THE ITALIAN.
CHAP I.
IT was in the church of San Lorenzo at Naples, in the year 1758; that Vicentio di Vivaldi first saw Ellena Rosa [...]ba. The sweetness and fine expression of her voice attracted his attention to her figure, which had a distinguished air of delicacy and grace; but her face was concealed in her veil. So much indeed was he facinated by the voice, that a most painful curiosity was excited as to her countenance, which he fancied must express all the sensibility of character that the modulation of her tones indicated. He listened to their exquisite expression with a rapt attention, and hardly withdrew his eyes from her person till the matin service had concluded; when he observed her leave the church, with an aged lady, who leaned upon her arm, and who appeared to be her mother.
Vivaldi immediately followed their steps, determined to obtain, if possible, a view of Ellena's face, and and to discover the home to which she should retire. They walked quickly, looking niether to the right or left, and as they turned into the Strada di Toledo he had nearly lost them; but quickening his pace, and relinquishing the cautious distance he had hitherto kept-he overtook them as they entered on the Terrazzo Nuovo▪ which runs along the bay of Naples, and leads [Page 10] towards the Gran Corso. He overtook them; but the fair unknown still held her veil close, and he knew not how to introduce himself to her notice or to obtain a view of the features, which excited his curiosity. He was embarrassed by a respectful timidity, that mingled with his admiration, and which kept him silent, notwithstanding his wish to speak.
In descending the last steps of the Terrazzo, however, the foot of the elder lady faultered, and, while Vivaldi, hastened to assist her, the breeze from the water caught the veil, which Ellena had no longer a hand sufficiently disengaged to confine, and, wafting it partially aside, disclosed to him a countenance more touchingly beautiful than he had dared to imagine. Her features were of the Grecian outline, and, though they expressed the tranquility of an elegant mind, her dark blue eyes sparkled with intelligence. She was assisting her companion so anxiously, that she did not imediately observe the admiration she had inspired; but the moment her eyes met those of Vivaldi, she became conscious of their effect, and she hastily drew her veil,
The old lady was not materially hurt by her fall, as she walked with dificulty, Vivaldi siezed the opportunity thus offered, and insisted that she should except his arm. She refused this with many acknowledgements; but he pressed so repeatedly and respectfully, that; at length, she accepted it, and they walked towards her residence together.
On the way thither, he attempted to converse with Ellena, but her replies were concise and he arrived at the end of the walk while he was yet considering what he could say, that might interest and withdraw her from this severe reserve. From the style of their residence, he imagined they were persons of honorable but moderate independence. The house was small, but exhibited an air of comfort, and even of taste. It [Page 11] stood on an eminence, surrounded by a garden and vineyards, which commanded the city and bay of Naples, an ever-moving picture, and was canopied by a thick grove of pines and majestic date-trees; and though the little portico and colonade in front were of common marble, the style of architect was elegant. While they afforded a shelter from the sun, they admitted the cooling breezes that rose from the bay below, and a prospect of the whole scope of its enchanting shores.
Vivaldi stopped at the little gate, which led into the garden, where the elder lady repeated her acknowledgement for his care, but did not invite him to enter; and he, trembling with anxiety and sinking with disappointment, remained for a moment gazing upon Ellena, unable to take leave, yet irresolute what to say that might prolong the interview, till the old lady again bade him good-day. He then summoned courage enough to request he might be allowed to enquire after her health, and, having obtained her permission, his eyes bade adieu to Ellena, who, as they were parting, ventured to thank him for the care he had taken of her aunt. The sound of her voice, and his acknowledgment of obligation, made him less willing to go than before, but at length he tore himself away. The beauty of her countenance haunting his imagination, and the touching accents of her voice still vibrating on his heart, he descended to the shore below her residence, pleasing himself with the consciousness of being near her, though he could no longer behold her; and sometimes hoping that he might again see her, however distantly, in a balcony of the house, where the silk awning seemed to invite the breeze from the sea. He lingered hour after hour, stretched beneath the umbrageous pines that waved over the shore, or traversing, regardless of the heat, the base of the cliffs that crowned it; recalling to his [Page 12] fancy the enchantment of her smile, and seeming still to listen to the sweetness of her accents,
In the evening he returned to his father's palace at Naples, thoughtful yet pleased, anxious yet happy; dwelling with delightful hope on the remembrance of the thanks he had received from Ellena, yet not daring to form any plan as to his future conduct. He returned time enough to attend his mother in her evening ride on the Corso, where, in every gay carriage that passed he hoped to see the object of his constant thought; but she did not appear. His mother, the Marchesa di Vivaldi, observed his anxiety and unusual silence, and asked him some questions, which she meant should lead to an explanation of the change in his manners; but his replies only excited a stronger curiosity, and though she forbore to press her enquiries, it was probable that she might employ a more artful means of renewing them.
Vincentio di Vivaldi was the only son of the Marchese di Vivaldi, a nobleman of one of the most ancient families of the kingdom of Naples, a favourite possessing an uncommon share of influence at Court, and a man still higher in power than in rank. His pride of birth was equal to either, but it was mingled with the justifiable pride of a principled mind; it governed his conduct in morals as well as in the jealousy of ceremonial distinctions, and elevated his practice as well as his claims. His pride was at once his vice and his virtue, his safeguard and his weakness.
The mother of Vivaldi, descended from a family as ancient as that of his father, was equally jealous of her importance; but her pride was that of birth and distinction, without extending to morals. She was of violent passions, haughty, vindictive, yet crafty and deceitful; patient in stratagem, and indefatigable in pursuit of vengeance, on the unhappy objects who [Page 13] provoked her resentment. She loved her son, rather as being the last of two illustrious houses, who was to re-unite and support the honor of both, than with the fondness of a mother.
Vicentio inherited much of the character of his father, and very little of that of his mother. His pride was as noble and as generous as that of the Marchese; but he had somewhat of the fiery passions of the Marchesa, without any of her craft, her duplicity, or vindictive thirst of revenge. Frank in his temper, ingenuous in his sentiments. quickly offended, but easily appeased; irritated by any appearance of disrespect, but melted by a concession, a high sense of honor rendered him no more jealous of offence, than a delicate humanity made him ready for reconciliation, and anxious to spare the feelings of others.
On the day following that, on which he had seen Ellena, he returned to the villa Altieri, to use the permission granted him on enquiring after the health of Signora Bianchi. The expectation of seeing Ellena agitated him with impatient joy and trembling hope, which still, encreased as he approached her residence, till, having reached the garden-gate, he was obliged to rest for a few moments to recover breath and composure.
Having announced himself to an old female servant, who came to the gate, he was soon after admitted to a small vestibule, where he found Signora Bianchi winding balls of silk, and alone; though from the position of a chair which stood near a frame for embroidery, he judged that Ellena had just quitted the apartment.
Signora Bianchi received him with a reserved politeness, and seemed very cautious in her replies to his enquiries after her niece, who, he hoped, every moment, would appear. He lengthened his visit till there was no longer an excuse for doing so; till he [Page 14] had exhausted every topic of conversation, and till the silence of Signora Bianchi seemed to hint, that his departure was expected. With a heart saddened by disappointment, and having obtained only a reluctant permission to enquire after the health of that lady on some future day, he took his leave.
On his way through the garden he often paused to look back on the house, hoping to obtain a glimpse of Ellena at a lattice; and threw a glance around him, almost expecting to see her seated beneath the shade of the luxuriant plaintains; but his search was every where vain, and he quitted the place with the slow and heavy step of despondency.
The day was employed in endeavours to obtain intelligence concerning the family of Ellena, but of this he procured little that was satisfactory. He was told, that she was an orphan, living under the care of her aunt, Signora Bianchi: that her family, which had never been illustrious, was decayed in fortune, and that her only dependance was upon this aunt. But he was ignorant of what was very true, though very secret, that she assisted to support this aged relative, whose sole property was the small estate on which they lived, and that she passed whole days in embroidering silks, which were disposed of to the nuns of a neighbouring convent, who sold them to the Neapolitan ladies, that visited their grate, at a very high advantage. He little thought, that a beautiful robe, which he had often seen his mother wear, was worked by Ellena; nor that some copies from the antique, which ornamented a cabinet of the Vivaldi palace, were drawn by her hand. If he had known these circumstances, they would only have served to encrease the passion, which, since they were proofs of a [...]parity of fortune, that would certainly render his family repugnant to a connection with hers, it would have been prudent to discourage.
[Page 15] Ellena could have endured poverty, but not contempt; and it was to protect herself from this effect of the narrow prejudices of the world around her, that she had so cautiously concealed from it a knowledge of the industry, which did honor to her character. She was not ashamed of poverty or the industry which overcame it, but her spirit shrunk from the senseless smile and humiliating condescension, which prosperity sometimes gives to indigence. Her mind was not yet strong enough, or her views sufficiently enlarged, to teach her a contempt of the sneer of vicious folly, and to glory in the dignity of virtuous independence, Ellena was the sole support of her aunt's declining years; was patient of her infirmities, and consoling to her sufferings; and repaid the fondness of a mother with the affection of a daughter. Her mother she had never known, having lost her while she was an infant, and from that period Signora Bianchi had performed the duties of one for her.
Thus innocent and happy in the silent performance of her duties and in the veil of retirement, lived Ellena Rosalba, when she first saw Vincentio di Vivaldi. He was not a figure to pass unobserved when seen, and Ellena had been struck by the spirit and dignity of his air, and by his countenance, so frank, noble, and full of that kind of expression, which announces the energies of the soul. But she was cautious of admitting a sentiment more tender than admiration, and endeavour to dismiss his image from her mind, and by engaging in her usual occupations, to recover the state of tranquility, which his appearance had somewhat interrupted.
Vivaldi, mean while, restless from disappointment, and impatient from anxiety, having passed the greater part of the day in enquiries, which repaid him only with doubt and apprehension, determined to return to [Page 16] the villa Altieri, when evening should conceal his steps, consoled by the certainty of being near the object of his thoughts, and hoping, that chance might favour him once more with a view, however, transient of Ellena.
The Marchesa Vivaldi held an assembly this evening, and a suspicion concerning the impatience he betrayed, induced her to detain him about her person to a late hour, engaging him to select the music for her orchestra, and to superintend the performance of a new piece, the work of a composer whom she had brought into fashion. Her assemblies were among the most brilliant and crowded in Naples, and the nobility, who were to be at the palace this evening, were divided into two parties as to the merits of the musical genius, whom she patronized, and those of another candidate for fame. The performance of the evening it was expected it would finally decide the victory. This therefore, was a night of great importance and anxiety to the Marchesa, for she was as jealous of the reputation of her favovrite composer as of her own, and the welfare of her son did but slightly divide her cares.
The moment he could depart unobserved, he quitted the assembly, and, muffling himself in his cloak, hastened to the villa Altiera, which lay at a short distance to the west of the city. He reached it unobserved, and breathless with impatience, traversed the the boundary of the garden; where, free from ceremonial restraint and near the object of his affection, he experienced for the first few moments a joy as exquisite as her presence could have inspired. But this delight faded with its novelty, and in a short time he felt as forlorn as if he was separated for ever from Ellena, in whose presence he but lately almost beleived himself.
The night was far advanced, and, no light appearing from the house, he concluded the inhabitants had [Page 17] retired to rest, and all hope of seeing her vanished from his mind. Still, however, it was sweet to be near her, and he anxiously sought to gain admittance to the gardens, that he might approach the window where it was possible she reposed. The boundary, formed of trees and thick shrubs, was not difficult to be passed, and he found himself once more in the portico of the villa.
It was nearly midnight, and the stillness that reigned was rather soothed than interrupted by the gentle dashings of the waters of the bay below, and by the hollow murmurs of Vesuvius, which threw up at intervals its sudden flame on the horizon, and then left it to darkness. The solemnity of the scene accorded with the temper of his mind, and he listened in deep attention for the returning sounds, which broke upon the ear like distant thunder muttering imperfectly from the clouds. The pauses of silence, that succeeded each groan of the mountain, when expectation listened for the rising sound, affected the imagination of Vivaldi at this time with particular awe, and, rapt in thought, he continued to gaze upon the sublime and shadowy outline of the shores, and on the sea, just descerned beneath the twilight of a cloudless sky. along its grey surface many vessels were pursuing their silent course, guided over the deep waters only by the polar star, which burned with steady luster. The air was calm, and rose from the bay with most balmy and refreshing coolness; it scarcely stirred the heads of the broad pines that overspread the villa: and bore no sounds but of the waves and the groans of the far-off mountain—till a chaunting of deep voices [...]welled from a distance. The solemn character of the strain engaged his attention; he perceived that it was a requiem, and he endeavoured to discover from what quarter it came. It advanced, though distantly, and then passed away on the air. [Page 18] The circumstance struck him; he knew not it was usual in some parts of Italy to chant this strain over the bed of the dying; but here the mourners seemed to walk on the earth, or in the air. He was not doubtful as to the strain itself;—once before he had heard it, and attended with circumstances which made it impossible that he should forget it. As he now listened to the choral voices softening distance, a few pathetic voices notes brought full upon his remembrance the divine melody he had heard Ellena utter in the church of San Lorenzo. Overcome by the recollection, he started away, and, wandering over the garden reached another side of the villa, where he soon heard the voice of Ellena herself, performing the midnight hymn to the virgin, and accompanied by a lute, which she touched with most affecting and delicate expression. He stood for a moment entranced, and scarcely daring to breathe, lest he should lose any [...]ote of that meek and holy strain' which seemed to flow from a devotion almost saintly, Then looking round to discover the object of his admiration, a light issuing from among the bowery foliage of a clematis led him to a lattice, and shewed him Ellena. The lattice had been thrown open to admit the cool air, and he had a full view of her and the apartment. She was rsiiug from a small altar where she had concluded the service; the glow of devotion was still upon her countenance as she raised her eyes, and with rapt earnestness fixed them on the heavens. She still held the lute, but no longer awakened it, and seemed lost to every surroun-object. Her fine hair was negligently bound up in a silk net, and some tresses that had escaped it, played on her neck, and round her beautiful countenance, which now was not even partially concealed by a viel. The light drapery of her dress, her whole figure, air, and attitude, were such as might have been copied for a Grecian nymph.
[Page 19] Vivaldi was perplexed and agitated between the wish of seizing an opportunity, which might never again occur, of pleading his love, and the fear of offending, by intruding upon her retirement at so sacred an hour; but, while he thus hesitated, he heard her sigh, and then with a sweetness peculiar to her accent, pronounce his name. During the trembling anxiety, with which he listened to what might follow this mention of his name, he disturbed the clematis that surrounded the lattice, and she turned her eyes towards the window; but Vivaldi was entirely concealed by the foliage. She, however, rose to close the lattice, as she approached which, Vivaldi, unable any longer to command himself, appeared before her. She stood fixed for an instant, while her countenance changed to an ashy paleness; and then, with trembling haste closing the lattice, quitted the apartment. Vivaldi felt as if all his hopes had vanished with her.
After lingering in the garden for some time without perceiving a light in any other part of the building, or hearing a sound proceed from it, he took his melancholy way to Naples. He now began to ask himself some questions, which he ought to have urged before, and to enpuire wherefore he sought the dangerous pleasure of seeing Ellena, since her family was of such a condition as rendered the consent of his parents to a marriage with her unattainable.
He was lost in revere on this subject, sometimes half resolved to seek her no more, and then shrinking from a conduct, which seemed to strike him with the force of despair, when, as he emerged from the dark▪ arch of ruin that extended over the road, his was way crossed by a person in the habit of a monk, whose face was shrouded by his cowl still more than by the twilight. The Stranger, addressing him by his name, said, "Signor! your steps are watched; beware how you revisit Alteri!" Having uttered this, he disappeared, before [Page 20] Vivaldi could return the sword he had half drawn into the scabbard, or demand an explanation of the words he had heard. He called loudly and repeatedly conjuring the unknown person to appear; and lingered near the spot for a considerable time; but the vision came no more.
Vivaldi arrived at home with a mind occupied by this incident, and tormented by the jealousy to which it gave rise; for, after indulging various conjectures, he concluded with believing the notice, of which he had been warned, tobe that of a rival, and that the danger which menaced him, was from the poniard of jealousy. This belief discovered to him at once the extent of his passion, and of the imprudence, which had thus readily admitted it; yet so far was this new prudence from overcoming his error, that, stung with a torture more exquisite than he had ever known, he resolved, at every event, to declare his love, and sue for the hand of Ellena. Unhappy young man, he knew not the fatal error, into which his passion was precipitating him.
On his arrival at the Vivaldi palace, he learned that the Marchesa had observed his [...]bsence, had repeatedly enquired for him, and had given orders that the time of his return should be mentioned to her. She had however, retired to rest; but the Marchese, who had attended the king on an excursion to one of the royal villas on the bay, returned home [...]oon a [...]ter Vincentio, and, before he had withdrawn to his apartment, he met his son with unusual displeasure, but avoided saying any thing, which either explained or alluded to the subject of it; and, after a short conversation they separated.
Vivaldi shut himself in his apartment to deliberate, if that may deserve the name of del [...]eration, in which a conflict o [...] passions, rather than an exertion of judgment, prevailed. For several hours he traversed his [Page 21] suit of rooms, alternately tortured by the remembrance of Ellena, fired with jealousy, and alarmed for the consequence of the imprudent step, which he was about to take. He knew the temper of his father, and some of the traits of the character of his mother, sufficently to fear that their displeasure would be irreconcileable concerning the marriage he meditated; yet, when he considered that he was their only son, he was inclined to admit a hope of forgiveness, notwithstanding the weight which the circumstance must add to their disappointment. These reflections were frequently interrupted by sears lest Ellena had already disposed of her affections to this imaginary rival. He was however, somewhat consoled by remembring the sigh she had uttered, and the tenderness, with which she had immediately pronounced his name. Yet, even, if she were not averse to his suit, how could he solicit her hand, and hope it would be given him, when he should declare that this must be in secret? He scarcely dared to beleived that she would condescend to enter a family who disdained to receive her? and again despondency overcame him.
The morning found him as distracted as the night had left him; his determination, however, was fixed; and this was to sacrifice what he now considered as a delusive pride of birth, to a choice which he beleived would ensure the happiness of his life. But, before he ventured to declare himself to Ellena, it appeared necessary to ascertain whether he held an interest in her heart, or whether she had devoted it to the rival of his love, and who this rival really was. It was so much easier to wish for such information than to obtain it, that, after forming a thousand projects, either the delicacy of his respect for Ellena, or his fear of offending her, or an apprehension of discovery from his family before he had secured an interest in her affections, constantly opposed his views of an enquiry.
[Page 22] In this difficulty he opened his heart to a friend, who had long possessed his confidence, and whose advice he solicited with somewhat more anxiety and sincerity than is usual on such occasions. It was not a sanction of his own oppinion that he required, but the impartial judgment of another mind. Bonarmo, however little he might be qualified for the office of an adviser, did not scruple to give his advice. As a means of judging whether Ellena was disposed to favour Vivaldi's addresses, he proposed, that, according to the custom of the country, a serenade should be given; he maintained, that, if she was not disinclined towards him, some sign of approbation would appear; and if otherwise, that she would remain silent and invisible. Vivaldi objected to this coarse and inadequate mode of expressing a love so sacred as his, and he had too lofty an opinion of Ellena's mind and delicacy, to believe, that the trifling homage of a serenade would either flatter her self-love, or interest her in his favour; nor, if it did, could he venture to believ, that she would display any sign of approbation.
His friend laughed at his scruples and at his opinion of what he called such romantic delicacy, that his ignorance of the world was his only excuse for having cherished them. But Vivaldi interrupted this raillery, and would neither suffer him to speak thus of Ellena, or to call such delicacy romantic. Bonarmo, however still urged the serenade as at least a possible means of discovering her disposition towards him before he made a formal avowel of his suit; and Vivaldi, perplexed and distracted with apprehension and impatience to terminate his present state of suspence, was at length so far overcome by his own difficulties, rather then by his friend's persuasion, that he consented to make the adventure of a serenade on the approaching night. This was adopted rather as a refuge from desponedncy, than with any hope of success; for he [Page 23] still believed that Ellena would not give any hint, that might terminate his uncertainty.
Beneath their cloaks they carried musical instruments, and, muffling their faces, so that they could not be known, they proceeded in thoughtful silence on the way to the villa Altieri. Already they had passed the arch, in which Vivaldi was stopped by the stranger on the proceeding night, when he heard a sudden sound near him, and, raising his head from the cloak, he perceived the same figure! Before he had time for exclamation, the stranger crossed him again. "Go not to the villa Altieri," said he in a solemn voice, "lest you meet the fate you ought to dread."
"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 [Page 24] the boundary of the villa. Vivaldi led to the place [...] 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 splendour of fire works 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 immence height, and, as their lustre broke silently upon the night, it lightened on the thousand upturned 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 rested on the turf of the orangery, they herad a rustling of the leaves, as if the branches were disturbed by some person who endeavoured to [Page 25] 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 poniard 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 beleive 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 imbrace, "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 [Page 26] 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 give 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 death-like silence prevailed. Vivaldi affirmed the [...]ound 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 until 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 [Page 27] 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 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 Bornarmo, 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 un [...]olested to the arch-way. "We are here before [...]im, however," said Vivaldi as they entered the darkness. "Speak low, my friend," said Bonarmo, "others [Page 28] 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, infects 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?"
[Page 29] "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 do deter me from addressing Ellena. And shall I tamely lie in wait for his approach? Shall I lurk like a guilty assassin for his 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 Bon [...]mo saw a person approach the end of the arch-way nearest to Altieri. He heard no step, but he perceived a shadowy figure station itself at the entrance of the arch, where the twilight [Page 30] 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 glided 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 arch-way, 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 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 yonder steps, that lead to the fortress."
[Page 31] "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 watch-tower 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 out-post.
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 watch-tower, 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.
[Page 32] 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 door-way 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 arch way, 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 [...]e it as it may, the business rests not here. I will return in the night of to-morrow with a torch; dare you venture yourself with me?"
[Page 33] "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 to-morow night, I hope will dissipate."
"This is very strange!" said Bonarmo, "It was but now that I witnessed the horror, with which you left this fortress of Puluzzi, 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 day-light 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 Banarmo, "go in day-time, if not by day-light, 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."
"I shall watch again in the accustomed place," replied Vivaldi, "before I use my last resource, and this cannot be done during the day. Besides, it is necessary that I should go at a particular hour, the hour when the monk has usually appeared.
"He did escape you, then?" said Bonarmo, "and you are still ignorant concerning who he is?"
Vivaldi rejoined only with an enquiry whether his friend would accompany him. "If not," he added▪ "I must hope to find another companion."
[Page 34] Bonarmo said, that he must consider of the proposal, and would acquaint him with his determination before the following evening.
While this conversation concluded, they were in Naples, and at the gates of the Vivaldi palace, where they separated for the remainder of the night.
CHAP. II.
SINCE Vivaldi had failed to procure an explanation of the words of the monk, he determined to relieve himself from the torture of suspence, respecting a rival, by going to the villa Altieri, and declaring his pretensions. On the morning immediately following his late adventure, he went thither, and on equiring for Signora Bianchi, was told she could not be seen. With much difficulty he prevailed upon the old house keeper to deliver a request that he might be permitted to wait upon her for a few moments. Permission was granted him, when he was conducted into the very apartment where he had formerly seen Ellena. It was unoccupied, and he was told that Signora Bianchi would be there presently.
During this interval, he was agitated at one moment with quick impatience, and at another with enthusiastic pleasure, while he gazed on the altar whence he had seen Ellena rise, and where to his fancy, she still appeared; and on every object, on which he knew her eyes had lately dwelt. These objects so familiar to her, had in the imagination of Vivaldi acquired somewhat of the sacred character she had impressed upon his heart, and affected him in some degree as her presence would have done. He trembled as he took [Page 36] up the lute she had been accustomed to touch, and, when he awakened the chords, her own voice seemed to speak. A drawing half-finished, of a dancing nymph, remained on a stand, and he immediately understood that her hand had traced the lines. It was a copy from Herculaneum, and though a copy, was touched with the spirit of original genius. The light steps appeared almost to move, and the whole figure displayed the airy lightness of exquisite grace. Vivaldi perceived this to be one of a set that ornamented the apartment, and observed with surprise, that they were the particular subjects, which adorned his father's cabinet, and which he had understood to be the only copies permitted from the originals in the royal museum.
Every object, on which his eyes rested, seemed to announce the presence of Ellena; and the very flowers that so gaily embellished the apartment, breathed forth a perfume, which fascinated his senses and affected his imagination. Before Signora Bianchi appeared, his anxiety and apprehension had encreased so much that, believing he should not be able to support himself in her presence, he was more than once upon the point of leaving the house. At length, he heard her approaching step from the hall; and his breath almost forsook him. The figure of Signora Bianchi was not of an order to inspire admiration, and a spectator might have smiled to see the perterbation of Vivaldi, his faultering step and anxious eye, as he advanced to meet the venerable Bianchi, as he bowed upon her faded hand, and listened to her querulous voice. She received him with an air of reserve, and some moments passed before he could recollect himself sufficiently to explain the purpose of his visit; yet this, when he discovered it, did not apparently surprize her. She listened with composure, though with somewhat of a severe countenance, to his protestations [Page 37] of regard for her niece, and when he implored her to intercede for him in obtaining the hand of Ellena, she said, "I cannot be ignorant that a family of your rank must be averse to an union with one of mine; nor am I unacquainted that a full sense of the value of birth is a striking feature in the characters of the Marchese and Marchesa di Vivaldi. This proposal must be disagreeable or unknown to them; and I am to inform you, Signor, that, though Signora di Rosalba is their inferior in rank, she is their equal in pride."
Vivaldi disdained to prevaricate, yet was shocked to own the truth thus abruptly. The ingenious manner, however, with which he at length did this, and the energy of a passion too eloquent to be misunderstood, somewhat soothed the anxiety of Signora Bianchi, with whom other considerations began to arise. She considered that from her own age and infirmities she must very soon, in the course of nature, leave Ellena a young and friendless orphan; still somewhat dependant upon her own industry, and entirely so on her discretion. With much beauty and little knowledge of the world, the dangers of her future situation appeared in vivid colours to the affectionate mind of Signora Bianchi; and she sometimes thought that it might be right to sacrifice considerations, which in other circumstances would be laudable, to the obtaining for her niece the protection of a husband and a man of honour. If in this instance she descended from the lofty integrity, which ought to have opposed her consent that Ellena should clandestinely enter any family, her parental anxiety may soften the censure she deserved.
But before she determined upon this subject, it was necessary to ascertain that Vivaldi was worthy the confidence she might repose in him. To try, also, the constancy of his affection, she gave little present encouragement to his hopes. His request to see Ellena [Page 38] she absolutely refused, till she should have considered further of his proposals; and his enquiry whether he had a rival, and, if he had, whether Ellena was disposed to favour him, she evaded, since she knew that a reply would give more encouragement to his hopes, than it might hereafter be proper to confirm.
Vivaldi, at length took his leave, released, indeed, from absolute despair, but scarcely encouraged to hope; ignorant that he had a rival, yet doubtful whether Ellena honoured himself with any share of her esteem.
He had received permission to wait upon Signora Bianchi on a future day, but till that day should arrive time appeared motionless; and, since it seemed utterly impossible to endure this interval of suspence, his thoughts on the way to Naples were wholly engaged in contriving the means of concluding it, till he reached the well known arch, and looked round, though hopelessly, for his mysterious tormentor. The stranger did not appear; and Vivaldi pursued the road, determined to re-visit the spot at night, and also to return privately to the villa Altieri, where he hoped a second visit might procure for him some relief from his present anxiety.
When he reached home he found that the Marchese, his father, had left an order for him, to await his arrival; which he obeyed: but the day passed without his return. The Marchesa, when she saw him, enquired with a look that expressed much, how he had engaged himself of late, and completely frustrated his plans for the evening, by requiring him to attend her to Portici. Thus he was prevented from watching at Paluzzi, and from revisiting Ellena's residence.
He remained at Portici the following evening, and, on his return to Naples, the Marchese being again absent, he continued ignorant of the intended subject of the interview. A note from Bonarmo brought a refusal to accompany him to the fortress, and urged [Page 39] him to forbear so dangerous a visit. Being for this night unprovided with a companion for the adventure, and unwilling to go alone, Vivaldi deferred it to another evening; but no consideration could deter him from visiting the villa Altieri. Not chusing to solicit his friend to accompany him thither, since he had refused his first request, he took his solitary lute, and reached the garden at an earlier hour than usual.
The sun had been set above an hour, but the horizon still retained somewhat of a saffron brilliancy, and the whole dome of the sky had an appearance of transparency, peculiar to this enchanting climate, which seemed to diffuse a more soothing twilight over the reposing world. In the south-cast the outline of Vesuvius appeared distinctly, but the mountain itself was dark and silent.
Vivaldi heard only the quick and eager voices of some Lazaroni at a distance on the shore, as they contended at the simple game of maro. From the bowery lattices of a small pavilion within the orangery, he perceived a light, and the sudden hope which it occasioned, of seeing Ellena, almost overcame him. It was impossible to resist the opportunity of beholding her, yet he checked the impatient step he was taking, to ask himself, whether it was honourable thus to steal upon her retirement, and become an unsuspected observer of her secret thoughts. But the temptation was too powerful for this honourable hesitation; the pause was momentary; and stepping lightly towards the pavilion, he placed himself near an open lattice, so as to be shrouded from observation by the branches of an orange-tree, while he obtained a full view of the apartment. Ellena was alone, sitting in a thoughtful attitude and holding her lute, which she did not play. She appeared lost to a consciousness of surrounding objects, and a tenderness was on her countenance, which seemed to tell him that her thoughts were engaged [Page 40] by some interesting subject. Recollecting that, when last he had seen her thus, she pronounced his name, his hope revived, and he was going to discover himself and appear at her feet, when she spoke, and he paused.
"Why this unreasonable pride of birth!" said she, "A visionary prejudice destroys our peace.—Never would I submit to enter a family averse to receive me; they shall learn, at least, that I inherit nobility of soul. O! Vivaldi! but for this unhappy prejudice!"—
Vivaldi, while he listened to this, was immoveable; he seemed as if entranced; the sound of her lute and voice recalled him, and he heard her sing the first stanza of the very air, with which he had opened the serenade on a former night, and with such sweet pathos as the composer must have felt when he was inspired with the idea.
She paused at the conclusion of the first stanza, when Vivaldi, overcome by the temptation of such an opportunity for expressing his passion, suddenly struck the chords of the lute, and replied to her in the second. The tremor of his voice, though it restrained his tones, heightened its eloquence. Ellena instantly recollected it; her colour alternately faded and returned; and, before the verse concluded, she seemed to have lost all consciousness. Vivaldi was now advancing into the pavilion, when his approach recalled her; she waved him to retire, and before he could spring to her support, she rose and would have left the place, had he not interrupted her and implored a few moments attention.
"It is impossible," said Ellena.
"Let me only hear you say that I am not hateful to you," rejoined Vivaldi; "that this intrusion has not deprived me of the regard, with which but now you acknowledged you honoured me."—
[Page 41] "Oh, never, never!" interrupted Ellena, impatiently; "forget that I ever made such acknowledgement; forget that you ever heard it; I know not what I said."
"Ah, beautiful Ellena! do you think it possible I ever can forget it? It will be the solace of my solitary hours, the hope that shall sustain me."
"I cannot be detained, Signor," interrupted Ellena, still more embarrassed, "o [...] forgive myself for having permitted such conversation!" but as she spoke the last words, an involuntary smile seemed to contradict their meaning. Vivaldi believed the smile in spite of the words; but, before he could express the lightning joy of conviction, she had left the pavilion; he followed through the garden—but she was gone.
From this moment Vivaldi seemed to have arisen into a new existence; the whole world to him was Paradise; that smile seemed impressed upon his heart for ever. In the fulness of present joy, he believed it impossible that he ever could be unhappy again, and defied the utmost malice of future fortune. With footsteps light as air, he returned to Naples, nor once remembered to look for his old monitor on the way.
The Marchese and his mother being from home, he was left at his leisure to indulge the rapturous recollection, that pressed upon his mind, and of which he was impatient of a moment's interruption. All night he either traversed his apartment with an agitation equal to that, which anxiety had so lately inflicted, or composed and destroyed letters to Ellena; sometimes fearing that he had written too much, and at others feeling that he had written too little; recollecting circumstances which he ought to have mentioned, and lamenting the cold expression of a passion, to which it appeared that no language could do justice.
[Page 42] By the hour when the domestics had risen, he had, however, completed a letter somewhat more to his satisfaction, and he dispatched it to the villa Altieri by a confidential person; but the servant had scarcely quitted the gates, when he recollected new arguments, which he wished to urge, and expressions to change of the utmost importance to enforce his meaning, and he would have given half the world to have recalled the messenger.
In this state of agitation he was summoned to attend the Marchese, who had been too much engaged of late to keep his own appointment. Vivaldi was not long in doubt as to the subject of this interview.
"I have wished to speak with you," said the Marchese, assuming an air of haughty severity, "upon a subject of the utmost importance to your honour and happiness; and I wished, also, to give you an opportunity of contradicting a report, which would have occasioned me considerable uneasiness, if I could have believed it. Happily I had too much confidence in my son to credit this; and I affirmed that he too well understood what was due both to his family and himself, to take any step derogatory from the dignity of either. My motive for this conversation, therefore, is merely to afford you a moment for refuting the calumny I shall mention, and to obtain for myself authority for contradicting it to the persons who have communicated it to me."
Vivaldi waited impatiently for the conclusion of this exordium, and then begged to be informed of the subject of the report.
"It is said." resumed the Marchese, "that there is a young woman, who is called Ellena Rosalba—I think that is the name;—do you know any person of the name?"
[Page 43] "Do I know!" exclaimed Vivaldi, "but pardon me, pray proceed, my Lord."
The Marchese paused, and regarded his son with sternness, but without surprise. "It is said, that a young person of this name has contrived to fascinate your affections, and"—
"It is most true, my Lord, that Signora Rosalba has won my affections," interrupted Vivaldi with honest impatience, "but without contrivance."
"I will not be interrupted," said the Marchese, interrupting in his turn. "It is said that she has so artfully adapted her temper to yours, that, with the assistance of a relation who lives with her, she has reduced you to the degrading situation of her devoted suitor."
"Signora R [...]salba has, my Lord, exalted me to the honour of being her suitor," said Vivaldi, unable longer to command his feelings. He was proceeding, when the Marchese abruptly checked him, "You avow your folly then!"
"My Lord, I glory in my choice."
"Young men," rejoined his father, "as this is the arrogance and romantic enthusiasm of a boy, I am willing to forgive it for once, and observe me, only for once. If you will acknowledge your error, instantly dismiss this new favourite."—
"My Lord!"
"You must instantly dismiss her," repeated the Marchese with sternner emphasis; "and, to prove that I am more merciful than just, I am willing, on this condition, to allow her a small annuity as some reparation for the depravity, into which you have assisted to sink her."
"My Lord!" exclaimed Vivaldi aghast, and scarcely daring to trust his voice; "my Lord!—depravity!" struggling for breath. "Who has dared to pollute her spotless fame by insulting your ears with such infamous [Page 44] falfehoods? Tell me, I conjure you, instantly tell me, that I may hasten to give him his reward—Depravity!—an annuity—an annnity! O Ellena! Ellena!" As he pronounced her name tears of tenderness mingled with those of indignation.
"Young man," said the Marchese, who had observed the violence of his emotion with strong displeasure and alarm, "I do not lightly give faith to report, and I cannot suffer myself to doubt the truth of what I have advanced. You are deceived, and your vanity will continue the delusion, unless I condescend to exert my authority, and tear the veil from your eyes. Dismiss her instantly, and I will adduce proof of her former character which will stagger even your faith, enthusiastic as it is."
"Dismiss her!" repeated Vivaldi, with calm yet stern energy, such as his father had never seen him assume; "My Lord, you have never yet doubted my word, and I now pledge you that honourable word, that Ellena is innocent. Innocent! O heavens, that it should ever be necessary to affirm so, and, above all, that it should ever be necessary for me to vindicate her!"
"I must indeed lament that it ever should," replied the Marchese coldly. "You have pledged your word, which I cannot question. I believe, therefore, that you are deceived; that you think her virtuous, notwithstanding your midnight visits to her house. And grant she is, unhappy boy! what reparation can you make her for the infatuated folly, which has thus stained her character? What"—
"By proclaiming to the world, my Lord, that she is worthy of becoming my wife," replied Vivaldi, with a glow of countenance which announced the courage and exultation of a virtuous mind.
"Your wife!" said the Marchese with a look of ineffable disdain, which was instantly succeeded by one [Page 45] of angry alarm,—"If I believed you could so far forget what is due to the honour of your house, I would for ever disclaim you as my son."
"O! why," exclaimed Vivaldi, in an agony of conflicting passions, "why should I be in danger of forgetting what is due to a father, when I am only asserting what is due to innocence; when I am only defending her, who has no other to defend her! Why may not I be permitted to reconcile duties so congenial! But, be the event what it may, I will defend the oppressed, and glory in the virtue, which teaches me, that it is the first duty of humanity to do so. Yes, my Lord, if it must be so, I am ready to sacrifice inferior duties to the grandeur of a principle, which ought to expand all hearts and impel all actions. I shall best support the honour of my house by adhering to its dictates."
"Where is the principle;" said the Marchese, impatiently, "which shall teach you to disobey a father? where is the virtue which shall instruct you to degrade your family?"
"There can be no degradation, my Lord, where there is no vice," replied Vivaldi; "and are instances, pardon me, my Lord, there are some few instances in which it is virtuous to disobey."
"This paradoxical morality," said the Marchese, with passionate displeasure, "and this romantic language, sufficiently explain to me the character of your associates, and the innocence of her, whom you defend with so chivalric an air. Are you to learn, Signor, that you belong to your family, not your family to you; that you are only a guardian of its honour, and not at liberty to dispose of yourself? My patience will endure no more!"
Nor could the patience of Vivaldi endure this repeated attack on the honour of Ellena. But while he yet asserted her innocence, he endeavoured to do so [Page 46] with the temper, which was due to the presence of a father; and, though he maintained the independence of a man, he was equally anxious to preserve inviolate the duties of a son. But unfortunately the Marchese and Vivaldi differed in opinion concerning the limits of these duties; the first extending them to passive obedience, and the latter conceiving them to conclude at a point, wherein the happinefs of an individual is so deeply concerned as in marriage. They parted mutually inflamed; Vivaldi unable to prevail with his father to mention the name of his infamous informant, or to acknowledge himself convinced of Ellena's innocence; and the Merchese equally unsuccessful in his endeavours to obtain from his son a promise that he would see her no more.
Here then was Vivaldi, who only a few short hours before, had experienced a happiness so supreme as to efface all impressions of the past, and to annihilate every consideration of the future; a joy so full that it permitted him not to believe it possible that he could ever again taste of misery; he, who had felt as if that moment was an eternity, rendering him independent of all others,—even he was thus soon fallen into the region of time and of suffering.
The present conflict of passion appeared endless; he loved his father, and would have been more shocked to consider the vexation he was preparing for him, had he not been resentful of the contempt he expressed for Ellena. He adored Ellena; and, while he felt the impracticability of resigning his hopes, was equally indignant of the slander, which affected her name, and impatient to avenge the insult upon the original defamer.
Though the displeasure of his father concerning a marriage with Ellena had been already foreseen, the experience of it was severer and more painful than he had imagined; while the indignity offered to Ellena [Page 47] was as unexpected as intolerable. But this circumstance furnished him with an additional argument for addressing her; for, if it had been possible that his love could have paused, his honour seemed now engaged in her behalf; and, since he had been a means of sullying her fame, it became his duty to restore it. Willingly listening to the dictates of a duty so plausible, he determined to persevere in his original design. But his first efforts were directed to discover her slanderer, and recollecting, with surprise, those words of the Marchese, which had confessed a knowledge of his evening visits to the villa Altieri, the doubtful warnings of the monk seemed explained. He believed that this man was at once the spy of his steps, and the defamer of his love, till the inconsistency of such conduct with the seeming friendliness of his admonitions, struck Vivaldi and compelled him to believe the contrary.
Meanwhile, the heart of Ellena had been little less tranquil. It was divided by love and pride; but had she been acquainted with the circumstances of the late interview between the Marchese and Vivaldi, it would have been divided no longer, and a just regard for her own dignity would instantly have taught her to subdue, without difficulty, this infant affection.
Signora Bianchi had informed her niece of the subject of Vivaldi's visit; but she had softened the objectionable circumstances that attended his proposal, and had, at first, merely hinted that it was not to be supposed his family would approve a connection with any person so much their inferior in rank as herself. Ellena, alarmed by this suggestion, replied, that, since she believed so, she had done right to reject Vivaldi's suit; but her sigh, as she said this, did not escape the observation of Signora Bianchi, who ventured to add, that she had not absolutely rejected his offers.
While in this and future conversations, Ellena was [Page 48] pleased to perceive her secret admiration thus justified by an approbation so indisputable as that of her aunt, and was willing to believe that the circumstances, which had alarmed her just pride, was no so humiliating as she at first imagined. Bianchi was careful to conceal the real considerations, which had induced her to listen to Vivaldi, being well assured that they would have no weight with Ellena, whose generous heart and inexperienced mind would have revolted from mingling any motives of interest with an engagement so sacred as that of marriage. When, however, from further deliberation upon the advantages, which such an alliance must secure for her niece, Signora Bianchi determined to encourage his views, and to direct the mind of Ellena, whose affections were already engaged on her side, the opinions of the latter were found less ductile than had been expected. She was shocked at the idea of entering clandestinely the family of Vivaldi. But Bianchi, whose infirmities urged her wishes, was now so strongly convinced of the prudence of such an engagement for her niece, that she determined to prevail over her reluctance, though she perceived that this must be by means more gradual and persuasive than she had believed necessary. On the evening, when Vivaldi had surprised from Ellena an acknowledgement of her sentiments, her embarrassment and vexation, on her returning to the house, and relating what had occurred, sufficiently expressed to Signora Bianchi the exact situation of her heart. And when, on the following morning, his letter arrived, written with the simplicity and energy of truth, the aunt neglected not to adapt her remarks upon it, to the character of Ellena, with her usual address.
Vivaldi, after the late interview with the Marchese passed the remainder of the day in considering various plans, which might discover to him the person, who had abused the credulity of his father; and in the evening [Page 49] he returned once more to the villa Altieri, not in secret to serenade the dark balcony of his mistress, but openly, and to converse with Signora Bianchi, who now received him more courteously than on his former visit. Attributing the anxiety in his countenance to the uncertainty, concerning the disposition of her niece, she was neither surprised nor offended, but ventured to relieve him from a part of it, by encouraging his hopes. Vivaldi dreaded lest she should enquire further respecting the sentiments of his family, but she spared both his delicacy and her own on this point; and, after a conversation of considerable length, he left the villa Altieri with a heart somewhat soothed by approbation, and lightened by hope, although he had not obtained a sight of Ellena. The disclosure she had made of her sentiments on the preceding evening, and the hints she had received as to those of his family, still wrought upon her mind with too much effect to permit an interview.
Soon after his return to Naples, the Marchesa, whom he was surprised to find disengaged, sent for him to her closet, where a scene passed similar to that which had occurred with his father, except that the Marchesa was more dexterous in her questions, and more subtle in her whole conduct; and that Vivaldi, never for a moment, forgot the decorum which was due to a mother. Managing her passions, rather than exasperating them, and deceiving him with respect to the degree of resentment she felt from his choice, she was less passionate than the Marchese in her observations and menaces, perhaps, only because she entertained more hope than he did of preventing the evil she contemplated.
Vivaldi quitted her, unconvinced by her arguments, unsubdued by her prophecies, and unmoved in his designs. He was not alarmed, because he did not sufficiently understand her character to apprehend her [Page 50] purposes. Despairing to effect these by open violence, she called in an auxiliary of no mean talents, and whose character and views well adapted him to be an instrument in her hands. It was, perhaps, the baseness of her own heart, not either depth of reflection or keenness of penetration, which enabled her to understand the nature of his; and she determined to modulate that nature to her own views.
There lived in the Dominican convent of the Spirito Santo, at Naples, a man called father Schedoni; an Italian, as his name imported, but whose family was unknown, and from some circumstances, it appeared, that he wished to throw an impenetrable veil over his origin. For whatever reason, he was never heard to mention a relative, or the place of his nativity, and he had artfully eluded every enquiry that approached the subject, which the curiosity of his associates had occasionally prompted. There were circumstances, however, which appeared to indicate him to be a man of birth, and of fallen fortune; his spirit, as it had sometimes looked forth from under the disguise of his manners, seemed lofty; it shewed not, however, the aspirings of a generous mind, but rather the gloomy pride of a disappointed one. Some few persons in the convent, who had been interested by [...] appearance, believed that the peculiarities of his manners, his severe reserve and unconquerable silence, his solitary habits and frequent penances, were the effect of misfortunes preying upon a haughty and disordered spirit; while others conjectured them the consequence of some hideous crime gnawing upon an awakened conscience.
He would sometimes abstract himself from the society for whole days together, or when with such a disposition he was compelled to mingle with it, he seemed unconscious where he was, and continued shrouded in meditation and silence till he was again [Page 51] alone. There were times when it was unknown whither he had retired, notwithstanding that his steps had been watched, and his customary haunts examined. No one ever heard him complain. The elder brothers of the convent said that he had talents, but denied him learning; they applauded him for the profound subtlety which he occasionally discovered in argument, but observed that he seldom perceived truth when it lay on the surface; he could follow it through all the labyrinths of disquisition, but overlooked it, when it was undisguised before him. In fact he cared not for truth, nor sought it by bold and broad argument, but loved to exert the wily cunning of his nature in hunting it through artificial perplexities. At length, from a habit of intricacy and suspicion, his vitiated mind could receive nothing for truth, which was simple and easily comprehended.
