied with terms too awful, to be expressed in pages so light as these.*4 ‘I believe it all – I know it all,’ answered Melmoth, in a voice of stern and reluctant confession. ‘Infidel and scoffer as I may appear to you, there is no martyr of the Christian church, who in other times blazed for his God, that has borne or exhibited a more resplendent illustration of his faith, than I shall bear one day – and for ever. There is a slight difference only between our testimonies5 in point of duration. They burned for the truths they loved for a few moments – not so many perchance. Some were suffocated before the flames could reach them, – but I am doomed to bear my attestation on the truth of the gospel, amid fires that shall burn for ever and ever. See with what a glorious destiny yours, my bride, is united! You, as a Christian, would doubtless exult to see your husband at the stake, – and amid the faggots to prove his devotion. How it must ennoble the sacrifice to think that it is to last to eternity!’
‘Melmoth uttered these words in ears that heard no longer. Isidora had fainted; and hanging with one cold hand on his arm still, fell a helpless, senseless weight on the earth. Melmoth, at this sight, shewed more feeling than he could have been suspected of. He disentangled her from the folds of her mantle, sprinkled water from the stream on her cold cheek, and supported her frame in every direction where a breath of air was to be caught. Isidora recovered; for her swoon was that of fatigue more than fear; and, with her recovery, her lover’s short-lived tenderness seemed to cease. The moment she was able to speak he urged her to proceed, – and while she feebly attempted to obey him, he assured her, her strength was perfectly recovered, and that the place they had to reach was but a few paces distant. Isidora struggled on. Their path now lay up the ascent of a steep hill, – they left the murmur of the stream, and the sighing of trees, behind them, – the wind, too, had sunk, but the night continued intensely dark, – and the absence of all sound seemed to Isidora to increase the desolateness of the scene. She wished for something to listen to beside her impeded and painful respiration, and the audible beatings of her heart. As they descended the hill on the other side, the murmuring of the waters became once more faintly audible; and this sound she had longed to hear again, had now, amid the stillness of the night, a cadence so melancholy, that she almost wished it hushed.
‘Thus always, to the unhappy, the very fulfilment of their morbid wishings becomes a source of disappointment, and the change they hoped for is desirable only as it gives them cause to long for another change. In the morning they say, Would to God it were evening! – Evening comes, – and in the evening they say, Would to God it were morning! But Isidora had no time to analyse her feelings, – a new apprehension struck her, – and, as she could well guess from the increasing speed of Melmoth, and head thrown backward impatiently, and often, it had probably reached him too. A sound they had been for some time watching, (without communicating their feelings to each other), became every moment more distinct. It was the sound of a human foot, evidently pursuing them, from the increasing quickness of its speed, and a certain sharpness of tread, that irresistibly gave the idea of hot and anxious pursuit. Melmoth suddenly paused, and Isidora hung trembling on his arm. Neither of them uttered a word; but Isidora’s eyes, instinctively following the slight but fearful waving of his arm, saw it directed towards a figure so obscure, that it at first appeared like a spray moving in the misty night, – then was lost in darkness as it descended the hill, – and then appeared in a human form, as far as the darkness of the night would permit its shape to be distinguishable. It came on – its steps were more and more audible, and its shape almost distinct. – Then Melmoth suddenly quitted Isidora, who, shivering with terror, but unable to utter a word that might implore him to stay, stood alone, her whole frame trembling almost to dissolution, and her feet feeling as if she were nailed to the spot where she stood. What passed she knew not. There was a short and darkened struggle between two figures, – and, in this fearful interval, she imagined she heard the voice of an ancient domestic, much attached to her, call on her, first in accents of expostulation and appeal, then in choaked and breathless cries for help – help – help! – Then she heard a sound as if a heavy body fell into the water that murmured below. – It fell heavily – the wave groaned – the dark hill groaned in answer, like murderers exchanging their stilled and midnight whispers over their work of blood – and all was silent. Isidora clasped her cold and convulsed fingers over her eyes, till a whispering voice, the voice of Melmoth, uttered, ‘Let us hasten on, my love.’ – ‘Where?’ said Isidora, not knowing the meaning of the words she uttered. – ‘To the ruined monastery, my love, – to the hermitage, where the holy man, the man of your faith, shall unite us.’ – ‘Where are the steps that pursued us?’ said Isidora, suddenly recovering her recollection. – ‘They will pursue you no more.’ – ‘But I saw a figure.’ – ‘But you will see it no more.’ – ‘I heard something fall into that stream – heavily – like a corse.’ – ‘There was a stone that fell from the precipice of the hill – the waters splashed, and curled, and whitened round it for a moment, but they have swallowed it now, and appear to have such a relish for the morsel, that they will not be apt to resign it.’
