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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b9ff368 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53688 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53688) diff --git a/old/53688-0.txt b/old/53688-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d319dc5..0000000 --- a/old/53688-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7424 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Melmoth the Wanderer Vol. 4 (of 4), by -Charles Robert Maturin - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Melmoth the Wanderer Vol. 4 (of 4) - -Author: Charles Robert Maturin - -Release Date: December 7, 2016 [EBook #53688] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELMOTH THE WANDERER VOL. 4 (OF 4) *** - - - - -Produced by David Edwards, Jana Srna and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes: - - Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as - possible, including inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, and - punctuation. Some corrections of spelling and punctuation have been - made. They are listed at the end of the text. - - Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. - - - - - MELMOTH - THE - WANDERER: - A - TALE. - - BY THE AUTHOR OF “BERTRAM,” &c. - - IN FOUR VOLUMES. - - VOL. IV. - - EDINBURGH: - PRINTED FOR ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND COMPANY, - AND HURST, ROBINSON, AND CO. CHEAPSIDE, - LONDON. - - 1820. - - - - -MELMOTH. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - If he to thee no answer give, - I’ll give to thee a sign; - A secret known to nought that live, - Save but to me and mine. - - * * * * * - - Gone to be married.------ - - SHAKESPEARE. - - -“The whole of the next day was occupied by Donna Clara, to whom -letter-writing was a rare, troublesome, and momentous task, in reading -over and correcting her answer to her husband’s letter; in which -examination she found so much to correct, interline, alter, modify, -expunge, and new-model, that finally Donna Clara’s epistle very much -resembled the work she was now employed in, namely, that of -_overcasting_ a piece of tapestry wrought by her grandmother, -representing the meeting of king Solomon and the queen of Sheba. The new -work, instead of repairing, made fearful havock among the old; but Donna -Clara went on, like her countryman at Mr Peter’s puppet-show, playing -away (with her needle) in a perfect shower of back-strokes, -fore-strokes, side-thrusts, and counter-thrusts, till not a figure in -the tapestry could know himself again. The faded face of Solomon was -garnished with a florid beard of scarlet silk (which Fra Jose at first -told her she must rip out, as it made Solomon very little better than -Judas) that made him resemble a boiled scallop. The fardingale of the -queen of Sheba was expanded to an enormous hoop, of whose shrunk and -pallid wearer it might be truly said, “_Minima est pars sui_.” The dog -that, in the original tapestry, stood by the spurred and booted heel of -the oriental monarch, (who was clad in Spanish costume), by dint of a -few tufts of black and yellow satin, was converted into a tiger,--a -transformation which his grinning fangs rendered as authentic as heart -could wish. And the parrot perched on the queen’s shoulder, with the -help of a train of green and gold, which the ignorant mistook for her -majesty’s mantle, proved a very passable peacock.” - -“As little trace of her original epistle did Donna Clara’s present one -bear, as did her elaborate overcasting to the original and painful -labours of her grandmother. In both, however, Donna Clara (who scorned -to flinch) went over the same ground with dim eye, and patient touch, -and inextinguishable and remorseless assiduity. The letter, such as it -was, was still sufficiently characteristic of the writer. Some passages -of it the reader shall be indulged with,--and we reckon on his gratitude -for not insisting on his perusal of the whole. The authentic copy, from -which we are favoured with the extracts, runs thus. * * * * * * * * - -“Your daughter takes to her religion like mother’s milk; and well may -she do so, considering that the trunk of our family was planted in the -genuine soil of the Catholic church, and that every branch of of it must -flourish there or perish. For a Neophyte, (as Fra Jose wills me to word -it), she is as promising a sprout as one should wish to see flourishing -within the pale of the holy church;--and for a heathen, she is so -amenable, submissive, and of such maidenly suavity, that for the -comportment of her person, and the discreet and virtuous ordering of her -mind, I have no Christian mother to envy. Nay, I sometimes take pity on -them, when I see the lightness, the exceeding vain carriage, and the -unadvised eagerness to be wedded, of the best trained maidens of our -country. This our daughter hath nothing of, either in her outward -demeanour, or inward mind. She talks little, _therefore she cannot think -much_; and she dreams not of the light devices of love, and is therefore -well qualified for the marriage proposed unto her. * * * * * * * * - -“One thing, dear spouse of my soul, I would have thee to take notice of, -and guard like the apple of thine eye,--our daughter is deranged, but -never, on thy discretion, mention this to Don Montilla, even though he -were the descendant in the right line of the Campeador, or of Gonsalvo -di Cordova. Her derangement will in no wise impede or contravene her -marriage,--for be it known to thee, it breaks out but at times, and at -such times, that the most jealous eye of man could not spy it, unless he -had a foretaught intimation of it. She hath strange fantasies swimming -in her brain, such as, that heretics and heathens shall not be -everlastingly damned--(God and the saints protect us!)--which must -clearly proceed from madness,--but which her Catholic husband, if ever -he comes to the knowledge of them, shall know how to expel, by aid of -the church, and conjugal authority. That thou may’st better know the -truth of what I hereby painfully certify, the saints and Fra Jose (who -will not let me tell a lie, because he in a manner holds my pen) can -witness, that about four days before we left Madrid, as we went to -church, and I was about, while ascending the steps, to dole alms to a -mendicant woman wrapt in a mantle, who held up a naked child for the -receiving of charity, your daughter twitched my sleeve, while she -whispered, ‘Madam, she cannot be mother to that child, for she is -covered, and her child is naked. If she were its mother, she would cover -her child, and not be comfortably wrapt herself.’ True it was, I found -afterwards the wretched woman had hired the child from its more wretched -mother, and my alms had paid the price of its hire for the day; but -still that not a whit disproved our daughter insane, inasmuch as it -showed her ignorant of the fashion and usages of the beggars of the -country, and did in some degree shew a doubt of the merit of alms-deeds, -which thou know’st none but heretics or madmen could deny. Other and -grievous proofs of her insanity doth she give daily; but not willing to -incumber you with ink, (which Fra Jose willeth me to call _atramentum_), -I will add but a few particulars to arouse your dormant faculties, which -may be wrapt in lethargic obliviousness by the anodyne of my somniferous -epistolation.” - -“Reverend Father,” said Donna Clara, looking up to Fra Jose, who had -dictated the last line, “Don Francisco will know the last line not to be -mine--he heard it in one of your sermons. Let me add the extraordinary -proof of my daughter’s insanity at the ball.”--“Add or diminish, compose -or confound, what you will, in God’s name!” said Fra Jose, vexed at the -frequent erazures and lituras which disfigured the lines of his -dictation; “for though in style I may somewhat boast of my superiority, -in scratches no hen on the best dunghill in Spain can contend with you! -On, then, in the name of all the saints!--and when it pleases heaven to -send an interpreter to your husband, we may hope to hear from him by the -next post-angel, for surely such a letter was never written on earth.” - -“With this encouragement and applause, Donna Clara proceeded to relate -sundry other errors and wanderings of her daughter, which, to a mind so -swathed, crippled, and dwarfed, by the ligatures which the hand of -custom had twined round it since its first hour of consciousness, might -well have appeared like the aberrations of insanity. Among other proofs, -she mentioned that Isidora’s first introduction to a Christian and -Catholic church, was on that night of penitence in passion-week, when, -the lights being extinguished, the _miserere_ is chaunted in profound -darkness, the penitents macerate themselves, and groans are heard on -every side instead of prayers, as if the worship of Moloch was renewed -without its fires;--struck with horror at the sounds she heard, and the -darkness which surrounded her, Isidora demanded what they were -doing.--“Worshipping God,” was the answer. - -“At the expiration of Lent, she was introduced to a brilliant assembly, -where the gay fandango was succeeded by the soft notes of the -seguedilla,--and the crackling of the castanets, and the tinkling of the -guitars, marked alternate time to the light and ecstatic step of youth, -and the silvery and love-tuned voice of beauty. Touched with delight at -all she saw and heard,--the smiles that dimpled and sparkled over her -beautiful features reflecting every shade of pleasure they encountered, -like the ripplings of a brook kissed by the moon-beams,--she eagerly -asked, “And are not these worshipping God?”--“Out on it, daughter!” -interposed Donna Clara, who happened to overhear the question; “This is -a vain and sinful pastime,--the invention of the devil to delude the -children of folly,--hateful in the eyes of heaven and its saints,--and -abhorred and renounced by the faithful.”--“Then there are two Gods,” -said Isidora sighing, “the God of smiles and happiness, and the God of -groans and blood. Would I could serve the former!”--“I will take order -you shall serve the latter, heathenish and profane that you are!” -answered Donna Clara, as she hurried her from the assembly, shocked at -the scandal which her words might have given. These and many similar -anecdotes were painfully indited in Donna Clara’s long epistle, which, -after being folded and sealed by Fra Jose, (who swore by the habit he -wore, he had rather study twenty pages of the Polyglot fasting, than -read it over once more), was duly forwarded to Don Francisco. - -“The habits and movements of Don Francisco were, like those of his -nation, so deliberate and dilatory, and his aversion to writing letters, -except on mercantile subjects, so well known, that Donna Clara was -actually alarmed at receiving, in the evening of the day in which her -epistle was dispatched, another letter from her husband. - -“Its contents must be guessed to be sufficiently singular, when the -result was, that Donna Clara and Fra Jose sat up over them nearly the -whole of the night, in consultation, anxiety, and fear. So intense was -their conference, that it is recorded it was never interrupted even by -the lady telling her beads, or the monk thinking of his supper. All the -artificial habits, the customary indulgences, the factitious existence -of both, were merged in the real genuine fear which pervaded their -minds, and which asserted its power over both in painful and exacting -proportion to their long and hardy rejection of its influence. Their -minds succumbed together, and sought and gave in vain, feeble counsel, -and fruitless consolation. They read over and over again this -extraordinary letter, and at every reading their minds grew darker,--and -their counsels more perplexed,--and their looks more dismal. Ever and -anon they turned their eyes on it, as it lay open before them on Donna -Clara’s ebony writing-desk, and then starting, asked each other by -looks, and sometimes in words, “Did either hear some strange noise in -the house?” The letter, among other matter not important to the reader, -contained the singular passage following. * * * * * * - -“In my travel from the place where I landed, to that whence I now -write, I fortuned to be in company with strangers, from whom I heard -things touching me (not as they meant, but as my fear interpreted -them) in a point the most exquisite that can prick and wound the soul -of a Christian father. These I shall discuss unto thee at thy more -leisure. They are full of fearful matter, and such as may perchance -require the aid of some churchman rightly to understand, and fully -to fathom. Nevertheless this I can commend to thy discretion, that -after I had parted from this strange conference, the reports of which -I cannot by letter communicate to thee, I retired to my chamber full -of sad and heavy thoughts, and being seated in my chair, pored over a -tome containing legends of departed spirits, in nowise contradictive -to the doctrine of the holy Catholic church, otherwise I would have -crushed it with the sole of my foot into the fire that burned before -me on the hearth, and spit on its cinders with the spittle of my -mouth. Now, whether it was the company I fortuned to be into, (whose -conversation must never be known but to thee only), or the book I had -been reading, which contained certain extracts from Pliny, Artemidore, -and others, full-filled with tales which I may not now recount, but -which did relate altogether to the revivification of the departed, -appearing in due accordance with our Catholic conceptions of Christian -ghosts in purgatory, with their suitable accoutrements of chains and -flames,--as thus Pliny writeth, “_Apparebat eidolon senex, macie et -senio confectus_,”--or finally, the weariness of my lonely journey, or -other things I know not,--but feeling my mind ill-disposed for deeper -converse with books or my own thoughts, and though oppressed by sleep, -unwilling to retire to rest,--a mood which I and others have often -experienced,--I took out thy letters from the desk in which I duly -reposit them, and read over the description which thou didst send me -of our daughter, upon the first intelligence of her being discovered -in that accursed isle of heathenism,--and I do assure thee, the -description of our daughter hath been written in such characters on the -bosom to which she hath never been clasped, that it would defy the art -of all the limners in Spain to paint it more effectually. So, thinking -on those dark-blue eyes,--and those natural ringlets which will not -obey their new mistress, art,--and that slender undulating shape,--and -thinking it would soon be folded in my arms, and ask the blessing of a -Christian father in Christian tones, I dozed as I sat in my chair; and -my dreams taking part with my waking thoughts, I was a-dreamt that such -a creature, so fair, so fond, so cherubic, sat beside me, and asked -me blessing. As I bowed to give it, I nodded in my chair and awoke. -Awoke I say, for what followed was as palpable to human sight as the -furniture of my apartment, or any other tangible object. There was a -female seated opposite me, clad in a Spanish dress, but her veil flowed -down to her feet. She sat, and seemed to expect that I should bespeak -her first. “Damsel,” I said, “what seekest thou?--or why art thou -here?” The figure never raised its veil, nor motioned with hand or lip. -Mine head was full of what I had heard and read of; and after making -the sign of the cross, and uttering certain prayers, I approached that -figure, and said, “Damsel, what wantest thou?”--“A father,” said the -form, raising its veil, and disclosing the identical features of my -daughter Isidora, as described in thy numerous letters. Thou mayest -well guess my consternation, which I might almost term fear, at the -sight and words of this beautiful but strange and solemn figure. Nor -was my perplexity and trouble diminished but increased, when the -figure, rising and pointing to the door, through which she forthwith -passed with a mysterious grace and incredible alacrity, uttered, _in -transitu_, words like these:--“Save me!--save me!--lose not a moment, -or I am lost!” And I swear to thee, wife, that while that figure sat or -departed, I heard not the rustling of her garments, or the tread of her -foot, or the sound of her respiration--only as she went out, there was -a rushing sound as of a wind passing through the chamber,--and a mist -seemed to hang on every object around me, which dispersed--and I was -conscious of heaving a deep sigh, as if a load had been removed from my -breast. I sat thereafter for an hour pondering on what I had seen, and -not knowing whether to term it a waking dream, or a dreamlike waking. I -am a mortal man, sensible of fear, and liable to error,--but I am also -a Catholic Christian, and have ever been a hearty contemner of your -tales of spectres and visions, excepting always when sanctioned by the -authority of the holy church, and recorded in the lives of her saints -and martyrs. Finding no end or fruit of these my heavy cogitations, I -withdrew myself to bed, where I long lay tossing and sleepless, till -at the approach of morning, just as I was falling into a deep sleep, -I was awoke by a noise like that of a breeze waving my curtains. I -started up, and drawing them, looked around me. There was a glimpse of -day-light appearing through the window-shutters, but not sufficient -to enable me to distinguish the objects in the room, were it not for -the lamp that burned on the hearth, and whose light, though somewhat -dim, was perfectly distinct. By it I discovered, near the door, a -figure which my sight, rendered more acute by my terror, verified as -the identical figure I had before beheld, who, waving its arm with a -melancholy gesture, and uttering in a piteous voice these words, “It is -too late,” disappeared. As, I will own to thee, overcome with horror at -this second visitation, I fell back on my pillow almost bereft of the -use of my faculties, I remember the clock struck three.” - -“As Donna Clara and the priest (on their tenth perusal of the letter) -arrived at these words, the clock in the hall below struck three. “That -is a singular coincidence,” said Fra Jose. “Do you think it nothing -more, Father?” said Donna Clara, turning very pale. “I know not,” said -the priest; “many have told credible stories of warnings permitted by -our guardian saints, to be given even by the ministry of inanimate -things. But to what purpose are we warned, when we know not the evil we -are to shun?”--“Hush!--hark!” said Donna Clara, “did you hear no -noise?”--“None,” said Fra Jose listening, not without some appearance of -perturbation--“None,” he added, in a more tranquil and assured voice, -after a pause; “and the noise which I _did_ hear about two hours ago, -was of short continuance, and has not been renewed.”--“What a flickering -light these tapers give!” said Donna Clara, viewing them with eyes -glassy and fixed with fear. “The casements are open,” answered the -priest. “So they have been since we sat here,” returned Donna Clara; -“yet now see what a stream of air comes rushing against them! Holy God! -they flare as if they would go out!” - -“The priest, looking up at the tapers, observed the truth of what she -said,--and at the same time perceived the tapestry near the door to be -considerably agitated. “There is a door open in some other direction,” -said he, rising. “You are not going to leave me, Father?” said Donna -Clara, who sat in her chair paralyzed with terror, and unable to follow -him but with her eyes. - -“The Father Jose made no answer. He was now in the passage, where a -circumstance which he observed had arrested all his attention,--the door -of Isidora’s apartment was open, and lights were burning in it. He -entered it slowly at first, and gazed around, but its inmate was not -there. He glanced his eye on the bed, but no human form had pressed it -that night--it lay untouched and undisturbed. The casement next caught -his eye, now glancing with the quickness of fear on every object. He -approached it--it was wide open,--the casement that looked towards the -garden. In his horror at this discovery, the good Father could not avoid -uttering a cry that pierced the ears of Donna Clara, who, trembling and -scarce able to make her way to the room, attempted to follow him in -vain, and fell down in the passage. The priest raised and tried to -assist her back to her own apartment. The wretched mother, when at last -placed in her chair, neither fainted or wept; but with white and -speechless lips, and a paralytic motion of her hand, tried to point -towards her daughter’s apartment, as if she wished to be conveyed there. -“It is too late,” said the priest, unconsciously using the ominous words -quoted in the letter of Don Francisco. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - Responde meum argumentum--nomen est nomen--_ergo_, quod tibi est - nomen--responde argumentum. - - _BEAUMONT and FLETCHER’S Wit at several Weapons._ - - -“That night was the one fixed on for the union of Isidora and Melmoth. -She had retired early to her chamber, and sat at the casement watching -for his approach for hours before she could probably expect it. It might -be supposed that at this terrible crisis of her fate, she felt agitated -by a thousand emotions,--that a soul susceptible like hers felt itself -almost torn in pieces by the struggle,--but it was not so. When a mind -strong by nature, but weakened by fettering circumstances, is driven to -make one strong spring to free itself, it has no leisure to calculate -the weight of its hindrances, or the width of its leap,--it sits with -its chains heaped about it, thinking only of the bound that is to be its -liberation--or---- - -“During the many hours that Isidora awaited the approach of this -mysterious bridegroom, she felt nothing but the awful sense of that -approach, and of the event that was to follow. So she sat at her -casement, pale but resolute, and trusting in the extraordinary promise -of Melmoth, that by whatever means he was enabled to visit her, by those -she would be enabled to effect her escape, in spite of her well-guarded -mansion, and vigilant household. - -“It was near one (the hour at which Fra Jose, who was sitting in -consultation with her mother over that melancholy letter, heard the -noise alluded to in the preceding chapter) when Melmoth appeared in the -garden, and, without uttering a word, threw up a ladder of ropes, which, -in short and sullen whispers, he instructed her to fasten, and assisted -her to descend. They hurried through the garden,--and Isidora, amid all -the novelty of her feelings and situation, could not avoid testifying -her surprise at the facility with which they passed through the -well-secured garden gate. - -“They were now in the open country,--a region far wilder to Isidora than -the flowery paths of that untrodden isle, where she had no enemy. Now in -every breeze she heard a menacing voice,--in the echoes of her own light -steps she heard the sound of steps pursuing her. - -“The night was very dark,--unlike the midsummer nights in that delicious -climate. A blast sometimes cold, sometimes stifling from heat, indicated -some extraordinary vicissitude in the atmosphere. There is something -very fearful in this kind of wintry feeling in a summer night. The cold, -the darkness, followed by intense heat, and a pale, meteoric lightning, -seemed to unite the mingled evils of the various seasons, and to trace -their sad analogy to life,--whose stormy summer allows youth little to -enjoy, and whose chilling winter leaves age nothing to hope. - -“To Isidora, whose sensibilities were still so acutely physical, that -she could feel the state of the elements as if they were the oracles of -nature, which she could interpret at sight,--this dark and troubled -appearance seemed like a fearful omen. More than once she paused, -trembled, and turned on Melmoth a glance of doubt and terror,--which the -darkness of the night, of course, prevented him from observing. Perhaps -there was another cause,--but as they hurried on, Isidora’s strength and -courage began to fail together. She perceived that she was borne on with -a kind of supernatural velocity,--her breath failed,--her feet -faultered,--and she felt like one in a dream. - -“Stay!” she exclaimed, gasping from weakness, “stay!--whither am I -going?--where do you bear me?”--“To your nuptials,” answered Melmoth, in -low and almost inarticulate tones;--but whether rendered so by emotion, -or by the speed with which they seemed to fly along, Isidora could not -discover. - -“In a few moments, she was forced to declare herself unable to proceed, -and leaned on his arm, gasping and exhausted. “Let me pause,” said she -ominously, “in the name of God!” Melmoth returned no answer. He paused, -however, and supported her with an appearance of anxiety, if not of -tenderness. - -“During this interval, she gazed around her, and tried to distinguish -the objects near; but the intense darkness of the night rendered this -almost impossible,--and what she _could_ discover, was not calculated to -dispel her alarm. They seemed to be walking on a narrow and precipitous -path close by a shallow stream, as she could guess, by the hoarse and -rugged sound of its waters, as they fought with every pebble to win -their way. This path was edged on the other side by a few trees, whose -stunted growth, and branches tossing wild and wide to the blast that now -began to whisper mournfully among them, seemed to banish every image of -a summer night from the senses, and almost from the memory. Every thing -around was alike dreary and strange to Isidora, who had never, since her -arrival at the villa, wandered beyond the precincts of the garden,--and -who, even if she had, would probably have found no clue to direct her -where she now was. “This is a fearful night,” said she, half internally. -She then repeated the same words more audibly, perhaps in hope of some -answering and consolatory sounds. Melmoth was silent--and her spirits -subdued by fatigue and emotion, she wept. “Do you already repent the -step you have taken?” said he, laying a strange emphasis on the -word--already. “No, love, no!” replied Isidora, gently wiping away her -tears; “it is impossible for me ever to repent it. But this -loneliness,--this darkness,--this speed,--this silence,--have in them -something almost awful. I feel as if I were traversing some unknown -region. Are these indeed the winds of heaven that sigh around me? Are -these trees of nature’s growth, that nod at me like spectres? How hollow -and dismal is the sound of the blast!--it chills me though the night is -sultry!--and those trees, they cast their shadows over my soul! Oh, is -this like a bridal night?” she exclaimed, as Melmoth, apparently -disturbed at these words, attempted to hurry her on--“Is this like a -bridal? No father, no brother, to support me!--no mother near me!--no -kiss of kindred to greet me!--no congratulating friends!”--and her fears -increasing, she wildly exclaimed, “Where is the priest to bless our -union?--where is the church under whose roof we are to be united?” - -“As she spoke, Melmoth, drawing her arm under his, attempted to lead her -gently forward. “There is,” said he, “a ruined monastery near--you may -have observed it from your window.”--“No! I never saw it. Why is it in -ruins?”--“I know not--there were wild stories told. It was said the -Superior, or Prior, or--I know not what--had looked into certain books, -the perusal of which was not altogether sanctioned by the rules of his -order--books of magic they called them. There was much noise about it, I -remember, and some talk of the Inquisition,--but the end of the business -was, the Prior disappeared, some said into the prisons of the -Inquisition, some said into safer custody--(though how that could be, I -cannot well conceive)--and the brethren were drafted into other -communities, and the building became deserted. There were some offers -made for it by the communities of other religious houses, but the evil, -though vague and wild reports, that had gone forth about it, deterred -them, on inquiry, from inhabiting it,--and gradually the building fell -to ruin. It still retains all that can sanctify it in the eyes of the -faithful. There are crucifixes and tomb-stones, and here and there a -cross set up where there has been murder,--for, by a singular -congeniality of taste, a banditti has fixed their seat there now,--and -the traffic of gold for souls, once carried on so profitably by the -former inmates, is exchanged for that of souls for gold, by the -present.” - -“At these words, Melmoth felt the slender arm that hung on his -withdrawn,--and he perceived that his victim, between shuddering and -struggling, had _shrunk from his hold_. “But there,” he added, “even -amid those ruins, there dwells a holy hermit,--one who has taken up his -residence near the spot,--he will unite us in his oratory, according to -the rites of your church. He will speak the blessing over us,--and one -of us, at least, shall be blessed.”--“Hold!” said Isidora, repelling, -and standing at what distance from him she could,--her slight figure -expanding to that queen-like dignity with which nature had once invested -her as the fair and sole sovereign of her own island-paradise. “Hold!” -she repeated--“approach me not by another step,--address me not by -another word,--till you tell me when and where I am to be united to -you,--to become your wedded wife! I have borne much of doubt and -terror,--of suspicion and persecution,--but”---- “Hear me, Isidora,” -said Melmoth, terrified at this sudden burst of resolution. “Hear _me_,” -answered the timid but heroic girl, springing, with the elasticity of -her early movements, upon a crag that hung over their stony path, and -clinging to an ash-tree that had burst through its fissures--“Hear me! -Sooner will you rend this tree from its bed of stone, than me from its -trunk! Sooner will I dash this body on the stony bed of the stream that -groans below my feet, than descend into your arms, till you swear to me -they will bear me to honour and safety! For you I have given up all that -my newly-taught duties have told me was holy!--all that my heart long -ago whispered I ought to love! Judge by what I _have_ sacrificed, of -what I _can_ sacrifice--and doubt not that I would be my own victim ten -thousand times sooner than yours!”--“By all that you deem holy!” cried -Melmoth, humbling himself even to kneel before her as she stood,--“my -intentions are as pure as your own soul!--the hermitage is not an -hundred paces off. Come, and do not, by a fantastic and causeless -apprehension, frustrate all the magnanimity and tenderness you have -hitherto shewed, and which have raised you in my eyes not only above -your sex, but above your whole species. Had you not been what you are, -and what no other but you could be, you had never been the bride of -Melmoth. With whom but you did he ever seek to unite his dark and -inscrutable destiny? Isidora,” he added, in tones more potent and -emphatic, perceiving she still hesitated, and clung to the -tree--“Isidora, how weak, how unworthy of you is this! You are in my -power,--absolutely, hopelessly in my power. No human eye can see -_me_--no human arm can aid _you_. You are as helpless as infancy in my -grasp. This dark stream would tell no tales of deeds that stained its -waters,--and the blast that howls round you would never waft your groans -to mortal ear! You are in my power, yet I seek not to abuse it. I offer -you my hand to conduct you to a consecrated building, where we shall be -united according to the fashion of your country--and will you still -persevere in this fanciful and profitless waywardness?” - -“As he spoke, Isidora looked round her helplessly--every object was a -confirmation of his arguments--she shuddered and submitted. But as they -walked on in silence, she could not help interrupting it to give -utterance to the thousand anxieties that oppressed her heart. - -“But you speak,” said she, in a suppressed and pleading tone,--“you -speak of religion in words that make me tremble--you speak of it as the -fashion of a country,--as a thing of form, of accident, of habit. What -faith do you profess?--what church do you frequent?--what holy rites do -you perform?”--“I venerate all faiths--alike, I hold all religious -rites--pretty much in the same respect,” said Melmoth, while his former -wild and scoffing levity seemed to struggle vainly with a feeling of -involuntary horror. “And do you then, indeed, believe in holy things?” -asked Isidora. “Do you indeed?” she repeated anxiously. “_I believe in a -God_,” answered Melmoth, in a voice that froze her blood; “you have -heard of those who believe and tremble,--such is he who speaks to you!” - -“Isidora’s acquaintance with the book from which he quoted, was too -limited to permit her to understand the allusion. She knew, according to -the religious education she had received, more of her breviary than her -Bible; and though she pursued her inquiry in a timid and anxious tone, -she felt no additional terror from words she did not understand. - -“But,” she continued, “Christianity is something more than a belief in a -God. Do you also believe in all that the Catholic church declares to be -essential to salvation? Do you believe that”---- And here she added a -name too sacred, and accompanied with terms too awful, to be expressed -in pages so light as these(1). “I believe it all--I know it all,” -answered Melmoth, in a voice of stern and reluctant confession. “Infidel -and scoffer as I may appear to you, there is no martyr of the Christian -church, who in other times blazed for his God, that has borne or -exhibited a more resplendent illustration of his faith, than I shall -bear one day--and for ever. There is a slight difference only between -our testimonies in point of duration. They burned for the truths they -loved for a few moments--not so many perchance. Some were suffocated -before the flames could reach them,--but I am doomed to bear my -attestation to the truth of the gospel, amid fires that shall burn for -ever and ever. See with what a glorious destiny yours, my bride, is -united! You, as a Christian, would doubtless exult to see your husband -at the stake,--and amid the faggots to prove his devotion. How it must -ennoble the sacrifice to think that it is to last to eternity!” - - (1) Here Monçada expressed his surprise at this passage, (as savouring - more of Christianity than Judaism), considering it occurred in the - manuscript of a Jew. - -“Melmoth uttered these words in ears that heard no longer. Isidora had -fainted; and hanging with one cold hand on his arm still, fell a -helpless, senseless weight on the earth. Melmoth, at this sight, shewed -more feeling than he could have been suspected of. He disentangled her -from the folds of her mantle, sprinkled water from the stream on her -cold cheek, and supported her frame in every direction where a breath of -air was to be caught. Isidora recovered; for her swoon was that of -fatigue more than fear; and, with her recovery, her lover’s short-lived -tenderness seemed to cease. The moment she was able to speak he urged -her to proceed,--and while she feebly attempted to obey him, he assured -her, her strength was perfectly recovered, and that the place they had -to reach was but a few paces distant. Isidora struggled on. Their path -now lay up the ascent of a steep hill,--they left the murmur of the -stream, and the sighing of trees, behind them,--the wind, too, had sunk, -but the night continued intensely dark,--and the absence of all sound -seemed to Isidora to increase the desolateness of the scene. She wished -for something to listen to beside her impeded and painful respiration, -and the audible beatings of her heart. As they descended the hill on the -other side, the murmuring of the waters became once more faintly -audible; and this sound she had longed to hear again, had now, amid the -stillness of the night, a cadence so melancholy, that she almost wished -it hushed again. - -“Thus always, to the unhappy, the very fulfilment of their morbid -wishings becomes a source of disappointment, and the change they hoped -for is desirable only as it gives them cause to long for another change. -In the morning they say, Would to God it were evening!--Evening -comes,--and in the evening they say, Would to God it were morning! But -Isidora had no time to analyse her feelings,--a new apprehension struck -her,--and, as she could well guess from the increasing speed of Melmoth, -and head thrown backward impatiently, and often, it had probably reached -him too. A sound they had been for some time watching, (without -communicating their feelings to each other), became every moment more -distinct. It was the sound of a human foot, evidently pursuing them, -from the increasing quickness of its speed, and a certain sharpness of -tread, that irresistibly gave the idea of hot and anxious pursuit. -Melmoth suddenly paused, and Isidora hung trembling on his arm. Neither -of them uttered a word; but Isidora’s eyes, instinctively following the -slight but fearful waving of his arm, saw it directed towards a figure -so obscure, that it at first appeared like a spray moving in the misty -night,--then was lost in darkness as it descended the hill,--and then -appeared in a human form, as far as the darkness of the night would -permit its shape to be distinguishable. It came on--its steps were more -and more audible, and its shape almost distinct.--Then Melmoth suddenly -quitted Isidora, who, shivering with terror, but unable to utter a word -that might implore him to stay, stood alone, her whole frame trembling -almost to dissolution, and her feet feeling as if she were nailed to the -spot where she stood. What passed she knew not. There was a short and -darkened struggle between two figures,--and, in this fearful interval, -she imagined she heard the voice of an ancient domestic, much attached -to her, call on her, first in accents of expostulation and appeal, then -in choaked and breathless cries for help--help--help!--Then she heard a -sound as if a heavy body fell into the water that murmured below.--It -fell heavily--the wave groaned--the dark hill groaned in answer, like -murderers exchanging their stilled and midnight whispers over their work -of blood--and all was silent. Isidora clasped her cold and convulsed -fingers over her eyes, till a whispering voice, the voice of Melmoth, -uttered, “Let us hasten on, my love.”--“Where?” said Isidora, not -knowing the meaning of the words she uttered.--“To the ruined monastery, -my love,--to the hermitage, where the holy man, the man of your faith, -shall unite us.”--“Where are the steps that pursued us?” said Isidora, -suddenly recovering her recollection.--“They will pursue you no -more.”--“But I saw a figure.”--“But you will see it no more.”--“I heard -something fall into that stream--heavily--like a corse.”--“There was a -stone that fell from the precipice of the hill--the waters splashed, and -curled, and whitened round it for a moment, but they have swallowed it -now, and appear to have such a relish for the morsel, that they will not -be apt to resign it.” - -“In silent horror she proceeded, till Melmoth, pointing to a dusky and -indefinite mass of what, in the gloom of night, bore, according to the -eye or the fancy, the shape of a rock, a tuft of trees, or a massive and -unlighted building, whispered, “There is the ruin, and near it stands -the hermitage,--one moment more of effort,--of renewed strength and -courage, and we are there.” Urged by these words, and still more by an -undefinable wish to put an end to this shadowy journey,--these -mysterious fears,--even at the risk of finding them worse than verified -at its termination, Isidora exerted all her remaining strength, and, -supported by Melmoth, began to ascend the sloping ground on which the -monastery had once stood. There had been a path, but it was now all -obstructed by stones, and rugged with the knotted and interlaced roots -of the neglected trees that had once formed its shelter and its grace. - -“As they approached, in spite of the darkness of the night, the ruin -began to assume a distinct and characteristic appearance, and Isidora’s -heart beat less fearfully, when she could ascertain, from the remains of -the tower and spire, the vast Eastern window, and the crosses still -visible on every ruined pinnacle and pediment, like religion triumphant -amid grief and decay, that this had been a building destined for sacred -purposes. A narrow path, that seemed to wind round the edifice, -conducted them to a front which overlooked an extensive cemetery, at the -extremity of which Melmoth pointed out to her an indistinct object, -which he said was the hermitage, and to which he would hasten to intreat -the hermit, who was also a priest, to unite them. “May I not accompany -you?” said Isidora, glancing round on the graves that were to be her -companions in solitude.--“It is against his vow,” said Melmoth, “to -admit a female into his presence, except when obliged by the course of -his duties.” So saying he hasted away, and Isidora, sinking on a grave -for rest, wrapt her veil around her, as if its folds could exclude even -thought. In a few moments, gasping for air, she withdrew it; but as her -eye encountered only tomb-stones and crosses, and that dark and -sepulchral vegetation that loves to shoot its roots, and trail its -unlovely verdure amid the joints of grave-stones, she closed it again, -and sat shuddering and alone. Suddenly a faint sound, like the murmur of -a breeze, reached her,--she looked up, but the wind had sunk, and the -night was perfectly calm. The same sound recurring, as of a breeze -sweeping past, made her turn her eyes in the direction from which it -came, and, at some distance from her, she thought she beheld a human -figure moving slowly along on the verge of the inclosure of the -burial-ground. Though it did not seem approaching her, (but rather -moving in a slow circuit on the verge of her view), conceiving it must -be Melmoth, she rose in expectation of his advancing to her, and, at -this moment, the figure, turning and half-pausing, seemed to extend its -arm toward her, and wave it once or twice, but whether with a motion or -purpose of warning or repelling her, it was impossible to discover,--it -then renewed its dim and silent progress, and the next moment the ruins -hid it from her view. She had no time to muse on this singular -appearance, for Melmoth was now at her side urging her to proceed. There -was a chapel, he told her, attached to the ruins, but not like them in -decay, where sacred ceremonies were still performed, and where the -priest had promised to join them in a few moments. “He is there before -us,” said Isidora, adverting to the figure she had seen; “I think I saw -him.”--“Saw whom?” said Melmoth, starting, and standing immoveable till -his question was answered.--“I saw a figure,” said Isidora, -trembling--“I thought I saw a figure moving towards the ruin.”--“You are -mistaken,” said Melmoth; but a moment after he added, “We ought to have -been there before him.” And he hurried on with Isidora. Suddenly -slackening his speed, he demanded, in a choaked and indistinct voice, if -she had ever heard any music precede his visits to her,--any sounds in -the air. “Never,” was the answer.--“You are sure?”--“Perfectly sure.” - -“At this moment they were ascending the fractured and rugged steps that -led to the entrance of the chapel,--now they passed under the dark and -ivied porch,--now they entered the chapel, which, even in darkness, -appeared to the eyes of Isidora ruinous and deserted. “He has not yet -arrived,” said Melmoth, in a disturbed voice; “Wait there a moment.” And -Isidora, enfeebled by terror beyond the power of resistance, or even -intreaty, saw him depart without an effort to detain him. She felt as if -the effort would be hopeless. Left thus alone, she glanced her eyes -around, and a faint and watery moon-beam breaking at that moment through -the heavy clouds, threw its light on the objects around her. There was a -window, but the stained glass of its compartments, broken and -discoloured, held rare and precarious place between the fluted shafts of -stone. Ivy and moss darkened the fragments of glass, and clung round the -clustered pillars. Beneath were the remains of an altar and crucifix, -but they seemed like the rude work of the first hands that had ever been -employed on such subjects. There was also a marble vessel, that seemed -designed to contain holy water, but it was empty,--and there was a stone -bench, on which Isidora sunk down in weariness, but without hope of -rest. Once or twice she looked up to the window, through which the -moon-beams fell, with that instinctive feeling of her former existence, -that made companions of the elements, and of the beautiful and glorious -family of heaven, under whose burning light she had once imagined the -moon was her parent, and the stars her kindred. She gazed on the window -still, like one who loved the light of nature, and drank health and -truth from its beams, till a figure passing slowly but visibly before -the pillared shafts, disclosed to her view the face of that ancient -servant, whose features she remembered well. He seemed to regard her -with a look, first of intent contemplation,--then of compassion,--the -figure then passed from before the ruined window, and a faint and -wailing cry rung in the ears of Isidora as it disappeared. - -“At that moment the moon, that had so faintly lit the chapel, sunk -behind a cloud, and every thing was enveloped in darkness so profound, -that Isidora did not recognize the figure of Melmoth till her hand was -clasped in his, and his voice whispered, “He is here--ready to unite -us.” The long-protracted terrors of this bridal left her not a breath to -utter a word withal, and she leaned on the arm that she felt, not in -confidence, but for support. The place, the hour, the objects, all were -hid in darkness. She heard a faint rustling as of the approach of -another person,--she tried to catch certain words, but she knew not what -they were,--she attempted also to speak, but she knew not what she said. -All was mist and darkness with her,--she knew not what was -muttered,--she felt not that the hand of Melmoth grasped hers,--but she -felt that the hand that united them, and clasped their palms within his -own, was as _cold as that of death_. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - Τηλε μ’ ειργουσι ψυχαι, ειδωλα καμοντων. - - HOMER. - - -“We have now to retrace a short period of our narrative to the night on -which Don Francisco di Aliaga, the father of Isidora, “fortuned,” as he -termed it, to be among the company whose conversation had produced so -extraordinary an effect on him. - -“He was journeying homewards, full of the contemplation of his -wealth,--the certainty of having attained complete security against the -evils that harass life,--and being able to set at defiance all external -causes of infelicity. He felt like a man “at ease in his -possessions,”--and he felt also a grave and placid satisfaction at the -thought of meeting a family who looked up to him with profound respect -as the author of their fortunes,--of walking in his own house, amid -bowing domestics and obsequious relatives, with the same slow -authoritative step with which he paced the mart among wealthy merchants, -and saw the wealthiest bow as he approached,--and when he had passed, -point out the man of whose grave salute they were proud, and whisper, -That is Aliaga the rich.--So thinking and feeling, as most prosperous -men do, with an honest pride in their worldly success,--an exaggerated -expectation of the homage of society,--(which they often find frustrated -by its contempt),--and an ultimate reliance on the respect and devotion -of their family whom they have enriched, making them ample amends for -the slights they may be exposed to where their wealth is unknown, and -their newly assumed consequence unappreciated,--or if appreciated, not -valued:--So thinking and feeling, Don Francisco journeyed homeward. - -“At a wretched inn where he was compelled to halt, he found the -accommodation so bad, and the heat of the weather so intolerable in the -low, narrow, and unwindowed rooms, that he preferred taking his supper -in the open air, on a stone bench at the door of the inn. We cannot say -that he there imagined himself to be feasted with trout and white bread, -like Don Quixote,--and still less that he fancied he was ministered unto -by damsels of rank;--on the contrary, Don Francisco was digesting a -sorry meal with wretched wine, with a perfect internal consciousness of -the mediocrity of both, when he beheld a person ride by, who paused, and -looked as if he was inclined to stop at the inn. (The interval of this -pause was not long enough to permit Don Francisco to observe -particularly the figure or face of the horseman, or indeed to recognize -him on any future occasion of meeting; nor was there any thing -remarkable in his appearance to invite or arrest observation.) He made a -sign to the host, who approached him with a slow and unwilling -pace,--appeared to answer all his inquiries with sturdy negatives,--and -finally, as the stranger rode on, returned to his station, crossing -himself with every mark of terror and deprecation. - -“There was something more in this than the ordinary surliness of a -Spanish innkeeper. Don Francisco’s curiosity was excited, and he asked -the innkeeper, whether the stranger had proposed to pass the night at -the inn, as the weather seemed to threaten a storm? “I know not what he -proposes,” answered the man, “but this I know, that I would not suffer -him to pass an hour under my roof for the revenues of Toledo. If there -be a storm coming on, I care not--those who can raise them are the -fittest to meet them!” - -“Don Francisco inquired the cause of these extraordinary expressions of -aversion and terror, but the innkeeper shook his head and remained -silent, with, as it were, the circumspective fear of one who is inclosed -within a sorcerer’s circle, and dreads to pass its verge, lest he become -the prey of the spirits who are waiting beyond it to take advantage of -his transgression. - -“At last, at Don Francisco’s repeated instances, he said, “Your worship -must needs be a stranger in this part of Spain not to have heard of -Melmoth the wanderer.”--“I have never heard of the name before,” said -Don Francisco; “and I conjure you, brother, to tell me what you know of -this person, whose character, if I may judge by the manner in which you -speak of him, must have in it something extraordinary.”--“Senhor,” -answered the man, “were I to relate what is told of that person, I -should not be able to close an eye to-night; or if I did, it would be to -dream of things so horrible, that I had rather lie awake for ever. But, -if I am not mistaken, there is in the house one who can gratify your -curiosity--it is a gentleman who is preparing for the press a collection -of facts relative to that person, and who has been, for some time, in -vain soliciting for a license to print them, they being such as the -government, in its wisdom, thinks not fit to be perused by the eyes of -Catholics, or circulated among a Christian community.” - -“As the innkeeper spoke, and spoke with an earnestness that at least -made the hearer believe he felt the conviction he tried to impress, the -person of whom he spoke was standing beside Don Francisco. He had -apparently overheard their conversation, and seemed not indisposed to -continue it. He was a man of a grave and composed aspect, and altogether -so remote from any appearance of imposition, or theatrical and -conjuror-like display, that Don Francisco, grave, suspicious, and -deliberate as a Spaniard, and moreover a Spanish merchant, may be, could -not avoid giving him his confidence at sight, though he forbore any -external expression of it. - -“Senhor,” said the stranger, “mine host has told you but the truth. The -person whom you saw ride by, is one of those beings after whom human -curiosity pants in vain,--whose life is doomed to be recorded in -incredible legends that moulder in the libraries of the curious, and to -be disbelieved and scorned even by those who exhaust sums on their -collection, and ungratefully depreciate the contents of the volumes on -whose aggregate its value depends. There has been, however, I believe, -no other instance of a person still alive, and apparently exercising all -the functions of a human agent, who has become already the subject of -written memoirs, and the theme of traditional history. Several -circumstances relating to this extraordinary being are even now in the -hands of curious and eager collectors; and I have myself attained to the -knowledge of one or two that are not among the least extraordinary. The -marvellous period of life said to be assigned him, and the facility with -which he has been observed to pass from region to region, (knowing all, -and known to none), have been the principal causes why the adventures in -which he is engaged, should be at once so numerous and so similar.” - -“As the stranger ceased to speak, the evening grew dark, and a few large -and heavy drops of rain fell. “This night threatens a storm,” said the -stranger, looking abroad with some degree of anxiety--“we had better -retire within doors; and if you, Senhor, are not otherwise occupied, I -am willing to pass away some hours of this unpleasant night in relating -to you some circumstances relating to the wanderer, which have come -within my certain knowledge.” - -“Don Francisco assented to this proposal as much from curiosity, as from -the impatience of solitude, which is never more insupportable than in an -inn, and during stormy weather. Don Montilla, too, had left him on a -visit to his father, who was in a declining state, and was not to join -him again till his arrival in the neighbourhood of Madrid. He therefore -bid his servants shew the way to his apartment, whither he courteously -invited his new acquaintance. - -“Imagine them now seated in the wretched upper apartment of a Spanish -inn, whose appearance, though dreary and comfortless, had in it, -nevertheless, something picturesque, and not inappropriate, as the scene -where a wild and wondrous tale was to be related and listened to. There -was no luxury of inventive art to flatter the senses, or enervate the -attention,--to enable the hearer to break the spell that binds him to -the world of horrors, and recover to all the soothing realities and -comforts of ordinary life, like one who starts from a dream of the rack, -and finds himself waking on a bed of down. The walls were bare, and the -roofs were raftered, and the only furniture was a table, beside which -Don Francisco and his companion sat, the one on a huge high-backed -chair, the other on a stool so low, that he seemed seated at the -listener’s foot. A lamp stood on the table, whose light flickering in -the wind, that sighed through many apertures of the jarring door, fell -alternately on lips that quivered as they read, and cheeks that grew -paler as the listener bent to catch the sounds to which fear gave a more -broken and hollow tone, at the close of every page. The rising voice of -the stormy night seemed to make wild and dreary harmony with the tones -of the listener’s feelings. The storm came on, not with sudden violence, -but with sullen and long-suspended wrath--often receding, as it were, to -the verge of the horizon, and then returning and rolling its deepening -and awful peals over the very roof. And as the stranger proceeded in his -narrative, every pause, which emotion or weariness might cause, was -meetly filled by the deep rushing of the rain that fell in -torrents,--the sighs of the wind,--and now and then a faint, distant, -but long-continued peal of thunder. “It sounds,” said the stranger, -raising his eyes from the manuscript, “like the chidings of the spirits, -that their secrets are disclosed!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - - * * * * * * - ----And the twain were playing dice. - - * * * * * * - - The game is done, I’ve won, I’ve won, - Quoth she, and whistled thrice. - - COLERIDGE--_Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner_. - - - - -The Tale of Guzman’s Family. - - -“Of what I am about to read to you,” said the stranger, “I have -witnessed part myself, and the remainder is established on a basis as -strong as human evidence can make it. - -“In the city of Seville, where I lived many years, I knew a wealthy -merchant, far advanced in years, who was known by the name of Guzman the -rich. He was of obscure birth,--and those who honoured his wealth -sufficiently to borrow from him frequently, never honoured his name so -far as to prefix Don to it, or to add his surname, of which, indeed, -most were ignorant, and among the number, it is said, the wealthy -merchant himself. He was well respected, however; and when Guzman was -seen, as regularly as the bell tolled for vespers, to issue from the -narrow door of his house,--lock it carefully,--view it twice or thrice -with a wistful eye,--then deposit the key in his bosom, and move slowly -to church, feeling for the key in his vest the whole way,--the proudest -heads in Seville were uncovered as he passed,--and the children who were -playing in the streets, desisted from their sports till he had halted by -them. - -“Guzman had neither wife or child,--relative or friend. An old female -domestic constituted his whole household, and his personal expences were -calculated on a scale of the most pinching frugality; it was therefore -matter of anxious conjecture to many, how his enormous wealth would be -bestowed after his death. This anxiety gave rise to inquiries about the -possibility of Guzman having relatives, though in remoteness and -obscurity; and the diligence of inquiry, when stimulated at once by -avarice and curiosity, is indefatigable. Thus it was at length -discovered that Guzman had formerly a sister, many years younger than -himself, who, at a very early age, had married a German musician, a -Protestant, and had shortly after quitted Spain. It was remembered, or -reported, that she had made many efforts to soften the heart and open -the hand of her brother, who was even then very wealthy, and to induce -him to be reconciled to their union, and to enable her and her husband -to remain in Spain. Guzman was inflexible. Wealthy, and proud of his -wealth as he was, he might have digested the unpalatable morsel of her -union with a poor man, whom he could have made rich; but he could not -even swallow the intelligence that she had married a Protestant. Ines, -for that was her name, and her husband, went to Germany, partly in -dependence on his musical talents, which were highly appreciated in that -country,--partly in the vague hope of emigrants, that change of place -will be attended with change of circumstances,--and partly, also, from -the feeling, that misfortune is better tolerated any where than in the -presence of those who inflict it. Such was the tale told by the old, who -affected to remember the facts,--and believed by the young, whose -imagination supplied all the defects of memory, and pictured to them an -interesting beauty, with her children hanging about her, embarking, with -a heretic husband, for a distant country, and sadly bidding farewell to -the land and the religion of her fathers. - -“Now, while these things were talked of at Seville, Guzman fell sick, -and was given over by the physicians, whom with considerable reluctance -he had suffered to be called in. - -“In the progress of his illness, whether nature revisited a heart she -long appeared to have deserted,--or whether he conceived that the hand -of a relative might be a more grateful support to his dying head than -that of a rapacious and mercenary menial,--or whether his resentful -feelings burnt faintly at the expected approach of death, as artificial -fires wax dim at the appearance of morning;--so it was, that Guzman in -his illness bethought himself of his sister and her family,--sent off, -at a considerable expence, an express to that part of Germany where she -resided, to invite her to return and be reconciled to him,--and prayed -devoutly that he might be permitted to survive till he could breathe his -last amid the arms of her and her children. Moreover, there was a report -at this time, in which the hearers probably took more interest than in -any thing that related merely to the life or death of Guzman,--and this -was, that he had rescinded his former will, and sent for a notary, with -whom, in spite of his apparent debility, he remained locked up for some -hours, dictating in a tone which, however clear to the notary, did not -leave one distinct impression of sound on the ears that were strained, -even to an agony of listening, at the double-locked door of his chamber. - -“All Guzman’s friends had endeavoured to dissuade him from making this -exertion, which, they assured him, would only hasten his dissolution. -But to their surprise, and doubtless their delight, from the moment his -will was made, Guzman’s health began to amend,--and in less than a week -he began to walk about his chamber, and calculate what time it might -take an express to reach Germany, and how soon he might expect -intelligence from his family. - -“Some months had passed away, and the priests took advantage of the -interval to get about Guzman. But after exhausting every effort of -ingenuity,--after plying him powerfully but unavailingly on the side of -conscience, of duty, of fear, and of religion,--they began to understand -their interest, and change their battery. And finding that the settled -purpose of Guzman’s soul was not to be changed, and that he was -determined on recalling his sister and her family to Spain, they -contented themselves with requiring that he should have no communication -with the heretic family, except through them,--and never see his sister -or her children unless they were witnesses to the interview. - -“This condition was easily complied with, for Guzman felt no decided -inclination for seeing his sister, whose presence might have reminded -him of feelings alienated, and duties forgot. Besides, he was a man of -fixed habits; and the presence of the most interesting being on earth, -that threatened the slightest interruption or suspension of those -habits, would have been to him insupportable. - -“Thus we are all indurated by age and habit,--and feel ultimately, that -the dearest connexions of nature or passion may be sacrificed to those -petty indulgences which the presence or influence of a stranger may -disturb. So Guzman compromised between his conscience and his feelings. -He determined, in spite of all the priests in Seville, to invite his -sister and her family to Spain, and to leave the mass of his immense -fortune to them; (and to that effect he wrote, and wrote repeatedly and -explicitly). But, on the other hand, he promised and swore to his -spiritual counsellors, that he never would see one individual of the -family; and that, though his sister might inherit his fortune, she -never--never should see his face. The priests were satisfied, or -appeared to be so, with this declaration; and Guzman, having propitiated -them with ample offerings to the shrines of various saints, to each of -whom his recovery was exclusively attributed, sat down to calculate the -probable expence of his sister’s return to Spain, and the necessity of -providing for her family, whom he had, as it were, rooted from their -native bed; and therefore felt bound, in all honesty, to make them -flourish in the soil into which he had transplanted them. - -“Within the year, his sister, her husband, and four children, returned -to Spain. Her name was Ines, her husband’s was Walberg. He was an -industrious man, and an excellent musician. His talents had obtained for -him the place of _Maestro di Capella_ to the Duke of Saxony; and his -children were educated (according to his means) to supply his place when -vacated by death or accident, or to employ themselves as musical -teachers in the courts of German princes. He and his wife had lived with -the utmost frugality, and looked to their children for the means of -increasing, by the exercise of their talents, that subsistence which it -was their daily labour to provide. - -“The eldest son, who was called Everhard, inherited his father’s musical -talents. The daughters, Julia and Ines, were musical also, and very -skilful in embroidery. The youngest child, Maurice, was by turns the -delight and the torment of the family. - -“They had struggled on for many years in difficulties too petty to be -made the subject of detail, yet too severe not to be painfully felt by -those whose lot is to encounter them every day, and every hour of the -day,--when the sudden intelligence, brought by an express from Spain, of -their wealthy relative Guzman inviting them to return thither, and -proclaiming them heirs to all his vast riches, burst on them like the -first dawn of his half-year’s summer on the crouching and squalid inmate -of a Lapland hut. All trouble was forgot,--all cares postponed,--their -few debts paid off,--and their preparations made for an instant -departure to Spain. - -“So to Spain they went, and journeyed on to the city of Seville, where, -on their arrival, they were waited on by a grave ecclesiastic, who -acquainted them with Guzman’s resolution of never seeing his offending -sister or her family, while at the same time he assured them of his -intention of supporting and supplying them with every comfort, till his -decease put them in possession of his wealth. The family were somewhat -disturbed at this intelligence, and the mother wept at being denied the -sight of her brother, for whom she still cherished the affection of -memory; while the priest, by way of softening the discharge of his -commission, dropt some words of a change of their heretical opinions -being most likely to open a channel of communication between them and -their relative. The silence with which this hint was received spoke more -than many words, and the priest departed. - -“This was the first cloud that had intercepted their view of felicity -since the express arrived in Germany, and they sat gloomily enough under -its shadow for the remainder of the evening. Walberg, in the confidence -of expected wealth, had not only brought over his children to Spain, but -had written to his father and mother, who were very old, and wretchedly -poor, to join him in Seville; and by the sale of his house and -furniture, had been enabled to remit them money for the heavy expences -of so long a journey. They were now hourly expected, and the children, -who had a faint but grateful recollection of the blessing bestowed on -their infant heads by quivering lips and withered hands, looked out with -joy for the arrival of the ancient pair. Ines had often said to her -husband, “Would it not be better to let your father and mother remain in -Germany, and remit them money for their support, than put them to the -fatigue of so long a journey at their far advanced age?”