CHAPTER IX.

Tell us, ye Dead, will none of you in pity

To those you left behind disclose the secret?

O! That some courteous Ghost would blab it out,

What ’tis you are, and we must shortly be.

I’ve heard that Souls departed have sometimes

Fore-warned Men of their deaths:

’Twas kindly done

To knock, and give the alarum.

BLAIR.

Ambrosio shuddered at himself, when He reflected on his rapid advances

in iniquity. The enormous crime which He had just committed filled him

with real horror. The murdered Elvira was continually before his eyes,

and his guilt was already punished by the agonies of his conscience.

Time, however, considerably weakened these impressions: One day passed

away, another followed it, and still not the least suspicion was thrown

upon him. Impunity reconciled him to his guilt: He began to resume his

spirits; and as his fears of detection died away, He paid less

attention to the reproaches of remorse. Matilda exerted herself to

quiet his alarms. At the first intelligence of Elvira’s death, She

seemed greatly affected, and joined the Monk in deploring the unhappy

catastrophe of his adventure: But when She found his agitation to be

somewhat calmed, and himself better disposed to listen to her

arguments, She proceeded to mention his offence in milder terms, and

convince him that He was not so highly culpable as He appeared to

consider himself. She represented that He had only availed himself of

the rights which Nature allows to every one, those of

self-preservation: That either Elvira or himself must have perished,

and that her inflexibility and resolution to ruin him had deservedly

marked her out for the Victim. She next stated, that as He had before

rendered himself suspected to Elvira, it was a fortunate event for him

that her lips were closed by death; since without this last adventure,

her suspicions if made public might have produced very disagreeable

consequences. He had therefore freed himself from an Enemy, to whom the

errors of his conduct were sufficiently known to make her dangerous,

and who was the greatest obstacle to his designs upon Antonia. Those

designs She encouraged him not to abandon. She assured him that, no

longer protected by her Mother’s watchful eye, the Daughter would fall

an easy conquest; and by praising and enumerating Antonia’s charms, She

strove to rekindle the desires of the Monk. In this endeavour She

succeeded but too well.

As if the crimes into which his passion had seduced him had only

increased its violence, He longed more eagerly than ever to enjoy

Antonia. The same success in concealing his present guilt, He trusted

would attend his future. He was deaf to the murmurs of conscience, and

resolved to satisfy his desires at any price. He waited only for an

opportunity of repeating his former enterprize; But to procure that

opportunity by the same means was now impracticable. In the first

transports of despair He had dashed the enchanted Myrtle into a

thousand pieces: Matilda told him plainly that He must expect no

further assistance from the infernal Powers unless He was willing to

subscribe to their established conditions. This Ambrosio was determined

not to do: He persuaded himself that however great might be his

iniquity, so long as he preserved his claim to salvation, He need not

despair of pardon. He therefore resolutely refused to enter into any

bond or compact with the Fiends; and Matilda finding him obstinate upon

this point, forbore to press him further. She exerted her invention to

discover some means of putting Antonia into the Abbot’s power: Nor was

it long before that means presented itself.

While her ruin was thus meditating, the unhappy Girl herself suffered

severely from the loss of her Mother. Every morning on waking, it was

her first care to hasten to Elvira’s chamber. On that which followed

Ambrosio’s fatal visit, She woke later than was her usual custom: Of

this She was convinced by the Abbey Chimes. She started from her bed,

threw on a few loose garments hastily, and was speeding to enquire how

her Mother had passed the night, when her foot struck against something

which lay in her passage. She looked down. What was her horror at

recognizing Elvira’s livid Corse! She uttered a loud shriek, and threw

herself upon the floor. She clasped the inanimate form to her bosom,

felt that it was dead-cold, and with a movement of disgust, of which

She was not the Mistress, let it fall again from her arms. The cry had

alarmed Flora, who hastened to her assistance. The sight which She

beheld penetrated her with horror; but her alarm was more audible than

Antonia’s. She made the House ring with her lamentations, while her

Mistress, almost suffocated with grief, could only mark her distress by

sobs and groans. Flora’s shrieks soon reached the ears of the Hostess,

whose terror and surprize were excessive on learning the cause of this

disturbance. A Physician was immediately sent for: But on the first

moment of beholding the Corse, He declared that Elvira’s recovery was

beyond the power of art. He proceeded therefore to give his assistance

to Antonia, who by this time was truly in need of it. She was conveyed

to bed, while the Landlady busied herself in giving orders for Elvira’s

Burial. Dame Jacintha was a plain good kind of Woman, charitable,

generous, and devout: But her intellects were weak, and She was a

Miserable Slave to fear and superstition. She shuddered at the idea of

passing the night in the same House with a dead Body: She was persuaded

that Elvira’s Ghost would appear to her, and no less certain that such

a visit would kill her with fright. From this persuasion, She resolved

to pass the night at a Neighbour’s, and insisted that the Funeral

should take place the next day. St. Clare’s Cemetery being the nearest,

it was determined that Elvira should be buried there. Dame Jacintha

engaged to defray every expence attending the burial. She knew not in

what circumstances Antonia was left, but from the sparing manner in

which the Family had lived, She concluded them to be indifferent.

Consequently, She entertained very little hope of ever being

recompensed; But this consideration prevented her not from taking care

that the Interment was performed with decency, and from showing the

unfortunate Antonia all possible respect.

Nobody dies of mere grief; Of this Antonia was an instance. Aided by

her youth and healthy constitution, She shook off the malady which her

Mother’s death had occasioned; But it was not so easy to remove the

disease of her mind. Her eyes were constantly filled with tears: Every

trifle affected her, and She evidently nourished in her bosom a

profound and rooted melancholy. The slightest mention of Elvira, the

most trivial circumstance recalling that beloved Parent to her memory,

was sufficient to throw her into serious agitation. How much would her

grief have been increased, had She known the agonies which terminated

her Mother’s existence! But of this no one entertained the least

suspicion. Elvira was subject to strong convulsions: It was supposed

that, aware of their approach, She had dragged herself to her

Daughter’s chamber in hopes of assistance; that a sudden access of her

fits had seized her, too violent to be resisted by her already

enfeebled state of health; and that She had expired ere She had time to

reach the medicine which generally relieved her, and which stood upon a

shelf in Antonia’s room. This idea was firmly credited by the few

people, who interested themselves about Elvira: Her Death was esteemed

a natural event, and soon forgotten by all save by her, who had but too

much reason to deplore her loss.

In truth Antonia’s situation was sufficiently embarrassing and

unpleasant. She was alone in the midst of a dissipated and expensive

City; She was ill provided with money, and worse with Friends. Her aunt

Leonella was still at Cordova, and She knew not her direction. Of the

Marquis de las Cisternas She heard no news: As to Lorenzo, She had long

given up the idea of possessing any interest in his bosom. She knew not

to whom She could address herself in her present dilemma. She wished to

consult Ambrosio; But She remembered her Mother’s injunctions to shun

him as much as possible, and the last conversation which Elvira had

held with her upon the subject had given her sufficient lights

respecting his designs to put her upon her guard against him in future.

Still all her Mother’s warnings could not make her change her good

opinion of the Friar. She continued to feel that his friendship and

society were requisite to her happiness: She looked upon his failings

with a partial eye, and could not persuade herself that He really had

intended her ruin. However, Elvira had positively commanded her to drop

his acquaintance, and She had too much respect for her orders to

disobey them.