‘In silent horror she proceeded, till Melmoth, pointing to a dusky and indefinite mass of what, in the gloom of night, bore, according to the eye or the fancy, the shape of a rock, a tuft of trees, or a massive and unlighted building, whispered, ‘There is the ruin, and near it stands the hermitage, – one moment more of effort, – of renewed strength and courage, and we are there.’ Urged by these words, and still more by an undefinable wish to put an end to this shadowy journey, – these mysterious fears, – even at the risk of finding them worse than verified at its termination, Isidora exerted all her remaining strength, and, supported by Melmoth, began to ascend the sloping ground on which the monastery had once stood. There had been a path, but it was now all obstructed by stones, and rugged with the knotted and interlaced roots of the neglected trees that had once formed its shelter and its grace.
‘As they approached, in spite of the darkness of the night, the ruin began to assume a distinct and characteristic appearance, and Isidora’s heart beat less fearfully, when she could ascertain, from the remains of the tower and spire, the vast Eastern window, and the crosses still visible on every ruined pinnacle and pediment, like religion triumphant amid grief and decay, that this had been a building destined for sacred
purposes. A narrow path, that seemed to wind round the edifice, conducted them to a front which overlooked an extensive cemetery, at the extremity of which Melmoth pointed out to her an indistinct object, which he said was the hermitage, and to which he would hasten to intreat the hermit, who was also a priest, to unite them. ‘May I not accompany you?’ said Isidora, glancing round on the graves that were to be her companions in solitude. – ‘It is against his vow,’ said Melmoth, ‘to admit a female into his presence, except when obliged by the course of his duties.’ So saying he hasted away, and Isidora, sinking on a grave for rest, wrapt her veil around her, as if its folds could exclude even thought. In a few moments, gasping for air, she withdrew it; but as her eye encountered only tomb-stone and crosses, and that dark and sepulchral vegetation that loves to shoot its roots, and trail its unlovely verdure amid the joints of gravestones, she closed it again, and sat shuddering and alone. Suddenly a faint sound, like the murmur of a breeze, reached her, – she looked up, but the wind had sunk, and the night was perfectly calm. The same sound recurring, as of a breeze sweeping past, made her turn her eyes in the direction from which it came, and, at some distance from her, she thought she beheld a human figure moving slowly along on the verge of the inclosure of the burial-ground. Though it did not seem approaching her, (but rather moving in a low circuit on the verge of her view), conceiving it must be Melmoth, she rose in expectation of his advancing to her, and, at this moment, the figure, turning and half-pausing, seemed to extend its arm towards her, and wave it once or twice, but whether with a motion or purpose of warning or repelling her, it was impossible to discover, – it then renewed its dim and silent progress, and the next moment the ruins hid it from her view. She had no time to muse on this singular appearance, for Melmoth was now at her side urging her to proceed. There was a chapel, he told her, attached to the ruins, but not like them in decay, where sacred ceremonies were still performed, and where the priest had promised to join them in a few moments. ‘He is there before us,’ said Isidora, adverting to the figure she had seen; ‘I think I saw him.’ – ‘Saw whom?’ said Melmoth, starting, and standing immoveable till his question was answered. – ‘I saw a figure,’ said Isidora, trembling – ‘I thought I saw a figure moving towards the ruin.’ – ‘You are mistaken,’ said Melmoth; but a moment after he added, ‘We ought to have been there before him.’ And he hurried on with Isidora. Suddenly slackening his speed, he demanded, in a choaked and indistinct voice, if she had ever heard any music precede his visits to her, – any sounds in the air. ‘Never,’ was the answer. – ‘You are sure?’ – ‘Perfectly sure.’
‘At this moment they were ascending the fractured and rugged steps that led to the entrance of the chapel, now they passed under the dark and ivied porch, – now they entered the chapel, which, even in darkness, appeared to the eyes of Isidora ruinous and deserted. ‘He has not yet arrived,’ said Melmoth, in a disturbed voice; ‘Wait there a moment.’ And Isidora, enfeebled by terror beyond the power of resistance, or even intreaty, saw him depart without an effort to detain him. She felt as if the effort would be hopeless. Left thus alone, she glanced her eyes around, and a faint and watery moon-beam breaking at that moment through the heavy clouds, threw its light on the objects around her. There was a window, but the stained glass of its compartments, broken and discoloured, held rare and precarious place between the fluted shafts of stone. Ivy and moss darkened the fragments of glass, and clung round the clustered pillars. Beneath were the remains of an altar and crucifix, but they seemed like the rude work of the first hands that had ever been employed on such subjects. There was also a marble vessel, that seemed designed to contain holy water, but it was empty, – and there was a stone bench, on which Isidora sunk down in weariness, but without hope of rest. Once or twice she looked up to the window, through which the moon-beams fell, with that instinctive feeling of her former existence, that made companions of the elements and of the beautiful and glorious family of heaven, under whose burning light she had once imagined the moon was her parent, and the stars her kindred. She gazed on the window still, like one who loved the light of nature, and drank health and truth from its beams, till a figure passing slowly but visibly before the pillared shafts, disclosed to her view the face of that ancient servant, whose features she remembered well. He seemed to regard her with a look, first of intent contemplation, – then of compassion, – the figure then passed from before the ruined window, and a faint and wailing cry rung in the ears of Isidora as it disappeared.