--And he had -always answered, “Let them rather die under my roof, than live under -that of strangers.” - -“This night he perhaps began to feel the prudence of his wife’s -advice;--she saw it, and with cautious gentleness forbore, for that very -reason, to remind him of it. - -“The weather was gloomy and cold that evening,--it was unlike a night in -Spain. Its chill appeared to extend to the party. Ines sat and worked in -silence--the children, collected at the window, communicated in whispers -their hopes and conjectures about the arrival of the aged travellers, -and Walberg, who was restlessly traversing the room, sometimes sighed as -he overheard them. - -“The next day was sunny and cloudless. The priest again called on them, -and, after regretting that Guzman’s resolution was inflexible, informed -them, that he was directed to pay them an annual sum for their support, -which he named, and which appeared to them enormous; and to appropriate -another for the education of the children, which seemed to be calculated -on a scale of princely munificence. He put deeds, properly drawn and -attested for this purpose, into their hands, and then withdrew, after -repeating the assurance, that they would be the undoubted heirs of -Guzman’s wealth at his decease, and that, as the interval would be -passed in affluence, it might well be passed without repining. The -priest had scarcely retired, when the aged parents of Walberg arrived, -feeble from joy and fatigue, but not exhausted, and the whole family sat -down to a meal that appeared to them luxurious, in that placid -contemplation of future felicity, which is often more exquisite than its -actual enjoyment. - -“I saw them,” said the stranger, interrupting himself,--“I saw them on -the evening of that day of union, and a painter, who wished to embody -the image of domestic felicity in a group of living figures, need have -gone no further than the mansion of Walberg. He and his wife were seated -at the head of the table, smiling on their children, and seeing them -smile in return, without the intervention of one anxious thought,--one -present harassing of petty difficulty, or heavy presage of future -mischance,--_one fear of the morrow_, or aching remembrance of the past. -Their children formed indeed a groupe on which the eye of painter or of -parent, the gaze of taste or of affection, might have hung with equal -delight. Everhard their eldest son, now sixteen, possessed too much -beauty for his sex, and his delicate and brilliant complexion, his -slender and exquisitely moulded form, and the modulation of his tender -and tremulous voice, inspired that mingled interest, with which we -watch, in youth, over the strife of present debility with the promise of -future strength, and infused into his parent’s hearts that fond anxiety -with which we mark the progress of a mild but cloudy morning in spring, -rejoicing in the mild and balmy glories of its dawn, but fearing lest -clouds may overshade them before noon. The daughters, Ines and Julia, -had all the loveliness of their colder climate--the luxuriant ringlets -of golden hair, the large bright blue eyes, the snow-like whiteness of -their bosoms, and slender arms, and the rose-leaf tint and peachiness of -their delicate cheeks, made them, as they attended their parents with -graceful and fond officiousness, resemble two young Hebes ministering -cups, which their touch alone was enough to turn into nectar. - -“The spirits of these young persons had been early depressed by the -difficulties in which their parents were involved; and even in childhood -they had acquired the timid tread, the whispered tone, the anxious and -inquiring look, that the constant sense of domestic distress painfully -teaches even to children, and which it is the most exquisite pain to a -parent to witness. But now there was nothing to restrain their young -hearts,--that stranger, a _smile_, fled back rejoicing to the lovely -home of their lips,--and the timidity of their former habits only lent a -grateful shade to the brilliant exuberance of youthful happiness. Just -opposite this picture, whose hues were so bright, and whose shades were -so tender, were seated the figures of the aged grandfather and -grandmother. The contrast was very strong; there was no connecting link, -no graduated medium,--you passed at once from the first and fairest -flowers of spring, to the withered and rootless barrenness of winter. - -“These very aged persons, however, had something in their looks to -soothe the eye, and Teniers or Wouverman would perhaps have valued their -figures and costume far beyond those of their young and lovely -grandchildren. They were stiffly and quaintly habited in their German -garb--the old man in his doublet and cap, and the old woman in her ruff, -stomacher, and head-gear resembling a skull-cap, with long depending -pinners, through which a few white, but very long hairs, appeared on her -wrinkled cheeks; but on the countenances of both there was a gleam of -joy, like the cold smile of a setting sun on a wintry landscape. They -did not distinctly hear the kind importunities of their son and -daughter, to partake more amply of the most plentiful meal they had ever -witnessed in their frugal lives,--but they bowed and smiled with that -thankfulness which is at once wounding and grateful to the hearts of -affectionate children. They smiled also at the beauty of Everhard and -their elder grandchildren,--at the wild pranks of Maurice, who was as -wild in the hour of trouble as in the hour of prosperity;--and finally, -they smiled at all that was said, though they did not hear half of it, -and at all they saw, though they could enjoy very little--and that -_smile of age_, that placid submission to the pleasures of the young, -mingled with undoubted anticipations of a more pure and perfect -felicity, gave an almost heavenly expression to features, that would -otherwise have borne only the withering look of debility and decay. - -“Some circumstances occurred during this family feast, which were -sufficiently characteristic of the partakers. Walberg (himself a very -temperate man) pressed his father repeatedly to take more wine than he -was accustomed to,--the old man gently declined it. The son still -pressed it heartfully, and the old man complied with a wish to gratify -his son, not himself. - -“The younger children, too, caressed their grandmother with the -boisterous fondness of children. Their mother reproached them.--“Nay, -let be,” said the gentle old woman. “They trouble you, mother,” said the -wife of Walberg.--“They cannot trouble me long,” said the grandmother, -with an emphatic smile. “Father,” said Walberg, “is not Everhard grown -very tall?”--“The last time I saw him,” said the grandfather, “I stooped -to kiss him; now I think he must stoop to kiss me.” And, at the word, -Everhard darted like an arrow into the trembling arms that were opened -to receive him, and his red and hairless lips were pressed to the snowy -beard of his grandfather. “Cling there, my child,” said the exulting -father.--“God grant your kiss may never be applied to lips less -pure.”--“They never shall, my father!” said the susceptible boy, -blushing at his own emotions--“I never wish to press any lips but those -that will bless me like those of my grandfather.”---- “And do you wish,” -said the old man jocularly, “that the blessing should _always_ issue -from lips as rough and hoary as mine?” Everhard stood blushing behind -the old man’s chair at this question, and Walberg, who heard the clock -strike the hour at which he had been always accustomed, in prosperity or -adversity, to summon his family to prayer, made a signal which his -children well understood, and which was communicated in whispers to -their aged relatives.--“Thank God,” said the aged grandmother to the -young whisperer, and as she spoke, she sunk on her knees. Her -grandchildren assisted her. “Thank God,” echoed the old man, bending his -stiffened knees, and doffing his cap--“Thank God for this ‘shadow of a -great rock in a weary land!’”--and he knelt, while Walberg, after -reading a chapter or two from a German Bible which he held in his hands, -pronounced an extempore prayer, imploring God to fill their hearts with -gratitude for the temporal blessings they enjoyed, and to enable them -“so to pass through things temporal, that they might not finally lose -the things eternal.” At the close of the prayer, the family rose and -saluted each other with that affection which has not its root in earth, -and whose blossoms, however diminutive and colourless to the eye of man -in this wretched soil, shall yet bear glorious fruit in the garden of -God. It was a lovely sight to behold the young people assisting their -aged relatives to arise from their knees,--and it was a lovelier -hearing, to listen to the happy good-nights exchanged among the parting -family. The wife of Walberg was most assiduous in preparing the comforts -of her husband’s parents, and Walberg yielded to her with that proud -gratitude, that feels more exaltation in a benefit conferred by those we -love, than if we conferred it ourselves. He loved his parents, but he -was proud of his wife loving them because they were his. To the repeated -offers of his children to assist or attend their ancient relatives, he -answered, “No, dear children, your mother will do better,--your mother -always does best.” As he spoke, his children, according to a custom now -forgot, kneeled before him to ask his blessing. His hand, tremulous with -affection, rested first on the curling locks of the darling Everhard, -whose head towered proudly above those of his kneeling sisters, and of -Maurice, who, with the irrepressible and venial levity of joyous -childhood, laughed as he knelt. “God bless you!” said Walberg--“God -bless you all,--and may he make you as good as your mother, and as happy -as--your father is this night;” and as he spoke, the happy father turned -aside and wept. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - ------Quæque ipsa miserrima vidi, - Et quorum pars magna fui. - - VIRGIL. - - -“The wife of Walberg, who was naturally of a cool sedate temper, and to -whom misfortune had taught an anxious and jealous prevoyance, was not so -intoxicated with the present prosperity of the family, as its young, or -even its aged members. Her mind was full of thoughts which she would not -communicate to her husband, and sometimes did not wish to acknowledge to -herself; but to the priest, who visited them frequently with renewed -marks of Guzman’s bounty, she spoke explicitly. She said, that however -grateful for her brother’s kindness, for the enjoyment of present -competence, and the hope of future wealth, she wished that her children -might be permitted to acquire the means of independent subsistence for -themselves, and that the money destined by Guzman’s liberality for their -ornamental education, might be applied to the purpose of ensuring them -the power of supporting themselves, and assisting their parents. She -alluded slightly to the possible future change in her brother’s -favourable feelings towards her, and dwelt much on the circumstance of -her children being strangers in the country, wholly unacquainted with -its language, and averse from its religion; and she mildly but strongly -stated the difficulties to which a heretic family of strangers might be -exposed in a Catholic country, and implored the priest to employ his -mediation and influence with her brother, that her children might be -enabled, through his bounty, to acquire the means of independent -subsistence, as if----and she paused. The good and friendly priest (for -he was truly both) listened to her with attention; and after satisfying -his conscience, by adjuring her to renounce her heretical opinions, as -the only means of obtaining a reconciliation with God and her brother, -and receiving a calm, but firm negative, proceeded to give her his best -LAY advice, which was to comply with her brother’s wishes in every -thing, to educate her children in the manner which he prescribed, and to -the full extent of the means which he so amply furnished. He added, _en -confiance_, that Guzman, though, during his long life, he had never been -suspected of any passion but that of accumulating money, was now -possessed with a spirit much harder to expel, and was resolved that the -heirs of his wealth should be, in point of all that might embellish -polished society, on a level with the descendants of the first nobility -of Spain. Finally, he counselled submission to her brother’s wishes in -all things,--and the wife of Walberg complied with tears, which she -tried to conceal from the priest, and had completely effaced the traces -of before she again met her husband. - -“In the mean time, the plan of Guzman was rapidly realized. A handsome -house was taken for Walberg,--his sons and daughters were splendidly -arrayed, and sumptuously lodged; and, though education was, and still -is, on a very low level in Spain, they were taught all that was then -supposed to qualify them as companions for the descendants of Hidalgoes. -Any attempt, or even allusion to their being prepared for the ordinary -occupations of life, was strictly forbidden by the orders of Guzman. The -father triumphed in this,--the mother regretted it, but she kept her -regret to herself, and consoled herself with thinking, that the -ornamental education her children were receiving might ultimately be -turned to account; for the wife of Walberg was a woman whom the -experience of misfortune had taught to look to the future with an -anxious eye, and that eye, with ominous accuracy, had seldom failed to -detect a speck of evil in the brightest beam of sun-shine that had ever -trembled on her chequered existence. - -“The injunctions of Guzman were obeyed,--the family lived in luxury. The -young people plunged into their new life of enjoyment with an avidity -proportioned to their youthful sensibility of pleasure, and to a taste -for refinement and elegant pursuits, which their former obscurity had -repressed, but never extinguished. The proud and happy father exulted in -the personal beauty, and improving talents of his children. The anxious -mother sighed sometimes, but took care the sigh should never reach her -husband’s ear. The aged grandfather and grandmother, whose infirmities -had been much increased by their journey to Spain, and possibly still -more by that strong emotion which is a habit to youth, but a convulsion -to age, sat in their ample chairs comfortably idle, dozing away life in -intervals of unuttered though conscious satisfaction, and calm but -venerable apathy;--they slept much, but when they awoke, they smiled at -their grandchildren, and at each other. - -“The wife of Walberg, during this interval, which seemed one of -undisturbed felicity to all but her, sometimes suggested a gentle -caution,--a doubtful and anxious hint,--a possibility of future -disappointment, but this was soon smiled away by the rosy, and laughing, -and kissful lips of her children, till the mother at last began to smile -at her apprehensions herself. At times, however, she led them anxiously -in the direction of their uncle’s house. She walked up and down the -street before his door with her children, and sometimes lifted up her -veil, as if to try whether her eye could pierce through walls as hard as -the miser’s heart, or windows barred like his coffers,--then glancing on -her children’s costly dress, while her eye darted far into futurity, she -sighed and returned slowly home. This state of suspence was soon to be -terminated. - -“The priest, Guzman’s confessor, visited them often; first in quality of -almoner or agent of his bounty, which was amply and punctually bestowed -through his hands; and secondly, in quality of a professed chess-player, -at which game he had met, even in Spain, no antagonist like Walberg. He -also felt an interest in the family and their fortunes, which, though -his orthodoxy disowned, his heart could not forbear to acknowledge,--so -the good priest compromised matters by playing chess with the father, -and praying for the conversion of his family on his return to Guzman’s -house. It was while engaged in the former exercise, that a message -arrived to summon him on the instant home,--the priest left his queen -_en prise_, and hurried into the passage to speak with the messenger. -The family of Walberg, with agitation unspeakable, half rose to follow -him. They paused at the door, and then retreated with a mixed feeling of -anxiety for the intelligence, and shame at the attitude in which they -might be discovered. As they retreated, however, they could not help -hearing the words of the messenger,--“He is at his last gasp,--he has -sent for you,--you must not lose a moment.” As the messenger spoke, the -priest and he departed. - -“The family returned to their apartment, and for some hours sat in -profound silence, interrupted only by the ticking of the clock, which -was distinctly and solely heard, and which seemed too loud to their -quickened ears, amid that deep stillness on which it broke -incessantly,--or by the echoes of Walberg’s hurried step, as he started -from his chair and traversed the apartment. At this sound they turned, -as if expecting a messenger, then, glancing at the silent figure of -Walberg, sunk on their seats again. The family sat up all that long -night of unuttered, and indeed unutterable emotion. The lights burnt -low, and were at length extinguished, but no one noticed them;--the pale -light of the dawn broke feebly into the room, but no one observed it was -morning. “God!--how long he lingers!” exclaimed Walberg involuntarily; -and these words, though uttered under his breath, made all the listeners -start, as at the first sounds of a human voice, which they had not heard -for many hours. - -“At this moment a knock was heard at the door,--a step trod slowly along -the passage that led to the room,--the door opened, and the priest -appeared. He advanced into the room without speaking, or being spoken -to. And the contrast of strong emotion and unbroken silence,--this -conflict of speech that strangled thought in the utterance, and of -thought that in vain asked aid of speech,--the agony and the -muteness,--formed a terrible momentary association. It was but -momentary,--the priest, as he stood, uttered the words--“All is over!” -Walberg clasped his hands over his forehead, and in ecstatic agony -exclaimed,--“Thank God!” and wildly catching at the object nearest him, -as if imagining it one of his children, he clasped and hugged it to his -breast. His wife wept for a moment at the thought of her brother’s -death, but roused herself for her children’s sake to hear all that was -to be told. The Priest could tell no more but that Guzman was -dead,--seals had been put on every chest, drawer, and coffer in the -house,--not a cabinet had escaped the diligence of the persons -employed,--and the will was to be read the following day. - -“For the following day the family remained in that intensity of -expectation that precluded all thought. The servants prepared the usual -meal, but it remained untasted. The family pressed each other to partake -of it; but as the importunity was not enforced by the inviter setting -any example of the lesson he tried to teach, the meal remained untasted. -About noon a grave person, in the habit of a notary, was announced, and -summoned Walberg to be present at the opening of Guzman’s will. As -Walberg prepared to obey the summons, one of his children officiously -offered him his hat, another his cloke, both of which he had forgot in -the trepidation of his anxiety; and these instances of reminiscence and -attention in his children, contrasted with his own abstraction, -completely overcame him, and he sunk down on a seat to recover himself. -“You had better not go, my love,” said his wife mildly. “I believe I -shall--I _must_ take your advice,” said Walberg, relapsing on the seat -from which he had half risen. The notary, with a formal bow, was -retiring. “I _will_ go!” said Walberg, swearing a German oath, whose -guttural sound made the notary start,--“I _will_ go!” and as he spoke he -fell on the floor, exhausted by fatigue and want of refreshment, and -emotion indescribable but to a father. The notary retired, and a few -hours more were exhausted in torturing conjecture, expressed on the -mother’s part only by clasped hands and smothered sighs,--on the -father’s by profound silence, averted countenance, and hands that seemed -to feel for those of his children, and then shrink from the touch,--and -on the children’s by rapidly varying auguries of hope and of -disappointment. The aged pair sat motionless among their family;--they -knew not what was going on, but they knew if it was good they must -partake of it,--and in the perception or expectation of the approach of -evil, their faculties had latterly become very obtuse. - -“The day was far advanced,--it was noon. The servants, with whom the -munificence of the deceased had amply supplied their establishment, -announced that dinner was prepared; and Ines, who retained more presence -of mind than the rest, gently suggested to her husband the necessity of -not betraying their emotions to their servants. He obeyed her hint -mechanically, and walked into the dining-hall, forgetting for the first -time to offer his arm to his infirm father. His family followed, but, -when seated at the table, they seemed not to know for what purpose they -were collected there. Walberg, consumed by that _thirst of anxiety_ -which nothing seems sufficient to quench, called repeatedly for wine; -and his wife, who found even the attempt to eat impossible in the -presence of the gazing and unmoved attendants, dismissed them by a -signal, but did not feel the desire of food restored by their absence. -The old couple eat as usual, and sometimes looked up with an expression -of vague and vacant wonder, and a kind of sluggish reluctance to admit -the fear or belief of approaching calamity. Towards the end of their -cheerless meal, Walberg was called out; he returned in a few minutes, -and there was no appearance of change in his countenance. He seated -himself, and only his wife perceived the traces of a wild smile stealing -over the trembling lines of his face, as he filled a large glass of -wine, and raised it to his lips, pronouncing--“A health to the heirs of -Guzman.” But instead of drinking the wine, he dashed the glass to the -floor, and burying his head in the drapery of the table on which he -flung himself, he exclaimed, “Not a ducat,--not a ducat,--all left to -the church!--Not a ducat!” * * * * * - -“In the evening the priest called, and found the family much more -composed. The certainty of evil had given them a kind of courage. -Suspence is the only evil against which it is impossible to set up a -defence,--and, like young mariners in an untried sea, they almost felt -ready to welcome the storm, as a relief from the deadly and loathsome -sickness of anxiety. The honest resentment, and encouraging manner of -the priest, were a cordial to their ears and hearts. He declared his -belief, that nothing but the foulest means that might be resorted to by -interested and bigotted monks, could have extorted such a will from the -dying man,--his readiness to attest, in every court in Spain, the -intentions of the testator (till within a few hours of his death) to -have bequeathed his whole fortune to his family,--intentions which he -had repeatedly expressed to him and others, and to whose effect he had -seen a former will of no long date,--and, finally, gave his strenuous -advice to Walberg to bring the matter to legal arbitration, in aid of -which he promised his personal exertions, his influence with the ablest -advocates in Seville, and every thing--but money. - -“The family that night went to bed with spirits exalted by hope, and -slept in peace. One circumstance alone marked a change in their feelings -and habits. As they were retiring, the old man laid his tremulous hand -on the shoulder of Walberg, and said mildly, “My son, shall we pray -before we retire?”--“Not to-night, father,” said Walberg, who perhaps -feared the mention of their heretical worship might alienate the -friendly priest, or who felt the agitation of his heart too great for -the solemn exercise; “Not to-night, I am--too happy!” - -“The priest was as good as his word,--the ablest advocates in Seville -undertook the cause of Walberg. Proofs of undue influence, of -imposition, and of terror being exercised on the mind of the testator, -were ingeniously made out by the diligence and spiritual authority of -the priest, and skilfully arranged and ably pleaded by the advocates. -Walberg’s spirits rose with every hour. The family, at the time of -Guzman’s death, were in possession of a considerable sum of money, but -this was soon expended, together with another sum which the frugality of -Ines had enabled her to save, and which she now cheerfully produced in -aid of her husband’s exigencies, and in confidence of eventual success. -When all was gone, other resources still remained,--the spacious house -was disposed of, the servants dismissed, the furniture sold (as usual) -for about a fourth of its value, and, in their new and humble abode in -the suburbs of Seville, Ines and her daughters contentedly resumed those -domestic duties which they had been in the habit of performing in their -quiet home in Germany. Amid these changes, the grandfather and -grandmother experienced none but mere change of place, of which they -hardly appeared conscious. The assiduous attention of Ines to their -comforts was increased, not diminished, by the necessity of being -herself the sole ministrant to them; and smiling she pleaded want of -appetite, or trifling indisposition, as an excuse for her own and her -children’s meal, while theirs was composed of every thing that could -tempt the tasteless palate of age, or that she remembered was acceptable -to theirs. - -“The cause had now come to a hearing, and for the two first days the -advocates of Walberg carried all before them. On the third the -ecclesiastical advocates made a firm and vigorous stand. Walberg -returned much dispirited;--his wife saw it, and therefore assumed no -airs of cheerfulness, which only increase the irritation of misfortune, -but she was equable, and steadily and tranquilly occupied in domestic -business the whole evening in his sight. As they were separating for the -night, by a singular contingency, the old man again reminded his son of -the forgotten hour of family prayer. “Not to-night, father,” said -Walberg impatiently; “not to-night; I am--too unhappy!”--“Thus,” said -the old man, lifting up his withered hands, and speaking with an energy -he had not showed for years,--“thus, O my God! prosperity and adversity -alike furnish us with excuses for neglecting thee!” As he tottered from -the room, Walberg declined his head on the bosom of his wife, who sat -beside him, and shed a few bitter tears. And Ines whispered to herself, -“The sacrifice of God is a troubled spirit,--a broken heart he will not -despise.” * * * * * * - -“The cause had been carried on with a spirit and expedition that had no -precedent in the courts of Spain, and the fourth day was fixed on for a -final hearing and termination of the cause. The day dawned, and at the -dawn of day Walberg arose, and walked for some hours before the gates of -the hall of justice; and when they were opened, he entered, and sat down -mechanically on a seat in the vacant hall, with the same look of -profound attention, and anxious interest, that he would have assumed had -the court been seated, and the cause about to be decided. After a few -moment’s pause, he sighed, started, and appearing to awake from a dream, -quitted his seat, and walked up and down the empty passages till the -court was prepared to sit. - -“The court met early that day, and the cause was powerfully advocated. -Walberg sat on one seat, without ever changing his place, till all was -over; and it was then late in the evening, and he had taken no -refreshment the entire day, and he had never changed his place, and he -had never changed the close and corrupted atmosphere of the crowded -court for a moment. Quid multis morer? The chance of a heretic stranger, -against the interests of churchmen in Spain, may be calculated by the -most shallow capacity. - -“The family had all that day sat in the innermost room of their humble -dwelling. Everhard had wished to accompany his father to the court,--his -mother withheld him. The sisters involuntarily dropt their work from -time to time, and their mother gently reminded them of the necessity of -renewing it. They did resume it, but their hands, at variance with their -feelings, made such blunders, that their mother, δακρυοεν γελασασα, -removed their work, and suggested to them some active employment in -household affairs. While they were thus engaged, evening came on,--the -family from time to time suspended their ordinary occupations, and -crowded to the window to watch the return of their father. Their mother -no longer interfered,--she sat in silence, and this silence formed a -strong contrast to the restless impatience of her children. “That is my -father,” exclaimed the voices of the four at once, as a figure crossed -the street. “That is not my father,” they repeated, as the figure -slowly retired. A knock was heard at the door,--Ines herself rushed -forward to open it. A figure retreated, advanced again, and again -retreated. Then it seemed to rush past her, and enter the house like -a shadow. In terror she followed it, and with terror unutterable saw -her husband kneeling among his children, who in vain attempted to raise -him, while he continued to repeat, “No, let me kneel,--let me kneel, I -have undone you all! The cause is lost, and I have made beggars of you -all!”--“Rise,--rise, dearest father,” cried the children, gathering -round him, “nothing is lost, if you are saved!”--“Rise, my love, from -that horrible and unnatural humiliation,” cried Ines, grasping the -arms of her husband; “help me, my children,--father,--mother, will you -not help me?”--and as she spoke, the tottering, helpless, and almost -lifeless figures of the aged grandfather and grandmother arose -from their chairs, and staggering forwards, added their feeble -strength,--their _vis impotentiæ_, to sustain or succour the weight -that dragged heavily on the arms of the children and their mother. By -this sight, more than by any effort, Walberg was raised from the -posture that agonized his family, and placed in a chair, around which -hung the wife and children, while the aged father and mother, retreating -torpidly to their seats, seemed to lose in a few moments the keen -consciousness of evil that had inspired them for an instant with a -force almost miraculous. Ines and her children hung round Walberg, and -uttered all of consolation that helpless affection could suggest; but -perhaps there is not a more barbed arrow can be sent through the heart, -than by the thought that the hands that clasp ours so fondly cannot -earn for us or themselves the means of another meal,--that the lips -that are pressed to ours so warmly, may the next ask us for bread, -and--ask in vain! - -“It was perhaps fortunate for this unhappy family, that the very -extremity of their grief rendered its long indulgence impossible,--the -voice of necessity made itself be heard distinctly and loudly amid all -the cry and clamour of that hour of agony. Something must be done for -the morrow,--and it was to be done immediately. “What money have you?” -was the first articulate sentence Walberg uttered to his wife; and when -she whispered the small sum that the expences of their lost cause had -left them, he shivered with a brief emphatic spasm of horror,--then -bursting from their arms, and rising, he crossed the room, as if he -wished to be alone for a moment. As he did so, he saw his youngest -child playing with the long strings of his grandfather’s band,--a mode -of sportive teazing in which the urchin delighted, and which was at -once chid and smiled at. Walberg struck the poor child vehemently, and -then catching him in his arms, bid him--“Smile as long as he could!” -* * * * * - -“They had means of subsistence at least for the following week; and that -was such a source of comfort to them, as it is to men who are quitting a -wreck, and drifting on a bare raft with a slender provision towards some -coast, which they hope to reach before it is exhausted. They sat up all -that night together in earnest counsel, after Ines had taken care to see -the father and mother of her husband comfortably placed in their -apartment. Amid their long and melancholy conference, hope sprung up -insensibly in the hearts of the speakers, and a plan was gradually -formed for obtaining the means of subsistence. Walberg was to offer his -talents as a musical teacher,--Ines and her daughters were to undertake -embroidery,--and Everhard, who possessed exquisite taste both in music -and drawing, was to make an effort in both departments, and the friendly -priest was to be applied to for his needful interest and recommendation -for all. The morning broke on their long-protracted consultation, and -found them unwearied in discussing its subject. “We shall not starve,” -said the children hopefully.--“I trust not,” said Walberg -sighingly.--His wife, who knew Spain, said not a word.---- - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - ------This to me - In dreadful secrecy they did impart, - And I with them the third night kept the watch. - - SHAKESPEARE. - - -“As they spoke, a soft knock was heard, such as kindness gives at the -door of misfortune, and Everhard started up to answer it. “Stay,” said -Walberg, absently, “Where are the servants?” Then recollecting himself, -he smiled agonizingly, and waved his hand to his son to go. It was the -good priest. He entered, and sat down in silence,--no one spoke to him. -It might be truly said, as it is sublimely said in the original, “There -was neither speech nor language, but voices were heard among them--_and -felt too_.” The worthy priest piqued himself on his orthodoxy of all -matters of belief and form enjoined by the Catholic church; and, -moreover, had acquired a kind of monastic apathy, of sanctified -stoicism, which priests sometimes imagine is the conquest of grace over -the rebellion of nature, when it is merely the result of a profession -that denies nature its objects and its ties. Yet so it was, that as he -sat among this afflicted family, after complaining of the keenness of -the morning air, and wiping away in vain the moisture, which he said it -had brought into his eyes, he at last yielded to his feelings, and -“lifted up his voice and wept.” But tears were not all he had to offer. -On hearing the plans of Walberg and his family, he promised, with a -faultering voice, his ready assistance in promoting them; and, as he -rose to depart, observing that he had been entrusted by the faithful -with a small sum for the relief of the unfortunate, and knew not where -it could be better bestowed, he dropped from the sleeve of his habit a -well filled purse on the floor, and hurried away. - -“The family retired to rest as the day approached, but rose in a few -hours afterwards without having slept; and the remainder of that day, -and the whole of the three following, were devoted to applications at -every door where encouragement might be expected, or employment -obtained, the priest in person aiding every application. But there were -many circumstances unfavourable to the ill-starred family of Walberg. -They were strangers, and, with the exception of their mother, who acted -as interpreter, ignorant of the language of the country. This was “a -sore evil,” extending almost to the total preclusion of their exertions -as teachers. They were also heretics,--and this alone was a sufficient -bar to their success in Seville. In some families the beauty of the -daughters, in others that of the son, was gravely debated as an -important objection. In others the recollection of their former -splendour, suggested a mean and rancorous motive to jealous inferiority -to insult them by a rejection, for which no other cause could be -assigned. Unwearied and undismayed, they renewed their applications -every day, at every house where admission could be obtained, and at many -where it was denied; and each day they returned to examine the -diminished stock, to divide the scantier meal, calculate how far it was -possible to reduce the claims of nature to the level of their ebbing -means, and smile when they talked of the morrow to each other, but weep -when they thought of it alone. There is a withering monotony in the -diary of misery,--“one day telleth another.” But there came at length a -day, when the last coin was expended, the last meal devoured, the last -resource exhausted, the last hope annihilated, and the friendly priest -himself told them weeping, he had nothing to give them but his prayers. - -“That evening the family sat in profound and stupified silence together -for some hours, till the aged mother of Walberg, who had not for some -months uttered any thing but indistinct monosyllables, or appeared -conscious of any thing that was going on, suddenly, with that ominous -energy that announces its effort to be the last,--that bright flash of -parting life that precedes its total extinction, exclaimed aloud, -apparently addressing her husband, “There is something wrong here,--why -did they bring us from Germany? They might have suffered us to die -there,--they have brought us here to mock us, I think. Yesterday,--(her -memory evidently confounding the dates of her son’s prosperous and -adverse fortune), yesterday they clothed me in silk, and I drank wine, -and to-day they give me this sorry crust,--(flinging away the piece of -bread which had been her share of the miserable meal),--there is -something wrong here. I will go back to Germany,--I will!” and she rose -from her seat in the sight of the astonished family, who, horror-struck, -as they would have been at the sudden resuscitation of a corse, ventured -not to oppose her by word or movement. “I will go back to Germany,” she -repeated; and, rising, she actually took three or four firm and equal -steps on the floor, while no one attempted to approach her. Then her -force, both physical and mental, seemed to fail,--she tottered,--her -voice sunk into hollow mutterings, as she repeated, “I know the way,--I -know the way,--if it was not so dark.--I have not far to go,--I am very -near--_home_!” As she spoke, she fell across the feet of Walberg. The -family collected round her, and raised--a corse. “Thank God!” exclaimed -her son, as he gazed on his mother’s corse.--And this reversion of the -strongest feeling of nature,--this wish for the death of those for whom, -in other circumstances, we would ourselves have died, makes those who -have experienced it feel as if there was no evil in life but want, and -no object of rational pursuit but the means of avoiding it. Alas! if it -be so, for what purpose were hearts that beat, and minds that burn, -bestowed on us? Is all the energy of intellect, and all the enthusiasm -of feeling, to be expended in contrivances how to meet or shift off the -petty but torturing pangs of hourly necessity? Is the fire caught from -heaven to be employed in lighting a faggot to keep the cold from the -numbed and wasted fingers of poverty. Pardon this digression, Senhor,” -said the stranger, “but _I had a painful feeling, that forced me to make -it_.” He then proceeded. - -“The family collected around the dead body,--and it might have been a -subject worthy the pencil of the first of painters, to witness its -interment, as it took place the following night. As the deceased was a -heretic, the corse was not allowed to be laid in consecrated ground; and -the family, solicitous to avoid giving offence, or attracting notice on -the subject of their religion, were the only attendants on the funeral. -In a small inclosure, at the rear of their wretched abode, her son dug -his mother’s grave, and Ines and her daughters placed the body in it. -Everhard was absent in search of employment,--as they hoped,--and a -light was held by the youngest child, who smiled as he watched the -scene, as if it had been a pageant got up for his amusement. That light, -feeble as it was, showed the strong and varying expression of the -countenances on which it fell;--in Walberg’s there was a stern and -fearful joy, that she whom they were laying to rest had been “taken from -the evil to come,”--in that of Ines there was grief, mingled with -something of horror, at this mute and unhallowed ceremony.--Her -daughters, pale with grief and fear, wept silently; but their tears were -checked, and the whole course of their feelings changed, when the light -fell on another figure who appeared suddenly standing among them on the -edge of the grave,--it was that of Walberg’s father. Impatient of being -left alone, and wholly unconscious of the cause, he had groped and -tottered his way till he reached the spot; and now, as he saw his son -heap up the earth over the grave, he exclaimed, with a brief and feeble -effort of reminiscence, sinking on the ground, “Me, too,--lay me there, -the same spot will serve for both!” His children raised and supported -him into the house, where the sight of Everhard, with an unexpected -supply of provisions, made them forget the horrors of the late scene, -and postpone once more the fears of want till to-morrow. No inquiry how -this supply was obtained, could extort more from Everhard than that it -was the gift of charity. He looked exhausted and dreadfully pale,--and, -forbearing to press him with further questions, they partook of this -manna-meal,--this food that seemed to have dropped from heaven, and -separated for the night. * * * * - -“Ines had, during this period of calamity, unremittingly enforced the -application of her daughters to those accomplishments from which she -still derived the hopes of their subsistence. Whatever were the -privations and disappointments of the day, their musical and other -exercises were strictly attended to; and hands enfeebled by want and -grief, plied their task with as much assiduity as when occupation was -only a variation of luxury. This attention to the ornaments of life, -when its actual necessaries are wanted,--this sound of music in a house -where the murmurs of domestic anxiety are heard every moment,--this -subservience of talent to necessity, all its generous enthusiasm lost, -and only its possible utility remembered or valued,--is perhaps the -bitterest strife that ever was fought between the opposing claims of our -artificial and our natural existence. But things had now occurred that -shook not only the resolution of Ines, but even affected her feelings -beyond the power of repression. She had been accustomed to hear, with -delight, the eager application of her daughters to their musical -studies;--now--when she heard them, the morning after the interment of -their grandmother, renewing that application--she felt as if the sounds -struck through her heart. She entered the room where they were, and they -turned towards her with their usual smiling demand for her approbation. - -“The mother, with the forced smile of a sickening heart, said she -believed there was no occasion for their practising any further that -day. The daughters, who understood her too well, relinquished their -instruments, and, accustomed to see every article of furniture converted -into the means of casual subsistence, they thought no worse than that -their ghitarras might be disposed of this day, and the next they hoped -they would have to teach on those of their pupils. They were mistaken. -Other symptoms of failing resolution,--of utter and hopeless -abandonment, appeared that day. Walberg had always felt and expressed -the strongest feelings of tender respect towards his parents--his father -particularly, whose age far exceeded that of his mother. At the division -of their meal that day, he shewed a kind of wolfish and greedy jealousy -that made Ines tremble. He whispered to her--“How much my father -eats--how heartily he feeds while we have scarce a morsel!”--“And let us -want that morsel, before your father wants one!” said Ines in a -whisper--“I have scarce tasted any thing myself.”--“Father--father,” -cried Walberg, shouting in the ear of the doting old man, “you are -eating heartily, while Ines and her children are starving!” And he -snatched the food from his father’s hand, who gazed at him vacantly, and -resigned the contested morsel without a struggle. A moment afterwards -the old man rose from his seat, and with horrid unnatural force, tore -the untasted meat from his grandchildren’s lips, and swallowed it -himself, while his rivelled and toothless mouth grinned at them in -mockery at once infantine and malicious. - -“Squabbling about your supper?” cried Everhard, bursting among them with -a wild and feeble laugh,--“Why, here’s enough for to-morrow--and -to-morrow.” And he flung indeed ample means for two day’s subsistence on -the table, but he looked _paler and paler_. The hungry family devoured -the hoard, and forgot to ask the cause of his increasing paleness, and -obviously diminished strength. * * * * * * - -“They had long been without any domestics, and as Everhard disappeared -mysteriously every day, the daughters were sometimes employed on the -humble errands of the family. The beauty of the elder daughter, Julia, -was so conspicuous, that her mother had often undertaken the most menial -errands herself, rather than send her daughter into the streets -unprotected. The following evening, however, being intently employed in -some domestic occupation, she allowed Julia to go out to purchase their -food for to-morrow, and lent her veil for the purpose, directing her -daughter to arrange it in the Spanish fashion, with which she was well -acquainted, so as to hide her face. - -“Julia, who went with trembling steps on her brief errand, had somehow -deranged her veil, and a glimpse of her beauty was caught by a cavalier -who was passing. The meanness of her dress and occupation suggested -hopes to him which he ventured to express. Julia burst from him with the -mingled terror and indignation of insulted purity, but her eyes rested -with unconscious avidity on the handful of gold which glittered in his -hand.--She thought of her famishing parents,--of her own declining -strength, and neglected useless talents. The gold still sparkled before -her,--she felt--she knew not what, and to escape from some feelings is -perhaps the best victory we can obtain over them. But when she arrived -at home, she eagerly thrust the small purchase she had made into her -mother’s hand, and, though hitherto gentle, submissive, and tractable, -announced, in a tone of decision that seemed to her startled mother -(whose thoughts were always limited to the exigencies of the hour) like -that of sudden insanity, that she would rather starve than ever again -tread the streets of Seville alone. - -“As Ines retired to her bed, she thought she heard a feeble moan from -the room where Everhard lay, and where, from their being compelled to -sell the necessary furniture of the bed, he had entreated his parents to -allow Maurice to sleep with him, alleging that the warmth of his body -would be a substitute for artificial covering to his little brother. -Twice those moans were heard, but Ines did not dare to awake Walberg, -who had sunk into that profound sleep which is as often the refuge of -intolerable misery, as that of saturated enjoyment. A few moments after, -when the moans had ceased, and she had half persuaded herself it was -only the echo of that wave that seems for ever beating in the ears of -the unfortunate,--the curtains of her bed were thrown open, and the -figure of a child covered with blood, stained in breast, arms, and legs, -appeared before her, and cried,--“It is Everhard’s blood--he is bleeding -to death,--I am covered with his blood!--Mother--mother--rise and save -Everhard’s life!” The object, the voice, the words, seemed to Ines like -the imagery of some terrible dream, such as had lately often visited her -sleep, till the tones of Maurice, her youngest, and (in her heart) her -favourite child, made her spring from the bed, and hurry after the -little blood-spotted figure that paddled before her on its naked feet, -till she reached the adjoining room where Everhard lay. Amid all her -anguish and fear, she trod as lightly as Maurice, lest she should awake -Walberg. - -“The moon-light fell strongly through the unshuttered windows on the -wretched closet that just contained the bed. Its furniture was -sufficiently scanty, and in his spasms Everhard had thrown off the -sheet. So he lay, as Ines approached his bed, in a kind of corse-like -beauty, to which the light of the moon gave an effect that would have -rendered the figure worthy the pencil of a Murillo, a Rosa, or any of -those painters, who, inspired by the genius of suffering, delight in -representing the most exquisite of human forms in the extremity of human -agony. A St Bartholomew flayed, with his skin hanging about him in -graceful drapery--a St Laurence, broiled on a gridiron, and exhibiting -his finely-formed anatomy on its bars, while naked slaves are blowing -the coals beneath it,--even these were inferior to the form -half-veiled,--half-disclosed by the moon-light as it lay. The snow-white -limbs of Everhard were extended as if for the inspection of a sculptor, -and moveless, as if they were indeed what they resembled, in hue and -symmetry, those of a marble statue. His arms were tossed above his head, -and the blood was trickling fast from the opened veins of both,--his -bright and curled hair was clotted with the red stream that flowed from -his arms,--his lips were blue, and a faint and fainter moan issued from -them as his mother hung over him. This sight banished in a moment all -other fears and feelings, and Ines shrieked aloud to her husband for -assistance. Walberg, staggering from his sleep, entered the room,--the -object before him was enough. Ines had only strength left to point to -it. The wretched father rushed out in quest of medical aid, which he was -obliged to solicit gratuitously, and in bad Spanish, while his accents -betrayed him at every door he knocked at,--and closed them against him -as a foreigner and a heretic. At length a barber-surgeon (for the -professions were united in Seville) consented, with many a yawn, to -attend him, and came duly armed with lint and styptics. The distance was -short, and he was soon by the bed of the young sufferer. The parents -observed, with consternation unspeakable, the languid looks of -recognition, the ghastly smile of consciousness, that Everhard viewed -him with, as he approached the bed; and when he had succeeded in -stopping the hæmorrhage, and bound up the arms, a whisper passed between -him and the patient, and the latter raised his bloodless hand to his -lips, and uttered, “Remember our bargain.” As the man retired, Walberg -followed, and demanded to know the meaning of the words he had heard. -Walberg was a German, and choleric--the surgeon was a Spaniard, and -cool. “I shall tell you to-morrow, Senhor,” said he, putting up his -instruments,--“in the mean time be assured of my gratuitous attendance -on your son, and of his certain recovery. We deem you heretics in -Seville, but that youth is enough to canonize the whole family, and -cover a multitude of sins.” And with these words he departed. The next -day he attended Everhard, and so for several, till he was completely -recovered, always refusing the slightest remuneration, till the father, -whom misery had made suspicious of every thing and nothing, watched at -the door, and heard the horrible secret. He did not disclose it to his -wife,--but from that hour, it was observed that his gloom became more -intense, and the communications he used to hold with his family, on the -subject of their distress, and the modes of evading it by hourly -expedients, utterly and finally ceased. - -“Everhard, now recovered, but still pale as the widow of Seneca, was at -last able to join the family consultation, and give advice, and suggest -resources, with a mental energy that his physical weakness could not -overcome. The next day, when they were assembled to debate on the means -of procuring subsistence for the following one, they for the first time -missed their father. At every word that was uttered, they turned to ask -for his sanction--but he was not there. At last he entered the room, but -without taking a part in their consultation. He leaned gloomily against -the wall, and while Everhard and Julia, at every sentence, turned their -appealing looks towards him, he sullenly averted his head. Ines, -appearing to pursue some work, while her trembling fingers could scarce -direct the needle, made a sign to her children not to observe him. Their -voices were instantly depressed, and their heads bent closely towards -each other. Mendicity appeared the only resource of this unfortunate -family,--and they agreed, that the evening was the best time for trying -its effect. The unhappy father remained rocking against the shattered -wainscot till the arrival of evening. Ines repaired the clothes of the -children, which were now so decayed, that every attempt at repair made a -fresh rent, and the very thread she worked with seemed less attenuated -than the worn-out materials it wrought on. - -“The grandfather, still seated in his ample chair by the care of Ines, -(for his son had grown very indifferent about him), watched her moving -fingers, and exclaimed, with the petulance of dotage, “Aye,--you are -arraying them in embroidery, while I am in rags.--In rags!” he repeated, -holding out the slender garments which the beggared family could with -difficulty spare him. Ines tried to pacify him, and showed her work, to -prove that it was the remnants of her children’s former dress she was -repairing; but, with horror unutterable, she perceived her husband -incensed at these expressions of dotage, and venting his frantic and -fearful indignation in language that she tried to bury the sound of, by -pressing closer to the old man, and attempting to fix his bewildered -attention on herself and her work. This was easily accomplished, and all -was well, till they were about to separate on their wretched precarious -errands. Then a new and untold feeling trembled at the heart of one of -the young wanderers. Julia remembered the occurrence of a preceding -evening,--she thought of the tempting gold, the flattering language, and -the tender tone of the young cavalier. She saw her family perishing -around her for want,--she felt it consuming her own vitals,--and as she -cast her eye round the squalid room, the gold glittered brighter and -brighter in her eye. A faint hope, aided perhaps by a still more faint -suggestion of venial pride, swelled in her heart. “Perhaps he might love -me,” she whispered to herself, “and think me not unworthy of his hand.” -Then despair returned to the charge. “I must die of famine,” she -thought, “if I return unaided,--and why may I not by my death benefit my -family! I will never survive shame, but they may,--for they will not -know it!”--She went out, and took a direction different from that of the -family. - -“Night came on,--the wanderers returned slowly one by one,--_Julia was -the last_. Her brothers and sister had each obtained a trifling alms, -for they had learned Spanish enough to beg in,--and the old man’s face -wore a vacant smile, as he saw the store produced, which was, after all, -scarce sufficient to afford a meal for the youngest. “And have you -brought us nothing, Julia?” said her parents. She stood apart, and in -silence. Her father repeated the question in a raised and angry voice. -She started at the sound, and, rushing forward, buried her head in her -mother’s bosom. “Nothing,--nothing,” she cried, in a broken and -suffocated voice; “I tried,--my weak and wicked heart submitted to the -thought for a moment,--but no,--no, not even to save you from perishing, -could I!--I came home to perish first myself!” Her shuddering parents -comprehended her,--and amid their agony they blessed her and wept,--but -not from grief. The meal was divided, of which Julia at first steadily -refused to partake, as she had not contributed to it, till her -reluctance was overcome by the affectionate importunity of the rest, and -she complied. - -“It was during this division of what all believed to be their last meal, -that Walberg gave one of those proofs of sudden and fearful violence of -temper, bordering on insanity, which he had betrayed latterly. He seemed -to notice, with sullen displeasure, that his wife had (as she always -did) reserved the largest portion for his father. He eyed it askance at -first, muttering angrily to himself. Then he spoke more aloud, though -not so as to be heard by the deaf old man, who was sluggishly devouring -his sordid meal. Then the sufferings of his children seemed to inspire -him with a kind of wild resentment, and he started up, exclaiming, “My -son sells his blood to a surgeon, to save us from perishing(2)! My -daughter trembles on the verge of prostitution, to procure us a meal!” -Then fiercely addressing his father, “And what dost thou do, old dotard? -Rise up,--rise up, and beg for us thyself, or thou must starve!”--and, -as he spoke, he raised his arm against the helpless old man. At this -horrid sight, Ines shrieked aloud, and the children, rushing forward, -interposed. The wretched father, incensed to madness, dealt blows among -them, which were borne without a murmur; and then, the storm being -exhausted, he sat down and wept. - - (2) Fact,--it occurred in a French family not many years ago. - -“At this moment, to the astonishment and terror of all except Walberg, -the old man, who, since the night of his wife’s interment, had never -moved but from his chair to his bed, and that not without assistance, -rose suddenly from his seat, and, apparently in obedience to his son, -walked with a firm and steady pace towards the door. When he had reached -it, he paused, looked back on them with a fruitless effort at -recollection, and went out slowly;--and such was the terror felt by all -at this last ghastly look, which seemed like that of a corse moving on -to the place of its interment, that no one attempted to oppose his -passage, and several moments elapsed before Everhard had the -recollection to pursue him. - -“In the mean time, Ines had dismissed her children, and sitting as near -as she dared to the wretched father, attempted to address some soothing -expressions to him. Her voice, which was exquisitely sweet and soft, -seemed to produce a mechanical effect on him. He turned towards her at -first,--then leaning his head on his arm, he shed a few silent -tears,--then flinging it on his wife’s bosom, he wept aloud. Ines seized -this moment to impress on his heart the horror she felt from the outrage -he had committed, and adjured him to supplicate the mercy of God for a -crime, which, in her eyes, appeared scarce short of parricide. Walberg -wildly asked what she alluded to; and when, shuddering, she uttered the -words,--“Your father,--your poor old father!”