Among his associates no one loved him, many disliked him, and more feared him. His figure was striking, but not so from grace; it was stall, and, though extremely thin, his limbs were large and uncouth, and as he stalked along, wrapt in the black garments of his order, there was something terrible in its air; something almost superhuman. His cowl, too, as it threw a shade over the livid paleness of his face, increased its severe character, and gave an effect to his large melancholy eye, which approached to horror. His was not the melancholy of a sensible and wounded heart, but apparently that of a gloomy and ferocious disposition. There was something in his physiognomy extremely singular, and that cannot easily be defined. It bore the traces of many passions, which seemed to have fixed the features they no longer animated. An habitual gloom and severity prevailed over the deep lines of his countenance; and his eyes were so piercing, that they seemed to penetrate at a single glance into the hearts of men, and to read their [Page 52] most secret thoughts; few persons could support their scrutiny, or even endure to meet them twice. Yet, notwithstanding all this gloom and austerity, some rare occasions of interest had called forth a character upon his countenance entirely different; and he could adapt himself to the tempers and passions of persons, whom he wished to conciliate, with astonishing facility, and generally with complete triumph. This monk, this Schedoni, was the confessor and secret adviser of the Marchesa di Vivaldi. In the first effervescence of pride and indignation, which the discovery of her son's intended marriage occasioned, she consulted him on the means of preventing it, and she soon perceived that his talents promised to equal her wishes. Each possessed, in a considerable degree, the power of assisting the other; Schedoni had subtlety with ambition to urge it; and the Marchesa had inexorable pride, and courtly influence; the one hoped to obtain a high benefice for his services, and the other to secure the imaginary dignity of her house, by her gifts. Prompted by such passions, and allured by such views, they concerted in private, and unknown even to the Marchese, the means of accomplishing their general end.
Vivaldi, as he quitted his mother's closet, had met Schedoni in the corridor leading thither. He knew him to be her confessor, and was not much surprised to see him, though the hour was an unusual one. Schedoni bowed his head, as he passed, and assumed a meek and holy countenance; but Vivaldi, as he eyed him with a penetrating glance, now recoiled with involuntary emotion; and it seemed as if a shuddering presentiment of what this monk was preparing for him had crossed his mind.
CHAP. III.
VIVALDI, from the period of his last visit to Altieri, was admitted a frequent visitor to Signora Bianchi, and Ellena was prevailed upon to join the party, when the conversation was always on different topics. Bianchi, understanding the disposition of her niece's affections, and the accomplished mind and manners of Vivaldi, judged that he was more likely to succeed by silent attentions than by a formal declaration of his sentiments. By such declaration, Ellena, till her heart was more engaged in his cause, would, perhaps, have been alarmed into an absolute rejection of his addresses, and this was every day less likely to happen so long as he had an opportunity of conversing with her.
Signora Bianchi had acknowledged to Vivaldi that he had no rival to apprehend; that Ellena had uniformly rejected every admirer who had hitherto discovered her within the shade of her retirement, and that her present reserve proceeded more from considerations of the sentiments of his family than from disapprobation of himself. He forbore, therefore, to press his suit, till he should have secured a stronger interest in her heart, and in this hope he was encouraged by Signora Bianchi, whose gentle remonstrances in his favour became every day more pleasing and more convincing.
Several weeks passed away in this kind of intercourse, till Ellena, yielding to the representations of Signora Bianchi, and to the pleadings of her own [Page 54] heart, received Vivaldi as an acknowledged admirer, and the sentiments of his family were no longer remembered, or if remembered, it was with a hope that they might be overcome by considerations more powerful.
The lovers, with Signora Bianch and Signor Giotto, a distant relation of the latter, frequently made excursions in the delightful environs of Naples; for Vivaldi was no longer anxious to conceal his attachment, but wished to contradict any report injurious to his love, by the publicity of his conduct; while the consideration, that Ellena's name had suffered by his late imprudence, contributed, with the unsuspecting innocence and sweetness of her manners towards him, who had been the occasion of her injuries, to mingle a secret pity with his love, which obliterated all family politics from his mind, and bound her irrecoverably to his heart.
These excursions sometimes led them to Puzzuoli, Baia, or the woody cliffs of Pausilippo, and as, on their return, they glided along the moon-light bay, the melodies of Italian strains seemed to give enchantment to the scenery of this shore. At this cool hour the voices of the vine-dressers were frequently heard in trio, as they reposed from the labour of the day, on some pleasant promontory, under the shade of poplars; or the brisk music of the dance from fishermen, on the margin of the waves below. The boatmen rested on their oars, while their company listened to voices modulated by sensibility to finer eloquence, than is in the power of art alone to display; and at others, while they observed the airy natural grace which distinguishes the dance of the fishermen and peasants of Naples. Frequently as they glided round a promontory, whose shaggy masses impended [...] over the sea, such magic scenes of beauty unfolded, adorned by these dancing groups on the bay beyond, as no pencil could [Page 55] do justice to. The deep clear waters reflected every image of the landscape, the cliffs, branching into wild forms, crowned with groves, whose rough foliage often spread down their steeps in picturesque luxuriance; the ruined villa on some bold point, peeping through the trees; peasants cabins hanging on the precipices, and the dancing figures on the strand—all touched with the silver tint and soft shadows of moonlight. On the other hand, the sea trembling with a long line of radiance, and shewing in the clear distance the sails of vessels stealing in every direction along its surface, presented a prospect as grand as the landscape was beautiful.
One evening that Vivaldi sat with Ellena and Signora Bianchi, in the very pavilion where he had overheard that short but interesting soliloquy, which assured him of her regard, he pleaded with more than his usual earnestness for a speedy marriage. Bianchi did not oppose his arguments; she had been ill for some time, and believing herself to be declining fast, was anxious to have their nuptials concluded. She surveyed with languid eyes the scene that spread before the pavilion. The strong effulgence which a setting sun threw over the sea, shewing innumerable gaily painted ships, and fishing-boats returning from Santa Lucia into the port of [...] no longer power to cheer her. Even the Roman tower that terminated the mole below, touched as it was with the [...]laming rays; and the various figures of fishermen, who lay smoaking beneath its walls, in the long shadow, or stood in the sunshine on the beach, watching the approaching boats of their comrades, combined a picture which was no longer interesting. "Alas!" said she, breaking from meditative silence, "this sun so glorious, which lights up all the [...] colouring of these shores, and the glow of those majestic mountains; [Page 56] alas! I feel that it will not long shine for me—my eyes must soon close upon the prospect for ever!"
To Ellena's tender reproach for this melancholy suggestion Bianchi replied only by expressing an earnest wish to witness the certainty of her being protected; adding, that this must be soon, or she should not live to see it. Ellena, extremely shocked both by this presage of her aunt's fate, and by the direct reference made to her own condition in the presence of Vivaldi, burst into tears, while he, supported by the wishes of Signora Bianchi, urged his suit with encreased interest.
"This is not a time for fastidious scruples," said Bianchi, "now that a solemn truth calls out to us. My dear girl, I will not disguise my feelings; they assure me I have not long to live. Grant me then the only request I have to make, and my last hours will be comforted."
After a pause she added, as she took the hand of her niece, "This will, no doubt, be an awful separation to us both; and it must also be a mournful one, Signor," turning to Vivaldi, "for she has been as a daughter to me, and I have, I trust, fulfilled to her the duties of a mother. Judge then, what will be her feelings when I am no more. But it will be your care to sooth them."
Vivaldi looked at Ellena, and would have spoken; her aunt, however, proceeded. "My own feelings would now be little less poignant, if I did not believe that I was confiding her to a tenderness, which cannot diminish; that I should prevail with her to accept the protection of a husband. To you, Signor, I commit the legacy of my child. Watch over her future moments, guard her from inquietude as vigilantly [...] I have done, and, if possible; from misfortune! I have yet much to say, but my spirits are exhausted."
While he listened to this sacred charge, and recollected [Page 57] the injury Ellena had already sustained for his sake, by the cruel obloquy which the Marchese had thrown upon her character, he felt a degree of generous indignation, of which he scarcely could conceal the cause, and a succeeding tenderness that almost melted him to tears; and he secretly vowed to defend her fame and protect her peace, at the sacrifice of every other consideration.
Bianchi, as she concluded her exhortation, gave Ellena's hand to Vivaldi, who received it with emotion such as his countenance, only, could express, and with solemn fervour raising his eyes to heaven, vowed that he never would betray the confidence thus reposed in him, but would watch over the happiness of Ellena with a care as tender, as anxious, and as unceasing as her own; that from this moment he considered himself bound by ties not less sacred than those which the church confers to defend her as his wife, and would do so to the latest moment of his existence. As he said this, the truth of his feelings appeared in the energy of his manner.
Ellena, still weeping, and agitated by various considerations, spoke not, but withdrawing the handkerchief from her face, looked at him through her tears, with a smile so meek, so affectionate, so timid, yet so confiding, as expressed all the mingled emotions of her heart, and appealed more eloquently to his, than the most energetic language could have done.
Before Vivaldi left the villa, he had some further conversation with Signora Bianchi, when it was agreed that the nuptials should be solemnized on the following week, if Ellena could be prevailed on to confirm her consent so soon; and that when he returned the next day, her determination would probably be made known to him.
He departed for Naples once more with the lightly-bounding steps of joy, which, however, when he arrived [Page 58] there, was somewhat alloyed by a message from the Marchese, demanding to see him in his cabinet. Vivaldi anticipated the subject of the interview, and obeyed the summons with reluctance.
He found his father so absorbed in thought that he did not immediately perceive him. On raising his eyes from the floor, where discontent and perplexity seemed to have held them, he fixed a stern regard on Vivaldi. "I understand," said he, "that you persist in the unworthy pursuit against which I warned you. I have left you thus long to your own discretion, because I was willing to afford you an opportunity of retracting with grace the declaration, which you dared to make me of your principles and intentions; but your conduct has not therefore been less observed. I am informed that your visits have been as frequent [...] the residence of the unhappy young woman, who was the subject of our former conversation, as formerly, and that you are as much infatuated."
"If it is Signora Rosalba, whom your lordship means," said Vivaldi, "she is not unhappy; and I do not scruple to own, that I am as sincerely attached to her as ever. Why, my dear father," continued he, subduing the feelings which this degrading mention of Ellena had aroused, "why will you persist in opposing the happiness of your son; and above all, why will you continue to think unjustly of her, who deserves your admiration as much as my love?"
"As I am not a lover." replied the Marchese, "and that the age of boyish credulity is past with me, I do not wilfully close my mind against examination, but am directed by proof and yield to conviction."
"What proof is it my Lord, that has thus easily convinced you?" said Vivaldi; "Who is it that persists in abusing your confidence, and in destroying my peace?"
The Marchese haughtily reproved his son for such [Page 59] doubts and questions, and a long conversation ensued, which seemed neither to reconcile the interests or the opinions of either party. The Marchese persisted in accusation and menace; and Vivaldi in defending Ellena, and in affirming, that his affections and intentions were unalterable.
Not any art of persuasion could prevail with the Marchese to adduce his proofs, or deliver up the name of his informer; nor any menace awe Vivaldi into a renunciation of Ellena; and they parted mutually dissatisfied. The Marchese had failed on this occasion to act with his usual policy, for his menaces and accusations had aroused spirit and indignation, when kindness and gentle remonstrance would certainly have awakened filial affection, and might have occasioned a contest in the breast of Vivaldi. Now, no struggle of opposing duties divided his resolution. He had no hesitation on the subject of their dispute; but regarding his father as a haughty oppressor who would rob him of his most sacred right; and as one who did not scruple to stain the name of the innocent and the defenceless, when his interest required it, upon the doubtful authority of a base informer, he suffered neither pity or remorse to mingle with the resolution of asserting the freedom of his nature; and was even more anxious than before, to conclude a marriage which he believed would secure his own happiness, and the reputation of Ellena.
He returned, therefore, on the following day to the villa Altieri, with encreased impatience to learn the result of Signora Bianchi's further conversation with her niece, and the day on which the nuptials might be solemnized. On the way thither, his thoughts were wholly occupied by Ellena, and he proceeded mechanically, and without observing where he was, till the shade which the well known arch threw over the road recalled him to local circumstances, and a voice [Page 60] instantly arrested his attention. It was the voice of the monk, whose figure again passed before him, "Go not to the villa Altieri," it said solemnly, "for death is in the house!"
Before Vivaldi could recover from the dismay into which this abrupt assertion and sudden appearance had thrown him, the stranger was gone. He had escaped in the gloom of the place, and seemed to have retired into the obscurity, from which he had so suddenly emerged, for he was not seen to depart from under the archway. Vivaldi pursued him with his voice, conjuring him to appear, and demanding who was dead; but no voice replied.
Believing that the stranger could not have escaped unseen from the arch by any way, but that leading to the fortress above, Vivaldi began to ascend the steps, when, considering that the more certain means of understanding this awful assertion would be, to go immediately to the villa Altieri, he left this portentous ruin and hastened thither.
An indifferent person would probably have understood the words of the monk to allude to Signora Bianchi, whose infirm state of health rendered her death though sudden not improbable; but to the affrighted fancy of Vivaldi, the dying Ellena only appeared. His fears, however probabilities might sanction, or the event justify them, were natural to ardent affection; but they were accompanied by a presentiment as extraordinary as it was horrible;—it occurred to him more than once, that Ellena was murdered. He saw her wounded, and bleeding to death; saw her ashy countenance, and her wasting eyes, from which the spirit of life was fast departing, turned piteously on himself, as if imploring him to save her from the fate that was dragging her to the grave. And, when he reached the boundary of the garden, his whole frame trembled so, with horrible apprehension, that he [Page 61] rested a while, unable to venture further towards the truth. At length he summoned courage to dare it, and, unlocking a private gate, of which he had lately received the key, because it spared him a considerable distance of the road to Naples, he approached the house. Every place around it was silent and forsaken; many of the lattices were closed, and, as he endeavoured to collect from every trivial circumstance some conjecture, his spirits still sunk as he advanced, till, having arrived within a few paces of the portico, all his fears were confirmed. He heard from within a feeble sound of lamentation, and then some notes of that solemn and peculiar kind of recitative, which is in some parts of Italy the requiem of the dying. The sounds were so low and distant that they only murmured on his ear; but, without pausing for information, he rushed into the portico, and knocked loudly at the folding doors, now closed against him.
After repeated summonses, Beatrice, the old housekeeper, appeared. She did not wait for Vivaldi's enquiries. "Alas! Signor," said she, "alas-a-day! who would have thought it; who would have expected such a change as this! It was only yester-evening that you was here,—she was then as well as I am; who would have thought that she would be dead today?"
"She is dead, then!" exclaimed Vivaldi, struck to the heart; "she is dead!" staggering towards a pillar of the hall, and endeavouring to support himself against it. Beatrice, shocked at his condition, would have gone for assistance, but he waved her to stay. "When did she die?" said he, drawing breath with difficulty, "how and where?"
"Alas! here in the villa, Signor," replied Beatrice, weeping; "who would have thought that I should live to see this day! I hoped to have laid down my old bo [...]es▪ in peace."
[Page 62] "What has caused her death?" interrupted Vivaldi impatiently, "and when did she die?"
"About two of the clock this morning, Signor; about two o'clock. O miserable day, that I should live to see it!"
"I am better," said Vivaldi, raising himself, "lead me to her apartment,—I must see her. Do not hesitate, lead me on."
"Alas! Signor, it is a dismal sight; why should you wish to see her? Be persuaded; do not go, Signor; it is a woeful sight!"
"Lead me on," repeated Vivaldi sternly; "or if you refuse, I will find the way myself."
Beatrice, terrified by his look and gesture, no longer opposed him, begging only that he would wait till she had informed her lady of his arrival; but he followed her closely up the staircase and along a corridor that led round the west side of the house, which brought him to a suite of chambers darkened by the closed lattices, through which we passed towards the one where the body lay. The requiem had ceased, and no sound disturbed the awful stillness that prevailed in these deserted rooms. At the door of the last apartment, where he was compelled to stop, his agitation was such, that Beatrice, expecting every instant to see him sink to the floor, made an effort to support him with her feeble aid, but he gave a signal for her to retire. He soon recovered himself and passed into the chamber of death, the solemnity of which might have effected him in any other state of his spirits; but these were now too severely pressed upon by real suffering to feel the influence of local circumstances. Approaching the bed on which the corpse was laid, he raised his eyes to the mourner who hung weeping over it, and beheld—Ellena! who, surprised by this sudden intrusion, and still more by the agitation of Vivaldi, repeatedly demanded the occasion of it. But [Page 63] he had neither power nor inclination to explain a circumstance, which must deeply wound the heart of Ellena, since it would have told that the same event, which excited her grief, accidentally inspired his joy.
He did not long intrude upon the sacredness of sorrow, and the short time he remained was employed in endeavours to command his own emotion and to soothe her's.
When he left Ellena, he had some conversation with Beatrice, as to the death of Signora Bianchi, and understood that she had retired to rest on the preceding night apparently in her usual state of health. "It was about one in the morning Signor," continued Beatrice, "I was waked out of my first sleep by a noise in my lady's chamber. It is a grievous thing to me, Signor, to be waked from my first sleep, and I Santa Maria forgive me! was angry at being disturbed? So I would not get up, but laid my head upon the pillow again, and tried to sleep; but presently I heard the noise again; nay now, says I, somebody must be up in the house, that's certain. I had scarcely said so, Signor, when I heard my young lady's voice calling, 'Beatrice! Beatrice!' Ah! poor young lady! she was indeed in a sad fright, as well she might. She was at my door in an instant, and looked as pale as death, and trembled so! 'Beatrice,' said she, 'rise this moment; my aunt is dying.' She did not wait for my answer, but was gone directly. Santa Maria protect me! I thought I should have swooned outright."
"Well, but your lady?" said Vivaldi, whose patience the tedious circumlocution of old Beatrice had exhausted.
"Ah! my poor lady! Signor, I thought I never should have been able to reach her room; and when I got there, I was scarcely more alive than herself.—There she lay on her bed! O it was a grievous sight [Page 64] to see! there she lay, looking so piteously; I saw she was dying. She could not speak, though she tried often, but she was sensible, for she would look so at Signora Ellena, and then try to speak; it almost broke one's heart to see her. Something seemed to lie upon her mind, and she tried almost to the last to tell it; and as she grasped Signora Ellena's hand, she would still look up in her face with such doleful expression as no one who had not a heart of stone could bear. My poor young mistress was quite overcome by it, and cried as if her heart would break. Poor young lady! she has lost a friend indeed, such a one as she must never hope to see again."
"But she shall find one as firm and affectionate as the last!" exclaimed Vivaldi fervently.
"The good Saint grant it may prove so," replied Beatrice, doubtingly. "All that could be done for our dear lady," she continued, "was tried, but with no avail. She could not swallow what the Doctor offered her. She grew fainter and fainter, yet would often utter such deep sighs, and then would grasp my hand so hard! At last she turned her eyes from Signora Ellena, and they grew duller and fixed, and she seemed not to see what was before her. Alas! I knew she was going; her hand did not press mine as it had done a minute or two before, and a deadly coldness was upon it. Her face changed so too in a few minutes! This was about two o'clock, and she died before her confessor could administer."
Beatrice ceased to speak, and wept; Vivaldi almost wept with her, and it was some time before he could command his voice sufficiently to enquire, what were the symptoms of Signora Bianchi's disorder, and whether she had ever been thus suddenly attacked before.
"Never, Signor!" replied the old house-keeper; [Page 65] "and though to be sure, she had long been very infirm, and going down, as one may say, yet,"—
"What is it you mean?" said Vivaldi.
"Why, Signor, I do not know what to think about my lady's death. To be sure, there is nothing certain; and I may only get scoffed at, if I speak my mind abroad, for nobody would believe me, it is so strange, yet I must have my own thoughts, for all that."
"Pray speak intelligibly," said Vivaldi, "you need not apprehend censure from me."
"Not from you, Signor, but if the report should get abroad, and it was known that I had set it agoing."
"That never shall be known from me," said Vivaldi, with increased impatience, "tell me, without fear, all that you conjecture."
"Well then, Signor, I will own, that I do not like the suddenness of my lady's death, no, nor the manner of it, nor her appearance after death!"
"Speak explicitly, and to the point," said Vivaldi.
"Nay, Signor, there are some folks that will not understand if you speak ever so plain, I am sure I speak plain enough. If I might tell my mind,—I do not believe she came fairly by her death at last."
"How!" said Vivaldi, "your reasons?"
"Nay, Signor, I have given them already; I said I did not like the suddenness of her death, nor her appearance after, nor"—
"Good heaven!" interrupted Vivaldi, "you mean poison."
"Hush, Signor, hush! I do not say that; but she did not seem to die naturally."
"Who has been at the villa lately?" said Vivaldi, in a tremulous voice.
"Alas! Signor, nobody has been here; she lived so privately that she saw nobody."
[Page 66] "Not one person?" said Vivaldi, "consider well, Beatrice, had she no visitor?"
"Not of a long while, Signor, no visitors but yourself and her cousin Signor Giotto. The only other person that has been within these walls for many weeks, to the best of my remembrance, is a sister of the Convent, who comes for the silks my young lady embroiders."
"Embroiders! What convent?"
"The Santa Maria della Pieta, yonder, Signor; if you will step this way to the window, I will shew it you. Yonder, among the woods on the hill-side, just above those gardens that stretch down to the bay. There is an olive ground close beside it, and observe, Signor, there is a red and yellowish ridge of rocks rises over the woods higher still, and looks as if it would fall down upon those old spires. Have you found it, Signor?"
"How long is it since this sister came here?" said Vivaldi.
"There weeks at least, Signor."
"And you are certain that no other person has called within that time?"
"No other, Signor, except the fisherman and the gardener, and a man who brings maccaroni, and such sort of things; for it is such a long way to Naples, Signor, and I have so little time."
"Three weeks, say you! You say three weeks, I think? Are you certain as to this?"
"Three weeks, Signor! Santa della Pieta! Do you believe, Signor, that we could fast for three weeks! Why, they call almost every day."
"I speak of the nun," said Vivaldi.
"O yes, Signor," replied Beatrice; "it is that at least, since she was here."
"This is strange!" said Vivaldi, musing, "but I will talk with you some other time. Meanwhile, I [Page 67] wish you could contrive that I should see the face of your deceased lady, without the knowledge of Signora Ellena. And, observe me, Beatrice, be strictly silent as to your surmises concerning her death: do not suffer any negligence to betray your suspicions to your young mistress. Has she any suspicions herself of the same nature?"
Beatrice replied, that she believed Signora Ellena had none: and promised faithfully to observe his injunctions.
He then left the villa, meditating on the circumstances he had just learned, and on the prophetic assertion of the monk, between whom, and the cause of Bianchi's sudden death, he could not forbear surmising there was some connection, and it now occurred to him, and for the first time, that this monk, this mysterious stranger, was no other than Schedoni, whom he had observed of late going more frequently than usual, to his mother's apartment. He almost started, in horror of the suspicion, to which this conjecture led, and precipitately rejected it, as a poison that would destroy his own peace for ever. But though he instantly dismissed the suspicion, the conjecture returned to his mind, and he endeavoured to recollect the voice and figure of the stranger, that he might compare them with those of the confessor. The voices were, he thought, of a different tone, and the persons of a different height and proportion. This comparison, however, did not forbid him to surmise that the stranger was an agent of the confessor's; that he was, at least, a secret spy upon his actions, and the defamer of Ellena; while both, if indeed there were two persons concerned, appeared to be at the command of his parents. Fired with indignation of the unworthy arts that he believed to have been employed against him, and impatient to meet the slanderer of Ellena, he determined to attempt some decisive step towards a discovery [Page 68] of the truth, and either to compel the confessor to reveal it to him, or to search out his agent, who, he fancied, was occasionally a resident within the ruins of Paluzzi.
The inhabitants of the convent, which Beatrice had pointed out, did not escape his consideration, but no reason appeared for supposing them the enemies of his Ellena, who, on the contrary, he understood had been for some years amicably connected with them. The embroidered silks, of which the old servant had spoken, sufficiently explained the nature of the connection, and discovering more fully the circumstances of Ellena's fortune, her conduct heightened the tender admiration with which he had hitherto regarded her.
The hints for suspicion which Beatrice had given respecting the cause of her mistress's decease, incessantly recurred to him; and it appeared extraordinary, and sometimes in the highest degree improbable, that any person could be sufficiently interested in the death of a woman apparently so blameless, as to administer p [...]son to her. What motive could have prompted so horrible a deed, was still more inexplicable. It was true that she had long been in a declining state; yet the suddenness of her departure and the singularity of some circumstances preceding as well as some appearances that had followed it, compelled Vivaldi to doubt as to the cause. He believed, however, that, after having seen the corpse, his doubts must vanish; and Beatrice had promised, that, if he could return in the evening, when Ellena had retired to rest, he should be permitted to visit the chamber of the deceased. There was something repugnant to his feelings, in going thus secretly, or, indeed, at all, to the residence of Ellena at this delicate period, yet it was necessary he should introduce there some medical professor, on whose judgment he could rest, [Page 69] respecting the occasion of Bianchi's death; and as he believed he should soon acquire the right of vindicating the honour of Ellena, that consideration did not so seriously affect him as otherwise it would have done. The enquiry which called him thither was, besides, of a nature too solemn and important to be lightly resigned; he had therefore, told Beatrice he would be punctual to the hour she appointed. His intention to search for the monk was thus again interrupted.
CHAP. IV.
WHEN Vivaldi returned to Naples, he enquired for the Marchesa, of whom he wished to ask some questions concerning Schedoni, which, though he scarcely expected they would be explicitly answered, might yet lead to part of the truth he sought for.
The Marchesa was in her closet, and Vivaldi found the confessor with her. "This man crosses me like my evil genius," said he to himself as he entered, "but I will know whether he deserves my suspicions before I leave the room."
Schedoni was so deeply engaged in conversation, that he did not immediately perceive Vivaldi, who stood for a moment examining his countenance, and tracing subjects for curiosity in its deep lines. His eyes, while he spoke were cast downward, and his features were fixed in an expression at once severe and crafty. The Marchesa was listening with deep attention, her head inclined towards him, as if to catch the lowest murmur of his voice, and her face picturing the anxiety and vexation of her mind. This was evidently a conference, not a confession.
Vivaldi advancing, the monk raised his eyes; his countenance suffered no change, as they met those of Vivaldi. He rose, but did not take leave, and returned the slight and somewhat haughty salutation of Vivaldi, with an inclination of the head, that indicated▪ pride without pettishness, and a firmness bordering o [...] contempt.
The Marchesa, on perceiving her son was somewhat embarrassed, and her brow, before slightly contracted [Page 71] by vexation, now frowned with severity. Yet it was an involuntary emotion, for she endeavoured to chase the expression of it with a smile. Vivaldi liked the smile still less than the frown.
Schedoni seated himself quietly, and began with almost the ease of a man of the world, to converse on general topics. Vivaldi, however, was reserved and silent; he knew not how to begin a conversation, which might lead to the knowledge he desired, and the Marchesa did not relieve him from the difficulty. His eye and his ear assisted him at least to conjecture at least, if not to obtain the information he wished; and, as he listened to the deep tones of Schedoni's voice, he became almost certain, that they were not the accents of his unknown adviser, though he considered, at the [...]ame moment, that it was not difficult to disguise, or to feign a voice. His stature seemed to decide the question more reasonably; for the figure of Schedoni appeared taller than that of the stranger; and tho' there was something of resemblance in their air, which Vivaldi had never observed before, he again considered, that the habit of the same order, which each wore, might easily occasion an artificial resemblance. Or the likeness, as to countenance, he could not judge, since the stranger had been so much shrouded by his cowl, that Vivaldi had never distinctly seen a single feature. Schedoni's hood was now thrown back, so that he could not compare even the air of their heads under similar circumstances; but as he remembered to have seen the confessor on a former day approaching his mother's closet with the cowl shading his face, the same gloomy severity seemed to characterize both, and nearly the same terrible portrait was drawn on his fancy. Yet this again might be only an artificial effect, a character which the cowl alone gave to the head; and any face s [...]en imperfectly beneath its dark shade, might have appeared equally severe. Vivaldi was [Page 72] still extremely perplexed in his opinion. One circumstance, however seemed to throw some light on his judgment. The stranger had appeared in the habit of a monk, and if Vivaldi's transient observation might be trusted, he was of the very same order with that of Schedoni, Yet if he were Schedoni, or even his agent, it was not probable that he would have shewn himself in a dress that might lead to a discovery of his person. That he was anxious for a concealment, his manner had strongly proved; it seemed then, that this habit of a monk was only a disguise, assumed for the purpose of misleading conjecture. Vivaldi, however, determined to put some questions to Schedoni, and at the same time to observe their effect on his countenance. He took occasion to notice some drawing of ruins, which ornamented the cabinet of the Marchesa, and to say that the fortress of Paluzzi was worthy of being added to her collection. "You have seen it lately, perhaps, reverend father," added Vivaldi, with a penetrating glance.
"It is a striking relique of antiquity," replied the confessor.
"That arch," resumed Vivaldi, his eye still fixed on Schedoni, "that arch suspended between two rocks, the one overtopped by the towers of the fortress, the other shadowed with pine and broad oak, has a fine effect. But a picture of it would want human figures Now either the grotesque shapes of banditti lurking within the ruin, as if ready to start out upon the traveller, or a friar rolled up in his black garments, just stealing forth from under the shade of the arch, and looking like some supernatural messenger of evil would finish the piece."
The features of Schedoni suffered no change during this speech. "Your picture in complete," said he, "and I cannot but admire the [...]ecility with which you have classed the monks together with banditti."
[Page 73] "Your pardon, holy father," said Vivaldi, "I did not draw a parallel between them."
"O! no offence, Signor," replied Schedoni, with a smile somewhat ghastly.
During the latter part of this conversation, if conversation it may be called, the Marchesa had followed a servant, who had brought her a letter, out of the apartment, and as the confessor appeared to await her return, Vivaldi determined to press his enquiry. "It appears, however," said he, "that Paluzzi, if not haunted by robbers, is at least frequented by ecclesiastics; for I have seldom passed it without seeing one of the order, and that one has appeared so suddenly, and vanished so suddenly, that I have been almost compelled to believe he was literally a spiritual being!"
"The convent of the Black Penitents is not far distant," observed the confessor.
"Does the dress of this convent resemble that of your order, reverend father? for I observed that the monk I speak of was habited like yourself; aye and he was about your stature, and very much resembled you."
"That well may be, Signor," replied the confessor calmly; "there are many brethern who, no doubt, resemble each other; but the brothers of the Black Penitents are clothed in sackcloth; and the death's head on the garment, the peculiar symbol of this order, would not have escaped your observation; it could not, therefore, be a member of their society whom you have seen."
"I am not inclined to think that it was," said Vivaldi; "but be it who it may, I hope soon to be better acquainted with him, and to tell him truths so strong, that he shall not be permitted even to affect the misunderstanding of them."
[Page 74] "You will do right, if you have cause of complaint against him," observed Schedoni.
"And only if I have cause of complaint, holy father? Are strong truths to be told only when there is direct cause of complaint? Is it only when we are injured that we are to be sincere?" He believed that he had now detected Schedoni, who seemed to have betrayed a consciousness that Vivaldi had reason for complaint against the stranger.
"You will observe, reverend father, that I have not said I am injured," he added. "If you know that I am, this must be by other means than by my words: I have not even expressed resentment."
"Except by your voice and eye, Signor," replied Schedoni drily. "When a man is vehement and disordered, we usually are inclined to suppose he feels resentment, and that he has cause of complaint, either real or imaginary. As I have not the honour of being acquainted with the subject you allude to, I cannot decide to which of the two your cause belongs."
"I have never been in doubt as to that," said Vivaldi haughtily; "and if I had, you will pardon me, holy father, but I should not have requested your decision. My injuries are, alas! too real; and I now think it is also too certain to whom I may attribute them. The secret adviser, who steals into the bosom of a family only to poison its repose, the informer—the base asperser of innocence, stand revealed in one person before me.
Vivaldi delivered these words with a tempered energy, at once dignified and pointed, which seemed to strike directly to the heart of Schedoni; but, whether it was his conscience or his pride that took the alarm, did not certainly appear. Vivaldi believed the former. A dark malignity overspread the features of the monk, and at that moment Vivaldi thought he beheld a man, whose passions might impel him to the perpetration [Page 75] of almost any crime, how hideous soever. He recoiled from him, as if he had suddenly seen a serpent in his path, and stood gazing on his face, with an attention so wholly occupied as to be unconscious that he did so.
Schedoni almost instantly recovered himself; his features relaxed from their first expression, and that portentous darkness passed away from his countenance; but with a look that was still stern and haughty, he said, "Signor, however ignorant I may be of the subject of your discontent, I cannot misunderstand that your resentment is, to some extent or other, directed against myself as the cause of it. Yet I will not suppose, Signor; I say I will not suppose," raising his voice significantly, "that you have dared to brand me with the ignominious titles you have just uttered; but"—
"I have applied them to the author of my injuries," interrupted Vivaldi; "you, father, can best inform me whether they applied to yourself."
"I have then nothing to complain of," said Schedoni, adroitly, and with a sudden calmness, that surprised Vivaldi. "If you directed them against the author of your injuries, whatever they may be, I am satisfied."
The chearful complacency, with which he spoke this, renewed the doubts of Vivaldi, who thought it nearly impossible that a man conscious of guilt could assume, under the very charge of it, the tranquil and dignified air which the confessor now displayed. He began to accuse himself of having condemned him with passionate rashness, and gradually became shocked at the indecorum of his conduct towards a man of Schedoni's age and sacred profession. Those expressions of countenance, which had so much alarmed him, he was now inclined to think the effects of a jealous and haughty honour, and he almost forgot the malignity, which had mingled with Schedoni's pride, in [Page 76] sorrow for the offence that had provoked it. Thus, not less precipitate in his pity than his anger, and credulous alike to the passion of the moment, he was now as eager to apologize for his error, as he had been hasty in committing it. The frankness, with which he apologized and lamented the impropriety of his conduct would have won an easy forgiveness from a generous heart. Schedoni listened with apparent complacency and secret contempt. He regarded Vivaldi as a rash boy, who was swayed only by his passions; but while he suffered deep resentment for the evil in his character, he felt neither respect nor kindness for the good, for the sincerity, the love of justice, the generosity, which threw a brilliancy even on his foibles. Schedoni, indeed, saw only evil in human nature.
Had the heart of Vivaldi been less generous, he would now have distrusted the satisfaction, which the confessor assumed, and have discovered the contempt and malignity, that lurked behind the smile thus imperfectly masking his countenance. The confessor perceived his power, and the character of Vivaldi lay before him as a map. He saw, or fancied he saw every line and feature of its plan, and the relative proportions of every energy and weakness of its nature. He believed, also, he could turn the very virtues of this young man against himself, and he exulted, even while the smile of good-will was yet upon his countenance, in anticipating the moment that should avenge him for the past outrage, and which, while Vivaldi was ingenuously lamenting it, he had apparantly forgotten.
Schedoni was thus ruminating evil against Vivaldi, and Vivaldi was considering how he might possibly make Schedoni atonement for the affront he had offered him, when the Marchesa returned to the apartment; and perceived in the honest countenance of [Page 77] Vivaldi some symptoms of the agitation which had passed over it; his complexion was flushed, and his brow was slightly contracted. The face of Schedoni told nothing but complacency, except that now and then when he looked at Vivaldi, it was with half shut eyes, that indicated treachery, or, at least, cunning, trying to conceal exasperated pride.
The Marchesa, with displeasure directed against her son, enquired the reason of his emotion; but he, stung with consciousness of his conduct towards the monk, could neither endure to explain it, or to remain in her presence, and saying that he would confide his honour to the discretion of the holy father, who would speak only too favourably of his fault, he abruptly left the room.
When he had departed, Schedoni gave, with seeming reluctance, the explanation which the Marchesa required, but was cautious not to speak too favourably of Vivaldi's conduct, which, on the contrary, he represented as much more insulting than it really was; and, while he aggravated the offensive part of it, he suppressed all mention of the candour and self-reproach, which had followed the charge. Yet this he managed so artfully that he appeared to extenuate Vivaldi's errors, to lament the hastiness of his temper, and to plead for a forgiveness from his irritated mother. "He is very young," added the monk, when he perceived that he had sufficiently exasperated the Marchesa against her son; "he is very young, and youth is warm in its passions and precipitate in its judgments. He was, besides, jealous, no doubt, of the friendship with which you are pleased to honour me; and it is natural that a son should be jealous of the attention of such a mother."
"You are too good, father," said the Marchesa; her resentment encreasing towards Vivaldi in proportion as Schedoni displayed his artificial candour and meekness.
[Page 78] "It is true," continued the confessor, "that I perceive all the inconveniences to which my attachment, I should say my duty, to your family exposes me; but I willingly submit to these, while it is yet possible that my advice may be a means of preserving the honour of your house unsullied, and of saving this inconsiderate young man from future misery and unavailing repentance."
During the warmth of this sympathy in resentment, the Marchesa and Schedoni mutually, and sincerely, lost their remembrance of the unworthy motives, by which each knew the other to be influenced, as well as that disgust which those who act together to the same bad end, can seldom escape from feeling towards their associates. The Marchesa, while she commended the fidelity of Schedoni, forgot his views and her promises as to a rich benefice; while the confessor imputed her anxiety for the splendor of her son's condition to a real interest in his welfare, not a care of her own dignity. After mutual compliments had been exchanged, they proceeded to a long consultation concerning Vivaldi, and it was agreed, that their efforts for what they termed his preservation should no longer be confined to remonstrances.
CHAP. V.
VIVALDI, when his first feelings of pity and compunction for having insulted an aged man, the member of a sacred profession, were past, and when he looked with a more deliberate eye upon some circumstances of the confessor's conduct, perceived that suspicion was again gathering on his mind. But, regarding this as a symptom of his own weakness, rather than as a hint of truth, he endeavoured, with a magnanimous disdain, to reject every surmise that boded unfavourably of Schedoni.
When evening arrived, he hastened towards the villa Altieri, and, having met without the city, according to appointment, a physician, upon whose honour and judgment he thought he might rely, they proceeded on their way together. Vivaldi had forgotten, during the confusion of his last interview with Ellena, to deliver up the key of the garden-gate, and he now entered it as usual, though he could not entirely overcome the reluctance, which he felt on thus visiting, in secret and at night, the dwelling of Ellena. Under no other circumstances, however, could the physician, whose opinion was so necessary to his peace, be introduced without betraying a suspicion, which must render her unhappy, probably for ever.
Beatrice, who had watched for them in the portico, led the way to the chamber where the corpse was laid out; and Vivaldi, though considerably affected when he entered, soon recovered composure enough to take his station on one side of the bed, while the physician placed himself on the other. Unwilling to expose his [Page 80] emotion to the observation of a servant, and desirous also of some private conversation with the physician, he took the lamp from Beatrice and dismissed her.—As the light glared upon the livid face of the corpse, Vivaldi gazed with melancholy surprise, and an effort of reason was necessary to convince him, that this was the same countenance which only one evening preceding was animated like his own; which had looked upon him in tears, while, with anxiety the most tender, she had committed the happiness of her niece to his care, and had, alas! too justly predicted her approaching dissolution. The circumstances of that scene now appeared to him like a vision, and touched every fibre of his heart. He was fully sensible of the importance of the trust committed to him, and, as he now hung over the pale and deserted form of Bianchi, he silently renewed his solemn vows to Ellena, to deserve the confidence of her departed guardian.
Before Vivaldi had courage enough to ask the opinion of the physician, who was still viewing the face of the deceased with very earnest attention and disapproving countenance, his own suspicions strengthened from some circumstances of her appearance; and particularly from the black tint that prevailed over her complexion, it seemed to him, that her death had been by poison. He seared to break a silence, which prolonged his hope of the contrary, feeble though it was; and the physician, who probably was apprehensive for the consequence of delivering his real thoughts, did not speak.
" [...] read your opinion," said Vivaldi, at length, "it coincides with my own."
"I know not as to that, Signor," replied the physician, "though I think I perceive what is yours. Appearances are unfavourable, yet I will not take upon me to decide from them, that it is as you suspect. There are other circumstances, under which similar [Page 81] appearances might occur." He gave his reasons for this assertion, which were plausible even to Vivaldi, and concluded with requesting to speak with Beatrice, "for I wish to understand," said he, "what was the exact situation of this lady for some hours previous to her decease."
After a coversation of some length with Beatrice, whatever might be the opinion resulting from his enquiries, he adhered nearly to his former assertions; pronouncing that so many contradictory circumstances appeared, as rendered it impossible for him to decide, whether Bianchi had died by poison, or otherwise. He stated more fully than he had done before the reasons which must render the opinion of any medical person, on this subject, doubtful. But, whether it was that he feared to be responsible for a decision, which would accuse some person of murder, or that he really was inclined to believe that Bianchi died naturally, it is certain he seemed disposed to adopt the latter opinion; and that he was very anxious to quiet the suspicions of Vivaldi. He so far succeeded, indeed, as to convince him that it would be unavailing to pursue the enquiry, and almost compelled him to believe, that she had departed according to the common course of nature.
Vivaldi, having lingered a while over the death-bed of Bianchi, and taken a last farewell of her silent form, quitted the chamber and the house as softly as he had approached, and unobserved, as he believed, by Ellena or any other person. The morning dawned over the sea, when he returned into the garden, and a few fishermen, loitering on the beach, or putting off their little boats from the shore, were the only persons visible at this early hour. The time, however, was passed for renewing the enquiry he had purposed at Paluzzi, and the brightening dawn warned him to retire. To Naples, therefore, he returned, with spirits somewhat [Page 82] soothed by a hope, that Bianchi had not fallen prematurely, and by the certainty that Ellena was well. On the way thither, he passed the fort without interruption, and, having parted with the physician, was admitted into his father's mansion by a confidential servant.
CHAP. VI.
ELLENA, on thus suddenly losing her aunt, her only relative, the friend of her whole life, felt as if left alone in the world. But it was not in the first moment of affliction that this feeling occurred. Her own forlorn situation was not even observed, while affection, pity, and irresistible grief for Bianchi, occupied her heart.
Bianchi was to be interred in the church belonging to the convent of Santa Maria della Pieta. The body attired according to the custom of the country, and decorated with flowers, was carried on an open bier to the place of interment, attended only by priests and torch-bearers. But Ellena could not endure thus lightly to part with the reliques of a beloved friend, and being restrained by custom from following the corpse to the grave, she repaired first to the convent, to attend the funeral service. Her sorrow did not allow her to join in the choral symphonies of the nuns, but their sacred solemnity was soothing to her spirits, and the tears she shed while she listened to the lengthening notes, assuaged the force of grief.
When the service concluded she withdrew to the parlour of the lady Abbess, who mingled with her consolations many entreaties that Ellena would make the convent her present asylum; and her affliction required little persuasion on this subject. It was her wish to retire hither as to a sanctuary, which was not only suitable to her particular circumstances, but especially adapted to the present state of her spirits. Here [Page 84] she believed that she should sooner acquire resignation and regain tranquility, than in a place less consecrated to religion; and, before she took leave of the Abbess it was agreed, that she should be received as a boarder. To acquaint Vivaldi with her intention was, indeed, her chief motive for returning to the villa Altieri, after this her resolution had been taken. Her affection and esteem had been gradual in their progress, and had now attained a degree of strength, which promised to decide the happiness or misery of her whole life. The fanction given by her aunt to this choice, and particularly the very solemn manner in which, on the evening preceding her death, she bequeathed Ellena to his care, had still endeared him to her heart, and imparted a sacredness to the engagement, which made her consider Vivaldi as her guardian and only surviving protector. The more tenderly she lamented her deceased relative, the more tenderly she thought of Vivaldi; and her love for the one was so intimately connected with her affection for the other, that each seemed strengthened and exalted by the union.
When the funeral was over, they met at Altieri.
He was neither surprised nor averse to her withdrawing awhile to a convert; for there was a propriety in retiring, during the period of her grief, from▪ home where she had no longer a guardian, which delicacy seemed to demand. He only stipulated that [...] might be permitted to visit her in the parlour of the convent, and to claim, when decorum should no longer object to it, the hand which Bianchi had resigned to him.
Notwithstanding that he yielded to this arrangement without complaining, it was not entirely without repining; but being assured by Ellena of the worthiness of the Abbess of the Santa Maria della Pieta, [...] endeavoured [...] silence the secret murmurs of his heart with the [...] of his judgment.
[Page 85] Mean while, the deep impression made by his unknown tormentor, the monk, and especially by his prediction of the death of Bianchi, remained upon his mind, and he once more determined to ascertain, if possible, the true nature of this portentous visitant, and what were the motives which induced him to haunt his footsteps and interrupt his peace. He was awed by the circumstances which had attended the visitations of the monk, if monk it was; by the suddenness of his appearance, and departure; by the truth of his prophecies; and, above all, by the solemn event which had verified his last warning; and his imagination, thus elevated by wonder and painful curiosity, was prepared for something above the reach of common conjecture, and beyond the accomplishment of human agency. His understanding was▪ sufficiently clear and strong to teach him to detect many errors of opinion, that prevailed around him, as well as to dispise the common superstitions of his country, and, in the usual state of his mind, he probably would not have paused for a moment on the subject before him; but his passions were now interested and his fancy awakened, and, though he was unconscious of this propensity, he would, perhaps, have been somewhat disappointed to have descended suddenly from the region of fearful sublimity, to which he had soared—to the world of terrible shadows—to the earth, on which he daily walked, and to an explanation simply natural.
He designed to visit again, at midnight, the fortress of Paluzzi, and not to watch for the appearance of the stranger, but to carry torches into every recess of the ruin, and discover, at least, whether it was haunted by any other human beings than himself. The chief difficulty which had hitherto delayed him, was that of finding a person, in whom he could confide, to accompany him in the search, since his former adventure had warned him never to renew it alone. Signor Bonarmo persisted [Page 86] absolutely, and, perhaps, wisely, to refuse his request on this subject; and, as Vivaldi had no other acquaintance, to whom he chose to give so much explanation of the affair as might induce compliance, he at length determined to take with him Paulo, his own servant.