At length She resolved to address herself for advice and protection to

the Marquis de las Cisternas, as being her nearest Relation. She wrote

to him, briefly stating her desolate situation; She besought him to

compassionate his Brother’s Child, to continue to her Elvira’s pension,

and to authorise her retiring to his old Castle in Murcia, which till

now had been her retreat. Having sealed her letter, She gave it to the

trusty Flora, who immediately set out to execute her commission. But

Antonia was born under an unlucky Star. Had She made her application to

the Marquis but one day sooner, received as his Niece and placed at the

head of his Family, She would have escaped all the misfortunes with

which She was now threatened. Raymond had always intended to execute

this plan: But first, his hopes of making the proposal to Elvira

through the lips of Agnes, and afterwards, his disappointment at losing

his intended Bride, as well as the severe illness which for some time

had confined him to his Bed, made him defer from day to day the giving

an Asylum in his House to his Brother’s Widow. He had commissioned

Lorenzo to supply her liberally with money: But Elvira, unwilling to

receive obligations from that Nobleman, had assured him that She needed

no immediate pecuniary assistance. Consequently, the Marquis did not

imagine that a trifling delay on his part could create any

embarrassment; and the distress and agitation of his mind might well

excuse his negligence.

Had He been informed that Elvira’s death had left her Daughter

Friendless and unprotected, He would doubtless have taken such

measures, as would have ensured her from every danger: But Antonia was

not destined to be so fortunate. The day on which She sent her letter

to the Palace de las Cisternas was that following Lorenzo’s departure

from Madrid. The Marquis was in the first paroxysms of despair at the

conviction that Agnes was indeed no more: He was delirious, and his

life being in danger, no one was suffered to approach him. Flora was

informed that He was incapable of attending to Letters, and that

probably a few hours would decide his fate. With this unsatisfactory

answer She was obliged to return to her Mistress, who now found herself

plunged into greater difficulties than ever.

Flora and Dame Jacintha exerted themselves to console her. The Latter

begged her to make herself easy, for that as long as She chose to stay

with her, She would treat her like her own Child. Antonia, finding that

the good Woman had taken a real affection for her, was somewhat

comforted by thinking that She had at least one Friend in the World. A

Letter was now brought to her, directed to Elvira. She recognized

Leonella’s writing, and opening it with joy, found a detailed account

of her Aunt’s adventures at Cordova. She informed her Sister that She

had recovered her Legacy, had lost her heart, and had received in

exchange that of the most amiable of Apothecaries, past, present, and

to come. She added that She should be at Madrid on the Tuesday night,

and meant to have the pleasure of presenting her Caro Sposo in form.

Though her nuptials were far from pleasing Antonia, Leonella’s speedy

return gave her Niece much delight. She rejoiced in thinking that She

should once more be under a Relation’s care. She could not but judge it

to be highly improper, for a young Woman to be living among absolute

Strangers, with no one to regulate her conduct, or protect her from the

insults to which, in her defenceless situation, She was exposed. She

therefore looked forward with impatience to the Tuesday night.

It arrived. Antonia listened anxiously to the Carriages, as they rolled

along the Street. None of them stopped, and it grew late without

Leonella’s appearing. Still, Antonia resolved to sit up till her Aunt’s

arrival, and in spite of all her remonstrances, Dame Jacintha and Flora

insisted upon doing the same. The hours passed on slow and tediously.

Lorenzo’s departure from Madrid had put a stop to the nightly

Serenades: She hoped in vain to hear the usual sound of Guitars beneath

her window. She took up her own, and struck a few chords: But Music

that evening had lost its charms for her, and She soon replaced the

Instrument in its case. She seated herself at her embroidery frame, but

nothing went right: The silks were missing, the thread snapped every

moment, and the needles were so expert at falling that they seemed to

be animated. At length a flake of wax fell from the Taper which stood

near her upon a favourite wreath of Violets: This compleatly

discomposed her; She threw down her needle, and quitted the frame. It

was decreed that for that night nothing should have the power of

amusing her. She was the prey of Ennui, and employed herself in making

fruitless wishes for the arrival of her Aunt.

As She walked with a listless air up and down the chamber, the Door

caught her eye conducting to that which had been her Mother’s. She

remembered that Elvira’s little Library was arranged there, and thought

that She might possibly find in it some Book to amuse her till Leonella

should arrive. Accordingly She took her Taper from the table, passed

through the little Closet, and entered the adjoining apartment. As She

looked around her, the sight of this room brought to her recollection a

thousand painful ideas. It was the first time of her entering it since

her Mother’s death. The total silence prevailing through the chamber,

the Bed despoiled of its furniture, the cheerless hearth where stood an

extinguished Lamp, and a few dying Plants in the window which, since

Elvira’s loss, had been neglected, inspired Antonia with a melancholy

awe. The gloom of night gave strength to this sensation. She placed her

light upon the Table, and sank into a large chair, in which She had

seen her Mother seated a thousand and a thousand times. She was never

to see her seated there again! Tears unbidden streamed down her cheek,

and She abandoned herself to the sadness which grew deeper with every

moment.

Ashamed of her weakness, She at length rose from her seat: She

proceeded to seek for what had brought her to this melancholy scene.

The small collection of Books was arranged upon several shelves in

order. Antonia examined them without finding any thing likely to

interest her, till She put her hand upon a volume of old Spanish

Ballads. She read a few Stanzas of one of them: They excited her

curiosity. She took down the Book, and seated herself to peruse it with

more ease. She trimmed the Taper, which now drew towards its end, and

then read the following Ballad.

ALONZO THE BRAVE, AND FAIR IMOGINE

A Warrior so bold, and a Virgin so bright

Conversed, as They sat on the green:

They gazed on each other with tender delight;

Alonzo the Brave was the name of the Knight,

The Maid’s was the Fair Imogine.

“And Oh!” said the Youth, “since to-morrow I go

To fight in a far distant land,

Your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow,

Some Other will court you, and you will bestow

On a wealthier Suitor your hand.”

“Oh! hush these suspicions,” Fair Imogine said,

“Offensive to Love and to me!

For if ye be living, or if ye be dead,

I swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead

Shall Husband of Imogine be.

“If e’er I by lust or by wealth led aside

Forget my Alonzo the Brave,

God grant, that to punish my falsehood and pride

Your Ghost at the Marriage may sit by my side,

May tax me with perjury, claim me as Bride,

And bear me away to the Grave!”

To Palestine hastened the Hero so bold;

His Love, She lamented him sore:

But scarce had a twelve-month elapsed, when behold,

A Baron all covered with jewels and gold

Arrived at Fair Imogine’s door.

His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain

Soon made her untrue to her vows:

He dazzled her eyes; He bewildered her brain;

He caught her affections so light and so vain,

And carried her home as his Spouse.

And now had the Marriage been blest by the Priest;

The revelry now was begun:

The Tables, they groaned with the weight of the Feast;

Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,

When the Bell of the Castle told,—“One!”

Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found

That a Stranger was placed by her side: His air was terrific;

He uttered no sound; He spoke not, He moved not,

He looked not around,

But earnestly gazed on the Bride.

His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height;

His armour was sable to view:

All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight;

The Dogs as They eyed him drew back in affright,

The Lights in the chamber burned blue!

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay;

The Guests sat in silence and fear.

At length spoke the Bride, while She trembled;

“I pray, Sir Knight, that your Helmet aside you would lay,

And deign to partake of our chear.”

The Lady is silent: The Stranger complies.

His vizor lie slowly unclosed:

Oh! God! what a sight met Fair Imogine’s eyes!

What words can express her dismay and surprize,

When a Skeleton’s head was exposed.

All present then uttered a terrified shout;

All turned with disgust from the scene.

The worms, They crept in, and the worms, They crept out,

And sported his eyes and his temples about,

While the Spectre addressed Imogine.