--he smiled with an -expression of mysterious and supernatural confidence that froze her -blood, and, approaching her ear, softly whispered, “I have no father! He -is dead,--long dead! I buried him the night I dug my mother’s grave! -Poor old man,” he added with a sigh, “it was the better for him,--he -would have lived only to weep, and perish perhaps with hunger. But I -will tell you, Ines,--and let it be a secret, I wondered what made our -provisions decrease so, till what was yesterday sufficient for four, is -not to-day sufficient for one. I watched, and at last I discovered--it -must be a secret--an old goblin, who daily visited this house. It came -in the likeness of an old man in rags, and with a long white beard, and -it devoured every thing on the table, while the children stood hungry -by! But I struck at--I cursed it,--I chased it in the name of the -All-powerful, and it is gone. Oh it was a fell devouring goblin!--but -it will haunt us no more, and we shall have enough. Enough,” said -the wretched man, involuntarily returning to his habitual -associations,--“enough for to-morrow!” - -“Ines, overcome with horror at this obvious proof of insanity, neither -interrupted or opposed him; she attempted only to soothe him, internally -praying against the too probable disturbance of her own intellects. -Walberg saw her look of distrust, and, with the quick jealousy of -partial insanity, said, “If you do not credit me in that, still less, I -suppose, will you in the account of that fearful visitation with which I -have latterly been familiar.”--“Oh, my beloved!” said Ines, who -recognized in these words the source of a fear that had latterly, from -some extraordinary circumstances in her husband’s conduct, taken -possession of her soul, and made the fear even of famine trifling in -comparison,--“I dread lest I understand you too well. The anguish of -want and of famine I could have borne,--aye, and seen you bear, but the -horrid words you have lately uttered, the horrid thoughts that escape -you in your sleep,--when I think on these, and guess at”---- “You need -not guess,” said Walberg, interrupting her, “I will tell you all.” And, -as he spoke, his countenance changed from its expression of wildness to -one of perfect sanity and calm confidence,--his features relaxed, his -eye became steady, and his tone firm.--“Every night since our late -distresses, I have wandered out in search of some relief, and -supplicated every passing stranger;--latterly, I have met every night -the enemy of man, who”---- “Oh cease, my love, to indulge these horrible -thoughts,--they are the results of your disturbed unhappy state of -mind.”--“Ines, listen to me. I see that figure as plainly as I see -yours,--I hear his voice as distinctly as you hear mine this moment. -Want and misery are not naturally fertile in the production of -imagination,--they grasp at realities too closely. No man, who wants a -meal, conceives that a banquet is spread before him, and that the -tempter invites him to sit down and eat at his ease. No,--no, Ines, the -evil one, or some devoted agent of his in human form, besets me every -night,--and how I shall longer resist the snare, I know not.”--“And in -what form does he appear?” said Ines, hoping to turn the channel of his -gloomy thoughts, while she appeared to follow their direction. “In that -of a middle-aged man, of a serious and staid demeanour, and with nothing -remarkable in his aspect except the light of two burning eyes, whose -lustre is almost intolerable. He fixes them on me sometimes, and I feel -as if there was fascination in their glare. Every night he besets me, -and few like me could have resisted his seductions. He has offered, and -proved to me, that it is in his power to bestow all that human cupidity -could thirst for, on the condition that----I cannot utter! It is one so -full of horror and impiety, that, even to listen to it, is scarce less a -crime than to comply with it!” - -“Ines, still incredulous, yet imagining that to soothe his delirium -was perhaps the best way to overcome it, demanded what that condition -was. Though they were alone, Walberg would communicate it only in a -whisper; and Ines, fortified as she was by reason hitherto undisturbed, -and a cool and steady temper, could not but recollect some vague -reports she had heard in her early youth, before she quitted Spain, -of a being permitted to wander through it, with power to tempt men -under the pressure of extreme calamity with similar offers, which had -been invariably rejected, even in the last extremities of despair -and dissolution. She was not superstitious,--but, her memory now -taking part with her husband’s representation of what had befallen -him, she shuddered at the possibility of his being exposed to similar -temptation; and she endeavoured to fortify his mind and conscience, -by arguments equally appropriate whether he was the victim of a -disturbed imagination, or the real object of this fearful persecution. -She reminded him, that if, even in Spain, where the abominations of -Antichrist prevailed, and the triumph of the mother of witchcrafts -and spiritual seduction was complete, the fearful offer he alluded -to had been made and rejected with such unmitigated abhorrence, -the renunciation of one who had embraced the pure doctrines of the -gospel should be expressed with a tenfold energy of feeling and -holy defiance. “You,” said the heroic woman, “you first taught me -that the doctrines of salvation are to be found alone in the holy -scriptures,--I believed you, and wedded you in that belief. We are -united less in the body than in the soul, for in the body neither of -us may probably sojourn much longer. You pointed out to me, not the -legends of fabulous saints, but the lives of the primitive apostles -and martyrs of the true church. There I read no tales of “voluntary -humility,” of self-inflicted--fruitless sufferings, but I read that -the people of God were “destitute, afflicted, tormented.” And shall -we dare to murmur at following the examples of those you have pointed -out to me as ensamples of suffering? They bore the spoiling of their -goods,--they wandered about in sheep skins and goat skins,--they -resisted unto blood, striving against sin.--And shall we lament the -lot that has fallen to us, when our hearts have so often burned within -us, as we read the holy records together? Alas! what avails feeling -till it is brought to the test of fact? How we deceived ourselves, in -believing that we indeed participated in the feelings of those holy -men, while we were so far removed from the test by which they were -proved! We read of imprisonments, of tortures, and of flames!--We -closed the book, and partook of a comfortable meal, and retired to -a peaceful bed, triumphing in the thought, while saturated with all -the world’s good, that if their trials had been ours, we could have -sustained those trials as they did. Now, _our_ hour has come,--it is an -hour sharp and terrible!”--“It is!” murmured the shuddering husband. -“But shall we therefore shrink?” replied his wife. “Your ancestors, -who were the first in Germany that embraced the reformed religion, -have bled and blazed for it, as you have often told me,--can there be -a stronger attestation to it?”--“I believe there can,” said Walberg, -whose eyes rolled fearfully,--“that of starving for it!--Oh Ines,” -he exclaimed, as he grasped her hands convulsively, “I have felt,--I -still feel, that a death at the stake would be mercy compared to -the lingering tortures of protracted famine,--to the death that we -die daily--and yet do not die! What is this I hold?” he exclaimed, -grasping unconsciously the hand he held in his. “It is my hand, my -love,” answered the trembling wife.--“Yours!--no--impossible!--Your -fingers were soft and cool, but these are dry,--is this a human -hand?”--“It is mine,” said the weeping wife. “Then you must have been -famishing,” said Walberg, awakening as if from a dream. “We have all -been so latterly,” answered Ines, satisfied to restore her husband’s -sanity, even at the expense of this horrible confession,--“We have all -been so--but I have suffered the least. When a family is famishing, -the children think of their meals--but the mother thinks only of her -children. I have lived on as little as--I could,--I had indeed no -appetite.”--“Hush,” said Walberg, interrupting her--“what sound was -that?--was it not like a dying groan?”--“No--it is the children who -moan in their sleep.”--“What do they moan for?” “Hunger I believe,” -said Ines, involuntarily yielding to the dreadful conviction of -habitual misery.--“And I sit and hear this,” said Walberg, starting -up,--“I sit to hear their young sleep broken by dreams of hunger, -while for a word’s speaking I could pile this floor with mountains of -gold, and all for the risk of”---- “Of what?”--said Ines, clinging -to him,--“of what?--Oh! think of that!--what shall a man give in -exchange for his soul?--Oh! let us starve, die, rot before your eyes, -rather than you should seal your perdition by that horrible”---- “Hear -me, woman!” said Walberg, turning on her eyes almost as fierce and -lustrous as those of Melmoth, and whose light, indeed, seemed borrowed -from his; “Hear me!--My soul is lost! They who die in the agonies of -famine know no God, and want none--if I remain here to famish among -my children, I shall as surely blaspheme the Author of my being, as I -shall renounce him under the fearful conditions proposed to me!--Listen -to me, Ines, and tremble not. To see my children die of famine will -be to me instant suicide and impenitent despair! But if I close with -this fearful offer, I may yet repent,--I may yet escape!--There is -hope on one side--on the other there is none--none--none! Your hands -cling round me, but their touch is cold!--You are wasted to a shadow -with want! Shew me the means of procuring another meal, and I will spit -at the tempter, and spurn him!--But where is that to be found?--Let -me go, then, to meet him!--You will pray for me, Ines,--will you -not?--and the children?--No, let them not pray for me!--in my despair -I forgot to pray myself, and their prayers would now be a reproach to -me.--Ines!--Ines--What? am I talking to a corse?” He was indeed, for -the wretched wife had sunk at his feet senseless. “Thank God!” he again -emphatically exclaimed, as he beheld her lie to all appearance lifeless -before him. “Thank God a word then has killed her,--it was a gentler -death than famine! It would have been kind to have strangled her with -these hands! Now for the children!” he exclaimed, while horrid thoughts -chased each other over his reeling and unseated mind, and he imagined -he heard the roar of a sea in its full strength thundering in his -ears, and saw ten thousand waves dashing at his feet, and every wave -of blood. “Now for the children!”--and he felt about as if for some -implement of destruction. In doing so, his left hand crossed his right, -and grasping it, he exclaimed as if he felt a sword in his hand,--“This -will do--they will struggle--they will supplicate,--but I will tell -them their mother lies dead at my feet, and then what can they say? -Hold now,” said the miserable man, sitting calmly down, “If they cry to -me, what shall I answer? Julia, and Ines her mother’s namesake,--and -poor little Maurice, who smiles even amid hunger, and whose smiles are -worse than curses!--I will tell them their mother is dead!” he cried, -staggering towards the door of his childrens’ apartment--“Dead without -a blow!--that shall be their answer and their doom.” - -“As he spoke, he stumbled over the senseless body of his wife; and the -tone of his mind once more strung up to the highest pitch of conscious -agony, he cried, “Men!--men!--what are your pursuits and your -passions?--your hopes and fears?--your struggles and your -triumphs?--Look on me!--learn from a human being like yourselves, who -preaches his last and fearful sermon over the corse of his wife, and -approaching the bodies of his sleeping children, whom he soon hopes to -see corses also--corses made so by his own hand!--Let all the world -listen to me!--let them resign factitious wants and wishes, and furnish -those who hang on them for subsistence with the means of bare -subsistence!--There is no care, no thought beyond this! Let our children -call on me for instruction, for promotion, for distinction, and call in -vain--I hold myself innocent. They may find those for themselves, or -want them if they list--but let them never in vain call on me for bread, -as they have done,--as they do now! I hear the moans of their hungry -sleep!--World--world, be wise, and let your children curse you to your -face for any thing but want of bread! Oh that is the bitterest of -curses,--and it is felt most when it is least uttered! I have felt it -often, but I shall feel it no longer!”--And the wretch tottered towards -the beds of his children. - -“Father!--father!” cried Julia, “are these your hands? Oh let me live, -and I will do any thing--any thing but”---- “Father!--dear father!” -cried Ines, “spare us!--to-morrow may bring another meal!” Maurice, the -young child, sprung from his bed, and cried, clinging round his father, -“Oh, dear father, forgive me!--but I dreamed a wolf was in the room, and -was tearing out our throats; and, father, I cried so long, that I -thought you never would come. And now--Oh God! oh God!”--as he felt the -hands of the frantic wretch grasping his throat,--“are you the wolf?” - -“Fortunately those hands were powerless from the very convulsion of the -agony that prompted their desperate effort. The daughters had swooned -from horror,--and their swoon appeared like death. The child had the -cunning to counterfeit death also, and lay extended and stopping his -breath under the fierce but faultering gripe that seized his young -throat--then relinquished--then grasped it again--and then relaxed its -hold as at the expiration of a spasm. - -“When all was over, as the wretched father thought, he retreated from -the chamber. In doing so, he stumbled over the corse-like form of his -wife.--A groan announced that the sufferer was not dead. “What does this -mean?” said Walberg, staggering in his delirium,--“does the corse -reproach me for murder?--or does one surviving breath curse me for the -unfinished work?” - -“As he spoke, he placed his foot on his wife’s body. At this moment, a -loud knock was heard at the door. “They are come!” said Walberg, whose -frenzy hurried him rapidly through the scenes of an imaginary murder, -and the consequence of a judicial process. “Well!--come in--knock again, -or lift the latch--or enter as ye list--here I sit amid the bodies of my -wife and children--I have murdered them--I confess it--ye come to drag -me to torture, I know--but never--never can your tortures inflict on me -more than the agony of seeing them perish by hunger before my eyes. Come -in--come in--the deed is done!--The corse of my wife is at my foot, and -the blood of my children is on my hands--what have I further to fear?” -But while the wretched man spoke thus, he sunk sullenly on his chair, -appearing to be employed in wiping from his fingers the traces of blood -with which he imagined they were stained. At length the knocking at the -door became louder,--the latch was lifted,--and three figures entered -the apartment in which Walberg sat. They advanced slowly,--two from age -and exhaustion,--and the third from strong emotion. Walberg heeded them -not,--his eyes were fixed,--his hands locked in each other;--nor did he -move a limb as they approached. - -“Do you not know us?” said the foremost, holding up a lanthern which he -held in his hand. Its light fell on a groupe worthy the pencil of a -Rembrandt. The room lay in complete darkness, except where that strong -and unbroken light fell. It glared on the rigid and moveless obduracy of -Walberg’s despair, who appeared stiffening into stone as he sat. It -showed the figure of the friendly priest who had been Guzman’s director, -and whose features, pale and haggard with age and austerities, seemed to -struggle with the smile that trembled over their wrinkled lines. Behind -him stood the aged father of Walberg, with an aspect of perfect apathy, -except when, with a momentary effort at recollection, he shook his white -head, seeming to ask himself why he was there--and wherefore he could -not speak. Supporting him stood the young form of Everhard, over whose -cheek and eye wandered a glow and a lustre too bright to last, and -instantly succeeded by paleness and dejection. He trembled, -advanced,--then shrinking back, clung to his infirm grandfather, as if -needing the support he appeared to give. Walberg was the first to break -the silence. “I know ye who ye are,” he said hollowly--“ye are come to -seize me--ye have heard my confession--why do you delay? Drag me away--I -would rise and follow you if I could, but I feel as if I had grown to -this seat--you must drag me from it yourselves.” - -“As he spoke, his wife, who had remained stretched at his feet, rose -slowly but firmly; and, of all that she saw or heard, appearing to -comprehend only the meaning of her husband’s words, she clasped her arms -round him, as if to oppose his being torn from her, and gazed on the -groupe with a look of impotent and ghastly defiance. “Another witness,” -cried Walberg, “risen from the dead against me? Nay, then, it is time to -be gone,”--and he attempted to rise. “Stay, father,” said Everhard, -rushing forward and detaining him in his seat; “stay,--there is good -news, and this good priest has come to tell it,--listen to him, father, -I cannot speak.”--“You! oh you! Everhard,” answered the father, with a -look of mournful reproach, “you a witness against me too,--I never -raised my hand against you!--Those whom I murdered are silent, and will -you be my accuser?” - -“They all now gathered round him, partly in terror and partly in -consolation,--all anxious to disclose to him the tidings with which -their hearts were burdened, yet fearful lest the freight might be too -much for the frail vessel that rocked and reeled before them, as if the -next breeze would be like a tempest to it. At last it burst forth from -the priest, who, by the necessities of his profession, was ignorant of -domestic feelings, and of the felicities and agonies which are -inseparably twined with the fibres of conjugal and parental hearts. He -knew nothing of what Walberg might feel as a husband or father,--for he -could never be either; but he felt that good news must be good news, -into whatever ears they were poured, or by whatever lips they might be -uttered. “We have the will,” he cried abruptly, “the true will of -Guzman. The other was--asking pardon of God and the saints for saying -so--no better than a forgery. The will is found, and you and your family -are heirs to all his wealth. I was coming to acquaint you, late as it -was, having with difficulty obtained the Superior’s permission to do so, -and in my way I met this old man, whom your son was conducting,--how -came he out so late?” At these words Walberg was observed to shudder -with a brief but strong spasm. “The will is found!” repeated the priest, -perceiving how little effect the words seemed to have on Walberg,--and -he raised his voice to its utmost pitch. “The will of my uncle is -found,” repeated Everhard. “Found,--found,--found!” echoed the aged -grandfather, not knowing what he said, but vaguely repeating the last -words he heard, and then looking round as if asking for an explanation -of them. “The will is found, love,” cried Ines, who appeared restored to -sudden and perfect consciousness by the sound; “Do you not hear, love? -We are wealthy,--we are happy! Speak to us, love, and do not stare so -vacantly,--speak to us!” A long pause followed. At length,--“Who are -those?” said Walberg in a hollow voice, pointing to the figures before -him, whom he viewed with a fixed and ghastly look, as if he was gazing -on a band of spectres. “Your son, love,--and your father,--and the good -friendly priest. Why do you look so doubtfully on us?”--“And what do -they come for?” said Walberg. Again and again the import of their -communication was told him, in tones that, trembling with varied -emotion, scarce could express their meaning. At length he seemed faintly -conscious of what was said, and, looking round on them, uttered a long -and heavy sigh. They ceased to speak, and watched him in -silence.--“Wealth!--wealth!--it comes too late. Look there,--look -there!” and he pointed to the room where his children lay. - -“Ines, with a dreadful presentiment at her heart, rushed into it, and -beheld her daughters lying apparently lifeless. The shriek she uttered, -as she fell on the bodies, brought the priest and her son to her -assistance, and Walberg and the old man were left together alone, -viewing each other with looks of complete insensibility; and this apathy -of age, and stupefaction of despair, made a singular contrast with the -fierce and wild agony of those who still retained their feelings. It was -long before the daughters were recovered from their death-like swoon, -and still longer before their father could be persuaded that the arms -that clasped him, and the tears that fell on his cold cheek, were those -of his living children. - -“All that night his wife and family struggled with his despair. At last -recollection seemed to burst on him at once. He shed some tears;--then, -with a minuteness of reminiscence that was equally singular and -affecting, he flung himself before the old man, who, speechless and -exhausted, sat passively in his chair, and exclaiming, “Father, forgive -me!” buried his head between his father’s knees. * * * * * - -“Happiness is a powerful restorative,--in a few days the spirits of all -appeared to have subsided into a calm. They wept sometimes, but their -tears were no longer painful;--they resembled those showers in a fine -spring morning, which announce the increasing warmth and beauty of the -day. The infirmities of Walberg’s father made the son resolve not to -leave Spain till his dissolution, which took place in a few months. He -died in peace, blessing and blessed. His son was his only spiritual -attendant, and a brief and partial interval of recollection enabled him -to understand and express his joy and confidence in the holy texts which -were read to him from the scriptures. The wealth of the family had now -given them importance; and, by the interest of the friendly priest, the -body was permitted to be interred in consecrated ground. The family then -set out for Germany, where they reside in prosperous felicity;--but to -this hour Walberg shudders with horror when he recals the fearful -temptations of the stranger, whom he met in his nightly wanderings in -the hour of his adversity, and the horrors of this visitation appear to -oppress his recollection more than even the images of his family -perishing with want. - -“There are other narratives,” continued the stranger, “relating to this -mysterious being, which I am in possession of, and which I have -collected with much difficulty; for the unhappy, who are exposed to his -temptations, consider their misfortunes as a crime, and conceal, with -the most anxious secresy, every circumstance of this horrible -visitation. Should we again meet, Senhor, I may communicate them to you, -and you will find them no less extraordinary than that I have just -related. But it is now late, and you need repose after the fatigue of -your journey.”--So saying, the stranger departed. - - * * * * * - -“Don Francisco remained seated in his chair, musing on the singular tale -he had listened to, till the lateness of the hour, combining with his -fatigue, and the profound attention he had paid to the narrative of the -stranger, plunged him insensibly into a deep slumber. He was awoke in a -few minutes by a slight noise in the room, and looking up perceived -seated opposite to him another person, whom he never recollected to have -seen before, but who was indeed the same who had been refused admittance -under the roof of that house the preceding day. He appeared seated -perfectly at his ease, however; and to Don Francisco’s look of surprise -and inquiry, replied that he was a traveller, who had been by mistake -shown into that apartment,--that finding its occupant asleep and -undisturbed by his entrance, he had taken the liberty of remaining -there, but was willing to retire if his presence was considered -intrusive. - -“As he spoke, Don Francisco had leisure to observe him. There was -something remarkable in his expression, though the observer did not find -it easy to define what it was; and his manner, though not courtly or -conciliating, had an ease which appeared more the result of independence -of thought, than of the acquired habitudes of society. - -“Don Francisco welcomed him gravely and slowly, not without a sensation -of awe for which he could scarcely account;--and the stranger returned -the salutation in a manner that was not likely to diminish that -impression. A long silence followed. The stranger (who did not announce -his name) was the first to break it, by apologizing for having, while -seated in an adjacent apartment, involuntarily overheard an -extraordinary tale or narrative related to Don Francisco, in which he -confessed he took a profound interest, such as (he added, bowing with an -air of grim and reluctant civility) would, he trusted, palliate his -impropriety in listening to a communication not addressed to him. - -“To all this Don Francisco could only reply by bows equally rigid, (his -body scarce forming an acute angle with his limbs as he sat), and by -looks of uneasy and doubtful curiosity directed towards his strange -visitor, who, however, kept his seat immoveably, and seemed, after all -his apologies, resolved to sit out Don Francisco. - -“Another long pause was broken by the visitor. “You were listening, I -think,” he said, “to a wild and terrible story of a being who was -commissioned on an unutterable errand,--even to tempt spirits in woe, at -their last mortal extremity, to barter their hopes of future happiness -for a short remission of their temporary sufferings.”--“I heard nothing -of that,” said Don Francisco, whose recollection, none of the clearest -naturally, was not much improved by the length of the narrative he had -just listened to, and by the sleep into which he had fallen since he -heard it. “Nothing?” said the visitor, with something of abruptness and -asperity in his tone that made the hearer start--“nothing?--I thought -there was mention too of that unhappy being to whom Walberg confessed -his severest trials were owing,--in comparison with whose fearful -visitations those of even famine were as dust in the balance.”--“Yes, -yes,” answered Don Francisco, startled into sudden recollection, “I -remember there was a mention of the devil,--or his agent,--or -something”---- “Senhor,” said the stranger interrupting him, with an -expression of wild and fierce derision, which was lost on -Aliaga--“Senhor, I beg you will not confound personages who have the -honour to be so nearly allied, and yet so perfectly distinct as the -devil and his agent, or agents. You yourself, Senhor, who, of course, as -an orthodox and inveterate Catholic, must abhor the enemy of mankind, -have often acted as his agent, and yet would be somewhat offended at -being mistaken for him.” Don Francisco crossed himself repeatedly, and -devoutly disavowed his ever having been an agent of the enemy of man. -“Will you dare to say so?” said his singular visitor, not raising his -voice as the insolence of the question seemed to require, but depressing -it to the lowest whisper as he drew his seat nearer his astonished -companion--“Will you dare to say so?--Have you never erred?--Have you -never felt one impure sensation?--Have you never indulged a transient -feeling of hatred, or malice, or revenge?--Have you never forgot to do -the good you ought to do,--or remembered to do the evil you ought not to -have done?--Have you never in trade overreached a dealer, or banquetted -on the spoils of your starving debtor?--Have you never, as you went to -your daily devotions, cursed from your heart the wanderings of your -heretical brethren,--and while you dipped your fingers in the holy -water, hoped that every drop that touched your pores, would be visited -on them in drops of brimstone and sulphur?--Have you never, as you -beheld the famished, illiterate, degraded populace of your country, -exulted in the wretched and temporary superiority your wealth has given -you,--and felt that the wheels of your carriage would not roll less -smoothly if the way was paved with the heads of your countrymen? -Orthodox Catholic--old Christian--as you boast yourself to be,--is not -this true?--and dare you say you have not been an agent of Satan? I tell -you, whenever you indulged one brutal passion, one sordid desire, one -impure imagination--whenever you uttered one word that wrung the heart, -or embittered the spirit of your fellow-creature--whenever you made that -hour pass in pain to whose flight you might have lent wings of -down--whenever you have seen the tear, which your hand might have wiped -away, fall uncaught, or forced it from an eye which would have smiled on -you in light had you permitted it--whenever you have done this, you have -been ten times more an agent of the enemy of man than all the wretches -whom terror, enfeebled nerves, or visionary credulity, has forced into -the confession of an incredible compact with the author of evil, and -whose confession has consigned them to flames much more substantial than -those the imagination of their persecutors pictured them doomed to for -an eternity of suffering! Enemy of mankind!” the speaker -continued,--“Alas! how absurdly is that title bestowed on the great -angelic chief,--the morning star fallen from its sphere! What enemy has -man so deadly as himself? If he would ask on whom he should bestow that -title aright, let him smite his bosom, and his heart will -answer,--Bestow it here!” - -“The emotion with which the stranger spoke, roused and affected even the -sluggish and incrusted spirit of the listener. His conscience, like a -state coach-horse, had hitherto only been brought on solemn and pompous -occasions, and then paced heavily along a smooth and well-prepared -course, under the gorgeous trappings of ceremony;--now it resembled the -same animal suddenly bestrid by a fierce and vigorous rider, and urged -by lash and spur along a new and rugged road. And slow and reluctant as -he was to own it, he felt the power of the weight that pressed, and the -bit that galled him. He answered by a hasty and trembling renunciation -of all engagements, direct or indirect, with the evil power; but he -added, that he must acknowledge he had been too often the victim of his -seductions, and trusted for the forgiveness of his wanderings to the -power of the holy church, and the intercession of the saints. - -“The stranger (though he smiled somewhat grimly at this declaration) -seemed to accept the concession, and apologized, in his turn, for the -warmth with which he had spoken; and which he begged Don Francisco would -interpret as a mark of interest in his spiritual concerns. This -explanation, though it seemed to commence favourably, was not followed, -however, by any attempt at renewed conversation. The parties appeared to -stand aloof from each other, till the stranger again alluded to his -having overheard the singular conversation and subsequent narrative in -Aliaga’s apartment. “Senhor,” he added, in a voice whose solemnity -deeply impressed the hearer, wearied as he was,--“I am acquainted with -circumstances relating to the extraordinary person who was the daily -watcher of Walberg’s miseries, and the nightly tempter of his -thoughts,--known but to him and me. Indeed I may add, without the -imputation of vanity or presumption, that I am as well acquainted as -himself with every event of his extraordinary existence; and that your -curiosity, if excited at all about him, could be gratified by none so -amply and faithfully as by myself.”--“I thank you, Senhor,” answered Don -Francisco, whose blood seemed congealing in his veins at the voice and -expression of the stranger, he knew not why--“I thank you, but my -curiosity has been completely satisfied by the narrative I have already -listened to. The night is far spent, and I have to pursue my journey -to-morrow; I will therefore defer hearing the particulars you offer to -gratify me with till our next meeting.” - -“As he spoke, he rose from his seat, hoping that this action would -intimate to the intruder, that his presence was no longer desirable. The -latter continued, in spite of the intimation, fixed in his seat. At -length, starting as if from a trance, he exclaimed, “When shall our next -meeting be?” - -“Don Francisco, who did not feel particularly anxious to renew the -intimacy, slightly mentioned, that he was on his journey to the -neighbourhood of Madrid, where his family, whom he had not seen for many -years, resided--that the stages of his journey were uncertain, as he -would be obliged to wait for communications from a friend and future -relative,--(he alluded to Montilla his intended son-in-law, and as he -spoke, the stranger gave a peculiar smile),--and also from certain -mercantile correspondents, whose letters were of the utmost importance. -Finally, he added, in a disturbed tone, (for the awe of the stranger’s -presence hung round him like a chilling atmosphere, and seemed to freeze -even his words as they issued from his mouth), he could -not--easily--tell when he might again have the honour of meeting the -stranger. “You cannot,” said the stranger, rising and drawing his mantle -over one shoulder, while his reverted eyes glanced fearfully on the pale -auditor--“You cannot,--but I can. Don Francisco di Aliaga, we shall meet -to-morrow night!” - -“As he spoke, he still continued to stand near the door, fixing on -Aliaga eyes whose light seemed to burn more intensely amid the dimness -of the wretched apartment. Aliaga had risen also, and was gazing on his -strange visitor with dim and troubled vision,--when the latter, suddenly -retreating from the door, approached him and said, in a stifled and -mysterious whisper, “Would you wish to witness the fate of those whose -curiosity or presumption breaks on the secrets of that mysterious being, -and dares to touch the folds of the veil in which his destiny has been -enshrouded by eternity? If you do, look here!” And as he spoke, he -pointed to a door which Don Francisco well remembered to be that which -the person whom he had met at the inn the preceding evening, and who had -related to him the tale of Guzman’s family, (or rather relatives), had -retired by. Obeying mechanically the waving of the arm, and the -beckoning of the stranger’s awful eye, rather than the impulse of his -own will, Aliaga followed him. They entered the apartment; it was -narrow, and dark, and empty. The stranger held a candle aloft, whose dim -light fell on a wretched bed, where lay what had been the form of a -living man within a few hours. “Look there!” said the stranger; and -Aliaga with horror beheld the figure of the being who had been -conversing with him the preceding part of that very evening,--extended a -corse! - -“Advance--look--observe!” said the stranger, tearing off the sheet which -had been the only covering of the sleeper who had now sunk into the long -and last slumber--“There is no mark of violence, no distortion of -feature, or convulsion of limb--no hand of man was on him. He sought the -possession of a desperate secret--he obtained it, but he paid for it the -dreadful price that can be paid but once by mortals. So perish those -whose presumption exceeds their power!” - -“Aliaga, as he beheld the body, and heard the words of the stranger, -felt himself disposed to summon the inmates of the house, and accuse the -stranger of murder; but the natural cowardice of a mercantile spirit, -mingled with other feelings which he could not analyse, and dared not -own, withheld him,--and he continued to gaze alternately on the corse -and the corse-like stranger. The latter, after pointing emphatically to -the body, as if intimating the danger of imprudent curiosity, or -unavailing disclosure, repeated the words, “We meet again to-morrow -night!” and departed. - -“Aliaga, overcome by fatigue and emotion, sunk down by the corse, and -remained in that trance-like state till the servants of the inn entered -the room. They were shocked to find a dead body in the bed, and scarce -less shocked at the death-like state in which they found Aliaga. His -known wealth and distinction procured for him those attentions which -otherwise their terrors or their suspicions might have withheld. A sheet -was cast over the body, and Aliaga was conveyed to another apartment, -and attended sedulously by the domestics. - -“In the mean time, the Alcaide arrived; and having learned that the -person who had died suddenly in the inn was one totally unknown, as -being only a writer, and a man of no importance in public or private -life, and that the person found near his bed in a passive stupor was a -wealthy merchant,--snatched, with some trepidation, the pen from the -ink-horn which hung at his button-hole, and sketched the record of this -sapient inquest:---- “That a guest had died in the house, none could -deny; but no one could suspect Don Francisco di Aliaga of murder.” - -“As Don Francisco mounted his mule the following day, on the strength of -this just verdict, a person, who did not apparently belong to the house, -was particularly solicitous in adjusting his stirrups, &c.; and while -the obsequious Alcaide bowed oft and profoundly to the wealthy merchant, -(whose liberality he had amply experienced for the favourable colour he -had given to the strong circumstantial evidence against him), this -person whispered, in a voice that reached only the ears of Don -Francisco, “We meet to-night!” - -“Don Francisco checked his mule as he heard the words. He looked round -him--the speaker was gone. Don Francisco rode on with a feeling known to -few, and which those who have felt are perhaps the least willing to -communicate. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - Χαλεπον δε το φιλησαι· - χαλεπον το μη φιλησαι· - χαλεπωτερον δε παντων - αποτυγχανειν φιλουντα. - - -“Don Francisco rode on most of that day. The weather was mild, and his -servants holding occasionally large umbrellas over him as he rode, -rendered travelling supportable. In consequence of his long absence from -Spain, he was wholly unacquainted with his route, and obliged to depend -on a guide; and the fidelity of a Spanish guide being as proverbial and -trust-worthy as Punic faith, towards evening Don Francisco found himself -just where the Princess Micomicona, in the romance of his countryman, is -said to have discovered Don Quixote,--“amid a labyrinth of rocks.” He -immediately dispatched his attendants in various directions, to discover -the track they were to pursue. The guide gallopped after as fast as his -wearied mule could go, and Don Francisco, looking round, after a long -delay on the part of his attendants, found himself completely alone. -Neither the weather nor the prospect was calculated to raise his -spirits. The evening was very misty, unlike the brief and brilliant -twilight that precedes the nights of the favoured climates of the south. -Heavy showers fell from time to time,--not incessant, but seeming like -the discharge of passing clouds, that were instantly succeeded by -others. Those clouds gathered blacker and deeper every moment, and hung -in fantastic wreaths over the stony mountains that formed a gloomy -perspective to the eye of the traveller. As the mists wandered over -them, they seemed to rise and fade, and shift their shapes and their -stations like the hills of Ubeda(3), as indistinct in form and as dim in -hue, as the atmospheric illusions which in that dreary and deceptive -light sometimes gave them the appearance of primeval mountains, and -sometimes that of fleecy and baseless clouds. - - (3) Vied Cervantes, spud Don Quixote DE Collins Obed. - -“Don Francisco at first dropt the reins on his mule’s neck, and uttered -sundry ejaculations to the Virgin. Finding this did no good,--that the -hills still seemed to wander before his bewildered eyes, and the mule, -on the other hand, remained immoveable, he bethought himself of calling -on a variety of saints, whose names the echoes of the hills returned -with the most perfect punctuality, but not one of whom happened just -then to be at leisure to attend to his petitions. Finding the case thus -desperate, Don Francisco struck spurs into his mule, and gallopped up a -rocky defile, where the hoofs of his beast struck fire at every step, -and their echo from the rocks of granite made the rider tremble, lest he -was pursued by banditti at every step he took. The mule, so provoked, -gallopped fiercely on, till the rider, weary as he was, and somewhat -incommoded by its speed, drew up the reins more tightly, at hearing the -steps of another rider close behind him. The mule paused instantly. Some -say that animals have a kind of instinct in discovering and recognizing -the approach of beings not of this world. However that may be, Don -Francisco’s mule stood as if its feet had been nailed to the road, till -the approach of the traveller set it once more into a gallop, on which, -as it appeared, the gallop of the pursuer, whose course seemed fleeter -than that of an earthly rider, gained fast, and in a few moments a -singular figure rode close beside Don Francisco. - -“He was not in a riding dress, but muffled from head to foot in a long -cloke, whose folds were so ample as almost to hide the flanks of his -beast. As soon as he was abreast with Aliaga, he removed that part of -the cloke which covered his head and shoulders, and, turning towards -him, disclosed the unwelcome countenance of his mysterious visitor the -preceding night. “We meet again, Senhor,” said the stranger, with his -peculiar smile, “and fortunately for you, I trust. Your guide has ridden -off with the money you advanced him for his services, and your servants -are ignorant of the roads, which, in this part of the country, are -singularly perplexed. If you will accept of me as your guide, you will, -I believe, have reason to congratulate yourself on our encounter.” - -“Don Francisco, who felt that no choice was left, acquiesced in silence, -and rode on, not without reluctance, by the side of his strange -companion. The silence was at length broken, by the stranger’s pointing -out the village at which Aliaga proposed to pass the night, at no very -great distance, and at the same time noticing the approaching of his -servants, who were returning to their master, after having made a -similar discovery. These circumstances contributing to restore Aliaga’s -courage, he proceeded with some degree of confidence, and even began to -listen with interest to the conversation of the stranger; particularly -as he observed, that though the village was near, the windings of the -road were likely to retard their arrival for some hours. The interest -which had thus been excited, the stranger seemed resolved to improve to -the uttermost. He rapidly unfolded the stores of his rich and copiously -furnished mind; and, by skilfully blending his displays of general -knowledge with particular references to the oriental countries where -Aliaga had resided, their commerce, their customs, and their manners, -and with a perfect acquaintance with the most minute topics of -mercantile discourse,--he so far conciliated his fellow-traveller, that -the journey, begun in terror, ended in delight, and Aliaga heard with a -kind of pleasure, (not however unmixed with awful reminiscences), the -stranger announce his intention of passing the night at the same inn. - -“During the supper, the stranger redoubled his efforts, and confirmed -his success. He was indeed a man who could please when he pleased, and -whom. His powerful intellects, extensive knowledge, and accurate memory, -qualified him to render the hour of companionship delightful to all whom -genius could interest, or information amuse. He possessed a fund of -anecdotical history, and, from the fidelity of his paintings, always -appeared himself to have been an agent in the scenes he described. This -night, too, that the attractions of his conversation might want no -charm, and have no shade, he watchfully forbore those bursts of -passion,--those fierce explosions of misanthropy and malediction, and -that bitter and burning irony with which, at other times, he seemed to -delight to interrupt himself and confound his hearer. - -“The evening thus passed pleasurably; and it was not till supper was -removed, and the lamp placed on the table beside which the stranger and -he were seated alone, that the ghastly scene of the preceding night rose -like a vision before the eyes of Aliaga. He thought he saw the corse -lying in a corner of the room, and waving its dead hand, as if to beckon -him away from the society of the stranger. The vision passed away,--he -looked up,--they were alone. It was with the utmost effort of his mixed -politeness and fear, that he prepared himself to listen to the tale -which the stranger had frequently, amid their miscellaneous -conversation, alluded to, and showed an evident anxiety to relate. - -“These allusions were attended with unpleasant reminiscences to the -hearer,--but he saw that it was to be, and armed himself as he might -with courage to hear. “I would not intrude on you, Senhor,” said the -stranger, with an air of grave interest which Aliaga had never seen him -assume before--“I would not intrude on you with a narrative in which you -can feel but little interest, were I not conscious that its relation may -operate as a warning the most awful, salutary, and efficacious to -yourself.”--“Me!” exclaimed Don Francisco, revolting with all the horror -of an orthodox Catholic at the sound.--“Me!” he repeated, uttering a -dozen ejaculations to the saints, and making the sign of the cross twice -that number of times.--“Me!” he continued, discharging a whole volley of -fulmination against all those who, being entangled in the snares of -Satan, sought to draw others into them, whether in the shape of heresy, -witchcraft, or otherwise. It might be observed, however, that he laid -most stress on heresy, the latter evil, from the rigour of their -mythology, or other causes, which it were not unworthy philosophical -curiosity to inquire into, being almost unknown in Spain;--and he -uttered this protestation (which was doubtless very sincere) with such a -hostile and denunciatory tone, that Satan, if he was present, (as the -speaker half imagined), would have been almost justified in making -reprisals. Amid the assumed consequence which passion, whether natural -or artificial, always gives to a man of mediocrity, he felt himself -withering in the wild laugh of the stranger. “You,--you!” he exclaimed, -after a burst of sound that seemed rather like the convulsion of a -demoniac, than the mirth, however frantic, of a human being--“you!--oh, -there’s metal more attractive! Satan himself, however depraved, has a -better taste than to crunch such a withered scrap of orthodoxy as you -between his iron teeth. No!--the interest I alluded to as possible for -you to feel, refers to another one, for whom you ought to feel if -possible more than for yourself. Now, worthy Aliaga, your personal fears -being removed, sit and listen to my tale. You are sufficiently -acquainted, through the medium of commercial feelings, and the general -information which your habits have forced on you, with the history and -manners of those heretics who inhabit the country called England.” - -“Don Francisco, as a merchant, avouched his knowledge of their being -fair dealers, and wealthy liberal speculators in trade; but (crossing -himself frequently) he pronounced his utter detestation of them as -enemies to the holy church, and implored the stranger to believe that he -would rather renounce the most advantageous contract he had ever made -with them in the mercantile line, than be suspected of---- “I suspect -nothing,” said the stranger, interrupting him, with that smile that -spoke darker and bitterer things than the fiercest frown that ever -wrinkled the features of man.--“Interrupt me no more,--listen, as you -value the safety of a being of more value than all your race beside. You -are acquainted tolerably with the English history, and manners, and -habits; the latter events of their history are indeed in the mouths of -all Europe.” Aliaga was silent, and the stranger proceeded. - - - - -The Lovers’ Tale. - - -“In a part of that heretic country lies a portion of land they call -Shropshire, (“I have had dealings with Shrewsbury merchants,” said -Aliaga to himself, “they furnished goods, and paid bills with -distinguished punctuality,”)--there stood Mortimer Castle, the seat of a -family who boasted of their descent from the age of the Norman -Conqueror, and had never mortgaged an acre, or cut down a tree, or -lowered a banner on their towers at the approach of a foe, for five -hundred years. Mortimer castle had held out during the wars of Stephen -and Matilda,--it had even defied the powers that summoned it to -capitulation alternately, (about once a week), during the struggle -between the houses of York and Lancaster,--it had also disdained the -summons of Richard and Richmond, as their successive blasts shook its -battlements, while the armies of the respective leaders advanced to the -field of Bosworth. The Mortimer family, in fact, by their power, their -extensive influence, their immense wealth, and the independency of their -spirit, had rendered themselves formidable to every party, and superior -to all. - -“At the time of the Reformation, Sir Roger Mortimer, the descendant of -this powerful family, vigorously espoused the cause of the Reformers; -and when the nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood sent their usual -dole, at Christmas, of beef and ale to their tenants, Sir Roger, with -his chaplain attending him, went about from cottage to cottage, -distributing Bibles in English, of the edition printed by Tyndal in -Holland. But his loyalism prevailed so far, that he circulated along -with them the uncouth print, cut out of his own copy, of the King (Henry -VIII.) dispensing copies of the Bible from both hands, which the people, -as represented in the engraving, caught at with theirs, and seemed to -devour as the word of life, almost before it could reach them. - -“In the short reign of Edward, the family was protected and cherished; -and the godly Sir Edmund, son and successor to Sir Roger, had the Bible -laid open in his hall window, that while his domestics passed on their -errands, as he expressed himself,--“he that runs may read.” In that of -Mary, they were oppressed, confiscated, and menaced. Two of their -servants were burned at Shrewsbury; and it was said that nothing but a -large sum, advanced to defray the expences of the entertainments made at -Court on the arrival of Philip of Spain, saved the godly Sir Edmund from -the same fate. - -“Sir Edmund, to whatever cause he owed his safety, did not enjoy it -long. He had seen his faithful and ancient servants brought to the -stake, for the opinions he had taught them,--he had attended them in -person to the awful spot, and seen the Bibles he had attempted to place -in their hands flung into the flames, as they were kindled round -them,--he had turned with tottering steps from the scene, but the crowd, -in the triumph of their barbarity, gathered round, and kept him close, -so that he not only involuntarily witnessed the whole spectacle, but -felt the very heat of the flames that were consuming the bodies of the -sufferers. Sir Edmund returned to Mortimer Castle, and died. - -“His successor, during the reign of Elizabeth, stoutly defended the -rights of the Reformers, and sometimes grumbled at those of prerogative. -These grumblings were said to have cost him dear--the court of purveyors -charged him £.3000, an enormous sum in those days, for an expected visit -of the Queen and her court--a visit which was never paid. The money was, -however, paid; and it was said that Sir Orlan de Mortimer raised part of -the money by disposing of his falcons, the best in England, to the Earl -of Leicester, the _then_ favourite of the Queen. At all events, there -was a tradition in the family, that when, on his last ride through his -territorial demesne, Sir Orlando saw his favourite remaining bird fly -from the falconer’s hand, and break her jesses, he exclaimed, “Let her -fly; she knows the way to my lord of Leicester’s.” - -“During the reign of James, the Mortimer family took a more decided -part. The influence of the Puritans (whom James hated with a hatred -passing that of even a controversialist, and remembered with pardonable -filial resentment, as the inveterate enemies of his ill-fated mother) -was now increasing every hour. Sir Arthur Mortimer was standing by King -James at the first representation of “Bartholomew Fair,” written by Ben -Jonson, when the prologue uttered these words(4): - - “Your Majesty is welcome to a Fair; - Such place, such men, such language, and such ware, - You must expect--with these the _zealous noise_ - Of your land’s faction, scandalized at toys.” - - (4) Vide Jonson’s play, in which is introduced a Puritan preacher, a - _Banbury man_, named Zeal-of-the-land Busy. - -“My lord,” said the King, (for Sir Arthur was one of the lords of the -privy council), “how deem you by that?”--“Please your Majesty,” answered -Sir Arthur, “those Puritans, as I rode to London, cut off mine horse’s -tail, as they said the ribbons with which it was tied savoured too much -of the pride of the beast on which the scarlet whore sits. Pray God -their shears may never extend from the tails of horses to the heads of -kings!” And as he spoke with affectionate and ominous solicitude, he -happened to place his hand on the head of Prince Charles, (afterwards -Charles I.), who was sitting next his brother Henry, Prince of Wales, -and to whom Sir Arthur Mortimer had had the high honour to be sponsor, -as proxy for a sovereign prince. - -“The awful and troubled times which Sir Arthur had predicted soon -arrived, though he did not live to witness them. His son, Sir Roger -Mortimer, a man lofty alike in pride and in principle, and immoveable in -both,--an Arminian in creed, and an aristocrat in politics,--the zealous -friend of the misguided Laud, and the bosom-companion of the unfortunate -Strafford,--was among the first to urge King Charles to those -high-handed and impolitic measures, the result of which was so fatal. - -“When the war broke out between the King and the Parliament, Sir Roger -espoused the royal cause with heart and hand,--raised a large sum in -vain, to prevent the sale of the crown-jewels in Holland,--and led five -hundred of his tenants, armed at his own expence, to the battles of -Edge-hill and Marston-moor. - -“His wife was dead, but his sister, Mrs Ann Mortimer, a woman of -uncommon beauty, spirit, and dignity of character, and as firmly -attached as her brother to the cause of the court, of which she had been -once the most brilliant ornament, presided over his household, and by -her talents, courage, and promptitude, had been of considerable service -to the cause. - -“The time came, however, when valour and rank, and loyalty and beauty, -found all their efforts ineffectual; and of the five hundred brave men -that Sir Roger had led into the field to his sovereign’s aid, he brought -back thirty maimed and mutilated veterans to Mortimer Castle, on the -disastrous day that King Charles was persuaded to put himself into the -hands of the disaffected and mercenary Scots, who sold him for their -arrears of pay due by the Parliament. - -“The reign of rebellion soon commenced,--and Sir Roger, as a -distinguished loyalist, felt the severest scourge of its power. -Sequestrations and compositions,--fines for malignancy, and forced loans -for the support of a cause he detested,--drained the well-filled -coffers, and depressed the high spirit, of the aged loyalist. Domestic -inquietude was added to his other calamities. He had three -children.--His eldest son had fallen fighting in the King’s cause at the -battle of Newbury, leaving an infant daughter, then supposed the heiress -of immense wealth. His second son had embraced the Puritanic cause, and, -lapsing from error to error, married the daughter of an Independent, -whose creed he had adopted; and, according to the custom of those days, -fought all day at the head of his regiment, and preached and prayed to -them all night, in strict conformity with that verse in the psalms, -which served him alternately for his text and his battle-word--“Let the -praises of God be in their mouth, and a two-edged sword in their hands.” -This double exercise of the sword and the word, however, proved too much -for the strength of the saint-militant; and after having, during -Cromwell’s Irish campaign, vigorously headed the attack on Cloghan -Castle(5), the ancient seat of the O’Moores, princes of Leix,--and being -scalded through his buff-coat by a discharge of hot water from the -bartizan,--and then imprudently given the word of exhortation for an -hour and forty minutes to his soldiers, on the bare heath that -surrounded the castle, and under a drenching rain,--he died of a -pleurisy in three days, and left, like his brother, an infant daughter -who had remained in England, and had been educated by her mother. It was -said in the family, that this man had written the first lines of -Milton’s poem “on the new forcers of conscience under the Long -Parliament.” It is certain, at least, that when the fanatics who -surrounded his dying bed were lifting up their voices to sing a hymn, he -thundered with his last breath, - - “Because ye have thrown off your prelate lord, - And with stiff vows renounce his Liturgy, - To seize the widowed w--e pluralitie, - From them whose sin ye envied not, abhorr’d,” &c. - - (5) I have been an inmate in this castle for many months--it is still - inhabited by the venerable descendant of that ancient family. His son - is now High-Sheriff of the King’s county. Half the castle was battered - down by Oliver Cromwell’s forces, and rebuilt in the reign of Charles - the Second. The remains of the _castle_ are a tower of about forty - feet square, and five stories high, with a single spacious apartment - on each floor, and a narrow staircase communicating with each, and - reaching to the bartizan. A beautiful ash-plant, which I have often - admired, is now displaying its foliage between the stones of the - bartizan,--and how it got or grew there, heaven only knows. There it - is, however; and it is better to see it there than to feel the - discharge of hot water or molten lead from the apertures. - -“Sir Roger felt, though from different causes, pretty much the same -degree of emotion on the deaths of his two sons. He was fortified -against affliction at the death of the elder, from the consolation -afforded him by the cause in which he had fallen; and that in which the -apostate, as his father always called him, had perished, was an equal -preventive against his feeling any deep or bitter grief on his -dissolution. - -“When his eldest son fell in the royal cause, and his friends gathered -round him in officious condolence, the old loyalist replied, with a -spirit worthy of the proudest days of classic heroism, “It is not for my -dead son that I should weep, but for my living one.” His tears, however, -were flowing at that time for another cause. - -“His only daughter, during his absence, in spite of the vigilance of Mrs -Ann, had been seduced by some Puritan servants in a neighbouring family, -to hear an Independent preacher of the name of Sandal, who was then a -serjeant in Colonel Pride’s regiment, and who was preaching in a barn in -the neighbourhood, in the intervals of his military exercises. This man -was a natural orator, and a vehement enthusiast; and, with the license -of the day, that compromised between a pun and a text, and delighted in -the union of both, this serjeant-preacher had baptized himself by the name -of--“Thou-art-not-worthy-to-unloose-the-latchets-of-his-shoes,--_Sandal_.” - -“This was the text on which he preached, and his eloquence had such -effect on the daughter of Sir Roger Mortimer, that, forgetting the -dignity of her birth, and the loyalty of her family, she united her -destiny with this low-born man; and, believing herself to be suddenly -inspired from this felicitous conjunction, she actually out-preached two -female Quakers in a fortnight after their marriage, and wrote a letter -(very ill-spelled) to her father, in which she announced her intention -to “suffer affliction with the people of God,” and denounced his eternal -damnation, if he declined embracing the creed of her husband;--which -creed was changed the following week, on his hearing a sermon from the -celebrated Hugh Peters, and a month after, on hearing an itinerant -preacher of the Ranters or Antinomians, who was surrounded by a troop of -licentious, half-naked, drunken disciples, whose vociferations of--“We -are the naked truth,” completely silenced a fifth-monarchy man, who was -preaching from a tub on the other side of the road. To this preacher -Sandal was introduced, and being a man of violent passions, and -unsettled principles, he instantly embraced the opinions of the last -speaker, (dragging his wife along with him into every gulph of polemical -or political difficulty he plunged in), till he happened to hear another -preacher of the Cameronians, whose constant topic, whether of triumph or -of consolation, was the unavailing efforts made in the preceding reign, -to force the Episcopalian system down the throats of the Scots; and, in -default of a text, always repeated the words of Archy, jester to Charles -the First, who, on the first intimation of the reluctance of the Scots -to admit Episcopal jurisdiction, exclaimed to Archbishop Laud, “My Lord, -who is the fool now?”