On the Evening, previous to the day of Ellena's departure to the Santo della Pieta, Vivaldi went to Altieri, to bid her adieu. During this interview his spirits were more than usually depressed; and, though he knew that her retirement was only for a short period, and had as much confidence in the continuance of her affection, as is, perhaps, possible to a lover, Vivaldi felt as if he was parting with her for ever. A thousand vague and fearful conjectures, such as he never till this moment admitted, assailed him, and amongst them, it appeared probable, that the arts of the nuns might win her from the world, and sacrifice her to the cloister. In her present state of sorrow this seemed to be even more than probable, and not all the assurances which Ellena gave him, and in these parting moments she spoke with less reserve than she had hitherto done, could entirely re-assure his mind. "It should seem, Ellena, by these boding fears," said he, imprudently, "that I am parting with you for ever; I feel a weight upon my heart, which I cannot throw off. Yet I consent that you shall withdraw awhile to this convent, convinced of the propriety of the step; and I ought, also, to know that you will soon return; that I shall soon take you from its walls as my wife, never more to leave me, never more to pass from my immediate care and tenderness. I ought to feel assured of all this; yet so apt are my fears, that I cannot confide in what is probable, but rather apprehend what is possible. And is it then possible that I yet may lose you, and is it only probable that you may be mine for ever? How under such circumstances, [Page 87] could I weakly consent to your retirement? Why did I not urge you to bestow immediately those indissoluble bonds, which no human force can burst asunder? How could I leave the destiny of all my peace within the reach of a possibility, which it was once in my power to have removed! Which it was in my power!—It is, perhaps, still in my power. O Ellena! let the severities of custom yield to the security of my happiness. If you do go to the Santa Maria, let it be only to visit its altar!"
Vivaldi delivered this expostulation with a rapidity, that left no pause for Ellena to interrupt him. When, at length, he concluded, she gently reproached him for doubting the continuance of her regard, and endeavoured to sooth his apprehensions of misforune, but would not listen to his request. She represented, that not only the state of her spirits required retirement, but that respect to the memory of her aunt demanded it; and added gravely, that if he had so little confidence in the steadiness of her opinions, as to doubt the constancy of her affection, and for so short a period, unless her vows were secured to him, he had done imprudently to elect her for the companion of his whole life.
Vivaldi, then ashamed of the weakness he had betrayed, besought her forgiveness, and endeavoured to appease apprehensions which passion only made plausible, and which reason reproved; notwithstanding which, he could recover neither tranquility nor confidence; nor could Ellena, though her conduct was supported and encouraged by justness of sentiment, entirely remove the oppression of spirits she had felt from almost the first moment of this interview. They parted with many tears; and Vivaldi, before he finally took his leave, frequently returned to claim some promise, or to ascertain some explanation, till Ellena remarked with a forced smile, that the seresembled eternal [Page 88] adieus, rather than those of only a few days; an observation which renewed all his alarm, and furnished an excuse for again delaying his departure. At length he tore himself away, and left the villa Altieri; but as the time was yet too early to suit his purposed enquiry at Paluzzi, he returned to Naples.
Ellena, meanwhile, endeavouring to dissipate melancholy recollections by employment, continued busied in preparation for her departure on the following day, till a late hour of the night. In the prospect of quitting, though only for so short a period, the home where she had passed almost every day since the dawn of her earliest remembrance, there was something melancholy, if not solemn in leaving those well-known scenes, where, it might be said, the shade of her deceased relative seemed yet to linger, she was quitting all vestige of her late happiness, all note of former years and present consolation; and she felt as if going forth into a new and homeless world. Her affection for the place encreased as the passing time diminished, and it seemed as if the last moment of her stay would be precisely that, in which the villa Altieri would be most valued.
In her favourite apartments she lingered for a considerable time; and in the room where she had supped on the night immediately preceding the death of Signora Bianchi, she indulged many [...]ender and mournful recollections, and probably would have continued to indulge them much longer, had not her attention been withdrawn by a sudden rustling of the foliage that surrounded the window, when on raising her eyes, she thought she perceived some person pass quickly before it. The lattices had, as usual, been left open to admit the fresh breeze from the bay below, but she now rose with some alarm to close them, and had scarcely done so when she heard a distant knocking from the portico, [Page 89] and in the next instant the screams of Beatrice in the hall.
Alarmed for herself, Ellena, had, however, the courage to advance to the assistance of her old servant, when, on entering the passage leading to the hall, three men, masked and muffled up in cloaks, appeared, advancing from the opposite extremity. While she fled, they pursued her to the apartment she had quitted. Her breath and her courage were gone, yet she struggled to sustain herself, and endeavoured to ask with calmness what was their errand. They gave no reply, but threw a veil over her face, and seizing her arms, led her almost unresisting but supplicating, towards the portico.
In the hall, Ellena perceived Beatrice bound to a pillar; and another ruffian, who was also masked, watching over and menacing her, not by words but gestures. Ellena's shrieks seemed to recall the almost lifeless Beatrice, for whom she supplicated as much as for herself; but entreaty was alike unavailing for each, and Ellena was borne from the house and through the garden. All consciousness had now forsaken her. On recovering, she perceived herself in a carriage which was driven with great rapidity, and that her arms were within the grasp of some persons, whom, when her recollection returned more fully, she believed to be the men, who had carried her from the villa. The darkness prevented her from observing their figures, and to all her questions and entreaties a deathlike silence was observed.
During the whole night the carriage proceeded rapidly, stopping only while the ho [...]ses were changed, when Ellena endeavoured to interest by her cries the compassion of the people at the post-houses, and by her cries only, for the blinds were closely drawn. The postillions, no doubt imposed on the credulity of these people, for they were insensible to her distress, and her [Page 90] immediate companions soon overcame the only means that had remained by which she could make it known.
For the first hours, a tumult of terror and amazement occupied her mind, but, as this began to subside, and her understanding to recover its clearness, grief and despondency mingled with her fears. She saw herself separated from Vivaldi, probably for ever, for she apprehended that the strong and invisible hand which governed her course, would never relinquish its grasp till it had placed her irrecoverably beyond the reach of her lover. A conviction that she should see him no more, came, at intervals with such overwhelming force, that every consideration and emotion disappeared before it; and at these moments she lost all anxiety as to the place of her destination, and all fear as to her personal safety.
As the morning advanced and the heat encreased, the blinds were let down a little to admit air, and Ellena then perceived, that only two of the men, who had appeared at the villa Altieri, were in the carriage, and that they were still disguised in cloaks and visors. She had no means of judging through what part of the country she was travelling, for above the small openings which the blinds left she could see only the towering tops of mountains, or sometimes the veiny precipices and tangled thickets, that closely impended over the road,
About noon, as she judged from the excessive heat, the carriage stopped at a post-house, and ice-water was handed through the window, when, as the blind was lowered to admit it, she perceived herself on a wild and solatary plain, surrounded by mountains and woods. The people at the door of the post-house seemed "unused to pity or be pitied." The lean and sallow countenance of poverty stared over their gaunt bones, and habitual discontent had fixed the furrows of their cheeks. They regarded Ellena with only a [Page 91] feeble curiosity, though the affliction in her looks might have interested almost any heart that was not corroded by its own sufferings; nor did the masked faces of her companions excite a much stronger attention.
Ellena accepted the cool refreshment offered her, the first she had taken on the road. Her companions having emptied their glasses drew up the blind, and, notwithstanding the almost intolerable heat of noon, the carriage proceeded. Fainting under its oppression, Ellena entreated that the windows might he open, when the men, in compliance with their own necessity rather than with her request, lowered the blinds, and she had a glimpse of the lofty region of the mountains, but of no object that could direct her conjecture concerning where she was. She saw only pinnacles and vast precipices of various-tinted marbles, intermingled with scanty vegetation, such as stunted pinasters, dwarf oak and holly, which gave dark touches to the many-coloured cliffs, and sometimes stretched in shadowy masses to the deep vallies, that, winding into obscurity, seemed to invite curiosity to explore the scenes beyond. Below these bold precipices extended the gloomy regions of olive-trees, and lower still other rocky steeps sunk towards the plains, bearing terraces crowned with vines, and were often the artificial soil was propped by thickets of juniper, pomegranates and oleander.
Ellena, after having been so long shut in darkness, and brooding over her own alarming circumstances found temporary, though feeble, relief in once more looking upon the face of nature; till, her spirits being gradually revived and elevated by the grandeur of the images around her, she said to herself, "If I am condemned to misery, surely I could endure it with more fortitude it scenes like these, than amidst the tamer landscapes of nature! Here, the objects seem to [Page 92] impart somewhat of their own sublimity, to the soul. It is scarcely possible to yield to the pressure of misfortunes while we walk, as with the Deity, amidst his most stupendous works!"
But soon after the idea of Vivaldi glancing athwart her memory, she melted into tears; the weakness however was momentary, and during the rest of the journey she preserved a strenuous equality of mind.
It was when the heat and the light were declining that the carriage entered a rocky defile, which shewed, as through a tellescope reversed distant plains, and mountains opening beyond, lighted up with all the purple splendor of the setting sun. Along this deep and shadowy perspective a river, which was seen descending among the cliffs of a mountain, rolled with impetuous force, fretting and foaming amidst the dark rocks in its descent, and then flowing in a limpid lapse to the brink of other precipices, whence again it fell with thundering strength to the abyss, throwing its misty clouds of spray high in the air, and seeming to claim the sole empire of this solitary wild. Its bed took up the whole breadth of the chasm, which some strong convulsion of the earth seemed to have formed, not leaving space even for a road along its margin. The road, therefore, was carried high among the cliffs, that impended over the river, and seemed as if suspended in the air; while the gloom and vastness of the precipices, which towered above and sunk below it, together with the amazing force and uproar of the falling waters combined to render the pass more terrific than the pencil could describe, or language can express. Ellena ascended it, not with indifference but with calmness; she experienced somewhat of a dreadful pleasure in looking down upon the irresistible flood; but this emotion was heightened into awe, when she perceived that the road led to a slight bridge, [Page 93] which, thrown across the chasm at an immense height, united two opposite cliffs, between which the whole cataract of the river descended. The bridge, which was defended only by a slender railing, appeared as if hung amidst the clouds. Ellena, while she was crossing it, almost forgot her misfortunes. Having reached the opposite side of the glen, the road gradually descended the precipices for about half a mile, when it opened to extensive prospects over plains and towards distant mountains—the sunshine landscape, which had long appeared to bound this shadowy pass. The transition was as the passage through the vale of death to the bliss of eternity; but the idea of its resemblance did not long remain with Ellena. Perched high among the cliffs of a mountain, which might be said to terminate one of the jaws of this terific gorge, and which was one of the loftiest of a chain that surrounded the plains, appeared the spires and long terraces of a monastry; and she soon understood that her journey was to conclude there,
At the foot of this mountain her companions alighted, and obliged her to do the same, for the ascent was too steep and irregular to admit of a carriage. Ellena followed unresistingly, like a lamb to the sacrifice, up a path that wound among the rocks, and was coolly over-shadowed by thickets of almond trees, figs broad-leaved myrtle, and ever-green rose bushes, intermingled with the strawberry tree, beautiful in fruit and blossoms, the yellow jasemine, the delightful acacia mimosa, and a variety of other fragrant plants. These bowers frequently admitted glimpses of the glowing country below, and sometimes opened to expansive views bounded by the snowy mountains of Abruzzo. At every step were objects which would have afforded pleasure to a tranquil mind; the beautifully varigated marbles, that formed the cliffs immediately above, their fractured masses embossed with [Page 94] mosses and flowers of every vivid hue that paints the rainbow; the elegance of the shrubs that tufted, and the majestic grace of the palms which waved over them would have charmed almost any other eye than Ellena's, whose spirit was rapt in care or than those of her companions, whose hearts were dead to feeling. Partial features of the vast edifice she was approaching, appeared now and then between the trees; the tall west window of the cathedral with the spires that overtopped it; the narrow pointed roofs of the cloisters; angles of the insurmountable walls, which fenced the garden from the precipices below, and the dark portal leading into the chief court; each of these, seen at intervals beneath the gloom of cypress and spreading cedar, seemed as if manacing the unhappy Ellena with hints of future suffering. She past several shrines and images half hid among the shrubs and the cliffs; and, when she drew near the monastery, her companions stopped at a little chapel which stood beside the path, where, after examining some papers, an act which she observed with surprise, they drew aside, as if to consult respecting herself. Their conversation was delivered in voices so low, that she could not catch a single tone distinctly, and it is probable that if she could, this would not have assisted her in conjecturing who they were; yet the pro [...]ound silence they had hitherto observed had much encreased her curiosity, now that they spoke.
One of them soon after quitted the chapel, and proceeded alone to the monastery, leaving Ellena in the custody of his comrade, whose pity she now made a last, though almost hopeless, effort to interest. He replied to all her entreaties only by a waving of the hand and an averted face; and she endeavoured to meet with fortitude and to endure with patience, the evil which she could neither avoid nor subdue. The spot where she awaited the return of the ruffian, was not of a character [Page 95] to promote melancholy, except, indeed, that luxurious solemn kind of melancholy, which a view of stupendous objects inspires. It overlooked the whole, extent of plains, of which she had before caught partia scenes, with the vast chain of mountains, which seemed to form an insurmountable rampart to the rich landscape at their feet. There towering and fantastical summits, crowding together into dusky air, like flames tapering to apoint, exhibited images of peculiar grandeur, which each minuter line and feature withdrawing, at this evening hour from observation, seemed to resolve itself into the more gigantic masses, to which the dubious tint, the solemn obscurity, that began to prevail over them, gave force and loftier character. The silence and deep repose of the landscape, served to impress this character more awfully on the heart, and while Ellena sat rapt in the thoughtfulness it promoted, the vesper-service of the monks breathing softly from the cathedral above, came to her ear; it was a music which might be said to win on silence, and was in perfect unison with her feelings; solemn, deep, and full, it swelled in holy peals, and rolled away in murmurs, which attention pursued to the last faint note that melted into air. Ellena's heart owned the power of its high minstrelsy; and while she caught for a moment the sweeter voices of the nuns mingling in the chorus, she iudulged a hope that they would not be wholly insensible to her sufferings, and that she should receive some consolation from sympathy as [...]oft as these tender-breathing strains appeared to indicate.
She had rested nearly half an hour on the turfy slope before the chapel, when she perceived thro' the twilight, two monks descending from the monastery towards the spot where she sat. As they drew near, she distinguished their dress of grey stuff, the hood, the shaven head, where only a coronet of white hair was left, and other ensigns of their particular Order. On [Page 96] reaching the chapel they accosted her companion, with whom they retired a few paces, and conversed. Ellena heard, for the first time the sound of her conductor's voice, and though this was but faintly, she marked it well. The other ruffian did not appear, but it seemed evident that these friars had left the convent in consequence of his information; and sometimes when she looked upon the taller of the two, she fancied she saw the person of the very man whose absence she had remarked, a conjecture which strengthened while she more accurately noticed him. The portrait had certainly much resemblance in height and bulk; and the same gaunt awkwardness, which even the cloak of the ruffian had not entirely shrouded, obtruded itself from under the folded garments of the recluse. If countenance, too, might be trusted, this same friar had a ruffian's heart, and his keen and cunning eye seemed habitually upon the watch for prey. His brother of the order shewed nothing strongly characteristic either in his face or manner.
After a private conversation of some length, the friars approached Ellena, and told her, that she must accompany them to the convent; when her disguised conductor, having resigned her to them, immediately departed and descended the mountain.
Not a word was uttered by either of the party as they pursued the deep tract leading to the gates of this secluded edifice, which were opened to them by a lay-brother, and Ellena entered a spacious court. Three sides of this were closed by lofty buildings, lined with ranges of cloisters; the fourth opened to a garden, shaded with avenues of melancholy cypress, that extended to the cathedral, whose fretted windows and ornamented spires appeared to close the perspective. Other large and detached buildings skirted the gardens on the left, while, on the right, spacious olive grounds and vineyards spread to the cliffs that formed [Page 97] a barrier to all this side of the domain of the convent.
The friar, her conductor, crossed the court to the north wing, and there ringing a bell a door was opened by a nun, into whose hands Ellena was given. A significant look was exchanged between the devotees, but no words; the friar departed, and the nun, still silent, conducted her through many solitary passages, where not even a distant foot-fall echoed, and whose walls were roughly painted with subjects indicatory of the severe superstitions of the place, tending to inspire melancholy awe. Ellena's hope of pity vanished as her eyes glanced over these symbols of the disposition of the inhabitants, and on the countenance of the nun characterised by a gloomy malignity, which seemed ready to inflict upon others some portion of the unhappiness she herself suffered. As she glided forward with soundless step, her white drapery, floating along these solemn avenues, and her hollow features touched with the mingled light and shadow which the partial rays of a taper she held occasioned, she seemed like a spectre newly risen from the grave, rather than a living being. These passages terminated in the parlour of the Abbess, where the nun paused, and turning to Ellena, said, "It is the hour of vespers; you will wait here till our lady of the convent leaves▪ the church; she would speak with you."
"To what saint is the convent dedicated," said Ellena, "and who, sister, presides over it?
The nun gave no reply, and after having eyed the forlorn stranger for a moment, with inquisitive ill-nature, quitted the room. The unhappy Ellena had not been le [...]t long to her own reflections, when the Abbess appeared; a stately lady, apparently occupied with opinions of her own importance, and prepared to receive her guest with rigour and supercilious haughtiness. This Abbess, who was herself a woman of some distinction, believed that of all possible [Page 98] crimes, next to that of sacrilege, offences against persons of rank were least pardonable. It is not surprising, therefore, that supposing, Ellena a young woman of no family, to have sought clandestinely to unite herself with the noble house of Vivaldi, should feel for her, not only disdain, but indignation, and that she should readily consent, not only to punish the offender, but at the same time, to afford means of preserving the ancient dignity of the offended.
"I understand," said the Abbess, on whose appearance the alarmed Ellena had arisen, "I understand," said she, without making any signal for her to be seated, "that you are the young person who is arrived from Naples,"
"My name is Ellena di Rosalba," said her auditor, recovering some degree of courage from the manner which was designed to depress her.
"I know nothing of your name," replied the superior; "I am informed only that you are sent here to acquire a knowledge of yourself and of your duties. Till the period shall be passed, for which you are given into my charge, I shall scrupulously observe the obligations of the troublesome office, which my regard for the honor of a noble family, has induced me to undertake."
By these words, the author and the motives of this extraordinary transaction were at once revealed to Ellena, who was for some moments almost overwhelmed by the sudden horrors that gathered in her mind, and stood silent and motionless. Fear, shame, indignation, alternately assailed her; and the sting of offended honor, on being suspected, and thus accused of having voluntarily disturbed the tranquility, and sought the alliance of any family, and especially of one who disdained her, struck forcibly to her heart, till the pride of conscious worth revived her courage and fortified her [...] and she demanded by whose will she had [Page 99] been torn from her house, and by whose authority she was now detained, as it appeared, a prisoner.
The Abbess, unaccustomed to have her power opposed, or her words questioned, was for a moment too indignant to reply; and Ellena observed, but no longer with dismay, the brooding tempest ready to burst over her head. "It is I only who am injured," said she to herself, "and shall the guilty oppressor triumph, and the innocent sufferer sink under the shame that belongs only to guilt! Never will I yield to a weakness so contemptible. The consciousness of deserving well, will recall my presence of mind, which permitting me to estimate the characters of my oppressors by their actions, will enable me also to dispise their power."
"I must remind you," said the Abbess, at length, "that the questions you make are unbecoming in your situation; and that contrition and humility are the best extenuations of error. You may withdraw."
"Most true," replied Ellena, bowing with dignity to the Superior; "and I most willingly resign them to my oppressors."
Ellena forebore to make further▪ enquiry or remonstrance, and perceiving that reproach would not only be useless, but degrading to herself, she immediately obeyed the ma [...]ate of the Abbess, and determined since she must suffer, to suffer if possible, with firmness and dignity.
She was conducted from the parlour by the nun who had admitted her, and as she passed through the refactory where the nuns, just returned from vespers, were assembled, their inquisitive glances, their smiles and busy whispers, told her, that she was not only an object of curiosity, but of suspicion, and that little sympathy could be expected from hearts, which even the offices of hourly devotion had not purified from the [Page 100] malignant envy, that taught them to exalt themselves upon the humiliation of others.
The little room to which Ellena was led, and where, to her great satisfaction, she was left alone, rather deserved the denomination of a cell than of a chamber; since, like those of the nuns, it had only one small lattice; and a mattress, one chair, and a table, with a prayer-book were all its furniture. Ellena, as she surveyed her melancholy habitation, suppressed a rising sigh, but she could not remain unaffected by recollections, which, on this view of her altered state, crowded to her mind: nor think of Vivaldi far away, perhaps for ever, and probably, even ignorant of her distination, without bitter tears. But she dried them, as the idea of the Marchesa obtruded on her thoughts, for other emotions than those of grief possessed her. It was to the Marchesa that she especially attributed her present situation; and it now appeared that the family of Vivaldi had not only been reluctant, but absolutely averse to a connection with hers, contrary to the suggestions of Signora Bianchi, who had represented, that it might be supposed only, from their known character, that they would disapprove of the alliance, but would of course be reconciled to an event, which their haughtiest displeasure never could revoke. This discovery of their absolute rejection awakened all the proper pride, which the mistaken prudence of her aunt, and her affection for Vivaldi had lulled to rest; and she now suffered the most acute vexation and remorse, for having yielded her consent to enter clandestinely into any family. The imaginary honors of so noble an alliance vanished, when the terms of obtaining them were considered; and now, that the sound mind of Ellena was left to its own judgment, she looked with infinitely more pride and preference upon the industrious means, [Page 101] which had hitherto rendered her independent, than on all distinction which might be reluctantly conferred. The consciousness of innocence, which had supported her in the presence of the Superior, began to falter. "Her accusation was partly just!" said Ellena, "and I deserve punishment, since I could even for a moment, submit to the humiliation of desiring an alliance, which I knew would be unwillingly conferred. But it is not yet too late to retrieve my own esteem by asserting my independence, and resigning Vivaldi for ever. By resigning him! by abandoning him who loves me,—abandoning him to misery! Him, whom I cannot even think of without tears,—to whom my vows have been given,—who may claim me by the sacred remembrance of my dying friend,—him, to whom my whole heart is devoted! O! miserable alternative!—that I can no longer act justly, but at the expence of all my future happiness! Justly! And would it then be just to abandon him who is willing to resign every thing for me,—abandon him to ceaseless sorrow, that the prejudices of his family may be gratified?"
Poor Ellena perceived that she could not obey the dictates of a just pride, without such opposition from her heart as she had never experienced before. Her affections were now too deeply engaged to permit her to act with firmness, at the price of long-suffering. The consideration of resigning Vivaldi was so very grievous, that she could scarcely endure to pause upon it for a moment; yet, on the other hand, when she thought of his family, it appeared that she never could consent to make a part of it. She would have blamed the eroneous judgment of Signora Bianchi, whose persuasions had so much assisted in reducing her to the present alternative, had not the tenderness with which she cherished her memory, rendered this impossible. All, that now remained for her, was to endeavour patiently [Page 102] to endure present evils which she could not conquer; for, to forsake Vivaldi as the price of liberty, should liberty be offered her on such terms, or to accept him in defiance of honorable pride, should he ever affect her release, appeared to her distracted thoughts almost equally impracticable But, as the probability of never being able to discover her abode, returned to her consideration, the anguish she suffered told how much more she dreaded to lose then to accept Vivaldi, and that love was, after all, the most powerful affection of her heart.
CHAP. VII
VIVALDI, meanwhile, ignorant of what had occurred at the villa Altieri, repaired as he had proposed to Paluzzi, attended hy his servant Paulo. It was deep night before he left Naples, and so anxious was he to conceal himself from observation, that though Paulo carried a torch, he did not permit it to be lighted, till after he should have remained some time within the arch-way, thinking it most prudent to watch awhile in secret for his unknown adviser, before he proceeded to examine the fort.
His attendant, Paulo, was a true Neapolitian, shrewd, inquisitive, insinuating, adroit; possessing much of the spirit of intrigue, together with a considerable portion of humour, which displayed itself not so much in words, as in his manner and countenance, in the archness of his dark, penetrating eye, and in the exquisite adaptation of his gesture to his idea. He was a distinguished favourite of his master, who, if he had not humour himself, had a keen relish for it in others, and who certainly did possess wit, with all its lively accompaniments, in an eminent degree. Vivaldi had been won by the naivete and humour of this man, to allow him an unusual degree of familiarity in conversation; and, as they now walked together towards Paluzzi, he unfolded to Paulo as much of his former adventure there as he judged necessary to interest his curiosity and excite his vigilance. The relation did both. Paulo, however, naturally courageous, was [...]ncredulous to superstition of any kind; and having quickly perceived that his master was not altogether indisposed to attribute to a supernatural cause the extraordinary occurrences at paluzzi, he [Page 104] began, in his manner, to rally him; but Vivaldi was not in temper to endure jesting; his mood was grave, even to solemnity, and he yeilded, though reluctantly, to the awe which, at intervails, returned upon him with the force of a magical spell, binding up all his faculties to sternness, and fixing them in expectation. While he was nearly regardless of defence against human agency, his servant was, however, preparing for that alone; and very properly represented the imprudence of going to Paluzzi in darkness. Vivaldi observed that they could not watch for the monk otherwise than in darkness. since the torch which lighted them would also warn him, and he had very particular reasons for watching before he proceeded to examine. He added, that after a certain time had elapsed, the torch might be lighted at a neighbouring cottage. Paulo objected, that in the meanwhile, the person for whom they watched might escape; and Vivaldi compromised the affair. The torch was lighted but concealed within a hollow of the cliffs, that bordered on the road, and the centinels took their station in darkness, within the deep arch, near the spot where Vivaldi had watched with Bonarmo. As they did this, the distant chime of a convent informed Vivaldi that midnight was turned. The sound recalled to his mind the the words of [...], concerning the vicinity of the convent of the Black Penitents, to Paluzzi, and he asked Paulo whether this was the chime of that convent. Paulo replied that it was, and that a remarkable circumstance had taught him to remember the Santa del Pianto, or our Lady of Tears. "The place, Signor, would interest you," said Paulo for there are some-odd stories told of it; and I am inclined [...]o think, this unknown monk must be one of that society, his conduct is so strange."
"You believe then, that I am willing to give faith to wonderful stories," said Vivaldi, smiling.
"But what have you heard, that is so extraordinary, [Page 105] respecting this convent? Speak low, or we may be discovered."
"Why, Signor, the story is not generally known," said Paulo in a whisper; "I half promised never to reveal it."
"If you are under any promise of secresy," interruped Vivaldi, "I forbid you to tell this wonderful tale, which, however, seems somewhat too bad to rest within your brain."
"The story would fain expand itself to your's Signor," said Paulo; "and, as I did not absolutely promise to conceal it, I am very willing to reveal it."
"Proceed, then," said Vivaldi; "but l [...]t me once more caution you to speak low."
"You are obeyed, Signor. You must know then, Maestro, that it was on the eve of the festival of Santo Marco and about six years since."—
"Peace!" said Vivaldi. They were silent; but every thing remaining still, Paulo, after some time ventured to proceed, though in a yet slower whisper. "It was on the eve of the Santo Marco, and when the last bell had rung, that a person"—He stopped again, for a rustling sound passed near him.
"You are too late," said a sudden voice beside Vivaldi, who instantly recognized the thrilling accents of the monk.—"It is past midnight; she departed an hour ago. Look to your steps!"
Though thrilled by this well known voice, Vivaldi scarcely yielded to his feelings for a moment, but, checing the question which would have asked "who departed?" he, by a sudden spring, endeavoured to sieze the intruder, while Paulo, in the first hurry of his alarm fired a pistol, and then hastened for the torch. So certainly did Vivaldi beleive himself to have leaped upon the spot whence the voice proceeded, that, on reaching it, he instantly extended his arms and searching around expected every moment to find his enemy in his grasp.
Darkness again bafled his attempt▪
[Page 106] "You are known," cried Vivaldi; "you shall see me at the Santa del Pianto! What, oh! Paulo, the torch!—the torch!"
Paulo, swift as the wind, appeared with it. "He passed up those steps in the rock, Signor; I saw the skirts of his garments ascending!"
"Follow me, then," said Vivaldi, mounting the steps. "Away, away, Maestro!" said Paulo, impatiently; "but for Heaven's sake, name no more the convent of the Santa del Pianto; our lives may answer it!"
He followed to the terrace above, where Vivaldi, holding high the torch, looked round for the monk. The place, however, as far as his eye could penetrate, was forsaken and silent. The glare of the torch enlightened only the rude walls of the citadel, some points of the cliff below, and some tall pines that waved over them, leaving in doubtful gloom many a rec [...]ss of the ruin, and many a tangled thicket, that spread among the rocks beyond.
"Do you perceive any person, Paulo?" said Vival di, waving the torch in the air to rouse the flame.
"Among those arches on the left, Signor, those arches that stand duskily beyond the citadel, I thought I saw a shadowy sort of a figure pass. He might be a ghost, by his silence, for aught I know, Maestro; but he seems to have a good mor [...] instinct in taking care of himself, and to have as swift a pair of heels to assist in carrying him off, as any Lazaro in Naples need desire
"Fewer words, and more caution!" said Vivaldi, lowering the torch, and pointing it towards the quarter which Paulo had mentioned, "Be vigilant, and tread lightly."
"You are obeyed, Signor; but their eyes will inform them, though their ears refuse, while we hold a light to our steps."
[Page 107] "Peace, with this buffoonery!" said Vivaldi, somewhat sternly; "follow in silence, and be on your guard."
Paulo submitted and they proceeded towards the range of arches; which communicated with the building, whose singular structure had formerly arrested the attention of Bonarmo, and whence Vivaldi himself had returned with such unexpected precipitancy and consternation.
On perceiving the place he was approaching, he suddenly stopped and Paulo, observing his agitation, and probably not relishing the adventure, endeavoured to dissuade him from further research: "For we know not who may inhabit this gloomy place, Signor, or their numbers, and we are only two of us after all. Besides, Signor, it was through that door, yonder;" and he pointed to the very spot whence Vivaldi had so fearfully issued; "through that door, that I fancied just now, I saw something pass."
"Are you certain as to this?" said Vivaldi, with encreased emotion. "What was its form?"
"It was so dusky thereabout, Maestro, that I could not distinguish."
Vivaldi's eyes were fixed upon the building, and a violent conflict of feelings seemed to shake his soul. A few seconds decided it. "I will go on," said he, "and terminate, at any hazard, this state of intolerable anxiety. Paulo, pause a moment, and consider well, whether you can depend on your courage, for it may be severely tried. If you can descend with me in silence, and I warn you to be wary; if you cannot, I will go alone."
"It is too late now, Signor, to ask myself that question," replied Paulo, with a submissive air; "and if I had not settled it long ago, I should not have followed you thus far. My courage, Signor, you never doubted before."
[Page 108] "Come on then," said Vivaldi. He drew his sword, and entering the narrow door-way, the torch, which he had now resigned to Paulo, shewed a stone passage, that was, however, interminable to the eye.
As they proceeded, Paulo observed that the walls were stained in several places with what appeared to be blood, but prudently forbore to point out this to his master, observing the strict injunction of silence he had received.
Vivaldi stepped cautiously, and often paused to listen, after which he went on with a quicker pace, making signs only to Paulo to follow, and be vigilant.—The passage terminated in a staircase, that seemed to lead to vaults below. Vivaldi remembered the light which had formerly appeared there, and, as recollection of the past gathered on his mind, he faultered in his purpose.
Again he paused, looked back upon Paulo, but was going forward, when Paulo himself seized his arm.—"Stop! Signor," said he in a low voice. "Do you not distinguish a figure standing yonder in the gloom?"
Vivaldi looked onward, and perceived indistinctly, something as of human form, but motionless and silent.
It stood at the dusky extremity of the avenue, near the stair-case. Its garments, if garments they were, were dark; but its whole figure was so saintly traced to the eye, that it was impossible to ascertain whether this was the monk. Vivaldi took the light, and held it forward, endeavouring to distinguish the object before he ventured further; but the enquiry was useless, and resigning the torch to Paulo, he rushed on. When he reached the head of the stair-case, however, the form, whatever it might be, was gone. Vivaldi had heard no [...]oo [...]t [...]p. Paulo pointed out the exact spot where it had [...]ood, but no vestige of it appeared. Vivaldi called loudly upon the monk, but he heard only the lengthening echoes of his own voice revolving among [Page 109] the chambers below; and, after hesitating a while on the head of the stairs, he descended.
Paulo had not followed down many steps, when he called out, "It is there! Signor; I see it again! and now again! and now it flits away through the door that opens to the vaults!"
Vivaldi pursued so swiftly, that Paulo could scarcely follow fast enough with the light; and, as at length he rested to take breath, he perceived himself in the same spacious chamber to which he had formerly descended. At this moment Paulo perceived his countenance change. "You are ill, Signor," said he, "In the name of our holy Saint, let us quit this hideous place. Its inhabitants can be nothing good, and no good can come of our remaining here."
Vivaldi made no reply; he drew breath with difficulty, and his eyes remained fixed on the ground, till a noise, like the creaking of a heavy hinge, rose in a distant part of the vault. Paulo turned his eye, at the same instant, towards the place whence it came, and they both perceived a door in the wall [...]lowly opened and immediately closed again, as if the person within had feared to be discovered. Each believed, from the transient view he had of it, that this was the fame figure which had appeared on the stair-case, and that it was the monk himself. Reanimated by this belief, Vivaldi's nerves were instantly r [...]braced, and he sprang to the door, which was unfastened and yielded immediately to his impetuous hand, "You shall not deceive me now," cried he, as he entered; "Paulo! keep guard at the door!"
He looked round the second vault, in which he now found himself, but no person appeared; he examined the place, and particularly the walls, without discovering any aperture, either of door or window, by which the figure could have quitted the chamber; a strongly grated casement, placed near the roof, was all that admitted [Page 110] air and probably light. Vivaldi was astonished! "Have you seen any thing pass?" said he to Paulo.
"Nothing, Maestro," replied the servant.
"This is almost incredible," exclaimed, Vivaldi; "'tis certain, this form can be nothing human!"
"If so, Signor," observed Paulo, "why should it fear us? as surely it does; or why should it have fled?"
"That is not so certain," rejoined Vivaldi; "it may have fled only to lead us into evil. But bring hither the torch; here is something in the wall which I would examine."
Paulo obeyed. It was merely a ruggedness in the stones, not the partition of a door, that had excited his curiosity. "This is inexplicable," exclaimed Vivaldi, after a long pause. "What motive could any human being have for thus tormenting me?"
"Or any being superhuman, either, my Signor?" said Paulo.
"I am warned of evils that await me," continued Vivaldi, musing: "of events that are regularly fulfilled; the being who warms me, crosses my path perpetually, yet, with the cunning of a demon, as constantly eludes my grasp, and baffles my pursuit! It is incomprehensible, by what means he glides thus away from my eye, and fades, as if into air, at my approach! He is repeatedly in my presence, yet is never to be found?"
"It is most true, Signor," said Paulo, "that he is never to be found, and therefore let me entreat you to give up the pursuit. This place is enough to make one believe in the horrors of purgatory? Let us go, Signor."
"What but spirit could have quitted this vault so mysteriously," continued Vivaldi, not attending to Paulo; "what but spirit!"—
"I would fain prove," said the servant, "that substance can quit it as easily; I would fain evaporate through that door myself."
[Page 111] He had scarcely spoken the words, when the door closed, with a thundering clap that echoed through all the vaults; and Vivaldi and Paulo stood for a moment aghast! and then both hastened to open it, and to leave the place. Their consternation may be easily conceived, when they found that all their efforts at the door were ineffectual. The thick wood was inlaid with solid bars of iron; and was of such unconquerable strength, that it evidently guarded what had been designed for a prison, and appeared to be the keep or dungeon of the ancient fort.
"Ah, Signor mio!" said Paulo," if this was a spirit, 'tis plain he knew we were not so, by his luring us hither. Would we could exchange natures with him for a moment; for I know not how, as mere mortal men, we can ever squeeze, ourselves out o [...] this scrape. You must allow, Maestro, that this was not one of the evils he warned you of; or, if he did, it was through my organs, for I entreated you"—
"Peace, good Signor Buffo!" said Vivaldi; "a truce with this nonsense, and assist in searching for some means of escape."
Vivaldi again examined the walls, and as unsuccessfully as before; but in one corner of the vault [...]ay an object, which seemed to tell the fate of one who had been confined here, and to hint his own: it was a garment covered with blood. Vivaldi and his servant discovered it at the same instant; and a dreadful foreboding of their own distin [...] fixed them, for some moments, to the spot. Vivaldi first recovered himself, when instead of yielding to despondency, all his faculties were aroused to divise some means for escaping; but Paulo's hopes seemed buried beneath the dreadful vestments upon which he still gazed. "Ah, my Signor!" said he, at length, in a faultering accent, "who shall dare to raise that garment? What if it should conceal the mangled body whose blood has stained it!"
[Page 112] Vivaldi, shudderingly, turned to look on it again.
"It moves!" exclaimed Paulo; "I see it move!" as he said which, he started to the opposite side of the chamber. Vivaldi stepped a few paces back, and as quickly returned; when, determined to know the event at once, [...]e raised the garment upon the point of his sword, and perceived, beneath, other remains of dress, heaped high together, while even the floor below was stained with gore.
Believing that fear had deceived the eyes of Paulo, Vivaldi watched this horrible spectacle for some time, but without perceiving the least motion; when he became convinced, that not any remains of life were shrouded beneath it, and that it contained only articles of dress, which had belonged to some unfortunate person, who had probably been decoyed hither for plunder, and afterwards murdered. This belief, and the repugnance he felt to dwell upon the spectacle, prevented him from examining further, and he turned away to a remote part of the vault. A conviction of his own fate, and of his servant's, filled his mind for a while with despair. It appeared that he had been ensnared by robbers, till, as he recollected the circumstances which had attended his entrance, and several peculiar occurrences connected with the arch▪way, this conjecture seemed highly improbable: It was unreasonable, that robbers should have taken the trouble to decoy, when they might at first have seized him; still more so, that they would have persevered so long in the attempt; and most of all, that when he had formerly been in their power, they should have neglected their opportunity, and suffered him to leave the ruin unmolested. Yet, granting that all this, improbable as it was, were, however, possible, the solemn warnings and predictions of the monk, so frequently delivered, and so faithfully fulfilled, could have no connection with the schemes of banditti. It appeared, therefore, that Vivaldi [Page 113] was not in the hands of robbers; or, if he were, that the monk, at least, had no connection with them; yet it was certain that he had just heard the voice of this monk beneath the arch; that his servant had said, he saw the vestments of one ascending the steps of the fort; and that they had both reason, afterwards, to believe it was his shadowy figure, which they had pursued to the very chamber where they were now confined.
As Vivaldi considered all these circumstances, his perplexity encreased, and he was more than ever inclined to believe, that the form, which had assumed the appearance of a monk, was something super-human.
"If this being had appeared only," said he to himself, "I should, perhaps, have thought it the perturbed spirit of him, who doubtless has been murdered here, and that it led me hither to discover the deed, that his bones might be removed to holy ground; but this monk, or whatever it is, was neither silent, nor apparently anxious concerning himself; he spoke only of events connected with my peace, and predicted of the future, as well as reverted to the past! If he had either hinted of himself, or had been wholly silent, his appearance, and manner of eluding pursuit, is so extraordinary, that I should have yielded, for once, perhaps, to the tales of our grandfathers, and thought he was the spectre of a murdered person."
As Vivaldi expressed his incredulity, however, he returned to examine the garment once more, when, as he raised it, he observed, what had before escaped his notice, black drapery mingled with the heap beneath; and, on lifting this also on the point of his sword, he perceived part of the habiliment of a monk! He started at the discovery, as if he had seen the apparition, which had so long been tempting his credulity. Here were the vest and scapulary, rent and stained with blood! Having gazed for a moment, he let them drop [Page 114] upon the heap; when Paulo, who had been silently observing him, exclaimed,
"Signor! that should be the garment of the demon who led us hither. Is it a winding-sheet for us, Maestro? Or was it one for the body he inhabited while on earth!"
"Neither, I trust," replied Vivaldi, endeavouring to command the perturbation he suffered, and turning from the spectacle; "therefore we will try once more to regain our liberty."
This was a design, however, beyond his accomplishment; and having again attacked the door, raised Paulo to the grated window, and vociferated for release with his utmost strength, in which he was very ably seconded by Paulo, he abandoned for the present all further attempts, and, weary and desponding, threw himself on the ground of the dungeon.
Paulo bitterly lamented his master's rashness in penetrating to this remote spot, and bewailed the probability of their being famished.
"For supposing, Signor, that we were not decoyed hither for plunder and butchery, and supposing that we are not surrounded by malicious spirits, which San Januarius forbid I should take upon me to affirm is impossible! supposing all this, Signor, yet still there remains almost a certainty of our being starved to death; for how is it possible that any body can hear our cries, in a place so remote from all resort, and buried, as one may say, under ground as this is?"
"Thou art an excellent comforter," said Vivaldi, groaning.
"You must allow, Signor, that you are as excellent a conductor."
Vivaldi gave no answer, but lay on the ground, abandoned to agonizing thought. He had now leisure to consider the late words of the monk, and to conjecture, for he was in a mood for conjecturing the [Page 115] worst, that they not only alluded to Ellena, but that his saying, "she had departed an hour ago," was a figurative manner of telling that she had died then. This was a conjecture which dispelled almost all apprehension for himself. He started from the ground, and paced his prison with quick and unequal steps; it was now no longer a heavy despondency that oppressed him, but an acute anxiety that stung him, and with the tortures of suspense, brought also that of passionate impatience and horror concerning the fate of Ellena. The longer he dwelt upon the possibility of her death, the more probable it appeared. The monk had already forewarned him of the death of Bianchi; and when he recollected the suspicious circumstances which had attended it, his terrors for Ellena increased. The more he yielded to his feelings, the more violent they became, till at length, his ungovernable impatience and apprehensions arose almost to frenzy.
Paulo forgot for a while his own situation in the superior sufferings of his master, and now, at least endeavoured to perform the offices of a comforter, for he tried to calm Vivaldi's mind, by selecting the fairest circumstances for hope which the subject admitted, and he passed without noticing, or, if noticing, only lightly touched upon the most prominent possibilities of evil. His master, however, was insensible to all he said, till he mentioned again the convent del Pianto; and this subject, as it seemed connected with the monk, who had hinted the fate of Ellena, interested the unhappy Vivaldi, who withdrew awhile from his own reflection, to listen to a recital which might assist his conjectures.
Paulo complied with his command, but not without reluctance. He looked round the empty vault, as if he feared that some person might be lurking in the obscurity, who would overhear and even answer him.
"We are tolerably retired here too, Signor," said [Page 116] he, recollecting himself; "one may venture to talk secrets with little danger of being discovered. However, Maestro, it is best to make matters quite sure; and therefore, if you will please to take a seat on the ground, I will stand beside you and relate all I know of the convent of Our Lady of Tears, which is not much after all."
Vivaldi having seated himself, and bidden Paulo do the same, the servant began in a low voice—"It was on the vigil of the Santo Marco, just after the last vesper-bell had tolled—You never was at the Santa Maria del Pianto, Signor, or you would know what a gloomy old church it has—It was in a confessional in one of the side ailes of this church, and just after the last bell had ceased, that a person, so muffled up that neither shape nor face could be distinguished, came and placed himself on the steps of one of the boxes adjoining the confessional chair; but if he had been as airily dressed as yourself, Signor, he might have been just as well concealed; for the dusky aile is lighted only by one lamp, which hangs at the end next the painted window, except when the tapers at the shrine of San Antonio happen to be burning at the other extremity, and even then the place is almost as gloomy as this vault. But that is, no doubt contrived for the purpose, that people may not blush for the sins they confess; and in good faith, this is an accommodation which may bring more money to the poors' box, for the monks have a shrewd eye that way, and"—
"You have dropt the thread of your story," said Vivaldi.
"True, Signor, let me recollect where I lost it—Oh! at the steps of the confessional:—the stranger knelt down upon them, and for some time poured such groans into the ear of the confessor, as were heard all along the aile. You are to know, Signor, that the brothers of Santa del Pianto are of the order of Black [Page 117] Penitents; and people who have more than ordinary sins to confess, sometimes go there, to consult with the grand penitentiary himself, what is to be done. Now it happened that Father Ansaldo, the grand penitentiary himself was in the chair, as is customary on the vigil of the Santo Marco; and he gently reproved the penitent for bewailing so loud, and bade him take comfort; when the other replied only by a groan deeper than before, but it was not so loud, and then proceeded to confess. But what he did confess, Signor, I know not; for the confessor, you know, never must divulge, except, indeed, on very extraordinary occasions. It was, however, something so very strange and horrible, that the grand penitentiary suddenly quitted the chair, and before he reached the cloisters he fell into strong convulsions. On recovering himself, he asked the people about him, whether the penitent who had visited such a confessional, naming it, was gone; adding, that if he was still in the church, it was proper he should be detained. He descri [...]ed, at the same time, as well as he could, the sort of figure he had dimly seen approaching the confessional just before he had received the confession, at recollecting which, he seemed ready to go off again into his convulsions. One of the fathers, who had crossed the aile on his way to the cloisters, upon the first alarm of Ansaldo's disorder, remembered that a person, such as was described, had passed him hastily. He had seen a tall figure, muffled up in the habit of a white friar, gliding swiftly along the aile, towards the door that opened into the outer door of the convent; but he was himself too much engaged to notice the stranger particularly. Father Ansaldo thought this must be the person; and the porter was summoned, and asked whether he had observed such an one pass. He affirmed that he had not seen any person go forth from the gate within the last quarter of an hour; which might be true enough, [Page 118] you know, Signor, if the rogue had been off his post. But he further said, that no one had entered, during the whole evening, habited in white, as the stranger was described to be: so the porter proved himself to be a vigilant watchman; for he must have been asleep too, or how could this personage have entered the convent, and left it again, without being seen by him!"
"In white, was he?" said Vivaldi; "if he had been in black, I should have thought this must have been the monk my tormentor."
"Why, you know, Signor, that occurred to me before," observed Paulo, "and a man might easily change his dress if that were all."
"Proceed," said Vivaldi.
"Hearing this account from the porter," continued Paulo, "the Fathers believed one and all, that the stranger must be secreted within the walls; and the convent, with every part of the precincts, was searched; but no person was found!"
"This must certainly be the monk," said Vivaldi, notwithstanding the difference of his habit; there surely cannot be two beings in the world, who would conduct themselves in this same mysterious manner!"
He was interrupted by a low sound, which seemed to his distracted fancy, to proceed from a dying person. Paulo also heard it; he started, and they both listened with intense and almost intolerable expectation.
"Ah!" said Paulo at length, "it was only the wind.