“Behold me, Thou false one! Behold me!” He cried;

“Remember Alonzo the Brave!

God grants, that to punish thy falsehood and pride

My Ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side,

Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as Bride

And bear thee away to the Grave!”

Thus saying, his arms round the Lady He wound,

While loudly She shrieked in dismay;

Then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground:

Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found,

Or the Spectre who bore her away.

Not long lived the Baron; and none since that time

To inhabit the Castle presume:

For Chronicles tell, that by order sublime

There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,

And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight four times in each year does her Spright

When Mortals in slumber are bound,

Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,

Appear in the Hall with the Skeleton-Knight,

And shriek, as He whirls her around.

While They drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,

Dancing round them the Spectres are seen:

Their liquor is blood, and this horrible Stave

They howl.—“To the health of Alonzo the Brave,

And his Consort, the False Imogine!”

The perusal of this story was ill-calculated to dispel Antonia’s

melancholy. She had naturally a strong inclination to the marvellous;

and her Nurse, who believed firmly in Apparitions, had related to her

when an Infant so many horrible adventures of this kind, that all

Elvira’s attempts had failed to eradicate their impressions from her

Daughter’s mind. Antonia still nourished a superstitious prejudice in

her bosom: She was often susceptible of terrors which, when She

discovered their natural and insignificant cause, made her blush at her

own weakness. With such a turn of mind, the adventure which She had

just been reading sufficed to give her apprehensions the alarm. The

hour and the scene combined to authorize them. It was the dead of

night: She was alone, and in the chamber once occupied by her deceased

Mother. The weather was comfortless and stormy: The wind howled around

the House, the doors rattled in their frames, and the heavy rain

pattered against the windows. No other sound was heard. The Taper, now

burnt down to the socket, sometimes flaring upwards shot a gleam of

light through the room, then sinking again seemed upon the point of

expiring. Antonia’s heart throbbed with agitation: Her eyes wandered

fearfully over the objects around her, as the trembling flame

illuminated them at intervals. She attempted to rise from her seat; But

her limbs trembled so violently that She was unable to proceed. She

then called Flora, who was in a room at no great distance: But

agitation choaked her voice, and her cries died away in hollow murmurs.

She passed some minutes in this situation, after which her terrors

began to diminish. She strove to recover herself, and acquire strength

enough to quit the room: Suddenly She fancied, that She heard a low

sigh drawn near her. This idea brought back her former weakness. She

had already raised herself from her seat, and was on the point of

taking the Lamp from the Table. The imaginary noise stopped her: She

drew back her hand, and supported herself upon the back of a Chair. She

listened anxiously, but nothing more was heard.

“Gracious God!” She said to herself; “What could be that sound? Was I

deceived, or did I really hear it?”

Her reflections were interrupted by a noise at the door scarcely

audible: It seemed as if somebody was whispering. Antonia’s alarm

increased: Yet the Bolt She knew to be fastened, and this idea in some

degree reassured her. Presently the Latch was lifted up softly, and the

Door moved with caution backwards and forwards. Excess of terror now

supplied Antonia with that strength, of which She had till then been

deprived. She started from her place and made towards the Closet door,

whence She might soon have reached the chamber where She expected to

find Flora and Dame Jacintha. Scarcely had She reached the middle of

the room when the Latch was lifted up a second time. An involuntary

movement obliged her to turn her head. Slowly and gradually the Door

turned upon its hinges, and standing upon the Threshold She beheld a

tall thin Figure, wrapped in a white shroud which covered it from head

to foot.

This vision arrested her feet: She remained as if petrified in the

middle of the apartment. The Stranger with measured and solemn steps

drew near the Table. The dying Taper darted a blue and melancholy flame

as the Figure advanced towards it. Over the Table was fixed a small

Clock; The hand of it was upon the stroke of three. The Figure stopped

opposite to the Clock: It raised its right arm, and pointed to the

hour, at the same time looking earnestly upon Antonia, who waited for

the conclusion of this scene, motionless and silent.

The figure remained in this posture for some moments. The clock struck.

When the sound had ceased, the Stranger advanced yet a few steps nearer

Antonia.

“Yet three days,” said a voice faint, hollow, and sepulchral; “Yet

three days, and we meet again!”

Antonia shuddered at the words.

“We meet again?” She pronounced at length with difficulty: “Where shall

we meet? Whom shall I meet?”

The figure pointed to the ground with one hand, and with the other

raised the Linen which covered its face.

“Almighty God! My Mother!”

Antonia shrieked, and fell lifeless upon the floor.

Dame Jacintha who was at work in a neighbouring chamber, was alarmed by

the cry: Flora was just gone down stairs to fetch fresh oil for the

Lamp, by which they had been sitting. Jacintha therefore hastened alone

to Antonia’s assistance, and great was her amazement to find her

extended upon the floor. She raised her in her arms, conveyed her to

her apartment, and placed her upon the Bed still senseless. She then

proceeded to bathe her temples, chafe her hands, and use all possible

means of bringing her to herself. With some difficulty She succeeded.

Antonia opened her eyes, and looked round her wildly.

“Where is She?” She cried in a trembling voice; “Is She gone? Am I

safe? Speak to me! Comfort me! Oh! speak to me for God’s sake!”

“Safe from whom, my Child?” replied the astonished Jacintha; “What

alarms you? Of whom are you afraid?”

“In three days! She told me that we should meet in three days! I heard

her say it! I saw her, Jacintha, I saw her but this moment!”

She threw herself upon Jacintha’s bosom.

“You saw her? Saw whom?”

“My Mother’s Ghost!”

“Christ Jesus!” cried Jacintha, and starting from the Bed, let fall

Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in consternation out of the room.

As She hastened down stairs, She met Flora ascending them.

“Go to your Mistress, Flora,” said She; “Here are rare doings! Oh! I am

the most unfortunate Woman alive! My House is filled with Ghosts and

dead Bodies, and the Lord knows what besides; Yet I am sure, nobody

likes such company less than I do. But go your way to Donna Antonia,

Flora, and let me go mine.”

Thus saying, She continued her course to the Street door, which She

opened, and without allowing herself time to throw on her veil, She

made the best of her way to the Capuchin Abbey. In the meanwhile, Flora

hastened to her Lady’s chamber, equally surprized and alarmed at

Jacintha’s consternation. She found Antonia lying upon the bed

insensible. She used the same means for her recovery that Jacintha had

already employed; But finding that her Mistress only recovered from one

fit to fall into another, She sent in all haste for a Physician. While

expecting his arrival, She undrest Antonia, and conveyed her to Bed.

Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses, Jacintha ran

through the Streets, and stopped not till She reached the Gate of the

Abbey. She rang loudly at the bell, and as soon as the Porter appeared,

She desired permission to speak to the Superior. Ambrosio was then

conferring with Matilda upon the means of procuring access to Antonia.

The cause of Elvira’s death remaining unknown, He was convinced that

crimes were not so swiftly followed by punishment, as his Instructors

the Monks had taught him, and as till then He had himself believed.

This persuasion made him resolve upon Antonia’s ruin, for the enjoyment

of whose person dangers and difficulties only seemed to have increased

his passion. The Monk had already made one attempt to gain admission to

her presence; But Flora had refused him in such a manner as to convince

him that all future endeavours must be vain. Elvira had confided her

suspicions to that trusty Servant: She had desired her never to leave

Ambrosio alone with her Daughter, and if possible to prevent their

meeting altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had executed her

orders to the very letter. Ambrosio’s visit had been rejected that

morning, though Antonia was ignorant of it. He saw that to obtain a

sight of his Mistress by open means was out of the question; and both

Himself and Matilda had consumed the night, in endeavouring to invent

some plan, whose event might be more successful. Such was their

employment, when a Lay-Brother entered the Abbot’s Cell, and informed

him that a Woman calling herself Jacintha Zuniga requested audience for

a few minutes.