--for which he had his coat stripped over his head, -and was forbid the court. So Sandal vacillated between creed and creed, -between preacher and preacher, till he died, leaving his widow with one -son. Sir Roger announced to his widowed daughter, his determined purpose -never to see her more, but he promised his protection to her son, if -entrusted to his care. The widow was too poor to decline compliance with -the offer of her deserted father. - -“So in Mortimer Castle were, in their infancy, assembled the three -grandchildren, born under such various auspices and destinies. Margaret -Mortimer the heiress, a beautiful, intelligent, spirited girl, heiress -of all the pride, aristocratical principle, and possible wealth of the -family; Elinor Mortimer, the daughter of the Apostate, received rather -than admitted into the house, and educated in all the strictness of her -Independent family; and John Sandal, the son of the rejected daughter, -whom Sir Roger admitted into the Castle only on the condition of his -being engaged in the service of the royal family, banished and -persecuted as they were; and he renewed his correspondence with some -emigrant loyalists in Holland, for the establishment of his protegé, -whom he described, in language borrowed from the Puritan preachers, as -“a brand snatched from the burning.” - -“While matters were thus at the Castle, intelligence arrived of Monk’s -unexpected exertions in favour of the banished family. The result was as -rapid as it was auspicious. The Restoration took place within a few days -after, and the Mortimer family were then esteemed of so much -consequence, that an express, girthed from his waist to his shoulders, -was dispatched from London to announce the intelligence. He arrived when -Sir Roger, whose chaplain he had been compelled by the ruling party to -dismiss as a malignant, was reading prayers himself to his family. The -return and restoration of Charles the Second was announced. The old -loyalist rose from his knees, waved his cap, (which he had reverently -taken from his white head), and, suddenly changing his tone of -supplication for one of triumph, exclaimed, “Lord, now lettest thou thy -servant depart in peace, according to thy word, for mine eyes have seen -thy salvation!” As he spoke, the old man sunk on the cushion which Mrs -Ann had placed beneath his knees. His grandchildren rose from their -knees to assist him,--it was too late,--his spirit had parted in that -last exclamation. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - ------She sat, and thought - Of what a sailor suffers. - - COWPER. - - -“The intelligence that was the cause of old Sir Roger’s death, who might -be said to be conducted from this world to the next by a blessed -_euthanasia_, (a kind of passing with a light and lofty step from a -narrow entry to a spacious and glorious apartment, without ever feeling -he trod the dark and rugged threshold that lies between), was the signal -and pledge to this ancient family of the restitution of their faded -honours, and fast-declining possessions. Grants, reversals of fines, -restoration of land and chattels, and offers of pensions, and -provisions, and remunerations, and all that royal gratitude, in the -effervescence of its enthusiasm, could bestow, came showering on the -Mortimer family, as fast and faster than fines, confiscations, and -sequestrations, had poured on them in the reign of the usurper. In fact, -the language of King Charles to the Mortimers was like that of the -Eastern monarchs to their favourites,--“Ask what thou wilt, and it shall -be granted to thee, even to the half of my kingdom.” The Mortimers asked -only for their own,--and being thus more reasonable, both in their -expectations and demands, than most other applicants at that period, -they succeeded in obtaining what they required. - -“Thus Mrs Margaret Mortimer (so unmarried females were named at the date -of the narrative) was again acknowledged as the wealthy and noble -heiress of the Castle. Numerous invitations were sent to her to visit -the court, which, though recommended by letters from divers of the -court-ladies, who had been acquainted, traditionally at least, with her -family, and enforced by a letter from Catherine of Braganza, written by -her own hand, in which she acknowledged the obligations of the king to -the house of Mortimer, were steadily rejected by the high-minded heiress -of its honours and its spirit.--“From these towers,” said she to Mrs -Ann, “my grandfather led forth his vassals and tenants in aid of his -king,--to these towers he led what was left of them back, when the royal -cause seemed lost for ever. Here he lived and died for his -sovereign,--and here will I live and die. And I feel that I shall do -more effectual service to his Majesty, by residing on my estates, and -protecting my tenants, and repairing,”--she added with a smile,--“even -with my needle, the rents made in the banners of our house by many a -Puritan’s bullet, than if I flaunted it in Hyde-Park in my glass coach, -or masqueraded it all night in that of (6)St James’s, even though I were -sure to encounter the Duchess of Cleveland on one side, and Louise de -Querouaille on the other,--fitter place for them than me.”--And so -saying, Mrs Margaret Mortimer resumed her tapestry work. Mrs Ann looked -at her with an eye that spoke volumes,--and the tear that trembled in it -made the lines more legible. - - (6) See a comedy of Wycherly’s, entitled, “Love in a Wood, or St - James’s Park,” where the company are represented going there at night - in masks, and with torches. - -“After the decided refusal of Mrs Margaret Mortimer to go to London, the -family resumed their former ancestorial habits of stately regularity, -and decorous grandeur, such as became a magnificent and well-ordered -household, of which a noble maiden was the head and president. But this -regularity was without rigour, and this monotony without apathy--the -minds of these highly fated females were too familiar with trains of -lofty thinking, and images of noble deeds, to sink into vacancy, or feel -depression from solitude. I behold them,” said the stranger, “as I once -saw them, seated in a vast irregularly shaped apartment, wainscotted -with oak richly and quaintly carved, and as black as ebony--Mrs Ann -Mortimer, in a recess which terminated in an ancient casement window, -the upper panes of which were gorgeously emblazoned with the arms of the -Mortimers, and some legendary atchievements of the former heroes of the -family. A book she valued much(7) lay on her knee, on which she fixed -her eyes intently--the light that came through the casement chequering -its dark lettered pages with hues of such glorious and fantastic -colouring, that they resembled the leaves of some splendidly-illuminated -missal, with all its pomp of gold, and azure, and vermilion. - - (7) Taylor’s Book of Martyrs. - -“At a little distance sat her two grand-nieces, employed in work, and -relieving their attention to it by conversation, for which they had -ample materials. They spoke of the poor whom they had visited and -assisted,--of the rewards they had distributed among the industrious and -orderly,--and of the books which they were studying; and of which the -well-filled shelves of the library furnished them with copious and noble -stores. - -“Sir Roger had been a man of letters as well as of arms. He had been -often heard to say, that next to a well-stocked armoury in time of war, -was a well-stocked library in time of peace; and even in the midst of -his latter grievances and privations, he contrived every year to make an -addition to his own. - -“His grand-daughters, well instructed by him in the French and Latin -languages, had read Mezeray, Thuanus, and Sully. In English, they had -Froissart in the black-letter translation of Pynson, imprinted 1525. -Their poetry, exclusive of the classics, consisted chiefly of Waller, -Donne, and that constellation of writers that illuminated the drama in -the latter end of the reign of Elizabeth, and the commencement of that -of James,--Marlow, and Massinger, and Shirley, and Ford--_cum multis -aliis_. Fairfax’s translations had made them familiar with the -continental poets; and Sir Roger had consented to admit, among his -modern collection, the Latin poems (the only ones then published) of -Milton, for the sake of that _in Quintum Novembris_,--for Sir Roger, -next to the fanatics, held the Catholics in utter abomination.” - -“Then he will be damned to all eternity,” said Aliaga, “and that’s some -satisfaction.” - -“Thus their retirement was not inelegant, nor unaccompanied with those -delights at once soothing and elating, which arise from a judicious -mixture of useful occupation and literary tastes. - -“On all they read or conversed of, Mrs Ann Mortimer was a living -comment. Her conversation, rich in anecdote, and accurate to minuteness, -sometimes rising to the loftiest strains of eloquence, as she related -“deeds of the days of old,” and often borrowing the sublimity of -inspiration, as the reminiscences of religion softened and solemnized -the spirit with which she spake,--like the influence of time on fine -paintings, that consecrates the tints it mellows, and makes the colours -it has half obscured more precious to the eye of feeling and of taste, -than they were in the glow of their early beauty,--her conversation was -to her grand-nieces at once history and poetry. - -“The events of English history then not recorded, had a kind of -traditional history more vivid, if not so faithful as the records of -modern historians, in the memories of those who had been agents and -sufferers (the terms are probably synonimous) in those memorable -periods. - -“There was an entertainment then, banished by modern dissipation now, -but alluded to by the great poet of that nation, whom your orthodox and -undeniable creed justly devotes to eternal damnation. - - “In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire, - - * * * * * * - - ----------------and tell the tales - Of woful ages long ago betid; - And send the hearers weeping to their beds. - - * * * * * * - - We cited up a thousand heavy times.” - - * * * * * * - -“When memory thus becomes the depository of grief, how faithfully is the -charge kept!--and how much superior are the touches of one who paints -from the life, and the heart, and the senses,--to those of one who dips -his pen in his ink-stand, and casts his eye on a heap of musty -parchments, to glean his facts or his feelings from them! Mrs Ann -Mortimer had much to tell,--and she told it well. If history was the -subject, she could relate the events of the civil wars--events which -resembled indeed those of all civil wars, but which derived a peculiar -strength of character, and brilliancy of colouring, from the hand by -which they were sketched. She told of the time when she rode behind her -brother, Sir Roger, to meet the King at Shrewsbury; and she almost -echoed the shout uttered in the streets of that loyal city, when the -University of Oxford sent in its plate to be coined for the exigences of -the royal cause. She told also, with grave humour, the anecdote of Queen -Henrietta making her escape with some difficulty from a house on -fire,--and, when her life was scarce secure from the flames that -consumed it, rushing back among them--to save her lap-dog! - -“But of all her historical anecdotes, Mrs Ann valued most what she had -to relate of her own family. On the virtue and valour of her brother Sir -Roger, she dwelt with an unction whose balm imparted itself to her -hearers; and even Elinor, in spite of the Puritanism of her early -principles, wept as she listened. But when Mrs Ann told of the King -taking shelter for one night in the Castle, under the protection only of -her mother and herself, to whom he intrusted his rank and his -misfortunes, (arriving under a disguise),--(Sir Roger being absent -fighting his battles in Yorkshire)--when she added that her aged mother, -Lady Mortimer, then seventy-four, after spreading her richest velvet -mantle, lined with fur, as a quilt for the bed of her persecuted -sovereign, tottered into the armoury, and, presenting the few servants -that followed her with what arms could be found, adjured them by brand -and blade, by lady’s love, and their hopes of heaven, to defend her -royal guest. When she related that a band of fanatics, after robbing a -church of all its silver-plate, and burning the adjacent vicarage, drunk -with their success, had invested the Castle, and cried aloud for “_the -man_” to be brought unto them, that he might be hewed to pieces before -the Lord in Gilgal--and Lady Mortimer had called on a young French -officer in Prince Rupert’s corps, who, with his men, had been billetted -on the Castle for some days--and that this youth, but seventeen years of -age, had met two desperate attacks of the assailants, and twice retired -covered with his own blood and that of the assailants, whom he had in -vain attempted to repel--and that Lady Mortimer, finding all was lost, -had counselled the royal fugitive to make his escape,--and furnished him -with the best horse left in Sir Roger’s stables to effect his flight, -while she returned to the great hall, whose windows were now shattered -by the balls that hissed and flew round her head, and whose doors were -fast yielding to the crows and other instruments which a Puritan smith, -who was both chaplain and colonel of the band, had lent them, and -instructed them in the use of--and how Lady Mortimer fell on her knees -before the young Frenchman, and adjured him to make good the defence -till King Charles was safe, and free, and far--and how the young -Frenchman had done all that man could do;--and finally, when the Castle, -after an hour’s obstinate resistance, yielded to the assault of the -fanatics, he had staggered, covered with blood, to the foot of the great -chair which that ancient lady had immoveably occupied, (paralyzed by -terror and exhaustion), and dropping his sword, _then for the first -time_, exclaimed, “J’ai fait mon devoir!” and expired at her feet--and -how her mother sat in the same rigour of attitude, while the fanatics -ravaged through the Castle,--drank half the wines in the cellar,--thrust -their bayonets through the family-pictures, which they called the idols -of the high-places,--fired bullets through the wainscot, and converted -half the female servants after their own way,--and on finding their -search after the King fruitless, in mere wantonness of mischief, were -about to discharge a piece of ordnance in the hall that must have -shattered it in pieces, while Lady Mortimer sat torpidly looking -on,--till, perceiving that the piece was accidentally pointed towards -the very door through which King Charles had passed from the hall, her -recollection seemed suddenly to return, and starting up and rushing -before the mouth of the piece, exclaimed, “_Not there!_--you shall not -_there_!”--and as she spoke, dropt dead in the hall. When Mrs Ann told -these and other thrilling tales of the magnanimity, the loyalty, and the -sufferings of her high ancestry, in a voice that alternately swelled -with energy, and trembled with emotion, and as she told them, pointed to -the spot where each had happened,--her young hearers felt a deep -stirring of the heart,--a proud yet mellowed elation that never yet was -felt by the reader of a written history, though its pages were as -legitimate as any sanctioned by the royal licenser at Madrid. - -“Nor was Mrs Ann Mortimer less qualified to take an interesting share in -their lighter studies. When Waller’s poetry was its subject, she could -tell of the charms of his Sacharissa, whom she knew well,--the Lady -Dorothea Sidney, daughter of the Earl of Leicester,--and compare, with -those of his Amoret, the Lady Sophia Murray. And in balancing the claims -of these poetical heroines, she gave so accurate an account of their -opposite styles of beauty,--entered so minutely into the details of -their dress and deportment,--and so affectingly hinted, with a -mysterious sigh, that there was _one_ then at court whom Lucius, Lord -Falkland, the gallant, the learned, and the polished, had whispered was -far superior to both,----that her auditors more than suspected she had -herself been one of the most brilliant stars in that galaxy whose faded -glories were still reflected in her memory,--and that Mrs Ann, amid her -piety and patriotism, still blended a fond reminiscence of the -gallantries of that court where her youth had been spent,--and over -which the beauty, the magnificent taste, and national _gaiete_ of the -ill-fated Henrietta, had once thrown a light as dazzling as it was -transient. She was listened to by Margaret and Elinor with equal -interest, but with far different feelings. Margaret, beautiful, -vivacious, haughty, and generous, and resembling her grandfather and his -sister alike in character and person, could have listened for ever to -narrations that, while they confirmed her principles, gave a kind of -holiness to the governing feelings of her heart, and made her enthusiasm -a kind of virtue in her eyes. An aristocrat in politics, she could not -conceive that public virtue could soar to a higher pitch than a devoted -attachment to the house of Stuart afforded for its flight; and her -religion had never given her any disturbance.----Strictly attached to -the Church of England, as her forefathers had been from its first -establishment, she included in an adherence to this not only all the -graces of religion, but all the virtues of morality; and she could -hardly conceive how there could be majesty in the sovereign, or loyalty -in the subject, or valour in man, or virtue in woman, unless they were -comprised within the pale of the Church of England. These qualities, -with their adjuncts, had been always represented to her as co-existent -with an attachment to monarchy and Episcopacy, and vested solely in -those heroic characters of her ancestry, whose lives, and even deaths, -it was a proud delight to their young descendant to listen to,--while -all the opposite qualities,--all that man can hate, or woman -despise,--had been represented to her as instinctively resident in the -partizans of republicanism and the Presbytery. Thus her feelings and her -principles,--her reasoning powers and the habits of her life, all took -one way; and she was not only unable to make the least allowance for a -divergence from this way, but utterly unable to conceive that another -existed for those who believed in a God, or acknowledged human power at -all. She was as much at a loss to conceive how any good could come out -of that Nazareth of her abhorrence, as an ancient geographer would have -been to have pointed out America in a classical map.--Such was Margaret. - -“Elinor, on the other hand, bred up amid a clamour of perpetual -contention,--for the house of her mother’s family, in which her first -years had been passed, was, in the language of the profane of those -times, a scruple-shop, where the godly of all denominations held their -conferences of contradiction,--had her mind early awakened to -differences of opinion, and opposition of principle. Accustomed to hear -these differences and oppositions often expressed with the most unruly -vehemence, she had never, like Margaret, indulged in a splendid -aristocracy of imagination, that bore every thing before it, and made -prosperity and adversity alike pay tribute to the pride of its triumph. -Since her admission into the house of her grandfather, the mind of -Elinor had become still more humble and patient,--more subdued and -self-denied. Compelled to hear the opinions she was attached to decried, -and the characters she reverenced vilified, she sat in reflective -silence; and, balancing the opposite extremes which she was destined to -witness, she came to the right conclusion,--that there must be good on -both sides, however obscured or defaced by passion and by interest, and -that great and noble qualities must exist in either party, where so much -intellectual power, and so much physical energy, had been displayed by -both. Nor could she believe that these clear and mighty spirits would be -for ever opposed to each other in their future destinations,--she loved -to view them as children who had “fallen out by the way,” from mistaking -the path that led to their father’s house, but who would yet rejoice -together in the light of his presence, and smile at the differences that -divided them on their journey. - -“In spite of the influence of her early education, Elinor had learned to -appreciate the advantages of her residence in her grandfather’s castle. -She was fond of literature and of poetry. She possessed imagination and -enthusiasm,--and these qualities met with their loveliest indulgence -amid the picturesque and historical scenery that surrounded the -Castle,--the lofty tales told within its walls, and to which every stone -in them seemed to cry out in attestation,--and the heroic and chivalrous -characters of its inmates, with whom the portraits of their high -descended ancestry seemed starting from their gorgeous frames to -converse, as the tale of their virtues and their valour was told in -their presence. This was a different scene from that in which she had -passed her childhood. The gloomy and narrow apartments, divested of all -ornament, and awaking no associations but those of an awful -futurity--the uncouth habits, austere visages, denunciatory language, -and polemical fury of its inmates or guests, struck her with a feeling -for which she reproached herself, but did not suppress; and though she -continued a rigid Calvinist in her creed, and listened whenever she -could to the preaching of the non-conformist ministers, she had adopted -in her pursuits the literary tastes, and in her manners the dignified -courtesy, that became the descendant of the Mortimers. - -“Elinor’s beauty, though of a style quite different from that of her -cousin, was yet beauty of the first and finest character. Margaret’s was -luxuriant, lavish, and triumphant,--every movement displayed a conscious -grace,--every look demanded homage, and obtained it the moment it was -demanded. Elinor’s was pale, contemplative, and touching;--her hair was -as black as jet, and the thousand small curls into which, according to -the fashion of the day, it was woven, seemed as if every one of them had -been twined by the hand of nature,--they hung so softly and shadowingly, -that they appeared like a veil dropping over the features of a nun, till -she shook them back, and there beamed among them an eye of dark and -brilliant light, like a star amid the deepening shades of twilight. She -wore the rich dress prescribed by the taste and habits of Mrs Ann, who -had never, even in the hour of extreme adversity, relaxed in what may be -called the rigour of her aristocratical costume, and would have thought -it little less than a desecration of the solemnity, had she appeared at -prayers, even though celebrated (as she loved to term it) in the -Castle-hall, unless arrayed in satins and velvets, that, like ancient -suits of armour, could have stood alone and erect without the aid of -human inhabitant. There was a soft and yielding tone in the gently -modulated harmony of Elinor’s form and movements,--a gracious melancholy -in her smile,--a tremulous sweetness in her voice,--an appeal in her -look, which the heart that refused to answer could not have living pulse -within its region. No head of Rembrandt’s, amid its contrasted luxuries -of light and shade,--no form of Guido’s, hovering in exquisite and -speechful undulation between earth and heaven, could vie with the tint -and character of Elinor’s countenance and form. There was but one touch -to be added to the picture of her beauty, and that touch was given by no -physical grace,--no exterior charm. It was borrowed from a feeling as -pure as it was intense,--as unconscious as it was profound. The secret -fire that lit her eyes with that lambent glory, while it caused the -paleness of her young cheek,--that preyed on her heart, while it seemed -to her imagination that she clasped a young cherub in her arms, like the -unfortunate queen of Virgil,--that fire was a secret even to -herself.--She knew she felt, but knew not what she felt. - -“When first admitted into the Castle, and treated with sufficient -_hauteur_ by her grandfather and his sister, who could not forget the -mean descent and fanatic principles of her father’s family, she -remembered, that, amid the appalling grandeur and austere reserve of her -reception, her cousin, John Sandal, was the only one who spoke to her in -accents of tenderness, or turned on her an eye that beamed consolation. -She remembered him as the beautiful and gentle boy who had lightened all -her tasks, and partaken in all her recreations. - -“At an early age John Sandal, at his own request, had been sent to sea, -and had never since visited the Castle. On the Restoration, the -remembered services of the Mortimer family, and the high fame of the -youth’s courage and ability, had procured him a distinguished situation -in the navy. John Sandal’s consequence now rose in the eyes of the -family, of whom he was at first an inmate on toleration only; and even -Mrs Ann Mortimer began to express some anxiety to hear tidings of her -valiant cousin John. When she spoke thus, the light of Elinor’s eye fell -on her aunt with as rich a glow as ever summer sun on an evening -landscape; but she felt, at the same moment, an oppression,--an -indefinable suspension of thought, of speech, almost of breath, which -was only relieved by the tears which, when retired from her aunt’s -presence, she indulged in. Soon this feeling was exchanged for one of -deeper and more agitating interest. The war with the Dutch broke out, -and Captain John Sandal’s name, in spite of his youth, appeared -conspicuous among those of the officers appointed to that memorable -service. - -“Mrs Ann, long accustomed to hear the names of her family uttered always -in the same breath with the stirring report of high heroic deeds, felt -the elation of spirit she had experienced in by-gone days, combined with -happier associations, and more prosperous auguries. Though far advanced -in life, and much declined in strength, it was observed, that during the -reports of the war, and while she listened to the accounts of her -kinsman’s valour and fast-advancing eminence, her step became firm and -elastic, her lofty figure dilated to its youthful height, and a colour -at times visited her cheek, with as rich and brilliant a tinge as when -the first sighs of love murmured over its young roses. The high minded -Margaret, partaking that enthusiasm which merged all personal feeling in -the glory of her family and of her country, heard of the perils to which -her cousin (whom she hardly remembered) was exposed, only with a haughty -confidence that he would meet them as she felt she would have met them -herself, had she been, like him, the last male descendant of the family -of Mortimer. Elinor trembled and wept,--and when alone she prayed -fervently. - -“It was observable, however, that the respectful interest with which she -had hitherto listened to the family legends so eloquently told by Mrs -Ann, was now exchanged for a restless and unappeaseable anxiety for -tales of the naval heroes who had dignified the family history. Happily -she found a willing narrator in Mrs Ann, who had little need to search -her memory, and no occasion to consult her invention, for splendid -stories of those whose home was the deep, and whose battle-field was the -wild waste ocean. Amid the gallery richly hung with family portraits, -she pointed out the likeness of many a bold adventurer, whom the report -of the riches and felicities of the new discovered world had tempted on -speculations sometimes wild and disastrous, sometimes prosperous beyond -the golden dreams of cupidity. “How precarious!--how perilous!” murmured -Elinor, shuddering. But when Mrs Ann told the tale of her uncle, the -literary speculator, the polished scholar, the brave and gentle of the -family, who had accompanied Sir Walter Raleigh on his calamitous -expedition, and years after died of grief for his calamitous death, -Elinor, with a start of horror, caught her aunt’s arm, emphatically -extended towards the portrait, and implored her to desist. The decorum -of the family was so great, that this liberty could not be taken without -an apology for indisposition;--it was duly though faintly made, and -Elinor retired to her apartment. - -“From February 1665,--from the first intelligence of De Ruyter’s -enterprises, till the animating period when the Duke of York was -appointed to the command of the Royal fleet,--all was eager and -anticipative excitement, and eloquent expatiations on ancient -achievements, and presageful hopes of new honours, on the part of the -heiress of Mortimer and Mrs Ann, and profound and speechless emotion on -that of Elinor. - -“The hour arrived, and an express was dispatched from London to Mortimer -Castle with intelligence, in which King Charles, with that splendid -courtesy which half redeemed his vices, announced himself most deeply -interested, inasmuch as it added to the honours of the loyal family, -whose services he appreciated so highly. The victory was complete,--and -Captain John Sandal, in the phrase which the King’s attachment to French -manners and language was beginning to render popular, had “covered -himself with glory.” Amid the thickest of the fight, in an open boat, he -had carried a message from Lord Sandwich to the Duke of York, under a -shower of balls, and when older officers had stoutly declined the -perilous errand; and when, on his return, Opdam the Dutch Admiral’s ship -blew up, amid the crater of the explosion John Sandal plunged into the -sea, to save the half-drowning, half-burning wretches who clung to the -fragments that scorched them, or sunk in the boiling waves; and -then,--dismissed on another fearful errand, flung himself between the -Duke of York and the ball that struck at one blow the Earl of Falmouth, -Lord Muskerry, and Mr Boyle, and when they all fell at the same moment, -wiped, with unfaultering hand, and on bended knee, their brains and -gore, with which the Duke of York was covered from head to foot. When -this was read by Mrs Ann Mortimer, with many pauses, caused by sight dim -with age, and diffused with tears,--and when at length, finishing the -long and laborious read detail, Mrs Ann exclaimed--“He is a hero!” -Elinor tremblingly whispered to herself--“He is a Christian.” - -“The details of such an event forming a kind of era in a family so -sequestered, imaginative, and heroic, as that of the Mortimers, the -contents of the letter signed by the King’s own hand were read over and -over again. They formed the theme of converse at their meals, and the -subject of their study and comment when alone. Margaret dwelt much on -the gallantry of the action, and half-imagined she saw the tremendous -explosion of Opdam’s ship. Elinor repeated to herself, “And he plunged -amid the burning wave to save the lives of the men he had conquered!” -And some months elapsed before the brilliant vision of glory, and of -grateful royalty, faded from their imagination; and when it did, like -that of Micyllus, it left honey on the eye-lids of the dreamer. - -“From the date of the arrival of this intelligence, a change had taken -place in the habits and manners of Elinor, so striking as to become the -object of notice to all but herself. Her health, her rest, and her -imagination, became the prey of indefinable fantasies. The cherished -images of the past,--the lovely visions of her golden childhood,--seemed -fearfully and insanely contrasted in her imagination with the ideas of -slaughter and blood,--of decks strewed with corses,--and of a young and -terrible conqueror bestriding them amid showers of ball and clouds of -fire. Her very senses reeled between these opposite impressions. Her -reason could not brook the sudden transition from the smiling and -Cupid-like companion of her childhood, to the hero of the embattled -deep, and of nations and navies on fire,--garments rolled in blood,--the -thunder of the battle and the shouting. - -“She sat and tried, as well as her wandering fancy would allow her, to -reconcile the images of that remembered eye, whose beam rested on her -like the dark blue of a summer heaven swimming in dewy light,--with the -flash that darted from the burning eye of the conqueror, whose light was -as fatal where it fell as his sword. She saw him, as he had once sat -beside her, smiling like the first morning in spring,--and smiled in -return. The slender form, the soft and springy movements, the kiss of -childhood that felt like velvet, and scented like balm,--was suddenly -exchanged in her dream (for all her thoughts were dreams) for a fearful -figure of one drenched in blood, and spattered with brains and gore. And -Elinor, half-screaming, exclaimed, “Is this he whom I loved?” Thus her -mind, vacillating between contrasts so strongly opposed, began to feel -its moorings give way. She drifted from rock to rock, and on every rock -she struck a wreck. - -“Elinor relinquished her usual meetings with the family--she sat in her -own apartment all the day, and most of the evening. It was a lonely -turret projecting so far from the walls of the Castle, that there were -windows, or rather casements, on three sides. There Elinor sat to catch -the blast, let it blow as it would, and imagined she heard in its -moanings the cries of drowning seamen. No music that her lute, or that -which Margaret touched with a more powerful and brilliant finger, could -wean her from this melancholy indulgence. - -“Hush!” she would say to the females who attended her--“Hush! let me -listen to the blast!--It waves many a banner spread for victory,--it -sighs over many a head that has been laid low!” - -“Her amazement that a being could be at once so gentle and so -ferocious--her dread that the habits of his life must have converted the -_angel of her wilderness_ into a brave but brutal seaman, estranged from -the feelings that had rendered the beautiful boy so indulgent to her -errors,--so propitiatory between her and her proud relatives,--so aidant -in all her amusements,--so necessary to her very existence.--The tones -of this dreamy life harmonized, awfully for Elinor, with the sound of -the blast as it shook the turrets of the Castle, or swept the woods that -groaned and bowed beneath its awful visitings. And this secluded life, -intense feeling, and profound and heart-rooted secret of her silent -passion, held perhaps fearful and indescribable alliance with that -aberration of mind, that prostration at once of the heart and the -intellect, that have been found to bring forth, according as the agents -were impelled, “the savour of life unto life, or of death unto death.” -She had all the intensity of passion, combined with all the devotedness -of religion; but she knew not which way to steer, or what gale to -follow. She trembled and shrunk from her doubtful pilotage, and the -rudder was left to the mercy of the winds and waves. Slender mercy do -those experience who commit themselves to the tempests of the mental -world--better if they had sunk at once amid the strife of the dark -waters in their wild and wintry rage; there they would soon have arrived -at the haven where they would be secure. - -“Such was the state of Elinor, when the arrival of one who had been long -a stranger in the vicinity of the Castle caused a strong sensation in -its inhabitants. - -“The widow Sandal, the mother of the young seaman, who had hitherto -lived in obscurity on the interest of the small fortune bequeathed her -by Sir Roger, (under the rigid injunction of never visiting the Castle), -suddenly arrived in Shrewsbury, which was scarce a mile from it, and -declared her intention of fixing her residence there. - -“The affection of her son had showered on her, with the profusion of a -sailor, and the fondness of a child, all the rewards of his -services--but their glory;--and in comparative affluence, and honoured -and pointed to as the mother of the young hero who stood high in royal -favour, the widow of many sorrows took up her abode once more near the -seat of her ancestors. - -“At this period, every step taken by the member of a family was a -subject of anxious and solemn consultation to those who considered -themselves its heads, and there was a kind of chapter held in Mortimer -Castle on this singular movement of the widow Sandal. Elinor’s heart -beat hard during the debate--it subsided, however, at the determination, -that the severe sentence of Sir Roger was not to be extended beyond his -death, and that a descendant of the house of Mortimer should never live -neglected while almost under the shadow of its walls. - -“The visit was accordingly solemnly paid, and gratefully -received,--there was much stately courtesy on the part of Mrs Ann -towards her niece, (whom she called cousin after the old English -fashion), and a due degree of retrospective humility and decorous -dejection on that of the widow. They parted mutually softened towards, -if not pleased with each other, and the intercourse thus opened was -unremittingly sustained by Elinor, whose weekly visits of ceremony soon -became the daily visits of interest and of habit. The object of the -thoughts of both was the theme of the tongue of but one; and, as is not -uncommon, she who said nothing felt the most. The details of his -exploits, the description of his person, the fond enumeration of the -promises of his childhood, and the graces and goodliness of his youth, -were dangerous topics for the listener, to whom the bare mention of his -name caused an intoxication of the heart, from which it scarce recovered -for hours. - -“The frequency of these visits was not observed to be diminished by a -faint rumour, which the widow seemed to believe, rather from hope than -probability, that Captain Sandal was about to visit the neighbourhood of -the Castle. It was one evening in autumn, that Elinor, who had been -prevented during the day from visiting her aunt, set out attended only -by her maid and her usher. There was a private path through the park, -that opened by a small door on the verge of the suburbs where the widow -lived. Elinor, on her arrival, found her aunt from home, and was -informed she had gone to pass the evening with a friend in Shrewsbury. -Elinor hesitated for a moment, and then recollecting that this friend -was a grave staid widow of one of Oliver’s knights, wealthy, however, -and well respected, and a common acquaintance, she resolved to follow -her thither. As she entered the room, which was spacious, but dimly lit -by an old-fashioned casement window, she was surprised to see it filled -with an unusual number of persons, some of whom were seated, but the -greater number were collected in the ample recess of the window, and -among them Elinor saw a figure, remarkable rather for its height, than -its attitude or pretension,--it was that of a tall slender boy, about -eighteen, with a beautiful infant in his arms, whom he was caressing -with a tenderness that seemed rather associated with the retrospective -fondness of brotherhood, than the anticipated hope of paternity. The -mother of the infant, proud of the notice bestowed on her child, made, -however, the usual incredulous apology for its troubling him. - -“Troubling me!” said the boy, in tones that made Elinor think it was the -first time she had heard music. “Oh, no--if you knew how fond I am of -children,--how long it is since I had the delight of pressing one to my -breast--how long it may be again before”---- and averting his head, he -bowed it over the babe. The room was very dark, from the increasing -shades of evening, deepened by the effect of the heavy wainscotting of -its walls; but at this moment, the last bright light of an autumnal -evening, in all its rich and fading glory, burst on the casement, -powering on every object a golden and purpureal light. That end of the -apartment in which Elinor sat remained in the deepest shade. She then -distinctly beheld the figure which her heart seemed to recognize before -her senses. His luxuriant hair, of the richest brown, (its feathery -summits tinged by the light resembling the halo round some glorified -head), hung, according to the fashion of the day, in clusters on his -bosom, and half-concealed the face of the infant, as it lay like a -nestling among them. - -“His dress was that of a naval officer,--it was splendidly adorned with -lace, and the superb insignia of a foreign order, the guerdon of some -daring deed; and as the infant played with these, and then looked -upward, as if to repose its dazzled sight on the smile of its young -protector, Elinor thought she had never beheld association and contrast -so touchingly united,--it was like a finely coloured painting, where the -tints are so mellowed and mingled into each other, that the eye feels no -transition in passing from one brilliant hue to another, with such -exquisite imperceptibility are they graduated,--it was like a fine piece -of music, where the art of the modulator prevents your knowing that you -pass from one key to another; so softly are the intermediate tones of -harmony touched, that the ear knows not where it wanders, but wherever -it wanders, feels its path is pleasant. The young loveliness of the -infant, almost assimilated to the beauty of the youthful caresser, and -yet contrasted with the high and heroic air of his figure, and the -adornments of his dress, (splendid as they were), all emblematic of -deeds of peril and of death, seemed to the imagination of Elinor like -the cherub-angel of peace reposing on the breast of valour, and -whispering that his toils were done. She was awoke from her vision by -the voice of the widow.--“Niece, this is your cousin John Sandal.” -Elinor started, and received the salute of her kinsman, thus abruptly -introduced, with an emotion, which, if it deprived her of those courtly -graces which ought to have embellished her reception of the -distinguished stranger, gave her, at least, the more touching ones of -diffidence. - -“The forms of the day admitted of, and even sanctioned, a mode of -salutation since exploded; and as Elinor felt the pressure of a lip as -vermeil as her own, she trembled to think that that lip had often given -the war-word to beings athirst for human blood, and that the arm that -enfolded her so tenderly had pointed the weapons of death with -resistless and terrible aim against bosoms that beat with all the cords -of human affection. She loved her young kinsman, but she trembled in the -arms of the hero. - -“John Sandal sat down by her, and in a few moments the melody of his -tones, the gentle facility of his manner, the eyes that smiled when the -lips were closed, and the lips whose smile was more eloquent in silence -than the language of the brightest eyes, made her gradually feel at ease -with herself--she attempted to converse, but paused to listen--she tried -to look up, but felt like the worshippers of the sun, sickening under -the blaze she gazed on,--and _averted her eyes that she might see_. -There was a mild, inoppressive, but most seductive light in the -dark-blue eyes that fell so softly on hers, like moon-light floating -over a fine landscape. And there was a young and eloquent tenderness in -the tones of that voice, which she expected to have spoken in thunder, -that disarmed and dulcified speech almost to luxury. Elinor sat, and -imbibed poison at every inlet of the senses, ear, and eye, and touch, -for her kinsman, with a venial, and to her imperceptible licence, had -taken her hand as he spoke. And he spoke much, but not of war and blood, -of the scenes where he had been so eminent, and of the events to which -his simple allusion would have given interest and dignity,--but of his -return to his family, of the delight he felt at again beholding his -mother, and of the hopes that he indulged of being not an unwelcome -visitor at the Castle. He inquired after Margaret with affectionate -earnestness, and after Mrs Ann with reverential regard; and in -mentioning the names of these relatives, he spoke like one whose heart -was at home before his steps, and whose heart could make every spot -where it rested a home to itself and to others. Elinor could have -listened for ever. The names of the relatives she loved and revered -sounded in her ears like music, but the advancing night warned her of -the necessity of returning to the Castle, where the hours were -scrupulously observed; and when John Sandal offered to attend her home, -she had no longer a motive to delay her departure. - -“It had appeared dark in the room where they were sitting, but it was -still rich and purple twilight in the sky, when they set out for the -Castle. - -“Elinor took the path through the park, and, absorbed in new feelings, -was for the first time insensible of its woodland beauty, at once gloomy -and resplendent, mellowed by the tints of autumnal colouring, and -glorious with the light of an autumnal evening,--till she was roused to -attention by the exclamations of her companion, who appeared rapt into -delight at what he beheld. This sensibility of nature, this fresh and -unworn feeling, in one whom she had believed hardened by scenes of toil -and terror against the perception of beauty,--whom her imagination had -painted to her as _fitter to cross the Alps, than to luxuriate in -Campania_,--touched her deeply. She attempted to reply, but was -unable,--she remembered how her quick susceptibility of nature had -enabled her to sympathize with and improve on the admiration expressed -by others, and she wondered at her silence, for she knew not its cause. - -“As they approached the Castle, the scene became glorious beyond the -imagination of a painter, whose eye has dreamed of sun-set in foreign -climes. The vast edifice lay buried in shade,--all its varied and -strongly charactered features of tower and pinnacle, bartizan and -battlement, were melted into one dense and sombrous mass. The distant -hills, with their conical summits, were still clearly defined in the -dark-blue heaven, and their peaks still retained a hue of purple so -brilliant and lovely, that it seemed as if the light had loved to linger -there, and, parting, had left that tint as the promise of a glorious -morning. The woods that surrounded the Castle stood as dark, and -apparently as solid as itself. Sometimes a gleam like gold trembled over -the tufted foliage of their summits, and at length, through a glade -which opened among the dark and massive boles of the ancient trees, one -last rich and gorgeous flood of light burst in, turned every blade of -grass it touched into emerald for a moment,--paused on its lovely -work--and parted. The effect was so instantaneous, brilliant, and -evanishing, that Elinor had scarce time for a half uttered exclamation, -as she extended her arm in the direction where the light had fallen so -brightly and so briefly. She raised her eyes to her companion, in that -full consciousness of perfect sympathy that make words seem like -counters, compared to the sterling gold of a heart-minted look. Her -companion had turned towards it too. He neither uttered exclamation, nor -pointed with finger,--he smiled, and his countenance was as that of an -angel. It seemed to reflect and answer the last bright farewell of day, -as if friends had parted smiling at each other. It was not alone the -lips that smiled,--the eyes, the cheeks, every feature had its share in -that effulgent light that was diffused over his aspect, and all combined -to make that harmony to the eye, which is often as deliciously -perceptible, as the combination of the most exquisite voices with the -most perfect modulation, is to the ear. To the last hour of her mortal -existence, that smile, and the scene where it was _uttered_, were -engraved on the heart of Elinor. It announced at once a spirit, that, -like the ancient statue, answered every ray of light that fell on it -with a voice of melody, and blended the triumph of the glories of nature -with the profound and tender felicities of the heart. They spoke no more -during the remainder of their walk, but there was more eloquence in -their silence than in many words. * * * * * * - -“It was almost night before they arrived at the Castle. Mrs Ann received -her distinguished kinsman with stately cordiality, and affection mingled -with pride. Margaret welcomed him rather as the hero than the relative; -and John, after the ceremonies of introduction, turned to repose himself -on the smile of Elinor. They had arrived just at the time when the -chaplain was about to read the evening prayers,--a form so strictly -adhered to at the Castle, that not even the arrival of a stranger was -permitted to interfere with its observance. Elinor watched this moment -with peculiar solicitude;--her religious feelings were profound, and -amid all the young hero’s vivid display of the gentlest affections, and -purest sensibilities by which our wretched existence can be enhanced or -beautified, she still dreaded that religion, the companion of deep -thought and solemn habits, might wander far for an abode before it -settled in the heart of a sailor. The last doubt passed from her mind, -as she beheld the intense but silent devotion with which John mingled in -the family rite. There is something very ennobling in the sight of male -piety. To see that lofty form, that never bowed to man, bowed to the -earth to God,--to behold the knee, whose joints would be as adamant -under the influence of mortal force or threat, as flexible as those of -infancy in the presence of the Almighty,--to see the locked and lifted -hands, to hear the fervent aspiration, to feel the sound of the mortal -weapon as it drags on the floor beside the kneeling warrior,--these are -things that touch the senses and the heart at once, and suggest the -awful and affecting image of all physical energy prostrate before the -power of the Divinity. Elinor watched him even to the forgetfulness of -her own devotions;--and when his white hands, that seemed never formed -to grasp a weapon of destruction, were clasped in devotion, and one of -them slightly and occasionally raised to part the redundant curls that -shaded his face as he knelt, she thought that she beheld at once angelic -strength and angelic purity. - -“When the service concluded, Mrs Ann, after repeating her solemn welcome -to her nephew, could not help expressing her satisfaction at the -devotion he had showed; but she mingled with that expression a kind of -incredulity, that men accustomed to toil and peril could ever have -devotional feelings. John Sandal bowed to the congratulatory part of Mrs -Ann’s speech, and, resting one hand on his short sword, and with the -other removing the thick ringlets of his luxuriant hair, he stood before -them a hero in deed, and a boy in form. A blush overspread his young -features, as he said, in accents at once emphatic and tremulous, “Dear -Aunt, why should you accuse those of neglecting the protection of the -Almighty who need it most. They who “go down to the sea in ships, and -occupy their business in the great waters,” have the best right to feel, -in their hour of peril, “it is but the wind and the storm fulfilling his -word.” A seaman without a belief and hope in God, is worse off than a -seaman without chart or pilot.” - -“As he spoke with that trembling eloquence that makes conviction be felt -almost before it is heard, Mrs Ann held out to him her withered but -still snow-white hand to kiss. Margaret presented hers also, like a -heroine to a feudal knight; and Elinor turned aside, and wept in -delicious agony. * * * * * * * * - -“When we set ourselves resolutely to discover perfection in a character, -we are always sure to find it. But Elinor needed little aid from the -pencil of imagination to colour the object that had been stamped by an -ineffaceable touch upon her heart. Her kinsman’s character and temper -developed themselves slowly, or rather were developed by external and -accidental causes; for a diffidence almost feminine prevented his ever -saying much,--and when he did, himself was the last theme he touched on. -He unfolded himself like a blowing flower,--the soft and silken leaves -expanded imperceptibly to the eye, and every day the tints were -deepening, and the scent becoming richer, till Elinor was dazzled by -their lustre, and inebriated with the fragrance. - -“This wish to discover excellencies in the object we love, and to -identify esteem and passion by seeking the union of moral beauty and -physical grace, is a proof that love is of a very ennobling -character,--that, however the stream may be troubled by many things, the -source at least is pure,--and that the heart capable of feeling it -intensely, proves it possesses an energy that may one day be rewarded by -a brighter object, and a holier flame, than earth ever afforded, or -nature ever could kindle. * * * * * * * * * - -“Since her son’s arrival, the widow Sandal had betrayed a marked degree -of anxiety, and a kind of restless precaution against some invisible -evil. She was now frequently at the Castle. She could not be blind to -the increasing attachment of John and Elinor,--and her only thought was -how to prevent the possibility of their union, by which the interest of -the former and her own importance would be materially affected. - -“She had obtained, by indirect means, a knowledge of the contents of Sir -Roger’s will; and the whole force of a mind which possessed more of art -than of power, and of a temper which had more passion than energy, was -strained to realize the hopes it suggested. Sir Roger’s will was -singular. Alienated as he was from his daughter Sandal, and his younger -son the father of Elinor, by the connexions they had adopted, it seemed -to be the strongest object of his wishes to unite their descendants, and -invest the wealth and rank of the house of Mortimer in the last of its -representatives. He had therefore bequeathed his immense estates to his -grand-daughter Margaret, in the event of her marrying her kinsman John -Sandal;--in the case of his marrying Elinor, he was entitled to no more -than her fortune of £.5000;--and the bequest of the greater part of the -property to a distant relative who bore the name of Mortimer, was to be -the consequence of the non-intermarriage of Sandal with either of his -cousins. - -“Mrs Ann Mortimer, anticipating the effect that this opposition of -interest to affection might produce in the family, had kept the contents -of the will a secret,--but Mrs Sandal had discovered it by means of the -domestics at the Castle, and her mind wrought intensely on the -discovery. She was a woman too long familiar with want and privation to -dread any evil but their continuance, and too ambitious of the -remembered distinctions of her early life, not to risk any thing that -might enable her to recover them. She felt a personal feminine jealousy -of the high-minded Mrs Ann, and the noble-hearted beautiful Margaret, -which was unappeasable; and she hovered round the walls of the Castle -like a departed spirit groaning for its re-admission to the place from -which it had been driven, and feeling and giving no peace till its -restoration was accomplished. - -“When with these feelings was united the anxiety of maternal ambition -for her son, who might be raised to a noble inheritance, or sunk to -comparative mediocrity by his choice, the result may be easily guessed; -and the widow Sandal, once determined on the end, felt little scruple -about the means. Want and envy had given her an unslakeable appetite -for the restored splendours of her former state; and false religion -had taught her every shade and penumbra of hypocrisy, every meanness -of artifice, every obliquity of insinuation. In her varied life she -had known the good, and chosen the evil. The widow Sandal was now -determined to interpose an insurmountable obstruction to their union. -* * * * * * * * - -“Mrs Ann still flattered herself that the secret of Sir Roger’s will was -suppressed. She saw the intense and disruptable feeling that seemed to -mark John and Elinor for each other; and, with a feeling half-borrowed -from magnanimity, half from romance, (for Mrs Ann had been fond of the -high-toned romances of her day), she looked forward to the felicity of -their union as being little disturbed by the loss of land and -lordship,--of the immense revenues,--and the far-descended titles of the -Mortimer family. - -“Highly as she prized these distinctions, dear to every noble mind, she -prized still more highly the union of devoted hearts and congenial -spirits, who, trampling on the golden apples that were flung in their -path, pressed forward with unremitting ardour for the prize of felicity. - -“The wedding-day of John and Elinor was fixed,--the bridal clothes were -made,--the noble and numerous friends summoned,--the Castle hall -decorated, the bells of the parish church ringing out a loud and merry -peal, and the blue-coated serving men adorned with favours, and employed -in garnishing the wassail bowl, which was doomed by many a thirsty eye -to be often drained and often replenished. Mrs Ann herself took with her -own hands, from an ample chest of ebony, a robe of velvet and satin, -which she had worn at the court of James the First, on the marriage of -the princess Elizabeth with the prince palatine, of whom the former, to -borrow the language of a contemporary writer, had “brided and bridled it -so well, and indeed became herself so handsomely,” that Mrs Ann, as she -arrayed herself, thought she saw the splendid vision of the royal bridal -float before her faded eyes in dim but gorgeous pageantry once more. The -heiress, too, attired herself splendidly, but it was observed, that her -beautiful cheek was paler than even that of the bride, and the smile -which held a fixed unjoyous station on her features all that morning, -seemed more like the effort of resolution than the expression of -felicity. The widow Sandal had betrayed considerable agitation, and -quitted the Castle at an early hour. The bridegroom had not yet -appeared, and the company, after having in vain for some time awaited -his arrival, set out for the church, where they supposed he was -impatiently expecting them. - -“The cavalcade was magnificent and numerous--the dignity and consequence -of the Mortimer family had assembled all who had aspired to the -distinction of their acquaintance, and such was then the feudal grandeur -attendant on the nuptials of a high-descended family, that relatives, -however remote in blood or in local distance, collected for sixty miles -in every direction around the Castle, and presented a “host of friends, -gorgeously arrayed and attended on that eventful morning.” - -“Most of the company, even including the females, were mounted on -horseback, and this, by apparently increasing the number of the -procession, added to its tumultuous magnificence. There were some -cumbrous vehicles, misnomed carriages, of a fashion indescribably -inconvenient, but gorgeously gilded and painted,--and the Cupids on the -pannels had been re-touched for the occasion. The bride was lifted on -her palfrey by two peers,--Margaret rode beside her gallantly -attended,--and Mrs Ann, who once more saw nobles contending for her -withered hand, and adjusting her silken rein, felt the long-faded -glories of her family revive, and led the van of the pompous procession -with as much dignity of demeanour, and as much glow of faded beauty, -once eminent and resistless, as if she still followed the gorgeous -nuptial progress of the princess palatine. They arrived at the -church,--the bride, the relatives, the splendid company, the -minister--all but the bridegroom, were there. There was a long painful -silence. Several gentlemen of the bridal party rode rapidly out in every -direction in which it was thought probable to meet him,--the clergyman -stood at the altar, till, weary of standing, he retired. The crowd from -the neighbouring villages, combined with the numerous attendants, filled -the church-yard. Their acclamations were incessant,--the heat and -distraction became intolerable, and Elinor begged for a few moments to -be allowed to retire to the vestry. - -“There was a casement window which opened on the road, and Mrs Ann -supported the bride as she tottered towards it, attempting to loose her -wimple, and veil of costly lace. As Elinor approached the casement, the -thundering hoofs of a horse at full speed shook the road. Elinor looked -up mechanically,--the rider was John Sandal,--he cast a look of horror -at the pale bride, and plunging his desperate spurs deeper, disappeared -in a moment. * * * * * - -“A year after this event, two figures were seen to walk, or rather -wander, almost every evening, in the neighbourhood of a small hamlet in -a remote part of Yorkshire. The vicinage was picturesque and attractive, -but these figures seemed to move amid the scenery like beings, who, if -they still retained eyes for nature, had lost all heart for it. That wan -and attenuated form, so young, yet so withered, whose dark eyes emit a -fearful light amid features chill and white as those of a statue, and -the young graces of whose form seem to have been nipt like those of a -lily that bloomed too soon in spring, and was destroyed by the frost of -the treacherous season, whose whispers had first invited it to -bud,--that is Elinor Mortimer,--and that figure that walks beside her, -so stiff and rectangular, that it seems as its motion was regulated by -mechanism, whose sharp eyes are directed so straight forward, that they -see neither tree on the right hand, or glade on the left, or heaven -above, or earth beneath, or any thing but a dim vision of mystic -theology for ever before them, which is aptly reflected in their cold -contemplative light, that is the Puritan maiden sister of her mother, -with whom Elinor had fixed her residence. Her dress is arranged with as -much precision as if a mathematician had calculated the angles of every -fold,--every pin’s point knows its place, and does its duty--the plaits -of her round-eared cap do not permit one hair to appear on her narrow -forehead, and her large hood, adjusted after the fashion in which it was -worn by the godly sisters, who rode out to meet Prynne on his return -from the pillory, lends a deeper shade to her rigid features,--a -wretched-looking lacquey is carrying a huge clasped bible after her, in -the mode in which she remembered to have seen Lady Lambert and Lady -Desborough march to prayer, attended by their pages, while she proudly -followed in their train, distinguished as the sister of that godly man -and powerful preacher of the word, Sandal. From the day of her -disappointed nuptials, Elinor, with that insulted feeling of maiden -pride, which not even the anguish of her broken heart could suppress, -had felt an unappeaseable anxiety to quit the scene of her disgrace and -her misfortune. It was vainly opposed by her aunt and Margaret, who, -horror-struck at the event of those disastrous nuptials, and wholly -unconscious of the cause, had implored her, with all the energy of -affection, to fix her residence at the Castle, within whose walls they -pledged themselves he who had abandoned her should never be permitted to -place his foot. Elinor answered the impassioned importunities, only by -eager and clinging pressures of her cold hands, and by tears which -trembled on her eye-lids, without the power to fall.--“Nay, stay with -us,” said the kind and noble-hearted Margaret, “you shall not leave us!” -And she pressed the hands of her kinswoman, with that cordial touch that -gives a welcome as much to the heart as to the home of the -inviter.--“Dearest cousin,” said Elinor, answering, for the first time, -this affectionate appeal with a faint and ghastly smile--“I have so many -enemies within these walls, that I can no longer encounter them with -safety to my life.”--“Enemies!” repeated Margaret.