"It was no more," said Vivaldi; proceed therefore.
"From the period of this strange confession,' 'resumed Paulo, "Father Ansaldo was never properly himself; he"—
"Doubtless the crime confessed related to himself," observed Vivaldi.
"Why, no, Signor, I never heard that that was [Page 120] the case; and some remarkable circumstances, which followed, se [...]med to prove it otherwise. About a month after the time I have mentioned, on the eveing o [...] a sultry day, when the monks were retiring from the last service"—
"Hark!" cried Vivaldi.
"I hear whispers," said Paulo, whispering himself.
"Be still" said Vivaldi.
They listened attentively, and heard a murmuring as of voices; but could not ascertain whether they came from the adjacent vault, or arose from beneath the one in which they were. The sound returned at intervails; and the persons who conversed, whatever they were, seemingly restrained their voices, as if they feared to be heard. Vivaldi considered whether it were better to discover himself, and call for assistance, or to remain still.
"Remember, Signor," said Paulo, "what a chance we have of being starved, unless we venture to discover ourselves to these people or whatever they are."
"Venture!" exclaimed Vivaldi. "What has such a wretch as I to do with fear? O, Ellena, Ellena!"
He instantly called loudly to the person whom he believed he had heard, and was seconded by Paulo; but thier continued vociferations availed them nothing; no answer was returned; and even the indistinct sounds, which had awakened their attention, were heard no more.
Exhausted by their efforts, they laid down on the floor of the dungeon, abandoning all further attempts at escape till the morning light might assist them.
Vivaldi had no further spirits to enquire for the remainder of Paulo's narrative. Almost despairing for himself, he could not feel an interest concerning strangers; for he had already perceived, that it could not afford him information connected with Ell [...]na; and Paulo, who had roared himself hoarse, was very willing to be silent
CHAP. VIII.
DURING several days after Ellena's arrival at the monastery of San Stefano, she was not permitted to leave the room. The door was locked upon her, and not any person appeared except the nun, who brought her a scanty portion of food, and who was the same, that had first admitted her into that part of the convent appropriated to the abbess.
On the fourth-day, when, probably, it was believed that her spirits were subdued by confinement, and by her experience of the suffering she had to expect from residence, she was summoned to the parlour. The abbess was alone, and the air of austerity, with which she regarded Ellena, prepared the latter to endure.
After an exordium on the heniousness of her offence and the nessessity there was for taking measures to protect the peace and dignity of a noble family, which her late conduct had nearly destroyed; the abbess informed her, that she must determine either to accept the veil, or the personwhom the Marchesa di Vivaldi had, of her great goodness, selected for her husband.
"You never can be sufficiently grateful," added the abbess, "for the generosity the Marchesa displays, in allowing you a choice on the subject. After the injury you have endeavored to inflict upon her and her family, you could not expect that any indulgence would be shewn you. It was natural to suppose, that the Marchesa would punish you with severity; instead of which, she allows you to enter into our society; or, if [Page 121] you have not strength of mind sufficient to enable you to renounce a sinful world, she permits you to return into it, and gives you a suitable partner to support you through its cares and toils,—a partner much more suitable to your circumstances than him, to whom you had the temerity to lift your eye."
Ellena blushed at this coarse appeal to her pride, and persevered in a disdainful silence. Thus to give injustice the colouring of mercy, and to acts most absolutely tyrannical the softening tints of generosity, excited her honest indignation. She was not, however, shocked by a discovery of the designs formed against her, since, from the moment of her arrival at San Stefano, she had expected something terribly severe, and had, prepared her mind to meet it with fortitude; for she believed, that, so supported, she should weary the malice of her enemies, and finally triumph over misfortune. It was only when she thought of Vivaldi that her courage failed, and that the injuries she endured seem too heavy to be long sustained.
"You are silent!" said the abbess, after a pause of expectation. "Is it possible, then, that you can be ungrateful for the generosity of the Marchesa? But, though you may at present be insensible to her goodness, I will forbear to take advantage of your indiscretion, and will still allow you liberty of choice. You [...]ay retire to your chamber, to consider and to decide. But remember, that you must abide by the determination you shall avow; and, that you will be allowed no appeal from the alternatives which are now placed before you. If you reject the veil, you must accept the husband offered you."
"It is unnecessary," said Ellena, with an air of dignified tranquility, "that I should withdraw for the purposes of considering and deciding. My resolution is already taken, and I reject each of the offered alternatives. I will neither condemn myself to a cloister, or [Page 122] to the degradation, with which I am threatened on the other hand. Having said this, I am prepared to meet whatever suffering you shall inflict upon me; but be assured, that my own voice never shall sanction the evils to which I may be subjected, and that the immortal love of justice which fills all my heart, will sustain my courage no less powerfully than the sense of what is due to my own character. You are now acquainted with my sentiments and my resolutions; I shall repeat them no more."
The abbess, whose surprise had thus long suffered Ellena to speak, still fixed upon her a stern regard, as she said, "Where is it that you have learned these heroics, and acquired the rashness which thus prompts you to avow them!—the boldness which enables you to insult your superior, a priestess of your holy religion, even in her sanctuary!"
"The sanctuary is prophaned," said Ellena, mildly, but with dignity: "it is become a prison. It is only when the superior ceases to respect the precepts of that holy religion, the precepts which teach her justice and benevolence, that she herself is no longer respected.—The very sentiment which bids us revere its mild and beneficent laws, bids us also reject the violators of them: when you command me to reverence my religion, you urge me to condemn yourself."
"Withdraw!" said the abbess, rising impatiently from her chair; "your admonition, so becomingly delivered, shall not be forgotten."
Ellena willingly obeyed, and was led back to her cell, where she sat down pensively, and reviewed her conduct. Her judgment approved of the frankness, with which she had asserted her rights, and of the firmness, with which she had reproved a woman, who had dared to demand respect from the very victim of her cruelty and oppression. She was the more satisfied with herself, because she had never, for an instant, [Page 123] forgotten her own dignity so far, as to degenerate into the vehemence of passion, or to faulter with the weakness of fear. Her conviction of the abbess's unworthy character was too clear to allow Ellena to feel abashed in her presence; for she regarded only the censure of the good, to which she had ever been tremblingly alive, as she was obdurately insensible to that of the vicious.
Ellena, having now asserted her resolutions, determined to avoid, if possible, all repetition of scenes like the last, and to repel, by silence only, whatever indignity might be offered her. She knew that she must suffer, and she resolved to endure. Of the three evils, which were placed before her, that of confinement, with all its melancholy accompaniments, appeared considerably less severe than either the threatened marriage, or a formal renunciation of the world; either of which would devote her, during life, to misery, and that by her own act. Her choice, therefore, had been easy, and the way was plain before her. If she could endure with calmness the hardships which she could not avoid, half their weight would be unfelt; and she now most strenuously endeavoured to attain the strength of mind, which was necessary to support such equanimity.
For several days after the late interview with the abbess, she was kept a close prisoner; but on the fifth evening she was permitted to attend vespers. As she walked through the garden to the chapel, the ordinary freshness of the open air, and the verdure of the trees and shrubs were luxuries to her, who had so long been restricted from the common blessings of nature. She followed the nuns to a chapel where they usually performed their devotions, and was there s [...]ated among the novices. The solemnity of the service, and particularly of those parts, which were accompanied by music, touched all her heart, and soothed and [...]levated her spirit.
[Page 124] Among the voices of the choir, was one whose expression immediately fixed her attention; it seemed to speak a loftier sentiment of devotion than the others, and to be modulated by the melancholy of an heart, that had long since taken leave of this world. Whether it swelled with the high peal of the organ, or mingled in low and trembling accents with the sinking chorus, Ellena felt that she understood all the feelings of the breast from which it flowed; and she looked to the gallery where the nuns were assembled, to discover a countenance, that might seem to accord with the sensibility expressed in the voice. As no strangers were admitted to the chapel, some of the sisters had thrown back their veils, and she saw little that interested her in their various faces; but the figure and attitude of a nun, kneeling in a remote part of the gallery, beneath a lamp, which threw its rays aslant her head, perfectly agreed with the idea she had formed of the singer, and the sound seemed to approach immediately from that direction. Her face was concealed by a black veil, whose transparency, however, permitted the fairness of her complexion to appear; but the air of her head, and the singularity of her attitude, for she was the only person who remained kneeling, sufficiently indicated the superior degree of fervency and penitence, which the voice had expressed.
When the hymn had ceased she rose from her knees, and Ellena, soon after, observed her throw back her veil, discovered, by the lamp, which shed its full light upon her features, a countenance that instantly confirmed her conjecture. It was touched with a melancholy kind of resignation; yet grief seemed still to occasion the paleness, and the air of languor, that prevailed over it, and which disappeared only when the momentary energy of devotion seemed to lift her spirit above this world, and to impart to it somewhat of a [Page 125] seraphic grandeur. At those moments her blue eyes were raised towards Heaven, with such meek, yet fervent love, such sublime enthusiasm as the heads of Guido sometimes display, and which renewed with Ellena, all the enchanting effects of the voice she had just heard.
While she regarded the nun with a degree of interest which rendered her insensible to every other object in the chapel, she fancied she could perceive the calmness in her countenance to be that of despair, rather than of resignation; for, when her thoughts were not elevated in prayer, there was frequently a fixedness in her look, too energetic for common suffering, or for the temper of mind which may lead to perfect resignation. It had, however, much that attached the sympathy of Ellena, and much that seemed to speak a similarity of feeling. Ellena was not only soothed, but in some degree comforted, whilst she gazed upon her; a selfishness which may, perhaps, be pardoned, when it is considered, that she thus knew there was one human being, at least, in the convent, who must be capable of feeling pity, and willing to administer consolation. Ellena endeavoured to meet her eye, that she might inform her of the regard she had inspired, and express her own happiness; but the nun was so entirely engaged by devotion, that she did not succeed.
As they left the chapel, however, the nun passed close by Ellena, who threw back her veil, and fixed upon her a look so supplicating and expressive, that the nun paused, and in her turn regarded the novice, not with surprise only, but with a mixture of curiosity and compassion. A faint brush crossed her cheek, her spirits seemed to faulter, and she was unwilling to withdraw her eyes from Ellena: but it was necessary that she should continue in the procession, and, bidding her farewel by a smile of ineffable pity, she passed on [Page 126] to the court, while Ellena followed with attention still fixed upon the sister, who soon disappeared beyond the doorway of the Abbess's apartment, and Ellena had nearly reached her own, before her thoughts were sufficiently disengaged to permit her to enquire the name of the stranger.
"It is sister Olivia whom you mean, perhaps," said her conductress.
"She is very handsome," said Ellena.
"Many of the sisters are so," replied Margaritone, with an air of pique.
"Undoubtedly," said Ellena; "but she, whom I mean, has a most touching countenance; frank, noble, full of sensibility; and there is a gentle melancholy in her eye, which can not but interest all who observe her."
Ellena was so fascinated by this interesting nun, that she forgot she was describing her to a person, whose callous heart rendered her insensible to the influence of any countenance, except, perhaps, the commanding one of the lady abbess; and to whom, therefore, a description of the fine traits, which Ellena felt, was as unintelligible as would have been an Arabic inscription.
"She is passed the bloom of youth," continued Ellena, still anxious to be understood; "but she retains all its interesting graces, and adds to them the dignity of"—
"If you mean that she is of middle age," interrupted Margaritone, peevishly, "it is sister Olivia you mention, for we are all younger than she is."
Ellena, raising her eyes almost unconsciously, as the nun spoke this, fixed them upon a face sallow, meagre, seemingly near fifty years an inhabitant of this world; and she could scarcely suppress the surprise she felt, on perceiving such wretched vanity lingering among the chilled passions of so repulsive a frame, and within the sequestered shade of a cloister, Margaritone, [Page 127] still jealous of the praise bestowed on Olivia, repelled all further enquiry, and, having attended Ellena to her cell, locked her up for the night.
On the following evening Ellena was again permitted to attend vespers, and, on the way to the chapel, the hope of seeing her interesting favourite reanimated her spirits. In the same part of the gallery, as on the preceding night, she again appeared, and kneeling, as before, beneath the lamp, in private orison, for the service was not begun.
Ellena endeavoured to subdue the impatience she felt to express her regard, and to be noticed by the holy sister, till she should have finished. When the nun rose, and observed Ellena, she lifted her veil, and, fixing on her the same enquiring eye, her countenance brightened into a smile so full of compassion and intelligence, that Ellena, forgetting the decorums of the place, left her seat to approach her; it seemed as if the soul, which beamed forth in that smile, had long been acquainted with hers. As she advanced, the nun dropped her veil, a reproof which she immediately understood, and she withdrew to her seat; but her attention remained fixed on the nun during the whole service.
At the conclusion, when they left the chapel, and she saw Olivia pass without noticing her, Ellena could scarcely restrain her tears; she returned in deep dejection to her room. The regard of this n [...]n was not only delightful, but seemed necessary to her heart, and she dwelt, with fond perseverance, on the smile that had expressed so much, and which threw one gleam of comfort, even through the bars of her prison.
Her reveries was soon interrupted by a light step, that approached her cell, and in the next moment the door was unlocked, and Olivia herself appeared. Ellena rose with emotion to meet her; the nun held forth her hand to receive hers.
[Page 128] "You are unused to confinement," said she, curtsying mournfully, and placing on the table a little basket containing refreshment, "and our hard fare"—
"I understand you," said Ellena, with a look expressive of her gratitude; "you have a heart that can pity, though you inhabit these walls; you have suffered too and know the delicate generosity of softening the sorrows of others, by any attention that may tell them your sympathy. O! if I could express how much the sense of this affects me!"
Tears interrupted her. Olivia pressed her hand, looked steadily upon her face, and was somewhat agitated, but she soon recovered apparent tranquillity, and said, with a serious smile, "You judge rightly, my sister, respecting my sentiments, however you may do concerning my sufferings. My heart is not insensible to pity, nor to you my child. You were designed for happier days than you can hope to find within these cloisters!"
She checked herself as if she had allowed too much, and then added, "But you may, perhaps, be peaceful; and since it consoles you to know you have a friend near you, believe me that friend—but believe it in silence. I will visit you when I am permitted—but do not enquire for me; and if my visits are short, do not press me to lengthen them."
"How good is this!" said Ellena, in a faultering voice. "How sweet too it is! you will visit me, and I am pitied by you!"
"Hush!" said the nun, expressively; "no more; I may be observed. Good night, my sister; may your slumbers be light!"
Ellena's heart sunk. She had not spirits to say, "Good night!" but her eyes, covered with tears, said more. The nun turned her own away suddenly, and, pressing her hand in silence, left the cell. Ellena, firm and tranquil under the insults of the abbess, was now [Page 129] melted into tears by the kindness of a friend. These gentle tears were refreshing to her long oppressed spirits, and she indulged them. Of Vivaldi she thought with more composure than she had done since she left the villa Alti [...]ri; and something like hope began to revive in her heart, though reflection offered nothing to support it.
On the following morning, she perceived that the door of her cell had not been closed. She rose impatiently, and, not without a hope of liberty, immediately passed it. The cell opening upon a short passage, which communicated with the main building, and which was shut up by a door, was secluded, and almost insulated from every other chamber; and this door being now secured, Ellena was as trully a prisoner as before. It appeared then, that the nun had omitted to fasten the cell only for the purpose of allowing her more space to walk in the passage, and she was grateful for the attention. Still more she was so, when, having traversed it, she perceived one extremity terminate in a narrow stair-case, that appeared to lead to other chambers.
She ascended the winding steps hastily, and found they led only to a door, opening into a small room, where nothing remarkable appeared, till she approached the windows, and beh [...]ld thence an horizon, and a landscape spread below, whose grandeur awakened all her heart. The consciousness of her prison was lost, while her eyes ranged over the wide and freely sublime scene without. She p [...]rceived that this chamber was within a small turret, projecting from an angle of the convent over the wa [...]ls, and suspended, as in air, above the vast precipices of granite, that formed part of the mountain. These precipices were broken into cliffs, which, in some places, impended f [...]r above their bas [...], and in others, [...]ose, in nearly perpendicular lines, to the walls of the monastery, which they supported. [Page 130] Ellena, with a dreadful pleasure, looked down them, shagged as they were with larch, and frequently darkened by lines of gigantic pine bending along the rocky ledges, till her eye rested on the thick chesnut woods that extended over their winding base, and which softening to the plains, seemed to [...]orm a gradation between the variegated cultivation there, and the awful wildness of the rocks above. Round these extensive plains were tumbled the mountains, of various shape and attitude, which Ellena had admired on her approach to San Stefano; some shaded with forests of olive and almond trees, but the greater part abandoned to the flocks, which, in summer, feed on their aromatic herbage, and on the approach of winter, descend to the sheltered plains of the Tavogliere di Puglia.
On the left opened the dreadful pass which she had traversed, and the thunder of whose waters now murmured at a distance. The accumulation of over-topping points, which the mountains of this dark perspective exhibited, presented an image of grandeur superior to any thing she had seen while within the pass itself.
To Ellena, whose mind was capable of being highly elevated, or sweetly soothed, by scenes of nature, the discovery of this little turret was an important circumstance. Hither she could come, and her soul, refreshed by the views it afforded, would acquire strength to bear her with equanimity, through the persecutions that might await her. Here, gazing up [...]n the stupendous imagery around her, looking, as it were, beyond the awful veil which obscures the features of the Deity, and conceals Him from the eyes of his creatures, dwelling as with a present God in the midst of his sublime works; with a mind thus elevated, how insignificant would appear to her the transactions, and the sufferings of this world! How poor the boasted power of man, when the fall of a single cliff from these [Page 131] mountains would with ease destroy thousands of his race assembled on the plains below! How would it avail them, that they were accoutred for battle, armed with all the instruments of destruction that human invention ever fashioned? Thus man, the giant who now held her in captivity, would shrink to the diminutiveness of a fairy; and she would experience, that his utmost force was unable to enchain her soul, or compel her to fear him, while he was destitute of virtue.
Ellena's attention was recalled from the scene without by a sound from within the gallery, and she then heard a key turning in the door of the passage. Fearing that it was sister Margaritone who approached, and who, informed by her absence of the consolatory turret she had discovered, would perhaps debar her from ever returning to it, Ellena descended with a palpitating heart, and found that nun in the cell. Surprise and severity were in her countenance, when she enquired by what means Ellena had unlocked the door, and whether she had been.
Ellena answered without any prevarication, that she had found the door unfastened, and that she had visited the turret above; but she forebore to express a wish to return thither, judging that such an expression would certainly exclude her in future. Margaritone, after sharply rebuking her for prying beyond the passage, and setting down the breakfast she had brought, left the room, the door of which she did not forget to secure. Thus Ellena was at once deprived of so innocent a means of consolation as her pleasant turret had afforded.
During several days, she saw only the austere nun, except when she attended vespers; where, however, she was so vigilantly observed, that she feared to speak with Olivia, even by h [...] eyes. Olivia's were often fixed upon her face, and with a kind of expression [Page 132] which Ellena, when she did venture to look at her, could not perfectly interpret. It was not only of pity, but of anxious curiosity, and of something also like fear. A blush would sometimes wander over her cheek, which was succeeded by an extreme paleness, and by an air of such universal langour as precedes a fainting fit: but the exercises of devotion seemed frequently to recal her fleeting spirits, and to elevate them with hope and courage.
When she left the chapel, Ellena saw Olivia no more that night; but on the following morning she came with breakfast to the cell. A character of peculiar sadness was on her brow.
"O! how glad I am to see you!" said Ellena▪ "and how much I have regretted your long absence! I was obliged to remember constantly what you had enjoined, to forbear enquiring after you."
The nun replied with a melancholly smile, "I am come in obedience to our lady abbess," said she, as she seated herself on Ellena's mattress.
"And did you not wish to come?" said Ellena, mournfully.
"I did wish it," replied Olivia; "but"—and she hesitated.
"Whence then this reluctance?" enquired Ellena Olivia was silent a moment.
"You are a messenger of evil news!" said Ellena; "you are only reluctant to afflict me."
"It is as you say," replied Olivia; "I am only reluctant to afflict you; and I fear you have too many attachments to the world, to allow you [...]o receive, without sorrow, what I have to communicate. I am ordered to prepare you for the vows, and to say, that since you have rejected the husband which was proposed to you, you are to accept the veil; that many of the customary forms are to be dispensed with; and that the ceremony of taking the black veil, will follow without delay that of receiving the white one."
[Page 133] The nun paused; and Ellena said, "You are an unwilling bearer of this cruel message; and I reply only to the lady abbess, when I declare, that I never will accept either; that force may send me to the altar, but that it never shall compel me to utter vows which my heart abhors; and if I am constrained to appear there, it shall be only to protest against her tyranny, and against the form intended to sanction it."
To Olivia this answer was so far from being displeasing, that it appeared to give her satisfaction.
"I dare not applaud your resolution," said she; "but I will not condemn it. You have, no doubt, connections in the world which would render a seclusion from it afflicting. You have relations, friends, from whom it would be dreadful to part?"
"I have neither," said Ellena, sighing.
"No! Can that be possible? and yet you are so unwilling to retire!"
"I have only one friend," replied Ellena, "and it is of him they would deprive me!"
"Pardon, my love, the abruptness of these enquiries," said Olivia; "yet, whi [...] ▪ I entreat your forgiveness, I am inclined to [...] again, and to ask your name."
"That is a question I will readily answer. My name is Ellena di Rosalba."
"How?" said Olivia, with an air of deliberation; "Ellena di"—
"Di Ros [...]lba," repeated her companion; "and permit me to ask your motive for the enquiry; do you know any person of my name?"
"No," replied the nun, mournfully: "but your features have some resemblance to those of a friend I once had."
As she said this, her agitation was apparent, and she arose to go. "I must not lengthen my visit, lest I should be forbidden to repeat it," said she. "What [Page 134] answer shall I give to the abbess? If you are determined to reject the veil, allow me to advise you to soften your refusal as much as possible. I am, perhaps, better acquainted with her character than you are; and O, my sister! I would not see you pining away your existence in this solitary cell."
"How much am I obliged by the interest you express for my welfare," said Ellena, "and by the advice you offer! I will yield my judgment in this instance to yours; you shall modulate my refusal as you think proper: but remember that it must be absolute: and beware, lest the abbess should mistake gentleness for irresolution."
"Trust me, I will be cautious in all that relates to you," said Olivia. "Farewel! I will visit you, if possible, in the evening. In the mean time the door shall be left open, that you may have more air and prospect than this cell affords. That staircase leads to a pleasant chamber."
"I have visited it already," replied Ellena, "and have to thank you for the goodness which permitted me to do so. To go thither will greatly soothe my spirits; if I had some book, and my drawing-instruments, I could almost forget my sorrows there."
"Could you so?" said the nun, with an affectionate smile. "Adieu! I will endeavour to see you in the evening. If sister Margaritone returns, be careful not to enquire for me; nor once ask her for the little indulgence I give you."
Olivia withdraw, and Ellena retired to the chamber above, where she lost for a while all sense of sorrow amidst the great scenery, which its window exhibited.
At noon, the step of Margaritone summoned Ellena from her retreat, and she was surprised that no reproof followed this second discovery of her absence. Margaritone only said, that the abbess had the goodness to [Page 135] permit Ellena to dine with the novices, and that she came to conduct her to their table.
Ellena did not rejoice in this permission, preferring to remain in her solitary turret, to the being exposed to the examining eyes of strangers; and she followed dejectedly, through the silent passages to the apartment where they were assembled. She was not l [...]ss surprised than embarrassed to observe, in the manners of young people residing in a convent, an absence of that decorum, which includes beneath its modest shade every grace that ought to adorn the female character, like the veil which gives dignity to their air and softness to their features. When Ellena entered the room, the eyes of the whole company were immediately fixed upon her; the young ladies began to whisper and smile, and shewed, by various means, that she was the subject of conversation, not otherwise than censorious. No one advanced to meet and to encourage her, to welcome her to the table, or still less display one of those nameless graces, with which a generous and delicate mind delights to re-animate the modest and the unfortunate.
Ellena took a chair in silence; and, though she had at first felt forlorn and embarrassed by the impertinent manners of her companions, a consciousness of innocence gradually revived her spirits, and enabled her to resume an air of dignity, which repressed this rude presumption.
Ellena returned to her cell, for the first time, with eagerness. Margaritone did not fasten the door of it, but she was careful to secure that of the passage; and even this small indulgence she seemed to allow with a surly reluctance, as if compelled to obey the command of a superior. The moment she was gone, Ellena withdrew to her pleasant turret, where, after having suffered from the coarse manners of the novices, her gratitude was the more lively, when she perceived the [Page 136] delicate attention of her beloved nun. It appeared that she had visited the chamber in Ellena's absence, and had caused to be brought thither a chair and a table, on which were placed some books, and a knot of fragrant flowers. Ellena did not repress the grateful tears, which the generous feelings of Olivia excited; and she forbore, for some moments, to examine the books, that the pleasing emotions she experienced might not be interrupted.
On looking into these books, however, she perceived that some of them treated of mystical subjects, which she laid aside with disappointment; but in others she observed a few of the best Italian poets, and a volume or two of Guicciardini's history. She was somewhat surprised, that the poets should have found their way to the library of a nun, but was too much pleased with the discovery to dwell on the enquiry.
Having arranged her books, and set her little room in order, she seated herself at a window, and, with a volume of Tasso, endeavoured to banish every painful remembrance from her mind. She continued wandering in the imaginary scenes of the poet, till the fading light recalled her to those of reality. The sun was set, but the mountain-tops were still lighted up by his beams, and a tint of glorious purple coloured all the west, and began to change the snowy points on the horizon. The silence and repose of the vast scene, promoted the tender melancholy that prevailed in her heart; she thought of Vivaldi, and wept—of Vivaldi, whom she might, perhaps, never see again, though she doubted not that he would be indefatigable in searching for her. Every particular of their last conversation, when he had so earnestly lamented the approaching separation, even while he allowed of its propriety, came to her mind; and while she witnessed, in imagination, the grief and distraction, which her mysterious departure and absence must have occasioned him, [Page 137] the fortitude, with which she had resisted her own sufferings, yielded to the picture of his.
The vesper-bell, at length, summoned her to prepare for mass, and she descended to her cell to await the arrival of her conductress. It was Margaritone, who soon appeared; but in the chapel she, as usual, saw Olivia, who, when the service had concluded, invited her into the garden of the convent. There, as she walked beneath the melancholy cypresses, that ranged on either side the long walks, formed a majestic canopy, almost excluding the evening twilight. Olivia conversed with her on serious, but general topics, carefully avoiding any mention of the abbess, and of the affairs of Ellena. The latter, anxious to learn the effect of her repeated rejection of the veil, ventured to make some enquires, which the nun immediately discouraged, and as cautiously checked the grateful effusions of her young friend for the attentions she had received.
Olivia accompanied Ellena to her cell, and there no longer scrupled to relieve her from uncertainty. With a mixture of frankness and discretion, she related as much of the conversation, that had passed between herself and the abbess, as it appeared necessary for Ellena to know, from which it seemed that the former was as obstinate, as the latter was firm.
"Whatever may be your resolution," added the nun, "I earnestly advise you, my sister, to allow the Superior some hope of compliance, lest she should proceed to extremities."
"And what extremity can be more terrible," replied Ellena, "than either of those to which she would now urge me? Why should I descend to practice dissimulation?"
"To save yourself from undeserved sufferings," said Olivia mournfully.
"Yes, but I should then incur deserved ones," observed [Page 138] Ellena; "and forfeit such peace of mind as my oppress [...] never could restore to me." As she said this, she looked at the nun with an expression of gentle reproach and disappointment.
"I applaud the justness of your sentiment," replied Olivia, regarding her with tenderest compassion.—"Alas! that a mind so noble should be subjected to the power of injustice and depravity!"
"Not subjected," said Ellena, "do not say subjected. I have accustomed myself to contemplate these sufferings; I have chosen the least of such as were given to my choice, and I will endure them with fortitude; and can you then say that I am subjected?"
"Alas, my sister! you know not what you promise," replied Olivia; "you do not comprehend the sufferings which may be preparing for you."
As she spoke, her eyes filled with tears, and she withdrew them from Ellena, who, surprised at the extreme concern on her countenance, entreated she would explain herself.
"I am not certain myself as to this point," said Olivia; "and if I were, I should not dare to explain it."
"Not dare!" repeated Ellena, mournfully. "Can benevolence like yours know fear, when courage is necessary to prevent evil?"
"Enquire no further," said Olivia; but no blush of conscious duplicity stained her cheek. "It is sufficient that you understand the consequence of open resistance to be terrible, and that you consent to avoid it."
"But how avoid it, my beloved friend, without incurring a consequence which, in my apprehension, would be yet more dreadful? How avoid it, without either subjecting myself to a hateful marriage, or accepting the vows? Either of these events would be more terrible to me, than any thing with which I may be menaced."
[Page 139] "Perhaps not," said the nun, "Imagination cannot draw the horrors of—But, my sister, let me repeat, that I would save you! O, how willingly save you from the evils preparing! and that the only chance of doing so is, by prevailing with you to abandon at least the appearance of resistance."
"Your kindness deeply affects me," said Ellena; "and I am fearful of appearing insensible of it, when I reject your advice; yet I cannot adopt it. The very dissimulation, which I should employ in self-defence, might be a means of involving me in destruction."
As Ellena concluded, and her eyes glanced upon the nun, unaccountable suspicion occurred to her, that Olivia might be insincere, and that, at this very moment, when she was advising dissimulation, she was endeavouring to draw Ellena into some snare, which the abbess had laid. She sickened at this dreadful supposition, and dismissed it without suffering herself to examine its probability. That Olivia, from whom she had received so many attentions, whose countenance and manners announced so fair a mind, and for whom she had conceived so much esteem and affection, should be cruel and treacherous, was a suspicion that gave her more pain than the actual imprisonment in which she suffered; and when she looked again upon her face, Ellena was consoled by a clear conviction, that she was utterly incapable of perfidy.
"If it were possible that I could consent to practise deceit," resumed Ellena, after a long pause, "what could it avail me? I am entirely in the power of the abbess, who would soon put my sincerity to the proof; when a discovery of my duplicity would only provoke her vengeance, and I should be punished even for having sought to avoid injustice."
"If deceit is at any time excusable," replied Olivia, reluctantly, "it is when we pract [...] [...]t in self-defence. [Page 140] There are some rare situations, when it may be resorted to without our incurring ignominy, and yours is one of those. But I will acknowledge, that all the good I expect is from the delay which temporizing may procure you. The Superior, when she understands there is a probability of obtaining your consent to her wishes, may be willing to allow you the usual time of preparation for the veil, and meanwhile something may occur to rescue you from your present situation."
"Ah! could I but believe so!" said Ellena; "but alas! what power can rescue me? And I have not one relative remaining even to attempt my deliverance. To what possibility do you allude?"
"The Marchesa may relent."
"Does, then, your possibility of good rest with her, my dear friend? If so, I am in despair again; for such a chance of benefit, there would certainly be little policy in forfeiting one's integrity."
"There are also other possibilities, my sister," said Olivia; "but, hark! what bell is that? It is the chime which assembles the nuns in the apartment of the abbess, where she dispenses her evening benediction. My absence will be observed. Good night, my sister. Reflect on what I have advised; and remember, I conjure you, to consider, that the consequence of your decision must be solemn, and may be fatal?"
The nun spoke this with a look and emphasis so extraordinary, that Ellena at once wished and dreaded to know more; but before she had recovered from her surprise, Olivia had le [...]t the room.
CHAP. IX.
THE adventurous Vivaldi, and his servant Paulo, after passing the night of Ellena's departure from the villa Altieri in one of the subterraneous chambers of the fort of Palluzz [...], and yielding, at length, to exhausted nature, awoke in terror, and utter darkness, for the flambeau had expired. When a recollection of the occurrences of the preceding evening returned, they renewed their efforts for liberty with a [...]dour. The grated window was again examined, and being found to overlook only a confined court of the fortress, no hope appeared of escaping.
The words of the monk returned with Vivaldi's first recollections to torture him with apprehension, that Ellena was no more; and Paulo, unable either to console or to appease his master, sat down dejectedly beside him. Paulo had no longer a hope to suggest, or a joke to throw away; and he could not forbear seriously remarking that to die of hunger was one of the most horrible means of death, of lamenting the rashness which made them liable to so sad a probability.
He was in the midst of a very pathetic oration, of which, however, his master did not hear a single word, so wholly was his attention engaged by his own melancholy thoughts, when, on a sudden he became silent, and then, starting to his feet, exclaimed, "Signor, what is yonder? Do you see nothing?"
Vivaldi looked round.
"It is certainly a ray of light," continued Paulo; "and I will soon know where it comes from."
[Page 142] As [...]e said this he sprang forwards, and his surprize almost equalled his joy when [...]e discovered that the light issued through the door of the vault, which stood a little open. He could scarcely believe his senses, since the door had been strongly fastened on the preceding night, and he had not heard its ponderous bolts undrawn. He threw it widely open, but recollecting himself, stopped to look into the adjoining vault before he ventured forth; when Vivaldi darted past him, and bidding him follow instantly, ascended to the day. The courts of the fortress were silent and vacant, and Vivaldi reached the arch way without [...]aving observed a single person, breathless with speed, and scarcely daring to believe that he had regained his liberty.
Beneath the arch he stopped to recover breath, and to consider whether he should take the road to Naples, or to the villa Altieri, for it was yet early morning, and at an hour when it appeared improbable that Ellena's family would be risen. The apprehension of her death had vanished as Vivaldi's spirits revived, which the pause of hesitation sufficiently announced: but even this was the pause only of an instant; a strong anxiety concerning her determined him to proceed to the villa Altieri, notwithstanding the unsuitableness of the hour, since he could at least, reconnoitre her residence, and await till some sign of the family having risen should appear.
"Pray, Signor," said Paulo, while his master was deliberating, "do not let us stop here, least the enemy should appear again; and do, Signor, take the road which is nearnest to some house where we may get breakfast, for the fear of starving has taken such hold upon me, that it has nearly anticipated the reality of it already."
Vivaldi immediately departed for the villa. Paulo, as he danced joyfully along, expressed all the astonishment that filled his mind, as to the cause of their late [Page 143] imprisonment and escape; but Vivaldi, who had now leisure to consider the subject, could not assist him in explaining it. The only certainty that appeared, was, that he had not been confined by robbers; and what interest any person could have in imprisoning him for the night, and suffering him to escape in the morning, did not appear.
On entering the garden at Altieri, he was surprised to observe that several of the lower lattices were open at this early hour, but surprise changed to terror, when, on reaching the portico, he heard a moaning of distress from the hall, and, when, after loudly calling, he was answered by the piteous cries of Beatrice. The hall door was fastened, and, Beatrice being unable to open it, Vivaldi, followed by Paulo, sprang through one of the unclosed lattices; when on reaching the hall, he found the house-keeper bound to a pillar, and learned that Ellena had been carried off during the night by armed men.
For a moment he was almost stupified by the shock of this intelligence, and then asked Beatrice a thousand questions concerning the affair, without allowing her time to answer one of them. When, however, he had patience to listen, he learned that the ruffians were four in number; that they were masked; that two of them had carried Ellena thro' the garden, while the others, after binding Beatrice to a pillar, threatening her with death if she made any noise, and watching over her till their comrades had secured their prize, left her a prisoner. This was all the information she could give respecting Ellena.
Vivaldi, when he could think coolly, believed he had discovered the instigators and the design of the whole affair, and the cause, also, of his late confinement. It appeared that Ellena had been carried off by order of his family, to prevent the intended marriage, and that he had been decoyed into the fort of [Page 144] Paluzzi, and kept a prisoner there, to prevent him from intercepting the scheme, which his presence at the villa Altieri would effectually have done. He had himself spoken of his former adventure at Paluzzi; and it now appeared, that his family had taken advantage of the curiosity he had expressed, to lead him into the vaults. The event of this design was the more certain, since, as the fort lay in the direct road to the villa Altieri, Vivaldi could not go thither without being observed by the creatures of the Marchesa, who, by an artful manoeuvre, might make him their prisoner, without employing violence.
As he considered these circumstances, it appeared certain, also, that father Schedoni was in truth the monk who had so long haunted his steps; that he was the secret adviser of his mother, and one of the authors of the predicted misfortunes which, it seemed, he possessed a too certain means of fulfilling. Yet Vivaldi, while he admitted the probability of all this, reflected with new astonishment on the conduct of Schedoni, during his interview with him in the Marchesa's cabinet;—the air of dignified innocence with which he had repressed accusation, the apparent simplicity, with which he had pointed out circumstances respecting the stranger, that seemed to make against himself; and Vivaldi's opinion of the confessor's duplicity began to waver. "Yet what other person," said he, "could be so intimately acquainted with my concerns, or have an interest [...] strong for thus indefatigably thwarting me, except this confessor, who is, no doubt, well rewarded for his perseverance? The monk can be no other than S [...]hedoni, yet it is strange that he should have forborn to disguise his person, and should appear in his mysterious office in the very habit he usually wears!"
Whatever might be the truth as to Schedoni, it was evident that Ellena had been carried away by order of [Page 145] Vivaldi's family, and he immediately returned towards Naples with an intention of demanding her at their hands, not with any hope of their compliance, but believing that they might accidentally afford him some lights on the subject. If, however, he should fail to obtain any hint that might assist him in tracing the route she had been carried, he determined to visit Schedoni, accuse him of perfidy, urge him to a full explanation of his conduct, and, if possible, obtain from him a knowledge of Ellena's place of confinement.
When, at length, he obtained an interview with the Marchese, and, throwing himself at his feet, supplicated that Ellena might be restored to her home, the unaffected surprise of his father overwhelmed him with astonishment and despair. The look and manner of the Marchese could not be doubted; Vivaldi was convinced that he was absolutely ignorant of any step which had been taken against Ellena.
"However ungraciously you have conducted yourself," said the Marchese, "my honour has never yet been sullied by duplicity; however I may have wished to break the unworthy connection you have formed, I should disdain to employ artifice as the means. If you really design to marry this person, I shall make no other effort to prevent such a measure, than by telling you the consequence you are to expect;—from thenceforth I will disown you for my son."
The Marchese quitted the apartment when he had said this, and Vivaldi made no attempt to detain him. His words expressed little more than they had formerly done, yet Vivaldi was shocked by the absolute menace now delivered. The stronger passion of his heart, however, soon overcame their effect; and this moment, when he began to fear that he had irrecoverably lost the object of his dearest affection [...], was not the time in which he could feel remoter evils, or calculate the force of misfortunes which never might [Page 146] arrive. The nearer interest pressed solely upon his mind, and he was conscious only to the loss of Ellena.
The interview, which followed with his mother, was of a different character from that which had occurred with the Marchese. The keen dart of suspicion, however, sharpened as it was by love and despair, pierced beyond the veil of her duplicity; and Vivaldi as quickly detected her hypocrisy as he had yielded his conviction to the sincerity of the Marchese. But his power rested here; he possessed no means of awakening her pity or actuating her justice, and could not obtain even a hint, that might guide him in his search of Ellena.
Schedoni, however, yet remained to be tried; Vivaldi had no longer a doubt as to his having caballed with the Marchesa, and that he had been an agent in removing Ellena. Whether he was the person who haunted the ruins of Paluzzi, still remained to be proved, for, though several circumstances seemed to declare that he was, others, not less plausible, asserted the contrary.
On leaving the Marchesa's apartment, Vivaldi repaired to the convent of the Spirito Santo, and enquired for father Schedoni. The lay-brother who opened the gate, informed him that the father was in his cell, and Vivaldi stepped impatiently into the court, requesting to be shewn thither.
"I dare not leave the gate, Signor," said the brothe, "but if you cross the court, and [...] that staircase which you see yonder beyond the door-way on your right, it will lead you to a gallery, and the third door you will come to is father S [...]hed [...]ni's."
Vivaldi passed on without seeing another human being, and not a sound disturbed the silence of this sanctuary, till, as he ascended the stairs, a feeble note of lamentation proceeded from the gallery, and he concluded i [...] was uttered by some penitent at confession.
[Page 147] He stopped, as he had been directed, at the third door, when, as he gently knocked, the sound ceased, and the same profound silence returned. Vivaldi repeated his summons, but receiving no answer, he ventured to open the door. In the dusky cell within no person appeared, but he still looked round, expecting to discover some one in the dubious gloom. The chamber contained little more than a mattress, a chair, a table, and a crucifix; some books of devotion were upon the table, one or two of which were written in unknown characters; several instruments of torture lay beside them. Vivaldi shuddered as he hastily examined these, though he did not comprehend the manner of their application, and he left the chamber, without noticing any other object, and returned to the court. The porter said, that since father Schedoni was not in his cell, he was probably either in the church or in the gardens, for that he had not passed the gates during the morning.
"Did he pass yester-evening?" said Vivaldi, eagerly.
"Yes, he returned to vespers," replied the brother with surprise.
"Are you certain as to that, my friend?" rejoined Vivaldi, "are you certain that he slept in the convent last night?"
"Who is it that asks the question?" said the lay-brother, with displeasure, "and what right has he to make it? You are ignorant of the rules of our house, Signor, or you would perceive such questions to be unnecessary; any member of our community is liable to be severely punished if he sleep a night without these walls, and father S [...]h [...]doni would be the last among us so to tr [...]spass. He is one of the most pious of the brotherhood; few indeed have courage to imitate his severe example. His voluntary sufferings are sufficient for a saint. He pass the night abroad? G [...] [Page 148] Signor, yonder is the church, you will find him there, perhaps!
Vivaldi did not linger to reply. "The hypocrite!" said he to himself as he crossed to the church, which formed one side of the quadrangle; "but I will unmask him."
The church, which he entered, was vacant and silent like the court. "Whither can the inhabitants of this place have withdrawn themselves?" said he; "wherever I go, I hear only the echoes of my own scotsteps; it seems as if death reigned here over all! But, perhaps, it is one of the hours of general meditation, and the monks have only retired to their cells."
As he paced the long aisles, he suddenly stopped to catch the startling sound that murmured through the lofty roof; but it seemed to be only the closing of a distant door. Yet he often looked forward into the sacred gloom, which the painted windows threw over the remote perspective, in the expectation of perceiving a monk. He was not long disappointed; a person appeared, standing silently in an obscure part of the cloister, cloathed in the habit of this society, and he advanced towards him.
The monk did not avoid Vivaldi, or even turn to observe who was approaching, but remained in the same attitude, fixed like a statue. This tall and gaunt figure had, at a distance, reminded him of Schedoni, and Vivaldi, as he now looked under the cowl, discovered the ghastly countenance of the confessor.
"Have I found you at last?" said Vivaldi. "I would speak with you, father, in private. This is not a proper place for such discourse as we must hold."
Schedoni made no reply, and Vivaldi, once again looking at him, observed that his features were [...]ixed, and his eyes bent towards the ground. The words of Vivaldi seemed not to have reached his understanding, [Page 149] nor even to have made any impression on his senses.
He repeated them in a louder tone, but still not a single line of Schedoni's countenance acknowledged their influence. "What means this mummery?" said he, his patience exhausted, and his indignation aroused; "This wretched subterfuge shall not protect you, you are detected, your stratagems are known! Restore Ellena di Rosalba to her home, or confess where you have concealed her."
S [...]hedoni was still silent and unmoved. A respect for his age and profession with-held Vivaldi from seizing and compelling him to answer; but the agony of impatience and indignation which he suffered, formed a striking contrast to the death-like apathy of the monk. "I now also know you," continued Vivaldi, "for my tormentor at Paluzzi, the prophet of evils, which you too well practised the means of fulfilling, the predictor of the death of Signora Bianchi." Schedoni frowned. "Forewarner of Ellena's depar [...]ure; the phantom who decoyed me into the dungeons of Paluzzi; the prophet and the artificer of all my misfortunes."
The monk raised his eyes from the ground, and fixed them with terrible expression upon Vivaldi, but was still silent.
"Yes, father," added Vivaldi, "I know and will proclaim you to the world. I will strip you of the holy hypocrisy in which you shroud yourself; announce to all your society the despicable artifices you have employed, and the misery you have occasioned. Your character shall be announced aloud."
While Vivaldi spoke, the monk had withdrawn his eyes, and fixed them again on the ground. His countenance had resumed its usual expression.
"Wretch! restore to me Ellena di Rosalba!" cried Vivaldi, with the sudden anguish of renewed despair. [Page 150] "Tell me at least, where she may be found, or you shall be compelled to do so. Whither, whither have you conveyed her?"
As he pronounced this in loud and passionate accents, several ecclesiastics entered the cloisters, and were passing on to the body of the church, when his voice arrested their attention. They paused, and perceiving the singular attitude of Schedoni, and the frantic gesticulations of Vivaldi, hastily advanced towards them. "Forbear," said one of the strangers, as he seized the cloak of Vivaldi, "do you not observe!"
"I observe a hypocrite," replied Vivaldi, stepping back and disengaging himself, "I observe a destroyer of the peace, it was his duty to protect. I"—
"Forbear this desperate conduct," said the priest, "lest it provoke the just vengeance of Heaven! Do you not observe the holy office in which he is engaged?" pointing to the monk. "Leave the church while you are permitted to do so in safety; you suspect not the punishment you may provoke."
"I will not quit the spot till you answer my enquiries," said Vivaldi to Schedoni, without deigning even to look upon the priest; "Where, I repeat, is Ellena di Rosalba?"
The confessor was still silent and unmoved. "This is beyond all patience and all belief," continued Vivaldi. "Speak! Answer me, or dread what I may unfold. Yet silent! Do you know the convent del Pianto? Do you know the confessional of the Black Penitents?"
Vivaldi thought he perceived the countenance of the monk suffer some change. "Do you remember that terrible night," he added, "when, on the steps of that confessional, a tale was told?"—
S [...]hedoni raised his eyes, and fixing them once more on Vivaldi, with a look that seemed intended to strike him to the dust, "Avaunt!" cried he in a tremendous [Page 151] voice; "avaunt! sacrilegious boy! Tremble for the consequence of thy desperate impiety!"
As he concluded, he started from his position, and gliding with the silent swiftness of a shadow along the cloister, vanished in an instant. Vivaldi, when attempting to pursue him, was seized by the surrounding monks. Insensible to his sufferings, and exasperated by his assertions, they threatened, that if he did not immediately quit the convent, he should be confined, and undergo the severe punishment to which he had become liable, for having disturbed and even insulted one of their holy order while performing an act of penance.