Ambrosio was by no means disposed to grant the petition of his Visitor.

He refused it positively, and bad the Lay-Brother tell the Stranger to

return the next day. Matilda interrupted him.

“See this Woman,” said She in a low voice; “I have my reasons.”

The Abbot obeyed her, and signified that He would go to the Parlour

immediately. With this answer the Lay-Brother withdrew. As soon as they

were alone Ambrosio enquired why Matilda wished him to see this

Jacintha.

“She is Antonia’s Hostess,” replied Matilda; “She may possibly be of

use to you: but let us examine her, and learn what brings her hither.”

They proceeded together to the Parlour, where Jacintha was already

waiting for the Abbot. She had conceived a great opinion of his piety

and virtue; and supposing him to have much influence over the Devil,

thought that it must be an easy matter for him to lay Elvira’s Ghost in

the Red Sea. Filled with this persuasion She had hastened to the Abbey.

As soon as She saw the Monk enter the Parlour, She dropped upon her

knees, and began her story as follows.

“Oh! Reverend Father! Such an accident! Such an adventure! I know not

what course to take, and unless you can help me, I shall certainly go

distracted. Well, to be sure, never was Woman so unfortunate, as

myself! All in my power to keep clear of such abomination have I done,

and yet that all is too little. What signifies my telling my beads four

times a day, and observing every fast prescribed by the Calendar? What

signifies my having made three Pilgrimages to St. James of Compostella,

and purchased as many pardons from the Pope as would buy off Cain’s

punishment? Nothing prospers with me! All goes wrong, and God only

knows, whether any thing will ever go right again! Why now, be your

Holiness the Judge. My Lodger dies in convulsions; Out of pure kindness

I bury her at my own expence; (Not that she is any relation of mine, or

that I shall be benefited a single pistole by her death: I got nothing

by it, and therefore you know, reverend Father, that her living or

dying was just the same to me. But that is nothing to the purpose; To

return to what I was saying,) I took care of her funeral, had every

thing performed decently and properly, and put myself to expence

enough, God knows! And how do you think the Lady repays me for my

kindness? Why truly by refusing to sleep quietly in her comfortable

deal Coffin, as a peaceable well-disposed Spirit ought to do, and

coming to plague me, who never wish to set eyes on her again. Forsooth,

it well becomes her to go racketing about my House at midnight, popping

into her Daughter’s room through the Keyhole, and frightening the poor

Child out of her wits! Though She be a Ghost, She might be more civil

than to bolt into a Person’s House, who likes her company so little.

But as for me, reverend Father, the plain state of the case is this: If

She walks into my House, I must walk out of it, for I cannot abide such

Visitors, not I! Thus you see, your Sanctity, that without your

assistance I am ruined and undone for ever. I shall be obliged to quit

my House; Nobody will take it, when ’tis known that She haunts it, and

then I shall find myself in a fine situation! Miserable Woman that I

am! What shall I do! What will become of me!”

Here She wept bitterly, wrung her hands, and begged to know the Abbot’s

opinion of her case.

“In truth, good Woman,” replied He, “It will be difficult for me to

relieve you without knowing what is the matter with you. You have

forgotten to tell me what has happened, and what it is you want.”

“Let me die” cried Jacintha, “but your Sanctity is in the right! This

then is the fact stated briefly. A lodger of mine is lately dead, a

very good sort of Woman that I must needs say for her as far as my

knowledge of her went, though that was not a great way:

She kept me too much at a distance; for indeed She was given to be upon

the high ropes, and whenever I ventured to speak to her, She had a look

with her which always made me feel a little queerish, God forgive me

for saying so. However, though She was more stately than needful, and

affected to look down upon me (Though if I am well informed, I come of

as good Parents as She could do for her ears, for her Father was a

Shoe-maker at Cordova, and Mine was an Hatter at Madrid, aye, and a

very creditable Hatter too, let me tell you,) Yet for all her pride,

She was a quiet well-behaved Body, and I never wish to have a better

Lodger. This makes me wonder the more at her not sleeping quietly in

her Grave: But there is no trusting to people in this world! For my

part, I never saw her do amiss, except on the Friday before her death.

To be sure, I was then much scandalized by seeing her eat the wing of a

Chicken! ‘How, Madona Flora!’ quoth I; (Flora, may it please your

Reverence, is the name of the waiting Maid)—‘How, Madona Flora!’ quoth

I; ‘Does your Mistress eat flesh upon Fridays? Well! Well! See the

event, and then remember that Dame Jacintha warned you of it!’ These

were my very words, but Alas! I might as well have held my tongue!

Nobody minded me; and Flora, who is somewhat pert and snappish, (More

is the pity, say I) told me that there was no more harm in eating a

Chicken than the egg from which it came. Nay, She even declared that if

her Lady added a slice of bacon, She would not be an inch nearer

Damnation, God protect us! A poor ignorant sinful soul! I protest to

your Holiness, I trembled to hear her utter such blasphemies, and

expected every moment to see the ground open and swallow her up,

Chicken and all! For you must know, worshipful Father, that while She

talked thus, She held the plate in her hand, on which lay the identical

roast Fowl. And a fine Bird it was, that I must say for it! Done to a

turn, for I superintended the cooking of it myself: It was a little

Gallician of my own raising, may it please your Holiness, and the flesh

was as white as an egg-shell, as indeed Donna Elvira told me herself.

‘Dame Jacintha,’ said She, very good-humouredly, though to say the

truth, She was always very polite to me .....”

Here Ambrosio’s patience failed him. Eager to know Jacintha’s business

in which Antonia seemed to be concerned, He was almost distracted while

listening to the rambling of this prosing old Woman. He interrupted

her, and protested that if She did not immediately tell her story and

have done with it, He should quit the Parlour, and leave her to get out

of her difficulties by herself. This threat had the desired effect.

Jacintha related her business in as few words as She could manage; But

her account was still so prolix that Ambrosio had need of his patience

to bear him to the conclusion.

“And so, your Reverence,” said She, after relating Elvira’s death and

burial, with all their circumstances; “And so, your Reverence, upon

hearing the shriek, I put away my work, and away posted I to Donna

Antonia’s chamber. Finding nobody there, I past on to the next; But I

must own, I was a little timorous at going in, for this was the very

room where Donna Elvira used to sleep. However, in I went, and sure

enough, there lay the young Lady at full length upon the floor, as cold

as a stone, and as white as a sheet. I was surprized at this, as your

Holiness may well suppose; But Oh me! how I shook when I saw a great

tall figure at my elbow whose head touched the ceiling! The face was

Donna Elvira’s, I must confess; But out of its mouth came clouds of

fire, its arms were loaded with heavy chains which it rattled

piteously, and every hair on its head was a Serpent as big as my arm!

At this I was frightened enough, and began to say my Ave-Maria: But the

Ghost interrupting me uttered three loud groans, and roared out in a

terrible voice, ‘Oh! That Chicken’s wing! My poor soul suffers for it!’

As soon as She had said this, the Ground opened, the Spectre sank down,

I heard a clap of thunder, and the room was filled with a smell of

brimstone. When I recovered from my fright, and had brought Donna

Antonia to herself, who told me that She had cried out upon seeing her

Mother’s Ghost, (And well might She cry, poor Soul! Had I been in her

place, I should have cried ten times louder) it directly came into my

head, that if any one had power to quiet this Spectre, it must be your

Reverence. So hither I came in all diligence, to beg that you will

sprinkle my House with holy water, and lay the Apparition in the Red

Sea.”