--“Yes, dearest -cousin--there is not a spot where _he_ trod--not a prospect on which he -has gazed--not an echo which has repeated the sound of his voice,--that -does not send daggers through my heart, which those who wish me to live -would not willingly see infixed any longer.” To the emphatic agony with -which these words were uttered, Margaret had nothing to reply but with -tears; and Elinor set out on her journey to the relative of her mother, -a rigid Puritan, who resided in Yorkshire. - -“As the carriage was ordered for her departure, Mrs Ann, supported by -her female attendants, stood on the draw-bridge to take leave of her -niece, with solemn and affectionate courtesy. Margaret wept bitterly, -and aloud, as she stood at a casement, and waved her hand to Elinor. Her -aunt never shed a tear, till out of the presence of the domestics,--but -when all was over,--“she entered into her chamber, and wept there.” - -“When her carriage had driven some miles from the Castle, a servant on a -fleet horse followed it at full speed with Elinor’s lute, which had been -forgotten,--it was offered to her, and after viewing it for some moments -with a look in which memory struggled with grief, she ordered its -strings to be broken on the spot, and proceeded on her journey. - -“The retreat to which Elinor had retired, did not afford her the -tranquillity she expected. Thus, change of place always deceives us with -the tantalizing hope of relief, as we toss on the feverish bed of life. - -“She went in a faint expectation of the revival of her religious -feelings--she went to wed, amid the solitude and desert where she had -first known him, the immortal bridegroom, who would never desert her as -the mortal one had done,--but she did not find him there--the voice of -God was no longer heard in the garden--either her religious sensibility -had abated, or those from whom she first received the impression, had no -longer power to renew it, or perhaps the heart which has exhausted -itself on a mortal object, does not find its powers soon recruited to -meet the image of celestial beneficence, and exchange at once the -visible for the invisible,--the felt and present, for the future and the -unknown. - -“Elinor returned to the residence of her mother’s family in the hope of -renewing former images, but she found only the words that had conveyed -those ideas, and she looked around in vain for the impressions they had -once suggested. When we thus come to feel that _all_ has been illusion, -even on the most solemn subjects,--that the future world seems to be -deserting us along with the present, and that our own hearts, with all -their treachery, have done us no more wrong than the false impressions -which we have received from our religious instructors, we are like the -deity in the painting of the great Italian artist, extending one hand to -the sun, and the other to the moon, but touching neither. Elinor had -imagined or hoped, that the language of her aunt would have revived her -habitual associations--she was disappointed. It is true no pains were -spared--when Elinor wished to read, she was furnished amply with the -Westminster Confession, or Prynne’s Histriomastrix; or if she wished for -lighter pages, for the Belles Lettres of Puritanism, there were John -Bunyan’s Holy War, or the life of Mr Badman. If she closed the book in -despair at the insensibility of her untouched heart, she was invited to -a godly conference, where the non-conformist ministers, who had been, in -the language of the day, extinguished under the Bartholomew bushel(8), -met to give the precious word in season to the scattered fold of the -Lord. Elinor knelt and wept too at these meetings; but, while her form -was prostrated before the Deity, her tears fell for one whom she dared -not name. When, in incontroulable agony, she sought, like Joseph, where -she might weep unobserved and unrestrained, and rushed into the narrow -garden that skirted the cottage of her aunt, and wept there, she was -followed by the quiet, sedate figure, moving at the rate of an inch in a -minute, who offered her for her consolation, the newly published and -difficultly obtained work of Marshall on Sanctification. - - (8) Anachronism--n’importe. - -“Elinor, accustomed too much to that fatal excitement of the heart, -which renders all other excitement as faint and feeble as the air of -heaven to one who has been inhaling the potent inebriation of the -strongest perfumes, wondered how this being, so abstracted, cold, and -unearthly, could tolerate her motionless existence. She rose at a fixed -hour,--at a fixed hour she prayed,--at a fixed hour received the godly -friends who visited her, and whose existence was as monotonous and -apathetic as her own,--at a fixed hour she dined,--and at a fixed hour -she prayed again, and then retired,--yet she prayed without unction, and -fed without appetite, and retired to rest without the least inclination -to sleep. Her life was mere mechanism, but the machine was so well wound -up, that it appeared to have some quiet consciousness and sullen -satisfaction in its movements. - -“Elinor struggled in vain for the renewal of this life of cold -mediocrity,--she thirsted for it as one who, in the deserts of Afric, -expiring for want of water, would wish for the moment to be an inmate of -Lapland, to drink of their eternal snows,--yet at that moment wonders -how its inhabitants can live among SNOW. She saw a being far inferior to -herself in mental power,--of feelings that hardly deserved the -name--_tranquil_, and wondered that she herself was wretched.--Alas! she -did not know, that the heartless and unimaginative are those alone who -entitle themselves to the comforts of life, and who can alone enjoy -them. A cold and sluggish mediocrity in their occupations or their -amusements, is all they require--pleasure has with them no meaning but -the exemption from actual suffering, nor do they annex any idea to pain -but the immediate infliction of corporeal suffering, or of external -calamity--the source of pain or pleasure is never found in their -_hearts_--while those who have profound feelings scarce ever look -elsewhere for either. So much the worse for them,--the being reduced to -providing for the necessities of human life, and being satisfied when -that provision is made, is perhaps the best condition of human -life--beyond that, all is the dream of insanity, or the agony of -disappointment. Far better the dull and dusky winter’s day, whose gloom, -if it never abates, never increases,--(and to which we lift up an eye of -listlessness, in which there is no apprehension of future and added -terrors),--to the glorious fierceness of the summer’s day, whose sun -sets amid purple and gold,--while, panting under its parting beams, we -see the clouds collecting in the darkening East, and view the armies of -heaven on their march, whose thunders are to break our rest, and whose -lightnings may crumble us to ashes. * * * * * - -“Elinor strove hard with her fate,--the strength of her intellect had -been much developed since her residence at Mortimer Castle, and there -also the energies of her heart had been developed fatally. How dreadful -is the conflict of superior intellect and a burning heart, with the -perfect mediocrity of the characters and circumstances they are -generally doomed to live with! The battering-rams play against -wool-bags,--the lightnings glance on ice, hiss, and are extinguished. -The greater strength we exhibit, we feel we are more and more paralyzed -by the weakness of our enemies,--our very energy becomes our bitterest -enemy, as it fights in vain against the impregnable fortress of total -vacuity! It is in vain we assail a foe who neither knows our language or -uses our weapons. Elinor gave it up,--yet still she struggled with her -own feelings; and perhaps the conflict which she now undertook was the -hardest of all. She had received her first religious impressions under -the roof of her Puritanic aunt, and, true or false, they had been so -vivid, that she was anxious to revive them. When the heart is robbed of -its first-born, there is nothing it will not try to adopt. Elinor -remembered a very affecting scene that had occurred in her childhood, -beneath the roof where she now resided. - -“An old non-conformist minister, a very Saint John for sanctity of life, -and simplicity of manners, had been seized by a magistrate while giving -the word of consolation to a few of his flock who had met at the cottage -of her aunt. - -“The old man had supplicated for a moment’s delay on the part of the -civil power, and its officers, by an unusual effort of toleration or of -humanity, complied. Turning to his congregation, who, amid the tumult of -the arrest, had never risen from their knees, and only changed the voice -of supplication from praying with their pastor, to praying for him,--he -quoted to them that beautiful passage from the prophet Malachi, which -appears to give such delightful encouragement to the spiritual -intercourse of Christians,--“Then they that feared the Lord, spoke often -to one another, and the Lord heard it,” &c. As he spoke, the old man was -dragged away by some rougher hands, and died soon after in confinement. - -“On the young imagination of Elinor, this scene was indelibly written. -Amid the magnificence of Mortimer Castle, it had never been effaced or -obscured, and now she tried to make herself in love with the sounds and -the scene that had so deeply touched her infant heart. - -“Resolute in her purposes, she spared no pains to excite this -reminiscence of religion,--it was her last resource. Like the wife of -Phineas, she struggled to bear an heir of the soul, even while she named -him _Ichabod_,--and felt the glory was departed. She went to the narrow -apartment,--she seated herself in the very chair that venerable man -occupied when he was torn from it, and his departure appeared to her -like that of an ascending prophet. She would _then_ have caught the -folds of his mantle, and mounted with him, even though his flight had -led to prison and to death. She tried, by repeating his last words, to -produce the same effect they had once had on her heart, and wept in -indescribable agony at feeling those words had no meaning now for her. -When life and passion have thus rejected us, the backward steps we are -compelled to tread towards the path we have wandered from, are ten -thousand times more torturing and arduous than those we have exhausted -in their pursuit. Hope then supported our hands every step we took. -Remorse and disappointment scourge us back, and every step is tinged -with tears or with blood; and well it is for the pilgrim if that blood -is drained from his heart, for then--his pilgrimage will be sooner -terminated. * * * * * * - -“At times Elinor, who had forgotten neither the language or habits of -her former existence, would speak in a manner that gave her Puritanic -relative hopes that, according to the language of the times, “the root -of the matter was in her,”--and when the old lady, in confidence of her -returning orthodoxy, discussed long and learnedly on the election and -perseverance of the saints, the listener would startle her by a burst of -feeling, that seemed to her aunt more like the ravings of a demoniac, -than the language of a human being,--especially one who had from her -youth known the Scriptures. She would say, “Dearest aunt, I am not -insensible of what you say; from a child, (thanks to your care), I have -known the holy scriptures. I _have_ felt the power of religion. At a -latter period I have experienced all the enjoyments of an intellectual -existence. Surrounded by splendour, I have conversed with enlarged -minds,--I have seen all that life can shew me,--I have lived with the -mean and the rich,--the spiritual in their poverty, and the -worldly-minded in their grandeur,--I have deeply drank of the cup which -both modes of existence held to my lip,--and at this moment I swear to -you,--_one moment of heart_,--one dream such as once I dreamed, (and -thought I should never awake from), is worth all the existence that the -earthly-minded lavish on this world, and those who mystify expend on the -next!”--“Unfortunate wretch! and undone for everlasting!” cried the -terrified Calvinist, lifting up her hands,--“Cease, cease,” said Elinor -with that dignity which grief alone can give,--“If I have indeed devoted -to an earthly love that which is due to God alone, is not my punishment -certain in a future state? Has it not already commenced here? May not -then all reproaches be spared when we are suffering more than human -enmity can wish us,--when our very existence is a bitterer reproach to -us than malignity can utter?”--As she spoke, she added, wiping a cold -tear from her wasted cheek, “My stroke is heavier than my groaning!” - -“At other times she appeared to listen to the language of the Puritan -preachers (for all were preachers who frequented the house) with some -appearance of attention, and then, rushing from them without any -conviction but that of despair, exclaimed in her haste, “All men are -liars!” Thus it fares with those who wish to make an instant transition -from one world to another,--it is impossible,--the cold wave -interposes--for ever interposes, between the wilderness and the land of -promise--and we may as soon expect to tread the threshold which parts -life and death without pain, as to cross the interval which separates -two modes of existence so distinct as those of passion and religion, -without struggles of the soul inexpressible--without groanings which -cannot be uttered. - -“To these struggles there was soon to be an addition. Letters at this -period circulated very slowly, and were written only on important -occasions. Within a very short period, Elinor received two letters -by express from Mortimer Castle, written by her cousin Margaret. -The first announced the arrival of John Sandal at the Castle,--the -second, the death of Mrs Ann,--the postscriptums of both contained -certain mysterious hints relative to the interruption of the -marriage,--intimations that the cause was known only to the writer, -to Sandal and to his mother,--and entreaties that Elinor would return -to the Castle, and partake of the _sisterly_ love with which Margaret -and John Sandal would be glad to receive her. The letters dropt from -her hand as she received them,--of John Sandal she had never ceased to -think, but she had never ceased to wish not to think,--and his name -even now gave her a pang which she could neither utter or suppress, and -which burst forth in an involuntary shriek, that seemed like the last -string that breaks in the exquisite and too-highly strung instrument of -the human heart. - -“Over the account of Mrs Ann’s death, she lingered with that fearful -feeling that a young adventurer experiences, who sees a noble vessel set -out before him on a voyage of discovery, and wishes, while lingering in -harbour himself, that he was already at the shore where _it_ has -arrived, and tasted of its repose, and participated in its treasures. - -“Mrs Ann’s death had not been unworthy of that life of magnanimity and -high heroic feeling which had marked every hour of her mortal -existence--she had espoused the cause of the rejected Elinor, and sworn -in the chapel of Mortimer Castle, while Margaret knelt beside, never to -admit within its walls the deserter of his betrothed bride. - -“On a dim autumnal evening, when Mrs Ann, with fading sight but -undiminished feeling, was poring over some of Lady Russel’s letters in -manuscript, and, to relieve her eyes, sometimes glanced on the -manuscript of Nelson’s Fasts and Festivals of the Church of England,--it -was announced to her that a Cavalier (the servants well knew the charm -of that name to the ear of the ancient loyalist) had crossed the -draw-bridge, entered the hall, and was advancing to the apartment where -she sat. “Let him be admitted,” was her answer, and rising from her -chair, which was so lofty and so spacious, that as she lifted herself -from it to greet the stranger with a courtly reception, her form -appeared like a spectre rising from an ancient monument,--she stood -facing the entrance--at that entrance appeared John Sandal. She bent -forwards for a moment, but her eyes, bright and piercing, still -recognized him in a moment. - -“Back!--back!”--exclaimed the stately ancestress, waving him -off with her withered hand--“Back!--profane not this floor with -another step!”--“Hear me, madam, for one moment--suffer me to -address you, even on my knees--I pay the homage to your rank and -relationship--misunderstand it not as an acknowledgement of guilt on my -part!” - -“Mrs Ann’s features at this action underwent a slight contraction--a -short spasmodic affection. “Rise, Sir--rise,” she said--“and say what -you have to say--but utter it, Sir, at the door whose threshold you are -unworthy to tread.” - -“John Sandal rose from his knees, and pointed instinctively as he rose -to the portrait of Sir Roger Mortimer, to whom he bore a striking -resemblance. Mrs Ann acknowledged the appeal--she advanced a few steps -on the oaken floor--she stood erect for a moment, and then, pointing -with a dignity of action which no pencil could embody to the portrait, -seemed to consider her attitude as a valid and eloquent answer--it -said--he to whose resemblance you point, and claim protection from, -never like you dishonoured these walls by an act of baseness--of -heartless treachery! Betrayer!--look to his portrait! Her expression had -in it something of the sublime--the next moment a strong spasm -contracted her features--she attempted to speak, but her lips no longer -obeyed her--she seemed to speak, but was not heard even by herself. She -stood for a moment before John Sandal in that rigid immoveable attitude -that says, “Advance not another step at your peril--insult not the -portraits of your ancestors--insult not their living representative, by -another step of intrusion!” As she spoke thus, (for her attitude spoke), -a stronger spasm contracted her features. She attempted to move--the -same rigid constriction extended to her limbs; and, waving her -prohibitory arm still, as if in defiance at once of the approach of -death and of her rejected kinsman, she dropt at his feet. * * * * * * - -“She did not long survive the interview, nor did she ever recover the -use of speech. Her powerful intellect was, however, unimpaired; and to -the last she expressed herself most intelligibly by action, as -determined not to hear a word explanatory of Sandal’s conduct. This -explanation was therefore made to Margaret, who, though much shocked and -agitated at the first disclosure, seemed afterwards perfectly reconciled -to it. * * * * * * * * - -“Shortly after the receipt of these letters, Elinor took a sudden, but -perhaps not singular resolution,--she determined to set out immediately -for Mortimer Castle. It was not her weariness of the withering life, the -αβιωτος βιος she lived at her Puritanic aunt’s--it was not the wish -to enjoy again the stately and splendid ceremonial of Mortimer Castle, -contrasted with the frugal fare and monastic rigour of the cottage in -Yorkshire--it was not even the wish for that change of place that -always flatters us with change of circumstance, as if we did not carry -our own hearts with us wherever we go, and might not therefore be sure -that an innate and eroding ulcer must be our companion from the Pole to -the Equator--it was not this, but a whisper half unheard, yet believed, -(just in proportion as it was inaudible and incredible), that murmured -from the bottom of her credulous heart, ‘Go--and _perhaps_’-- - -“Elinor set out on her journey, and after having performed it with fewer -difficulties than can be imagined, considering the state of the roads, -and the modes of travelling in the year 1667 or thereabouts, she arrived -in the vicinity of Mortimer Castle. It was a scene of reminiscence to -her,--her heart throbbed audibly as the carriage stopped at a Gothic -gate, through which there was a walk between two rows of lofty elms. She -alighted, and to the request of the servant who followed her, that he -might be permitted to shew her the way through a path entangled by the -intersecting roots of the trees, and dim with twilight, she answered -only by her tears. She waved him off, and advanced on foot and alone. -She remembered, from the bottom of her soul, how she had once wandered -amid that very grove with John Sandal--how his smile had shed a richer -light on the landscape, than even the purple smile of the dying -day-light. She thought of that smile, and lingered to catch it amid the -rich and burning hues flung by the fading light on the many-tinted boles -of the ancient trees. The trees were there--and the light was there--but -his smile, that once eclipsed the sun-light, was there no longer! - -“She advanced alone--the lofty avenue of trees still retained its -magnificent depth of shade, and gorgeous colouring of trunk and leaf. -She sought among them for that which she had once felt--and God and -nature alone are conscious of the agony with which we demand from them -the object which we are conscious was once consecrated to our hearts, -and which we now require of both in vain! God withholds,--and Nature -denies them! - -“As Elinor with trembling steps advanced towards the Castle, she saw the -funeral scutcheon which Mrs Margaret, in honour of her grand-aunt, had -caused to be affixed over the principal tower since her decease, with -the same heraldric decorum as if the last male of the Mortimer family -were extinct. Elinor looked up, and many thoughts rushed on her -heart.--“There is one departed,” she thought, “whose mind was always -fixed on glorious thoughts--the most exalted actions of humanity, or the -sublime associations of eternity! Her noble heart had room but for two -illustrious guests--the love of God, and the love of her country. They -tarried with her to the last, for they found the abode worthy of them; -and when they parted, the inmate found the mansion untenantable any -longer--the soul fled with its glorious visitors to heaven! My -treacherous heart welcomed another inmate, and how has he repaid its -hospitality?--By leaving the mansion in ruins!” As she spoke thus, she -approached the entrance of the Castle. - -“In the spacious hall she was received by Margaret Mortimer with the -embrace of rooted affection, and by John Sandal, who advanced after the -first enthusiasm of meeting was over, with that calm and brother-like -good-will, from which there was--nothing to be hoped. There was the same -heavenly smile, the same clasp of the hand, the same tender and almost -feminine expression of anxiety for her safety--even Margaret herself, -who must have felt, and who did feel the perils of the long journey, did -not enter into them with that circumstantiality, or appear to sympathize -with them so vividly, or, when the tale of toil and travel was told, -appear to urge the necessity of speedy retirement, with such solicitude -as did John Sandal. Elinor, faint and gasping, grasped the hands of -both, and by an involuntary motion locked both together. The widow -Sandal was present--she shewed much agitation at the appearance of -Elinor; but when she saw this extraordinary and spontaneous movement, it -was observed she smiled. - -“Soon after, Elinor retired to the apartment she had formerly occupied. -By the affectionate and delicate prevoyance of Margaret, the furniture -had all been changed--there was nothing to remind her of former days, -except her heart. She sat for some time reflecting on her reception, and -hope died within her heart as she thought of it. The strongest -expression of aversion or disdain would not have been so withering. - -“It is certain that the fiercest passions may be exchanged for their -widest extremes in a time incredibly short, and by means the most -incalculable. Within the narrow circle of a day, enemies may embrace, -and lovers may hate,--but, in the course of centuries, pure complacency -and cordial good-will never can be exalted into passion. The wretched -Elinor felt this,--and feeling it, knew that all was lost. - -“She had now, for many days, to undergo the torture of complacent and -fraternal affection from the man she loved,--and perhaps a keener -torture was never endured. To feel hands that we long to press to our -burning hearts, touch ours with cool and pulseless tranquillity--to see -eyes in whose light we live, throw on us a cold but smiling beam, that -gives light, but not fertility, to the parched and thirsting soil of the -heart--to hear the ordinary language of affectionate civility addressed -to us in tones of the most delicious suavity--to seek in these -expressions an ulterior meaning, and to find it not---- This--this is an -agony which only those who have felt can conceive! - -“Elinor, with an effort that cost her heart many a pang, mingled in the -habits of the house, which had been greatly changed since the death of -Mrs Ann. The numerous suitors of the wealthy and noble heiress, now -crowded to the Castle; and, according to the custom of the times, they -were sumptuously entertained, and invited to prolong their stay by -numerous banquets. - -“On these occasions, John Sandal was the first to pay distinguished -attention to Elinor. They danced together; and though her Puritanic -education had taught her an abhorrence of those “devil’s measures,” as -her family was accustomed to term them, she tried to adapt herself to -the gay steps of the Canaries(9), and the stately movements of the -Measures--(for the newer dances had not, even in report, reached -Mortimer Castle)--and her slender and graceful form needed no other -inspiration than the support of John Sandal’s arms, (who was himself an -exquisite dancer), to assume all the graces of that delightful exercise. -Even the practised courtiers applauded her. But, when it was over, -Elinor felt, that had John Sandal been dancing with a being the most -indifferent to him on earth, his manner would have been exactly the -same. No one could point with more smiling grace to her slight -deviations from the figure,--no one could attend her to her seat with -more tender and anxious politeness, and wave the vast fan of those days -over her with more graceful and assiduous courtesy. But Elinor felt that -these attentions, however flattering, were offered not by a lover. * * * -* * * * * * - - (9) In Cowley’s “Cutter of Coleman Street,” Mrs Tabitha, a rigid - Puritan, tells her husband she had danced the Canaries in her youth. - And in Rushworth’s Collections, if I remember right, Prynne vindicates - himself from the charge of a general denunciation against dancing, and - even speaks of the “Measures,” a stately, solemn dance, with some - approbation. - -“Sandal was absent on a visit to some neighbouring nobleman, and -Margaret and Elinor were one evening completely alone. Each seemed -equally anxious for an explanation, which neither appeared willing to -begin. Elinor had lingered till twilight at the casement, from which she -had seen him ride, and lingered still when to see him was no longer -possible. Her sight was strained to catch a glimpse of him through the -gathering clouds, as her imagination still toiled to catch a gleam of -that light of the heart, which now struggled dimly amid clouds of gloomy -and unpierceable mystery. “Elinor,” said Margaret emphatically, “look -for him no longer,--he never can be yours!” - -“The sudden address, and the imperative tone of conviction, had upon -Elinor the effect of being addressed by a supernatural monitor. She was -unable even to ask how the terrible intelligence that burst on her so -decisively, was obtained. - -“There is a state of mind in which we listen thus to a human voice as if -it were an oracle,--and instead of asking an explanation of the destiny -it announces, we wait submissively for what yet remains to be told. In -this mood, Elinor slowly advanced from the casement, and asked in a -voice of fearful calmness, “Has he explained himself perfectly to -you?”--“Perfectly.”--“And there is nothing to expect?”--“Nothing.”--“And -you have heard this from himself--his very self?”--“I have; and, dear -Elinor, let us never again speak on the subject.”--“Never!” answered -Elinor,--“Never!” - -“The veracity and dignity of Margaret’s character, were inviolable -securities for the truth of what she uttered; and perhaps that was the -very reason why Elinor tried to shrink most from the conviction. In a -morbid state of heart, we cannot bear truth--the falsehood that -intoxicates us for a moment, is worth more than the truth that would -disenchant us for life.--_I hate him because he tells me the truth_, is -the language natural to the human mind, from the slave of power to the -slave of passion. * * * * * * * * - -“Other symptoms that could not escape the notice of the most shallow, -struck her every hour. That devotion of the eye and heart,--of the -language and the look, that cannot be mistaken,--were all obviously -directed to Margaret. Still Elinor lingered in the Castle, and said to -herself, while every day she saw and felt what was passing, “Perhaps.” -That is the last word that quits the lips of those who love. * * * * * * - -“She saw with all her eyes,--she felt to the bottom of her soul,--the -obviously increasing attachment of John Sandal and Margaret; yet still -she dreamed of interposing obstacles,--of _an explanation_. When passion -is deprived of its proper aliment, there is no telling the food on which -it will prey,--the impossibilities to which, like a famished garrison, -it will look for its wretched sustenance. - -“Elinor had ceased to demand the heart of the being she was devoted to. -She now lived on his looks. She said to herself, Let him smile, though -not on me, and I am happy still--wherever the sun-light falls, the earth -must be blessed. Then she sunk to lower claims. She said, Let me but be -in his presence, and that is enough--let his smiles and his soul be -devoted to another, one wandering ray may reach me, and that will be -enough! - -“Love is a very noble and exalting sentiment in its first germ and -principle. We never loved without arraying the object in all the glories -of moral as well as physical perfection, and deriving a kind of dignity -to ourselves from our capacity of admiring a creature so excellent and -dignified; but this lavish and magnificent prodigality of the -imagination often leaves the heart a bankrupt. Love in its iron age of -disappointment, becomes very degraded--it submits to be satisfied with -merely exterior indulgences--a look, a touch of the hand, though -occurring by accident--a kind word, though uttered almost unconsciously, -suffices for its humble existence. In its first state, it is like man -before the fall, inhaling the odours of paradise, and enjoying the -communion of the Deity; in the latter, it is like the same being toiling -amid the briar and the thistle, barely to maintain a squalid existence -without enjoyment, utility, or loveliness. * * * * * * - -“About this time, her Puritan aunt made a strong effort to recover -Elinor out of the snare of the enemy. She wrote a long letter (a great -exertion for a woman far advanced in years, and never in the habits of -epistolary composition) adjuring her apostate niece to return to the -guide of her youth, and the covenant of her God,--to take shelter in the -everlasting arms while they were still held out to her,--and to flee to -the city of refuge while its gates were yet open to receive her. She -urged on her the truth, power, and blessedness of the system of Calvin, -which she termed the gospel.--She supported and defended it with all the -metaphysical skill, and all the scriptural knowledge she possessed,--and -the latter was not scanty.--And she affectingly reminded her, that the -hand that traced these lines, would be unable ever to repeat the -admonition, and would probably be mouldering into dust while she was -employed in their perusal. - -“Elinor wept while she read, but that was all. She wept from physical -emotion, not from mental conviction; nor is there such an induration of -heart caused by any other power, as by that of the passion which seems -to soften it most. She answered the letter, however, and the effort -scarce cost her less than it did her decrepid and dying relative. She -acknowledged her dereliction of all religious feeling, and bewailed -it--the more, she added with painful sincerity, because I _feel my grief -is not sincere_. “Oh, my God!” she continued, “you who have clothed my -heart with such burning energies--you who have given to it a power of -loving so intense, so devoted, so concentrated--you have not given it in -vain;--no, in some happier world, or perhaps even in this, when this -“tyranny is overpast,” you will fill my heart with an image worthier -than him whom I once believed your image on earth. The stars, though -their light appears so dim and distant to us, were not lit by the -Almighty hand in vain. Their glorious light burns for remote and happier -worlds; and the beam of religion that glows so feebly to eyes almost -blind with earthly tears, may be rekindled when a broken heart has been -my passport to a place of rest. * * * * * * * * - -“Do not think me, dear aunt, deserted by all hope of religion, even -though I have lost the sense of it. Was it not said by unerring lips to -a sinner, that her transgressions were forgiven because she _loved -much_? And does not this capacity of love prove that it will one day be -more worthily filled, and more happily employed. * * * * * * - -“Miserable wretch that I am! At this moment, a voice from the bottom of -my heart asks me “_Whom_ hast thou loved so much? Was it man or God, -that thou darest to compare thyself with her who knelt and wept--not -before a mortal idol, but at the feet of an incarnate divinity?” * * * * -* * - -“It may yet befall, that the ark which has floated through the waste of -waters may find its resting-place, and the trembling inmate debark on -the shores of an unknown but purer world.” * * * * * * * * - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - There is an oak beside the froth-clad pool, - Where in old time, as I have often heard, - A woman desperate, a wretch like me, - Ended her woes!--Her woes were not like mine! - - * * * * * - - ----------------Ronan will know; - When he beholds me floating on the stream, - His heart will tell him why Rivine died! - - HOME’S FATAL DISCOVERY. - - -“The increasing decline of Elinor’s health was marked by all the family; -the very servant who stood behind her chair looked sadder every -day--even Margaret began to repent of the invitation she had given her -to the Castle. - -“Elinor felt this, and would have spared her what pain she could; but it -was not possible for herself to be insensible of the fast-fading remains -of her withering youth and blighted beauty. The place--the place itself, -was the principal cause of that mortal disease that was consuming her; -yet from that place she felt she had less resolution to tear herself -every day. So she lived, like those sufferers in eastern prisons, who -are not allowed to taste food unless mixed with poison, and who must -perish alike whether they eat or forbear. - -“Once, urged by intolerable pain of heart, (tortured by living in the -placid light of John Sandal’s sunny smile), she confessed this to -Margaret. She said, “It is impossible for me to support this -existence--impossible! To tread the floor which those steps have -trod--to listen for their approach, and when they come, feel they do not -bear him we seek--to see every object around me reflect his image, but -never--never to see the reality--to see the door open which once -disclosed his figure, and when it opens, not to see _him_, and when he -does appear, to see him not what he was--to feel he is the same and not -the same,--the same to the eye, but not to the heart--to struggle thus -between the dream of imagination and the cruel awaking of reality--Oh! -Margaret--that undeception plants a dagger in the heart, whose point no -human hand can extract, and whose venom no human hand can heal!” -Margaret wept as Elinor spoke thus, and slowly, very slowly, expressed -her consent that Elinor should quit the Castle, if it was necessary for -her peace. - -“It was the very evening after this conversation, that Elinor, whose -habit was to wander among the woods that surrounded the Castle -unattended, met with John Sandal. It was a glorious autumnal evening, -just like that on which they had first met,--the associations of nature -were the same, those of the heart alone had suffered change. There is -that light in an autumnal sky,--that shade in autumnal woods,--that dim -and hallowed glory in the evening of the year, which is indefinably -combined with recollections. Sandal, as they met, had spoken to her in -the same voice of melody, and with the same heart-thrilling tenderness -of manner, that had never ceased to visit her ear since their first -meeting, like music in dreams. She imagined there was more than usual -feeling in his manner; and the spot where they were, and which memory -made populous and eloquent with the imagery and speech of other days, -flattered this illusion. A vague hope trembled at the bottom of her -heart,--she thought of what she dared not to utter, and yet dared to -believe. They walked on together,--together they watched the last light -on the purple hills, the deep repose of the woods, whose summits were -still like “feathers of gold,”--together they once more tasted the -confidence of nature, and, amid the most perfect silence, there was a -mutual and unutterable eloquence in their hearts. The thoughts of other -days rushed on Elinor,--she ventured to raise her eyes to that -countenance which she once more saw “as it had been that of an angel.” -The glow and the smile, that made it appear like a reflexion of heaven, -were there still,--but that glow was borrowed from the bright flush of -the glorious west, and that smile was for nature,--not for her. She -lingered till she felt it fade with the fading light,--and a _last_ -conviction striking her heart, she burst into an agony of tears. To his -words of affectionate surprise, and gentle consolation, she answered -only by fixing her appealing eyes on him, and agonizingly invoking his -name. She had trusted to nature, and to this scene of their first -meeting, to act as an interpreter between them,--and still even in -despair she trusted to it. - -“Perhaps there is not a more agonizing moment than that in which we feel -the aspect of nature give a perfect vitality to the associations of -_our_ hearts, while they lie buried in those in which we try _in vain to -revive them_. - -“She was soon undeceived. With that benignity which, while it speaks of -consolation, forbids hope--with that smile which angels may be supposed -to give on the last conflict of a sufferer who is casting off the -garments of mortality in pain and hope--with such an expression he whom -she loved regarded her. From another world he might have cast such a -glance on her,--and it sealed her doom in this for ever. * * * * * * * - -“As, unable to witness the agony of the wound he had inflicted but could -not heal, he turned from her, the last light of day faded from the -hills--the sun of both worlds set on her eye and soul--she sunk on the -earth, and notes of faint music that seemed designed to echo the -words--“No--no--no--never--never more!” trembled in her ears. They were -as simple and monotonous as the words themselves, and were played -accidentally by a peasant boy who was wandering in the woods. But to the -unfortunate, every thing seems prophetic; and amid the shades of -evening, and accompanied by the sound of his departing footsteps, the -breaking heart of Elinor accepted the augury of these melancholy -notes(10). * * * * * * * * * - - (10) As this whole scene is taken from fact, I subjoin the notes whose - modulation is so simple, and whose effect was so profound. - - [Music] - -“A few days after this final meeting, Elinor wrote to her aunt in York -to announce, that if she still lived, and was not unwilling to admit -her, she would reside with her for life; and she could not help -intimating, that _her_ life would probably not outlast that of her -hostess. She did not tell what the widow Sandal had whispered to her at -her first arrival at the Castle, and what she now ventured to repeat -with a tone that struggled between the imperative and the -persuasive,--the conciliating and the intimidative. Elinor yielded,--and -the indelicacy of this representation, had only the effect to make her -shrink from its repetition. - -“On her departure, Margaret wept, and Sandal shewed as much tender -officiousness about her journey, as if it were to terminate in their -renewed bridal. To escape from this, Elinor hastened her preparations -for departure. - -“When she arrived at a certain distance from the Castle, she dismissed -the family carriage, and said she would go on foot with her female -servant to the farmhouse where horses were awaiting her. She went there, -but remained concealed, for the report of the approaching bridal -resounded in her ears. * * * * * * * - -“The day arrived--Elinor rose very early--the bells rung out a merry -peal--(as she had once heard them do on another occasion)--the troops of -friends arrived in greater numbers, and with equal gaiety as they had -once assembled to escort her--she saw their equipages gleaming -along--she heard the joyous shouts of half the county--she imagined to -herself the timid smile of Margaret, and the irradiated countenance of -him who had been _her_ bridegroom. - -“Suddenly there was a pause. She felt that the ceremony was going -on--was finished--that the irrevocable words were spoken--the -indissoluble tie was knit! Again the shout and wild joyance burst forth -as the sumptuous cavalcade returned to the Castle. The glare of the -equipages,--the splendid habits of the riders,--the cheerful groupe of -shouting tenantry,----she saw it all! * * * * * * * * * * - -“When all was over, Elinor glanced accidentally at her dress--it was -white like her bridal habit;--shuddering she exchanged it for a mourning -habit, and set out, as she hoped, on her last journey. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - Fuimus, non sumus. - - -“When Elinor arrived in Yorkshire, she found her aunt was dead. Elinor -went to visit her grave. It was, in compliance with her last request, -placed near the window of the independent meeting-house, and bore for -inscription her favourite text, “Those whom he foreknew, he also -predestinated,” &c. &c. Elinor stood by the grave some time, but could -not shed a tear. This contrast of a life so rigid, and a death so -hopeful,--this silence of humanity, and eloquence of the grave,--pierced -through her heart, as it will through every heart that has indulged in -the inebriation of human passion, and feels that the draught has been -drawn from broken cisterns. - -“Her aunt’s death made Elinor’s life, if possible, more secluded, and -her habits more monotonous than they would otherwise have been. She was -very charitable to the cottagers in her neighbourhood; but except to -visit their habitations, she never quitted her own. * * * * * * * * - -“Often she contemplated a small stream that flowed at the end of her -garden. As she had lost all her sensibility of nature, another motive -was assigned for this mute and dark contemplation; and her servant, much -attached to her, watched her closely. * * * * * * * * * - -“She was roused from this fearful state of stupefaction and despair, -which those who have felt shudder at the attempt to describe, by a -letter from Margaret. She had received several from her which lay -unanswered, (no unusual thing in those days), but this she tore open, -read with interest inconceivable, and prepared instantly to answer by -action. - -“Margaret’s high spirits seemed to have sunk in her hour of danger. She -hinted that that hour was rapidly approaching, and that she earnestly -implored the presence of her affectionate kinswoman to soothe and -sustain in the moment of her approaching peril. She added, that the -manly and affectionate tenderness of John Sandal at this period, had -touched her heart more deeply, if possible, than all the former -testimonies of his affection--but that she could not bear his -resignation of all his usual habits of rural amusement, and of the -neighbouring society--that she in vain had chided him from her couch, -where she lingered in pain and hope, and hoped that Elinor’s presence -might induce him to yield to her request, as he must feel, on her -arrival, the dearest companion of her youth was present--and that, at -such a moment, a female companion was more suitable than even the -gentlest and most affectionate of the other sex. * * * * * * * - -“Elinor set out directly. The purity of her feelings had formed an -impenetrable barrier between her heart and its object,--and she -apprehended no more danger from the presence of one who was wedded, and -wedded to her relative, than from that of her own brother. - -“She arrived at the Castle--Margaret’s hour of danger had begun--she had -been very ill during the preceding period. The natural consequences of -her situation had been aggravated by a feeling of dignified -responsibility on the birth of an heir to the house of Mortimer--and -this feeling had not contributed to render that situation more -supportable. - -“Elinor bent over the bed of pain--pressed her cold lips to the burning -lips of the sufferer--and prayed for her. - -“The first medical assistance in the country (then very rarely employed -on such occasions) had been obtained at a vast expence. The widow -Sandal, declining all attendance on the sufferer, paced through the -adjacent apartments in agony unutterable and _unuttered_. - -“Two days and nights went on in hope and terror--the bell-ringers sat up -in every church within ten miles round--the tenantry crowded round the -Castle with honest heartfelt solicitude--the neighbouring nobility sent -their messages of inquiry every hour. An accouchement in a noble family -was then an event of importance. - -“The hour came--twins were born dead--and the young mother was fated to -follow them within a few hours! While life yet remained, Margaret shewed -the remains of the lofty spirit of the Mortimers. She sought with her -cold hand that of her wretched husband and of the weeping Elinor. She -joined them in an embrace which one of them at least understood, and -prayed that their union might be eternal. She then begged to see the -bodies of her infant sons--they were produced; and it was said that she -uttered expressions, intimating that, had they not been the heirs of the -Mortimer family--had not expectation been wound so high, and supported -by all the hopes that life and youth could flatter her with,--she and -they might yet have existed. - -“As she spoke, her voice grew feebler, and her eyes dim--their last -light was turned on him she loved; and when sight was gone, she still -felt his arms enfold her. The next moment they enfolded--nothing! - -“In the terrible spasms of masculine agony--the more intensely felt as -they are more rarely indulged--the young widower dashed himself on the -bed, which shook with his convulsive grief; and Elinor, losing all sense -but that of a calamity so sudden and so terrible, echoed his deep and -suffocating sobs, as if she whom they deplored had not been the only -obstacle to her happiness. * * * * * * * * - -“Amid the voice of mourning that rung through the Castle from vault to -tower in that day of trouble, none was loud like that of the widow -Sandal--her wailings were shrieks, her grief was despair. Rushing -through the rooms like one distracted, she tore her hair out by the -roots, and imprecated the most fearful curses on her head. At length she -approached the apartment where the corse lay. The servants, shocked at -her distraction, would have withheld her from entering it, but could -not. She burst into the room, cast one wild look on its inmates--the -still corse and the dumb mourners--and then, flinging herself on her -knees before her son, confessed the secret of her guilt, and developed -to its foul base the foundation of that pile of iniquity and sorrow -which had now reached its summit. - -“Her son listened to this horrible confession with fixed eye and -features unmoved; and at its conclusion, when the wretched penitent -implored the assistance of her son to raise her from her knees, he -repelled her outstretched hands, and with a weak wild laugh, sunk back -on the bed. He never could be removed from it till the corse to which he -clung was borne away, and then the mourners hardly knew which to -deplore--her who was deprived of the light of life, or him in whom the -light of reason was extinguished for ever! * * * * * - -“The wretched, guilty mother, (but for her fate no one can be -solicitous), a few months after, on her dying bed, declared the secret -of her crime to a minister of an independent congregation, who was -induced, by the report of her despair, to visit her. She confessed that, -being instigated by avarice, and still more by the desire of regaining -her lost consequence in the family, and knowing the wealth and dignity -her son would acquire, and in which she must participate, by his -marriage with Margaret, she had, after using all the means of persuasion -and intreaty, been driven, in despair at her disappointment, to -fabricate a tale as false as it was horrible, which she related to her -deluded son on the evening before his intended nuptials with Elinor. She -had assured him he was not her son, but the offspring of the illicit -commerce of her husband the preacher with the Puritan mother of Elinor, -who had formerly been one of his congregation, and whose well-known and -strongly-expressed admiration of his preaching had been once supposed -extended to his person,--had caused her much jealous anxiety in the -early years of their marriage, and was now made the basis of this -horrible fiction. She added, that Margaret’s obvious attachment to her -cousin had, in some degree, palliated her guilt to herself; but that, -when she saw him quit her house in despair on the morning of his -intended marriage, and rush he knew not whither, she was half tempted to -recall him, and confess the truth. Her mind again became hardened, and -she reflected that her secret was safe, as she had bound him by an oath, -from respect to his father’s memory, and compassion to the guilty mother -of Elinor, never to disclose the truth to her daughter. - -“The event had succeeded to her guilty wishes.--Sandal beheld Elinor -with the eyes of a brother, and the image of Margaret easily found a -place in his unoccupied affections. But, as often befals to the dealers -in falsehood and obliquity, the apparent accomplishment of her hopes -proved her ruin. In the event of the marriage of John and Margaret -proving issueless, the estates and title went to the distant relative -named in the will; and her son, deprived of reason by the calamities in -which her arts had involved him, was by them also deprived of the wealth -and rank to which they were meant to raise him, and reduced to the small -pension obtained by his former services,--the poverty of the King, then -himself a pensioner of Lewis XIV., forbidding the possibility of added -remuneration. When the minister heard to the last the terrible -confession of the dying penitent, in the awful language ascribed to -Bishop Burnet when consulted by another criminal,--he bid her “almost -despair,” and departed. * * * * * * * - -“Elinor has retired, with the helpless object of her unfading love and -unceasing care, to her cottage in Yorkshire. There, in the language of -that divine and blind old man, the fame of whose poetry has not yet -reached this country, it is - - “Her delight to see him sitting in the house,” - -and watch, like the father of the Jewish champion, the growth of that -“God-given strength,” that intellectual power, which, unlike Samson’s, -will never return. - -“After an interval of two years, during which she had expended a large -part of the capital of her fortune in obtaining the first medical advice -for the patient, and “suffered many things of many physicians,” she gave -up all hope,--and, reflecting that the interest of her fortune thus -diminished would be but sufficient to procure the comforts of life for -herself and him whom she has resolved never to forsake, she sat down in -patient misery with her melancholy companion, and added one more to the -many proofs of woman’s heart, “unwearied in well-doing,” without the -intoxication of passion, the excitement of applause, or even the -gratitude of the unconscious object. - -“Were this a life of calm privation, and pulseless apathy, her efforts -would scarce have merit, and her sufferings hardly demand compassion; -but it is one of pain incessant and immitigable. The first-born of her -heart lies dead within it; but that heart is still alive with all its -keenest sensibilities, its most vivid hopes, and its most exquisite -sense of grief. * * * * * * * - -“She sits beside him all day--she watches that eye whose light was life, -and sees it fixed on her in glassy and unmeaning complacency--she dreams -of that smile which burst on her soul like the morning sun over a -landscape in spring, and sees that smile of vacancy which tries to -convey satisfaction, but cannot give it the language of expression. -Averting her head, she thinks of other days. A vision passes before -her.--Lovely and glorious things, the hues of whose colouring are not of -this world, and whose web is too fine to be woven in the loom of -life,--rise to her eye like the illusions of enchantment. A strain of -rich remembered music floats in her hearing--she dreams of the hero, the -lover, the beloved,--him in whom were united all that could dazzle the -eye, inebriate the imagination, and melt the heart. She sees him as he -first appeared to her,--and the mirage of the desert present not a -vision more delicious and deceptive--she bends to drink of that false -fountain, and the stream disappears--she starts from her reverie, and -hears the weak laugh of the sufferer, as he moves a little water in a -shell, and imagines he sees the ocean in a storm! * * * * * * * * * - -“She has one consolation. When a short interval of recollection -returns,--when his speech becomes articulate,--he utters _her_ name, not -that of Margaret, and a beam of early hope dances on her heart as she -hears it, but fades away as fast as the rare and wandering ray of -intellect from the lost mind of the sufferer! * * * * * * - -“Unceasingly attentive to his health and his comforts, she walked out -with him every evening, but led him through the most sequestered paths, -to avoid those whose mockful persecution, or whose vacant pity, might be -equally torturing to her feelings, or harassing to her still gentle and -smiling companion. - -“It was at this period,” said the stranger to Aliaga, “I first became -acquainted with---- I mean--at this time a stranger, who had taken up -his abode near the hamlet where Elinor resided, was seen to watch the -two figures as they passed slowly on their retired walk. Evening after -evening he watched them. He knew the history of these two unhappy -beings, and prepared himself to take advantage of it. It was impossible, -considering their secluded mode of existence, to obtain an introduction. -He tried to recommend himself by his occasional attentions to the -invalid--he sometimes picked up the flowers that an unconscious hand -flung into the stream, and listened, with a gracious smile, to the -indistinct sounds in which the sufferer, who still retained all the -graciousness of his perished mind, attempted to thank him. - -“Elinor felt grateful for these occasional attentions; but she was -somewhat alarmed at the assiduity with which the stranger attended their -melancholy walk every evening,--and, whether encouraged, neglected, or -even repelled, still found the means of insinuating himself into -companionship. Even the mournful dignity of Elinor’s demeanour,--her -deep dejection,--her bows or brief replies,--were unavailing against the -gentle but indefatigable importunity of the intruder. - -“By degrees he ventured to speak to her of her misfortunes,--and that -topic is a sure key to the confidence of the unhappy. Elinor began to -listen to him;--and, though somewhat amazed at the knowledge he -displayed of every circumstance of her life, she could not but feel -soothed by the tone of sympathy in which he spoke, and excited by the -mysterious hints of hope which he sometimes suffered to escape him as if -involuntarily. It was observed soon by the inmates of the hamlet, whom -idleness and the want of any object of excitement had made curious, that -Elinor and the stranger were inseparable in their evening walks. * * * * -* * * - -“It was about a fortnight after this observation was first made, that -Elinor, unattended, drenched with rain, and her head uncovered, loudly -and eagerly demanded admittance, at a late hour, at the house of a -neighbouring clergyman. She was admitted,--and the surprise of her -reverend host at this visit, equally unseasonable and unexpected, was -exchanged for a deeper feeling of wonder and terror as she related the -cause of it. He at first imagined (knowing her unhappy situation) that -the constant presence of an insane person might have a contagious effect -on the intellects of one so perseveringly exposed to that presence. - -“As Elinor, however, proceeded to disclose the awful proposal, and the -scarcely less awful name of the unholy intruder, the clergyman betrayed -considerable emotion; and, after a long pause, desired permission to -accompany her on their next meeting. This was to be the following -evening, for the stranger was unremitting in his attendance on her -lonely walks. - -“It is necessary to mention, that this clergyman had been for some years -abroad--that events had occurred to him in foreign countries, of which -strange reports were spread, but on the subject of which he had been -always profoundly silent--and that having but lately fixed his residence -in the neighbourhood, he was equally a stranger to Elinor, and to the -circumstances of her past life, and of her present situation. * * * * * -* * * * - -“It was now autumn,--the evenings were growing short,--and the brief -twilight was rapidly succeeded by night. On the dubious verge of both, -the clergyman quitted his house, and went in the direction where Elinor -told him she was accustomed to meet the stranger. - -“They were there before him; and in the shuddering and averted form of -Elinor, and the stern but calm importunity of her companion, he read the -terrible secret of their conference. Suddenly he advanced and stood -before the stranger. They immediately recognised each other. An -expression that was never before beheld there--an expression of -fear--wandered over the features of the stranger! He paused for a -moment, and then departed without uttering a word--nor was Elinor ever -again molested by his presence. * * * * * - -“It was some days before the clergyman recovered from the shock of this -singular encounter sufficiently to see Elinor, and explain to her the -cause of his deep and painful agitation. - -“He sent to announce to her when he was able to receive her, and -appointed the night for the time of meeting, for he knew that during the -day she never forsook the helpless object of her unalienated heart. The -night arrived--imagine them seated in the antique study of the -clergyman, whose shelves were filled with the ponderous volumes of -ancient learning--the embers of a peat fire shed a dim and fitful light -through the room, and the single candle that burned on a distant oaken -stand, seemed to shed its light on that alone--not a ray fell on the -figures of Elinor and her companion, as they sat in their massive chairs -of carved-like figures in the richly-wrought nitches of some Catholic -place of worship----” - -“That is a most profane and abominable comparison,” said Aliaga, -starting from the doze in which he had frequently indulged during this -long narrative. - -“But hear the result,” said the pertinacious narrator. “The clergyman -confessed to Elinor that he had been acquainted with an Irishman of the -name of Melmoth, whose various erudition, profound intellect, and -intense appetency for information, had interested him so deeply as to -lead to a perfect intimacy between them. At the breaking out of the -troubles in England, the clergyman had been compelled, with his father’s -family, to seek refuge in Holland. There again he met Melmoth, who -proposed to him a journey to Poland--the offer was accepted, and to -Poland they went. The clergyman here told many extraordinary tales of Dr -Dee, and of Albert Alasco, the Polish adventurer, who were their -companions both in England and Poland--and he added, that he felt his -companion Melmoth was irrevocably attached to the study of that art -which is held in just abomination by all “who name the name of Christ.” -The power of the intellectual vessel was too great for the narrow seas -where it was coasting--it longed to set out on a voyage of discovery--in -other words, Melmoth attached himself to those impostors, or worse, who -promised him the knowledge and the power of the future world--on -conditions that are unutterable.” A strange expression crossed his face -as he spoke. He recovered himself, and added, “From that hour our -intercourse ceased. I conceived of him as of one given up to diabolical -delusions--to the power of the enemy. - -“I had not seen Melmoth for some years. I was preparing to quit Germany, -when, on the eve of my departure, I received a message from a person who -announced himself as my friend, and who, believing himself dying, wished -for the attendance of a Protestant minister. We were then in the -territories of a Catholic electoral bishop. I lost no time in attending -the sick person. As I entered his room, conducted by a servant, who -immediately closed the door and retired, I was astonished to see the -room filled with an astrological apparatus, books and implements of a -science I did not understand; in a corner there was a bed, near which -there was neither priest or physician, relative or friend--on it lay -extended the form of Melmoth. I approached, and attempted to address to -him some words of consolation. He waved his hand to me to be silent--and -I was so. The recollection of his former habits and pursuits, and the -view of his present situation, had an effect that appalled more than it -amazed me. “Come near,” said Melmoth, speaking very faintly--“nearer. I -am dying--how my life has been passed you know but too well. Mine was -the great angelic sin--pride and intellectual glorying! It was the first -mortal sin--a boundless aspiration after forbidden knowledge! I am now -dying. I ask for no forms of religion--I wish not to hear words that -have to me no meaning, or that I wish had none! Spare your look of -horror. I sent for you to exact your solemn promise that you will -conceal from every human being the fact of my death--let no man know -that I died, or when, or where.” - -“He spoke with a distinctness of tone, and energy of manner, that -convinced me he could not be in the state he described himself to be, -and I said, “But I cannot believe you are dying--your intellects are -clear, your voice is strong, your language is coherent, and but for the -paleness of your face, and your lying extended on that bed, I could not -even imagine you were ill.” He answered, “Have you patience and courage -to abide by the proof that what I say is true?” I replied, that I -doubtless had patience, and for the courage, I looked to that Being for -whose name I had too much reverence to utter in his hearing. He -acknowledged my forbearance by a ghastly smile which I understood too -well, and pointed to a clock that stood at the foot of his bed. -“Observe,” said he, “the hour-hand is on eleven, and I am now sane, -clear of speech, and apparently healthful--tarry but an hour, and you -yourself will behold me dead!” - -“I remained by his bed-side--the eyes of both were fixed intently on the -slow motion of the clock. From time to time he spoke, but his strength -now appeared obviously declining. He repeatedly urged on me the -necessity of profound secresy, its importance to myself, and yet he -hinted at the possibility of our future meeting. I asked why he thought -proper to confide to me a secret whose divulgement was so perilous, and -which might have been so easily concealed? Unknowing whether he existed, -or where, I must have been equally ignorant of the mode and place of his -death. To this he returned no answer. As the hand of the clock -approached the hour of twelve, his countenance changed--his eyes became -dim--his speech inarticulate--his jaw dropped--his respiration ceased. I -applied a glass to his lips--but there was not a breath to stain it. I -felt his wrist--but there was no pulse. I placed my hand on his -heart--there was not the slightest vibration. In a few minutes the body -was perfectly cold. I did not quit the room till nearly an hour -after--the body gave no signs of returning animation. - -“Unhappy circumstances detained me long abroad. I was in various parts -of the Continent, and every where I was haunted with the report of -Melmoth being still alive. To these reports I gave no credit, and -returned to England in the full conviction of his being dead. _Yet it -was Melmoth who walked and spoke with you the last night of our -meeting._ My eyes never more faithfully attested the presence of living -being. It was Melmoth himself, such as I beheld him many years ago, when -my hairs were dark and my steps were firm. I am changed, but he is the -same--time seems to have forborne to touch him from terror. By what -means or power he is thus enabled to continue his posthumous and -preternatural existence, it is impossible to conceive, unless the -fearful report that every where followed his steps on the Continent, be -indeed true.” - -“Elinor, impelled by terror and wild curiosity, inquired into that -report which dreadful experience had anticipated the meaning of. “Seek -no farther,” said the minister, “you know already more than should ever -have reached the human ear, or entered into the conception of the human -mind. Enough that you have been enabled by Divine Power to repel the -assaults of the evil one--the trial was terrible, but the result will be -glorious. Should the foe persevere in his attempts, remember that he has -been already repelled amid the horrors of the dungeon and of the -scaffold, the screams of Bedlam and the flames of the Inquisition--he is -yet to be subdued by a foe that he deemed of all others the least -invincible--the withered energies of a broken heart. He has traversed -the earth in search of victims, “Seeking whom he might devour,”--and has -found no prey, even where he might seek for it with all the cupidity of -infernal expectation. Let it be your glory and crown of rejoicing, that -even the feeblest of his adversaries has repulsed him with a power that -will always annihilate his.” * * * * * * * * - -“Who is that faded form that supports with difficulty an emaciated -invalid, and seems at every step to need the support she gives?