pannells, 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 footstep. 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 Bedside, and was snoring 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 past 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 reassure 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 drest 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 features 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 Keyhole; 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.'
Duri
ng 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 choaked 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
has 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 hers, 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
surprize 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 solication, 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.
CHAPTER III
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 sufficiently 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 surprize: 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
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