Ambrosio stared at this strange story, which He could not credit.

“Did Donna Antonia also see the Ghost?” said He.

“As plain as I see you, Reverend Father!”

Ambrosio paused for a moment. Here was an opportunity offered him of

gaining access to Antonia, but He hesitated to employ it. The

reputation which He enjoyed in Madrid was still dear to him; and since

He had lost the reality of virtue, it appeared as if its semblance was

become more valuable. He was conscious that publicly to break through

the rule never to quit the Abbey precincts, would derogate much from

his supposed austerity. In visiting Elvira, He had always taken care to

keep his features concealed from the Domestics. Except by the Lady, her

Daughter, and the faithful Flora, He was known in the Family by no

other name than that of Father Jerome. Should He comply with Jacintha’s

request, and accompany her to her House, He knew that the violation of

his rule could not be kept a secret. However, his eagerness to see

Antonia obtained the victory: He even hoped, that the singularity of

this adventure would justify him in the eyes of Madrid: But whatever

might be the consequences, He resolved to profit by the opportunity

which chance had presented to him. An expressive look from Matilda

confirmed him in this resolution.

“Good Woman,” said He to Jacintha, “what you tell me is so

extraordinary that I can scarcely credit your assertions. However, I

will comply with your request. Tomorrow after Matins you may expect me

at your House: I will then examine into what I can do for you, and if

it is in my power, will free you from this unwelcome Visitor. Now then

go home, and peace be with you!”

“Home?” exclaimed Jacintha; “I go home? Not I by my troth! except under

your protection, I set no foot of mine within the threshold. God help

me, the Ghost may meet me upon the Stairs, and whisk me away with her

to the devil! Oh! That I had accepted young Melchior Basco’s offer!

Then I should have had somebody to protect me; But now I am a lone

Woman, and meet with nothing but crosses and misfortunes! Thank Heaven,

it is not yet too late to repent! There is Simon Gonzalez will have me

any day of the week, and if I live till daybreak, I will marry him out

of hand: An Husband I will have, that is determined, for now this Ghost

is once in my House, I shall be frightened out of my wits to sleep

alone. But for God’s sake, reverend Father, come with me now. I shall

have no rest till the House is purified, or the poor young Lady either.

The dear Girl! She is in a piteous taking: I left her in strong

convulsions, and I doubt, She will not easily recover her fright.”

The Friar started, and interrupted her hastily.

“In convulsions, say you? Antonia in convulsions? Lead on, good Woman!

I follow you this moment!”

Jacintha insisted upon his stopping to furnish himself with the vessel

of holy water: With this request He complied. Thinking herself safe

under his protection should a Legion of Ghosts attack her, the old

Woman returned the Monk a profusion of thanks, and they departed

together for the Strada di San Iago.

So strong an impression had the Spectre made upon Antonia, that for the

first two or three hours the Physician declared her life to be in

danger. The fits at length becoming less frequent induced him to alter

his opinion. He said that to keep her quiet was all that was necessary;

and He ordered a medicine to be prepared which would tranquillize her

nerves, and procure her that repose which at present She much wanted.

The sight of Ambrosio, who now appeared with Jacintha at her Bedside,

contributed essentially to compose her ruffled spirits. Elvira had not

sufficiently explained herself upon the nature of his designs, to make

a Girl so ignorant of the world as her Daughter aware how dangerous was

his acquaintance. At this moment, when penetrated with horror at the

scene which had just past, and dreading to contemplate the Ghost’s

prediction, her mind had need of all the succours of friendship and

religion, Antonia regarded the Abbot with an eye doubly partial. That

strong prepossession in his favour still existed which She had felt for

him at first sight: She fancied, yet knew not wherefore, that his

presence was a safeguard to her from every danger, insult, or

misfortune.

She thanked him gratefully for his visit, and related to him the

adventure, which had alarmed her so seriously.

The Abbot strove to reassure her, and convince her that the whole had

been a deception of her overheated fancy. The solitude in which She had

passed the Evening, the gloom of night, the Book which She had been

reading, and the Room in which She sat, were all calculated to place

before her such a vision. He treated the idea of Ghosts with ridicule,

and produced strong arguments to prove the fallacy of such a system.

His conversation tranquillized and comforted her, but did not convince

her. She could not believe that the Spectre had been a mere creature of

her imagination; Every circumstance was impressed upon her mind too

forcibly, to permit her flattering herself with such an idea. She

persisted in asserting that She had really seen her Mother’s Ghost, had

heard the period of her dissolution announced and declared that She

never should quit her bed alive. Ambrosio advised her against

encouraging these sentiments, and then quitted her chamber, having

promised to repeat his visit on the morrow. Antonia received this

assurance with every mark of joy: But the Monk easily perceived that He

was not equally acceptable to her Attendant. Flora obeyed Elvira’s

injunctions with the most scrupulous observance. She examined every

circumstance with an anxious eye likely in the least to prejudice her

young Mistress, to whom She had been attached for many years. She was a

Native of Cuba, had followed Elvira to Spain, and loved the young

Antonia with a Mother’s affection. Flora quitted not the room for a

moment while the Abbot remained there: She watched his every word, his

every look, his every action. He saw that her suspicious eye was always

fixed upon him, and conscious that his designs would not bear

inspection so minute, He felt frequently confused and disconcerted. He

was aware that She doubted the purity of his intentions; that She would

never leave him alone with Antonia, and his Mistress defended by the

presence of this vigilant Observer, He despaired of finding the means

to gratify his passion.

As He quitted the House, Jacintha met him, and begged that some Masses

might be sung for the repose of Elvira’s soul, which She doubted not

was suffering in Purgatory. He promised not to forget her request; But

He perfectly gained the old Woman’s heart by engaging to watch during

the whole of the approaching night in the haunted chamber. Jacintha

could find no terms sufficiently strong to express her gratitude, and

the Monk departed loaded with her benedictions.

It was broad day when He returned to the Abbey. His first care was to

communicate what had past to his Confident. He felt too sincere a

passion for Antonia to have heard unmoved the prediction of her speedy

death, and He shuddered at the idea of losing an object so dear to him.

Upon this head Matilda reassured him. She confirmed the arguments which

Himself had already used: She declared Antonia to have been deceived by

the wandering of her brain, by the Spleen which opprest her at the

moment, and by the natural turn of her mind to superstition, and the

marvellous. As to Jacintha’s account, the absurdity refuted itself; The

Abbot hesitated not to believe that She had fabricated the whole story,

either confused by terror, or hoping to make him comply more readily

with her request. Having overruled the Monk’s apprehensions, Matilda

continued thus.

“The prediction and the Ghost are equally false; But it must be your

care, Ambrosio, to verify the first. Antonia within three days must

indeed be dead to the world; But She must live for you.

Her present illness, and this fancy which She has taken into her head,

will colour a plan which I have long meditated, but which was

impracticable without your procuring access to Antonia. She shall be

yours, not for a single night, but for ever. All the vigilance of her

Duenna shall not avail her: You shall riot unrestrained in the charms

of your Mistress. This very day must the scheme be put in execution,

for you have no time to lose. The Nephew of the Duke of Medina Celi

prepares to demand Antonia for his Bride: In a few days She will be

removed to the Palace of her Relation, the Marquis de las Cisternas,

and there She will be secure from your attempts. Thus during your

absence have I been informed by my Spies, who are ever employed in

bringing me intelligence for your service. Now then listen to me. There

is a juice extracted from certain herbs, known but to few, which brings

on the Person who drinks it the exact image of Death. Let this be

administered to Antonia: You may easily find means to pour a few drops

into her medicine. The effect will be throwing her into strong

convulsions for an hour: After which her blood will gradually cease to

flow, and heart to beat; A mortal paleness will spread itself over her

features, and She will appear a Corse to every eye. She has no Friends

about her: You may charge yourself unsuspected with the superintendence

of her funeral, and cause her to be buried in the Vaults of St. Clare.