--It is -still Elinor tending John. Their path is the same, but the season is -changed--and that change seems to her to have passed alike on the mental -and physical world. It is a dreary evening in Autumn--the stream flows -dark and turbid beside their path--the blast is groaning among the -trees, and the dry discoloured leaves are sounding under their -feet--their walk is uncheered by human converse, for one of them no -longer thinks, and seldom speaks! - -“Suddenly he gives a sign that he wishes to be seated--it is complied -with, and she sits beside him on the felled trunk of a tree. He declines -his head on her bosom, and she feels with delighted amazement, a few -tears streaming on it for the first time for years--a soft but conscious -pressure of her hand, seems to her like the signal of reviving -intelligence--with breathless hope she watches him as he slowly raises -his head, and fixes his eyes--God of all consolation, there is -intelligence in his glance! He thanks her with an unutterable look for -all her care, her long and painful labour of love! His lips are open, -but long unaccustomed to utter human sounds, the effort is made with -difficulty--again that effort is repeated and fails--his strength is -exhausted--his eyes close--his last gentle sigh is breathed on the bosom -of faith and love--and Elinor soon after said to those who surrounded -her bed, that she died happy, since he knew her once more! She gave one -parting awful sign to the minister, which was understood and answered! - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - Cum mihi non tantum furesque feræque suëtæ, - Hunc vexare locum, curæ sunt atque labori; - Quantum carminibus quæ versant atque venenis, - Humanos animos. - - HORACE. - - -“It is inconceivable to me,” said Don Aliaga to himself, as he pursued -his journey the next day--“it is inconceivable to me how this person -forces himself on my company, harasses me with tales that have no more -application to me than the legend of the Cid, and may be as apocryphal -as the ballad of Roncesvalles--and now he has ridden by my side all day, -and, as if to make amends for his former uninvited and unwelcome -communicativeness, he has never once opened his lips.” - -“Senhor,” said the stranger, then speaking for the first time, as if he -read Aliaga’s thoughts--“I acknowledge myself in error for relating to -you a narrative in which you must have felt there was little to interest -you. Permit me to atone for it, by recounting to you a very brief one, -in which I flatter myself you will be disposed to feel a very peculiar -interest.”--“You assure me it will be brief,” said Aliaga. “Not only so, -but the last I shall obtrude on your patience,” replied the stranger. -“On that condition,” said Aliaga, “in God’s name, brother, proceed. And -look you handle the matter discreetly, as you have said.” - -“There was,” said the stranger, “a certain Spanish merchant, who set out -prosperously in business; but, after a few years, finding his affairs -assume an unfavourable aspect, and being tempted by an offer of -partnership with a relative who was settled in the East Indies, had -embarked for those countries with his wife and son, leaving behind him -an infant daughter in Spain.”--“That was exactly my case,” said Aliaga, -wholly unsuspicious of the tendency of this tale. - -“Two years of successful occupation restored him to opulence, and to the -hope of vast and future accumulation. Thus encouraged, our Spanish -merchant entertained ideas of settling in the East Indies, and sent over -for his young daughter with her nurse, who embarked for the East Indies -with the first opportunity, which was then very rare.”--“This reminds me -exactly of what occurred to myself,” said Aliaga, whose faculties were -somewhat obtuse. - -“The nurse and infant were supposed to have perished in a storm which -wrecked the vessel on an isle near the mouth of a river, and in which -the crew and passengers perished. It was said that the nurse and child -alone escaped; that by some extraordinary chance they arrived at this -isle, where the nurse died from fatigue and want of nourishment, and the -child survived, and grew up a wild and beautiful daughter of nature, -feeding on fruits,--and sleeping amid roses,--and drinking the pure -element,--and inhaling the harmonies of heaven,--and repeating to -herself the few Christian words her nurse had taught her, in answer to -the melody of the birds that sung to her, and of the stream whose waves -murmured in accordance to the pure and holy music of her unearthly -heart.”--“I never heard a word of this before,” muttered Aliaga to -himself. The stranger went on. - -“It was said that some vessel in distress arrived at the isle,--that the -captain had rescued this lovely lonely being from the brutality of the -sailors,--and, discovering from some remains of the Spanish tongue which -she still spoke, and which he supposed must have been cultivated during -the visits of some other wanderer to the isle, he undertook, like a man -of honour, to conduct her to her parents, whose names she could tell, -though not their residence, so acute and tenacious is the memory of -infancy. He fulfilled his promise, and the pure and innocent being was -restored to her family, who were then residing in the city of Benares.” -Aliaga, at these words, stared with a look of intelligence somewhat -ghastly. He could not interrupt the stranger--he drew in his breath, and -closed his teeth. - -“I have since heard,” said the stranger, “that the family has returned -to Spain,--that the beautiful inhabitant of the foreign isle is become -the idol of your cavaliers of Madrid,--your loungers of the Prado,--your -_sacravienses_,--your--by what other name of contempt shall I call them? -But listen to me,--there is an eye fixed on her, and its fascination is -more deadly than that fabled of the snake!--There is an arm extended to -seize her, in whose grasp humanity withers!--That arm even now relaxes -for a moment,--its fibres thrill with pity and horror,--it releases the -victim for a moment,--it even beckons her father to her aid!--Don -Francisco, do you understand me now?--Has this tale interest or -application for you?” - -“He paused, but Aliaga, chilled with horror, was unable to answer him -but by a feeble exclamation. “If it has,” resumed the stranger, “lose -not a moment to save your daughter!” and, clapping spurs to his mule, he -disappeared through a narrow passage among the rocks, apparently never -intended to be trod by earthly traveller. Aliaga was not a man -susceptible of strong impressions from nature; but, if he had been, the -scene amid which this mysterious warning was uttered would have -powerfully ministered to its effect. The time was evening,--a grey and -misty twilight hung over every object;--the way lay through a rocky -road, that wound among mountains, or rather stony hills, bleak and bare -as those which the weary traveller through the (11)western isle sees -rising amid the moors, to which they form a contrast without giving a -relief. Heavy rains had made deep gullies amid the hills, and here and -there a mountain-stream brawled amid its stony channel, like a proud and -noisy upstart, while the vast chasms that had been the beds of torrents -which once swept through them in thunder, now stood gaping and ghastly -like the deserted abodes of ruined nobility. Not a sound broke on the -stillness, except the monotonous echo of the hoofs of the mules answered -from the hollows of the hill, and the screams of the birds, which, after -a few short circles in the damp and cloudy air, fled back to their -retreats amid the cliffs. * * * * * * * * * - - (11) Ireland,--forsan. - -“It is almost incredible, that after this warning, enforced as it was by -the perfect acquaintance which the stranger displayed of Aliaga’s former -life and family-circumstances, it should not have had the effect of -making him hurry homewards immediately, particularly as it seems he -thought it of sufficient importance to make it the subject of -correspondence with his wife. So it was however. - -“At the moment of the stranger’s departure, it was his resolution not to -lose a moment in hastening homewards; but at the next stage he arrived -at, there were letters of business awaiting him. A mercantile -correspondent gave him the information of the probable failure of a -house in a distant part of Spain, where his speedy presence might be of -vital consequence. There were also letters from Montilla, his intended -son-in-law, informing him that the state of his father’s health was so -precarious, it was impossible to leave him till his fate was decided. As -the decisions of fate involved equally the wealth of the son, and the -life of the father, Aliaga could not help thinking there was as much -prudence as affection in this resolution. - -“After reading these letters, Aliaga’s mind began to flow in its usual -channel. There is no breaking through the inveterate habitudes of a -thorough-paced mercantile mind, “though one rose from the dead.” -Besides, by this time the mysterious image of the stranger’s presence -and communications were fading fast from a mind not at all habituated to -visionary impressions. He shook off the terrors of this visitation by -the aid of time, and gave his courage the credit due to that aid. Thus -we all deal with the illusions of the imagination,--with this difference -only, that the impassioned recal them with the tear of regret, and the -unimaginative with the blush of shame. Aliaga set out for the distant -part of Spain where his presence was to save this tottering house in -which he had an extensive concern, and wrote to Donna Clara, that it -might be some months before he returned to the neighbourhood of Madrid. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - - Husband, husband, I’ve the ring - Thou gavest to-day to me; - And thou to me art ever wed, - As I am wed to thee! - - LITTLE’S POEMS. - - -“The remainder of that dreadful night when Isidora disappeared, had been -passed almost in despair by Donna Clara, who, amid all her rigour and -chilling mediocrity, had still the feelings of a mother--and by Fra -Jose, who, with all his selfish luxury and love of domination, had a -heart where distress never knocked for admittance, that she did not find -pity ready to open the door. - -“The distress of Donna Clara was aggravated by her fear of her husband, -of whom she stood in great awe, and who, she dreaded, might reproach her -with unpardonable negligence of her maternal authority. - -“In this night of distress, she was often tempted to call on her son for -advice and assistance; but the recollection of his violent passions -deterred her, and she sat in passive despair till day. Then, with an -unaccountable impulse, she rose from her seat, and hurried to her -daughter’s apartment, as if she imagined that the events of the -preceding night were only a fearful and false illusion that would be -dispersed by the approach of day. - -“It seemed, indeed, as if they were, for on the bed lay Isidora in a -profound sleep, with the same pure and placid smile as when she was -lulled into slumber by the melodies of nature, and the sound was -prolonged in her dream by the whispered songs of the spirits of the -Indian Ocean. Donna Clara uttered a shriek of surprise, that had the -singular effect of rousing Fra Jose from a deep sleep into which he had -fallen at the approach of day. Starting at the sound, the good-natured, -pampered priest, tottered into the room, and saw, with incredulity that -slowly yielded to frequent application to his obstinate and adhesive -eye-lids, the form of Isidora extended in profound slumber. - -“Oh what an exquisite enjoyment!” said the yawning priest, as he looked -on the sleeping beauty without another emotion than that of the delight -of an uninterrupted repose.--“Pray, don’t disturb her,” he said, yawning -himself out of the room--“after such a night as we all have had, sleep -must be a very refreshing and laudable exercise; and so I commend you to -the protection of the holy saints!”--“Oh reverend Father!--Oh holy -Father!” cried Donna Clara clinging to him, “desert me not in this -extremity--this has been the work of magic--of infernal spirits. See how -profoundly she sleeps, though we are speaking, and it is now -day-light.”--“Daughter, you are much mistaken,” answered the drowsy -priest; “people can sleep soundly even in the day-time; and for proof -send me, as I am now retiring to rest, a bottle of Foncarral or -Valdepenas--not that I value the richest vintage of Spain from the -Chacoli of Biscay to the Mataro of Catalonia,(12) but I would never have -it said that I slept in the day-time, but for sufficient -reason.”----“Holy Father!” answered Donna Clara, “do you not think my -daughter’s disappearance and intense slumber are the result of -preternatural causes?”--“Daughter,” answered the priest, contracting his -brows, “let me have some wine to slake the intolerable thirst caused by -my anxiety for the welfare of your family, and let me meditate some -hours afterwards on the measures best to be adopted, and then--when I -awake, I will give you my opinion.”----“Holy Father, you shall judge for -me in every thing.”--“It were not amiss, daughter,” said the priest -retiring, “if a few slices of ham, or some poignant sausages, -accompanied the wine--it might, as it were, abate the deleterious -effects of that abominable liquor, which I never drink but on -emergencies like these.”--“Holy Father, they shall be ordered,” said the -anxious mother--“but do you not think my daughter’s sleep is -supernatural?”--“Follow me to mine apartment, daughter,” answered the -priest, exchanging his cowl for a night-cap, which one of the numerous -household obsequiously presented him, “and you will soon see that sleep -is a natural effect of a natural cause. Your daughter has doubtless -passed a very fatiguing night, and so have you, and so have I, though -perhaps from very different causes; but all those causes dispose us to a -profound repose.--I have no doubt of mine--fetch up the wine and -sausages--I am very weary--Oh I am weak and worn with fasts and -watching, and the labours of exhortation. My tongue cleaves to the roof -of my mouth, and my jaws cling together,--perhaps a draught or two might -dissolve their parching adhesion. But I do so hate wine----why the devil -don’t you fetch up the bottle?” - - (12) Vide Dillon’s travels through Spain. - -“The attendant domestic, terrified by the tone of wrath in which the -last words were uttered, hurried on with submissive expedition, and Fra -Jose sat down at length in his apartment to ruminate on the calamities -and perplexities of the family, till he was actually overcome by the -subject, and exclaimed in a tone of despair, “Both bottles empty! Then -it is useless to meditate further on this subject.” * * * * * - -“He was roused at an earlier hour than he wished, by a message from -Donna Clara, who, in the distress of a weak mind, accustomed always to -factitious and external support, now felt as if every step she took -without it, must lead to actual and instant perdition. Her fear of her -husband, next to her superstitious fears, held the strongest power over -her mind, and that morning she called Fra Jose to an early consultation -of terror and inquietude.--Her great object was to conceal, if possible, -the absence of her daughter on that eventful night; and finding that -none of the domestics appeared conscious of it, and that amid the -numerous household, only _one aged servant was absent_, of whose absence -no one took notice amid the superfluous multitude of a Spanish -establishment, her courage began to revive. It was raised still higher -by a letter from Aliaga, announcing the necessity of his visiting a -distant part of Spain, and of the marriage of his daughter with Montilla -being deferred for some months----this sounded like reprieve in the ears -of Donna Clara--she consulted with the priest, who answered in words of -comfort, that if Donna Isidora’s short absence were known, it was but a -slight evil, and if it were not known, it was none at all,--and he -recommended to her, to ensure the secresy of the servants by means that -he swore by his habit were infallible, as he had known them operate -effectively among the servants of a far more powerful and extensive -establishment.--“Reverend Father,” said Donna Clara, “I know of no -establishment among the grandees of Spain more splendid than -ours.”--“But I do, daughter,” said the priest, “and the head of that -establishment is--the Pope;--but go now, and awake your daughter, who -deserves to sleep till dooms-day, as she seems totally to have forgotten -the hour of breakfast. It is not for myself I speak, daughter, but I -cannot bear to see the regularity of a magnificent household thus -interrupted; for myself, a basin of chocolate, and a cluster of grapes, -will be sufficient; and to allay the crudity of the grapes, a glass of -Malaga.--Your glasses, by the bye, are the shallowest I ever drank out -of--could you not find some means to get from Ildefonso(13) glasses of -the right make, with short shanks and ample bodies? Yours resemble those -of Quichotte, all limbs and no trunk. I like one that resembles his -squire, a spacious body and a shank that may be measured by my little -finger.”--“I will send to St Ildefonso this day,” answered Donna -Clara.--“Go and awake your daughter first,” said the priest. - - (13) The celebrated manufactory for glass in Spain. - -“As he spoke, Isidora entered the room--the mother and the priest both -stood amazed. Her countenance was as serene, her step as equal, and her -mein as composed, as if she were totally unconscious of the terror and -distress her disappearance the preceding night had caused. To the first -short silence of amazement, succeeded a storm of interrogations from -Donna Clara and Fra Jose in concert--why--where--wherefore--and what, -and with whom and how--that was all they could articulate. They might as -well have spared themselves the trouble, for neither that day nor many -following, could the remonstrances, intreaties, or menaces of her -mother, aided by the spiritual authority and more powerful anxiety of -the priest, extort from her a word of explanation on the cause of her -absence that awful night. When closely and sternly pressed, Isidora’s -mind seemed to assume something of the wild but potent spirit of -independence, which her early habits and feelings might have -communicated to her. She had been her own teacher and mistress for -seventeen years, and though naturally gentle and tractable, when -imperious mediocrity attempted to tyrannize over her, she felt a sense -of disdain which she expressed only by profound silence. - -“Fra Jose, incensed at her obstinacy, and trembling for the loss of his -power over the family, threatened to exclude her from confession, unless -she disclosed to him the secret of that night--“Then I will confess to -God!” said Isidora. Her mother’s importunity she found it more difficult -to resist, for her feminine heart loved all that was feminine even in -its most unattractive shape, and the persecution from that quarter was -alike monotonous and unremitting. - -“There was a weak but harassing tenacity about Donna Clara, that is the -general adjunct to the female character when it combines intellectual -mediocrity with rigid principle. When she laid siege to a secret, the -garrison might as well capitulate at once.--What she wanted in vigour -and ability, she supplied by a minute and gnawing assiduity. She never -ventured to carry the fort by storm, but her obstinacy blockaded it till -it was forced to surrender. But here even _her_ importunity -failed.--Isidora remained respectfully, but resolutely silent; finding -matters thus desperate, Donna Clara, who had a fine talent for keeping -as well as discovering a secret, agreed with Fra Jose not to utter a -syllable of the business to her father and brother.--“We will show,” -said Donna Clara, with a sagacious and self-approving nod, “that we can -keep a secret as well as she.”--“Right, daughter,” said Fra Jose, -“imitate her in the only point in which you can flatter yourself with -the hope of resemblance. * * * * * * * * - -“The secret was, however, soon disclosed. Some months had elapsed, and -the visits of her husband began to give an habitual calm and confidence -to the mind of Isidora. He imperceptibly was exchanging his ferocious -misanthropy for a kind of pensive gloom.--It was like the dark, cold, -but unterrific and comparatively soothing night, that succeeds to a day -of storm and earthquake. The sufferers remember the terrors of the day, -and the still darkness of the night feels to them like a shelter. -Isidora gazed on her espoused with delight, when she saw no longer his -withering frown, or more withering smile; and she felt the hope that the -calm purity of female hearts always suggests, that its influence will -one day float over the formless and the void, like the spirit that moved -upon the face of the waters; and that the unbelieving husband may yet be -saved by the believing wife. - -“These thoughts were her comfort, and it was well she had thoughts to -comfort her, for facts are miserable allies when imagination fights its -battle with despair. On one of those nights that she expected Melmoth, -he found her employed in her usual hymn to the Virgin, which she -accompanied on her lute. “Is it not rather late to sing your vesper hymn -to the Virgin after midnight?” said Melmoth with a ghastly smile. “Her -ear is open at all times, I have been told,” answered Isidora.--“If it -is, then, love,” said Melmoth, vaulting as usual through the casement, -“add a stanza to your hymn in favour of me.”--“Alas!” said Isidora, -dropping her lute, “you do not believe, love, in what the Holy Church -requires.”--“Yes, I do believe, when I listen to you.”--“And only -then?”--“Sing again your hymn to the Virgin.” - -“Isidora complied, and watched the effect on the listener. He seemed -affected--he motioned to her to repeat it. “My love,” said Isidora, -“is not this more like the repetition of a theatrical song called -for by an audience, than a hymn which he who listens to loves his -wife better for, because she loves her God.”--“It is a shrewd -question,” said Melmoth, “but why am I in your imagination excluded -from the love of God?”--“Do you ever visit the church,” answered the -anxious Isidora. A profound silence.--“Do you ever receive the Holy -Sacrament?”--Melmoth did not utter a word.--“Have you ever, at my -earnest solicitation, enabled me to announce to my anxious family the -tie that united us?”--No answer.--“And now--that--perhaps--I dare not -utter what I feel! Oh! how shall I appear before eyes that watch me -even now so closely?--what shall I say?--a wife without a husband--a -mother without a father for her child, or one whom a fearful oath has -bound her never to declare! Oh! Melmoth, pity me,--deliver me from this -life of constraint, falsehood, and dissimulation. Claim me as your -wedded wife in the face of my family, and in the face of ruin your -wedded wife will follow--will cling to--will perish with you!” Her -arms clung round him, her cold but heart-wrung tears fell fast on his -cheek, and the imploring arms of woman supplicating for deliverance -in her hour of shame and terror, seldom are twined round us in vain. -Melmoth felt the appeal--it was but for a moment. He caught the white -arms extended towards him--he fixed an eager and fearful look of -inquiry on his victim-consort, as he asked--“And is it so?” The pale -and shuddering wife shrunk from his arms at the question--her silence -answered him. The agonies of nature throbbed audibly in his heart. He -said to himself--it is mine--the fruit of affection--the first-born -of the heart and of nature--mine--mine,--and whatever becomes of me, -there shall yet be a human being on earth who traces me in its external -form, and who will be taught to pray for its father, even when its -prayer falls parched and hissing on the fires that burn for ever, like -a wandering drop of dew on the burning sands of the desert! * * * * * * -* * * - -“From the period of this communication, Melmoth’s tenderness for his -wife visibly increased. - -“Heaven only knows the source of that wild fondness with which he -contemplated her, and in which was still mingled something of ferocity. -His warm look seemed like the glow of a sultry summer day, whose heat -announces a storm, and compels us by its burning oppression, to look to -the storm almost for relief. - -“It is not impossible that he looked to some future object of his -fearful experiment--and a being so perfectly in his power as his own -child, might have appeared to him fatally fitted for his purpose--the -quantum of misery, too, necessary to qualify the probationer, it was -always in his own power to inflict. Whatever was his motive, he assumed -as much tenderness as it was possible for him to assume, and spoke of -the approaching event with the anxious interest of a human father. - -“Soothed by his altered manner, Isidora bore with silent sufferance the -burden of her situation, with all its painful accompaniments of -indisposition and dejection, aggravated by hourly fear and mysterious -secresy. She hoped he would at length reward her by an open and -honourable declaration, but this hope was expressed only in her patient -smiles. The hour approached fast, and fearful and indefinite -apprehensions began to overshadow her mind, relative to the fate of the -infant about to be born under circumstances so mysterious. - -“At his next nightly visit, Melmoth found her in tears. - -“Alas!” said she in answer to his abrupt inquiry, and brief attempt at -consolation, “How many causes have I for tears--and how few have I shed? -If you would have them wiped away, be assured it is only your hand can -do it. I feel,” she added, “that this event will be fatal to me--I know -I shall not live to see my child--I demand from you the only promise -that can support me even under this conviction”--Melmoth interrupted her -by the assurance, that these apprehensions were the inseparable -concomitants of her situation, and that many mothers, surrounded by a -numerous offspring, smiled as they recollected their fears that the -birth of each would be fatal to them. - -“Isidora shook her head. “The presages,” said she, “that visit me, are -such as never visited mortality in vain. I have always believed, that as -we approach the invisible world, its voice becomes more audible to us, -and grief and pain are very eloquent interpreters between us and -eternity--quite distinct from all corporeal suffering, even from all -mental terror, is that deep and unutterable impression which is alike -incommunicable and ineffaceable--it is as if heaven spoke to us alone, -and told us to keep its secret, or divulge it on the condition of never -being believed. Oh! Melmoth, do not give that fearful smile when I speak -of heaven--soon I may be your only intercessor there.” “My dear saint,” -said Melmoth, laughing and kneeling to her in mockery, “let me make -early interest for your mediation--how many ducats will it cost me to -get you canonized?--you will furnish me, I hope, with an authentic -account of legitimate miracles--one is ashamed of the nonsense that is -sent monthly to the Vatican.” “_Let your conversion be the first miracle -on the list_,” said Isidora, with an energy that made Melmoth -tremble--it was dark--but she felt that he trembled--she pursued her -imagined triumph--“Melmoth,” she exclaimed, “I have a right to demand -one promise from you--for you I have sacrificed every thing--never was -woman more devoted--never did woman give proofs of devotion like mine. I -might have been the noble, honoured wife of one who would have laid his -wealth and titles at my feet. In this my hour of danger and suffering, -the first families in Spain would have been waiting round my door. -Alone, unaided, unsustained, unconsoled, I must undergo the terrible -struggle of nature--terrible to those whose beds are smoothed by the -hands of affection, whose agonies are soothed by the presence of a -mother--who hears the first feeble cry of her infant echoed by the joy -of exulting noble relatives. Oh Melmoth! what must be mine! I must -suffer in secresy and in silence! I must see my babe torn from me before -I have even kissed it,--and the chrism-mantle will be one of that -mysterious darkness which your fingers have woven! Yet grant me one -thing--one thing!” continued the suppliant, growing earnest in her -prayer even to agony; “swear to me that my child shall be baptised -according to the forms of the Catholic church,--that it shall be a -Christian as far as those forms can make it,--and I shall feel that, if -all my fearful presages are fulfilled, I shall leave behind me one who -will pray for his father, and whose prayer may be accepted. Promise -me,--swear to me,” she added, in intenser agony, “that my child shall be -a Christian! Alas! if my voice be not worthy to be heard in heaven, that -of a cherub may! Christ himself suffered children to come unto him while -on earth, and will he repel them in heaven?--Oh! no,--no! he will not -repel _yours_!” - -“Melmoth listened to her with feelings that it is better to suppress -than explain or expatiate on. Thus solemnly adjured, however, he -promised that the child should be baptised; and added, with an -expression which Isidora’s delight at this concession did not give her -time to understand, that it should be a Christian as far as the rites -and ceremonies of the Catholic church could make it one. While he added -many a bitter hint of the inefficacy of any external rites--and the -impotentiality of any hierarchy--and of the deadly and desperate -impositions of priests under every dispensation--and exposed them with a -spirit at once ludicrous and Satanic,--a spirit that mingled ridicule -with horror, and seemed like a Harlequin in the infernal regions, -flirting with the furies, Isidora still repeated her solemn request that -her child, if it survived her, should be baptised. To this he assented; -and added, with a sarcastic and appalling levity,--“And a Mahometan, if -you should change your mind,--or any other mythology you please to -adopt;--only send me word,--priests are easily obtained, and ceremonies -cheaply purchased! Only let me know your future intentions,--when you -know them yourself.”--“I shall not be here to tell you,” said Isidora, -replying with profound conviction to this withering levity, like a cold -winter day to the glow of a capricious summer one, that blends the -sunshine and the lightning;--“Melmoth, I shall not be here then!” And -this energy of despair in a creature so young, so inexperienced, except -in the vicissitudes of the heart, formed a strong contrast to the stony -apathy of one who had traversed life from Dan to Beersheba, and found -all barren, or--made it so. - -“At this moment, while Isidora wept the cold tears of despair, without -daring to ask the hand of him she loved to dry them, the bells of a -neighbouring convent, where they were performing a mass for the soul of -a departed brother, suddenly rung out. Isidora seized that moment, when -the very air was eloquent with the voice of religion, to impress its -power on that mysterious being whose presence inspired her equally with -terror and with love. “Listen,--listen!” she cried. The sounds came -slowly and stilly on, as if it was an involuntary expression of that -profound sentiment that night always inspires,--the reverberating -watch-word from sentinel to sentinel, when wakeful and reflecting minds -have become the “watchers of the night(14).” The effect of these sounds -was increased, by their catching from time to time the deep and -thrilling chorus of the voices,--these voices more than harmonized, they -were coincident with the toll of the bell, and seemed like them set in -involuntary motion,--music played by invisible hands. - - (14) He called unto me out of Seir, Watchman, what of the - night?--Watchman, what of the night?----ISAIAH. - -“Listen,” repeated Isidora, “is there no truth in the voice that speaks -to you in tones like these? Alas! if there be no truth in religion, -there is none on earth! Passion itself evanishes into an illusion, -unless it is hallowed by the consciousness of a God and of futurity. -That sterility of the heart that forbids the growth of divine feeling, -must be hostile also to every tender and generous sentiment. _He who is -without a God must be without a heart!_ Oh, my love, will you not, as -you bend over my grave, wish my last slumbers to have been soothed by -sounds like these,--wish that they may whisper peace to your own? -Promise me, at least, that you will lead your child to my -tomb-stone,--that you will suffer it to read the inscription that tells -I died in the faith of Christ, and the hope of immortality. Its tears -will be powerful pleaders to you not to deny it the consolation that -faith has given me in hours of suffering, and the hopes with which it -will illuminate my parting hour. Oh promise me this at least, that you -will suffer your child to visit my grave--that is all. Do not interrupt -or distract the impression by sophistry or levity, or by that wild and -withering eloquence that flashes from your lips, not to enlighten but to -blast. You will not weep, but you will be silent,--leave Heaven and -nature free to their work. The voice of God will speak to its heart, and -my spirit, as it witnesses the conflict, will tremble though in -paradise,--and, even in heaven, will feel an added joy, when it beholds -the victory won. Promise me, then,--swear to me!” she added, with -agonizing energy of tone and gesture. “Your child shall be a Christian!” -said Melmoth. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - - --------------Oh, spare me, Grimbald! - I will tempt hermits for thee in their cells, - And virgins in their dreams. - - DRYDEN’S KING ARTHUR. - - -It is a singular, but well-attested fact, that women who are compelled -to undergo all the inconveniences and uneasiness of clandestine -pregnancy, often fare better than those whose situation is watched over -by tender and anxious relatives; and that concealed or illegitimate -births are actually attended with less danger and suffering than those -which have all the aid that skill and affection can give. So it appeared -likely to fare with Isidora. The retirement in which her family -lived--the temper of Donna Clara, as slow to suspect from want of -penetration, as she was eager in pursuing an object once discovered, -from the natural cupidity of a vacant mind--these circumstances, -combined with the dress of the day, the enormous and enveloping -fardingale, gave safety to her secret, at least till the arrival of its -crisis. As this crisis approached, one may easily imagine the secret and -trembling preparation--the important nurse, proud of the trust reposed -in her--the confidential maid--the faithful and discreet medical -attendant--to obtain all these Melmoth supplied her amply with money--a -circumstance that would have surprised Isidora, as his appearance was -always remarkably plain and private, if, at this moment of anxiety, any -thought but that of _the hour_ could have found room in her mind. * * * -* * * * - -“On the evening supposed to be that preceding the dreaded event, Melmoth -had thrown an unusual degree of tenderness into his manner--he gazed on -her frequently with anxious and silent fondness--he seemed to have -something to communicate which he had not courage to disclose. Isidora, -well versed in the language of the countenance, which is often, more -than that of words, the language of the heart, intreated him to tell her -what he _looked_. “Your father is returning,” said Melmoth reluctantly. -“He will certainly be here in a few days, perhaps in a few hours.” -Isidora heard him in silent horror. “My father!” she cried--“I have -never seen my father.--Oh, how shall I meet him now! And is my mother -ignorant of this?--would she not have apprized me?”--“She is ignorant at -present; but she will not long be so.”--“And from whence could _you_ -have obtained intelligence that she is ignorant of?” Melmoth paused some -time,--his features assumed a more contracted and gloomy character than -they had done laterally--he answered with slow and stern -reluctance--“Never again ask me that question--the intelligence that I -can give you must be of more importance to you than the means by which I -obtain it--enough for you that it is true.”--“Pardon me, love,” said -Isidora; “it is probable that I may never again offend you--will you -not, then, forgive my _last_ offence?” - -“Melmoth seemed too intently occupied with his own thoughts to answer -even her tears. He added, after a short and sullen pause, “Your -betrothed bridegroom is coming with your father--Montilla’s father is -dead--the arrangements are all concluded for your nuptials--your -bridegroom is coming to wed the wife of another--with him comes your -fiery, foolish brother, who has set out to meet his father and his -future relative. There will be a feast prepared in the house on the -occasion of your future nuptials--you may hear of a strange guest -appearing at your festival--I will be there!” - -“Isidora stood stupified with horror. “Festival!” she repeated--“a -bridal festival!--and I already wedded to you, and about to become a -mother!” - -* * * * * - -“At this moment the trampling of many horsemen was heard as they -approached the villa--the tumult of the domestics hurrying to admit and -receive them, resounded through the apartments--and Melmoth, with a -gesture that seemed to Isidora rather like a menace than a farewell, -instantly disappeared; and within an hour, Isidora knelt to the father -she had never till then beheld--suffered herself to be saluted by -Montilla--and accepted the embrace of her brother, who, in the petulance -of his spirit, half rejected the chill and altered form that advanced to -greet him. - -* * * * * - -“Every thing at the family meeting was conducted in true Spanish -formality. Aliaga kissed the cold hand of his withered wife--the -numerous domestics exhibited a grave joy at the return of their -master--Fra Jose assumed increased importance, and called for dinner in -a louder tone. Montilla, the lover, a cold and quiet character, took -things as they occurred. - -“Every thing lay hushed under a brief and treacherous calm. Isidora, who -trembled at the approaching danger, felt her terrors on a sudden -suspended. It was not so very near as she apprehended--and she bore with -tolerable patience the daily mention of her approaching nuptials, while -she was momently harassed by her confidential servants with hints of the -impossibility of the event of which they were in expectation, being much -longer delayed. Isidora heard, felt, endured all with courage--the grave -congratulation of her father and mother--the self-complacent attentions -of Montilla, sure of the bride and of her dower--the sullen compliance -of the brother, who, unable to refuse his consent, was for ever hinting -that _his_ sister might have formed a higher connection. All these -passed over her mind like a dream--the reality of her existence seemed -internal, and she said to herself,--“Were I at the altar, were my hand -locked in that of Montilla, Melmoth would rend me from him.” A wild but -deeply-fixed conviction--a wandering image of preternatural power, -overshadowed her mind while she thought of Melmoth;--and this image, -which had caused her so much terror and inquietude in her early hours of -love, now formed her only resource against the hour of inconceivable -suffering; as those unfortunate females in the Eastern Tales, whose -beauty has attracted the fearful passion of some evil genie, are -supposed to depend, at their nuptial hour, on the presence of the -seducing spirit, to tear from the arms of the agonised parent, and the -distracted bridegroom, the victim whom he has reserved for himself, and -whose wild devotion to him gives a dignity to the union so unhallowed -and unnatural(15). * * * * * * - - (15) Vide the beautiful tale of Auheta the Princess of Egypt, and - Maugraby the Sorcerer, in the Arabian Tales. - -“Aliaga’s heart expanded amid the approaching completion of the -felicitous plans he had formed, and with his heart, his purse, which was -its depositary, opened also, and he resolved to give a splendid fete in -honour of his daughter’s nuptials. Isidora remembered Melmoth’s -prediction of a fatal festival; and his words, “I will be there,” gave -her for a time a kind of trembling confidence. But as the preparations -were carried on under her very eye,--as she was hourly consulted about -the disposal of the ornaments, and the decorations of the -apartments,--her resolution failed, and while she uttered a few -incoherent words, her eye was glazed with horror. - -“The entertainment was to be a masked ball; and Isidora, who imagined -that this might suggest to Melmoth some auspicious expedient for her -escape, watched in vain for some hint of hope,--some allusion to the -probability of this event facilitating her extrication from those snares -of death that seemed compassing her about. He never uttered a word, and -her dependence on him was at one moment confirmed, at another shaken to -its foundation, by this terrible silence. In one of these latter -moments, the anguish of which was increased beyond expression by a -conviction that her hour of danger was not far distant, she exclaimed to -Melmoth--“Take me--take me from this place! My existence is nothing--it -is a vapour that soon must be exhaled--but my reason is threatened every -moment! I cannot sustain the horrors to which I am exposed! All this day -I have been dragged through rooms decorated for my impossible -nuptials!--Oh, Melmoth, if you no longer love me, at least commiserate -me! Save me from a situation of horror unspeakable!--have mercy on your -child, if not on me! I have hung on your looks,--I have watched for a -word of hope--you have not uttered a sound--you have not cast a glance -of hope on me! I am wild!--I am reckless of all but the imminent and -_present_ horrors of to-morrow--you have talked of your power to -approach, to enter these walls without suspicion or discovery--you -boasted of that cloud of mystery in which you could envelope yourself. -Oh! in this last moment of my extremity, wrap me in its tremendous -folds, and let me escape in them, though they prove my shroud!--Think of -the terrible night of our marriage! I followed you then in fear and -confidence--your touch dissolved every earthly barrier--your steps trod -an unknown path, yet I followed you!--Oh! If you really possess that -mysterious and inscrutable power, which I dare not either question or -believe, exert it for me in this terrible emergency--aid my escape--and -though I feel I shall never live to thank you, the _silent suppliant_ -will remind you by its smiles of the tears that I now shed; and if they -are shed in vain, its smile will have a bitter eloquence as it plays -with the flowers on its mother’s grave!” - -“Melmoth, as she spoke, was profoundly silent, and deeply attentive. He -said at last, “Do you then resign yourself to me?”--“Alas! have I -not?”--“A question is not an answer. Will you, renouncing all other -engagements, all other hopes, depend on me solely for your extrication -from this fearful emergency?”--“I will--I do!”--“Will you promise, that -if I render you the service you require, if I employ the power you say I -have alluded to, you will be _mine_?”--“_Yours!_--Alas! am I not yours -already?”--“You embrace _my_ protection, then? You voluntarily seek the -shelter of that power which I can promise? You yourself will me to -employ that power in effecting your escape?--Speak--do I interpret your -sentiments aright?--I am unable to exercise those powers you invest me -with, unless you yourself require me to do so. I have waited--I have -watched for the demand--it has been made--would that it never had!” An -expression of the fiercest agony corrugated his stern features as he -spoke.--“But it may yet be withdrawn--reflect!”--“And you will not then -save me from shame and danger? Is this the proof of your love--is this -the boast of your power?” said Isidora, half frantic at this delay. “If -I adjure you to pause--if I myself hesitate and tremble--it is to give -time for the salutary whisper of your better angel.”--“Oh! save me, and -you shall be my angel!” said Isidora, falling at his feet. Melmoth shook -through his whole frame as he heard these words. He raised and soothed -her, however, with promises of safety, though in a voice that seemed to -announce despair--and then turning from her, burst into a passionate -soliloquy.--“Immortal Heaven! what is man?--A being with the ignorance, -but not the instinct, of the feeblest animals!--They are like -birds--when thy hand, O Thou whom I dare not call Father, is on them, -they scream and quiver, though the gentle pressure is intended only to -convey the wanderer back to his cage--while, to shun the light fear that -scares their senses, they rush into the snare that is spread in their -sight, and where their captivity is hopeless!” As he spoke, hastily -traversing the room, his foot struck against a chair on which a gorgeous -dress was spread. “What is this?” he exclaimed--“What ideot trumpery, -what May-queen foolery is this?”--“It is the habit I am to wear at the -feast to-night,” said Isidora--“My attendants are coming--I hear them at -the door--oh, with what a throbbing heart I shall put on this glittering -mockery!--But you will not desert me then?” she added, with wild and -breathless anxiety. “Fear not,” said Melmoth, solemnly--“You have -demanded my aid, and it shall be accorded. May your heart tremble no -more when you throw off that habit, than now when you are about to put -it on!” - -“The hour approached, and the guests were arriving. Isidora, arrayed in -a splendid and fanciful garb, and rejoicing in the shelter which her -mask afforded to the expression of her pale features, mingled among the -groupe. She walked one measure with Montilla, and then declined dancing -on the pretence of assisting her mother in receiving and entertaining -her guests. - -“After a sumptuous banquet, dancing was renewed in the spacious hall, -and Isidora followed the company thither with a beating heart. Twelve -was the hour at which Melmoth had promised to meet her, and by the -clock, which was placed over the door of the hall, she saw it wanted but -a quarter to twelve. The hand moved on--it arrived at the hour--the -clock struck! Isidora, whose eyes had been rivetted on its movements, -now withdrew them in despair. At that moment she felt her arm gently -touched, and one of the maskers, bending towards her, whispered, “I am -here!” and he added the sign which Melmoth and she had agreed on as the -signal of their meeting. Isidora, unable to reply, could only return the -sign. “Make haste,” he added--“All is arranged for your flight--there is -not a moment to be lost--I will leave you now, but meet me in a few -moments in the western portico--the lamps are extinguished there, and -the servants have neglected to relight them--be silent and be swift!” He -disappeared as he spoke, and Isidora, after a few moments, followed him. -Though the portico was dark, a faint gleam from the splendidly -illuminated rooms disclosed to her the figure of Melmoth. He drew her -arm under his in silence, and proceeded to hurry her from the spot. -“Stop, villain, stop!” exclaimed the voice of her brother, who, followed -by Montilla, sprung from the balcony--“Where do you drag my sister?--and -you, degraded wretch, where are you about to fly, and with whom?” -Melmoth attempted to pass him, supporting Isidora with one arm, while -the other was extended to repel his approach; but Fernan, drawing his -sword, placed himself directly in their way, at the same time calling on -Montilla to raise the household, and tear Isidora from his arms. “Off, -fool--off!” exclaimed Melmoth--“Rush not on destruction!--I seek not -your life--one victim of your house is enough--let us pass ere you -perish!”--“Boaster, prove your words!” said Fernan, making a desperate -thrust at him, which Melmoth coolly put by with his hand. “Draw, -coward!” cried Fernan, rendered furious by this action--“My next will be -more successful!” Melmoth slowly drew his sword. “Boy!” said he in an -awful voice--“If I turn this point against you, your life is not worth a -moment’s purchase--be wise and let us pass.” Fernan made no answer but -by a fierce attack, which was instantly met by his antagonist. - -“The shrieks of Isidora had now reached the ears of the revellers, who -rushed in crowds to the garden--the servants followed them with -flambeaux snatched from the walls adorned for this ill-omened festival, -and the scene of the combat was in a moment as light as day, and -surrounded by a hundred spectators. - -“Part them--part them--save them!” shrieked Isidora, writhing at the -feet of her father and mother, who, with the rest, were gazing in stupid -horror at the scene--“Save my brother--save my husband!” The whole -dreadful truth rushed on Donna Clara’s mind at these words, and casting -a conscious look at the terrified priest, she fell to the ground. The -combat was short as it was unequal,--in two moments Melmoth passed his -sword twice through the body of Fernan, who sunk beside Isidora, and -expired! There was a universal pause of horror for some moments--at -length a cry of--“Seize the murderer!” burst from every lip, and the -crowd began to close around Melmoth. He attempted no defence. He -retreated a few paces, and sheathing his sword, waved them back only -with his arm; and this movement, that seemed to announce an internal -power above all physical force, had the effect of nailing every -spectator to the spot where he stood. - -“The light of the torches, which the trembling servants held up to gaze -on him, fell full on his countenance, and the voices of a few shuddering -speakers exclaimed, “MELMOTH THE WANDERER!”--“I am--I am!” said that -unfortunate being--“and who now will oppose my passing--who will become -my companion?--I seek not to injure now--but I will not be detained. -Would that breathless fool had yielded to my bidding, not to my -sword--there was but one human chord that vibrated in my heart--it is -broken to-night, and for ever! I will never tempt woman more! Why should -the whirlwind, that can shake mountains, and overwhelm cities with its -breath, descend to scatter the leaves of the rose-bud?” As he spoke, his -eyes fell on the form of Isidora, which lay at his feet extended beside -that of Fernan. He bent over it for a moment--a pulsation like returning -life agitated her frame. He bent nearer--he whispered, unheard by the -rest,--“Isidora, will you fly with me--this is the moment--every arm is -paralyzed--every mind is frozen to its centre!--Isidora, rise and fly -with me--this is your hour of safety!” Isidora, who recognized the voice -but not the speaker, raised herself for a moment--looked on -Melmoth--cast a glance on the bleeding bosom of Fernan, and fell on it -dyed in that blood. Melmoth started up--there was a slight movement of -hostility among some of the guests--he turned one brief and withering -glance on them--they stood every man his hand on his sword, without the -power to draw them, and the very domestics held up the torches in their -trembling hands, as if with involuntary awe they were lighting him out. -So he passed on unmolested amid the groupe, till he reached the spot -where Aliaga, stupified with horror, stood beside the bodies of his son -and daughter. “Wretched old man!” he exclaimed, looking on him as the -unhappy father strained his glazing and dilated eyes to see who spoke to -him, and at length with difficulty recognized the form of _the -stranger_--the companion of his fearful journey some months -past--“Wretched old man--you were warned--but you neglected the -warning--I adjured you to save your daughter--_I best_ knew her -danger--you saved your gold--now estimate the value of the dross you -grasped, and the precious ore you dropt! _I stood between myself and -her_--I warned--I menaced--it was not for me to intreat. Wretched old -man--see the result!”--and he turned slowly to depart. An involuntary -sound of execration and horror, half a howl and half a hiss, pursued his -parting steps, and the priest, with a dignity that more became his -profession than his character, exclaimed aloud, “Depart accursed, and -trouble us not--go, cursing and to curse.”--“I go conquering and to -conquer,” answered Melmoth with wild and fierce triumph--“wretches! your -vices, your passions, and your weaknesses, make you my victims. Upbraid -yourselves, and not me. Heroes in your guilt, but cowards in your -despair, you would kneel at my feet for the terrible immunity with which -I pass through you at this moment.--I go accursed of every human heart, -yet untouched by one human hand!”--As he retired slowly, the murmur of -suppressed but instinctive and irrepressible horror and hatred burst -from the groupe. He past on scowling at them like a lion on a pack of -bayed hounds, and departed unmolested--unassayed--no weapon was -drawn--no arm was lifted--the mark was on his brow,--and those who could -read it knew that all human power was alike forceless and needless,--and -those who could not succumbed in passive horror. Every sword was in its -sheath as Melmoth quitted the garden. “Leave him to God!”--was the -universal exclamation. “You could not leave him in worse hands,” -exclaimed Fra Jose--“He will certainly be damned--and--that is some -comfort to this afflicted family.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - - Nunc animum pietas, et materna nomina frangunt. - - -“In less than half an hour, the superb apartments, the illuminated -gardens of Aliaga, did not echo a footstep; all were gone, except a few -who lingered, some from curiosity, some from humanity, to witness or -condole with the sufferings of the wretched parents. The sumptuously -decorated garden now presented a sight horrid from the contrasted -figures and scenery. The domestics stood like statues, holding the -torches still in their hands--Isidora lay beside the bloody corse of her -brother, till an attempt was made to remove it, and then she clung to it -with a strength that required strength to tear her from it--Aliaga, who -had not uttered a word, and scarcely drawn a breath, sunk on his knees -to curse his half-lifeless daughter--Donna Clara, who still retained a -woman’s heart, lost all fear of her husband in this dreadful emergency, -and, kneeling beside him, held his uplifted hands, and struggled hard -for the suspension of the malediction--Fra Jose, the only one of the -groupe who appeared to possess any power of recollection or of mental -sanity, addressed repeatedly to Isidora the question, “Are you -married,--and married to that fearful being?”--“I am married!” answered -the victim, rising from beside the corse of her brother. “I am married!” -she added, glancing a look at her splendid habit, and displaying it with -a frantic laugh. A loud knocking at the garden gate was heard at this -moment. “I _am_ married!” shrieked Isidora, “and here comes the witness -of my nuptials!” - -“As she spoke, some peasants from the neighbourhood, assisted by the -domestics of Don Aliaga, brought in a corse, so altered from the fearful -change that passes on the mortal frame, that the nearest relative could -not have known it. Isidora recognized it in a moment for the body of the -old domestic who had disappeared so mysteriously on the night of her -frightful nuptials. The body had been discovered but that evening by the -peasants; it was lacerated as by a fall from rocks, and so disfigured -and decayed as to retain no resemblance to humanity. It was recognizable -only by the livery of Aliaga, which, though much defaced, was still -distinguishable by some peculiarities in the dress, that announced that -those defaced garments covered the mortal remains of the old domestic. -“There!” cried Isidora with delirious energy--“There is the witness of -my fatal marriage!” - -“Fra Jose hung over the illegible fragments of that whereon nature had -once written--‘This is a human being,’ and, turning his eyes on Isidora, -with involuntary horror he exclaimed, “Your witness is dumb!” As the -wretched Isidora was dragged away by those who surrounded her, she felt -the first throes of maternal suffering, and exclaimed, “Oh! there will -be a living witness--if you permit it to live!” Her words were soon -realized; she was conveyed to her apartment, and in a few hours after, -scarcely assisted and wholly unpitied by her attendants, gave birth to a -daughter. - -“This event excited a sentiment in the family at once ludicrous and -horrible. Aliaga, who had remained in a state of stupefaction since his -son’s death, uttered but one exclamation--“Let the wife of the sorcerer, -and their accursed offspring, be delivered into the hands of the -merciful and holy tribunal, the Inquisition.” He afterwards muttered -something about his property being confiscated, but to this nobody paid -attention. Donna Clara was almost distracted between compassion for her -wretched daughter, and being grandmother to an infant demon, for such -she deemed the child of “Melmoth the Wanderer” must be--and Fra Jose, -while he baptized the infant with trembling hands, almost expected a -fearful sponsor to appear and blast the rite with his horrible negative -to the appeal made in the name of all that is holy among Christians. The -baptismal ceremony was performed, however, with an omission which the -good-natured priest overlooked--there was no sponsor--the lowest -domestic in the house declined with horror the proposal of being sponsor -for the child of that terrible union. The wretched mother heard them -from her bed of pain, and loved her infant better for its utter -destitution. * * * * * * - -“A few hours put an end to the consternation of the family, on the score -of religion at least. The officers of the Inquisition arrived, armed -with all the powers of their tribunal, and strongly excited by the -report, that the Wanderer of whom they had been long in search, had -lately perpetrated an act that brought him within the sphere of their -jurisdiction, by involving the life of the only being his solitary -existence held alliance with. “We hold him by the cords of a man,” said -the chief inquisitor, speaking more from what he read than what he -felt--“if he burst these cords he is more than man. He has a wife and -child, and if there be human elements in him, if there be any thing -mortal clinging to his heart, we shall wind round the roots of it, and -extract it.” * * * * * - -“It was not till after some weeks, that Isidora recovered her perfect -recollection. When she did, she was in a prison, a pallet of straw was -her bed, a crucifix and a death’s head the only furniture of her cell; -the light struggled through a narrow grate, and struggled in vain, to -cast one gleam on the squalid apartment that it visited and shrunk from. -Isidora looked round her--she had light enough to see her child--she -clasped it to her bosom, from which it had unconsciously drawn its -feverish nourishment, and wept in extasy. “It is my own,” she sobbed, -“and only mine! It has no father--he is at the ends of the earth--he has -left me alone--but I am not alone while you are left to me!” - -“She was left in solitary confinement for many days, undisturbed and -unvisited. The persons in whose hands she was had strong reasons for -this mode of treatment. They were desirous that she should recover -perfect sanity of intellect previous to her examination, and they also -wished to give her time to form that profound attachment to the innocent -companion of her solitude, that might be a powerful engine in their -hands in discovering those circumstances relative to Melmoth that had -hitherto baffled all the power and penetration of the Inquisition -itself. All reports agreed that the Wanderer had never before been known -to make a woman the object of his temptation, or to entrust her with the -terrible secret of his destiny(16); and the Inquisitors were heard to -say to each other, “Now that we have got the Delilah in our hands, we -shall soon have the Sampson.” - - (16) From this it should seem that they were unacquainted with the - story of Elinor Mortimer. - -“It was on the night previous to her examination, (of which she was -unapprized), that Isidora saw the door of her cell opened, and a figure -appear at it, whom, amid the dreary obscurity that surrounded her, she -recognized in a moment,--it was Fra Jose. After a long pause of mutual -horror, she knelt in silence to receive his benediction, which he gave -with feeling solemnity; and then the good monk, whose propensities, -though somewhat “earthly and sensual,” were never “devilish,” after -vainly drawing his cowl over his face to stifle his sobs, lifted up his -voice and “wept bitterly.” - -“Isidora was silent, but her silence was not that of sullen apathy, or -of conscience-seared impenitence. At length Fra Jose seated himself on -the foot of the pallet, at some distance from the prisoner, who was also -sitting, and bending her cheek, down which a cold tear slowly flowed, -over her infant. “Daughter,” said the monk, collecting himself, “it is -to the indulgence of the holy office I owe this permission to visit -you.”