‘At that moment the moon, that had so faintly lit the chapel, sunk behind a cloud, and every thing was enveloped in darkness so profound, that Isidora did not recognize the figure of Melmoth till her hand was clasped in his, and his voice whispered, ‘He is here – ready to unite us.’ The long-protracted terrors of this bridal left her not a breath to utter a word withal, and she leaned on the arm that she felt, not in confidence, but for support. The place, the hour, the objects, all were hid in darkness. She heard a faint rustling as of the approach of another person, – she tried to catch certain words, but she knew not what they were, – she attempted also to speak, but she knew not what she said. All was mist and darkness with her, – she knew not what was muttered, – she felt not that the hand of Melmoth grasped hers, – but she felt that the hand that united them, and clasped their palms within his own, was as cold as that of death.’
CHAPTER XXV
HOMER1
‘We have now to retrace a short period of our narrative to the night on which Don Francisco di Aliaga, the father of Isidora, ‘fortuned,’ as he termed it, to be among the company whose conversation had produced so extraordinary an effect on him.
‘He was journeying homewards, full of the contemplation of his wealth, – the certainty of having attained complete security against the evils that harass life, – and being able to set at defiance all external causes of infelicity. He felt like a man ‘at ease in his possessions,’2 and he felt also a grave and placid satisfaction at the thought of meeting a family who looked up to him with profound respect as the author of their fortunes, – of walking in his own house, amid bowing domestics and obsequious relatives, with the same slow authoritative step with which he paced that mart among wealthy merchants, and saw the wealthiest bow as he approached, – and when he had passed, point out the man of whose grave salute they were proud, and whisper, That is Aliaga the rich. – So thinking and feeling, as most prosperous men do, with an honest pride in their worldly success, – an exaggerated expectation of the homage of society, – (which they often find frustrated by its contempt), – and an ultimate reliance on the respect and devotion of their family whom they have enriched, making them ample amends for the slights they may be exposed to where their wealth is unknown, and their newly assumed consequence unappreciated, – or if appreciated, not valued: – So thinking and feeling, Don Francisco journeyed homeward.
‘At a wretched inn where he was compelled to halt, he found the accommodation so bad, and the heat of the weather so intolerable in the low, narrow, and unwindowed rooms, that he preferred taking his supper in the open air, on a stone bench at the door of the inn. We cannot say that he there imagined himself to be feasted with trout and white bread, like Don Quixote, – and still less that he fancied he was ministered unto by damsels of rank;3 – on the contrary, Don Francisco was digesting a sorry meal with wretched wine, with a perfect internal consciousness of the mediocrity of both, when he beheld a person ride by, who paused, and looked as if he was inclined to stop at the inn. (The interval of this pause was not long enough to permit Don Francisco to observe particularly the figure or face of the horseman, or indeed to recognize him on any future occasion of meeting; nor was there any thing remarkable in his appearance to invite or arrest observation.) He made a sign to the host, who approached him with a slow and unwilling pace, – appeared to answer all his inquiries with sturdy negatives, – and finally, as the stranger rode on, returned to his station, crossing himself with every mark of te
rror and deprecation.
‘There was something more in this than the ordinary surliness of a Spanish innkeeper. Don Francisco’s curiosity was excited, and he asked the innkeeper, whether the stranger had proposed to pass the night at the inn, as the weather seemed to threaten a storm? ‘I know not what he proposes,’ answered the man, ‘but this I know, that I would not suffer him to pass an hour under my roof for the revenues of Toledo.4 If there be a storm coming on, I care not – those who can raise them are the fittest to meet them!’
‘Don Francisco inquired the cause of these extraordinary expressions of aversion and terror, but the innkeeper shook his head and remained silent, with, as it were, the circumspective fear of one who is inclosed within the sorcerer’s circle, and dreads to pass its verge, lest he become the prey of the spirits who are waiting beyond it to take advantage of his transgression.
‘At last, at Don Francisco’s repeated instances, he said, ‘Your worship must needs be a stranger in this part of Spain not to have heard of Melmoth the wanderer.’ – ‘I have never heard of the name before,’ said Don Francisco; ‘and I conjure you, brother, to tell me what you know of this person, whose character, if I may judge by the manner in which you speak of him, must have in it something extraordinary.’ – ‘Senhor,’ answered the man, ‘were I to relate what is told of that person, I should not be able to close an eye to-night; or if I did, it would be to dream of things so horrible, that I had rather lie awake for ever. But, if I am not mistaken, there is in the house one who can gratify your curiosity – it is a gentleman who is preparing for the press a collection of facts relative to that person, and who has been, for some time, in vain soliciting for a license to print them, they being such as the government, in its wisdom, thinks not fit to be perused by the eyes of Catholics, or circulated among a Christian community.’
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