Their solitude and easy access render these Caverns favourable to your

designs. Give Antonia the soporific draught this Evening: Eight and

forty hours after She has drank it, Life will revive to her bosom. She

will then be absolutely in your power: She will find all resistance

unavailing, and necessity will compel her to receive you in her arms.”

“Antonia will be in my power!” exclaimed the Monk; “Matilda, you

transport me! At length then, happiness will be mine, and that

happiness will be Matilda’s gift, will be the gift of friendship!

I shall clasp Antonia in my arms, far from every prying eye, from every

tormenting Intruder! I shall sigh out my soul upon her bosom; Shall

teach her young heart the first rudiments of pleasure, and revel

uncontrouled in the endless variety of her charms! And shall this

delight indeed by mine? Shall I give the reins to my desires, and

gratify every wild tumultuous wish? Oh! Matilda, how can I express to

you my gratitude?”

“By profiting by my counsels. Ambrosio, I live but to serve you:

Your interest and happiness are equally mine. Be your person Antonia’s,

but to your friendship and your heart I still assert my claim.

Contributing to yours forms now my only pleasure. Should my exertions

procure the gratification of your wishes, I shall consider my trouble

to be amply repaid. But let us lose no time. The liquor of which I

spoke is only to be found in St. Clare’s Laboratory. Hasten then to the

Prioress; Request of her admission to the Laboratory, and it will not

be denied. There is a Closet at the lower end of the great Room, filled

with liquids of different colours and qualities. The Bottle in question

stands by itself upon the third shelf on the left. It contains a

greenish liquor: Fill a small phial with it when you are unobserved,

and Antonia is your own.”

The Monk hesitated not to adopt this infamous plan. His desires, but

too violent before, had acquired fresh vigour from the sight of

Antonia. As He sat by her bedside, accident had discovered to him some

of those charms which till then had been concealed from him: He found

them even more perfect, than his ardent imagination had pictured them.

Sometimes her white and polished arm was displayed in arranging the

pillow: Sometimes a sudden movement discovered part of her swelling

bosom: But whereever the new-found charm presented itself, there rested

the Friar’s gloting eyes. Scarcely could He master himself sufficiently

to conceal his desires from Antonia and her vigilant Duenna. Inflamed

by the remembrance of these beauties, He entered into Matilda’s scheme

without hesitation.

No sooner were Matins over than He bent his course towards the Convent

of St. Clare: His arrival threw the whole Sisterhood into the utmost

amazement. The Prioress was sensible of the honour done her Convent by

his paying it his first visit, and strove to express her gratitude by

every possible attention. He was paraded through the Garden, shown all

the reliques of Saints and Martyrs, and treated with as much respect

and distinction as had He been the Pope himself. On his part, Ambrosio

received the Domina’s civilities very graciously, and strove to remove

her surprize at his having broken through his resolution. He stated,

that among his penitents, illness prevented many from quitting their

Houses. These were exactly the People who most needed his advice and

the comforts of Religion: Many representations had been made to him

upon this account, and though highly repugnant to his own wishes, He

had found it absolutely necessary for the service of heaven to change

his determination, and quit his beloved retirement. The Prioress

applauded his zeal in his profession and his charity towards Mankind:

She declared that Madrid was happy in possessing a Man so perfect and

irreproachable. In such discourse, the Friar at length reached the

Laboratory. He found the Closet: The Bottle stood in the place which

Matilda had described, and the Monk seized an opportunity to fill his

phial unobserved with the soporific liquor. Then having partaken of a

Collation in the Refectory, He retired from the Convent pleased with

the success of his visit, and leaving the Nuns delighted by the honour

conferred upon them.

He waited till Evening before He took the road to Antonia’s dwelling.

Jacintha welcomed him with transport, and besought him not to forget

his promise to pass the night in the haunted Chamber: That promise He

now repeated. He found Antonia tolerably well, but still harping upon

the Ghost’s prediction. Flora moved not from her Lady’s Bed, and by

symptoms yet stronger than on the former night testified her dislike to

the Abbot’s presence. Still Ambrosio affected not to observe them. The

Physician arrived, while He was conversing with Antonia. It was dark

already; Lights were called for, and Flora was compelled to descend for

them herself. However, as She left a third Person in the room, and

expected to be absent but a few minutes, She believed that She risqued

nothing in quitting her post. No sooner had She left the room, than

Ambrosio moved towards the Table, on which stood Antonia’s medicine: It

was placed in a recess of the window. The Physician seated in an

armed-chair, and employed in questioning his Patient, paid no attention

to the proceedings of the Monk. Ambrosio seized the opportunity: He

drew out the fatal Phial, and let a few drops fall into the medicine.

He then hastily left the Table, and returned to the seat which He had

quitted. When Flora made her appearance with lights, every thing seemed

to be exactly as She had left it.

The Physician declared that Antonia might quit her chamber the next day

with perfect safety. He recommended her following the same prescription

which, on the night before, had procured her a refreshing sleep: Flora

replied that the draught stood ready upon the Table: He advised the

Patient to take it without delay, and then retired. Flora poured the

medicine into a Cup and presented it to her Mistress. At that moment

Ambrosio’s courage failed him. Might not Matilda have deceived him?

Might not Jealousy have persuaded her to destroy her Rival, and

substitute poison in the room of an opiate? This idea appeared so

reasonable that He was on the point of preventing her from swallowing

the medicine. His resolution was adopted too late: The Cup was already

emptied, and Antonia restored it into Flora’s hands. No remedy was now

to be found: Ambrosio could only expect the moment impatiently,

destined to decide upon Antonia’s life or death, upon his own happiness

or despair.

Dreading to create suspicion by his stay, or betray himself by his

mind’s agitation, He took leave of his Victim, and withdrew from the

room. Antonia parted from him with less cordiality than on the former

night. Flora had represented to her Mistress that to admit his visits

was to disobey her Mother’s orders: She described to her his emotion on

entering the room, and the fire which sparkled in his eyes while He

gazed upon her. This had escaped Antonia’s observation, but not her

Attendant’s; Who explaining the Monk’s designs and their probable

consequences in terms much clearer than Elvira’s, though not quite so

delicate, had succeeded in alarming her young Lady, and persuading her

to treat him more distantly than She had done hitherto. The idea of

obeying her Mother’s will at once determined Antonia. Though She

grieved at losing his society, She conquered herself sufficiently to

receive the Monk with some degree of reserve and coldness. She thanked

him with respect and gratitude for his former visits, but did not

invite his repeating them in future. It now was not the Friar’s

interest to solicit admission to her presence, and He took leave of her

as if not designing to return. Fully persuaded that the acquaintance

which She dreaded was now at an end, Flora was so much worked upon by

his easy compliance that She began to doubt the justice of her

suspicions. As She lighted him down Stairs, She thanked him for having

endeavoured to root out from Antonia’s mind her superstitious terrors

of the Spectre’s prediction: She added, that as He seemed interested in

Donna Antonia’s welfare, should any change take place in her situation,

She would be careful to let him know it. The Monk in replying took

pains to raise his voice, hoping that Jacintha would hear it. In this

He succeeded; As He reached the foot of the Stairs with his

Conductress, the Landlady failed not to make her appearance.