--“I thank them,” said Isidora, and her tears flowed fast and -relievingly. “I am permitted also to tell you that your examination will -take place to-morrow,--to adjure you to prepare for it,--and, if there -be any thing which”---- “My examination!” repeated Isidora with -surprise, but evidently without terror, “on what subject am I then to be -examined?”--“On that of your inconceivable union with a being devoted -and accursed.” His voice was choaked with horror, and he added, -“Daughter, are you then indeed the wife of--of--that being, whose name -makes the flesh creep, and the hair stand on end?”--“I am.”--“Who were -the witnesses of your marriage, and what hand dared to bind yours with -that unholy and unnatural bond?”--“There were no witnesses--we were -wedded in darkness. I saw no form, but I thought I heard words -uttered--I know I felt a hand place mine in Melmoth’s--its touch was as -cold as that of the dead.”--“Oh complicated and mysterious horror!” said -the priest, turning pale, and crossing himself with marks of unfeigned -terror; he bowed his head on his arm for some time, and remained silent -from unutterable emotion. “Father,” said Isidora at length, “you knew -the hermit who lived amid the ruins of the monastery near our house,--he -was a priest also,--he was a holy man, it was he who united us!” Her -voice trembled.---- “Wretched victim!” groaned the priest, without -raising his head, “you know not what you utter--that holy man is known -to have died the very night preceding that of your dreadful union.” - -“Another pause of mute horror followed, which the priest at length -broke.--“Unhappy daughter,” said he in a composed and solemn voice, “I -am indulged with permission to give you the benefit of the sacrament of -confession, previous to your examination. I adjure you to unburden your -soul to me,--will you?”--“I will, my father.”--“Will you answer me, as -you would answer at the tribunal of God?”--“Yes,--as I would answer at -the tribunal of God.” As she spake, she prostrated herself before the -priest in the attitude of confession. * * * * * * * - -“And you have now disclosed the whole burden of your spirit?”--“I have, -my father.” The priest sat thoughtfully for a considerable time. He then -put to her several singular questions relative to Melmoth, which she was -wholly unable to answer. They seemed chiefly the result of those -impressions of supernatural power and terror, which were every where -associated with his image. “My father,” said Isidora, when he had -ceased, in a faultering voice, “My father, may I inquire about my -unhappy parents?” The priest shook his head, and remained silent. At -length, affected by the agony with which she urged her inquiry, he -reluctantly said she might guess the effect which the death of their -son, and the imprisonment of their daughter in the Inquisition, must -have on parents, who were no less eminent for their zeal for the -Catholic faith, than for their parental affection. “Are they alive?” -said Isidora.--“Spare yourself the pain of further inquiries, daughter,” -said the priest, “and be assured, that if the answer was such as could -give you comfort, it would not be withheld.” - -“At this moment a bell was heard to sound in a distant part of the -structure. “That bell,” said the priest, “announces that the hour of -your examination approaches--farewell, and may the saints be with -you.”--“Stay, father,--stay one moment,--but one moment!” cried Isidora, -rushing franticly between him and the door. Fra Jose paused. Isidora -sunk before him, and, hiding her face with her hands, exclaimed in a -voice choaked with agony, “Father, do you think--that I am--lost for -ever?”--“Daughter,” said the priest in heavy accents, and in a troubled -and doubting spirit, “Daughter,--I have given you what comfort I -could--press for no more, lest what I have given (with many struggles of -conscience) may be withdrawn. Perhaps you are in a state on which I can -form no judgment, and pronounce no sentence. May God be merciful to you, -and may the holy tribunal judge you in its mercy also.”--“Yet stay, -father--stay one moment--only one moment--only one question more.” As -she spoke, she caught her pale and innocent companion from the pallet -where it slept, and held it up to the priest. “Father, tell me, _can_ -this be the child of a demon?--can it be, this creature that smiles on -me--that smiles on you, while you are mustering curses against it?--Oh, -holy drops have sprinkled it from your own hand!--Father, you have spoke -holy words over it. Father, let them tear me with their pincers, let -them roast me on their flames, but will not my child escape--my innocent -child, that smiles on you?--Holy father, dear father, look back on my -child.” And she crawled after him on her knees, holding up the miserable -infant in her arms, whose weak cry and wasted frame, pleaded against the -dungeon-life to which its infancy had been doomed. - -“Fra Jose melted at the appeal, and he was about to bestow many a kiss -and many a prayer on the wretched babe, when the bell again was sounded, -and hasting away, he had but time to exclaim, “My daughter, may God -protect you!”--“God protect me,” said Isidora, clasping her infant to -her bosom. The bell sounded again, and Isidora knew that the hour of her -trial approached. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - - Fear not now the fever’s fire, - Fear not now the death-bed groan; - Pangs that torture, pains that tire - Bed-rid age with feeble moan. - - MASON. - - -“The first examination of Isidora was conducted with the circumspective -formality that has always been known to mark the proceedings of that -tribunal. The second and the third were alike strict, penetrating and -inoperative, and the holy office began to feel its highest functionaries -were no match for the extraordinary prisoner who stood before them, who, -combining the extremes of simplicity and magnanimity, uttered every -thing that might criminate herself, but evaded with skill that baffled -all the arts of inquisitorial examination, every question that referred -to Melmoth. - -“In the course of the first examination, they hinted at the torture. -Isidora, with something of the free and nature-taught dignity of her -early existence, smiled as they spoke of it. An official whispered one -of the inquisitors, as he observed the peculiar expression of her -countenance, and the torture was mentioned no more. - -“A second--a third examination followed at long intervals--but it was -observed, that every time the mode of examination was less severe, and -the treatment of the prisoner more and more indulgent--her youth, her -beauty, her profound simplicity of character and language, developed -strongly on this singular emergency, and the affecting circumstance of -her always appearing with her child in her arms, whose feeble cries she -tried to hush, while she bent forward to hear and answer the questions -addressed to her--all these seemed to have wrought powerfully on the -minds of men not accustomed to yield to external impressions. There was -also a docility, a submission, about this beautiful and unfortunate -being--a contrite and bending spirit--a sense of wretchedness for the -misfortunes of her family--a consciousness of her own, that touched the -hearts even of inquisitors. - -“After repeated examinations, when nothing could be extorted from the -prisoner, a skilful and profound artist in the school of mental anatomy, -whispered to the inquisitor something about the infant whom she held in -her arms. “She has defied the rack,” was the answer. “Try her on _that -rack_,” was rejoined, and the hint was taken. - -“After the usual formalities were gone through, Isidora’s sentence was -read to her. She was condemned, as a suspected heretic, to perpetual -confinement in the prison of the Inquisition--her child was to be taken -from her, and brought up in a convent, in order to---- - -“Here the reading of the sentence was interrupted by the prisoner, who, -uttering one dreadful shriek of maternal agony, louder than any other -mode of torture had ever before extorted, fell prostrate on the floor. -When she was restored to sensation, no authority or terror of the place -or the judges, could prevent her pouring forth those wild and piercing -supplications, which, from the energy with which they are uttered, -appear to the speaker himself like commands,--that the latter part of -her sentence might be remitted--the former appeared to make not the -least impression on her--eternal solitude, passed in eternal darkness, -seemed to give her neither fear or pain, but she wept, and pleaded, and -raved, that she might not be separated from her infant. - -“The judges listened with fortified hearts, and in unbroken silence. -When she found all was over, she rose from her posture of humiliation -and agony--and there was something even of dignity about her as she -demanded, in a calm and altered voice, that her child might not be -removed from her till the following day. She had also self-possession -enough to enforce her petition by the remark, that its life might be the -sacrifice if it was too suddenly deprived of the nourishment it was -accustomed to receive from her. To this request the judges acceded, and -she was remanded to her cell. * * * * * * * - -“The time elapsed. The person who brought her food departed without -uttering a word; nor did she utter a word to him. It was about midnight -that the door of her cell was unlocked, and two persons in official -habits appeared at it. They seemed to pause, like the heralds at the -tent of Achilles, and then, like them, forced themselves to enter. These -men had haggard and livid faces--their attitudes were perfectly stony -and automaton-like--their movements appeared the result of mere -mechanism--yet these men were touched. The miserable light within hardly -shewed the pallet on which the prisoner was seated; but a strong red -light from the torch the attendant held, flared broadly on the arch of -the door under which the figures appeared. They approached with a motion -that seemed simultaneous and involuntary--and uttered together, in -accents that seemed to issue from one mouth, “Deliver your child to us.” -In a voice as hoarse, dry, and natureless, the prisoner answered, “Take -it!” - -“The men looked about the cell--it seemed as if they knew not where to -find the offspring of humanity amid the cells of the Inquisition. The -prisoner was silent and motionless during their search. It was not -long--the narrow apartment, the scanty furniture, afforded little room -for the investigation. When it was concluded, however, the prisoner, -bursting into a wild laugh, exclaimed, “Where would you search for a -child but in its mother’s bosom? Here--here it is--take it--take it!” -And she put it into their hands. “Oh what fools ye were to seek my child -any where but on its mother’s bosom! It is your’s now!” she shrieked in -a voice that froze the officials.--“Take it--take it from me!” - -“The agents of the holy office advanced; and the technicality of their -movements was somewhat suspended when Isidora placed in their hands the -corse of her infant daughter. Around the throat of the miserable infant, -born amid agony, and nursed in a dungeon, there was a black mark, which -the officials made their use of in representing this extraordinary -circumstance to the holy office. By some it was deemed as the sign -impressed by the evil one at its birth--by others as the fearful effect -of maternal despair. - -“It was determined that the prisoner should appear before them within -four-and-twenty hours, and account for the death of her child. * * * * * -* * * - -“Within less than half that number of hours, a mightier arm than that of -the Inquisition was dealing with the prisoner--an arm that seemed to -menace, but was indeed stretched out to save, and before whose touch the -barriers of the dreaded Inquisition itself were as frail as the fortress -of the spider who hung her web on its walls. Isidora was dying of a -disease not the less mortal because it makes no appearance in an -obituary--she was dying of that internal and incurable wound--a broken -heart. - -“When the inquisitors were at last convinced that there was nothing more -to be obtained by torture, bodily or mental torture, they suffered her -to die unmolested, and granted her last request, that Fra Jose might be -permitted to visit her. * * * * * * - -“It was midnight, but its approach was unknown in that place, where day -and night are the same. A dim lamp was substituted for that weak and -struggling beam that counterfeited day-light. The penitent was stretched -on her bed of rest--the humane priest sat beside her; and if his -presence gave no dignity to the scene, it at least softened it by the -touches of humanity. * * * * * * * * - -“My father,” said the dying Isidora, “you pronounced me -forgiven.”--“Yes, my daughter,” said the priest, “you have assured me -you are innocent of the death of your infant.”--“You never could have -believed me guilty,” said Isidora, raising herself on her pallet at the -appeal--“the consciousness of _its_ existence alone would have kept me -alive, even in my prison. Oh, my father, how was it possible it could -live, buried with me in this dreadful place almost as soon as it -respired? Even the morbid nourishment it received from me was dried up -when my sentence was read. It moaned all night--towards morning its -moans grew fainter, and I was glad--at last they ceased, and I was -very--happy!” But, as she talked of this fearful happiness, she wept. - -“My daughter, is your heart disengaged from that awful and disastrous -tie that bound it to misfortune here, and to perdition hereafter?” It -was long before she could answer; at length she said in a broken voice, -“My father, I have not now strength to search or to struggle with my -heart. Death must very soon break every tie that was twined with it, and -it is useless to anticipate my liberation; the effort would be -agony--fruitless agony, for, while I live, I must love my destroyer! -Alas! in being the enemy of mankind, was not his hostility to me -inevitable and fatal? In rejecting his last terrible temptation--in -resigning him to his destiny, and preferring submission to my own, I -feel my triumph complete, and my salvation assured.”--“Daughter, I do -not comprehend you.”--“Melmoth,” said Isidora, with a strong effort, -“Melmoth was here last night--within the walls of the Inquisition--within -this very cell!” The priest crossed himself with marks of -the profoundest horror, and, as the wind swept hollowly through -the long passage, almost expected the shaken door would burst open, and -disclose the figure of the Wanderer. * * * * * * * - -“My father, I have had many dreams,” answered the penitent, shaking her -head at a suggestion of the priest’s, “many--many wanderings, but this -was no dream. I have dreamed of the garden-land where I beheld him -first--I have dreamed of the nights when he stood at my casement, and -trembled in sleep at the sound of my mother’s step--and I have had holy -and hopeful visions, in which celestial forms appeared to me, and -promised me his conversion--but this was no dream--I saw him last night. -Father, he was here the whole night--he promised--he assured me--he -adjured me to accept of liberation and safety, of life and of felicity. -He told me, nor could I doubt him, that, by whatever means he effected -his entrance, he could also effect my escape. He offered to live with me -in that Indian isle--that paradise of ocean, far from human resort or -human persecution. He offered to love me alone, and for ever--and then I -listened to him. Oh, my father, I am very young, and life and love -sounded sweetly in my ears, when I looked at my dungeon, and thought of -dying on this floor of stone! But--when he whispered the terrible -condition on which the fulfilment of his promise depended--when he told -me that”---- - -“Her voice failed with her failing strength, and she could utter no -more. “Daughter,” said the priest, bending over her bed, “daughter, I -adjure you, by the image represented on this cross I hold to your dying -lips--by your hopes of that salvation which depends on the truth you -utter to me, your priest and your friend--the conditions proposed by -your tempter!” “Promise me absolution for repeating the words, for I -should wish that my last breath might not be exhaled in uttering--what I -must.”--“_Te absolvo_,” &c. said the priest, and bent his ear to catch -the sounds. The moment they were uttered, he started as from the sting -of a serpent, and, seating himself at the extremity of the cell, rocked -in dumb horror. “My father, you promised me absolution,” said the -penitent. “_Jam tibi dedi, moribunda_,” answered the priest, in the -confusion of thoughts using the language appropriated to the service of -religion. “Moribunda indeed!” said the sufferer, falling back on her -pallet, “Father, let me feel a human hand in mine as I part!”--“Call -upon God, daughter!” said the priest, applying the crucifix to her cold -lips. “I loved his religion,” said the penitent, kissing it devoutly, “I -loved it before I knew it, and God must have been my teacher, for I had -no other! Oh!” she exclaimed, with that deep conviction that must thrill -every dying heart, and whose echo (would God) might pierce every living -one--“Oh that I had loved none but God--how profound would have been my -peace--how glorious my departure--_now_--_his_ image pursues me even to -the brink of the grave, into which I plunge to escape it!” - -“My daughter,” said the priest, while the tears rolled fast down his -cheeks--“my daughter, you are passing to bliss--the conflict was fierce -and short, but the victory is sure--harps are tuned to a new song, even -a song of welcome, and wreaths of palm are weaving for you in paradise!” - -“Paradise!” uttered Isidora, with her last breath--“_Will he be there!_” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - Loud tolled the bell, the priests prayed well, - The tapers they all burned bright, - The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, - They told their beads all night! - - * * * * * - - The second night------ - - * * * * * - - The monk and the nun they told their beads - As fast as they could tell, - And aye the louder grew the noise, - The faster went the bell! - - * * * * * - - The third night came------ - - * * * * * - - The monk and the nun forgot their beads, - They fell to the ground dismayed, - There was not a single saint in heaven - Whom they did not call to their aid! - - SOUTHEY. - - -Monçada here concluded the tale of the Indian,--the victim of Melmoth’s -passion, no less than of his destiny, both alike unhallowed and -unutterable. And he announced his intention of disclosing to him the -fates of the other victims, whose skeletons were preserved in the vault -of the Jew Adonijah in Madrid. He added, that the circumstances relating -to them, were of a character still darker and more awful than those he -had recited, as they were the result of impressions made on masculine -minds, without any excitement but that of looking into futurity. He -mentioned, too, that the circumstances of his residence in the house of -the Jew, his escape from it, and the reasons of his subsequent arrival -in Ireland, were scarcely less extraordinary than any thing he had -hitherto related. Young Melmoth, (whose name perhaps the reader has -forgot), did “seriously incline” to the purpose of having his dangerous -curiosity further gratified, nor was he perhaps altogether without the -wild hope of seeing the original of that portrait he had destroyed, -burst from the walls and take up the fearful tale himself. - -The narrative of the Spaniard had occupied many days; at their -termination, young Melmoth signified to his guest that he was prepared -to hear the sequel. - -A night was fixed for the continuation of the recital. Young Melmoth and -his guest met in the usual apartment--it was a dreary, stormy night--the -rain that had fallen all day, seemed now to have yielded to the wind, -that came in strong and sudden bursts, suddenly hushed, as if collecting -strength for the tempest of the night. Monçada and Melmoth drew their -chairs closer to the fire, looking at each other with the aspect of men -who wish to inspire each other with courage to listen, and to tell, and -are the more eager to inspire it, because neither feels it himself. - -At length Monçada collected his voice and resolution to proceed, but as -he went on, he perceived he could not fix his hearer’s attention, and he -paused. - -“I thought,” said Melmoth, answering his silence, “I thought I heard a -noise--as of a person walking in the passage.” “Hush! and listen,” said -Monçada, “I would not wish to be overheard.” They paused and held their -breath--the sound was renewed--it was evidently that of steps -approaching the door, and then retiring from it. “We are watched,” said -Melmoth, half-rising from his chair, but at that moment the door opened, -and a figure appeared at it, which Monçada recognized for the subject of -his narrative, and his mysterious visitor in the prison of the -Inquisition, and Melmoth for the original of the picture, and the being -whose unaccountable appearance had filled him with consternation, as he -sat beside his dying uncle’s bed. - -The figure stood at the door for some time, and then advancing slowly -till it gained the centre of the room, it remained there fixed for some -time, but without looking at them. It then approached the table where -they sat, in a slow but distinctly heard step, and stood before them as -a living being. The profound horror that was equally felt by both, was -differently expressed by each. Monçada crossed himself repeatedly, and -attempted to utter many prayers. Melmoth, nailed to his chair, fixed his -sightless eyes on the form that stood before him--it was indeed Melmoth -the Wanderer--the same as he was in the past century--the same as he may -be in centuries to come, should the fearful terms of his existence be -renewed. His “natural force was not abated,” but “his eye was -dim,”--that appalling and supernatural lustre of the visual organ, that -beacon lit by an infernal fire, to tempt or to warn the adventurers of -despair from that coast on which many struck, and some sunk--that -portentous light was no longer visible--the form and figure were those -of a living man, of the age indicated in the portrait which the young -Melmoth had destroyed, but the eyes were as the eyes of the dead. * * * -* * * - -As the Wanderer advanced still nearer till his figure touched the table, -Monçada and Melmoth started up in irrepressible horror, and stood in -attitudes of defence, though conscious at the moment that all defence -was hopeless against a being that withered and mocked at human power. -The Wanderer waved his arm with an action that spoke defiance without -hostility--and the strange and solemn accents of the only human voice -that had respired mortal air beyond the period of mortal life, and never -spoken but to the ear of guilt or suffering, and never uttered to that -ear aught but despair, rolled slowly on their hearing like a peal of -distant thunder. - -“Mortals--you are here to talk of my destiny, and of the events which it -has involved. That destiny is accomplished, I believe, and with it -terminate those events that have stimulated your wild and wretched -curiosity. I am here to tell you of both!--I--I--of whom you speak, am -here!--Who can tell so well of Melmoth the Wanderer as himself, now that -he is about to resign that existence which has been the object of terror -and wonder to the world?--Melmoth, you behold your ancestor--the being -on whose portrait is inscribed the date of a century and a half, is -before you.--Monçada, you see an acquaintance of a later date.”--(A grim -smile of recognition wandered over his features as he spoke).--“Fear -nothing,” he added, observing the agony and terror of his involuntary -hearers--“What have you to fear?” he continued, while a flash of -derisive malignity once more lit up the sockets of his dead eyes--“You, -Senhor, are armed with your beads--and you, Melmoth, are fortified by -that vain and desperate inquisitiveness, which might, at a former -period, have made you my victim,”--(and his features underwent a short -but horrible convulsion)--“but now makes you only my mockery. - -* * * * * - -“Have you aught to quench my thirst?” he added, seating himself. The -senses of Monçada and his companion reeled in delirious terror, and the -former, in a kind of wild confidence, filled a glass of water, and -offered it to the Wanderer with a hand as steady, but somewhat colder, -as he would have presented it to one who sat beside him in human -companionship. The Wanderer raised it to his lips, and tasted a few -drops, then replacing it on the table, said with a laugh, wild indeed, -but no longer ferocious--“Have you seen,” said he to Monçada and -Melmoth, who gazed with dim and troubled sight on this vision, and wist -not what to think--“Have you seen the fate of Don Juan, not as he is -pantomimed on your paltry stage, but as he is represented in the real -horrors of his destiny by the Spanish writer(17)? There the spectre -returns the hospitality of his inviter, and summons him in turn to a -feast.--The banquet-hall is a church--he arrives--it is illuminated with -a mysterious light--invisible hands hold lamps fed by no earthly -substance, to light the apostate to his doom!--He enters the church, and -is greeted by a numerous company--the spirits of those whom he has -wronged and murdered, uprisen from their charnel, and swathed in -shrouds, stand there to welcome him!--As he passes among them, they call -on him in hollow sounds to pledge them in goblets of blood which they -present to him--and beneath the altar, by which stands the spirit of him -whom the parricide has murdered, the gulph of perdition is yawning to -receive him!---- Through such a band I must soon prepare to -pass!--Isidora! thy form will be the last I must encounter--and--the -most terrible! Now for the last drop I must taste of earth’s -produce--the last that shall wet my mortal lips!” He slowly finished the -draught of water. Neither of his companions had the power to speak. He -sat down in a posture of heavy musing, and neither ventured to interrupt -him. - - (17) Vide the original play, of which there is a curious and very - obsolete translation. - -They kept silence till the morning was dawning, and a faint light -streamed through the closed shutters. Then the Wanderer raised his heavy -eyes, and fixed them on Melmoth. “Your ancestor has come home,” he said; -“his wanderings are over!--What has been told or believed of me is now -of light avail to me. The secret of my destiny rests with myself. If all -that fear has invented, and credulity believed of me be true, to what -does it amount? That if my crimes have exceeded those of mortality, so -will my punishment. I have been on earth a terror, but not an evil to -its inhabitants. None can participate in my destiny but with his own -consent--_none have consented_--none can be involved in its tremendous -penalties, but by participation. I alone must sustain the penalty. If I -have put forth my hand, and eaten of the fruit of the interdicted tree, -am I not driven from the presence of God and the region of paradise, and -sent to wander amid worlds of barrenness and curse for ever and ever? - -“It has been reported of me, that I obtained from the enemy of souls a -range of existence beyond the period allotted to mortality--a power to -pass over space without disturbance or delay, and visit remote regions -with the swiftness of thought--to encounter tempests without the _hope_ -of their blasting me, and penetrate into dungeons, whose bolts were as -flax and tow at my touch. It has been said that this power was accorded -to me, that I might be enabled to tempt wretches in their fearful hour -of extremity, with the promise of deliverance and immunity, on condition -of their exchanging situations with me. If this be true, it bears -attestation to a truth uttered by the lips of one I may not name, and -echoed by every human heart in the habitable world. - -“No one has ever exchanged destinies with Melmoth the Wanderer. _I have -traversed the world in the search, and no one, to gain that world, would -lose his own soul!_--Not Stanton in his cell--nor you, Monçada, in the -prison of the Inquisition--nor Walberg, who saw his children perishing -with want--nor--another”-- - -He paused, and though on the verge of his dark and doubtful voyage, he -seemed to cast one look of bitter and retrospective anguish on the -receding shore of life, and see, through the mists of memory, one form -that stood there to bid him farewell. He rose--“Let me, if possible, -obtain an hour’s repose. Aye, repose--sleep!” he repeated, answering the -silent astonishment of his hearers’ looks, “my existence is still -human!”--and a ghastly and derisive smile wandered over his features for -the last time, as he spoke. How often had that smile frozen the blood of -his victims! Melmoth and Monçada quitted the apartment; and the -Wanderer, sinking back in his chair, slept profoundly. He slept, but -what were the visions of his last earthly slumber? - - - - -The Wanderer’s Dream. - - -He dreamed that he stood on the summit of a precipice, whose downward -height no eye could have measured, but for the fearful waves of a fiery -ocean that lashed, and blazed, and roared at its bottom, sending its -burning spray far up, so as to drench the dreamer with its sulphurous -rain. The whole glowing ocean below was alive--every billow bore an -agonizing soul, that rose like a wreck or a putrid corse on the waves of -earth’s oceans--uttered a shriek as it burst against that adamantine -precipice--sunk--and rose again to repeat the tremendous experiment! -Every billow of fire was thus instinct with immortal and agonizing -existence,--each was freighted with a soul, that rose on the burning -wave in torturing hope, burst on the rock in despair, added its eternal -shriek to the roar of that fiery ocean, and sunk to rise again--in vain, -and--for ever! - -Suddenly the Wanderer felt himself flung half-way down the precipice. He -stood, in his dream, tottering on a crag midway down the precipice--he -looked upward, but the upper air (for there was no heaven) showed only -blackness unshadowed and impenetrable--but, blacker than that blackness, -he could distinguish a gigantic outstretched arm, that held him as in -sport on the ridge of that infernal precipice, while another, that -seemed in its motions to hold fearful and invisible conjunction with the -arm that grasped him, as if both belonged to some being too vast and -horrible even for the imagery of a dream to shape, pointed upwards to a -dial-plate fixed on the top of that precipice, and which the flashes of -that ocean of fire made fearfully conspicuous. He saw the mysterious -single hand revolve--he saw it reach the appointed period of 150 -years--(for in this mystic plate centuries were marked, not hours)--he -shrieked in his dream, and, with that strong impulse often felt in -sleep, burst from the arm that held him, to arrest the motion of the -hand. - -In the effort he fell, and falling grasped at aught that might save -him. His fall seemed perpendicular--there was nought to save him--the -rock was as smooth as ice--the ocean of fire broke at its foot! -Suddenly a groupe of figures appeared, ascending as he fell. He -grasped at them successively;--first Stanton--then Walberg--Elinor -Mortimer--Isidora--Monçada--all passed him,--to each he seemed in his -slumber to cling in order to break his fall--all ascended the precipice. -He caught at each in his downward flight, but all forsook him and -ascended. - -His last despairing reverted glance was fixed on the clock of -eternity--the upraised black arm seemed to push forward the hand--it -arrived at its period--he fell--he sunk--he blazed--he shrieked! The -burning waves boomed over his sinking head, and the clock of eternity -rung out its awful chime--“Room for the soul of the Wanderer!”--and the -waves of the burning ocean answered, as they lashed the adamantine -rock--“There is room for more!”----The Wanderer awoke. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - - And in he came with eyes of flame, - The fiend to fetch the dead. - - SOUTHEY’S _Old Woman of Berkeley_. - - -Melmoth and Monçada did not dare to approach the door till about noon. -They then knocked gently at the door, and finding the summons -unanswered, they entered slowly and irresolutely. The apartment was in -the same state in which they had left it the preceding night, or rather -morning; it was dusky and silent, the shutters had not been opened, and -the Wanderer still seemed sleeping in his chair. - -At the sound of their approach he half-started up, and demanded what was -the hour. They told him. “My hour is come,” said the Wanderer, “it is an -hour you must neither partake or witness--the clock of eternity is about -to strike, but its knell must be unheard by mortal ears!” As he spoke -they approached nearer, and saw with horror the change the last few -hours had wrought on him. The fearful lustre of his eyes had been -deadened before their late interview, but now the lines of extreme age -were visible in every feature. His hairs were as white as snow, his -mouth had fallen in, the muscles of his face were relaxed and -withered--he was the very image of hoary decrepid debility. He started -himself at the impression which his appearance visibly made on the -intruders. “You see what I feel,” he exclaimed, “the hour then is come. -I am summoned, and I must obey the summons--my master has other work for -me! When a meteor blazes in your atmosphere--when a comet pursues its -burning path towards the sun--look up, and perhaps you may think of the -spirit condemned to guide the blazing and erratic orb.” - -The spirits, that had risen to a kind of wild elation, as suddenly -subsided, and he added, “Leave me, I must be alone for the few last -hours of my mortal existence--if indeed they are to be the last.” He -spoke this with an inward shuddering, that was felt by his hearers. “In -this apartment,” he continued, “I first drew breath, in this I must -perhaps resign it,--would--would I had never been born! * * * * * * - -“Men--retire--leave me alone. Whatever noises you hear in the course of -the awful night that is approaching, come not near this apartment, at -peril of your lives. Remember,” raising his voice, which still retained -all its powers, “remember your lives will be the forfeit of your -desperate curiosity. For the same stake I risked more than life--and -lost it!--Be warned--retire!” - -They retired, and passed the remainder of that day without even thinking -of food, from that intense and burning anxiety that seemed to prey on -their very vitals. At night they retired, and though each lay down, it -was without a thought of repose. Repose indeed would have been -impossible. The sounds that soon after midnight began to issue from the -apartment of the Wanderer, were at first of a description not to alarm, -but they were soon exchanged for others of such indescribable horror, -that Melmoth, though he had taken the precaution of dismissing the -servants to sleep in the adjacent offices, began to fear that those -sounds might reach them, and, restless himself from insupportable -inquietude, rose and walked up and down the passage that led to that -room of horror. As he was thus occupied, he thought he saw a figure at -the lower end of the passage. So disturbed was his vision, that he did -not at first recognize Monçada. Neither asked the other the reason of -his being there--they walked up and down together silently. - -In a short time the sounds became so terrible, that scarcely had the -awful warning of the Wanderer power to withhold them from attempting to -burst into the room. These noises were of the most mixed and -indescribable kind. They could not distinguish whether they were the -shrieks of supplication, or the yell of blasphemy--they hoped inwardly -they might be the former. - -Towards morning the sounds suddenly ceased--they were stilled as in a -moment. The silence that succeeded seemed to them for a few moments more -terrible than all that preceded. After consulting each other by a -glance, they hastened together to the apartment. They entered--it was -empty--not a vestige of its last inhabitant was to be traced within. - -After looking around in fruitless amazement, they perceived a small door -opposite to that by which they had entered. It communicated with a back -staircase, and was open. As they approached it, they discovered the -traces of footsteps that appeared to be those of a person who had been -walking in damp sand or clay. These traces were exceedingly plain--they -followed them to a door that opened on the garden--that door was open -also. They traced the foot-marks distinctly through the narrow gravel -walk, which was terminated by a broken fence, and opened on a heathy -field which spread half-way up a rock whose summit overlooked the sea. -The weather had been rainy, and they could trace the steps distinctly -through that heathy field. They ascended the rock together. - -Early as it was, the cottagers, who were poor fishermen residing on the -shore, were all up, and assuring Melmoth and his companion that they had -been disturbed and terrified the preceding night by sounds which they -could not describe. It was singular that these men, accustomed by nature -and habit alike to exaggeration and superstition, used not the language -of either on this occasion. - -There is an overwhelming mass of conviction that falls on the mind, that -annihilates idiom and peculiarities, and crushes out truth from the -heart. Melmoth waved back all who offered to accompany him to the -precipice which over-hung the sea. Monçada alone followed him. - -Through the furze that clothed this rock, almost to its summit, there -was a kind of tract as if a person had dragged, or been dragged, his way -through it--a down-trodden track, over which no footsteps but those of -one impelled by force had ever passed. Melmoth and Monçada gained at -last the summit of the rock. The ocean was beneath--the wide, waste, -engulphing ocean! On a crag beneath them, something hung as floating to -the blast. Melmoth clambered down and caught it. It was the handkerchief -which the Wanderer had worn about his neck the preceding night--that was -the last trace of the Wanderer! - -Melmoth and Monçada exchanged looks of silent and unutterable horror, -and returned slowly home. - -FINIS. - - - - -JOHN PILLANS, Printer, Edinburgh. - - - - - Transcriber’s Note: - - The following is a list of corrections made to the original. - The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. - - CHAPTER XXI. - CHAPTER XXIII. - - thus Pliny writeth, “_Apparebat eidolon senex, macie et senie - thus Pliny writeth, “_Apparebat eidolon senex, macie et senio - - CHAPTER XXII. - CHAPTER XXIV. - - steps she heard the sound of steps pursuing her.” - steps she heard the sound of steps pursuing her. - - As they approached, in spite of the darkness of the night, the ruin - “As they approached, in spite of the darkness of the night, the ruin - - behind a cloud, and every thing was enveloped in darknesss so profound, - behind a cloud, and every thing was enveloped in darkness so profound, - - another person,--she tried to catch certain words, but she knew nor what - another person,--she tried to catch certain words, but she knew not what - - CHAPTER XXIII. - CHAPTER XXV. - - Τηλε μἐιργουσι ψυχαι, ειδοωλα καμοντων. - Τηλε μ’ ειργουσι ψυχαι, ειδωλα καμοντων. - - We have now to retrace a short period of our narrative to the night on - “We have now to retrace a short period of our narrative to the night on - - not aviod giving him his confidence at sight, though he forbore any - not avoid giving him his confidence at sight, though he forbore any - - within my certain knowledge. - within my certain knowledge.” - - CHAPTER XXIV. - CHAPTER XXVI. - - This night he perhaps began to feel the prudence of his wife’s - “This night he perhaps began to feel the prudence of his wife’s - - The weather was gloomy and cold that evening,--it was unlike a night in - “The weather was gloomy and cold that evening,--it was unlike a night in - - with an emphatic smile. “Father,” said Walberg, is not Everhard grown - with an emphatic smile. “Father,” said Walberg, “is not Everhard grown - - CHAPTER XXV. - CHAPTER XXVII. - - The priest was as good as his word,--the ablest advocates in Seville - “The priest was as good as his word,--the ablest advocates in Seville - - CHAPTER XXVI. - CHAPTER XXVIII. - - was neither speech nor language, but voices were heard among them--“_and - was neither speech nor language, but voices were heard among them--_and - - The mother, with the forced smile of a sickening heart, said she - “The mother, with the forced smile of a sickening heart, said she - - believe,’ said Ines, involuntarily yielding to the dreadful conviction - believe,” said Ines, involuntarily yielding to the dreadful conviction - - this seat--you must drag me from it yourselves. - this seat--you must drag me from it yourselves.” - - CHAPTER XXVII. - CHAPTER XXIX. - - Χαλεπον δέ το φιλησαι· - Χαλεπον δε το φιλησαι· - - and their echo from the rocks of granite made the rider tremble, les he - and their echo from the rocks of granite made the rider tremble, lest he - - Shropshire, (“I have had dealings with Shewsbury merchants,” said - Shropshire, (“I have had dealings with Shrewsbury merchants,” said - - --“Thou-art-not-worthy-to-unloose-the-latchets-of-his-shoes,--_Sandal_. - --“Thou-art-not-worthy-to-unloose-the-latchets-of-his-shoes,--_Sandal_.” - - CHAPTER XXVIII. - CHAPTER XXX. - - royal guest. When she related that a band of natics, after robbing a - royal guest. When she related that a band of fanatics, after robbing a - - Such was the state of Elinor, when the arrival of one who had been long - “Such was the state of Elinor, when the arrival of one who had been long - - in garnishing the wassail bowl, which was doomed by many a thristy eye - in garnishing the wassail bowl, which was doomed by many a thirsty eye - - a godly conference, where the non-comformist ministers, who had been, in - a godly conference, where the non-conformist ministers, who had been, in - - On a dim autumnal evening, when Mrs Ann, with fading sight but - “On a dim autumnal evening, when Mrs Ann, with fading sight but - - CHAPTER XXIX. - CHAPTER XXXI. - - The increasing decline of Elinor’s health was marked by all the family; - “The increasing decline of Elinor’s health was marked by all the family; - - CHAPTER XXX. - CHAPTER XXXII. - - I had not seen Melmoth for some years. I was preparing to quit Germany, - “I had not seen Melmoth for some years. I was preparing to quit Germany, - - CHAPTER XXXI. - CHAPTER XXXIII. - - CHAPTER XXXII. - CHAPTER XXXIV. - - syllable of the business to her father and brother.--“We will show,“ - syllable of the business to her father and brother.--“We will show,” - - ear is open at all simes, I have been told,” answered Isidora.--“If it - ear is open at all times, I have been told,” answered Isidora.--“If it - - CHAPTER XXXII. - CHAPTER XXXV. - - CHAPTER XXXIII. - CHAPTER XXXVI. - - you.”--“Stay, father,--stay one moment,--but one moment!’ cried Isidora, - you.”--“Stay, father,--stay one moment,--but one moment!” cried Isidora, - - Fra Jose melted at the appeal, and he was about to bestow many a kiss - “Fra Jose melted at the appeal, and he was about to bestow many a kiss - - CHAPTER XXXIV. - CHAPTER XXXVII. - - more. “Daughter, said the priest, bending over her bed, “daughter, I - more. “Daughter,” said the priest, bending over her bed, “daughter, I - - CHAPTER XXXV. - CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - CHAPTER XXXVI. - CHAPTER XXXIX. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Melmoth the Wanderer Vol. 4 (of 4), by -Charles Robert Maturin - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELMOTH THE WANDERER VOL. 4 (OF 4) *** - -***** This file should be named 53688-0.txt or 53688-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/6/8/53688/ - -Produced by David Edwards, Jana Srna and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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- border: none; - padding: 0; - } - - .transcribers-note p - { - margin: 0.25em 0; - } - - .transcribers-note .screen, - .pagenum - { - display: none; - } - - ins - { - border: none; - } - - .transcribers-note, - h1, - h2, - .footnotes, - .page-break - { - page-break-before: always; - } - - .page-break-after - { - page-break-after: always; - } -} - -@media handheld -{ - body - { - margin: auto 5%; - max-width: 100%; - } - - p - { - line-height: 1.2em; - margin: 0.3em auto; - } - - .poetry - { - display: block; - margin-left: 2em; - } - - .stanza .center - { - text-align: left; - margin: 0.5em auto auto 3em; - } - - .poetry .indent17 - { - text-indent: 3em; - } - - .stanza .center - { - text-align: left; - } - - ul#corrections li - { - margin: 0; - } - - .footnotes - { - margin: 8em 7.5%; - padding: 1em 0; - border-top: 1px solid black; - border-bottom: 1px solid black; - } -} ---> -</style> -<!--[if lt IE 8]> -<style type="text/css"> -a[title].pagenum -{ - position: static; -} -</style> -<![endif]--> -</head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Melmoth the Wanderer Vol. 4 (of 4), by -Charles Robert Maturin - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Melmoth the Wanderer Vol. 4 (of 4) - -Author: Charles Robert Maturin - -Release Date: December 7, 2016 [EBook #53688] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELMOTH THE WANDERER VOL. 4 (OF 4) *** - - - - -Produced by David Edwards, Jana Srna and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - - -<div class="transcribers-note"> -<p class="center"><b>Transcriber’s Notes:</b></p> - -<p>Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully -as possible, including inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation.</p> - -<p>Some corrections of spelling and punctuation have been made. -<span class="screen">They are marked <ins title="transcriber's note">like -this</ins> in the text. The original text appears when hovering the cursor -over the marked text.</span> A <a href="#tn-bottom">list of amendments</a> is -at the end of the text.</p> -</div> - -<h1><big>MELMOTH</big><br /> -<small>THE</small><br /> -WANDERER:<br /> -<small>A</small><br /> -TALE.</h1> - -<p class="center">BY THE AUTHOR OF “BERTRAM,” &c.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="center">IN FOUR VOLUMES.</p> - -<p class="center">VOL. IV.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="center spaced"><big>EDINBURGH:</big><br /> -PRINTED FOR ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND COMPANY,<br /> -<small>AND HURST, ROBINSON, AND CO. CHEAPSIDE,<br /> -LONDON.</small></p> - -<hr class="short-line" /> - -<p class="center">1820.</p> - -<p class="center page-break" style="font-size: x-large;"><a class="pagenum" name="Page_1" title="1"> </a>MELMOTH.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="Chapter_XXIII">CHAPTER <ins title="XXI">XXIII</ins>.</h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">If he to thee no answer give,<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">I’ll give to thee a sign;<br /></div> -<div class="line">A secret known to nought that live,<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">Save but to me and mine.<br /></div> -<div class="line center">* * * * *<br /></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">Gone to be married.<span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span><br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Shakespeare.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“The</span> whole of the next day was occupied -by Donna Clara, to whom letter-writing -was a rare, troublesome, and -momentous task, in reading over and -correcting her answer to her husband’s -letter; in which examination she found -so much to correct, interline, alter, modify, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_2" title="2"> </a> -expunge, and new-model, that finally -Donna Clara’s epistle very much resembled -the work she was now employed -in, namely, that of <em>overcasting</em> a piece -of tapestry wrought by her grandmother, -representing the meeting of king Solomon -and the queen of Sheba. The new work, -instead of repairing, made fearful havock -among the old; but Donna Clara went on, -like her countryman at Mr Peter’s puppet-show, -playing away (with her needle) in a -perfect shower of back-strokes, fore-strokes, -side-thrusts, and counter-thrusts, till not a -figure in the tapestry could know himself -again. The faded face of Solomon was garnished -with a florid beard of scarlet silk -(which Fra Jose at first told her she must rip -out, as it made Solomon very little better -than Judas) that made him resemble a boiled -scallop. The fardingale of the queen of -Sheba was expanded to an enormous hoop, -of whose shrunk and pallid wearer it might -be truly said, “<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Minima est pars sui</i>.” The -dog that, in the original tapestry, stood -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_3" title="3"> </a> -by the spurred and booted heel of the -oriental monarch, (who was clad in Spanish -costume), by dint of a few tufts of black -and yellow satin, was converted into a tiger,—a -transformation which his grinning -fangs rendered as authentic as heart could -wish. And the parrot perched on the -queen’s shoulder, with the help of a train -of green and gold, which the ignorant mistook -for her majesty’s mantle, proved a -very passable peacock.”</p> - -<p>“As little trace of her original epistle -did Donna Clara’s present one bear, as did -her elaborate overcasting to the original -and painful labours of her grandmother. -In both, however, Donna Clara (who -scorned to flinch) went over the same -ground with dim eye, and patient touch, -and inextinguishable and remorseless assiduity. -The letter, such as it was, -was still sufficiently characteristic of the -writer. Some passages of it the reader -shall be indulged with,—and we reckon -on his gratitude for not insisting on his -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_4" title="4"> </a> -perusal of the whole. The authentic copy, -from which we are favoured with the extracts, -runs thus. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Your daughter takes to her religion -like mother’s milk; and well may she do -so, considering that the trunk of our family -was planted in the genuine soil of the -Catholic church, and that every branch of -of it must flourish there or perish. For a -Neophyte, (as Fra Jose wills me to word -it), she is as promising a sprout as one -should wish to see flourishing within the -pale of the holy church;—and for a heathen, -she is so amenable, submissive, and -of such maidenly suavity, that for the -comportment of her person, and the discreet -and virtuous ordering of her mind, -I have no Christian mother to envy. Nay, -I sometimes take pity on them, when I -see the lightness, the exceeding vain carriage, -and the unadvised eagerness to be -wedded, of the best trained maidens of our -country. This our daughter hath nothing -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_5" title="5"> </a> -of, either in her outward demeanour, or -inward mind. She talks little, <em>therefore -she cannot think much</em>; and she dreams -not of the light devices of love, and is -therefore well qualified for the marriage -proposed unto her. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“One thing, dear spouse of my soul, I -would have thee to take notice of, and -guard like the apple of thine eye,—our -daughter is deranged, but never, on thy -discretion, mention this to Don Montilla, -even though he were the descendant in -the right line of the Campeador, or of -Gonsalvo di Cordova. Her derangement -will in no wise impede or contravene her -marriage,—for be it known to thee, it -breaks out but at times, and at such -times, that the most jealous eye of man -could not spy it, unless he had a foretaught -intimation of it. She hath -strange fantasies swimming in her brain, -such as, that heretics and heathens shall -not be everlastingly damned—(God and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_6" title="6"> </a> -the saints protect us!)—which must clearly -proceed from madness,—but which her -Catholic husband, if ever he comes to -the knowledge of them, shall know -how to expel, by aid of the church, and -conjugal authority. That thou may’st -better know the truth of what I hereby -painfully certify, the saints and Fra Jose -(who will not let me tell a lie, because he -in a manner holds my pen) can witness, -that about four days before we left Madrid, -as we went to church, and I was -about, while ascending the steps, to dole -alms to a mendicant woman wrapt in a -mantle, who held up a naked child for the -receiving of charity, your daughter twitched -my sleeve, while she whispered, ‘Madam, -she cannot be mother to that child, -for she is covered, and her child is naked. -If she were its mother, she would cover -her child, and not be comfortably wrapt -herself.’ True it was, I found afterwards -the wretched woman had hired the child -from its more wretched mother, and my -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_7" title="7"> </a> -alms had paid the price of its hire for the -day; but still that not a whit disproved -our daughter insane, inasmuch as it showed -her ignorant of the fashion and usages -of the beggars of the country, and did in -some degree shew a doubt of the merit of -alms-deeds, which thou know’st none but -heretics or madmen could deny. Other -and grievous proofs of her insanity doth -she give daily; but not willing to incumber -you with ink, (which Fra Jose -willeth me to call <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">atramentum</i>), I will add -but a few particulars to arouse your dormant -faculties, which may be wrapt in lethargic -obliviousness by the anodyne of -my somniferous epistolation.”</p> - -<p>“Reverend Father,” said Donna Clara, -looking up to Fra Jose, who had dictated -the last line, “Don Francisco will know -the last line not to be mine—he heard it -in one of your sermons. Let me add -the extraordinary proof of my daughter’s -insanity at the ball.”—“Add or diminish, -compose or confound, what you will, in -God’s name!” said Fra Jose, vexed at the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_8" title="8"> </a> -frequent erazures and lituras which disfigured -the lines of his dictation; “for -though in style I may somewhat boast of -my superiority, in scratches no hen on the -best dunghill in Spain can contend with -you! On, then, in the name of all the -saints!—and when it pleases heaven to -send an interpreter to your husband, we -may hope to hear from him by the next -post-angel, for surely such a letter was -never written on earth.”</p> - -<p>“With this encouragement and applause, -Donna Clara proceeded to relate -sundry other errors and wanderings of her -daughter, which, to a mind so swathed, -crippled, and dwarfed, by the ligatures -which the hand of custom had twined -round it since its first hour of consciousness, -might well have appeared like the -aberrations of insanity. Among other -proofs, she mentioned that Isidora’s first -introduction to a Christian and Catholic -church, was on that night of penitence in -passion-week, when, the lights being extinguished, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_9" title="9"> </a> -the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">miserere</i> is chaunted in -profound darkness, the penitents macerate -themselves, and groans are heard on every -side instead of prayers, as if the worship of -Moloch was renewed without its fires;—struck -with horror at the sounds she heard, -and the darkness which surrounded her, -Isidora demanded what they were doing.—“Worshipping -God,” was the answer.</p> - -<p>“At the expiration of Lent, she was introduced -to a brilliant assembly, where the -gay fandango was succeeded by the soft -notes of the seguedilla,—and the crackling -of the castanets, and the tinkling of the -guitars, marked alternate time to the light -and ecstatic step of youth, and the silvery -and love-tuned voice of beauty. Touched -with delight at all she saw and heard,—the -smiles that dimpled and sparkled over -her beautiful features reflecting every -shade of pleasure they encountered, like -the ripplings of a brook kissed by the -moon-beams,—she eagerly asked, “And -are not these worshipping God?”—“Out -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_10" title="10"> </a> -on it, daughter!” interposed Donna Clara, -who happened to overhear the question; -“This is a vain and sinful pastime,—the -invention of the devil to delude the children -of folly,—hateful in the eyes of heaven -and its saints,—and abhorred and renounced -by the faithful.”—“Then there are -two Gods,” said Isidora sighing, “the -God of smiles and happiness, and the God -of groans and blood. Would I could -serve the former!”—“I will take order -you shall serve the latter, heathenish and -profane that you are!” answered Donna -Clara, as she hurried her from the assembly, -shocked at the scandal which her -words might have given. These and -many similar anecdotes were painfully indited -in Donna Clara’s long epistle, which, -after being folded and sealed by Fra Jose, -(who swore by the habit he wore, he had -rather study twenty pages of the Polyglot -fasting, than read it over once more), was -duly forwarded to Don Francisco.</p> - -<p>“The habits and movements of Don -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_11" title="11"> </a> -Francisco were, like those of his nation, -so deliberate and dilatory, and his aversion -to writing letters, except on mercantile -subjects, so well known, that Donna -Clara was actually alarmed at receiving, -in the evening of the day in which her -epistle was dispatched, another letter from -her husband.</p> - -<p>“Its contents must be guessed to be -sufficiently singular, when the result was, -that Donna Clara and Fra Jose sat up -over them nearly the whole of the night, -in consultation, anxiety, and fear. So intense -was their conference, that it is recorded -it was never interrupted even by -the lady telling her beads, or the monk -thinking of his supper. All the artificial -habits, the customary indulgences, the factitious -existence of both, were merged -in the real genuine fear which pervaded -their minds, and which asserted its -power over both in painful and exacting -proportion to their long and hardy -rejection of its influence. Their minds -succumbed together, and sought and gave -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_12" title="12"> </a> -in vain, feeble counsel, and fruitless consolation. -They read over and over again -this extraordinary letter, and at every reading -their minds grew darker,—and their -counsels more perplexed,—and their looks -more dismal. Ever and anon they turned -their eyes on it, as it lay open before -them on Donna Clara’s ebony writing-desk, -and then starting, asked each -other by looks, and sometimes in words, -“Did either hear some strange noise in -the house?” The letter, among other -matter not important to the reader, contained -the singular passage following. * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“In my travel from the place where -I landed, to that whence I now write, -I fortuned to be in company with strangers, -from whom I heard things touching -me (not as they meant, but as my -fear interpreted them) in a point the most -exquisite that can prick and wound the -soul of a Christian father. These I shall -discuss unto thee at thy more leisure. -They are full of fearful matter, and such -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_13" title="13"> </a> -as may perchance require the aid of some -churchman rightly to understand, and fully -to fathom. Nevertheless this I can -commend to thy discretion, that after I -had parted from this strange conference, -the reports of which I cannot by letter -communicate to thee, I retired to my -chamber full of sad and heavy thoughts, -and being seated in my chair, pored over -a tome containing legends of departed spirits, -in nowise contradictive to the doctrine -of the holy Catholic church, otherwise -I would have crushed it with the sole -of my foot into the fire that burned before -me on the hearth, and spit on its cinders -with the spittle of my mouth. Now, -whether it was the company I fortuned to -be into, (whose conversation must never -be known but to thee only), or the book -I had been reading, which contained certain -extracts from Pliny, Artemidore, and -others, full-filled with tales which I may -not now recount, but which did relate -altogether to the revivification of the departed, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_14" title="14"> </a> -appearing in due accordance with -our Catholic conceptions of Christian ghosts -in purgatory, with their suitable accoutrements -of chains and flames,—as thus Pliny -writeth, “<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Apparebat eidolon senex, macie -et <ins title="senie">senio</ins> confectus</i>,”—or finally, the -weariness of my lonely journey, or other -things I know not,—but feeling my mind -ill-disposed for deeper converse with books -or my own thoughts, and though oppressed -by sleep, unwilling to retire to rest,—a -mood which I and others have often experienced,—I -took out thy letters from -the desk in which I duly reposit them, -and read over the description which thou -didst send me of our daughter, upon the -first intelligence of her being discovered -in that accursed isle of heathenism,—and -I do assure thee, the description of our -daughter hath been written in such characters -on the bosom to which she hath -never been clasped, that it would defy the -art of all the limners in Spain to paint it -more effectually. So, thinking on those -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_15" title="15"> </a> -dark-blue eyes,—and those natural ringlets -which will not obey their new mistress, -art,—and that slender undulating shape,—and -thinking it would soon be folded in -my arms, and ask the blessing of a Christian -father in Christian tones, I dozed as I -sat in my chair; and my dreams taking -part with my waking thoughts, I was -a-dreamt that such a creature, so fair, -so fond, so cherubic, sat beside me, and -asked me blessing. As I bowed to give -it, I nodded in my chair and awoke. Awoke -I say, for what followed was as palpable -to human sight as the furniture of -my apartment, or any other tangible object. -There was a female seated opposite -me, clad in a Spanish dress, but her veil -flowed down to her feet. She sat, and -seemed to expect that I should bespeak -her first. “Damsel,” I said, “what seekest -thou?