"He had need of such acts," said Vivaldi; "but when can they restore the happiness his treachery has destroyed? Your order is disgraced by such a member, reverend fathers; your"—
"Peace!" cried a monk, "he is the pride of our house; he is severe in his devotion, and in self-punishment terrible beyond the reach of—But I am throwing away my commendations, I am talking to one who is not permitted to value or to understand the sacred mysteries of our exercises."
"Away with him to the Padre Abbate!" cried an enraged priest; "away with him to the dungeon!"
"Away! away!" repeated his companions, and they endeavoured to force Vivaldi through the cloist [...]rs. But with the sudden strength which pride and indignation lent him, he burst from their united hold, and, quitting the church by another door, escaped into the street.
Vivaldi returned home in a fl [...]te of mind that would have engaged the pity of any heart, which prejudice or self-interest had not hardened. He avoided his father, but [...]ought the March [...]sa, who triumphant in the success of her plan, was still insensible to the sufferings of her son.
[Page 152] When the Marchesa had been informed of his approaching marriage, she had, as usual, consulted with her confessor on the means of preventing it, who had advised the scheme she adopted, a scheme which was the more easily carried into effect, since the Marchesa had early in life been acquainted with the abbess of San Stefano, and knew, therefore, enough of her character and disposition to confide, without hesitation, the management of this important affair to her discretion. The answer of the abbess to her proposal, was not merely acquiescent, but zealous, and it appeared that she too faithfully justified the confidence reposed in her. After this plan had been so successfully prosecuted, it was not to be hoped that the Marchesa would be prevailed upon to relinquish it by the tears, the anguish, or all the varied sufferings of her son. Vivaldi now reproved the easiness of his own confidence in having hoped it, and quitted her cabinet with a despondency that almost reached despair.
The faithful Paulo obeyed the hasty summons of his master, but he had not succeeded in obtaining intelligence of Ellena; and Vivaldi, having dismissed him again on the same enquiry, retired to his apartment, where the excess of grief, and the feeble hope of devising some successful mode of remedy, alternately agitated and detained him.
In the evening, restless and anxious for change, though scarcely knowing whither to bend his course, he l [...]ft the palace, and strolled down to the sea-beach. A few fishermen and lazzaroni only were loitering along the strand, waiting for boats from St. Lucia. Vivaldi with folded arms, and his hat drawn over his face to shade his sorrow from observation, paced the edge of the waves, listening to their murmur, as they broke gently at his feet, and gazing upon their undulating beauty, while all consciousness was lost in melancholy reverie concerning Ellena. Her late residence appeared [Page 153] at a distance, rising over the shore. He remembered how often from thence they had together viewed this lovely scene! Its features had now lost their charm; they were colourless and uninteresting, or impressed only mournful ideas. The sea fluctuating beneath the setting sun, the long mole and its light-house tipped with the last rays, fishermen reposing in the shade, little boats, skimming over the smooth waters, which their oars scarcely dimpled; these were images that brought to his recollection the affecting evening when he had last seen this picture from the villa Altier [...], when seated in the orangery with Ellena and Bianchi on the night preceding the death of the latter, Ellean herself had so solemnly been given to his care, and had so affectingly consented to the dying request of her relative.
The recollection of that scene came to Vivaldi with all the force of contrast, and renewed all the anguish of despair; he paced the beach with quicker steps, and long groans burst from his heart. He accused himself of indifference and inactivity, for having been thus long unable to discover a single circumstance which might direct his search; and though he knew not whither to go, he determined to leave Naples immediately, and return no more to his father's mansion till he should have rescued Ellena.
Of some fishermen who were conversing together upon the beach, he enquired, whether they could accommodate him with a boat, in which he meant to coast the bay; for it appeared probable that Ellena had been conveyed from Altieri by water, to some town or convent on the shore, the privacy and facility of such a mode of conveyance being suitable to the designs of her enemies.
"I have but one boat, Signor," said the fisherman, "and that is busy enough in going to and fro between here and Santa Lucia, but my comrade, here, perhaps, can serve you. What, Carlo, can you help the Signor [Page 154] to your little skiff? the other, I know has enough to do in the trade."
His comrade, however, was too much engaged with a party of three or four men, who were listening in deep attention round him, to reply; Vivaldi advancing to urge the question, was struck by the eagerness with which he delivered his narrative, as well as the uncouthness of his gesticulation; and he paused a moment in attention. One of the auditors seemed to doubt of something that had been asserted. "I tell you," replied the narrator, "I used to carry fish there two and three times a week, and very good sort of people they were; they have laid out many a ducat with me in their time. But as I was saying, when I got there, and knocked upon the door, I heard, all of a sudden, a huge groaning, and presently I heard the voice of the old housekeeper herself, roaring out for help; but I could give her none, for the door was fastened; and while I ran away for assistance to old Bartoli, you know old Bartoli, he lives by the road side as you go to Naples; well while I ran to him, comes a Signor, and jumps through the window and [...]ets her at liberty at once. So then, I heard the whole story."—
"What story?" said Vivaldi, "and of whom do you speak?"
"All in good time, Maestro, you shall hear," said the fisherman, who looking at him for a moment, added, "Why, Signor, it should be you I saw there, you should be the very Signor that let Beatrice loose."
Vivaldi, who had scarcely doubted before, that it was Al [...]ieri, of which the man had spoken, now asked a thousand questions respecting the route the ruffians had taken Ellena, but obtained no relief to his anxiety.
"I should not wonder," said a Lazzaro, who had been listening to the relation; "I should not wonder if the carriage that passed Bracelli early on the same morning, with the blinds drawn up, though it was so [Page 155] hot that people could scarcely breathe in the open air, should prove to be it which carried off the lady!"
This hint was sufficient to re-animate Vivaldi, who collected all the information the Lazzaro could give, which was, however, little more than that a carriage, such as he described, had been seen by him, driving furiously through Bracelli, early on the morning mentioned as that of Signora di Rosalba's departure. Vivaldi had now no doubt as to its being the one which conveyed her away, and he determined to set out immediately for that place, where he hoped to obtain from the post-master further intelligence concerning the road she had pursued.
With this intention he returned once more to his father's mansion, not to acquaint him with his purpose, or to bid him farewel, but to await the return of his servant Paulo, who he meant should accompany him in the search. Vivaldi's spirits were now animated with hope, slender as were the circumstances that supported it; and, believing his design to be wholly unsuspected by those who would be disposed to interrupt it, he did not guard either against the measures, which might impede his departure from Naples, or those which might overtake him on his journey.
CHAP. X.
THE Marchesa, alarmed at some hints dropped by Vivaldi in the late interview between them, and by some circumstances of his latter conduct, summoned her constant adviser, Schedoni. Still suffering with the insult he had received in the church of Spirito Santo, he obeyed with sullen reluctance, yet not without a malicious hope of discovering some opportunity fo retaliation. That insult, which had pointed forth his hypocrisy, and ridiculed the solemn abstraction he assumed, had sunk deep in his heart, and fermenting the direct passions of his nature, he meditated a terrible revenge. It had subjected him to mortifications of various kinds. Ambition, it has already appeared, was one of his strongest motives of action, and he had long since assumed a character of severe sanctity, chiefly for the purposes of lifting him to promotion. He was not beloved in the society of which he was a member; and many of the brotherhood, who had laboured to disapp [...]t his views, and to detect his error, who had hated him for his pride, and envied him for his reputed sanctity, now gloried in the mortification [...]e had received, and endeavoured to turn the circumstance to their own advantage. They had not scrupled already to display by insinuation and pointed sneers, their triumph, and to menace his reputation; and S [...]h [...]doni, though he deserved contempt, was not of a temper to [...] it.
But above all, some hints respecting his past life, which had fa [...]len from Vivaldi, and which occasioned him so abruptly to leave the church, alarmed him. So much terror, indeed, had they excited, that it is not [Page 157] improbable that he would have sealed his secret in death, devoting Vivaldi to the grave, had he not been restrained by the dreaded vengeance of the Vivaldi family. Since that hour he had known no peace, and had never slept; he had taken scarcely any food, and was almost continually on his knees upon the steps of the high altar. The devotees who beheld him, paused and admired; such of the brothers as disliked him, sneered and passed on. Schedoni appeared alike insensible to each; lost to this world, and preparing for a higher.
The torments of his mind and the severe penance he had observed, had produced a surprising change in his appearance, so that he resembled a spectre rather than a human being. His visage was wan and wasted, his eyes were sunk and become nearly motionless, and his whole air and attitudes axhibited the wild energy of something—not of this earth.
When he was summoned by the Marchesa, his conscience whispered this to be the consequence of circumstances, which Vivaldi had revealed; and, at first, he had determined not to attend her; but, considering that if it was so, his refusal would confirm suspicion, he, resolved to trust once more to the subtilty of his address for deliverence.
With these apprehensions, tempered by this hope, he entered the Marchesa's closet. She almost started on observing him, and could not immediately withdraw her eyes from his altered visage, while Schedoni was unable wholly to conceal the perturbation which such earnest observation occasioned. "Peace rest with you, daughter!" said he, and he seated himself, without lifting his eyes from the floor.
"I wish to speak with you, father, upon affairs of moment," said the Marchesa gravely, "which are probably not unknown to you." She paused, and Schedoni [Page 158] bowed his head, awaiting in anxious expectation what was to follow.
"You are silent, father," resumed the Marchesa. "What am I to understand by this?"
"That you have been misinformed," replied Schedoni, whose apt conscience betrayed his discretion.
"Pardon me," said the Marchesa, "I am too well informed, and should not have requested your visit if any doubt had remained upon my mind."
"Signora! be cautious of what you credit," said the confessor imprudently; "you know not the consequence of a hasty credulity."
"Would that mine were a rash credulity!" replied the Marchesa; "but—we are betrayed."
"We?" repeated the monk, beginning to revive: "What has happened▪"
The Marchesa informed him of Vivaldi's absence, and inferred from its length, for it was now several days since his departure, that he had certainly discovered the place of Ellena's confinement, as well as the authors of it.
Schedoni differed from her, but hinted, that the obedience of youth was hopeless, u [...]ss severer measures were adopted.
"Severer!" exclaimed the Marchesa; "good father, is it not severe enough to confine her for life?"
"I mean severer with respect to your son, lady," replied Schedoni. "When a young man has so far overcome all reverence for an holy ordinance as publicly to insult its professors, and yet more, when that professor is in the very performance of his duties, it is time he should be contrould with a strong hand. I am not in the practice of advised to such measures, but the conduct of Signor Vivaldi is such as calls aloud for them. Public decency demands it. For myself, indeed, I should have endured patiently the [...]ndignity which has been offered me, receiving it as [Page 159] a salutary mortification, as one of those inflictions that purify the soul the from pride, which even the holiest men may unconsciously cherish. But I am no longer permitted to consider myself; the public good requires that an example should be made of the horrible impiety of which your son, it grieves me, daughter, to disclose it!—your son, unworthy of such a mother! has been guilty."
It is evident that in the style, at least, of this accusation, Schedoni suffered the force of his resentment to prevail over the usual subtilty of his address, the deep and smooth insinuation of his policy.
"To what do you allude, righteous father!" enquired the astonished Marchesa; "what indignity, what imp [...]ety has my son to answer for? I entreat you will speak explicitly, that I may prove I can lose the mother in the strict severity of the judge."
"That is spoken with the gradeur of sentiment, which has always distinguished you my daughter! Strong minds perceive that justice is the highest of the moral attributes, mercy is only the favourite of weak ones."
Schedoni had a view in this commendation beyond that of confirming the Marchesa's present resolution against Vivaldi. He, wished to prepare her for measures, which might hereafter be necessary to accomplish the revenge he meditated, and he knew that by flattering her vanity, he was most likely to succeed. He praised her, therefore, for qualities he wished her to possess, encouraged her to reject general opinions by admiring as the symptoms of a superior understanding, the convenient morality upon which she had occasionally acted; and, calling sternness justice, extolled that for strength of mind, which was only callous insensibility.
He then described to her Vivaldi's late conduct in the church of the Spi [...]ito Santo, exaggerated some [Page 160] offensive circumstances of it, invented others, and formed of the whole an instance of monstrous impiety and unprovoked insult.
The Marchesa listened to the relation with no less indignation that surprise, and her readiness to adopt the confessor's advice allowed him to depart-with renovated spirits and most triumphant hopes.
Meanwhile, the Marchese remained ignorant of the subject of the conference with Schedoni. His opinions had formerly been sounded, and having been found decidedly against the dark policy it was thought expedient to practise, he was never afterwards consulted respecting Vivaldi. Parental anxiety and affection began to revive as the lengthened absence of his son was observed. Though jealous of his rank, he loved Vivaldi; and, though he never positively believed that he designed to enter into a sacred engagement with a person, whom the Marchese considered to be so much his inferior as Ellena, he had suffered doubts, which gave him considerable uneasiness. The present extraordinary absence of Vivaldi renewed his alarm. He apprehended that if she was discovered at this moment, when the fear of losing her for ever, and the exasperation, which such complicated opposition occasioned, had awakened all the passions of his son, this rash young man might be prevailed upon to secure her for his own by the indissoluble vow. On the other hand, he dreaded the effect of Vivaldi's despair, should he fail in the pursuit; and thus, fearing at one moment that for which he wished in the next, the Marchese suffered a tumult of mind inferior only to his son's.
The instructions, which he delivered to the servants whom he sent in pursuit of Vivaldi, were given under such distraction of thought, that scarcely any person perfectly understood his commission; and, as the Marchesa had been careful to conceal from him her knowledge [Page 161] of Ellena's abode, he gave no direction concerning the route to San Stefano.
While the Marchese at Naples was thus employed, and while Schedoni was forming further plans against Ellena, Vivaldi was wandering from village to village, and from town to town, in pursuit of her, whom all his efforts had hitherto been unsuccessful to recover. From the people at the post-house at Bracelli, he had obtained little information that could direct him; they only knew that a carriage, such as had been already described to Vivaldi, with the blinds drawn up, changed horses there that morning, which he [...]membered to be that of Ellena's departure, and had proceeded on the road to Morgagni.
When Vivaldi arrived thither, all trace of Ellena was lost; the master of the post could not recollect a single circumstance connected with the travellers, and even if he had noticed them, it would have been insufficient for Vivaldi's purpose, unless he had also observed the road they followed; for at this place several roads branched off into opposite quarters of the country; Vivaldi, therefore, was reduced to chuse of these as chance or fancy directed; and as it appeared probable that the Marchesa had conveyed Ellena to a convent, he determined to make enquires at every one on his way.
He had now passed over some of the wildest tracts of the Appennine, among scenes which seemed abandoned by civilized society to the banditti who haunted their recesses. Yet even here amidst wilds, that were nearly inaccessible, convents, with each its small dependent hamlet, were scattered, and shrouded from the world by woods and mountains, enjoyed unsuspectedly many of its luxuries, and displayed unnoticed, some of its elegance. Vivaldi, who had visited several of these in search of Ellena, had been surprised at the [Page 162] refined courtesy and hospitality with which he was received.
It was on the seventh day of his journey, and near sun-set, that he was bewildered in the woods of Rugieri. He had received a direction for the road he was to take at a village some leagues distant, and had obeyed it confidently till now, when the path was lost in several tracts that branched out among the trees. The day was closing, and Vivaldi's spirits began to fail, but Paulo, light of heart and ever gay, commended the shade and pleasant freshness of the woods, and observed, that if his master did lose his way, and was obliged to remain here for the night, it could not be very unlucky, for they could climb among the branches of a chesnut, and find a more neat and airy lodging than any inn had yet afforded them.
While Paulo was thus endeavouring to make the best of what might happen, and his master was sunk in reverie, they suddenly heard the sound of instruments and voices from a distance. The gloom, which the trees threw round, prevented their distinguishing objects afar off, and not a single human being was visible, nor any trace of his art, beneath the shadowy scene. They listened to ascertain from what direction the sounds approached, and heard a chorus of voices, accompanied by a few instruments, performing the evening service.
"We are near a convent, Signor," said Paulo, "listen! they are at their devotions."
"It is as you say," replied Vivaldi; "and we will make the best of our way towards it."
"Well, Signor! I must say, if we find as good doings here as we had at the Capuchin's, we shall have no reason to regret our beds alfresco among the chesnut branches."
"Do you perceive any walls or spires beyond the trees?" said Vivaldi, as he led the way.
[Page 163] "None, Signor," replied Paulo; "yet we draw nearer the sounds. Ah, Signor? do you hear that note? How it dies away? And those instruments just touched in symphony! This is not the music of peasants; a convent must be near, though we do not see it."
Still as they advanced, no walls appeared, and soon after the music ceased; but other sounds led Vivaldi forward to a pleasant part of the woods, where the trees opening, he perceived a party of pilgrims seated on the grass. They were laughing and conversing with much gaiety, as each spread before him the supper, which he drew from his scrip; while he, who appeared to be the Father-Director of the pilgrimage, sat with a jovial countenance in the midst of the company, dispensing jokes and merry stories, and receiving in return a tribute from every scrip. Wines of various sorts were ranged before him, of which he drank abundantly, and seemed not, to refuse any dainty that was offered.
Vivaldi, whose apprehensions were now quieted, stopped to observe the groupe, as the evening rays, glancing along the skirts of the wood, threw a gleam upon their various countenances, shewing, however, in each a spirit of gaiety that might have characterised the individuals of a party of pleasure, father than those of a pilgrimage. The Father Director and his [...]lock seemed perfectly to under each other; the Superior willingly resigned the solemn austerity of his office, and permitted the company to make themselves as happy as possible, in consideration of receiving plenty of the most delicate of their viands; yet somewhat of dignity was mingled with his condescensions, that compelled them to receive even his jokes with a degree of deference, and perhaps they laughed at them less for their spirit than because they were favours.
Addressing the Superior, Vivaldi requested to be [Page 164] directed how he might regain his way. The father examined him for a moment before he replied, but observing the elegance of his dress, and a certain [...] of distinction; and perceiving, also, that Paulo was his servant, he promised his services, and invited him to take a s [...]at at his right hand, and partake of the supper.
Vivaldi, understanding that the party was going his road, accepted the invitation, when Paulo, having fastened the horses to a tree, soon became busy with the supper. While Vivaldi conversed with the father, Paulo engrosed all the attention of the pilgrims near him; they declared he was the cleverest and the merriest fellow they had ever seen, and often expressed [...] a wish that he was going as far with them as to the shrine in a convent of Carmelites which terminated their pilgrimage. When Vivaldi understood that this shrine was in the church of a convent, partly inhabited by nuns, and that it was little more than a league and a half distant, he determined to accompany them, for it was as possible that Ellena was confined there as in any other cloister; and of her being imprisoned in some convent, he had less doubt, the more he considered the character and views of his mother. He set forward, therefore, with the pilgrims, and on foot, having resigned his horse to the weary Father-Director.
Darkness closed over them long before they reached the village where they designed to pass the night; but they beguiled the way with songs and stories, now and then only stopping at command of the Father, to repent some prayer or sing a hymn. But, as they drew near a village, at the base of the mountain on which the shrine stood, they halted to arrange themselves in procession; and the Superior having stopped short in the midst of one of his best jokes, dismounted Vivaldi's horse, placed himself at their head, and beginning [Page 165] a loud strain, they proceeded in full chorus of melancholy music.
The peasants hearing their sonorous voices, came [...]orth to meet and conduct them to their cabins. The village was already crowded with devotees, but these poor peasants, looking up to them with love and reverence, made every possible contrivance to accommodate all who came; notwithstanding which, when Paulo soon after turned into his bed of straw, he had more reasons than one to regret his chesnut [...]attress.
Vivaldi passed an anxious night, waiting impatiently for the dawning of that day, which might possibly restore to him Ellena. Considering that a pilgrim's habit would not only conceal him from suspicion, but allow him opportunities for observation, which his own dress would not permit, he employed Paulo to provide him one. The address of the servant, assisted by a single ducat, easily procured it, and at an early hour he set forward on his enquiry.
CHAP. XI.
A FEW devotees only had begun to ascend the mountain, and Vivaldi kept aloof even from these, pursuing a lonely track, for his thoughtful mind desired solitude. The early breeze sighing among the foliage, that waved high over the path, and the hollow da [...]hing of distant waters, he listened to with complacency, for these were sounds which soothed yet promoted his melancholy mood; and he sometimes rested to gaze upon the scenery around him, for this too was in harmony with the temper of his mind. Disappointment had subdued the wilder energy of his passions, and produced a solemn and lofty state of feeling; he viewed with pleasing sadness the dark rocks and precipices, the gloomy mountains and vast solitudes, that spread around him; nor was the convent that he was approaching a less sacred feature of the scene, as its gray walls and pinacles appeared beyond the dusky groves. "Ah! if it should enclose her!" said Vivaldi, as he caught a first glimpse of its hall. "Vain hope! I will not invite your illusions again, I will not expose myself to the agonies of new disappointment; I will search, but not expect. Yet, if she should be there!"
Having reached the gates of the convent, he passed with hasty steps into the court; where his emotion encreased as he paused a moment and looked round its silent cloisters. The porter only appeared, when Vivaldi, fearful lest he should perceive him not to be a pilgrim, drew his hood over his face, and gathering up his garments still closer in his folded arms, [Page 167] passed on without speaking, though he know not which of the avenues before him led to the shrine. He advanced, however, towards the church, a stately edifice, from the other parts of the convent. Its highly vaulted aisles, extending in twilight perspective, where a monk or a pilgrim only, now and then crossed, whose dark figures, passing without sound, vanished like shadows; the universal stillness of the place, the gleam of tapers from the high altar, and of lamps, which gave a gloomy pomp to every shrine in the church: all these circumstances conspired to impress a sacred awe upon his heart.
He followed some devotees through a side aisle to a court, that was overhung by a tremendous rock, in which was a cave, containing the shrine of our Lady of Mount Carmel. This court was enclosed by the rock, and by the choir of the church, except that to the south a small opening led the eye to a glimpse of the landscape below, which, seen beyond the dark jaws of the cliff, appeared free, and light, and gaily coloured, melting away into the blue and distant mountains.
Vivaldi entered the cave, where, enclosed within a filigree screen of gold, lay the image of the saint, decorated with flowers, and lighted up by innumerable lamps and tapers. The steps of the shrine were thronged with kneeling pilgrims, and Vivaldi, to avoid singularity, kneeled also; till a high peal of the organ, at a distance, and the de [...]p voices of choiristers announced that the first mass was begun. He left the cave, and, returning into the church, loitered at an extremity of the aisles, where he listened awhile to the solemn harmony pealing along the roofs, and softening away in distance. It was such full and entrancing music as frequently swells in the high festivals of the Sicilian church, and is adapted to inspire that sublime enthusiasm, which sometimes elevates its disciples. Vivaldi, unable to endure long the excess of [Page 168] feeling, which this harmony awakened was leaving the church, when suddenly it ceased, and the tolling of a bell sounded in its stead. This seemed to be the knell of death, and it occurred to him, that a dying person was approaching to receive the last sacrament; when he heard remotely a warbling of female voices, mingling with the deeper tones of the monks, and with the hollow note of the bell, as it struck at intervals. So sweetly, so plaintively, did the strain grow on the air, that those who listened, as well as those, who sung, were touched with sorrow, and seemed equally to mourn for a departing friend.
Vivaldi hastened to the choir, the pavement of which was strewn with palm-branches and fresh flowers. A pall of black velvet lay upon the steps of the altar, where several priests were silently attending. Every where appeared the ensigns of solemn pomp and ceremony, and in every countenance the stillness and observance of expectation. Meanwhile the sounds draw nearer, and Vivaldi perceived a procession of nuns approaching from a distant aisle.
As they advanced, he distinguished the lady abbess leading the train, dressed in her pontifical robes, with the mitre on her head; and well he marked her stately step, moving in time to the slow minstrelsy, and the air of proud yet graceful dignity, with which she characterized herself. Then followed the nuns, according to their several orders, and last came the novices, carrying lighted tapers, and surrounded by other nuns, who were distinguished by a particular habit.
Having reached a part of the church appropriated for their reception, they arranged themselves in order. Vivaldi, with a palpitating heart, enquired the occasion of the ceremony, and was told that a nun was going to be professed.
"You are informed, no doubt, brother," added th [...] prior who gave him this intelligence, "that on the [Page 169] morning of our high festival, our Lady's day, it is usual for such as devote themselves to heaven, to receive the veil. Stand bye a while, and you will see the ceremony.
"What is the name of the novice who is now to receive it?" said Vivaldi, in a voice whose tremulous accents betrayed his emotion.
The friar glanced an eye of scrutiny upon him, as he replied, "I know not her name, but if you will step a little this way, I will point her out to you."
Vivaldi, drawing his hood over his face, obeyed in silence.
"It is she on the right of the abbess," said the stranger, "who leans on the arm of a nun, she is covered with a white veil, and is taller than her companions."
Vivaldi observed her with a fearful eye, and though he did not recognize the person of Ellena, yet, whether it was that his fancy was possessed with her image, or that there was truth in his surmise, he thought he perceived a resemblance of her. He enquired how long the novice had resided in the convent, and many other par [...]iculars, to which the stranger could not or dared not reply.
With what anxious solicitude did Vivaldi endeavour to look through the veils of several nuns in search of Ellena, whom he believed the barbarous policy of his mother might already have devoted to the cloister! With a solicitude still stronger he tried to catch a glimpse of the features of the novices, but their faces were shaded by hoods, and their white veils, though thrown half back, were disposed in such artful folds that they concealed them from observation, as effectually as did the pendant lawn the features of the nuns.
The ceremony began with the exhortation of the Father-Abbot, delivered with a solemn energy; then the novice kneeling before him, made her pro [...]ssion, [Page 170] for which Vivaldi listened with intense attention, but it was delivered in such low and trembling accents, that he could not ascertain even the tone. But during the anthem that mingled with the ensuing part of the service, he thought he distinguished the voice of Ellena, that touching and well-known voice, which in the church of San Lorenzo had first attracted his attention. He listened, scarcely daring to draw breath, lest he should lose a note; and again he fancied her voice spoke in a part of the plaintive response delivered by the nuns.
Vivaldi endeavoured to command his emotion, and to await with patience some further unfolding of the truth; but when the priest prepared to withdraw the white veil from the face of the novice, and throw the black one over her, dreadful expectation that she was Ellena seized him, and he with difficulty forbore stepping forward and discovering himself on the instant.
The veil was at length withdrawn, and a very lovely face appeared, but not Ellena's. Vivaldi breathed again, and waited with tolerable composure for the conclusion of the ceremony; till in the solemn strain that followed the putting on of the black veil, he heard again the voice, which he was now convinced was her's. Its accents were low, and mournful, and tremulous, yet his heart acknowledged instantaneously their magic influence.
When this ceremony had concluded, another began; and he was told it was that of a noviciation. A young woman, supported by two nuns, advanced to the altar, and Vivaldi thought he beheld Ellena. The priest was beginning the customary exhortation, when she lifted her half-veil, and, shewing a countenance where meek sorrow was mingled with heavenly sweetness, raised her blue eyes, all bathed in tears, and waved her hand as if she would have spoken.—It was Ellena herself.
[Page 171] The pri [...]st attempted to proceed.
"I protest in the presence of this congregation," said she solemnly, "that I am brought hither to pronounce vows which my heart disclaims. I protest"—
A confusion of voices interrupted her, and at the same instant she perceived Vivaldi rushing towards the altar. Ellena gazed for a moment, and then, stretching forth her supplicating hands towards him, closed her eyes, and sunk into the arms of some persons round her, who vainly endeavoured to prevent him from approaching and assisting her. The anguish, with which he bent over her lifeless form, and called upon her name, excited the commiseration even of the nuns, and especially Olivia, who was most assiduous in efforts to revive her young friend.
When Ellena unclosed her eyes, and looking up, once more beheld Vivaldi, the expression with which she regarded him, told that her heart was unchanged, and that she was unconscious of the miseries of imprisonment while he was with her. She desired to withdraw, and, assisted by Vivaldi and Olivia, was leaving the church, when the abbess ordered that she should be attended by the nuns only; and, retiring from the altar, she gave directions that the young stranger should be conducted to the parlour of the convent.
Vivaldi, though he refused to obey an imperious command, yielded to the entreaties of Ellena, and to the gentle remonstrances of Olivia; and bidding Ellena farewell for a while, he repaired to the parlour of the abbess. He was not without some hope of awakening her to a sense of justice, or of pity; but he found that her notions of right were inexorably against him, and that pride and resentment usurped the influence of every other feeling. She began her lecture with expressing the warm friendship she had so long cherished for the Marchesa, proceeded to lament that the son of a friend, whom she so highly esteemed, [Page 172] should have forgotten his duty to his parents, and the observance due to the dignity of his house, so far as to seek connection with a person of Ellena di Rosalba's inferior station; and concluded with a severe reprimand for having disturbed the tranquility of her convent and the decorum of the church by his intrusion.
Vivaldi listened with submitting patience to this mention of morals and decorum from a person, who, with the most perfect self-applause, was violating some of the plainest obligations of humanity and justice; who had conspired to tear an orphan from her home, and who designed to deprive her for life of liberty, with all the blessings it inherits. But, when she proceeded to speak of Ellena with the caustic of severe reprobation, and to hint at the punishment, which her public rejection of the vows had incurred, the patience of Vivaldi submitted no longer; indignation and contempt rose high against the Superior, and he exhibited a portrait of herself in the strong colours of truth. But the mind, which compassion could not persuade, reason could not appal; selfishness had hardened it alike to the influence of each; her pride only was affected, and she retaliated the mortification she suffered by menace and denunciation.
Vivaldi, on quitting her apartment, had no other resource than an application to the Abate, whose influence, at least, if not his authority, might assuage the severity of her power. In this Abate, a mildness of temper, and gentleness of manner were qualities of less value than is usually and deservedly imputed to them; for, being connected with feebleness of mind, they were but the pleasing merits of easy times, which in an hour of difficulty never assumed the character of virtues, by inducing him to serve those, for whom he might feel. And thus, with a temper and disposition directly opposite to those of the severe and violent abbess, he was equally selfish, and almost equally culpable, [Page 173] since by permitting evil, he was nearly as injurious in his conduct as those who planned it. Indolence and timidity, a timidity the consequence of want of clear perception, deprived him of all energy of character; he was prudent rather than wise, and so fearful of being thought to do wrong that he seldom did right.
To Vivaldi's temperate representations and earnest entreaties that he would exert some authority towards liberating Ellena, he listened with patience; acknowledged the hardships of her situation; lamented the unhappy divisions between Vivaldi and his family, and then declined advancing a single step in so delicate an affair. Signora di Rosalba, he said, was in the care of the abbess, over whom he had no right of control in matters relative to her domestic concerns. Vivaldi then supplicated, that, though he possessed no authority, he would, at least, intercede or remonstrate against so unjust a procedure as that of detaining Ellena a prisoner, and assist in restoring her to the home, from which she had been forcibly carried.
"And this, again," replied the Abate, "does not come within my jurisdiction; and I make it a rule not to encroach upon that of another person."
"And can you endure, holy father," said Vivaldi, "to witness a flagrant act of injustice and not endeavour to counteract it? not even step forward to rescue the victim when you perceive the preparation for the sacrifice?"
"I repeat, that I never interfere with the authority of others," replied the Superior; "having asserted my own, I yield to them in their sphere, the obedience which I require in mine."
Is power then," said Vivaldi, "the infallible test of justice? Is it morality to obey where the command is criminal? The whole world have a claim upon the fortitude, the active fortitude of those who are placed [Page 174] as you are, between the alternative of confirming a wrong by your consent, or preventing it by your resistance. Would that your heart expanded towards that world, reverend father!"
"Would that the whole world were wrong that you might have the glory of setting it right!" said the Abate, smiling. "Young man! you are an enthusiast, and I pardon you. You are a knight of chivalry, who would go about the earth fighting with every body by way of proving your right to do good; it is unfortunate that you were born somewhat [...] late."
"Enthusiasm in the cause of humanity"—said Vivaldi, but he checked himself; and despairing of touching a heart so hardened by selfish prudence, and indignant at beholding an apathy so vicious in its consequence, he left the Abate without other effort. He perceived that he must now have recourse to further stratagem, a recourse which his frank and noble mind detested, but he had already tried without success, every other possibility of rescuing the innocent victim of the Marchesa's prejudice and pride.
Ellena meanwhile had retired to her cell, agitated by a variety of considerations, and contrary emotions, of which, however, those of joy and tenderness were long predominant. Then came anxiety, apprehension, pride, and doubt, to divide and torture her heart. It was true that Vivaldi had discovered her prison, but, if it were possible, that he could release her, she must consent to quit it with him; a step from which a mind so tremblingly jealous of propriety as hers, recoiled with alarm, though it would deliver her from captivity. And how, when she considered the haughty character of the Marchese di Vivaldi, the imperious and vindictive nature of the Marchesa, and, still mor [...], their united repugnance to a connection with her, how could she endure to think, even for a moment, of intruding [Page 175] herself into such a family! Pride, delicacy, good sense seemed to warn her against a conduct so humiliating and vexatious in its consequences, and to exhort her to preserve her own dignity by independence, but the [...]steem, the friendship, the tender affection, which she had cherished for Vivaldi, made her pause, and shrink with emotions, of little less than horror, from the eternal renunciation, which so dignified a choice required. Though the encouragement, which her deceased relative had given to this attachment, seemed to impart to it a sacred character, that considerably soothed the alarmed delicacy of Ellena, the approbation thus implied, had no power to silence her own objections, and she would have regretted the mistaken zeal, which had contributed to lead her into the present distressing situation, had she revered the memory of her aunt, or loved Vivaldi, less. Still, however, the joy, which his presence had occasioned, and which the consciousness that he was still near her had prolonged, was not subdued, though it was frequently obscured by such anxious considerations. With jealous and indiscreet solicitude, she now recollected every look, and the accent of every word, which had told that his affection was undiminished, thus seeking, with inconsistent zeal for a conviction of the very tenderness, which but a moment [...]efore she had thought it would be prudent to lament, and almost necessary to renounce.
She awaited with extreme anxiety the appearance of Olivia, who probably might know the result of Vivaldi's conference with the abbess, and whether he was yet in the convent.
In the evening Olivia came, a messenger of evil; and Ellena, informed of the conduct of the abbess, and the consequent departure of Vivaldi, perceived all her courage, and all the half-formed resolutions, which a consideration of his family had suggested, faulter and [Page 176] expire. Sensible only of grief and despondency, she ascertained, for the first time the extent of her affection and the severity of her situation. She perceived, also, that the injustice which his family had exercised towards her, absolved her from all consideration of their displeasure, otherwise than as it might affect herself; but this was a conviction, which it were now probably useless to admit.
Olivia not only expressed the tenderest interest in her welfare but seemed deeply affected with her situation; and, whether it was, that the nun's misfortunes bore some resemblance to Ellena's, or from whatever cause, it is remarkable that her eyes were often filled with tears, while she regarded her young friend, and she betrayed so much emotion that Ellena noticed it with surprise. She was, however, too delicate to hint any curiosity on the subject; and too much engaged by a nearer interest to dwell long upon the circumstance.
When Olivia withdrew, Ellena retired to her turret, to soothe her spirits with a view of serene and majestic nature, a recourse which seldom failed to elevate her mind and soften the asperities of affliction.—It was to her like sweet and solemn music, breathing peace over the soul—like the oaten stop of Milton's Spirit,
While she sat before a window, observing the evening light beaming upon the valley, and touching all the distant mountains with misty purple, a reed as sweet, though not as fanciful, sounded from among the rocks below. The instrument and the character of the strain were such as she had been unaccustomed to hear [Page 177] within the walls of San Stefano, and the tone diffused over her spirits a pleasing melancholy, that rapt all her attention. The liquid cadence as it trembled and sunk away, seemed to tell the dejection of no vulgar feelings, and the exquisite taste, with which the complaining notes again swelled, almost convinced her, that the musician was Vivaldi.
On looking from the lattice, she perceived a person perched on a point of the cliff below, whither it appeared almost impracticable for any human step to have climbed, and preserved from the precipice only by some dwarf shrubs that fringed the brow. The twilight did not permit her immediately to ascertain whether it was Vivaldi, and the situation was so dangerous that she hoped it was not he. Her doubts were removed, when, looking up, he perceived Ellena, and she heard his voice.
Vivaldi had learned from a lay-brother of the convent, whom Paulo had bribed, and who when he worked in the garden, had sometimes seen Ellena at the window, that she frequented this remote turret; and, at the hazard of his life, he had now ventured thither, with a hope of conversing with her.
Ellena, alarmed at his tremendus situation, refused to listen to him, but he would not leave the spot till he had communicated a plan concerted for her escape, and, entreating that she would confide herself to his care, assured her she would be conducted wherever she judged proper. It appeared that the brother had consented to assist his views, in consideration of an ample reward, and to admit him within the walls on this evening, when, in his pilgrim's habit, he might have an opportunity of again seeing Ellena. He conjured her to attend, if possible, in the convent parlour during supper, explaining, in a few words, the motive for this request, and the substance of the following particulars:
[Page 178] The Lady-abbess, in observance of the custom upon high festivals, gave a collation to the Padre-abate, and such of the priests as had assisted at the vesper-service. A few strangers of distinction and pilgrims were also to partake of the entertainments of this night, among which was included a concert to be performed by the nuns. At the collation was to be displayed a profusion of delicacies, arranged by the sisters, who had been busy in preparing the pastry and confectionary during several days, and who excelled in these articles no less than in embroid [...]ry and other ingenious arts. This supper was to be given in the abbess's outer parlour, while she herself, attended by some nuns of high rank, and a few favourites, was to have a table in the inner apartment, where, separated only by the grate, she could partake of the conversation of the holy fathers. The tables were to be ornamented with artificial flowers, and a variety of other fanciful devices upon which the ingenuity of the sisters had been long employed, who prepared for these festivals with as much vanity, and expected them to dissipate the gloomy monotony of their usual life, with as much eagerness of delight, as a young beauty anticipates a first ball.
On this evening, therefore, every member of the convent would be engaged either by amusement or business, and to Vivaldi, who had been careful to inform himself of these circumstances, it would be easy, with the assistance of the brother, to obtain admittance, and mingle himself among the spectators, disguised in his pilgrim's habit. He entreated, therefore, that Ellena would contrive to be in the abbess's apartment this evening, when he would endeavour to convey to her some further particulars of the plan of escape, and would have mules in waiting at the foot of the mountain, to conduct her to the villa Altieri, or to the neighbouring convent of the Santa della Pieta. Vivaldi secretly hoped that she might be prevailed with [Page 179] to give him her hand on quitting San Stefano, but he forbore to mention this hope, lest it should he mistaken for a condition, and that Ellena might be either reluctant to accept his assistance, or, accepting it, might consider herself bound to grant a hasty consent.
To his mention of escape she listened with varying emotion; at one moment attending to it with hope and joy, as promising her the only chance of liberation from an imprisonment, which was probably intended to last for her life, and of restoring her to Vivaldi; and at another, recoiling from the thought of departing with him, while his family was so decidedly averse to their marriage. Thus, unable to form any instant resolution on the subject, and entreating that he would leave his dangerous station before the thickening twilight should encrease the hazard of his descent, Ellena, added, that she would endeavour to obtain admittance to the apartment of the abbess, and to acquaint him with her final determination. Vivaldi understood all the delicacy of her scruples, and though they afflicted him, he honoured the good sense and just pride that suggested them.
He lingered on the rock till the last moments of departing light, and then, with a heart fluttering with hopes and fears, bade Ellena farewel, and descended; while she watched his progress thro' the silent gloom, faintly distinguishing him gliding along ledges of the precipice, and making his adventurous way from cliff to cliff, till the winding thick [...]s concealed him from her view. Still anxious, she remained at the lattice, but he appeared no more; no voice announced disaster; and, at length, she returned to her cell, to deliberate on the subject of her departure.
Her considerations were interrupted by Olivia, whofe manner indicated something extraordinary; the usual tranquility of her countenance was gone, and an air of grief mingled with apprehension appeared there. [Page 180] Before she spoke, she exammined the passage and looked round the cell. "It is as I feared," said she abruptly; "my suspicions are justified, and you, my child, are sacrificed, unless it were possible for you to quit the convent this night."
"What is it that you mean?" said the alarmed Ellena.
"I have just learned," resumed the nun, "that your conduct this morning, which is understood to have thrown a premeditated insult upon the abbess, is to be punished with what they call imprisonment; alas! why should I soften the truth—with what I believe is death itself, for who ever returned alive from that hideous chamber!"
"With death!" said Ellena, aghast; "Oh, heavens! how have I deserved death?"
"That is not the question, my daughter, but how you may avoid it. Within the deepest recesses of our convent, is a stone chamber, secured by doors of iron, to which such of the sisterhood as have been guilty of any heinous offence have, from time to time, been consigned. This condemnation admits of no reprieve; the unfortunate captive is left to languish in chains and darkness, receiving only an allowance of bread and water just sufficient to prolong her sufferings, till nature at length, sinking under their intolerable pressure, obtains refuge in death. Our records relate several instances of such horrible punishment, which has generally been inflicted upon nuns, who, weary of the life which they have chos [...]n under the first delusions of the imagination, or which they have been compelled to accept by the rigour or a [...]rice of parents, have been detected in escaping from the con [...]ent."
The nun paused, but Ellena remaining rapt in silent thought, she resumed: "One miserable instance of this severity has occurred within my memory. I saw [Page 181] the wretched victim enter that apartment—never more to quit it alive! I saw, also, her poor remains laid at rest in the convent garden! During nearly two years she languished upon a bed of straw, denied even the poor consolation of conversing through the grate with such of the sisters as pitied her; and who of us was there that did not pity her! A severe punishment was threatened to those, who should approach with any compassionate intention; thank God! I incurred it, and I endured it, also with secret triumph."
A gleam of satisfaction passed over Olivia's countenance as she spoke this; it was the sweetest that Ellena had ever observed there. With a sympathetic emotion, she threw herself on the bosom of the nun, and wept; for some moments they were both silent. Olivia, at length said, "Do you not believe, my child, that the officious and offended abbess will readily seize upon the circumstance of your disobedience, as a pretence for confining you in that fatal chamber? The wishes of the Marchesa will thus surely be accomplished, without the difficulty of exacting your obedience to the vows. Alas! I have received proof too absolute of her intention, and that to-morrow is assigned as the day of your sacrifice; you may, perhaps, be thankful that the business of the festival has obliged her to defer executing the sentence even till to-morrow."
Ellena replied only with a groan as her head still drooped upon the shoulder of the nun; she was not now hesitating whether to accept the assistance of Vivaldi, bu [...] desponding lest his utmost efforts for her deliverance should be vain.
Olivia, who mistook the cause of her silence, added, "Other hints I could give, which are strong as they are dreadful, but I will forbear. Tell me how it is possible I may assist you; I am willing to incur a second [Page 182] punishment, in endeavouring to relieve a second sufferer."
Ellena's tears flowed fast at this new instance of the nun's generosity. "But if they should discover you in assisting me to leave the convent," she said in a voice convulsed by her gratitude,—"O! if they should discover you!"—
"I can ascertain the punishment," Olivia replied with firmness, "and do not fear to meet it."
"How nobly generous this is!" said the weeping Ellena; "I ought not to suffer you to be thus careless of yourself!"
"My conduct is not wholly disinterested," the nun modesty replied; "for I think I could endure any punishment with more fortitude than the sickening anguish of beholding such suffering as I have witnessed. What are bodily pains in comparison with the subtile, the exquisite tortures of the mind! Heaven knows I can support my own afflictions, but not the view of those of others when they are excessive. The instruments of torture I believe I could endure, if my spirit was invigorated with the consciousness of a generous purpose; but pity touches upon a nerve that vibrates instantly to the heart, and subdues resistance. Yes, my child, the agony of pity is keener than any other, except that of remorse, and even in remorse, it is, perhaps, the mingling unavailing pity, that points the sting. But while I am indulging this egotism, I am, perhaps, encreasing your danger of the suffering I deprecate."
Ellena, thus encouraged by the generous sympathy of Olivia, mentioned Vivaldi's proposed visit of this evening; and consulted with her on the probability of procuring admittance for herself to the abbess's parlour. Reanimated by this intelligence, Olivia advised her to repair not only to the suppe [...]-room, but to attend the previous concert, to which several strangers [Page 183] would be admitted, among whom might probably be Vivaldi, When to this Ellena objected her dread of the abbess's observation, and of the immediate seclusion that would follow, Olivia soothed her sears of discovery, by offering her the disguise of a nun's veil, and promising not only to conduct her to the apartment, but to afford her every possible assistance towards her escape.
"Among the crowd of nuns, who will attend in that spacious apartmen [...]," Olivia added, "it is improbable you would be distinguished, even if the sisters were less occupied by amusement, and the abbess were at leisure to scrutinize. As it is, you will hazard little danger of discovery; the Superior, if she thinks of you at all, will believe that you are still a prisoner in your cell, but this is an evening of too much importance to her vanity for any consideration, distinct from that emotion, to divide her attention. Let hope, therefore, support you, my child, and do you prepare a few lines to acquaint Vivaldi with your consent to his proposal, and with the urgency of your circumstances; you may, perhaps, find an opportunity of conveying them through the grate."
They were still conversing on this subject, when a particular chime sounded, which Olivia said summoned the nuns to the concert-room; and she immediately hastened for a black veil, while Ellena wrote a few lines that were necessary for Vivaldi.
CHAP. XII.
WRAPT in Olivia's veil, Ellena descended to the music-room, and mingled with the nuns, who were assembled within the grate. Among the monks and pilgrims without it, were some strangers in the usual dress of the country, but she did not perceive any person who resembled Vivaldi; and she considered, that, if he were present, he would not venture to discover himself, while her nun's veil concealed her as effectually from him as from the lady abbess. It would be necessary, therefore, to seek an opportunity of withdrawing it for a moment at the grate, an expedient, which must certainly expose her to the notice of strangers.
On the entrance of the lady Abbess, Ellena's fear of observation rendered her insensible to every other consideration; she fancied, that the eyes of the Superior were particularly directed upon herself. The veil seemed an insufficient protection from their penetrating glances, and she almost sunk with terror of instant discovery.