“Why surely you are not going away, reverend Father?” cried She; “Did

you not promise to pass the night in the haunted Chamber? Christ Jesus!

I shall be left alone with the Ghost, and a fine pickle I shall be in

by morning! Do all I could, say all I could, that obstinate old Brute,

Simon Gonzalez, refused to marry me today; And before tomorrow comes, I

suppose, I shall be torn to pieces, by the Ghosts, and Goblins, and

Devils, and what not! For God’s sake, your Holiness, do not leave me in

such a woeful condition! On my bended knees I beseech you to keep your

promise: Watch this night in the haunted chamber; Lay the Apparition in

the Red Sea, and Jacintha remembers you in her prayers to the last day

of her existence!”

This request Ambrosio expected and desired; Yet He affected to raise

objections, and to seem unwilling to keep his word. He told Jacintha

that the Ghost existed nowhere but in her own brain, and that her

insisting upon his staying all night in the House was ridiculous and

useless. Jacintha was obstinate: She was not to be convinced, and

pressed him so urgently not to leave her a prey to the Devil, that at

length He granted her request. All this show of resistance imposed not

upon Flora, who was naturally of a suspicious temper. She suspected the

Monk to be acting a part very contrary to his own inclinations, and

that He wished for no better than to remain where He was. She even went

so far as to believe that Jacintha was in his interest; and the poor

old Woman was immediately set down, as no better than a Procuress.

While She applauded herself for having penetrated into this plot

against her Lady’s honour, She resolved in secret to render it

fruitless.

“So then,” said She to the Abbot with a look half-satirical and half

indignant; “So then you mean to stay here tonight? Do so, in God’s

name! Nobody will prevent you. Sit up to watch for the Ghost’s arrival:

I shall sit up too, and the Lord grant that I may see nothing worse

than a Ghost! I quit not Donna Antonia’s Bedside during this blessed

night: Let me see any one dare to enter the room, and be He mortal or

immortal, be He Ghost, Devil, or Man, I warrant his repenting that ever

He crossed the threshold!”

This hint was sufficiently strong, and Ambrosio understood its meaning.

But instead of showing that He perceived her suspicions; He replied

mildly that He approved the Duenna’s precautions, and advised her to

persevere in her intention. This, She assured him faithfully that He

might depend upon her doing. Jacintha then conducted him into the

chamber where the Ghost had appeared, and Flora returned to her Lady’s.

Jacintha opened the door of the haunted room with a trembling hand: She

ventured to peep in; But the wealth of India would not have tempted her

to cross the threshold. She gave the Taper to the Monk, wished him well

through the adventure, and hastened to be gone. Ambrosio entered. He

bolted the door, placed the light upon the Table, and seated himself in

the Chair which on the former night had sustained Antonia. In spite of

Matilda’s assurances that the Spectre was a mere creation of fancy, his

mind was impressed with a certain mysterious horror. He in vain

endeavoured to shake it off. The silence of the night, the story of the

Apparition, the chamber wainscotted with dark oak pannells, the

recollection which it brought with it of the murdered Elvira, and his

incertitude respecting the nature of the drops given by him to Antonia,

made him feel uneasy at his present situation. But He thought much less

of the Spectre, than of the poison. Should He have destroyed the only

object which rendered life dear to him; Should the Ghost’s prediction

prove true; Should Antonia in three days be no more, and He the

wretched cause of her death ...... The supposition was too horrible to

dwell upon. He drove away these dreadful images, and as often they

presented themselves again before him. Matilda had assured him that the

effects of the Opiate would be speedy. He listened with fear, yet with

eagerness, expecting to hear some disturbance in the adjoining chamber.

All was still silent. He concluded that the drops had not begun to

operate. Great was the stake, for which He now played: A moment would

suffice to decide upon his misery or happiness. Matilda had taught him

the means of ascertaining that life was not extinct for ever: Upon this

assay depended all his hopes. With every instant his impatience

redoubled; His terrors grew more lively, his anxiety more awake. Unable

to bear this state of incertitude, He endeavoured to divert it by

substituting the thoughts of Others to his own. The Books, as was

before mentioned, were ranged upon shelves near the Table: This stood

exactly opposite to the Bed, which was placed in an Alcove near the

Closet door. Ambrosio took down a Volume, and seated himself by the

Table: But his attention wandered from the Pages before him. Antonia’s

image and that of the murdered Elvira persisted to force themselves

before his imagination. Still He continued to read, though his eyes ran

over the characters without his mind being conscious of their import.

Such was his occupation, when He fancied that He heard a footstep. He

turned his head, but nobody was to be seen.

He resumed his Book; But in a few minutes after the same sound was

repeated, and followed by a rustling noise close behind him. He now

started from his seat, and looking round him, perceived the Closet door

standing half-unclosed. On his first entering the room He had tried to

open it, but found it bolted on the inside.

“How is this?” said He to himself; “How comes this door unfastened?”

He advanced towards it: He pushed it open, and looked into the closet:

No one was there. While He stood irresolute, He thought that He

distinguished a groaning in the adjacent chamber: It was Antonia’s, and

He supposed that the drops began to take effect: But upon listening

more attentively, He found the noise to be caused by Jacintha, who had

fallen asleep by the Lady’s Bedside, and was snoring most lustily.

Ambrosio drew back, and returned to the other room, musing upon the

sudden opening of the Closet door, for which He strove in vain to

account.

He paced the chamber up and down in silence. At length He stopped, and

the Bed attracted his attention. The curtain of the Recess was but

half-drawn. He sighed involuntarily.

“That Bed,” said He in a low voice, “That Bed was Elvira’s! There has

She past many a quiet night, for She was good and innocent. How sound

must have been her sleep! And yet now She sleeps sounder! Does She

indeed sleep? Oh! God grant that She may! What if She rose from her

Grave at this sad and silent hour? What if She broke the bonds of the

Tomb, and glided angrily before my blasted eyes? Oh! I never could

support the sight! Again to see her form distorted by dying agonies,

her blood-swollen veins, her livid countenance, her eyes bursting from

their sockets with pain! To hear her speak of future punishment, menace

me with Heaven’s vengeance, tax me with the crimes I have committed,

with those I am going to commit ..... Great God! What is that?”

As He uttered these words, his eyes which were fixed upon the Bed, saw

the curtain shaken gently backwards and forwards. The Apparition was

recalled to his mind, and He almost fancied that He beheld Elvira’s

visionary form reclining upon the Bed. A few moments consideration

sufficed to reassure him.

“It was only the wind,” said He, recovering himself.

Again He paced the chamber; But an involuntary movement of awe and

inquietude constantly led his eye towards the Alcove. He drew near it

with irresolution. He paused before He ascended the few steps which led

to it. He put out his hand thrice to remove the curtain, and as often

drew it back.

“Absurd terrors!” He cried at length, ashamed of his own weakness——

Hastily he mounted the steps; When a Figure drest in white started from

the Alcove, and gliding by him, made with precipitation towards the

Closet. Madness and despair now supplied the Monk with that courage, of

which He had till then been destitute. He flew down the steps, pursued

the Apparition, and attempted to grasp it.

“Ghost, or Devil, I hold you!” He exclaimed, and seized the Spectre by

the arm.

“Oh! Christ Jesus!” cried a shrill voice; “Holy Father, how you gripe

me! I protest that I meant no harm!”

This address, as well as the arm which He held, convinced the Abbot

that the supposed Ghost was substantial flesh and blood. He drew the

Intruder towards the Table, and holding up the light, discovered the

features of ...... Madona Flora!