The Abbess, however, passed on, and, having conversed for a few moments with the padre Abate and some visitors of distinction, took her chair; and the performance immediately opened with one of those solemn and impressive airs, which the Italian nuns know how to give with so much taste and sweetness. It rescued even Ellena for a moment from a sense of danger, and she resigned herself to the surrounding scene, of which the coup-d' [...]il, was striking and grand. In [Page 185] a vaulted apartment of considerable extent, lighted by innumerable tapers, and where even the ornaments, though pompous, partook of the solemn character of the institution, were assembled about fifty nuns, who, in the interesting habit of their order, appeared with graceful plainness. The delicacy of their air, and their beauty, softened by the lawn that thinly veiled it, were contrasted by the severe majesty of the lady Abbess, who, seated on an elevated chair, apart from the audience, seemed the empress of the scene, and by the venerable figures of the Father Abate, and his attendant monks, who were arranged without that screen of wire-work, extending the whole breadth of the apartment, which is called the grate. Near the holy father were placed the strangers of distinction, dressed in the splendid Neapolitan habit, whose gay colouring and airy elegance opposed well with the dark drapery of the ecclesiastics; their plumed hats loftily overtopping the half-cowled heads and grey locks of the monks. Nor was the contrast of countenances less striking; the grave, the austere, the solemn, and the gloomy, intermingling with the light, the blooming, and the debonnaire, expressed all the various tempers, that render life a blessing or a burden, and, as with the spell of magic, transform this world into a transient paradise or purgatory. In the back ground of the picture stood some pilgrims, with looks less joyous and more demure than they had worn on the road the preceding day; and among them were some inferior brothers and attendants of the convent. To this part of the chamber Ellena frequently directed her attention, but did not distinguish Vivaldi; and, though she had taken a station near the grate, she had not courage indecorously to withdraw her veil before so many strangers. And thus, if he even were in the apartment, it was not probable he would venture to come forward.
[Page 186] The concert concluded without his having been discovered by Ellena, and she withdrew to the apartment where the collation was spread, and where the Abbess and her guests soon after appeared. Presently she observed a stranger, in a pilgrim's habit, station himself near the grate; his face was partly muffled in his cloak, and he seemed to be a spectator rather than a partaker of the feast.
Ellena, who understood this to be Vivaldi, was watchful for an opportunity of approaching, unseen by the abbess, the place where he had fixed himself. Engaged in conversation with the ladies around her, the Superior soon favoured Ellena's wish, who, having reached the grate, ventured to lift her veil for one instant. The stranger, letting his cloak fall, thanked her with his eyes for her condescension, and she perceived, that he was not Vivaldi! Shocked at the interpretation which might be given to a conduct apparently so improper, as much as by the disappointment, which Vivaldi's absence occasioned, she was hastily retiring, when another stranger approached with quick steps, whom she instantly knew, by the grace and spirit of his air, to be Vivaldi; but determined not to expose herself a second time to the possibility of a mistake, she awaited for some further signal of his identity, before she discovered herself. His eyes were fixed upon her in earnest attention for some moments, before he drew aside the cloak from his face. But he soon did so;—and it was Vivaldi himself.
Ellena, perceiving that she was known, did not raise her veil, but advanced a few steps towards the grate. Vivaldi there deposited a small folded paper, and before she could venture to deliver her own billet, he had retired among the crowd. As she st [...]pped forward to secure his letter, she observed a nun hastily approach the spot where he had laid it, and she paused. The garment of the Recluse wafted it from the place [Page 187] where it had been partly concealed; and when Ellena perceived the nun's foot rest upon the paper, she with difficulty disguised her apprehensions.
A friar, who from without the grate addressed the sister, seemed with much earnestness, yet with a certain air of secresy, communicating some important intelligence. The fears of Ellena suggested that he had observed the action of Vivaldi, and was making known his suspicions; and she expected, every instant, to see the nun lift up the paper, and deliver it to the abbess.
From this immediate apprehension, however, she was released when the sister pushed it gently aside, without examination, a circumstance that not less surprised than relieved her. But, when the conference broke up, the friar, hastily retreating among the crowd, disappeared from the apartment, and the nun approached and whispered the Superior, all her terrors were renewed. She scarcely doubted that Vivaldi was detected, and that his letter was designedly left where it had been deposited, for the purpose of alluring her to betray herself. Trembling, dismayed, and almost sinking with apprehension, she watched the countenance of the Abbess, while the nun addressed her, and thought she read her own fate in the frown that appeared there.
Whatever might be the intentions or the directions of the Superior, no active measure was at present employed; the Recluse, having received an answer, retired quietly among the sisters, and the Abbess resumed her usual manner. Ellena, however, supposing she was now observed, did not dare to seize the paper, though she believed it contained momentous information, and feared that the time was now escaping which might facilitate her deliverance. Whenever she ventured to look round, the eyes of the Abbess seemed pointed upon her, and she judged from the position of the nun, for the veil concealed her face, that she also was vigilantly regarding her.
[Page 188] Above an hour had elapsed in this state of anxious suspense, when the collation concluded, and the assembly broke up; during the general bustle of which, Ellena ventured to the grate, and secured the paper. As she concealed it in her robe, she scarcely dared to enquire by a hasty glance whether she had been observed, and would have withdrawn immediately to examine the contents, had she not perceived, at the same instant, the Abbess quitting the apartment. On looking round for the nun, Ellena discovered that she was gone.
Ellena followed distantly in the Abbess's train; and, as she drew nearer to Olivia, gave a signal, and passed on to her cell. There, once more alone, and having secured the door, she sat down to read Vivaldi's billet, trying to command her impatience, and to understand the lines, over which her sight rapidly moved, when, in the eagerness of turning over the paper, the lamp dropt from her trembling hand and expired. Her distress now nearly reached despair. To go forth into the convent for a light was utterly impracticable, since it would betray that she was no longer a prisoner, and not only would Olivia suffer from a discovery of the indulgence she had granted, b [...]t she herself would be immediately confined. Her only hope rested upon Olivia's arrival before it might be too late to practise the instructions of Vivaldi, if, indeed they were still practicable; and she listened with intense solicitude for an approaching footstep, while she yet h [...]ld, ignorant of its contents, the billet, that probably would decide her fate. A thousand times she turned about the eventful paper, and endeavoured to trace the lines with her singer, and to guess their import, thus enveloped in mystery; while she experienced all the various torture that the consciousness of having in her hand the information, on a timely knowledge of which her life, perhaps, depended, without being able to understand it, could inf [...]ict.
[Page 189] Presently she heard advancing steps, and a light gleamed from the passage before she considered they might be some other than Olivia's; and that it was prudent to conceal the billet she held. The consideration, however, came too late to be acted upon; for before the rustling paper was disposed of, a person entered the cell, and Ellena beheld her friend. Pale, trembling, and silent, she took the lamp from the nun, and eagerly running over Vivaldi's note, learned that at the time it was written, brother Jeronimo was in waiting without the gate of the nun's garden, where Vivaldi designed to join him immediately, and conduct her by a private way beyond the walls. He added, that horses were stationed at the foot of the mountain, to convey her wherever she should judge proper; and conjured her to be expeditious, since other circumstances, besides the universal engagement of the Recluses, were at that moment particularly favorable to an escape.
Ellena, desponding and appalled, gave the paper to Olivia, requesting she would read it hastily, and advise her how to act. It was now an hour and a half since Vivaldi had said, that success depended upon expedition, and that he had probably watched at the appointed place; in such an interval, how many circumstances might have occurred to destroy every possibility of a retreat, which it was certain the engagement of the Abbess and the sisters no longer favoured.
The generous Olivia, having read the billet, partook of all her young friend's distress, and was as willing, as Ellena was anxious, to dare every danger for the chance of obtaining deliverance.
Ellena could feel gratitude for such goodness even at this moment of agonizing apprehension. After a pause of deep consideration, Olivia said, "in every avenue of the convent we are now liable to meet some of the nuns; but my veil, though thin, has hitherto protected you, and we must hope it may still assist [Page 190] your purpose. It will be necessary, however, to pass through the refectory, where such of the sisters as did not partake of the colation, are assembled at supper, and will remain so till the first mattin calls them to the chapel. If we wait till then, I fear it will be to no purpose to go at all."
Ellena's fears perfectly agreed with those of Olivia; and entreating that another moment might not be lost in hesitation, and that she would lead the way to the nun's garden, they quitted the cell together.
Several of the sisters passed them, as they descended to the refectory, but without particularly noticing Ellena; who, as she drew near that alarming apartment, wrapt her viel closer, and leaned with heavier pressure upon the arm of her faithful friend. At the door they were met by the Abbess, who had been overlooking the nuns assembled at supper, and missing Olivia had enquired for her. Ellena shrunk back to allude observation and to let the Superior pass; but Olivia was obliged to answer to the summons, Having, however, unveiled herself, she was permitted to proceed; and Ellena, who had mingled with the crowd that surrounded the Abbess, and thus escaped detection, followed Olivia with faltering steps, through the refectory. The nuns were luckily too much engaged by the entertainment at this moment, to look round them, and the fugitive reached, unsuspected, an opposite door.
In the hall, to which they descended, the adventurers were frequently crossed by servants bearing dishes from the refectory to the kitchen; and, at the very moment when they were oppening the door, that led into the garden, a sister, who had observed them, demanded whether thy had yet heard the mattin-bell, since they were going towards the chapel.
Terrified at this critical interruption, Ellena pressed Olivia's arm, in signal of silence, and was hastening forward, when the latter, more prudent, paused, [Page 191] and calmly answering the question, was then suffered to proceed.
As they crossed the garden towards the gate, Ellena's anxiety lest Vivaldi should have been compelled to leave it, encreased so much, that she had scarcely power to proceed. "O if my strength should fail before I reach it!" she said softly to Olivia, "or if I should reach it too late!"
Olivia tried to cheer her, and pointed out the gate, on which the moonlight fell; "At the end of this walk only," said Olivia, "see!—where the shadows of the trees open, is our goal."
Encouraged by the view of it, Ellena fled with lighter steps along the alley; but the gate seemed to mock her approach, and to retreat before her. Fatigue overtook her in this long alley, before she could overtake the spot so anxiously sought, and, breathless and exhausted, she was once more compelled to stop, and once more in the agony of terror exclaimed—"O, if my strength should fail before I reach it!—O, if I should drop even while it is in my view."
The pause of a moment enabled her to proceed, and she s [...]pped not again till she arrived at the gate; when Olivia suggested the prudence of ascertaining who was without, and of receiving an answer to the signal, which Vivaldi had proposed, before they ventured to make themselves known. She then struck upon the wood, and, in the anxious pause that followed whispering voices were distinctly heard from without, but no signal spoke in reply to the nun's.
"We are betrayed!" said Ellena softly, "but I will know the worst at once;" and she repeated the signal, when to her unspeakable joy, it was answered by three smart raps upon the gate. Olivia, more distrustful, would have checked the sudden hope of her friend, till some farther proof [...]ad appeared that it was Vivaldi who waited without, but her precaution came [Page 192] too late; a key already grated in the lock; the door opened, and two persons muffled in their garments appeared at it. Ellena was hastily retreating, when a well known voice recalled her, and she perceived, by the rays of a half-hooded lamp, which Jeronimo held, Vivaldi.
"O heaven!" he exclaimed, in a voice tremulous with joy, as he took her hand, "is it possible that you are again my own! If you could but know what I have suffered during this last hour?"—Then observing Olivia, he drew back till Ellena expressed her deep sense of obligation to the nun.
"We have no time to loose," said Jeronimo sullenly; "we have stayed too long alr [...]dy, as you will find, perhaps."
"Farewel, dear, Ellena!" said Olivia, "may the protection of heaven never leave you!"
The fears of Ellena now gave way to affectionate sorrow, as weeping on the bosom of the nun; she said "farewel; O farewel, my dear, my tender friend! I must never, never see you more, but I shall always love you; and you have promised, that I shall hear from you; remember the convent della Pieta!"
"You should have settled this matter within," said Jeronimo, "we have been here these two hours already."
"Ah Ellena!" said Vivaldi, as he gently disengaged her from the nun, "do I then hold only the second place in your heart?"
Ellena, as she dismissed her tears, replied with a smile more eloquent than words; and when she had again and again bade adieu to Olivia, she gave him her hand, and quitted the gate.
"It is moonlight," observed Vivaldi to Jeronimo, "your lamp is useless, and may betray us."
"It will be necessary in the church," replied Jeronimo, "and in some circuitous avenues we must pass, [Page 193] for I dare not lead you out through the great gates, Signor, as you well know."
"Lead on, then," replied Vivaldi, and they reached one of the cypress walks, that extended to the church; but, before they entered it, Ellena paused and looked back to the garden gate, that she might see Olivia once more again. The nun was still there, and Ellena perceived her faintly in the moonlight, waving her hand in signal of a last adieu. Ellena's heart was full; she wept, and lingered, and returned the signal, till the gentle violence of Vivaldi withdrew her from the spot.
"I envy your friend those tears," said he "and feel jealous of the tenderness that excites them. Weep no more, my Ellena."
"If you knew her worth," replied Ellena, "and the obligation I owe her!"—Her voice was lost in sighs, and Vivaldi only pressed her hand in silence.
As they traversed the gloomy walk, that led to the church, Vivaldi said, "Are you certain, father, that not any of the brothers are doing penance at the shrines in our way."
"Doing penance on a festival, Signor! they are more likely, by this time, to be taking down the ornaments."
"That would be equally unfortunate for us," said Vivaldi; "cannot we avoid the church, father?"
Jeronimo assured him, that this was impossible; and they immediately entered one of its lonely aisles, where he unhooded the lamp, for the tapers, which had given splendor, at an earlier hour, to the numerous shrines, had expired, except those at the high altar, which were so remote, that their rays faded into twilight long before they reached the part of the church where the fugitives passed. Here and there indeed, a dying lamp shot a tremulous gleam upon the shrine below, and vanished again, serving to mark the distances [Page 194] in the long perspective of arches, rather than to enlighten the gloomy solitude; but no sound, not even of a whisper, stole along the pavement.
They crossed to a door communicating with the court, and with the rock, which enshrined the image of our Lady of mount Carmel. There the sudden glare of tapers issuing from the cave, alarmed the fugitives, who had begun to retreat, when Jeronimo, stepping forward to examine the place, assured them, there was no symptom of any person being within, and that lights burned day and night around the sh [...]ine.
Revived by this explanation, they followed into the cave, where their conductor opened a part of the wirework enclosing the saint, and led them to the extremity of the vault, sunk deep within which appeared a small door. While Ellena trembled with apprehension, Jeronimo applied a key, and they perceived, beyond the door, a narrow passage winding away into the rock. The monk was leading on, but Vivaldi, who had the suspicions of Ellena, paused at the entrance, and demanded whither he was conducting them.
"To the place of your des [...]ation," replied the brother, in a hollow voice; an answer which alarmed Ellena, and did not satisfy Vivaldi. "I have given myself to your guidance," he said, "and have confided to you what is dearer to me than existence. Your life," pointing to the short sword concealed beneath his pilg [...]im's vest, "your life, you may rely upon my word, shall answer for your treachery. If your purpose is evil, pause a moment, and repent, or you shall not quit this passage alive."
"Do you menace me!" replied the brother, his countenance darkening. "Of what service would be my death to you? Do you not know that every brother in the convent would rise to avenge i [...]?"
"I know only that I will make sure of one traitor, [Page 195] if there be one," said Vivaldi, "and defend this lady against your host of monks; and, since you also know this, proceed accordingly."
At this instant it occuring to Ellena, that the passage in question probably led to the prison chamber, which Olivia had described as situated within some deep recess of the convent, and that Je [...]onimo had certainly betrayed them, she refused to go further. "If your purpose is honest," said she, "why do you not conduct us through some direct gate of the convent? why are we brought into these subterraneous labyrinths?"
"There is no direct gate but that of the portal," Jeronimo replied, "and this is the only other avenue leading beyond the walls." "And why can we not go out through the portal?" Vivaldi asked.
"Becuse it is beset with pilgrims, and lay brothers," replied Jeronimo. "And though you might pass them safely enough, what is to become of the lady? But all this you knew before, and was willing enough to trust me, then. The passage we are entering opens upon the cliffs, at some distance. I have run hazard enough already, and will waste no more time; for if you do not chuse to go forward, I will leave you, and you may act as you please."
He concluded with a laugh of derision, and was relocking the door, when Vivaldi, alarmed for the probable consequence of his resentment, and somewhat reassured by the indifference he discovered as to their pursuing the avenue or not, endeavoured to appease him, as well as to encourage Ellena; and he succeeded in both.
As he fellowed in silence through the gloomy passage, his doubts were, however, not so wholly vanquished, but that he was prepared for attack, and while he supported Ellena with one hand, he held his sword in the other.
[Page 196] The avenue was of considerable length, and before they reached its extremity, they heard music from a distance, winding along the rocks.—"Hark!" cried Ellena, "Whence come those sounds? Listen!"
"From the cave we have left," replied Jeronimo, "and it is midnight by that; it is the last chaunt of the pilgrims at the shrine of our Lady. Make haste, Signor, I shall be called for."
The fugitives now perceived, that all retreat was cut off, and that, if they had lingered only a few moments longer in the cave, they should have been surprised by those devotees, some one of whom, however, it appeared possible might wander into this avenue, and still interrupt their escape. When Vivaldi told his apprehensions, Jeromino, with an arch sneer, affirmed there was no danger of that, "for the passage," he added, "is known only to the brothers of the convent."
Vivaldi's doubts vanished when he further understood, that the avenue led only from the cliffs without to the cave, and was used for the purpose of conveying secretly to the shrine, such articles as were judged necessary to excite the superstitious wonder of the devotees.
While he proceeded in thoughtful silence, a distant chime sounded hollowly through the chambers of the rock. "The mattin-bell strikes!" said Jeronimo, in seeming alarm, "I am summoned. Signora, quicken your steps;" an unnecessary request, for Ellena already passed with her utmost speed; and she now rejoiced on perceiving a door in the remote winding of the passage, which she believed would emancipate her from the convent. But, as she advanced, the avenue appeared extended beyond it; and the door, which stood a little open allowed her a glimpse of a chamber in the cliff, duskily lighted.
Vivaldi, alarmed by the light, enquired, when he [Page 197] had passed, whether any person was in the chamber, and received an equivocal answer from Jeronimo, who, however, soon after pointed to an arched gate that terminated the avenue. They proceeded with lighter steps, for hope now cheared their hearts, and, on reaching the gate, all apprehension vanished. Jeronimo gave the lamp to Vivaldi, while he began to unbar and unlock the door, and Vivaldi had prepared to reward the brother for his fidelity, before they perceived that the door refused to yield. A dreadful agitation seized on Vivaldi. Jeronimo turning round, coolly said, "I fear we are betrayed; the second lock is shot! I have only the key of the first."
"We are betrayed," said Vivaldi, in a resolute tone, "but do not suppose that your dissimulation conceals you. I understand by whom we are betrayed. Recollect my late assertion, and consider once more, whether it is your interest to intercept us."
"My Signor," replied Jeronimo, "I do not deceive you when I protest by our holy Saint, that I have not caused this gate to be fastened, and that I would open it if I could. The lock, which holds it, was not shot an hour ago. I am the more surprised at what has happened, because this place is seldom passed, even by the holiest footstep; and I fear, whoever has passed now, has been led hither by suspicion, and comes to intercept your [...]light."
"Your wily explanation, brother, may serve you for an inferior occasion, but not on this," replied Vivaldi, "either, therefore, unclose the gate, or prepare for the worst. You are not now to learn, that, however slightly I may estimate my own life, I will never abandon this lady to the horrors which your community have already prepared for her."
Ellena, summoning her fleeting spirits, endeavoured to calm the indignation of Vivaldi, and to prevent the consequence of his suspicions, as well as to prevail [Page 198] with Jeronimo to unfasten the gate. Her efforts were, however, followed by a long altercation; but, at length, the art or the innocence of the brother, appeased Vivaldi, who now endeavoured to force the gate, while Jeronimo in vain represented its strength, and the certain ruin that must fall upon himself, if it should be discovered he had concurred in destroying it.
The gate was immoveable; but, as no other chance of escaping appeared, Vivaldi was not easily prevailed with to desist; all possibility of retreating too was gone, since the church and the cave were now crowded with devotees, attending the mattin service.
Jeronimo, however, seemingly did not despair of effecting their release, but he acknowledged that they would probably be compelled to remain concealed in this gloomy avenue all night, and perhaps the next day. At length, it was agreed, that he should return to the church, to examine whether a possibility remained of the fugitives passing unobserved to the great portal; and, having conducted them back to the chamber, of which they had taken a passing glimpse, he proceeded to the shrine.
For a considerable time after his departure, they were not without hope; but, their confidence diminishing as his delay encreased, their uncertainty at length became terrible; and it was only for the sake of Vivaldi, from whom she s [...]rupulously concealed all knowledge of the particular fate, which she was aware must await her in the convent, that Ellena appeared to endure it with calmness. Notwithstanding the plausibility of Jeronimo, suspicion of his treachery returned upon her mind. The cold and earthy air of this chamber was like that of a sepulchre; and when she looked round, it appeared exactly to correspond with the description given by Olivia of the prison where the nun had languished and expired. It was [Page 199] walled and valuted with the rock, had only one small grated aperture in the roof to admit air, and contained no furniture, except one table, a bench, and the lamp, which dimly shewed the apartment. That a lamp should be found burning in a place so remote and solitary, amazed her still more when she recollected the assertion of Jeronimo,—that even holy steps seldom passed this way; and when she considered also, that he had expressed no surprise at a circumstance, according to his own assertion, so unusual. Again it appeared, that she had been, betrayed into the very prison, designed for her by the Abbess; and the horror, occasioned by this supposition was so great, that she was on the point of disclosing it to Vivaldi, but an apprehension of the distraction, into which his desperate courage might precipitate him, restrained her.
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 [...]agerness, 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 death-bed 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 sound, but all remained still.
"It surely was not fancied!" said Vivaldi, after a long pause, "you heard it also?"
[Page 200] "I did!" replied Ellena.
"It was a sigh, was it not!" he added.
"O yes, 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 fickly!"—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 evils—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 pr [...]ssed against the door, which, to his surprise, yielded immediately, and discovered a figure kneeling before a crucific, 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 silver temples and pale features of an aged monk. The mind and sorrowful character of the countenance, and the lambent lustre of his eyes, which seemed still to retain somewhat of the sire of genius, interested Vivaldi, and encouraged Ellena, who had followed him.
An unaffected surprise appeared in the air of the monk; but Vivaldi, notwithstanding the interesting benignity of his countenance, feared to answer his enquiries, [Page 201] till the father hinted to him, that an explanation was necessary, even to his own safety. Encouraged by his manner, rather than intimidated by his hint, and perceiving that his situation was desperate, Vivaldi confided 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 harrassing 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 were 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 ru [...]ians [Page 202] 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 o [...] 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 surprise, 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.
[Page 203] 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 embrace 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 life, 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 th [...]se look [...] instantly, we are lost! Har [...], now I hear their voice—they call upon my name! Already they have discovered we have left the chamber."
While the friar, with trembling hands, applied the [Page 204] 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 monestery, 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 distincttly 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 rock, the tranquility of the landscape below afforded [Page 205] 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 to 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 wafting 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 enclosed my world, all without is to me a de [...]art. 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.
[Page 206] "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 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 favorite turret, and a belief, that the nuns, perhaps the Abbess herself, were searching for her there, renewed [...]er 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! Signor mio," 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 arrived at the tremendous pass, through which Ellena had approached the monastery, and whose horrors were considerably heightened at this [Page 207] 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 Signor mio! 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 that 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 [...]ffs, 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 longdrawn prospect faded into misty light.
"Well, to be sure! exclaimed Paulo, "to see what [Page 208] 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, l [...]st th [...]se 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 Paulo dolorously. "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 wo [...]d 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 [Page 209] 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 pilgrimane of pleasure; but they will be demure enough, I warrant, by and by. 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!"
He came up with his master, who had hurried forward with Ellena, and who now severely reproved his indiscretion; while the voices of the Carmelites, singing the mattin-hymn, sunk away among the rocks, and the quietness of solitude returned.
"Thank heaven! we are quit of this adventure," said Vivaldi.
"And now we have only the bridge to get over," rejoined Paulo, "and, hope, we shall all be safe."
They were now at the entrance of it; as they passed the trembling planks, and looked up the glen, a party of people appeared advancing on the road the fugitives had left, and a chorus of other voices than those of the Carmelites, were heard mingling with the hollow sound of the waters.
[Page 210] Ellena, again alarmed, hastened forward, and Vivaldi, though he endeavoured to appease her apprehension of pursuit, encouraged her speed.
"These are nothing but more pilgrims, Signor," said Paulo, "or they would not send such loud shouts before them; they must needs think we can hear."
The travellers proceeded as fast as the broken road would permit; and were soon beyond the reach of the voices; but as Paulo turned to look whether the party was within sight, he perceived two persons, wrapt in cloaks, advancing under the brow of the cliffs, and within a few paces of his horse's heels. Before he could give notice to his master, they were at his side.
"Are you returning from the shrine of our Lady?" said one of them.
Vivaldi, startled by the voice, looked round, and demanded who asked the question?
"A brother pilgrim," replied the man, "one who has toiled up th [...]se steep rocks, till his limbs will scarcely bear him further. Would that you would take compassion on him, and give him a ride."
However compassionate Vivaldi might be to the sufferings of others, this was not a moment when he could indulge his disposition, without endangering the safety of Ellena; and he even fancied that the stranger spoke in a voice of dissimulation. His suspicions strengthened when the traveller, not repulsed by a refusal, inquired the way he was going, and proposed to join his party: "For these mountains, they say, are infested with banditti," he added, "and a large company is less likely to be attacked than a small one."
"If you are so very weary, my friend," said Vivaldi, "how is it possible you can keep pace with our horses? though I acknowledge you have done wonders in overtaking them."
[Page 211] "The fear of these banditti," replied the stranger, "urged us on."
"You have nothing to apprehend from robbers," said Vivaldi, "if you will only moderate your pace; for a large company of pilgrims are on the road, who will soon overtake you."
He then put an end to the conversation, by clapping spurs to his horse, and the strangers were soon left far behind. The inconsistency of their complaints with their ability, and the whole of the [...] manner, were serious subjects of alarm to the fugitives; but when they had lost sight of them, they lost also their apprehensions; and having, at length, emerged from the pass, they quitted the high road to Naples, and struck into a solitary one that led westward towards Aquila.
CHAP. XII.
FROM the summit of a mountain, the morning light shewed the travellers the distant lake of Celano, gleaming at the feet of other lofty mountains of the Appennine, far in the south. Thither Vivaldi judged it prudent to direct his course, for the lake lay so remote from the immediate way to Naples, and from the neighbourhood of San Stefano, that its banks promised a secure retreat. He considered, also, that among the convents scattered along those delightful banks, might easily be found a priest, who would solemnize their nuptials, should Ellena consent to an immediate marriage.
The travellers descended among the olive woods, and soon after were directed by some peasants at work, into a road that leads from Aquila to the town of Celano, one of the very few roads which intrudes among the wild mountains, that on every side sequester the lake. As they approached the low grounds, the scent of orange blossoms breathed upon the morning air, and the spicy myrtle sent forth all its fragrance from among the cliffs, which it thickly tufted. Bowers of lemon and orange spread along the valley; and among the cabins of the peasants, who cultivated them, Vivaldi hoped to obtain repose and refreshment for Ellena.
The cottages, however, at which Paulo enquired, were unoccupied, the owners being all gone forth to their labour: and the travellers, again ascending, [Page 213] found themselves soon after among the mountains inhabited by flocks, where the scent of the orange was exchanged for the aromatic perfume of the pasturage.
"My Signor!" said Paulo, "is not that a shepherd's horn sounding at a distance? If so, the Signora may yet obtain some refreshment."
While Vivaldi listened, a hautboy and a pastoral drum were heard considerably nearer.
They followed the sound over the turf, and came within view of a cabin, sheltered from the sun by a tuft of almond trees. It was a dairy-cabin belonging to some shepherds, who at a short distance were watching their flocks, and, stretched beneath the shade of chesnuts, were amusing themselves by playing upon these rural instruments; a scene of Arcadian manners frequent at this day, upon the mountains of Abbruzzo. The simplicity of their appearance, approaching to wildness, was tempered by a hospitable spirit. A venerable man, the chief shepherd, advanced to meet the strangers: and, learning their wants, conducted them into his cool cabin, where cream, cheese made of goat's milk, honey extracted from the delicious herbage of the mountains, and dried sigs, were quickly placed before them.
Ellena, overcome with fatigue of anxiety, rather than that of travelling, retired, when she had taken breakfast, for an hour's repose, while Vivaldi rested on the bench before the cottage, and Paulo, keeping watch, discussed his breakfast, together with the circumstances of the late alarm, under the shade of the almond trees.
When Ellena again appeared, Vivaldi proposed that they should rest here during the intense heat of the day; and, since he now considered her to be in a place of temporary safety, he ventured to renew the subject nearest his heart; to represent the evils that [Page 214] might overtake them, and to urge an immediate solemnization of their marriage.
Thoughtful and dejected, Ellena attended for some time in silence to the arguments and pleadings of Vivaldi. She secretly acknowledged the justness of his representations, but she shrunk, more than ever, from the indelicacy, the degradation of intruding herself into his family; a family, too, from whom she had not only received proofs of strong dislike, but had suffered terrible injustice, and been menaced with still severer cruelty. These latter circumstances, however, released her from all obligations of delicacy or generosity, so far as concerned only the authors of her suffering; and she had now but to consider the happiness of Vivaldi and herself. Yet she could not decide thus precipitately on a subject, which so solemnly involved the fortune of her whole life; nor forbear reminding Vivaldi, affectionately, gratefully, as she loved him, of the circumstances that with-held her decision.
"Tell me yourself," said she, "whether I ought to give my hand, while your family—your mother"—She paused, blushed, and burst into tears.
"Spare me the view of these tears," said Vivaldi, "and a recollection of the circumstances, that excite them. O, let me not think of my mother, while I see you weep! Let me not remember, that her injustice and cruelty destined you to perpetual sorrow!"
Vivaldi's features became slightly convulsed while he spoke; he rose, paced the room with quick steps, and then quitted it, and walked under the shade of the trees in the front of the cabin.
In a few moments, however, he commanded his emotion and returned. Again he placed himself on the bench beside Ellena, and taking her hand, said solemnly, and in a voice of extreme sensibility, "Ellena, you have long witnessed how dear you are to me; you cannot doubt my love; you have long since promised [Page 215] —solemnly promised, in the presence of her who is now no more, but whose spirit may even at this moment look down upon us,—of her, who bequeathed you to my tenderest care, to be mine for ever. By these sacred truths, by these affecting recollections! I conjure you abandon me not to despair, nor in the energy of a just resentment, sacrifice the son to the cruel and mistaken policy of the mother! You, nor I, can conjecture the machinations, which may be spread for us, when it shall be known that you have left San Stefano. If we delay to exchange our vows, I know, and I feel—that you are lost to me for ever!"
Ellena was affected, and for some moments unable to reply. At length, drying her tears, she said tenderly, "Resentment can have no influence on my conduct towards you; I think I feel none towards the Marchesa—for she is your mother. But pride, insulted pride, has a right to dictate, and ought to be obeyed; and the time is now, perhaps, arrived when, if I would respect myself, I must renounce you."—
"Renounce me!" interrupted Vivaldi, "renounce me! And is it, then, possible you could renounce me?" he repeated, his eyes still fixed upon her face with eagerness and consternation, "Tell me at once, Ellena, is it possible?"
"I fear it is not," she replied.
"You fear! alas! if you fear, it is too possible, and I have lost you already! Say, O! say but, that you hope it is not, and I, too, will hope again."
The anguish, with which he uttered this, awakened all her tenderness, and, forgetting the reserve she had imposed upon herself, and every half-formed resolution, she said, with a smile of ineffable sweetness, "I will neither fear nor hope in this instance; I will obey the dictates of gratitude, of affection, and believe that I never can renounce you, while you are unchanged."
[Page 216] "Believe!" repeated Vivaldi, "only believe! And why that mention of gratitude; and why that unnecessary reservation? Yet even this assurance, feebly as it sustains my hopes, is extorted; you see my misery, and from pity, from gratitude, not affection, would assuage it. Besides, you will neither fear, nor hope! Ah, Ellena! did love ever yet exist without fear—and without hope? O! never, never! I fear and hope with such rapid transition; every assurance, every look of yours gives such force either to the one, or to the other, that I suffer unceasing anxiety. Why, too, that cold, that heart-breaking mention of gratitude? No Ellena! it is too certain that you do not love me!—My mother's cruelty has estranged your heart from me!
"How much you mistake!" said Ellena. "You have already received sacred testimonies of my regard; if you doubt their sincerity, pardon me, if I so far respect myself as to forbear entreating you will believe them."
"How calm, how indifferent, how circumspect, how prudent!" exclaimed Vivaldi in tones of mournful reproach. "But I will not distress you; forgive me for renewing this subject at this time. It was my intention to be silent till you should have reached a place of more parmanent security than this; but how was it possible, with such anxiety pressing upon my heart, to persevere in that design! And what have I gained by departing from it?—increase of anxiety—of doubt—of fear!"
"Why will you persist in such self-inflictions?" said Ellena. "I cannot endure that you should doubt my affection, even for a moment. And how can you suppose it possible, that I ever can become insensible of your's; that I can ever forget the imminent danger you have voluntarily incurred for my release, or remembering it, can cease to feel the warmest gratitude?
[Page 217] "That is the very word which tortures me beyond all others!" said Vivaldi; "is it then, only a sense of obligation you own for me? O! rather say you hate me, than suffer me to deceive my hopes with assurances of a sentiment so cold, so circumscribed, so dutiful as that of gratitude!"
"With me the word has a very different acception, replied Ellena smiling. "I understand it to imply all that is tender and generous in affection; and the sense of duty which you say it includes, is one of the sweetest and most sacred feelings of the human heart."
"Ah Ellena! I am too willing to be deceived, to examine your definition rigorously; yet I believe it is your smile, rather than the accuracy of your explanation, that persuades me to a confidence in your affection; and I will trust, that the gratitude you feel is thus tender and comprehensive. But, I beseech you name the word no more! Its sound is like the touch of the Torpedo, I perceive my confidence chilled even while I listen to my own pronunciation of it."
The entrance of Paulo interrupted the conversation, who advancing with an air of mystery, and alarm, said in a low voice,
"Signor! as I kept watch under the almond trees, who should I see mounting up the road from the valley yonder but the two bare-footed Carmelites, that overtook us in the pass of Chiari! I lost them again behind the woods, but I dare say they are coming this way, for the moment they spy out this dairy-hut, they will guess something good is to be had here; and the shepherds would believe their flocks would all die if"—
"I see them at this moment emerging from the woods," said Vivaldi, "and now, they are leaving the road and crossing this way. Where is our host, Paulo!
[Page 218] "He is without, at a little distance, Signor. Shall I call him?"
"Yes," replied Vivaldi, "or stay; I will call him myself. Yet, if they see me"—
"Aye, Signor; or, for that matter, if they see me. But we cannot help ourselves now; for if we call the host, we shall betray ourselves, and, if we do not call him, he will betray us; so they must find us out, be it as it may."
"Peace! peace! let me think a moment," said Vivaldi. While Vivaldi undertook to think, Paulo was peeping about for a hiding place, if occasion should require one.
"Call our host immediately," said Vivaldi, "I must speak with him."
"He passes the lattices at this instant," said Ellena.
Paulo obeyed, and the shepherd entered the cabin.
"My good friend," said Vivaldi, "I must entreat that you will not admit those friars whom you see coming this way, nor suffer them to know what g [...]ests you have. They have been very troublesome to us already on the road; I will reward you for any loss their sudden departure may occasion you."
"Nay for that matter, friend," said Paulo, "it is their visit only that can occasion you loss, begging the Signor's pardon; their departure never occasioned loss to any body. And to [...]ell you the truth, for my master will not speak out, we were obliged to look pretty sharply about us, while they bore us company, or we have reason to think our pockets would have been the lighter. They are designing people, friend, take my word for it; banditti perhaps, in disguise. The dress of a Carmelite would suit their purpose, at this time of the pilgrimage. So be pretty blunt with them, if they want to come in here; and you will do well, when they go, to send somebody to watch which way [Page 219] they take, and see them clear off, or you may lose a stray lamb perhaps."
The old shepherd lifted up his eyes and hands, "to see how the world goes!" said he. "But thank you, Maestro, for your warning; they shall not come within my threshold, for all their holy seeming, and its the first time in my life I ever said nay to one of their garb, and mine has been a pretty long one, as you may guess, perhaps, by my face. How old, Signor, should you take me to be? I warrant you will guess short of the matter though; for one of these high mountains"—
"I will guess when you have dismissed the travellers," said Vivaldi, "after having given them some hasty refreshment without, they must be almost at the door by this time. Dispatch, friend."
"If they should fall foul upon me, for refusing them entrance," said the shepherd, "you will come out to help me, Signor? for my lads are at some distance."
Vivaldi assured him that they would, and he left the cabin.
Paulo ventured to peep at the lattice, on what might be going forward without. "They are gone round to the door, Signor, I fancy," said he, "for I see nothing of them this way; if there was but another window! What foolish people to build a cottage with no window near the door! But I must listen."
He stepped on tip-toe to the door, and bent his head in attention.
"They are certainly spies from the monstery," said Ellena to Vivaldi, "they follow us so closely! If they were pilgrims, it is improbable, too, that their way should lie through this unfrequented region, and still more so, that they should not travel in a larger party. When my absence was discovered, these people were sent, no doubt, in pursuit of me, and having [Page 220] met the devotees whom we passed, they were enabled to follow our route."
"We shall do well to act upon this supposition," replied Vivaldi, "but though I am inclined to believe them emissaries from San Stefano, it is not improbable that they are only Carmelites returning to some convent on the lake of Celano."
"I cannot hear a syllable, Signor," said Paulo. "Pray do listen yourself! and there is not a single chink in this door to afford one consolation. Well! if ever I build a cottage, there shall be a window near—"
"Listen!" said Vivaldi.
"Not a single word, Signor!" cried Paulo, after a pause, "I do not even hear a voice!—But now I hear steps, and they are coming to the door, too; they shall find it no easy matter to open it, though;" he added, placing himself against it. "Ay, ay, you may knock, friend, till your arm aches, and kick and lay about you—no matter for that."
"Silence! let us know who it is," said Vivaldi, and the old shepherd's voice was heard without. "They are gone, Signor," said he, "you may open the door."
"Which way did they go," asked Vivaldi, when the man entered. "I cannot say, as to that, Signor, because I did not happen to see them at all; and I have been looking all about, too."
"Why, I saw them myself, crossing this way from the wood yonder," said Paulo.
"And there is nothing to shelter them from our view between the wood and this cottage, friend," added Vivaldi; "What can they have done with themselves?"
"For that matter, gone into the wood again, perhaps," said the shepherd.
Paulo gave his master a significant look, and added, [Page 221] "It is likely enough, friend; and you may depend upon it they are lurking there for no good purpose. You will do well to send somebody to look after them; your flocks will suffer for it else. Depend upon it, they design no good."
"We are not used to such sort of folks in these parts," replied the shepherd, "but if they mean us any harm, they shall find we can help ourselves. As he concluded he took down a horn from the roof, and blew a shrill blast that made the mountains echo; when immediately the younger shepherds were seen running from various quarters towards the cottage.
"Do not be alarmed friend," said Vivaldi, "these travellers mean you no harm, I dear say, whatever they may design against us. But, as I think them suspicious persons, and should not like to overtake them on the road, I will reward one of your lads if you will let him go a little ways towards Celano, and examine whether they are lurking on that route."
The old man consented, and when the shepherds came up, one of them received directions from Vivaldi.
"And be sure you do not return till you have found them," added Paulo.
"No, master," replied the lad, "and I will bring them safe here you may trust me."
"If you do, friend, you will get your head broke for your trouble. You are only to discover where they are, and to watch where they go," said Paulo.
Vivaldi, at length, made the lad comprehend what was required of him, and he departed; while the old shepherd went out to keep guard.
The time of his absence was passed in various conjectures by the party in the cabin, concerning the Carmelites. Vivaldi still inclined to believe they were honest people returning from a pilgrimage, but Paulo was decidedly against this opinion. "They are [Page 222] waiting for us on the road, you may depend upon it, Signor," said the latter. "You may be certain they have some great design in hand, or they would never have turned their steps from this dairy-house when once they had spied it, and that they did spy it, we are sure."
"But if they have in hand the great design you speak of Paulo," said Vivaldi, "it is probable that they have spied us also, by their taking this obsure road. Now it must have occurred to them when they saw a dairy-hut, in so solitary a region, that we might probably be found within—yet they have not examined. It appears, therefore, they have no design against us. What can you answer to this, Paulo! I trust the apprehensions of Signora di Rosalba are unfounded."
"Why! do you suppose, Signor, they would attack us when we're safe housed, and had these good shepherds to lend us a helping hand? No, Signor, they would not even have shewn themselves if they could have helped it; and being once sure we were here, they would skulk back to the woods, and lurk for us in the road they knew we must go, since, as it happens, there is only one."
"How is it possible," said Ellena, "that they can have discovered us here, since they did not approach the cabin to enquire?"
"They came near enough for their purpose, Signora, I dare say; and, if the truth were known, they spied my face looking at them through the lattice."
"Come, come," said Vivaldi, "you are an ingenious tormentor, indeed, Paulo, Do you suppose they saw enough of thy face last night by moonlight, in that dusky glen to enable them to recollect it again at a distance of forty yards? Revive, my Ellena, I think every appearance is in our favour."
"Would I could think so too!" said she with a sigh.
[Page 223] "O! for that matter, Signora," rejoined Paulo, "there is nothing to be afraid of; they should find tough work of it, if they thought proper to attack us, lady."
"It is not an open attack that we have to fear," replied Ellena, "but they may surround us with their snares, and defy resistance."
However Vivaldi might accede to the truth of this remark, he would not appear to do so; but he tried to laugh away her apprehensions; and Paulo was silenced for a while by a significant look from his master.
The shepherd's boy returned much sooner than they had expected, and he probably saved his time that he might spare his labour, for he brought no intelligence of the Carmelites. "I looked for them among the woods along the road side in the hollow, yonder," said the lad, "and then I mounted the hill further on, but I could see nothing of them far or near, nor of a single soul, except our goats, and some of them do stray wide enough, sometimes; they lead me a fine dance often. They sometimes, Signor, have wandered as far as Monte Nuvola, yonder, and got to the top of it, up among the clouds, and the crags, where I should break my neck if I climbed; and the rogues seemed to know it, too, for when they have seen me coming, scrambling up, puffing and blowing, they have ceased their capering, and stood peeping over a crag so fly, and so quiet, it seemed as if they were laughing at me; as much as to say, "Catch us if you can."
Vivaldi, who during the latter part of this speech had been consulting with Ellena, whether they should proceed on their way immediately, asked the boy some further questions concerning the Carmelites; and becoming convinced that they had either not taken the road to Celano, or, having taken it, were at a considerable distance, he proposed setting out, and proceeding leisurely; "For I have now little apprehension of [Page 224] these people," he added, "and a great deal lest night should overtake us before we reach the place of our destination, since the road is mountainous and wild, and, further, we are not perfectly acquainted with it."
Ellena approving the plan, they took leave of the good shepherd, who could with difficulty be prevailed with to accept any recompence for his trouble, and who gave them some further directions as to the road; and their way was long cheered by the sound of the tabor, and the sweetness of the hautboy, wafted over the wild.
When they descended into the woody hollow mentioned by the boy, Ellena sent forth many an anxious look beneath the deep shade; while Paulo, sometimes silent, and at others whistling and singing loudly, as if to overcome his fears, peeped under every bough that crossed the road, expecting to discover his friends the Carmelites lurking within its gloom.
Having emerged from this valley, the road lay over the mountains covered with flocks, for it was now the season when they had quitted the plains of Apulia, to feed upon the herbage for which this region is celebrated; and it was near sun-set, when, from a summit to which the travellers had long been ascending, the whole lake of Celano, with its vast circle of mountains, burst at once upon their view.
"Ah Signor!" exclaimed Paulo, "what a prospect is here! It reminds me of home; it is almost as pleasant as the bay of Naples! I should never love it like that though, if it were an hundred times finer."
The travellers stopped to admire the scene, and to give their horses rest, after the labour of the ascent. The evening sun, shooting athwart a clear expanse of water, between eighteen and twenty leagues in circumference, lighted up all the town and villages, and towered castles, and spiry convents, that enriched the rising shores; brought out all the various tints of cultivation, [Page 225] and coloured with beamy purple the mountains which on every side formed the majestic background of the landscape. Vivaldi pointed out to Ellena the gigantic Velino in the north, a barrier mountain, between the territories of Rome and Naples. Its peaked head towered far above every neighbouring summit, and its white precipices were opposed to the verdant points of the Majella, snow crowned, and next in altitude, loved by the flocks. Westward near woody hills, and rising immediately from the lake, appeared Monte Salviano, covered with wild sage, as its name imports, and once pompous with forests of chestnut; a branch from the Appennine extended to meet it. "See," said Vivaldi, "where Monte-Corno stands like a russian, huge, seared, threatening, and horrid!—and in the south, where the sullen mountain of San Nicolo shoots up, barren and rocky! From thence, mark how other overtopping ridges of the mighty Appennine darken the horizon far along the east, and circle to approach the Velino in the north!"
"Mark too," said Ellena, "how sweetly the banks and undulating plains repose at the feet of the mountains; what an image of beauty and elegance they oppose to the awful grandeur that overlooks and guards them? Observe, too, how many a delightful valley, opening from the lake, spreads its rice and corn fields, shaded with groves of the almond far among the winding hills; how gaily vineyards and olives alternately chequer the acclivities, and how gracefully the lofty palms bend over the higher cliffs."
"Ay, Signora!" exclaimed Paulo, "and have the goodness to observe how like are the fishing boats, that sail towards the hamlet below, to those one sees upon the bay of Naples. They are worth all the rest of the prospect, except indeed this fine sheet of water, which is almost as good as the bay, and that mountain, with its sharp head, which is almost as good as Vesuvius—if it would but throw out fire!"
[Page 226] "We must despair of finding a mountain in this neighbourhood, so good as to do that, Paulo," said Vivaldi, smiling at this stroke of nationalty; "though, perhaps, many that we now see, have been volcanic."
"I honor them for that Signor; and look at them with double satisfaction; but our mountain is the only mountain in the world. O! to see it of a dark night! what a blazing it makes! and what a height it will shoot to! and what a light it throws over the sea! No other mountain can do so. It seems as if the waves were all on fire. I have seen the reflection as far as Capri, trembling all across the gulf, and shewing every vessel as plain as at noon day; ay, and every sailor on the deck. You never saw such a sight, Signor."
"Why you do, indeed, seem to have forgotten that I ever did, Paulo, and also that a volcano can do any mischief. But let us return, Ellena, to the scene before us. Yonder, a mile or two within the shore, is the town of Celano, whither we are going."
The clearness of an Italian atmosphere permitted him to discriminate the minute through very distant features of the landscape; and on an eminence rising from the plains of a valley, opening to the west, he pointed out the modern Alba, crowned with the ruins of its ancient castle still visible upon the splendor of the horizon, the prison and the tomb of many a Prince, who, "fallen from his high estate," was sent from Imperial Rome to finish here the sad reverse of his days; to gaze from the bars of his tower upon solitudes where beauty or grandeur administered no assuaging feeling to him, whose life had passed amidst the intrigues of the world and the feverish contentions of disappointed ambition; to him, with whom reflection brought only remorse, and anticipation despair; whom, no horizontal beam enlivened in the crimson evening of life's dusty day."
"And such a scene as this," said Vivaldi, "a Roman [Page 227] emperor came, only for the purpose of witnessing the most barbarous exhibition; to indulge the most savage delights! Here, Claudius celebrated the accomplishment of his arduous work, an aqueduct to carry the overflowing waters of the Celano to Rome, by a naval fight, in which hundreds of wretched slaves perished for his amusement! Its pure and polished surface was stained with human blood, and roughened by the plunging bodies of the slain, while the gilded gallies of the Emperor floated gaily around, and these beautiful shores were made to echo with applauding yells, worthy of the furies!"
"We scarcely dare to trust the truth of history [...]n some of its traits of human nature," said Ellena.
"Signor," cried Paulo, "I have been thinking that while we are taking the air, so much at our ease, here, those Carmelites may be spying at us from some hole or corner that we know nothing of, and may swoop upon us, all of a sudden, before we can help ourselves. Had we not [...] go on, Signor?"
"Our horses are, perhaps, sufficiently rested," replied Vivaldi, "but, if I had not long since dismissed all suspicion of the evil intention of those strangers, I should not willingly have stopped for a moment."
"But pray let us proceed," said Ellena.
"Ay, Signora, it is best to be of the safe side," observed Paulo. "Yonder, below, is Celano, and I hope we shall get safe housed, there, before it is quite dark, for here we have no mountain, that will light us on our way! Ah! if we were within twenty miles of Naples now—and it was an illumination night!"—
As they descended the mountain, Ellena, silent and dejected, abandoned herself to reflection. She was too sensible of the difficulties of her present situation, and too apprehensive of the influence, which her determination must have on all her future life, to be happy, though escaped from the prison of San Stesano, and [Page 228] in the presence of Vivaldi, her beloved deliverer and protector. He observed her dejection with grief, and not understanding all the finer scruples that distressed her, interpreted her reserve into indifference towards himself. But he forbore to disturb her again with a mention of doubts, or fears; and he determined not to urge the subject of his late entreaties, till he should have placed her in some secure asylum, where she might feel herself at perfect liberty to accept or reject his proposal. By acting with an honor so delicate, he unconsciously adopted a certain means of encreasing her esteem and gratitude, and deserved them the more, since he had to endure the apprehension of losing her by the delay thus occasioned to their nuptials.
They reached the town of Celano before the evening closed; when Vivaldi was requested by Ellena to enquire for a convent, where she might be lodged for the night. He left her at the inn, with Paulo for her guard, and proceeded on his search. The first gate he knocked upon belonged to a convent of Carmelites. It appeared probable, that the pilgrims of that order, who had occasioned him so much disquietude, were honest brothers of this house; but as it was probable also, that if they were emissaries of the Abbess of San Stefano, and came to Celano, they would take up their lodgings with a society of their own class, in preference to that of any other, Vivaldi thought it prudent to retire from their gates without making himself known. He passed on, therefore, and soon after arrived at a convent of Dominicans, where he learned, that there were only two houses of nuns in Celano, and that these admitted no other boarders than permanent ones.
Vivaldi returned with this intelligence to Ellena, who endeavoured to reconcil [...] herself to the necessity of remaining where she was; but Poulo, ever active and zealous, brought intelligence, that at a little fishing [Page 229] town, at some distance, on the bank of the lake, was a convent of Ursalines, remarkable for their hospitality of strangers. The obscurity of so remote a place, was another reason for prefering it to Celano, and Vivaldi proposing to remove thither, if Ellena was not too weary to proceed, she readily assented, and they immediately set off.
"It happens to be a fine night," said Paulo, as they left Celano, "and so, Signor, we cannot well lose our way; besides, they say, there is but one. The town we are going to lies yonder on the edge of the lake, about a mile and a half off. I think I can see a gray steeple or two, a little to the right of that wood where the water gleams so."
"No, Paulo," replied Vivaldi, after looking attentively. "I perceive what you mean; but those are not the points of steeples, they are only the tops of some tall cypresses."
"Pardon me, Signor, they are too tapering for trees; that must surely be the town. This road, however, will lead us right, for there is no other to puzzle us, as they say."
"This cool and balmy air revives me," said Ellena; "and what a soothing shade prevails over the scene! How softened, yet how distinct, is every near object; how sweetly dubious are the more removed ones; while the mountains beyond character themselves sublimely upon the still glowing horizon."
"Observe, too," said Vivaldi, "how their broken summits, tipt with the beams that have set to our lower region, exhibit the portraiture of towers and castles, and embattled ramparts, which seemed designed to guard them against the enemies, that may come by the clouds."
"Yes," replied Ellena, "the mountains themselves display a sublimity, that seems to belong to a higher [Page 230] world; their besiegers ought not to be of this earth; they can be only spirits of the air."
"They can be nothing else, Signora," said Paulo, "for nothing of this earth can reach them. See! lady, they have some of the qualities of your spirits, too; see! how they change their shapes and colours, as the sunbeams sink. And now, how gray and dim they grow! See but how fast they vanish?"
"Every thing reposes," said Vivaldi. "Who would willingly travel in the day, when Italy has such nights as this!"
"Signor, that is the town before us," said Paulo, "for now I can discern, plain enough, the spires of convents; and there goes a light! Hah! hah! and there is a bell, too, chiming from one of the spires! The monks are going to mass; would we were going to supper, Signor!"
"That chime is nearer than the place you point to, Paulo, and I doubt whether it comes from the same quarter."
"Hark! Signor, the air wafts the sound! and now it is gone again."
"Yes, I believe you are right, Paulo, and that we have not far to go."
The travellers descended the gradual slopes, towards the shore; and Paulo, some time after, exclaimed, "See, Signor, where another light glides along! See! it is reflected on the lake."
"I hear the faint dashing of waves, now," said Ellena, "and the sound of oars, too. But observe, Paulo, the light is not in the town, it is in the boat that moves yonder."
"Now it retreats, and trembles in a lengthening line upon the waters," said Vivaldi. "We have been too ready to believe what we wish, and have yet far to go"
The shore they were approaching formed a spacious [Page 231] bay for the lake immediately below. Dark woods seemed to spread along the banks, and ascend among the cultivated slopes towards the mountains; except where, here and there, cliffs, bending over the water, were distinguished through the twilight by the whiteness of their limestone precipices. Within the bay, the town became gradually visible; lights twinkled between the trees, appearing and vanishing, like the stars of a cloudy night; and, at length was heard the melancholy song of boatmen, who were fishing near the shore.
Other sounds soon after struck the ear. "O, what merry notes!" exclaimed Paulo, "they make my heart dance. See! Signora, there is a groupe, footing it away so gaily on the bank of the lake yonder, by those trees. O, what merry set! Would I were among them! that is, I mean, if you, Maestro, and the Signora were not here."
"Well corrected, Paulo."
"It is a festival, I fancy," observed Vivaldi.—These peasants of the lake can make the moments [...] as gaily as the voluptuaries of the city, it seems."
"O! what merry music!" repeated Paulo. "Ah! how often I have footed it as joyously on the beach at Naples, after sun-set, of a fine night, like this; with such a pleasant fresh breeze to cool one! Ah! there are none like the fishermen of Naples for a dance by moonlight; how lightly they do trip it! O! if I was [...]ut there now! That is, I mean, if you, Maestro, and the Signora were there too. O! what merry notes!"
"We thank you, good Signor Paulo," said Vivaldi, "and I trust we shall all be there soon; when you shall trip it away, with as joyous a heart as the [...]est of them."
The travellers now entered the town, which consisted of one street, straggling along the margin of the [...]; and having enquired for the Ursaline convent, [Page 232] were directed to its gates. The portress appeared immediately upon the ringing of the bell, and carried a message to the Abbess, who as quickly returned an invitation to Ellena. She alighted, and followed the portress to the parlour, while Vivaldi remained at the gate, till he should know whether she approved of her new lodging. A second invitation induced him also to alight; he was admitted to the grate, and offered refreshment, which, however, he declined staying to accept, as he had yet a lodging to seek for the night. The Abbess, on learning this circumstance, courteously recommended him to a neighbouring society of Benedictines, and desired him to mention her name to the Abbot.
Vivaldi then took leave of Ellena, and, though it was only for a few hours, he left her with dejection, and with some degree of apprehension for her safety, which, though circumstances could not justify him in admitting, he could not entirely subdue. She shared his dejection, but not his fears, when the door closed after him, and she found herself once more among strangers. The forlornness of her feelings could not be entirely overcome by the attentions of the Abbess; and there was a degree of curiosity, and even of scrutiny, expressed in the looks of some of the sisters, which seemed more than was due to a stranger. From such examination she eagerly escaped to the repose from which she had so long been withheld.
Vivaldi, meanwhile, had found an hospitable reception with the Benedictines, whose sequestered situation made the visit of a stranger a pleasurable novelty to them. In the eagerness of conversation, and, yielding to the satisfaction which the mind receives from exercising ideas that have long slept in dusky indolence, and to the pleasure of admitting new ones, the Abbot and a few of the brothers sat with Vivaldi to a late hour. When, at length, the traveller was suffered [Page 233] to retire, other subjects than those, which had interested his host, engaged his thoughts; and he revolved the means of preventing the misery that threatened him, in a serious separation from Ellena. Now, that she was received into a respectable asylum, every motive for silence upon this topic was done away. He determined, therefore, that on the following morning, he would urge all his reasons and entreaties for an immediate marriage; and among the brothers of the Benedictines, he had little doubt of prevailing with one to solemnize the nuptials, which he believed would place his happiness and Ellena's peace, beyond the influence of malignant possibilities.
CHAP. XIII.
WHILE Vivaldi and Ellena were on the way from San Stefano, the Marchese Vivaldi was suffering the utmost vexation, respecting his son; and the Marchesa felt not less apprehension, that the abode of Ellena might be discovered; yet this fear did not withhold her from mingling in all the gaieties of Naples. Her assemblies were, as usual, among the most brilliant of that voluptuous city, and she patronized, as zealously as b [...]fore, the strains of her favourite composer. But, notwithstanding this perpetual dissipation, her thoughts frequently withdrew themselves from the scene, and dwelt on gloomy forebodings of disappointed pride.
A circumstance, which rendered her particularly susceptible to such disappointment at this time, was, that overtures of alliance had been lately made to the Marchese, by the father of a lady, who was held suitable, in every consideration, to become his daughter; and whose wealth rendered the union particularly desirable at a time, when the expences of such an establishment as was necessary to the vanity of the Marchesa, considerably exceeded his income, large as it was.
The Marchesa's temper had been thus irritated by the contemplation of her son's conduct in an affair, which so materially affected the fortune, and, as she believed, the honour of his family; when a courier [Page 235] from the Abbess of San Stefano brought intelligence of the flight of Ellena with Vivaldi. She was in a disposition, which heightened disappointment into fury; and she forfeited, by the transports to which she yielded, the degree of pity that otherwise was due to a mother, who believed her only son to have sacrificed his family and himself to an unworthy passion. She believed, that he was now married, and irrecoverably lost. Scarcely able to endure the agony of this conviction, she sent for her antient adviser Schedoni, that she might, at least, have the relief of expressing her emotion; and of examining whether there remained a possibility of dissolving these long-dreaded nuptials. The phrenzy of passion, however, did not so far overcome her circumspection as to compel her to acquaint the Marchese with the contents of the Abbess's letter, before she had consulted with her Confessor. She knew that the principles of her husband were too just, upon the grand points of morality, to suffer him to adopt the measures she might judge necessary; and she avoided informing him of the marriage of his son, until the means of counteracting it should have been suggested and accomplished, however desperate such means might be.
Schedoni was not to be found. Trifling circumstances encrease the irritation of a mind in such a state as was her's. The delay of an opportunity for unburthening her heart to Schedoni, was hardly to be endured; another and another messenger were dispatched to her Confessor.
"My mistress has committed some great sin, truely!" said the servant, who had been twice to the convent within the last half hour. "It must lie heavy on her conscience, in good truth, since she cannot support it for one half hour. Well! the rich have this comfort, however, that, let them be ever so guilty, they can buy themselves innocent again, in the twinkling of a [Page 236] ducat. Now a poor man might be a month before he recovered his innocence, and that, too, not till after many a bout of hard flogging."
In the evening Schedoni came, but it was only to confirm her worst fear. He, too, had heard of the escape of Ellena, as well as that she was on the lake of Celano, and was married to Vivaldi. How he had obtained this information he did not chuse to disclose, but he mentioned so many minute circumstances in confirmation of its truth, and appeared to be so perfectly convinced of the facts he related, that the Marchesa believed them, as implicitly as himself; and her passion and despair transgressed all bounds of decorum.
Schedoni observed, with dark and silent pleasure, the turbulent excess of her feelings; and perceived that the moment was now arrived, when he might command them to his purpose, so as to render his assistance indispensable to her repose: and probably so as to accomplish the revenge he had long mediated against Vivaldi, without hazarding the favour of the Marchesa. So far was he from attempting to sooth her sufferings, that he continued to irr [...]ate her resentment, and exasperate her pride; effecting this, at the same time, with such imperceptible art, that he appeared only to be palliating the conduct of Vivaldi, and endeavouring to console his distracted mother.
"This is a rash step, certainly," said the Confessor; "but he is young, very young, and therefore, does not foresee the consequence to which it leads. He does not perceive how seriously it will affect the dignity of his house;—how much it will depreciate his consequence with the court, with the nobles of his own rank, and even with the plebeians, with whom he has condescended to connect himself. Intoxicated with the passions of youth, he does not weigh the value of those blessings, which wisdom and the experience of maturer age know how to estimate. He neglects [Page 237] [...]hem only because he does not perceive their influence [...]n society, and that lightly to resign them, is to regard himself in the view of almost every mind. Unhappy young man! he is to be pitied fully as much as blamed."
"Your excuses, reverend father," said the tortured Marchesa, "prove the goodness of your heart; but they illustrate, also, the degeneracy of his mind, and detail the full extent of the effects which he has brought upon his family. It affords me no consolation to know, that this degradation proceeds from his head, rather than his heart; it is sufficient that he has incurred it, and that no possibility remains of throwing off the misfortune."
"Perhaps that is affirming too much," observed Schedoni.
"How, father!" said the Merchesa.
"Perhaps a possibility does remain," said he.
"Point it out to me, good father! I do not perceive it."
"Nay, my lady," replied the subtle Schedoni, corecting himself, "I am by no means assured, that such possibility does exist. My solicitude, for your tranquility, and for the honour of your house, makes me so unwilling to relinquish hope, that, perhaps, I only imagine a possibility in your favour. Let me consider.—Alas! the misfortune, severe as it is, must be endured; there remain no means of escaping from it."
"It was cruel of you, father, to suggest a hope which you could not justify," observed the Marchesa.
"You must excuse my extreme solicitude, then," replied the confessor." "But how is it possible for me to see a family of your ancient estimation brought into such circumstances; its honours blighted by the folly of a thoughtless boy, without feeling sorrow and indignation, and looking round for even some desperate means of delivering it from disgrace." He paused.
[Page 238] "Disgrace!" exclaimed the Marchesa, "father, you—you—Disgrace!—The word is a strong one, but—it is, alas! just. And shall we submit to this?—Is it possible we can submit to it?"
"There is no remedy," said Schedoni, coolly.
"Good God! exclaimed the Marchesa "that there should be no law to prevent, or, at least, to punish such criminal marriages?"
"It is much to be lamented," replied Schedoni.
"The woman who obtrudes herself upon a family, to dishonour it," continued the Marchesa, "deserves a punishment nearly equal to that of a state criminal, since she injures those who best support the state. She ought to suffer"—
"Not nearly, but quite equal," interrupted the confessor, "she deserves—death!"
He paus [...]d, and there was a moment of profound silence, till he added—"for death only can obliviate the degradation she has occasioned; her death alone can restore the original splendor of the line she would have sullied."
He paused again, but the Marchesa still remaining silent, he added, "I have often marvelled that our lawgivers should have failed to perceive the justness, nay the necessity, of such punishment!"
"It is astonishing," said the Marchesa, thoughtfully, "that a regard for their own honor did not suggest it."
"Justice does not the less exist, because her laws are neglected," observed Schedoni. "A sense of what she commands lives in our breasts; and when we fail to obey that sense, is is to weakness, not to virtue, that we yield."
"Certainly," replied the Marchesa, "that truth never yet was doubted."
"Pardon me, I am not so certain as to that," said the Confessor; "when justice happens to oppose prejudice, [Page 239] we are apt to believe it virtuous to disobey her. For instance, though the law of justice demands the death of this girl, yet because the law of the land forbears to enforce it, you, my daughter, even you! though possessed of a man's spirit, and his clear perceptions, would think that virtue bade her live, when it was only fear!"
"Ha!" exclaimed the Marchesa, in a low voice, "What is that you mean? You shall find I have a man's courage also."
"I speak without disguise." replied Schedoni, "my meaning requires none."
The Marchesa mused, and remained silent.
"I have done my duty," resumed Schedoni, at length. "I have pointed out the only way that remains for you to escape dishonor. If my zeal is displeasing—but I have none."
"No, good father, no," said the Marchesa; you mistake the cause of my emotion. New ideas, new prospects, open!—they confuse, they distract me My mind has not yet attained sufficient strength to encounter them; some woman's weakness still lingers at my heart."
"Pardon my inconsiderate zeal," said Schedoni, with affected humility, "I have been to blame. If your's is a weakness, it is, at least, an amiable one, and, perhaps, deserves to be encouraged, rather than conquered."
"How, father! If it deserves encouragement, it is not a weakness, but a virtue."
"Be it so," said Schedoni, coolly, "the interest I have felt on this subject, has, perhaps, misled my judgment, and has made unjust. Think no more of it, or, if you do, let it be only to pardon the zeal I have testified."
"It does not deserve pardon, but thanks," replied the Marchesa, "not thanks only, but reward. Good [Page 240] father, I hope it will some time be in my power to prove the sincerity of my words."
The Confessor bowed his head.
"I trust that the services you have rendered me, shall be gratefully repaid—rewarded, I dare not hope, for what benefit could possibly reward a service so vast, as it may, perhaps, be in your power to confer upon my family! What recompence could be balanced against the benefit of having rescued the honor of an ancient house!"
"Your goodness is beyond my thanks, or my desert," said Schedoni, and he was again silent.
The Marchesa wished him to lead her back to the point, from which she herself had deviated, and he seemed determined, that she should lead him thither. She mused, and hesitated. Her mind was not yet familiar with attrocious guilt; and the crime which Schedoni had suggested, somewhat alarmed her. She seared to think, and still more to name it; yet, so acutely susceptible was her pride, so stern her indignation, and so profound her desire of vengeance, that her mind was tossed as on a tempestuous ocean, and these terrible feelings threatened to overwhelm all the residue of humanity in her heart. Schedoni observed all its progressive movements, and, like a gaunt tyger, lurked in silence, ready to spring forward at the moment of opportunity.
"Is it your advice, then, father," resumed the Marchesa, after a long pause,—"is it your opinion—that Ellena"—She hesitated, desirous that Schedoni should anticipate her meaning; but he chose to spare his own delicacy rather than that of the Marchesa.
"You think, then, that this insidious girl deserves"—She paused again, but the Confessor, still silent, seemed to wait with submission for what the Marchesa should deliver.
"I repeat, father, that it is your opinion this girl deserves severe punishment."—
[Page 241] Undoubtedly replied Schedoni, "It is not also your own?"
"That not any punishment can be too severe?" continued the Marchesa. "That justice, equally with necessity, demands—her life? Is not this your opinion too?"
"O! pardon me," said Schedoni, "I may have erred; that only was my opinion; and when I formed it, I was probably too much under the influence of zeal to be just. When the heart is warm, how is it possible that the judgment can be cool?"
"It is not then, your opinion, holy father," said the Marchesa with displeasure.
"I do not absolutely say that," replied the Confessor—"But I leave it to your better judgment to decide upon its justness."
As he said this, he rose to depart. The Marchesa was agitated and perplexed, and requested he would stay; but he excused himself by alledging that it was the hour he must attend a particular mass.
"Well then holy father, I will occupy no more of your valuable moments at present; but you know I highly estimate your advice, and will not refuse, when I shall at some future time request it."
"I cannot refuse to accept an honour," replied the Confessor, with an air of meekness, "but the subject you allude to is delicate,"—
"And therefore I must value, and require your opinion upon it," rejoined the Marchesa.
"I would wish you to value your own," replied Schedoni; "you cannot have a better director."
"You flatter, father."
"I only reply, my daughter."
"On the evening of to-morrow, said the Marchessa, gravely, "I shall be at vespers in the church of San Nicolo; if you should happen to be there, you will probably see me, when the service is over, and the [Page 242] congregation is departed, in the north cloister. We can there converse on the subject nearest my heart, and without observation.—Farewell!"
"Peace be with you, daughter! and wisdom counsel your thoughts!" replied Schedoni, I will not fail to visit San Nicholo."
He folded his hands upon his breast, bowed his head, and left the apartment with the silent foot-step, that indicates weariness and conscious duplicity.
The Marchesa remained in her closet, shaken by ever verying passions, and ever-fluctuating opinions; meditating misery for others, and inflicting it only upon herself.
CHAP. XIV.
THE Marchesa repaired, according to her appointment, to the church of San Nicolo, and, ordering her servants to remain with the carriage at a side-door, entered the choir attended only by her woman.
When vespe [...]s had concluded, she lingered till nearly every person had quitted the choir, and then walked through the solitary aisle, to the north cloister. Her heart was as heavy as her step; for when is it that peace and evil passions dwell together? As she slowly paced the cloisters, she perceived a monk passing between on the pillars, who, as he approached, lifted his crowl, and she knew him to be Schedoni.
He instantly observed the agitation of her spirits, and that her purpose was not yet determined according to his hope. But, though his mind became clouded, his countenance remained unaltered; it was grave and thoughtful. The sternness of his vulture-eye was, however, somewhat softened, and its lids were contracted by subtlety.
The Marchesa bade her woman walk apart, while she conferred with her Confessor.
"This unhappy boy" said she, when the attendant was at some distance, "How much suffering does his folly inflict upon [...]s family! My good father, I have need of all your advice and consolation. My mind is perpetually haunted by a sense of my misfortune; it [Page 244] has no respite; awake, or in my dream, this ungrateful son alike pursues me! The only relief my heart receives is when conversing with you—my only counsellor, my only disinterested friend."
The Confessor bowed. "The Marchesa is no doubt, equally afflicted with yourself," said he; "but he is notwithstanding, much more competent to advise you on this delicate subject than I am."
"The Marchesa has prejudices, father, as you well know; he is a sensible man, but he is sometimes mistaken, and he is incorrigible in error. He has the faults of a mind that is merely well disposed; he is destitute of the descernment and the energy which would make it great. If it is necessary to adopt a conduct, that departs in the smallest degree from those common rules of morality which he has cherished, without examining them, from his infancy, he is shocked, and shrinks from action. He cannot discrimnate the circumstances, that render the same action virtuous or vicious. How then, father, are we to suppose he would approve of the bold inflictions we meditate?"
"Most true!" said the artful Schedoni, with an air of admiration,
"We therefore, must not consult him," continued the Marchesa, "lest he should now, as formerly, advance and maintain objections, to which we cannot yield. What passes in conversation with you, father, is sacred, it goes no farther,"
"Sacred as a confession!" said Schedoni, crossing himself.
"I know not,"—resumed the Marchesa, and hesitated; "I know not"—she repeated in a yet lower voice, "how this girl may be disposed of; and this it is which distracts my mind."
"I marvel much at that," said Schedoni. "With opinions so singularly just, with a mind so accurate, yet so bold as you have displayed, is it possible that you [Page 245] can hesitate at what is to be done! You, my daughter, will not prove yourself one of those ineffectual declaimers, who can think vigorously, but cannot act so! One way, only, remains for you to pursue, in the present instance; it is the same which your superiour sagacity pointed out, and taught me to approve. Is it necessary for me to persuade her, by whom I am convinced? There is only one way."
"And on that I have been long meditating," replied the Marchesa, "and, shall I own my weakness? I cannot yet decide."
"My daughter! can it be possible that you should want courage to soar above vulgar prejudice, in action, though not in opinion?" said Schedoni, who, perceiving that his assistance was necessary to fix her fluctuating mind, gradually began to steal forth from the prudent reserve, in which he had taken shelter.
"If this person was condemned by the law," he continued, "you would pronounce her sentence to be just; yet you dare not, I am humbled while I repeat it, you dare not dispense justice yourself."
The Marchesa, after some hesitation, said, "I have not the shield of the law to protect me, father: and the boldest virtue may pause, when it reaches the utmost verge of safety."
"Never!" replied the Confessor, warmly; "virtue never trembles; it is her glory, and sublimest attribute to be superior to danger, to despise it. The best principle is not virtue till it reaches this elevation."
A philosopher might, perhaps, have been surprized to hear two persons seriously defining the limits of virtue, at the very moment in which they meditated the most atrocious crime; a man of the world would have considered it to be mere hypocrisy; a supposition which might have disclosed his general knowledge of manners, but would certainly have betrayed his ignorance of the human heart.
[Page 246] The Marchesa was for some time silent and thoughtful, and then repeated, deliberately, "I have not the shield of the law to protect me."
"But you have the shield of the church," replied Schedoni; "you should not only have protection, but absolution."
"Absolution!—Does virtue—justice, require absolution father?"
"When I mention absolution for the action which you perceive to be so just and necessary," replied Schedoni, "I accommodated my speech to vulgar prejudice, and to vulgar weakness. And, forgive me, that since you, my daughter, descended from the loftiness of your spirit to regret the shield of the law, I endeavoured to console you, by offering a shield to conscience. But enough of this; let us return to argument. This girl is put out of the way of committing more mischief, of injuring the peace and dignity of a distinguished family; she is sent to an eternal sleep, before her time.—Where is the crime, where is the evil of this? On the contrary, you perceive, and you have convinced me, that it is only strict justice, only selfdefence."
The Marchesa was attentive, and the confessor adde [...] "She is not immortal; and the few years more, [...] might have been allotted her, she deserves to forfeit, since she would have employed them in cankering the honour of an illustrious house."
"Speak low, father," said the Marchesa, though he spoke almost in a whisper; "the cloister appears solitary, yet some person may lurk behind those pillars. Advise me how this business may be managed; I am ignorant of the particular means."
"There is some hazard in the accomplishment of it I grant," replied Schedoni, "I know not whom you may confide in.—The men who make a trade of blood"—
[Page 247] "Hush!" said the Marchesa, looking round through the twilight—"a step!"
"It is the Friar's, yonder, who crosses to the choir," replied Schedoni.
They were watchful for a few moments, and then he resumed the subject, "Mercenaries ought not to be trusted,"—
"Yet who but mercenaries"—interrupted the Marchesa, and instantly checked herself. But the question thus implied, did not escape the Confessor.
"Pardon my astonishment," said he, "at the inconsistency, or, what shall I venture to call it? of your opinions! After the acuteness you have displayed on some points, is it possible you can doubt, that principle may both prompt and perform the deed? Why should we hesitate to do what we judge to be right?"
"Ah! reverend father," said the Marchesa, with emotion, "but where shall we find another like yourself—another, who not only can perceive with justness, but will act with energy?"
Schedoni was silent.
"Such a friend is above all estimation; but where shall we seek him?"
"Daughter!" said the monk, emphatically, "my zeal for your family is above all calculation."
"Good father," replied the Marchesa, comprehending his full meaning, "I know not how to thank you."
"Silence is sometimes eloquence," said Schedoni, significantly.
The Marchesa mused, for her conscience also was eloquent. She tried to overcome its voice, but it would be heard; and sometimes such starts of horrible conviction came over her mind, that she felt as one who, awaking from a dream, opens his eyes only to measure the depth of the precipice on which he totters In such moments she was astonished, that she had paused [Page 248] for an instant upon a subject so terrible as that of murder. The sophistry of the confessor, together with the inconsistencies he had betrayed, and which had not escaped the notice of the Marchesa, even at the time they were uttered, though she had been unconscious of her own, then became more strongly apparent, and she almost determined to suffer the poor Ellena to Live. But returning passion, like a wave that has recoiled from the shore, afterwards came with recollected energy, and swept from her feeble mind, the barriers, which reason and conscience had begun to rear.
"This confidence with which you have thought proper to honor me," said Schedoni, at length, and paused; "This affair so momentous"—
"Ay, this affair," interrupted the Marchesa, in a hurried manner,—"but when, and where, good father? Being once convinced, I am anxious to have it settled."
"That must be as occasion offers," replied the Monk, thoughtfully.—"On the shore of the Adriatic, in the province of Apulia; not far from Manfredonia, is a house that might suit the purpose. It is a lone dwelling on the beach, and concealed from travellers, among the forests which spread for many miles along the coast."
"And the people?" said the Marchesa.
"Ay, daughter, or why travel so far as Apulia? It is inhabited by one poor man, who sustains a miserable existence by fishing. I know him, and could unfold the reason of his solitary life;—but no matter, it is sufficient that I know him."
"And would trust him, father?"
"Ay, lady, with the life of this girl—though scarcely with my own."
"How! If he is such a villian he may not be trusted! [Page 249] think further. But now, you objected to a mercenary, yet this man is one!"
"Daughter, he may be trusted, when it is in such a case; he is safe and sure. I have reason to know him."
"Name your reasons, father."
The Confessor was silent and his countenance assumed a very peculiar character; it was more terrible than usual, and overspread with a dark, cadaverous [...]ue of mingled anger and guilt The Marchesa started involuntarily as, passing by a window, the evening gleam that fell there, discovered it; and for the first time she wished, that she had not committed herself so wholly to his power. But the die was now cast; it was too late to be prudent; and she again demanded his reasons.
"No matter," said Schedoni, in a stifled voice—"she dies!"
"By his hands?" asked the Marchesa, with strong emotion. "Think, once more, father."
They were both again silent and thoughtful The Marchesa, at length, said, "Father, I rely upon your integrity and prudence;" and she laid a very flattering emphasis upon the word integrity. "But I conjure you to let this business be finished quickly; suspence is to me the purgatory of [...] world, and not to trust the accomplishment of it to a second person." She paused and then added, "I would not willingly owe so vast a debt of obligation to any other than yourself."
"Your request, daughter, that I would not confide this business to a second person, said Schedoni, with displeasure, "cannot be accorded to. Can you suppose, that I myself"—
"Can I doubt that principle may both prompt and perform the deed," interrupted the Marchesa with quicness, and anticipating his meaning, while [Page 250] she retorted upon him his former words. "Why should we hesitate to do what we judge to be right?"
The silence of Schedoni alone indicated his displeasure, which the Marchesa immediately understood.
"Consider, good father," she added significantly, "how painful it must be to me, to owe so infinite an obligation to a stranger, or to any other than so highly valued a friend as yourself."
Schedoni, while he detected her meaning, and persuaded himself that he dispised the flattery, with which she so thinly veiled it, unconsciously suffered his self-love to be soothed by the compliment. He bowed his head, in signal of consent to her wish.
"Avoid violence, if that be possible," she added, immediately comprehending him, "but let her di [...] quickly! The punishment is due to the crime."
The Marchesa happened, as she said this, to cast her eyes upon the inscription over a Confessional, where appeared, in black letters, these awful words, "God hears thee!" It appeared an awful warning. Her countenance changed; it had struck upon her heart. Schedoni was too much engaged by his own thoughts to observe, or understand her silence. She soon recovered herself; and considering that this was a common inscription for Confessionals, disregarded what she at first considered as a peculiar admonition; yet some moments elapsed, before she could renew the subject.
"You were speaking of a place, father," resumed the Marchesa—"you mentioned a"—
"Ay," muttered the Confessor, still musing—"in a chamber of that house there is"—
"What noise is that?" said the Marchesa, interrupting him. They listened. A few low and querulous notes of the organ sounded at a distance, and stopped again.
"What mournful music is that?" said the Marchesa [Page 251] in a faultering voice, "It was touched by a fearful hand! Vespers were over long ago."
"Daughter," said Schedoni, somewhat sternly, "you said a man's courage. Alas! you have a woman's heart."
"Excuse me father; I know not why I feel this agitation, but I will command it. That chamber?"—
"In that chamber," resumed the Confessor, "is a secret door, constructed long ago."—
"And for what purpose constructed?" said the fearful Marchesa.
"Pardon me daughter; 'tis sufficient that it is there: we will make a good use of it. Through that door—in the night—when she sleeps"—
"I comprehend you," said the Marchesa, "I comprehend you. But why, you have your reasons, no doubt, but why the necessity of a secret door in a house which you say is so lonely—inhabited by only one person?"
"A passage leads to the sea," continued Schedoni, without replying to the question. "There, on the shore, when darkness covers it; there, plunged amidst the waves, no stain shall hint of"—
"Hark!" interrupted the Marchesa, starting, "that note again!"
The organ sounded faintly from the choir, and paused, as before. In the next moment a flow chaunting of voices was heard, mingling with the rising peal, in a strain particularly melancholy and solemn.
"Who is dead?" said the Marchesa, changing countenance; "it is a requiem!"
"Peace be with the departed!" exclaimed Schedoni, and crossed himself; "Peace rest with his soul!"
"Hark! to that chaunt!" said the Marchesa, in a trembling voice; "it is a first requiem; the soul has but just quitted the body!"
They listened in silence. The Marchesa was much [Page 252] affected; her complexion varied at every instant; her breathings were short and interrupted, and she even shed a few tears, but they were those of despair, rather than of sorrow. "That body is now cold," said she to herself, "which but an hour ago was warm and animated! Those fine senses are closed in death! And to this condition would I reduce a being like myself! Oh, wretched, wretched mother! to what has the folly of a son reduced thee."
She turned from the Confessor, and walked alone in the cloister. Her agitation encreased; she wept without restraint, for her veil and the evening gloom concealed her, and her sighs were lost amidst the music of the choir,
Schedoni was scarcely less disturbed, but his were emotions of apprehension and contempt. "Behold, what is woman!" said he—"The slave of her passions, the dupe of her senses! When pride and revenge speak in her breast, she defies obstacles, and laughs at crimes! Assail but her senses, let music, for instance, touch the feeble chord of her heart, and echo to her fancy, and lo! all her perceptions change:—she shrinks from an act she had but an instant before believed meritorious, yields to some new emotion, and sinks—the victim of a sound! O, weak and contemptible being!"
The Marchesa, at least seemed to justify his observations. The desperate passions, which had resisted every remonstrance of reason and humanity, were vanquished only by other passions; and her senses touched by the mournful melody of music, and her superstitious fears awakened by the occurrence of a requiem for the dead, at the very moment when she was planning murder, she yielded, for a while, to the united influence of pity and terror. Her agitation did not subside; but she returned to the Confessor.
"We will converse on this business at some future [Page 253] time." said she; "at present, my spirits are disordered. Good night, father! Remember me in your orisons."
"Peace, be with you, Lady!" said the confessor, bowing gravely. "You shall not be forgotten. Be resolute, and yourself."
The Marchesa beckoned her woman to approach, when, drawing her veil closer and, leaning upon the attendant's arm, she left the cloister, Schedoni remained for a moment on the spot, looking after her, till her figure was lost in the gloom of the long perspective; he then with thoughtful steps, quitted the cloister by another door. He was disappointed, but he did not dispair.
CHAP. XV.
WHILE the Marchesa and the monk were thus meditating conspiraces against Ellena, she was still in the Ursaline convent on the lake of Celano. In this obscure sanctuary, indisposition, the consequence of the long and severe anxiety she had suffered, compelled her to remain. A fever was on her spirits, and an universal lassitude prevailed over her frame; which became the more effectual, from her very solicitude to conquer it. Every approaching day she hoped she should be able to pursue her journey homeward, yet every day found her as incapable of traveling as the last, and the second week was already gone, before the fine air of Celano, and the tranquility of her asylum, began to revive her. Vivaldi who was her daily visitor at the grate of the convent, and who, watching, over her with intense solicitude, had hitherto forborne to renew a subject, which, by agitating her spirits, might affect her health, now, that her health strengthened, ventured gradually to mention his fears lest the place of her retreat should be discovered, and lest he yet might irrecoverably lose her, unless she would approve of their speedy marriage. At every visit he now urged the subject, represented the dangers that surrounded [Page 255] them; and repeated his arguments and intreaties; for now, when he believed that time was pressing forward fatal evils, he could no longer attend to the delicate scruples, that bade him be sparing in intreaty. Ellena, had she obeyed the dictates of her heart, would have rewarded his attachment and his services by a frank approbation of his proposal; but the objections which reason exhibited against such a concession, she could neither overcome or disregard.
Vivaldi, after he had again represented their present dangers, and claimed the promise of her hand, received in the presence of her deceased relative, Signora Bianchi, gently ventured to remind her, that an event as sudden as lamentable, had first deferred their nuptials, and that if Bianchi had lived, Ellena would have bestowed, long since, the vows he now solicited. Again he intreated her, by every sacred and tender recollection, to conclude the fearful uncertainty of their fate, and to bestow upon him the right to protect her, before they ventured forth from this temporary asylum.
Ellena immediately admitted the sacredness of the promise, which she had formerly given, and assured Vivaldi that she considered herself as indissolubly bound to wed him as if it had been given at the altar; but she objected to a confirmation of it, till his family should seem willing to receive her for their daughter; when forgetting the injuries she had received from them, she would no longer refuse their alliance. She added, that Vivaldi ought to be more jealous of the dignity of the woman, whom he honoured with his esteem, than to permit her making a greater concession..
Vivaldi felt the full force of this appeal; he recollected, with anguish, circumstances of which she was happily ignorant, but which served to strengthen with him the justness of her reproof. And, as the aspersions which the Marchesa had thrown upon [...], [Page 256] crowed to his memory, pride and indignation swelled his heart, and so far overcame apprehension of hazard, that he formed a momentary resolution to abandon every other consideration, to that of asserting the respect which was due to Ellena, and to forbear claiming her for his wife, till his family should make an acknowledgment of their error, and willingly admit her in the rank of their child. But this resolution was as transient as plausible; other considerations, and former fears pressed upon him. He perceived the strong improbability, that they would ever make a voluntary sacrifice of their pride to his love; or yield mistakes, nurtured by prejudice, and by willing indulgence, to truth and a sense of justice. In the mean time, the plans, which would be formed for separating him from Ellena, might succeed, and he should lose her for ever. Above all, it appeared, that the best, the only method, which remained for confuting the daring aspersions that had affected her name, was, by proving the high respect he himself felt for her, and presenting her to the world in the sacred character of his wife. These considerations quickly determined him to persevere in his suit; but it was impossible to urge them to Ellena, since the circumstances they must unfold, would not only shock her delicacy and afflict her heart, but would furnish the proper pride she cherished with new arguments against approaching a family, who had thus grossly insulted her.
While these considerations occupied him, the emotion they occasioned did not escape Ellena's observation; it increased, as he reflected on the impossibility of urging them to her, and on the hopelessness of prevailing with her, unless he could produce new arguments in his favour. His unaffected distress awakened all her tenderness and gratitude; she asked herself whether she ought any longer to assert her own rights, [Page 257] when by doing so, she sacrificed the peace of him, who had incurred so much danger for her sake, who had rescued her from severe oppression, and had so long and so well proved the strength of his affection.
As she applied these questions, she appeared to herself an unjust and selfish being, unwilling to make any sacrifice for the tranquility of him, who had given her liberty, even at the risk of his life. Her very virtues, now that they were carried to excess, seemed to her to border on vices; her sense of dignity appeared, to be narrow pride; her delicacy weakness; her moderated affection cold ingratitude; and her circumspection, little less than prudence degenerated into meanness.
Vivaldi, as apt in admitting hope as fear, immediately perceived her resolution beginning to yield, and he urged again every argument which was likely to prevail over it. But the subject was too important for Ellena, to be immediately decided upon; he departed with a faint assurance of encouragement; and she forbade him to return till the following day, when she would acquaint him with her final determination.
This interval was, perhaps, the most painful he had ever experienced. Alone, and on the banks of the lake, he passed many hours in alternate hope and fear; in endeavouring to anticipate the decision, on which seemed suspended all his future peace, and abruptly recoiling from it, as often as imagination represented it to be adverse.
Of the walls, that enclosed her he scarcely ever lost sight; the view of them seemed to cherish his hopes, and, while he gazed upon their rugged surface, Ellena alone was pictured on his fancy; till his anxiety to learn her disposition towards him arose to agony, and he would abruptly leave the spot. But an invisible spell still seemed to attract him back again, and evening [Page 258] found him pacing slowly beneath the shade of those melancholy boundaries that concealed his Ellena.
Her day was not more tranquil. Whenever prudence and decorous pride forbade her to become a member of the Vivaldi family, as constantly did gratitude, affection, irresistible tenderness plead the cause of Vivaldi. The memory of past times returned; and the very accents of the deceased seemed to murmur from the grave, and command her to fulfil the engagement, which had soothed the dying moments of Bianchi.
On the following morning, Vivaldi was at the gates of the convent, long before the appointed hour, and he lingered in dreadful impatience, till the clock struck the signal for his entrance.
Ellena was already in the parlour; she was alone, and rose in disorder on his approach. His steps faultered, his voice was lost, and his eyes only, which he fixed with a wild earnestness on her's, had power to inquire her resolution. She observed the paleness of his countenance, and his emotion, with a mixture of concern and approbation. At that moment, he perceived her smile, and hold out her hand to him; and fear, care, and doubt vanished at once from his mind. He was incapable of thanking her, but sighed deeply as he pressed her hand, and, overcome with joy, supported himself against the grate that separated them.
"You are, then, indeed my own!" said Vivaldi, at length recovering his voice—"We shall be no more parted—you are mine for ever! But your countenance changes! O heaven! surely I have not mistaken! Speak! I conjure you, Ellena; relieve me from these terrible doubts!"
"I am yours, Vivaldi," replied Ellena faintly, "oppression can part us no more."
She wept, and drew her veil over her eyes,
"What mean those tears?" said Vivaldi, with alarm. [Page 259] "Ah! Ellena," he added in a softened voice, "should tears mingle with such moments as these! [...]ould your tears fall upon my heart now! They tell me, that your consent is given with reluctance—with grief; that your love is feeble, your heart—yes Ellena! that your whole heart is no longer mine!"
"They ought rather to tell you," replied Ellena, "that it is all your own; that my affection never was more powerful than now, when it can overcome every consideration with respect to your family, and urge me to a step which must degrade me in their eyes.—and, I fear, in my own,"
"O retract that cruel assertion!" interrupted Vivaldi, "Degrade you in your own!—degrade you in their eyes!" He was much agitated; his countenance was flushed, and air of more than usual dignity dilated his figure,
"The time shall come, my Ellena." he added with energy, "when they shall understand your worth, and acknowledge your excellence. O! that I were an Emperor, that I might shew to all the world how much I love and honour you!"
Ellena gave him her hand, and, withdrawing her veil, smiled on him through her tears, with gratitude and reviving courage.
Before Vivaldi retired to the convent, he obtained her consent to consult with an aged Benedictine, whom he had engaged in his interest, as to the hour in which the marriage might be solemnized with least observation. The priest informed him, that at the conclusion of the vesper-service, he should be disengaged for several hours; and that, as the first hour after sun-set was more solitary than any other, the brotherhood being then assembled in the refactory, he would meet Vivaldi and Ellena at that time, in a chapel on the edge of the lake, a short distance from [Page 260] the Benedictiue convent, to which it belonged, and celebrate their nuptials.
With this proposal, Vivaldi immediately returned to Ellena; when it was agreed that the party should assemble by the hour mentioned by the priest. Ellena, who had thought it proper to mention her intention to the Abbess of the Ursalines, was, by her parmission, to be attended by a lay-sister; and Vivaldi was to meet her without the walls, and conduct her to the altar. When the ceremony was over, the fujitives were to embark in a vessel, hired for the purpose, and crossing the lake, proceed towards Naples. Vivaldi again withdrew to engage a boat, and Ellena to prepare for the continuance of her journey.
As the appointed hour drew near, her spirits sunk, and she watched with melancholy foreboding, the sun retiring amidst stormy clouds, and his rays fading from the highest points of the mountains, till the gloom of twilight prevailed over the scene. She then left her apartment, took a grateful leave of the hospitable Abbess, and, attended by the lay-sister, quitted the convent.
Immediately without the gate she was met by Vivaldi, whose looks, as he put her arm within his, gently reproached her for the dejection of her air.
They walked in silence towards the chapel of San Sebastian. The scene appeared to sympathize with the spirits of Ellena. It was a gloomy evening, and the lake, which broke in dark waves upon the shore, mingled its hollow sounds with those of the wind, that bowed the lofty pines, and swept in gusts among the rocks. She observed with alarm the heavy thunder clouds, that rolled along the sides of the mountains and the birds circling swiftly over the waters, and scudding away to their nests among the cliffs; and she noticed to Vivaldi, that, as a storm seemed approaching, she wished to avoid crossing the lake. He immediately [Page 261] ordered Paulo to dismiss the boat, and to be in waiting with a carriage, that, if the weather should become clear, they might not be detained longer than was otherwise necessary.