Incensed at having been betrayed by this trifling cause into fears so

ridiculous, He asked her sternly, what business had brought her to that

chamber. Flora, ashamed at being found out, and terrified at the

severity of Ambrosio’s looks, fell upon her knees, and promised to make

a full confession.

“I protest, reverend Father,” said She, “that I am quite grieved at

having disturbed you: Nothing was further from my intention. I meant to

get out of the room as quietly as I got in; and had you been ignorant

that I watched you, you know, it would have been the same thing as if I

had not watched you at all. To be sure, I did very wrong in being a Spy

upon you, that I cannot deny; But Lord! your Reverence, how can a poor

weak Woman resist curiosity? Mine was so strong to know what you were

doing, that I could not but try to get a little peep, without any body

knowing any thing about it. So with that I left old Dame Jacintha

sitting by my Lady’s Bed, and I ventured to steal into the Closet.

Being unwilling to interrupt you, I contented myself at first with

putting my eye to the Keyhole; But as I could see nothing by this

means, I undrew the bolt, and while your back was turned to the Alcove,

I whipt me in softly and silently. Here I lay snug behind the curtain,

till your Reverence found me out, and seized me ere I had time to

regain the Closet door. This is the whole truth, I assure you, Holy

Father, and I beg your pardon a thousand times for my impertinence.”

During this speech the Abbot had time to recollect himself: He was

satisfied with reading the penitent Spy a lecture upon the dangers of

curiosity, and the meanness of the action in which She had been just

discovered. Flora declared herself fully persuaded that She had done

wrong; She promised never to be guilty of the same fault again, and was

retiring very humble and contrite to Antonia’s chamber, when the Closet

door was suddenly thrown open, and in rushed Jacintha pale and out of

breath.

“Oh! Father! Father!” She cried in a voice almost choaked with terror;

“What shall I do! What shall I do! Here is a fine piece of work!

Nothing but misfortunes! Nothing but dead people, and dying people! Oh!

I shall go distracted! I shall go distracted!”

“Speak! Speak!” cried Flora and the Monk at the same time; “What has

happened? What is the matter?”

“Oh! I shall have another Corse in my House! Some Witch has certainly

cast a spell upon it, upon me, and upon all about me! Poor Donna

Antonia! There She lies in just such convulsions, as killed her Mother!

The Ghost told her true! I am sure, the Ghost has told her true!”

Flora ran, or rather flew to her Lady’s chamber: Ambrosio followed her,

his bosom trembling with hope and apprehension. They found Antonia as

Jacintha had described, torn by racking convulsions from which they in

vain endeavoured to relieve her. The Monk dispatched Jacintha to the

Abbey in all haste, and commissioned her to bring Father Pablos back

with her, without losing a moment.

“I will go for him,” replied Jacintha, “and tell him to come hither;

But as to bringing him myself, I shall do no such thing. I am sure that

the House is bewitched, and burn me if ever I set foot in it again.”

With this resolution She set out for the Monastery, and delivered to

Father Pablos the Abbot’s orders. She then betook herself to the House

of old Simon Gonzalez, whom She resolved never to quit, till She had

made him her Husband, and his dwelling her own.

Father Pablos had no sooner beheld Antonia, than He pronounced her

incurable. The convulsions continued for an hour: During that time her

agonies were much milder than those which her groans created in the

Abbot’s heart. Her every pang seemed a dagger in his bosom, and He

cursed himself a thousand times for having adopted so barbarous a

project. The hour being expired, by degrees the Fits became less

frequent, and Antonia less agitated. She felt that her dissolution was

approaching, and that nothing could save her.

“Worthy Ambrosio,” She said in a feeble voice, while She pressed his

hand to her lips; “I am now at liberty to express, how grateful is my

heart for your attention and kindness. I am upon the bed of death; Yet

an hour, and I shall be no more. I may therefore acknowledge without

restraint, that to relinquish your society was very painful to me: But

such was the will of a Parent, and I dared not disobey. I die without

repugnance: There are few, who will lament my leaving them; There are

few, whom I lament to leave. Among those few, I lament for none more

than for yourself; But we shall meet again, Ambrosio! We shall one day

meet in heaven: There shall our friendship be renewed, and my Mother

shall view it with pleasure!”

She paused. The Abbot shuddered when She mentioned Elvira: Antonia

imputed his emotion to pity and concern for her.

“You are grieved for me, Father,” She continued; “Ah! sigh not for my

loss. I have no crimes to repent, at least none of which I am

conscious, and I restore my soul without fear to him from whom I

received it. I have but few requests to make: Yet let me hope that what

few I have shall be granted. Let a solemn Mass be said for my soul’s

repose, and another for that of my beloved Mother. Not that I doubt her

resting in her Grave: I am now convinced that my reason wandered, and

the falsehood of the Ghost’s prediction is sufficient to prove my

error. But every one has some failing: My Mother may have had hers,

though I knew them not: I therefore wish a Mass to be celebrated for

her repose, and the expence may be defrayed by the little wealth of

which I am possessed. Whatever may then remain, I bequeath to my Aunt

Leonella. When I am dead, let the Marquis de las Cisternas know that

his Brother’s unhappy family can no longer importune him. But

disappointment makes me unjust: They tell me that He is ill, and

perhaps had it been in his power, He wished to have protected me. Tell

him then, Father, only that I am dead, and that if He had any faults to

me, I forgave him from my heart. This done, I have nothing more to ask

for, than your prayers: Promise to remember my requests, and I shall

resign my life without a pang or sorrow.”

Ambrosio engaged to comply with her desires, and proceeded to give her

absolution. Every moment announced the approach of Antonia’s fate: Her

sight failed; Her heart beat sluggishly; Her fingers stiffened, and

grew cold, and at two in the morning She expired without a groan. As

soon as the breath had forsaken her body, Father Pablos retired,

sincerely affected at the melancholy scene. On her part, Flora gave way

to the most unbridled sorrow.

Far different concerns employed Ambrosio: He sought for the pulse whose

throbbing, so Matilda had assured him, would prove Antonia’s death but

temporal. He found it; He pressed it; It palpitated beneath his hand,

and his heart was filled with ecstacy. However, He carefully concealed

his satisfaction at the success of his plan. He assumed a melancholy

air, and addressing himself to Flora, warned her against abandoning

herself to fruitless sorrow. Her tears were too sincere to permit her

listening to his counsels, and She continued to weep unceasingly.

The Friar withdrew, first promising to give orders himself about the

Funeral, which, out of consideration for Jacintha as He pretended,

should take place with all expedition. Plunged in grief for the loss of

her beloved Mistress, Flora scarcely attended to what He said. Ambrosio

hastened to command the Burial. He obtained permission from the

Prioress, that the Corse should be deposited in St. Clare’s Sepulchre:

and on the Friday Morning, every proper and needful ceremony being

performed, Antonia’s body was committed to the Tomb.

On the same day Leonella arrived at Madrid, intending to present her

young Husband to Elvira. Various circumstances had obliged her to defer

her journey from Tuesday to Friday, and She had no opportunity of

making this alteration in her plans known to her Sister. As her heart

was truly affectionate, and as She had ever entertained a sincere

regard for Elvira and her Daughter, her surprize at hearing of their

sudden and melancholy fate was fully equalled by her sorrow and

disappointment. Ambrosio sent to inform her of Antonia’s bequest: At

her solication, He promised, as soon as Elvira’s trifling debts were

discharged, to transmit to her the remainder. This being settled, no

other business detained Leonella in Madrid, and She returned to Cordova

with all diligence.