As they approached the chapel, Ellena fixed her eyes on the mournful cypresses which waved over it, and sighed. "Those," she said, "are funeral mementos—not such as should grace the altar of marriage! Vivaldi, I could be superstitious.—Think you not they are portentous of future misfortune? But forgive me my spirits are weak,"
Vivaldi endeavoured to soothe her mind, and tenderly reproached her for the sadness she indulged. Thus they entered the chapel. Silence, and a kind of gloomy sepulchral light prevailed within. The venerable Benedictine, with a brother, who was to serve as guardian to the bride, were already there, but they were kneeling, and engaged in prayer.
Vivaldi led the trembling Ellena to the altar, where they waited till the Benedictines should have finished, and these were moments of great emotion. She often looked round the dusky chapel, in fearful expectation of discovering some lurking observer; and though she knew it to be very improbable, that any person in this neighbourhood could be interested in interrupting the ceremony, her mind involuntarily admitted the possibility of it. Once, indeed, as her eyes glanced over a casement, Ellena fancied she distinguished a human face laid close to the glass, as if to watch what was passing within; but when she looked again, the apparition was gone. Notwithstanding this, she listened with anxiety to the uncertain sounds without, and sometimes started as the surges of the lake dashed over the rock below, almost believing she heard the steps and whispering voices of men in the avenues of the chapel. She tried, however, to subdue apprehension, by considering, that if this were true, an harmless curiosity [Page 262] might have attracted some inhabitants of the convent hither, and her spirits became more composed, till she observed a door open a little way, and a dark countenance looking from behind it. In the next instant it retreated, and the door was closed.
Vivaldi, who perceived Ellena's complexion change, as she laid her hand on his arm, followed her eyes to the door, but no person appearing, he enquired the cause of her alarm.
"We are observed," said Ellena, "some person appeared at that door!"
"And if we are observed, my love," replied Vivaldi, "who is there in this neighbourhood whose observation we can have reason to fear? Good father, dispatch," he added, turning to the priest, "you forget that we are waiting."
The officiating priest made a signal that he had nearly concluded his orison; but the other brother rose immediately, and spoke with Vivaldi, who desired that the doors of the chapel might be fastened to prevent intrusion.
"We dare not bar the gates of this holy temple," replied the Benedictine, "it is a sanctuary, and never may be closed."
"But you will allow me to repress idle curiosity," said Vivaldi, "and to enquire who watches beyond that door? The tranquility of this lady demands thus much."
The brother assented, and Vivaldi stepped to the door; but perceiving no person in the obscure passage beyond, it, he returned with lighter steps to the altar, from which the officiating priest now rose.
"My children," said he, "I have made you wait,—but an old man's prayers are not less important than a young man's vows, though this is not a moment when you will admit that truth."
"I will allow whatever you please, good father." [Page 263] replied Vivaldi, "if you will administer those vows, without further delay;—time presses."
The venerable priest took his station at the altar, and opened the book. Vivaldi placed himself on his right hand, and with looks of anxious love, endeavoured to encourage Ellena, who with a dejected countenance, which her veil but ill concealed, and eyes fixed on the ground, learned on her attendant sister. The figure and homely features of this sister; the tall stature and harsh visage of the brother, clothed in the grey habit of his order; the silvered head and placid physiognomy of the officiating priest, enlighted by a gleam from the lamp above, opposed to the youthful grace and spirit of Vivaldi, and the milder beauty and sweetness of Ellena, formed altogether a group worthy of the pencil.
The priest had begun the ceremony, when a noise from without again alarmed Ellena, who observed the [...] once cautiously opened, and a man bend forward his gigantic figure from behind it. He carried a [...]orch, and its glare, as the door gradually enclosed, discovered other persons in the passage beyond, looking forward over his shoulder into the chapel. The [...] of their dress instantly convinced Ellena that they were not inhabitants of the Benedictine convent, but some terrible messengers of evil. Her half-stifled shriek alarmed Vivaldi, who caught her before she fell to the ground: but, as he had not faced the door, he did not understand the occasion of her terror, till the sudden rush of footsteps made him turn, when he observed several men armed, and very singularly habited, advancing towards the altar.
"Who is he that intrudes upon this sanctuary?" he demanded sternly, while he half rose from the ground where Ellena had sunk.
"What sacrilegious footsteps," cried the priest, "thus rudely violate this holy place?"
[Page 264] Ellena was now insensible; and the men continuing to advance, Vivaldi drew his sword to protect her.
The priest and Vivaldi now spoke together, but the words of neither could be distinguished, when a voice, tremendous from his loudness, like bursting thunder, dissipated the cloud of mystery."
"You Vincentio di Vivaldi, and of Naples." it said, "and you Ellena di Rosalba, of the Villa Altieri, we summon you to surrender, in the name of the most holy Inquisition!"
"The Inquisition!" exclaimed Vivaldi, scarcely believing what he heard. "Here is some mistake!"
The official repeated the summons, without deigning to reply.
Vivaldi, yet more astonished, added, "Do not imagine you can so far impose upon my credulity, as that I can believe myself to have fallen within the cognizance of the Inquisition."
"You may believe what you please, Signor," replied the chief Officer, "but you and that lady are our prisoners."
"Begone, impostor!" said Vivaldi, springing from the ground, where he had supported Ellena, or my sword shall teach you to repent your audacity!"
"Do you insult an officer of the inquisition!" exclaimed the ruffian. "That holy Community will inform you what you incur by resisting its mandate."
The priest interrupted Vivaldi's retort. "If you are really officers of that tremendous tribunal," he said, "produce some proof of your office. Remember this place is sanctified, and tremble for the consequence of imposition. You do wrong to believe, that will deliver up to you persons who have taken refuge here, without an unequivocal demand from that dread power."
"Produce your form of summons," demanded Vivaldi, with haughty impatience.
[Page 265] "It is here," replied the official, drawing forth a black scroll, which he delivered to the priest, "Read and be satisfied!"
The Benedictine started the instant he beheld the scroll, but he received and deliberately examined it. The kind of parchment, the impression of the seal, the particular form of words, the private signals, understood only by the initiated—all announced this to be a true instrument of arrestation from the Holy Office. The scroll dropped from his hand, and he fixed his eyes, with surprize and unalterable compassion, upon Vivaldi, who stopped to reach the parchment, when it was snatched by the official.
"Unhappy young man!" said the priest, "it is too true; you are summoned by that awful power, to answer to your crime, and I am spared from the commission of a terrible offence!"
Vivaldi appeared thunderstruck. "For what crime, holy father, am I called upon to answer? This is some bold and artful imposture, since it can delude even you? What crime—what offence?"
"I did not think you had been thus hardened in guilt!" replied the priest. "Forbear! add not the audacity of falsehood to the headlong passions of youth. You understand too well your crime."
"Falsehood!" retorted Vivaldi, "But your years, old man, and those sacred vestments, protect you. For these ruffians, who have dared to implicate that innocent victim," pointing to Ellena, "in the charge, they shall have justice from my vengeance."
"Forbear! forbear?" said the priest, seizing his arm, "have pity on yourself and on her. Know you not the punishment you in [...]ur from resistance!"
"I know not, nor care," replied Vivaldi, "but I will defend Ellena di Rosalba to the last moment. Let them reproach if they dare."
"It is on her, on her who lies senseless at your [Page 266] feet," said the priest, "that they will wreak their vengeance for these insults; on her—the partner of your guilt."
"The partner of my guilt!" exclaimed Vivaldi, with mingled astonishment and indignation—"of my guilt."
"Rash young man! does not the very veil she wears betray it? I marvel how it could pass my observation!"
"You have stolen a nun from her convent," said the chief officer, "and must answer for the crime. When you have wearied yourself with these heroics, Signor, you must go with us; our patience is wearied already."
Vivaldi observed, for the first time, that Ellena was shrouded in a nun's veil; it was the one which Olivia had lent, to conceal her from the notice of the Abbess, on the night of her departure from San Stefano, and which, in the hurry of that departure, she had forgotten to leave with the nun. During this interval, her mind had been too entirely occupied by cares and apprehension to allow her once to notice, that the veil she wore was other than her usual one; but it had been too well observed by some of the Ursaline sisters.
Though he knew not how to account for the circumstance of the veil, Vivaldi began to perceive others which gave colour to the charge brought against him, and to ascertain the wide circumference of the snare that was spread around him. He fancied, too, that he perceived the hand of Schedoni employed upon it, and that his dark spirit was now avenging itself for the exposure he had suffered in the church of the Spirito Santo, and for all the consequent mortifications. As Vivaldi was ignorant of the ambitious hopes which the Marchesa had encouraged in father Schedoni, he did not see the improbability, that the Confessor would have dared to hazard her favour by this arrest of her [Page 267] son; much less could he suspect, that Schedoni, having done so, had secrets in his possession, which enabled him safely to defy her resentment, and bind her in silence to his decree.
With the conviction, that Schedoni was the master-hand that directed the present manoeuvre, Vivaldi stood aghast, gazing in silent unutterable anguish on Ellena, who, as she began to revive, stretched forth her helpless hands, and called upon him to save her, "Do not leave me," said she in accents the most supplicating, "I am safe while you are with me."
At the sound of her voice, he started from his trance, and turning fiercely on the ruffians, who stood in sullen watchfulness around, bade them depart, or prepare for his fury. At the same instant they all drew their swords, and the shrieks of Ellena, and the supplications of the officiating priest, were lost amidst the tumult of the combatants.
Vivaldi, most unwilling to shed blood, stood, merely on the defensive, till the violence of his antagonists compelled him to exert all his skill and strength. He then disabled one of the ruffians; but his skill was insufficient to repel the other two, and he was nearly overcome, when steps were heard approaching, and Paulo rushed into the chapel. Perceiving his master beset, he drew his sword, and came furiously to his aid. He fought with unconquerable audacity and fierceness, till nearly at the moment when his adversary fell, other ruffians entered the chapel, and Vivaldi with his faithful servant was wounded, and, at length disarmed.
Ellena, who had been withheld from throwing herself between the combatants, now, on observing that Vivaldi was wounded, renewed her efforts for liberty, accompanied by such agony of supplication and complaint, as almost moved to pity the hearts of the surrounding ruffians.
Disabled by his wounds, and also held by his enemies, [Page 268] Vivaldi was compelled to witness her distress and danger, without a hope of rescuing her. In frantic accents he called upon the old priest to protect her.
"I dare not oppose the orders of the Inquisition," replied the Benedictine, "even if I had sufficient strength to defy its officials. Know you not, unhappy young man, that it is death to resist them?"
"Death!" exclaimed Ellena, "death!"
"Ay lady, too surely so?"
"Signor, it would have been well for you," said one of the officers, "if you had taken my advice: you will pay dearly for what you have done," pointing to the ruffian who lay severely wounded on the ground.
"My master will not have that to pay for, friend," said Paulo, "for if you must know, that is a piece of my work; and, if my arms were now at liberty, I would try if I could not match it among one of you, though I am so flashed,"
"Peace, good Paulo! the deed was mine," said Vivaldi; then addressing the official, "For myself I care not, I have done my duty—but for her!—Can you, look upon her, innocent and helpless as she is, and not relent! Can you, will you, barbarains! drag her, also to destruction upon a charge too so daringly false?"
"Our relenting would be of no service to her," replied the official, we must do our duty. Whether the charge is true or false, she must answer to it before her judges."
"What charge demanded Ellena.
"The charge of having broken your nun's vows." replied the priest.
Ellena raised her eyes to heaven; "Is it even so!" she exclaimed.
"You hear she acknowledges the crime," said one of the ruffians.
"She acknowledges no crime," replied Vivaldi; "she only perceives the extent of the malice that persecutes [Page 269] her. O! Ellena must, I then abandon you to their power! leave you for ever!"
The agony of this thought re-animated him with momentary strength; he burst from the grasp of the officials, and once more clasped Ellena to his bosom, who, unable to speak, wept, with the anguish of a breaking heart, as her head sunk upon his shoulder. The ruffians around them so far respected their grief, that, for a moment, they did not interrupt it.
Vivaldi's exertion was transient; faint from sorrow, and from loss of blood, he became unable to support himself, and was compelled again to relinquish Ellena.
"Is there no help?" said she, with agony; "will you suffer him to expire on the ground?"
The priest directed, that he should be conveyed to the Benedictine convent, where his wounds might be examined, and medical aid administered. The disabled ruffians were already carried thither; but Vivaldi refused to go, unless Ellena might accompany him. It was contrary to the rules of the place, that a woman should enter it, and before the priest could reply, his Benedictine brother eagerly said that they dared not transgress the law of the convent.
Ellena's fears for Vivaldi entirely overcame those for herself, and she entreated, that he would suffer himself to be conveyed to the Benedictines; but he could not be prevailed with to leave her. The officials, however, prepared to separate them; Vivaldi in vain urged the useless cruelty of dividing him from Ellena, if, as they had hinted, she also was to be carried to the Inquisition; and as ineffectually demanded, whither they really designed to take her.
"We shall take good care of her, Signor," said an officer, "that is sufficient for you, It signifies nothing whether you are going the same way, you must not go together."
[Page 270] "Why, did you ever hear, Signor, of arrested persons being suffered to remain in company?', said another ruffian, "Fine plots they would lay; I warrant [...]hey would not contradict each other's evidence a title."
"You shall not seperate me from my master though," vociferated Paulo; "I demand to be sent to the Inquisition with him, or to the devil, but all is one for that."
"Fair and softly," replied the officer; "you shall be sent to the Inquisition first, and to the devil afterwards; you must be tried before you are condemned.'
"But waste no more time," he added to his followers, and pointing to Ellena, "away with her."
As he said this they lifted Ellena in their arms.—"Let me loose!" cried Paulo, when he saw they were carrying her from the place, "let me loose, I say!" and the violence of his struggles burst asunder the cords which held him; a vain release, for he was instantly seized again.
Vivaldi, already exhausted by the loss of blood and the anguish of his mind, made however, a last effort to save her; he tried to raise himself from the ground, hut a sudden film came over his sight, and his senses forsook him, while yet the name of Ellena faultered on his lips,
As they bore her from the chapel, she continued to call upon Vivaldi, and alternately to supplicate that she might once more behold him, and take one last adieu. The ruffians were inexorable and she heard his voice no more, for he no longer heard—no longer was able to reply to her's.
"O! once again!" she cried in agony, "One word, Vivaldi! Let me hear the sound of your voice yet once again!" But it was silent.
As she quitted the chapel, with eyes still bent towards the spot where he lay, she exclaimed in the [Page 271] piercing accents of despair, "Farewel, Vivaldi!—O! for ever—ever, farewel!"
The tone, in which she pronounced the last "farewel!" was so touching, that even the cold heart of the priest could not resist it; but he impatiently wiped away the few tears, that rushed into his eyes, before they were observed. Vivaldi heard i [...]—it seemed to arouse him from death!—he heard her mournful voice for the last time, and turning his eyes, saw her veil floating away through the portal of the chapel. All suffering, all efforts, all resistance were vain; the ruffians bound him bleeding as he was, and conveyed him to the Benedictine convent, together with the wounded Paulo, who unceasingly vociferated on the way thither. "I demand to be sent to the Inquisition!" I demand to be sent to the Inquisition!"
CHAP. XVI.
THE wounds of Vivaldi, and of his servant, were pronounced by the Benedictine, who had examined and dressed them, not to be dangerous, but those of one of the ruffians were declared doubtful. Some few of the brothers displayed much compassion and kindness towards the prisoners; but the greater part seemed fearful of expressing any degree of sympathy for presons who had fallen within the cognizance of the Holy Office, and even kept aloof from the chamber, in which they were confined. To this self-restriction, however, they were not long subjected; for Vivaldi and Paulo were compelled to begin their journey as soon as some short rest had sufficiently revived them. They were placed in the same carriage, but the presence of two officers prevented all interchange of conjecture as to the destination of Ellena, and with respect to the immediate occasion of their misfortune. Paulo, indeed, now and then hazarded a surmise, and did not scruple to affirm, that the Abbess of San Stefano was their chief enemy; that the Carmelite friars, who had overtaken them on the road, were her agents; and that having traced their route, they had given intelligence where Vivaldi and Ellena might be found.
"I guessed we never should escape the Abbess," said Paulo, "though I would not disturb you Signor Mio, nor the poor lady Ellena, by saying so. But your Abbessess are as cunning as Inquisitors, and are [Page 273] so fond of governing that they had rather, like them, send a man to the devil, than send him no where.
Vivaldi gave Paulo a significant look, which was meant to repress his imprudent loquacity, and then sunk again into silence and the abstractions of deep grief. The officers, mean while, never spoke, but were observant of all that Paulo said, who perceived their watchfulness, but because he despised them as spies, he thoughtlessly despised them also as enemies, and was so far from concealing opinions, which they might repeat to his prejudice, that he had a pride in exaggerating them, and in daring the worst, which the exasperated tempers of these men, shut up in the same carriage with him, and compelled to hear whatever he chose to say against the institution to which they belonged, could effect. Whenever Vivaldi, recalled from his abstractions by some bold assertion, endeavoured to check his imprudence, Paulo was contented to solace his conscience, instead of protecting himself, by saying, "It is their own fault; they would thrust themselves into my company; let them have enough of it; and if ever they take me before their reverences, the Inquisitiors, they shall have enough of it too. I will play up such a tune in the Inquisition, as is not heard there every day. I will jingle all the bells on their fool's caps, and tell them a little honest truth, if they make me smart for it ever so."
Vivaldi, aroused once more, and seriously alarmed for the consequences which honest Paulo might be drawing upon himself, now insisted on his silence, and was obeyed.
They travelled during the whole night, stopping only to change horses. At every post house, Vivaldi looked for a carriage that might inclose Ellena, but none appeared, nor any sound of wheels told him that she followed.
With the morning light he perceived the dome of [Page 274] St. Peter appearing faintly over the plains that surrounded Rome and he understood, for the first time, that he was going to the prisons of the Inquisition in that city. The travellers descended upon the Campania, and then rested for a few hours at a small town on its borders.
When they again set forward, Vivaldi perceived that the guard was changed, the officer who had remained with him in the apartment of the inn, only appearing among the new faces which surrounded him, The dress and manners of these men differed considerably from those of the other. Their conduct was more temperate, but their countenances expressed darker cruelty, mingled with a sly demureness, and a solemn self-importance, that announced them at once as belonging to the Inquisition.—They were almost invariably silent; and when they did speak, it was only in a few sententious words. To the abounding questions of Paulo, and the few earnest entreaties of his master, to be informed of the place of Ellena's destination, they made not the least reply; and listened to all the flourishing speeches of the servant against Inquisitors and the Holy Office with the most profound gravity.
Vivaldi was struck with the circumstance of the guard being changed, and still more with the appearance of the party, who now composed it. When he compared the manners of the late, with those of the present guard, he thought he discovered in the first the mere ferocity of ruffians; but in the latter, the principles of cunning and cruelty, which seemed particularly to characterize Inquisitors; he was inclined to believe, that a stratagem had enthralled him, and that now, for the first time, he was in the custody of the Holy Office.
It was near midnight when the prisoners entered the Porto del Popolo, and found themselves in the [Page 275] midst of the Carnival at Rome. The Corso, through which they were obliged to pass, was crowded with gay carriages masks, with processions of musicians, monks, and mountebanks, was lighted up with innumerable flambeaux, and resounded with the heterogeneous rattling of wheels, the music of serenaders, and the jokes and laughter of the revellers, as they sportively threw about their sugar-plumbs. The heat of the weather made it necessary to have the windows of the coach open; and the prisoners, therefore, saw all that passed without. It was a scene which contrasted cruelty with the feelings and circumstances of Vivaldi; torn as he was from her he most loved, in dreadful uncertainty as to her fate, and himself about to be brought before a tribunal, whose mysterious and terrible proceedings appalled even the bravest spirits. Altogether, this was one of the most striking examples, which the chequer-work of human life could shew, or human feelings endure. Vivaldi, sickened as he looked upon the splendid crowd, while the carriage made its way slowly with it; but Paulo, as he gazed, was reminded of the Corso of Naples, such as it appeared at the time of Carnival, and, comparing the present scene with his native one, he found fault with every thing he beheld. The dresses were tasteless, the equipages without splendor, the people without spirit; yet, such was the propensity of his heart to sympatize with whatever was gay, that, for some moments, he forgot that he was a prisoner on his way to the Inquisition; almost forgot that he was a Neapolitan; and while he exclaimed against the dullness of a Roman Carnival, would have sprung through the carriage window to partake of its spirit, if his [...]etters and his wounds had not withheld him. A deep sigh from Vivaldi recalled his wandering imagination; and when he noticed again the sorrow in his master's look, all his lightly joyous spirits fled.
[Page 276] "My maestro my dear maestro!"—he said, and knew not how to finish what he wished to express.
At that moment they passed the theatre of San Carlo, the doors of which were thronged with equipages, where Roman ladies, in their gala habits, courtiers [...]n their fantastic dresses, and masks of all descriptions, were hastening to the opera. In the midst of this gay bustle, where the carriage was unable to proceed, the officials of the Inquisition looked on in solemn silence, not a muscle of their features relaxing in sympathy, or yielding a single wrinkle of the self-importance that lifted their brows; and, while they regarded with secret contempt, those who could be thus lightly pleased, the people, in return, more wisely, herhaps, regarded with contempt the proud moroseness, that refused to partake of innocent pleasures, because they were trifling, and shrunk from countenances furrowed with the sternness of cruelty. But when their office was distinguished, part of the crowd pressed back from the carriage in affright, while another part advanced with curiosity; through, as the majority retreated, space was left for the carriage to move on. After quitting the Corso, it proceeded for some miles through dark and deserted streets, were only here and there a lamp, hung on high before the image of a saint, shed its glimmering light, and where a melancholy and universal silence prevailed. At intervals, indeed, the moon, as the clouds passed away, shewed, for a moment, some of those mighty monuments of Rome's eternal name, those sacred ruins, those gigantic skeletons which once enclosed a soul, whose energies governed a world! Even Vivaldi could not behold with indifference the grandeur of these reliques, as the rays fell upon the hoary walls and columns, or pass among these scences of ancient story, without feeling a melancholy awe, a sacred enthusiasm, that withdrew him from himself. But the illusion [Page 277] was transient; his own misfortunes pressed too heavily upon him to be long unfelt, and his enthusiasm vanished like the moon light.
A returning gleam lighted up, soon after, the rude and extensive area, which the carriage was crossing. It appeared, from its desolation, and the ruins scattered distantly along its skirts, to be a part of the city entirely abandoned by the modern inhabitants to the reliques of its former granduer. Not even the shadow of a human being crossed the waste, nor any building appeared, which might be supposed to shelter one. The deep tone of a bell, however, rolling on the silence of the night, announced the haunts of man to be not far off; and Vivaldi perceived in the distance, to which he was approaching, an extent of lofty walls and towers, that, as far as the gloom would permit his eye to penetrate, bounded the horizon. He judged these to be the prisons of the inquisition. Paulo pointed them out at the same moment. "Ah, Signor!' said he despondingly, "that is the place! what strength! If, my Lord, the Marchese were but to see where we are going! Ah!"—
He concluded with a deep sigh, and sunk again into the state of apprehension and mute expectation, which he had suffered from the moment that he quit-th [...] Corso.
The carriage having reached the walls, followed their bendings to a considerable extent. These walls, of immense height, and strengthened by innumerable massy bulwarks, exhibited neither window or grate, put a vast and dreary blank; a small round tower only, perched here and there upon the summit, breaking their monotony,
The prisoners passed what seemed to be the principal entrance, from the granduer of its portal, and the gigantic loftiness of the towers that rose over it; and after the carriage stopped at an arch-way in the walls, [Page 278] strongly barricadoed. One of the escort alighted, and having struck upon the bars, a folding door within was immediately opened, and a man, bearing a torch appeared behind the barricado, whose countenance, as he looked through it, might have been copied for the
of the poet.
No words were exchanged between him and the guard; but on perceiving who were without, he opened the iron gate, and the prisoners having alighted, passed with the two officials beneath the arch, the guard following with a torch.—They descended a flight of broad steps, at the foot of which another iron gate admitted them to a kind of hall; such, however, it at first appeared to Vivaldi, as his eyes glanced through its gloomy extent, imperfectly ascertaining it by the lamp, which hung from the centre of the roof. No person appeared, and a death like silence prevailed; for neither the officials nor the guard yet spoke; nor did any distant sound contradict the notion, that they were traversing the chambers of the dead. To Vivaldi it occurred, that this was one if the burial vaults of the victims, who suffered in the Inquisition, and his whole frame thrilled with horror. Several avenues, opening from the apartment, seemed to lead to distant quarters of this immense fabric, but still no footstep whispering along the pavement, or voice murmuring through the arched roofs, indicated it to be the residence of the living.
Having entered one of the passages, Vivaldi perceived a person cloathed in black, and who bore a lighted taper, crossing silently in the remote perspective, and he understood too well from his habit, that he was a member of this dreadful tribunal.
The sound of footsteps seemed to reach the stranger, for he turned, and, then paused while the officers advanced. They then made signs to each other, and [Page 279] exchanged a few words, which neither Vivaldi or his servant could understand, when the stranger, pointing with his taper along another avenue, passed away. Vivaldi followed him with his eyes, till a door at the extremity of the passage opened, and he saw the Inquisitor enter an apartment, whence a great light proceeded, and where several other figures habited like himself, appeared waiting to receive him. The door immediately closed; and, whether the imagination of Vivaldi was affected, or that the sounds were real, he thought, as it closed, he distinguished half-stifled groans, as of a person in agony.
The avenue, through which the prisoners passed, opened at length, into an apartment gloomy like the first they had entered, but more extensive. The roof was supported by arches, and long arcades branched off from every side of the chamber, as from a central point, and where lost in the gloom, which the rays of the small lamps, suspended in each, but feebly penenetrated.
They rested here, and a person soon after advanced, who appeared to be the jailor, into whose hands Vivaldi and Paulo were delivered. A few mysterious words having been exchanged, one of the officials crossed the hall and ascended a wide stair-case, while the other, with the jailor and the guard, remained below as if awaiting his return.
A long interval elapsed, during which the stillness of the place was sometimes interrupted by a closing door, and, at others, by indistinct sounds, which yet appeared to Vivaldi like lamentations and extorted groans. Inquisitors, in their long black robes, issued from time to time from the passages, and crossed the hall to other avenues. They eyed the prisoners with curiosity, but without pity. Their visages, with few exceptions, seemed stamped with the characters of demons. Vivaldi could not look upon the grave cruelty, [Page 280] or the ferocious impatience, their countenances severally expressed, without reading in them the fate of some fellow creature, the fate which these men seemed going, even at this moment, to confirm; and as they passed with soundless steps, he shrunk from observation, as if their very look [...] possessed some supernatural power, and could have struck death. But he followed their fleeting figures, as they proceeded on their work of horror, to where the last glimmering ray faded into darkness, expecting to see other doors of other chambers open to receive them. While meditating upon these horrors, Vivaldi lost every selfish consideration in astonishment and indignation of the sufferings, which the frenzied wickedness of man prepares for man, who, even at the moment of infliction, insults his victim with assertions of the justice and necessity of procedure. "Is this possible!" said Vivaldi internally: "Can this be in human nature!—Can such horrible perversion of right be permitted! Can man, who calls himself endowed with reason, and immeasurably superior to every other created being, argue himself into the commission of such horrible folly, such inveterate cruelty, as exceeds all the acts of the most irrational and ferocious brute. Brutes do not deliberately slaughter their species; it remains for man only, man, proud of his prerogative of reason, and boasting of his sense of justice, to unite the most terrible extremes of folly and wickedness!"
Vivaldi had been no stranger to the existence of this tribunal; he had long understood the nature of the establishment, and had often received particular accounts of its customs and laws; but, though he had believed before, it was now only that conviction appeared to impress his understanding. A new view of human nature seemed to burst, at once, upon his mind, and he could not have experienced greater astonishment, if this had been the first moment, in which he [Page 281] had heard of the institution—But, when he thought of Ellena, considered that she was in the power of this tribunal, and that it was probable she was, at this moment within the same dreadful walls, grief, indignation, and despair irritated him almost to frenzy. He seemed suddenly animated with supernatural strength and ready to attempt impossibilities for her deliverance. It was by a strong effort for self-command, that he forbore bursting the bonds, which held him, and making a desperate attempt to seek her through the vast extent of these prisons. Reflection, however, had not so entirely forsaken him, but that he saw the impossibility of succeeding in such an effort the moment he had conceived it, and he forbore to rush upon the certain destruction to which it must have led. His passions, thus restrained, seemed to become virtues, and to display themselves in the energy of his courage and his fortitude. His soul became stern and vigorous in despair, and his manner and countenance assumed a calm dignity, which seemed to awe, in some degree, even his guards. The pain of his wounds was no longer felt; it appeared as if the strength of his intellectual self had subdued the infirmities of the body, and, perhaps, in these moments of elevation, he could have endured the torture without shrinking.
Paulo, meanwhile, mute and grave, was watchful of all that passed; he observed the revolutions in his masters mind, with grief first, and then with surprize, but he could imitate the noble fortitude, which now gave weight and steadiness to Vivaldi's thoughts. And when he looked on the power and gloom around him. and on the visages of the passing inquisitors, he began to repent, that he had so freely delivered his opinion of this tribunal, in the presence of tis agents, and to perceive, that if he played up the kind of tune he had threatened, it would probably be the last he should ever be permitted to perform in this world.
[Page 282] At length, the chief officer descended the stair-case, and immediately bade Vivaldi follow him. Paulo was accompanying his master, but was withheld by the guard, and told he was to be disposed of in a different way. This was the moment of his severest trial; he declared he would not be separated from his master.
"What did I demand to be brought here for," he cried, "if it was not that I might go shares with the signor in all his troubles? This is not a place to come for pleasure, I warrant; and I can promise ye, gentlemen, I would not have come within a hundred miles of you, if it had not been for my master's sake."
The guards roughly interrupted him, and were carrying him away, when Vivaldi's commanding voice arrested them. He returned to speak a few words of consolation to his faithful servant, and since they were to be separated, to take leave of him.
Paulo embraced his knees, and, while he wept, and his words were almost stifled by sobs, declared no force should drag him from his master, while he had life; and repeatedly appealed to the guards, with—"what did I demand to be brought here for? Did ever any body come here to seek pleasure? What right have you to prevent my going shares with my master in his troubles?"
"We do not intend to deny you that pleasure, friend," replied one of the guards.
"Don't you? Then heaven bless you!" cried Paulo, springing from his knees, and shaking the man by the hand with a violence, that would nearly have dislocated the shoulder of a person less robust.
"So, come with us," added the guard, drawing him away from Vivaldi. Paulo now become outrageous, and, struggling with the guards, burst from them, and again fell at the feet of his master, who raised and embraced him, endeavouring to prevail with [Page 283] him to submit quietly to what was inevitable, and to encourage him with hope.
"I trust that our separation will be short," said Vivaldi, "and that we shall meet in happier circumstances, My innocence must soon appear."
"We shall never, never meet again, Signor-mio, in this world," said Paulo, sobbing violently, "so don't make me hope so. That old Abbess knows what she is about too well to let us escape; or she would not have catched us up so cunningly as she did; so, what signifies innocence! O! if my old lord, the Marchese, did but know where we are!"
Vivaldi interrupted him, and turning to the guards, said, "I recommend my faithful servant to your compassion; he is innocent. It will some time, perhaps, be in my power to recompence you for any indulgence, you may allow him, and I shall value it a thousand times more highly, than any you could shew to myself! Farewell, Paulo,—farewell! Officer, I am read."
"O stay! Signor, for one moment—stay," said Paulo.
"We can wait no longer," said the guard, and again drew Paulo away, who looking piteously after Vivaldi, alternately repeated, Farewell, dear maestro! farewell dear, dear maestro!" and "What did I demand to be brought here for?—What did I demand to be brought here for?—what was it for, if not to go shares with my maestro?" till Vivaldi was beyond the reach of sight and of hearing.
Vivaldi, having followed the Officer up the stair-case, passed through a gallery to an antichamber, where, being delivered into the custody of some persons in waiting, his conductor disappeared beyond a folding door, that led to an inner apartment. Over this door was an inscription in Hebrew characters, traced in blood-colour. Dante's inscription on the entrance of [Page 284] the infernal regions, would have been suitable to a place, where every circumstance and feature seemed to say, "Hope, that comes to all, comes not here!"
Vivaldi conjectured that in this chamber, they were preparing for him the instruments which were to extort a confession; and though he knew little of the regular proceedings of this tribunal, he had always understood, that the torture was inflicted upon the accused person, till he made confession of the crime, of which he was suspected. By such a mode of proceeding, the innocent were certain of suffering longer than the guilty; for, as they had nothing to confess, the Inquisitor, mistaken innocence for obstinacy, persevered in his inflictions, and it frequently happened that he compelled the innocent to become criminal, and assert a falsehood, that they might be released from anguish, which they could no longer sustain. Vivaldi considered this circumstance undauntedly; every faculty of his soul was bent up to firmness and endurance. He believed that he understood the extent of the charge, which would be brought against him, a charge as false, as a specious confirmation of it, would be terrible in its consequence both to Ellena and himself. Yet every art would be practised to bring him to an acknowledgement of having carried off a nun, and he knew also, that, since the prosecutor and the witnesses are never confronted with the prisoner in cases of severe accusation, and since their very names are concealed from him, it would be scarcely possible for him, to prove his innocence. But he did not hesitate an instant whether to sacrifice himself for Ellena, determining rather to expire beneath the merciless inflictions of the Inquisitors, than to assert a flasehood, which must involve her in destruction.
The officer, at length, appeared, and, having beckoned Vivaldi to advance, uncovered his head, and bared his arms. He then led him forward through the [Page 285] folding door into the chamber; having done which, he immediately withdrew, and the door, which shut out Hope, closed after him.
Vivaldi found himself in a spacious apartment, where only two persons were visible, who were seated at a large table, that occupied the centre of the room. They were both habited in black; the one, who seemed by his piercing eye, and extraordinary physiognomy, to be an Inquisitor, wore on his head a kind of black turban, which heightened the natural ferocity of his visage; the other was uncovered, and his arms bared to the elbows. A book, with some instruments of singular appearance lay before him. Round the table were several unoccupied chairs, on the backs of which appeared figurative signs, at the upper end of the apartment, a gigantic crucifix stretched nearly to the vaulted roof; and, at the lower end, suspended from an arch in the wall, was a dark curtain, but whether it veiled a window, or shrowded some object or person, necessary to the designs of the Inquisitor, there were little means of judging. It was, however, suspended from an arch such as sometimes contains a casement, or leads to a deep recess.
The Inquisitor called on Vivaldi to advance, and when he had reached the table, put a book into his hands, and bade him swear to reveal the truth, and keep for ever secret whatever he might see or hear in the apartment.
Vivaldi hesitated to obey so unqualified a command. The Inquisitor reminded him, by a look, not to be mistaken, that he was absolute here; but Vivaldi still hesitated. "Shall I consent to my own condemnation?" said he to himself, "The malice of demons like these may convert the most innocent circumstances into matter of accusation, for my destruction, and I must answer whatever questions they choose to ask. And shall I swear, also, to conceal whatever I [Page 286] may witness in this chamber, when I know that the most diabolical cruelties are hourly practised here?"
The Inquisitor, in a voice which would have made a heart, less fortified than was Vivaldi's tremble, again commanded him to swear; at the same time, he made a signal to the person, who sat at the opposite end of table, and who appeared to be an inferior officer.
Vivaldi was still silent, but he began to consider that, unconscious as he was of crime, it was scarcely possible for his words to be tortured into self-accusation; and that, whatever he might witness, no retribution would be prevented, no evil withheld by the oath, which bound him to secresy, since his most severe denunciation could avail nothing against the supreme power of the tribunal. As he did not perceive any good, which could arise from refusing the oath; and saw much immediate evil from resistance, he consented to receive it. Notwithstanding this, when he put the book to his lips, and uttered the tremendous vow prescribed to him, hesitation and reluctance returned upon his mind, and an icy coldness struck to his heart. He was so much affected, that circumstances, apparently the most trivial, had at this moment influence upon his imagination. As he accidentally threw his eyes upon the curtain, which he had observed before without emotion, and now thought it moved, he almost started in expectation of seeing some person, an Inquisitor perhaps, as terrific as the one before him, or an accuser as malicious as Schedoni, steal from behind it
The Inquisitor having administered the oath, and the attendant having noted it in his book, the examination began. After demanding, as is usual, the names and titles of Vivaldi and his family, and his place of residence, to which he fully replied, the Inquisitor asked, whether he understood the nature of the accusation on which he had been arrested.
"The order for my arrestation informed me," replied Vivaldi.
[Page 287] "Look to your words!" said the Inquisitor, "and remember your oath. What was the ground of accusation?"
"I understood," said Vivaldi, "that I was accused of having stolen a nun from her sanctuary."
A faint degree of surprize appeared on the brow of the Inquisitor. "You confess it, then?" he said, after a pause of a moment, and making a signal to the Secretary, who immediately noted Vivaldi's words.
"I solemnly deny it," replied Vivaldi: "the accusation is false and malicious."
"Remember the oath you have taken! repeated the Inquisitor: learn, also, that mercy is shewn to such as make full confession; but that the torture is applied to those, who have the folly and obstinacy to withhold the truth."
"If you torture me till I acknowledge the justness of this accusation," said Vivaldi, "I must expire under your inflictions, for suffering never shall compel me to assert a falshood. It is not the truth, which you seek; it is not the guilty whom you punish; the innocent, having no crimes to confess, are the victims of your cruelty, or, to escape from it, become criminal, and proclaim a lie."
"Recollect yourself," said the Inquisitor, sternly. "You are not brought hither to accuse, but to answer accusation. You say you are innocent; yet acknowledge yourself to be acquainted with the subject of the charge which is to be urged against you! How could you know this, but from the voice of conscience?"
"From the words of your own summons," replied Vivaldi, "and from those of your officials who arrested me."
"How!" exclaimed the Inquisitor: "note that," pointing to the Secretary, "he says by the words of our summous; now we know, that you never read that summons. He says also by the words of our officials; it appears, then, he is ignorant, that death would follow such a breach of confidence."
[Page 288] "It is true, I never did read the summons," replied Vivaldi, "and as true, that I never a [...]ted I did; the friar, who read it, told of what it accused me, and your officials confirmed the testimony."
"No more of this equivocation!" said the Inquisitor, "Speak only to the question."
"I will not suffer my assertions to be misrepresented," replied Vivaldi, "or my words to be perverted against myself. I have sworn to speak the truth only; since you believe I violate my oath, and doubt my direct and simple words, I will speak no more,"
The Inquisitor half rose from his chair, and his countenance grew paler. "Audacious heretic!" he said, "will you dispute, insult, and disobey, the commands of our most holy tribunal! You will be taught the consequence of your desperate impiety To the torture with him!"
A stern smile was on the features of Vivaldi; his eyes were calmly fixed on the Inquisitor, and his attitude was undaunted and firm. His courage, and the cool contempt, which his looks expressed, seemed to touch his examiner, who perceived that he had not a common mind to operate upon. He abandoned, therefore, for the present, terrific measures, and, resuming his usual manner proceeded in the examination.
"Where were you arrested?"
"At the chapel of San Sebastian on the lake of Celano."
You are certain as to this?" asked the Inquisitor, "you are sure it was not at the village of Legano, on the high road betwen Celano and Rome?"
Vivaldi while he confirmed his assertion, recollected, with some surprize, that Legano was the place where the guard had been changed, and he mentioned the circumstance. The Inquisitor, however, [...] in his questions, without appearing to notice it. "Was any person arrested with you?"
[Page 289] "You cannot be ignorant," replied Vivaldi, "that Signora di Rosalba, was seized at the same time, upon the false charge of being a nun, who had broken her vows, and eloped from her convent; nor that Paulo Mendrico, my faithful servant! was also made a prisoner, though upon what pretence he was arrested I am utterly ignorant."
The Inquisitor remained for some moments in thoughtful silence, and then enquired slightly concerning the family of Ellena, and her usual place of residence. Vivaldi, fearful of making some assertion that might be prejudicial to her, referred him to herself; but the inquiry was repeated.
"She is now within these walls," replied Vivaldi, hoping to learn from the manner of his examiner whether his fears were just," and can answer these questions better than myself."
The Inquisitor merely bade the notary write down her name, and then remained for a few moments meditating. At length, he said, "Do you know where you now are?"
Vivaldi, smiling at the question, replied, "I understand that I am in the prisons of the Inquisition at Rome."
"Do you know what are the crimes that subject persons to the cognizance of the Holy Office?"
Vivaldi was silent.
"Your conscience informs you, and your silence confirms me. Let me admonish you, once more, to make a full confession of your guilt; remember that this is a merciful tribunal, and shews favour to such as acknowledge their crimes?"
Vivaldi smiled; but the Inquisitor proceeded.
"It does not resemble some severe, yet just courts, where immediate execution follows the confession of a criminal. No! it is merciful, and though it punishes guilt, it never applies the torture but in cases of necessity, [Page 290] when the obstinate silence of the prisoner requires such a measure, You see, therefore, what you may avoid, and what expect."
"But if the prisoner has nothing to confess?" said Vivaldi.—"Can your tortures make him guilty? They may force a weak mind to be guilty of falsehood; to [...]ape present anguish, a man may unwarily condemn himself to the death! You will find that I am not such an one."
"Young man," replied the Inquisitor, "you will understand too soon, that we never act, but upon sure authority; and will wish, too late, that you had made an honest confession. Your silence cannot keep from us a knowledge of your offences; we are in possession of facts; and your obstinacy can neither wrest from us the truth, or pervert it. Your most secret offences are already written on the table [...]s of the Holy Office; your conscience cannot reflect them more justly.—Tremble therefore, and revere. But understand, that, though we have sufficient proof of your guilt, we require you to confess; and that the punishment of obstinacy is as certain, as that of any other offence."
Vivaldi made no reply, and the Inquisitor, after a momentary silence, added, "Was you ever in the church of the Spirito Santo, at Naples!"
"Before I answer the question," said Vivaldi "I require the name of my accuser."
"You are to recollect, that you have no right to demand any thing in this place," observed the [...], "not can o [...] be ignorant that the name of the [...] is always kept sacred from the knowledge of the accused. Who would [...] to do his duty, if his name was arbitrarily to be exposed to the veng [...]ance of the criminal against whom he informs? It is only in a particular proces that the accuser is brought forward."
The names of the Witnesses?" demanded Vivaldi. [Page 291] "The same justice conceals them also from the knowledge of the accused," replied the Inquisitor.
"And is no justice left for the Accused," said Vivaldi, "Is he to be tried and condemned without being confronted with either his Prosecutor or the Witnesses!"
"Your questions are too many," said the Inquisitor, "and your answers too few. The Informer is not also the Prosecutor; the Holy Office before which the information is laid, is the Prosecutor, and the dispenser of justice; its Public Accuser lays the circumstances, and the testimonies of the Witnesses, before the Court. But too much of this."
"How!" exclaimed Vivaldi, "is the tribunal at once the Prosecutor, Witness and Judge! What can private malice wish for more, than such a court of justice, at which to arraign its enemy? The stiletto of the Assassin is not so sure, or so fatal to innocence. I now perceive, that it avails me nothing to be guiltless; a single enemy is sufficient to accomplish my destruction."
"You have an enemy then?" observed the Inquisitor.
Vivaldi was too well convinced that he had one, but there was not sufficient proof, as to the person of this enemy, to justify him in asserting that it was Schedoni. The circumstance of Ellena having been arrested, would have compelled him to suspect another person as being at least accessary to the designs of the Confessor; had not credulity started in horror from the supposition, that a mother's resentment could possibly betray her son into the prisons of the Inquisition, though this mother had exhibited a temper of remorseless cruelty towards a stranger, who had interrupted her views for that son.
"You have an enemy then?" repeated the Inquisitor.
[Page 292] "That I am her [...] sufficiently proves it," replied Vivaldi. "But I am so little any man's enemy, that I know not who to call mine."
"It is evident, then, that you have no enemy," observed the subtle Inquisitor, "and that this accusation is brought against you by a respecter of truth, and a faithful servant of the Roman interest."
Vivaldi was shocked to perceive the insidious art, by which he had been betrayed into a declaration apparently so harmless, and the cruel dexterity with which it had been turned against him. A lofty and contemptuous silence was all that he opposed to the treachery of his examiner, on whose countenance appeared a smile of triumph and self congratulation, the life of a fellow-creature being, in his estimation, of no comparative importance with the self-applauses of successful art; the art, too, upon which he most valued himself—that of his profession.
The Inquisitor proceeded, "You persist, then, in withholding the truth?" He paused, but Vivaldi making no reply, he resumed.
"Since it is evident, from your own declaration, that you have no enemy, whom private resentment might have instigated to accuse you; and, from other circumstances which have occured in your conduct, that you are conscious of more than you have confessed—it appears, that the accusation which has been urged against you, is not a malicious slander. I exhort you, therefore, and once more conjure you, by our how faith, to make an ingenuous confession of your offences, and to save yourself from the means, which must of necessity be enforced to obtain a confession before your trial commences. I adjure you, also, to consider, that by such open conduct only, can mercy b [...] won to soften the justice of this most righteous tribunal!"
Vivaldi, perceiving that it was now necessary for [Page 293] him to reply, once more solemnly asserted his innocence of the crime alleged against him in the summons, and of the consciousness of any act, which might lawfully subject him to the notice of the Holy Office.
The inquisitor again demanded what was the crime alledged, and, Vivaldi having repeated the accusation, he again bade the Secretary note it; as he did which, Vivaldi thought he perceived upon his features something of a malignant satisfaction, for which he knew not how to account. When the Secretary had finished, Vivaldi was ordered to subscribe his name and quality to the depositions, and he obeyed.
The Inquisitor then bade him consider of the admonition he had received, and prepare either to confess on the morrow, or to undergo the question. As he concluded, he gave a signal, and the officer, who had conducted Vivaldi into the chamber, immediately appeared.
"You know your orders, said the Inquisitor, "receive your prisoner, and see that they are obeyed."
The official bowed, and Vivaldi followed him from the apartment in melancholy silence.