—or why art thou here?” The -figure never raised its veil, nor motioned -with hand or lip. Mine head was full of -what I had heard and read of; and after -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_16" title="16"> </a> -making the sign of the cross, and uttering -certain prayers, I approached that figure, -and said, “Damsel, what wantest thou?”—“A -father,” said the form, raising its -veil, and disclosing the identical features -of my daughter Isidora, as described -in thy numerous letters. Thou mayest -well guess my consternation, which I -might almost term fear, at the sight and -words of this beautiful but strange and solemn -figure. Nor was my perplexity and -trouble diminished but increased, when -the figure, rising and pointing to the door, -through which she forthwith passed with -a mysterious grace and incredible alacrity, -uttered, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">in transitu</i>, words like these:—“Save -me!—save me!—lose not a moment, -or I am lost!” And I swear to -thee, wife, that while that figure sat or departed, -I heard not the rustling of her garments, -or the tread of her foot, or the -sound of her respiration—only as she went -out, there was a rushing sound as of a -wind passing through the chamber,—and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_17" title="17"> </a> -a mist seemed to hang on every object around -me, which dispersed—and I was -conscious of heaving a deep sigh, as if a -load had been removed from my breast. -I sat thereafter for an hour pondering on -what I had seen, and not knowing whether -to term it a waking dream, or a dreamlike -waking. I am a mortal man, sensible -of fear, and liable to error,—but I am -also a Catholic Christian, and have ever -been a hearty contemner of your tales of -spectres and visions, excepting always -when sanctioned by the authority of the -holy church, and recorded in the lives of -her saints and martyrs. Finding no end -or fruit of these my heavy cogitations, I -withdrew myself to bed, where I long lay -tossing and sleepless, till at the approach -of morning, just as I was falling into a -deep sleep, I was awoke by a noise like -that of a breeze waving my curtains. I -started up, and drawing them, looked around -me. There was a glimpse of day-light -appearing through the window-shutters, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_18" title="18"> </a> -but not sufficient to enable me to -distinguish the objects in the room, were -it not for the lamp that burned on the -hearth, and whose light, though somewhat -dim, was perfectly distinct. By it I discovered, -near the door, a figure which my -sight, rendered more acute by my terror, -verified as the identical figure I had before -beheld, who, waving its arm with a -melancholy gesture, and uttering in a piteous -voice these words, “It is too late,” -disappeared. As, I will own to thee, -overcome with horror at this second visitation, -I fell back on my pillow almost -bereft of the use of my faculties, I remember -the clock struck three.”</p> - -<p>“As Donna Clara and the priest (on -their tenth perusal of the letter) arrived -at these words, the clock in the hall below -struck three. “That is a singular coincidence,” -said Fra Jose. “Do you think -it nothing more, Father?” said Donna -Clara, turning very pale. “I know not,” -said the priest; “many have told credible -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_19" title="19"> </a> -stories of warnings permitted by our guardian -saints, to be given even by the ministry -of inanimate things. But to what -purpose are we warned, when we know -not the evil we are to shun?”—“Hush!—hark!” -said Donna Clara, “did you hear -no noise?”—“None,” said Fra Jose listening, -not without some appearance of perturbation—“None,” -he added, in a more -tranquil and assured voice, after a pause; -“and the noise which I <em>did</em> hear about -two hours ago, was of short continuance, -and has not been renewed.”—“What a -flickering light these tapers give!” said -Donna Clara, viewing them with eyes -glassy and fixed with fear. “The casements -are open,” answered the priest. “So -they have been since we sat here,” returned -Donna Clara; “yet now see what -a stream of air comes rushing against -them! Holy God! they flare as if they -would go out!”</p> - -<p>“The priest, looking up at the tapers, -observed the truth of what she said,—and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_20" title="20"> </a> -at the same time perceived the tapestry -near the door to be considerably agitated. -“There is a door open in some other direction,” -said he, rising. “You are not -going to leave me, Father?” said Donna -Clara, who sat in her chair paralyzed with -terror, and unable to follow him but with -her eyes.</p> - -<p>“The Father Jose made no answer. He -was now in the passage, where a circumstance -which he observed had arrested all -his attention,—the door of Isidora’s apartment -was open, and lights were burning in -it. He entered it slowly at first, and gazed -around, but its inmate was not there. He -glanced his eye on the bed, but no human -form had pressed it that night—it lay untouched -and undisturbed. The casement -next caught his eye, now glancing with -the quickness of fear on every object. He -approached it—it was wide open,—the -casement that looked towards the garden. -In his horror at this discovery, the good -Father could not avoid uttering a cry that -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_21" title="21"> </a> -pierced the ears of Donna Clara, who, -trembling and scarce able to make her -way to the room, attempted to follow him -in vain, and fell down in the passage. -The priest raised and tried to assist her -back to her own apartment. The wretched -mother, when at last placed in her -chair, neither fainted or wept; but with -white and speechless lips, and a paralytic -motion of her hand, tried to point towards -her daughter’s apartment, as if she wished -to be conveyed there. “It is too late,” -said the priest, unconsciously using the -ominous words quoted in the letter of -Don Francisco.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER <ins title="XXII">XXIV</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_22" title="22"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<blockquote> -<p>Responde meum argumentum—nomen est nomen—<em>ergo</em>, -quod tibi est nomen—responde argumentum.</p> - -<p class="right"> -<cite><span class="small-caps">Beaumont</span> and <span class="small-caps">Fletcher’s</span> -Wit at several Weapons.</cite></p> -</blockquote> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“That</span> night was the one fixed on for -the union of Isidora and Melmoth. She -had retired early to her chamber, and sat -at the casement watching for his approach -for hours before she could probably expect -it. It might be supposed that at this terrible -crisis of her fate, she felt agitated by -a thousand emotions,—that a soul susceptible -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_23" title="23"> </a> -like hers felt itself almost torn in -pieces by the struggle,—but it was not so. -When a mind strong by nature, but -weakened by fettering circumstances, is -driven to make one strong spring to free -itself, it has no leisure to calculate the -weight of its hindrances, or the width of -its leap,—it sits with its chains heaped about -it, thinking only of the bound that -is to be its liberation—or<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span></p> - -<p>“During the many hours that Isidora -awaited the approach of this mysterious -bridegroom, she felt nothing but the awful -sense of that approach, and of the event -that was to follow. So she sat at -her casement, pale but resolute, and trusting -in the extraordinary promise of Melmoth, -that by whatever means he was enabled -to visit her, by those she would be -enabled to effect her escape, in spite of -her well-guarded mansion, and vigilant -household.</p> - -<p>“It was near one (the hour at which -Fra Jose, who was sitting in consultation -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_24" title="24"> </a> -with her mother over that melancholy -letter, heard the noise alluded to in -the preceding chapter) when Melmoth appeared -in the garden, and, without uttering -a word, threw up a ladder of ropes, -which, in short and sullen whispers, he instructed -her to fasten, and assisted her to -descend. They hurried through the garden,—and -Isidora, amid all the novelty of -her feelings and situation, could not avoid -testifying her surprise at the facility with -which they passed through the well-secured -garden gate.</p> - -<p>“They were now in the open country,—a -region far wilder to Isidora than the -flowery paths of that untrodden isle, where -she had no enemy. Now in every breeze -she heard a menacing voice,—in the echoes -of her own light steps she heard the sound -of steps pursuing <ins title="her.”">her.</ins></p> - -<p>“The night was very dark,—unlike the -midsummer nights in that delicious climate. -A blast sometimes cold, sometimes -stifling from heat, indicated some extraordinary -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_25" title="25"> </a> -vicissitude in the atmosphere. -There is something very fearful in this -kind of wintry feeling in a summer night. -The cold, the darkness, followed by intense -heat, and a pale, meteoric lightning, -seemed to unite the mingled evils of -the various seasons, and to trace their sad -analogy to life,—whose stormy summer allows -youth little to enjoy, and whose chilling -winter leaves age nothing to hope.</p> - -<p>“To Isidora, whose sensibilities were -still so acutely physical, that she could feel -the state of the elements as if they were -the oracles of nature, which she could -interpret at sight,—this dark and troubled -appearance seemed like a fearful omen. -More than once she paused, trembled, -and turned on Melmoth a glance -of doubt and terror,—which the darkness -of the night, of course, prevented -him from observing. Perhaps there was -another cause,—but as they hurried on, -Isidora’s strength and courage began to -fail together. She perceived that she was -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_26" title="26"> </a> -borne on with a kind of supernatural velocity,—her -breath failed,—her feet faultered,—and -she felt like one in a dream.</p> - -<p>“Stay!” she exclaimed, gasping from -weakness, “stay!—whither am I going?—where -do you bear me?”—“To your -nuptials,” answered Melmoth, in low and -almost inarticulate tones;—but whether -rendered so by emotion, or by the speed -with which they seemed to fly along, Isidora -could not discover.</p> - -<p>“In a few moments, she was forced to -declare herself unable to proceed, and -leaned on his arm, gasping and exhausted. -“Let me pause,” said she ominously, -“in the name of God!” Melmoth returned -no answer. He paused, however, and -supported her with an appearance of anxiety, -if not of tenderness.</p> - -<p>“During this interval, she gazed around -her, and tried to distinguish the objects -near; but the intense darkness of the -night rendered this almost impossible,—and -what she <em>could</em> discover, was not calculated -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_27" title="27"> </a> -to dispel her alarm. They seemed -to be walking on a narrow and precipitous -path close by a shallow stream, as she -could guess, by the hoarse and rugged -sound of its waters, as they fought with -every pebble to win their way. This path -was edged on the other side by a few trees, -whose stunted growth, and branches tossing -wild and wide to the blast that now -began to whisper mournfully among them, -seemed to banish every image of a summer -night from the senses, and almost from -the memory. Every thing around was -alike dreary and strange to Isidora, who -had never, since her arrival at the villa, -wandered beyond the precincts of the -garden,—and who, even if she had, would -probably have found no clue to direct her -where she now was. “This is a fearful -night,” said she, half internally. She then -repeated the same words more audibly, -perhaps in hope of some answering and -consolatory sounds. Melmoth was silent—and -her spirits subdued by fatigue and emotion, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_28" title="28"> </a> -she wept. “Do you already repent -the step you have taken?” said he, laying -a strange emphasis on the word—already. -“No, love, no!” replied Isidora, gently -wiping away her tears; “it is impossible -for me ever to repent it. But this loneliness,—this -darkness,—this speed,—this silence,—have -in them something almost -awful. I feel as if I were traversing some -unknown region. Are these indeed the -winds of heaven that sigh around me? -Are these trees of nature’s growth, that -nod at me like spectres? How hollow -and dismal is the sound of the blast!—it -chills me though the night is sultry!—and -those trees, they cast their shadows over -my soul! Oh, is this like a bridal night?” -she exclaimed, as Melmoth, apparently -disturbed at these words, attempted to -hurry her on—“Is this like a bridal? No -father, no brother, to support me!—no -mother near me!—no kiss of kindred to -greet me!—no congratulating friends!”—and -her fears increasing, she wildly exclaimed, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_29" title="29"> </a> -“Where is the priest to bless -our union?—where is the church under -whose roof we are to be united?”</p> - -<p>“As she spoke, Melmoth, drawing her -arm under his, attempted to lead her -gently forward. “There is,” said he, “a -ruined monastery near—you may have -observed it from your window.”—“No! -I never saw it. Why is it in ruins?”—“I -know not—there were wild stories told. -It was said the Superior, or Prior, or—I -know not what—had looked into certain -books, the perusal of which was not altogether -sanctioned by the rules of his order—books -of magic they called them. -There was much noise about it, I remember, -and some talk of the Inquisition,—but -the end of the business was, the Prior -disappeared, some said into the prisons of -the Inquisition, some said into safer custody—(though -how that could be, I cannot -well conceive)—and the brethren were -drafted into other communities, and the -building became deserted. There were -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_30" title="30"> </a> -some offers made for it by the communities -of other religious houses, but the evil, -though vague and wild reports, that had -gone forth about it, deterred them, on inquiry, -from inhabiting it,—and gradually -the building fell to ruin. It still retains all -that can sanctify it in the eyes of the faithful. -There are crucifixes and tomb-stones, -and here and there a cross set up where there -has been murder,—for, by a singular congeniality -of taste, a banditti has fixed their -seat there now,—and the traffic of gold -for souls, once carried on so profitably by -the former inmates, is exchanged for that -of souls for gold, by the present.”</p> - -<p>“At these words, Melmoth felt the -slender arm that hung on his withdrawn,—and -he perceived that his victim, between -shuddering and struggling, had <em>shrunk -from his hold</em>. “But there,” he added, -“even amid those ruins, there dwells -a holy hermit,—one who has taken up -his residence near the spot,—he will unite -us in his oratory, according to the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_31" title="31"> </a> -rites of your church. He will speak the -blessing over us,—and one of us, at least, -shall be blessed.”—“Hold!” said Isidora, -repelling, and standing at what distance -from him she could,—her slight figure expanding -to that queen-like dignity with -which nature had once invested her as the -fair and sole sovereign of her own island-paradise. -“Hold!” she repeated—“approach -me not by another step,—address me not -by another word,—till you tell me when -and where I am to be united to you,—to -become your wedded wife! I have borne -much of doubt and terror,—of suspicion -and persecution,—but”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> “Hear me, -Isidora,” said Melmoth, terrified at this -sudden burst of resolution. “Hear -<em>me</em>,” answered the timid but heroic girl, -springing, with the elasticity of her early -movements, upon a crag that hung -over their stony path, and clinging to -an ash-tree that had burst through its -fissures—“Hear me! Sooner will you -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_32" title="32"> </a> -rend this tree from its bed of stone, than -me from its trunk! Sooner will I dash -this body on the stony bed of the stream -that groans below my feet, than descend -into your arms, till you swear to me they -will bear me to honour and safety! For -you I have given up all that my newly-taught -duties have told me was holy!—all -that my heart long ago whispered I ought -to love! Judge by what I <em>have</em> sacrificed, -of what I <em>can</em> sacrifice—and doubt not -that I would be my own victim ten thousand -times sooner than yours!”—“By all -that you deem holy!” cried Melmoth, -humbling himself even to kneel before her -as she stood,—“my intentions are as pure -as your own soul!—the hermitage is not -an hundred paces off. Come, and do not, -by a fantastic and causeless apprehension, -frustrate all the magnanimity and tenderness -you have hitherto shewed, and which -have raised you in my eyes not only above -your sex, but above your whole species. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_33" title="33"> </a> -Had you not been what you are, and -what no other but you could be, you had -never been the bride of Melmoth. With -whom but you did he ever seek to unite -his dark and inscrutable destiny? Isidora,” -he added, in tones more potent and -emphatic, perceiving she still hesitated, -and clung to the tree—“Isidora, how -weak, how unworthy of you is this! You -are in my power,—absolutely, hopelessly -in my power. No human eye can see <em>me</em>—no -human arm can aid <em>you</em>. You are -as helpless as infancy in my grasp. This -dark stream would tell no tales of deeds -that stained its waters,—and the blast that -howls round you would never waft your -groans to mortal ear! You are in my -power, yet I seek not to abuse it. I offer -you my hand to conduct you to a consecrated -building, where we shall be united -according to the fashion of your country—and -will you still persevere in this fanciful -and profitless waywardness?”</p> - -<p>“As he spoke, Isidora looked round -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_34" title="34"> </a> -her helplessly—every object was a confirmation -of his arguments—she shuddered -and submitted. But as they walked on in -silence, she could not help interrupting it -to give utterance to the thousand anxieties -that oppressed her heart.</p> - -<p>“But you speak,” said she, in a suppressed -and pleading tone,—“you speak -of religion in words that make me tremble—you -speak of it as the fashion of a -country,—as a thing of form, of accident, -of habit. What faith do you profess?—what -church do you frequent?—what holy -rites do you perform?”—“I venerate all -faiths—alike, I hold all religious rites—pretty -much in the same respect,” said -Melmoth, while his former wild and scoffing -levity seemed to struggle vainly with -a feeling of involuntary horror. “And do -you then, indeed, believe in holy things?” -asked Isidora. “Do you indeed?” she -repeated anxiously. “<em>I believe in a God</em>,” -answered Melmoth, in a voice that froze -her blood; “you have heard of those who -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_35" title="35"> </a> -believe and tremble,—such is he who speaks -to you!”</p> - -<p>“Isidora’s acquaintance with the book -from which he quoted, was too limited to -permit her to understand the allusion. -She knew, according to the religious education -she had received, more of her breviary -than her Bible; and though she pursued -her inquiry in a timid and anxious -tone, she felt no additional terror from -words she did not understand.</p> - -<p>“But,” she continued, “Christianity is -something more than a belief in a God. -Do you also believe in all that the Catholic -church declares to be essential to salvation? -Do you believe that”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> And -here she added a name too sacred, and accompanied -with terms too awful, to be expressed -in pages so light as these<a name="FootnoteMarker_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="footnote-marker">(1)</a>. “I -believe it all—I know it all,” answered -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_36" title="36"> </a> -Melmoth, in a voice of stern and reluctant -confession. “Infidel and scoffer as I may -appear to you, there is no martyr of the -Christian church, who in other times -blazed for his God, that has borne or exhibited -a more resplendent illustration of -his faith, than I shall bear one day—and -for ever. There is a slight difference only -between our testimonies in point of duration. -They burned for the truths they -loved for a few moments—not so many -perchance. Some were suffocated before -the flames could reach them,—but I am -doomed to bear my attestation to the truth -of the gospel, amid fires that shall burn for -ever and ever. See with what a glorious -destiny yours, my bride, is united! You, -as a Christian, would doubtless exult to -see your husband at the stake,—and amid -the faggots to prove his devotion. How -it must ennoble the sacrifice to think that -it is to last to eternity!”</p> - -<p>“Melmoth uttered these words in ears -that heard no longer. Isidora had fainted; -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_37" title="37"> </a> -and hanging with one cold hand on -his arm still, fell a helpless, senseless weight -on the earth. Melmoth, at this sight, -shewed more feeling than he could have -been suspected of. He disentangled her -from the folds of her mantle, sprinkled -water from the stream on her cold cheek, -and supported her frame in every direction -where a breath of air was to be caught. -Isidora recovered; for her swoon was that of -fatigue more than fear; and, with her recovery, -her lover’s short-lived tenderness -seemed to cease. The moment she was -able to speak he urged her to proceed,—and -while she feebly attempted to obey -him, he assured her, her strength was perfectly -recovered, and that the place they -had to reach was but a few paces distant. -Isidora struggled on. Their path now lay -up the ascent of a steep hill,—they left the -murmur of the stream, and the sighing of -trees, behind them,—the wind, too, had -sunk, but the night continued intensely -dark,—and the absence of all sound seemed -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_38" title="38"> </a> -to Isidora to increase the desolateness -of the scene. She wished for something -to listen to beside her impeded and painful -respiration, and the audible beatings of -her heart. As they descended the hill -on the other side, the murmuring of the -waters became once more faintly audible; -and this sound she had longed to hear -again, had now, amid the stillness of the -night, a cadence so melancholy, that she -almost wished it hushed again.</p> - -<p>“Thus always, to the unhappy, the -very fulfilment of their morbid wishings -becomes a source of disappointment, and -the change they hoped for is desirable only -as it gives them cause to long for another -change. In the morning they say, Would -to God it were evening!—Evening comes,—and -in the evening they say, Would to -God it were morning! But Isidora had -no time to analyse her feelings,—a new -apprehension struck her,—and, as she could -well guess from the increasing speed of -Melmoth, and head thrown backward -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_39" title="39"> </a> -impatiently, and often, it had probably -reached him too. A sound they had -been for some time watching, (without -communicating their feelings to each -other), became every moment more distinct. -It was the sound of a human -foot, evidently pursuing them, from the -increasing quickness of its speed, and a -certain sharpness of tread, that irresistibly -gave the idea of hot and anxious pursuit. -Melmoth suddenly paused, and Isidora -hung trembling on his arm. Neither of -them uttered a word; but Isidora’s eyes, -instinctively following the slight but fearful -waving of his arm, saw it directed -towards a figure so obscure, that it at first -appeared like a spray moving in the misty -night,—then was lost in darkness as it descended -the hill,—and then appeared in a -human form, as far as the darkness of the -night would permit its shape to be distinguishable. -It came on—its steps were -more and more audible, and its shape almost -distinct.—Then Melmoth suddenly -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_40" title="40"> </a> -quitted Isidora, who, shivering with terror, -but unable to utter a word that might -implore him to stay, stood alone, her whole -frame trembling almost to dissolution, and -her feet feeling as if she were nailed to the -spot where she stood. What passed she -knew not. There was a short and darkened -struggle between two figures,—and, -in this fearful interval, she imagined she -heard the voice of an ancient domestic, -much attached to her, call on her, first in -accents of expostulation and appeal, then -in choaked and breathless cries for help—help—help!—Then -she heard a sound as if -a heavy body fell into the water that -murmured below.—It fell heavily—the -wave groaned—the dark hill groaned in -answer, like murderers exchanging their -stilled and midnight whispers over their -work of blood—and all was silent. Isidora -clasped her cold and convulsed fingers -over her eyes, till a whispering voice, -the voice of Melmoth, uttered, “Let us -hasten on, my love.”—“Where?” said Isidora, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_41" title="41"> </a> -not knowing the meaning of the -words she uttered.—“To the ruined monastery, -my love,—to the hermitage, -where the holy man, the man of your -faith, shall unite us.”—“Where are the -steps that pursued us?” said Isidora, suddenly -recovering her recollection.—“They -will pursue you no more.”—“But I saw a -figure.”—“But you will see it no more.”—“I -heard something fall into that stream—heavily—like -a corse.”—“There was a -stone that fell from the precipice of the -hill—the waters splashed, and curled, and -whitened round it for a moment, but they -have swallowed it now, and appear to have -such a relish for the morsel, that they will -not be apt to resign it.”</p> - -<p>“In silent horror she proceeded, till -Melmoth, pointing to a dusky and indefinite -mass of what, in the gloom of night, -bore, according to the eye or the fancy, -the shape of a rock, a tuft of trees, or a -massive and unlighted building, whispered, -“There is the ruin, and near it stands -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_42" title="42"> </a> -the hermitage,—one moment more of effort,—of -renewed strength and courage, -and we are there.” Urged by these words, -and still more by an undefinable wish to -put an end to this shadowy journey,—these -mysterious fears,—even at the risk of finding -them worse than verified at its termination, -Isidora exerted all her remaining -strength, and, supported by Melmoth, began -to ascend the sloping ground on which -the monastery had once stood. There had -been a path, but it was now all obstructed -by stones, and rugged with the knotted and -interlaced roots of the neglected trees that -had once formed its shelter and its grace.</p> - -<p><ins title="As">“As</ins> they approached, in spite of the -darkness of the night, the ruin began to -assume a distinct and characteristic appearance, -and Isidora’s heart beat less fearfully, -when she could ascertain, from the -remains of the tower and spire, the vast -Eastern window, and the crosses still visible -on every ruined pinnacle and pediment, -like religion triumphant amid grief -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_43" title="43"> </a> -and decay, that this had been a building -destined for sacred purposes. A narrow -path, that seemed to wind round the edifice, -conducted them to a front which overlooked -an extensive cemetery, at the extremity -of which Melmoth pointed out to -her an indistinct object, which he said was -the hermitage, and to which he would hasten -to intreat the hermit, who was also a -priest, to unite them. “May I not accompany -you?” said Isidora, glancing -round on the graves that were to be her -companions in solitude.—“It is against -his vow,” said Melmoth, “to admit a female -into his presence, except when obliged -by the course of his duties.” So -saying he hasted away, and Isidora, sinking -on a grave for rest, wrapt her veil -around her, as if its folds could exclude -even thought. In a few moments, gasping -for air, she withdrew it; but as her -eye encountered only tomb-stones and -crosses, and that dark and sepulchral vegetation -that loves to shoot its roots, and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_44" title="44"> </a> -trail its unlovely verdure amid the joints -of grave-stones, she closed it again, and -sat shuddering and alone. Suddenly -a faint sound, like the murmur of a -breeze, reached her,—she looked up, but -the wind had sunk, and the night was -perfectly calm. The same sound recurring, -as of a breeze sweeping past, made -her turn her eyes in the direction from -which it came, and, at some distance from -her, she thought she beheld a human figure -moving slowly along on the verge -of the inclosure of the burial-ground. -Though it did not seem approaching -her, (but rather moving in a slow circuit -on the verge of her view), conceiving -it must be Melmoth, she rose -in expectation of his advancing to her, -and, at this moment, the figure, turning -and half-pausing, seemed to extend its -arm toward her, and wave it once or twice, -but whether with a motion or purpose of -warning or repelling her, it was impossible -to discover,—it then renewed its dim and -silent progress, and the next moment the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_45" title="45"> </a> -ruins hid it from her view. She had no -time to muse on this singular appearance, -for Melmoth was now at her side urging -her to proceed. There was a chapel, he -told her, attached to the ruins, but not -like them in decay, where sacred ceremonies -were still performed, and where -the priest had promised to join them in a -few moments. “He is there before us,” -said Isidora, adverting to the figure she -had seen; “I think I saw him.”—“Saw -whom?” said Melmoth, starting, -and standing immoveable till his question -was answered.—“I saw a figure,” said -Isidora, trembling—“I thought I saw a -figure moving towards the ruin.”—“You -are mistaken,” said Melmoth; but a moment -after he added, “We ought to have -been there before him.” And he hurried -on with Isidora. Suddenly slackening his -speed, he demanded, in a choaked and indistinct -voice, if she had ever heard any -music precede his visits to her,—any -sounds in the air. “Never,” was the answer.—“You -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_46" title="46"> </a> -are sure?”—“Perfectly -sure.”</p> - -<p>“At this moment they were ascending -the fractured and rugged steps that led to -the entrance of the chapel,—now they -passed under the dark and ivied porch,—now -they entered the chapel, which, even -in darkness, appeared to the eyes of Isidora -ruinous and deserted. “He has not -yet arrived,” said Melmoth, in a disturbed -voice; “Wait there a moment.” And -Isidora, enfeebled by terror beyond the -power of resistance, or even intreaty, saw -him depart without an effort to detain -him. She felt as if the effort would be -hopeless. Left thus alone, she glanced -her eyes around, and a faint and watery -moon-beam breaking at that moment -through the heavy clouds, threw its light -on the objects around her. There was a -window, but the stained glass of its compartments, -broken and discoloured, held -rare and precarious place between the fluted -shafts of stone. Ivy and moss darkened -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_47" title="47"> </a> -the fragments of glass, and clung round -the clustered pillars. Beneath were the -remains of an altar and crucifix, but they -seemed like the rude work of the first -hands that had ever been employed on -such subjects. There was also a marble -vessel, that seemed designed to contain -holy water, but it was empty,—and there -was a stone bench, on which Isidora sunk -down in weariness, but without hope of -rest. Once or twice she looked up to the -window, through which the moon-beams -fell, with that instinctive feeling of her -former existence, that made companions -of the elements, and of the beautiful and -glorious family of heaven, under whose -burning light she had once imagined the -moon was her parent, and the stars her -kindred. She gazed on the window still, -like one who loved the light of nature, and -drank health and truth from its beams, -till a figure passing slowly but visibly before -the pillared shafts, disclosed to her -view the face of that ancient servant, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_48" title="48"> </a> -whose features she remembered well. He -seemed to regard her with a look, first of -intent contemplation,—then of compassion,—the -figure then passed from before the -ruined window, and a faint and wailing -cry rung in the ears of Isidora as it disappeared.</p> - -<p>“At that moment the moon, that had -so faintly lit the chapel, sunk behind a -cloud, and every thing was enveloped in -<ins title="darknesss">darkness</ins> so profound, that Isidora did -not recognize the figure of Melmoth till -her hand was clasped in his, and his voice -whispered, “He is here—ready to unite -us.” The long-protracted terrors of this -bridal left her not a breath to utter a word -withal, and she leaned on the arm that -she felt, not in confidence, but for support. -The place, the hour, the objects, -all were hid in darkness. She heard a -faint rustling as of the approach of another -person,—she tried to catch certain -words, but she knew not what they were,—she -attempted also to speak, but she knew -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_49" title="49"> </a> -<ins title="nor">not</ins> what she said. All was mist and darkness -with her,—she knew not what was -muttered,—she felt not that the hand of -Melmoth grasped hers,—but she felt that -the hand that united them, and clasped -their palms within his own, was as <em>cold -as that of death</em>.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER <ins title="XXIII">XXV</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_50" title="50"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">Τηλε <ins title="μἐιργουσι">μ’ ειργουσι</ins> ψυχαι, <ins title="ειδοωλα">ειδωλα</ins> καμοντων.</span><br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Homer.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps"><ins title="We">“We</ins></span> have now to retrace a short period -of our narrative to the night on which Don -Francisco di Aliaga, the father of Isidora, -“fortuned,” as he termed it, to be among -the company whose conversation had produced -so extraordinary an effect on him.</p> - -<p>“He was journeying homewards, full of -the contemplation of his wealth,—the certainty -of having attained complete security -against the evils that harass life,—and being -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_51" title="51"> </a> -able to set at defiance all external causes of -infelicity. He felt like a man “at ease in -his possessions,”—and he felt also a grave -and placid satisfaction at the thought of -meeting a family who looked up to him -with profound respect as the author of -their fortunes,—of walking in his own -house, amid bowing domestics and obsequious -relatives, with the same slow authoritative -step with which he paced the -mart among wealthy merchants, and saw -the wealthiest bow as he approached,—and -when he had passed, point out the man of -whose grave salute they were proud, and -whisper, That is Aliaga the rich.—So -thinking and feeling, as most prosperous -men do, with an honest pride in their -worldly success,—an exaggerated expectation -of the homage of society,—(which -they often find frustrated by its contempt),—and -an ultimate reliance on the respect -and devotion of their family whom they -have enriched, making them ample amends -for the slights they may be exposed to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_52" title="52"> </a> -where their wealth is unknown, and their -newly assumed consequence unappreciated,—or -if appreciated, not valued:—So thinking -and feeling, Don Francisco journeyed -homeward.</p> - -<p>“At a wretched inn where he was -compelled to halt, he found the accommodation -so bad, and the heat of the weather -so intolerable in the low, narrow, and unwindowed -rooms, that he preferred taking -his supper in the open air, on a stone -bench at the door of the inn. We cannot -say that he there imagined himself to be -feasted with trout and white bread, like Don -Quixote,—and still less that he fancied he -was ministered unto by damsels of rank;—on -the contrary, Don Francisco was digesting -a sorry meal with wretched wine, -with a perfect internal consciousness of the -mediocrity of both, when he beheld a person -ride by, who paused, and looked as if he was -inclined to stop at the inn. (The interval -of this pause was not long enough to permit -Don Francisco to observe particularly the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_53" title="53"> </a> -figure or face of the horseman, or indeed -to recognize him on any future occasion -of meeting; nor was there any thing remarkable -in his appearance to invite or arrest -observation.) He made a sign to the -host, who approached him with a slow -and unwilling pace,—appeared to answer -all his inquiries with sturdy negatives,—and -finally, as the stranger rode on, returned -to his station, crossing himself with -every mark of terror and deprecation.</p> - -<p>“There was something more in this -than the ordinary surliness of a Spanish -innkeeper. Don Francisco’s curiosity was -excited, and he asked the innkeeper, whether -the stranger had proposed to pass the -night at the inn, as the weather seemed to -threaten a storm? “I know not what -he proposes,” answered the man, “but -this I know, that I would not suffer him -to pass an hour under my roof for the revenues -of Toledo. If there be a storm -coming on, I care not—those who can -raise them are the fittest to meet them!”</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_54" title="54"> </a>“Don Francisco inquired the cause of -these extraordinary expressions of aversion -and terror, but the innkeeper shook his -head and remained silent, with, as it were, -the circumspective fear of one who is inclosed -within a sorcerer’s circle, and dreads -to pass its verge, lest he become the prey of -the spirits who are waiting beyond it to -take advantage of his transgression.</p> - -<p>“At last, at Don Francisco’s repeated -instances, he said, “Your worship must -needs be a stranger in this part of Spain -not to have heard of Melmoth the wanderer.”—“I -have never heard of the name -before,” said Don Francisco; “and I conjure -you, brother, to tell me what you -know of this person, whose character, if I -may judge by the manner in which you -speak of him, must have in it something -extraordinary.”—“Senhor,” answered the -man, “were I to relate what is told of -that person, I should not be able to close -an eye to-night; or if I did, it would be -to dream of things so horrible, that I had -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_55" title="55"> </a> -rather lie awake for ever. But, if I am -not mistaken, there is in the house one -who can gratify your curiosity—it is a -gentleman who is preparing for the press -a collection of facts relative to that person, -and who has been, for some time, in vain -soliciting for a license to print them, they -being such as the government, in its wisdom, -thinks not fit to be perused by the -eyes of Catholics, or circulated among a -Christian community.”</p> - -<p>“As the innkeeper spoke, and spoke with -an earnestness that at least made the hearer -believe he felt the conviction he tried to -impress, the person of whom he spoke was -standing beside Don Francisco. He had -apparently overheard their conversation, -and seemed not indisposed to continue it. -He was a man of a grave and composed -aspect, and altogether so remote from any -appearance of imposition, or theatrical and -conjuror-like display, that Don Francisco, -grave, suspicious, and deliberate as a Spaniard, -and moreover a Spanish merchant, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_56" title="56"> </a> -may be, could not <ins title="aviod">avoid</ins> giving him his -confidence at sight, though he forbore -any external expression of it.</p> - -<p>“Senhor,” said the stranger, “mine -host has told you but the truth. The -person whom you saw ride by, is one of -those beings after whom human curiosity -pants in vain,—whose life is doomed to be -recorded in incredible legends that moulder -in the libraries of the curious, and to be -disbelieved and scorned even by those who -exhaust sums on their collection, and ungratefully -depreciate the contents of the -volumes on whose aggregate its value depends. -There has been, however, I believe, -no other instance of a person still alive, -and apparently exercising all the functions -of a human agent, who has become already -the subject of written memoirs, and the -theme of traditional history. Several circumstances -relating to this extraordinary -being are even now in the hands of curious -and eager collectors; and I have myself -attained to the knowledge of one or two -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_57" title="57"> </a> -that are not among the least extraordinary. -The marvellous period of life said to be -assigned him, and the facility with which -he has been observed to pass from region -to region, (knowing all, and known to -none), have been the principal causes why -the adventures in which he is engaged, -should be at once so numerous and so similar.”</p> - -<p>“As the stranger ceased to speak, the -evening grew dark, and a few large and -heavy drops of rain fell. “This night -threatens a storm,” said the stranger, looking -abroad with some degree of anxiety—“we -had better retire within doors; and -if you, Senhor, are not otherwise occupied, -I am willing to pass away some hours of -this unpleasant night in relating to you -some circumstances relating to the wanderer, -which have come within my certain -<ins title="knowledge.">knowledge.”</ins></p> - -<p>“Don Francisco assented to this proposal -as much from curiosity, as from the -impatience of solitude, which is never -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_58" title="58"> </a> -more insupportable than in an inn, and -during stormy weather. Don Montilla, -too, had left him on a visit to his father, -who was in a declining state, and was not -to join him again till his arrival in the -neighbourhood of Madrid. He therefore -bid his servants shew the way to his apartment, -whither he courteously invited -his new acquaintance.</p> - -<p>“Imagine them now seated in the -wretched upper apartment of a Spanish -inn, whose appearance, though dreary and -comfortless, had in it, nevertheless, something -picturesque, and not inappropriate, -as the scene where a wild and wondrous -tale was to be related and listened to. -There was no luxury of inventive art to -flatter the senses, or enervate the attention,—to -enable the hearer to break the -spell that binds him to the world of horrors, -and recover to all the soothing realities -and comforts of ordinary life, like one -who starts from a dream of the rack, and -finds himself waking on a bed of down. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_59" title="59"> </a> -The walls were bare, and the roofs were -raftered, and the only furniture was a table, -beside which Don Francisco and his -companion sat, the one on a huge high-backed -chair, the other on a stool so low, -that he seemed seated at the listener’s foot. -A lamp stood on the table, whose light -flickering in the wind, that sighed through -many apertures of the jarring door, fell alternately -on lips that quivered as they -read, and cheeks that grew paler as the -listener bent to catch the sounds to which -fear gave a more broken and hollow tone, -at the close of every page. The rising -voice of the stormy night seemed to make -wild and dreary harmony with the tones -of the listener’s feelings. The storm came -on, not with sudden violence, but with -sullen and long-suspended wrath—often -receding, as it were, to the verge of the -horizon, and then returning and rolling its -deepening and awful peals over the very -roof. And as the stranger proceeded in -his narrative, every pause, which emotion -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_60" title="60"> </a> -or weariness might cause, was meetly filled -by the deep rushing of the rain that fell -in torrents,—the sighs of the wind,—and -now and then a faint, distant, but long-continued -peal of thunder. “It sounds,” -said the stranger, raising his eyes from the -manuscript, “like the chidings of the -spirits, that their secrets are disclosed!”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER <ins title="XXIV">XXVI</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_61" title="61"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line center">*   *   *   *</div> -<div class="line"><span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>And the twain were playing dice.<br /></div> -<div class="line center">*   *   *   *<br /></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">The game is done, I’ve won, I’ve won,<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">Quoth she, and whistled thrice.<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Coleridge</span>—<cite>Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner</cite>.</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<h3 id="The_Tale_of_Guzmans_Family">The Tale of Guzman’s Family.</h3> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“Of</span> what I am about to read to you,” -said the stranger, “I have witnessed part -myself, and the remainder is established -on a basis as strong as human evidence -can make it.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_62" title="62"> </a>“In the city of Seville, where I lived -many years, I knew a wealthy merchant, -far advanced in years, who was known by -the name of Guzman the rich. He was -of obscure birth,—and those who honoured -his wealth sufficiently to borrow from him -frequently, never honoured his name so -far as to prefix Don to it, or to add his -surname, of which, indeed, most were ignorant, -and among the number, it is said, -the wealthy merchant himself. He was -well respected, however; and when Guzman -was seen, as regularly as the bell tolled -for vespers, to issue from the narrow -door of his house,—lock it carefully,—view -it twice or thrice with a wistful eye,—then -deposit the key in his bosom, and -move slowly to church, feeling for the key -in his vest the whole way,—the proudest -heads in Seville were uncovered as he -passed,—and the children who were playing -in the streets, desisted from their -sports till he had halted by them.</p> - -<p>“Guzman had neither wife or child,—relative -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_63" title="63"> </a> -or friend. An old female domestic -constituted his whole household, and his -personal expences were calculated on a -scale of the most pinching frugality; it -was therefore matter of anxious conjecture -to many, how his enormous wealth -would be bestowed after his death. This -anxiety gave rise to inquiries about the -possibility of Guzman having relatives, -though in remoteness and obscurity; and -the diligence of inquiry, when stimulated -at once by avarice and curiosity, is indefatigable. -Thus it was at length discovered -that Guzman had formerly a sister, many -years younger than himself, who, at a very -early age, had married a German musician, -a Protestant, and had shortly after -quitted Spain. It was remembered, or reported, -that she had made many efforts to -soften the heart and open the hand of her -brother, who was even then very wealthy, -and to induce him to be reconciled to their -union, and to enable her and her husband -to remain in Spain. Guzman was inflexible. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_64" title="64"> </a> -Wealthy, and proud of his wealth -as he was, he might have digested the unpalatable -morsel of her union with a poor -man, whom he could have made rich; but -he could not even swallow the intelligence -that she had married a Protestant. -Ines, for that was her name, and her husband, -went to Germany, partly in dependence -on his musical talents, which -were highly appreciated in that country,—partly -in the vague hope of emigrants, -that change of place will be attended -with change of circumstances,—and -partly, also, from the feeling, that misfortune -is better tolerated any where than in -the presence of those who inflict it. Such -was the tale told by the old, who affected -to remember the facts,—and believed by -the young, whose imagination supplied all -the defects of memory, and pictured to -them an interesting beauty, with her children -hanging about her, embarking, with -a heretic husband, for a distant country, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_65" title="65"> </a> -and sadly bidding farewell to the land and -the religion of her fathers.</p> - -<p>“Now, while these things were talked -of at Seville, Guzman fell sick, and was -given over by the physicians, whom with -considerable reluctance he had suffered to -be called in.</p> - -<p>“In the progress of his illness, whether -nature revisited a heart she long appeared -to have deserted,—or whether he conceived -that the hand of a relative might be a -more grateful support to his dying head -than that of a rapacious and mercenary -menial,—or whether his resentful feelings -burnt faintly at the expected approach of -death, as artificial fires wax dim at the appearance -of morning;—so it was, that Guzman -in his illness bethought himself of his -sister and her family,—sent off, at a considerable -expence, an express to that part of -Germany where she resided, to invite her -to return and be reconciled to him,—and -prayed devoutly that he might be permitted -to survive till he could breathe his last -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_66" title="66"> </a> -amid the arms of her and her children. -Moreover, there was a report at this time, -in which the hearers probably took more -interest than in any thing that related -merely to the life or death of Guzman,—and -this was, that he had rescinded his -former will, and sent for a notary, with -whom, in spite of his apparent debility, he -remained locked up for some hours, dictating -in a tone which, however clear to the -notary, did not leave one distinct impression -of sound on the ears that were strained, -even to an agony of listening, at the -double-locked door of his chamber.</p> - -<p>“All Guzman’s friends had endeavoured -to dissuade him from making this exertion, -which, they assured him, would -only hasten his dissolution. But to their -surprise, and doubtless their delight, from -the moment his will was made, Guzman’s -health began to amend,—and in less than -a week he began to walk about his chamber, -and calculate what time it might take -an express to reach Germany, and how -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_67" title="67"> </a> -soon he might expect intelligence from his -family.</p> - -<p>“Some months had passed away, and -the priests took advantage of the interval -to get about Guzman. But after exhausting -every effort of ingenuity,—after plying -him powerfully but unavailingly on -the side of conscience, of duty, of fear, and -of religion,—they began to understand -their interest, and change their battery. -And finding that the settled purpose of -Guzman’s soul was not to be changed, and -that he was determined on recalling his -sister and her family to Spain, they contented -themselves with requiring that he -should have no communication with the -heretic family, except through them,—and -never see his sister or her children unless -they were witnesses to the interview.</p> - -<p>“This condition was easily complied -with, for Guzman felt no decided inclination -for seeing his sister, whose presence -might have reminded him of feelings alienated, -and duties forgot. Besides, he was -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_68" title="68"> </a> -a man of fixed habits; and the presence of -the most interesting being on earth, that -threatened the slightest interruption or -suspension of those habits, would have -been to him insupportable.</p> - -<p>“Thus we are all indurated by age and -habit,—and feel ultimately, that the dearest -connexions of nature or passion may -be sacrificed to those petty indulgences -which the presence or influence of a stranger -may disturb. So Guzman compromised -between his conscience and his feelings. -He determined, in spite of all the -priests in Seville, to invite his sister and -her family to Spain, and to leave the mass -of his immense fortune to them; (and to -that effect he wrote, and wrote repeatedly -and explicitly). But, on the other hand, -he promised and swore to his spiritual -counsellors, that he never would see one -individual of the family; and that, though -his sister might inherit his fortune, she -never—never should see his face. The -priests were satisfied, or appeared to be so, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_69" title="69"> </a> -with this declaration; and Guzman, having -propitiated them with ample offerings to -the shrines of various saints, to each of -whom his recovery was exclusively attributed, -sat down to calculate the probable -expence of his sister’s return to Spain, and -the necessity of providing for her family, -whom he had, as it were, rooted from -their native bed; and therefore felt bound, -in all honesty, to make them flourish in -the soil into which he had transplanted -them.</p> - -<p>“Within the year, his sister, her husband, -and four children, returned to Spain. -Her name was Ines, her husband’s was -Walberg. He was an industrious man, -and an excellent musician. His talents -had obtained for him the place of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Maestro -di Capella</i> to the Duke of Saxony; and -his children were educated (according to -his means) to supply his place when vacated -by death or accident, or to employ -themselves as musical teachers in the -courts of German princes. He and his -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_70" title="70"> </a> -wife had lived with the utmost frugality, -and looked to their children for the means -of increasing, by the exercise of their talents, -that subsistence which it was their -daily labour to provide.</p> - -<p>“The eldest son, who was called Everhard, -inherited his father’s musical talents. -The daughters, Julia and Ines, were musical -also, and very skilful in embroidery. -The youngest child, Maurice, was by turns -the delight and the torment of the family.</p> - -<p>“They had struggled on for many years -in difficulties too petty to be made the subject -of detail, yet too severe not to be painfully -felt by those whose lot is to encounter -them every day, and every hour of -the day,—when the sudden intelligence, -brought by an express from Spain, of their -wealthy relative Guzman inviting them -to return thither, and proclaiming them -heirs to all his vast riches, burst on them -like the first dawn of his half-year’s summer -on the crouching and squalid inmate of a -Lapland hut. All trouble was forgot,—all -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_71" title="71"> </a> -cares postponed,—their few debts paid -off,—and their preparations made for an -instant departure to Spain.</p> - -<p>“So to Spain they went, and journeyed -on to the city of Seville, where, on their -arrival, they were waited on by a grave -ecclesiastic, who acquainted them with -Guzman’s resolution of never seeing his -offending sister or her family, while at the -same time he assured them of his intention -of supporting and supplying them -with every comfort, till his decease put -them in possession of his wealth. The -family were somewhat disturbed at this -intelligence, and the mother wept at being -denied the sight of her brother, for whom -she still cherished the affection of memory; -while the priest, by way of softening -the discharge of his commission, dropt -some words of a change of their heretical -opinions being most likely to open a channel -of communication between them and -their relative. The silence with which -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_72" title="72"> </a> -this hint was received spoke more than -many words, and the priest departed.</p> - -<p>“This was the first cloud that had intercepted -their view of felicity since the -express arrived in Germany, and they sat -gloomily enough under its shadow for the -remainder of the evening. Walberg, in -the confidence of expected wealth, had -not only brought over his children to -Spain, but had written to his father and -mother, who were very old, and wretchedly -poor, to join him in Seville; and by -the sale of his house and furniture, had -been enabled to remit them money for the -heavy expences of so long a journey. -They were now hourly expected, and the -children, who had a faint but grateful recollection -of the blessing bestowed on their -infant heads by quivering lips and withered -hands, looked out with joy for the arrival -of the ancient pair. Ines had often -said to her husband, “Would it not be -better to let your father and mother remain -in Germany, and remit them money -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_73" title="73"> </a> -for their support, than put them to the fatigue -of so long a journey at their far advanced -age?”—And he had always answered, -“Let them rather die under my -roof, than live under that of strangers.”</p> - -<p><ins title="This">“This</ins> night he perhaps began to feel the -prudence of his wife’s advice;—she saw -it, and with cautious gentleness forbore, -for that very reason, to remind him of it.</p> - -<p><ins title="The">“The</ins> weather was gloomy and cold that -evening,—it was unlike a night in Spain. -Its chill appeared to extend to the party. -Ines sat and worked in silence—the children, -collected at the window, communicated -in whispers their hopes and conjectures -about the arrival of the aged travellers, -and Walberg, who was restlessly -traversing the room, sometimes sighed as -he overheard them.</p> - -<p>“The next day was sunny and cloudless. -The priest again called on them, -and, after regretting that Guzman’s resolution -was inflexible, informed them, that -he was directed to pay them an annual -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_74" title="74"> </a> -sum for their support, which he named, -and which appeared to them enormous; -and to appropriate another for the education -of the children, which seemed to be -calculated on a scale of princely munificence. -He put deeds, properly drawn and -attested for this purpose, into their hands, -and then withdrew, after repeating the -assurance, that they would be the undoubted -heirs of Guzman’s wealth at his -decease, and that, as the interval would be -passed in affluence, it might well be passed -without repining. The priest had -scarcely retired, when the aged parents of -Walberg arrived, feeble from joy and fatigue, -but not exhausted, and the whole -family sat down to a meal that appeared -to them luxurious, in that placid contemplation -of future felicity, which is often -more exquisite than its actual enjoyment.</p> - -<p>“I saw them,” said the stranger, interrupting -himself,—“I saw them on the -evening of that day of union, and a painter, -who wished to embody the image of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_75" title="75"> </a> -domestic felicity in a group of living figures, -need have gone no further than the -mansion of Walberg. He and his wife -were seated at the head of the table, smiling -on their children, and seeing them smile -in return, without the intervention of one -anxious thought,—one present harassing of -petty difficulty, or heavy presage of future -mischance,—<em>one fear of the morrow</em>, or aching -remembrance of the past. Their children -formed indeed a groupe on which the -eye of painter or of parent, the gaze of taste -or of affection, might have hung with equal -delight. Everhard their eldest son, now -sixteen, possessed too much beauty for his -sex, and his delicate and brilliant complexion, -his slender and exquisitely moulded -form, and the modulation of his tender -and tremulous voice, inspired that mingled -interest, with which we watch, in youth, -over the strife of present debility with the -promise of future strength, and infused into -his parent’s hearts that fond anxiety -with which we mark the progress of a -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_76" title="76"> </a> -mild but cloudy morning in spring, rejoicing -in the mild and balmy glories of its -dawn, but fearing lest clouds may overshade -them before noon. The daughters, -Ines and Julia, had all the loveliness of -their colder climate—the luxuriant ringlets -of golden hair, the large bright blue eyes, -the snow-like whiteness of their bosoms, -and slender arms, and the rose-leaf tint -and peachiness of their delicate cheeks, -made them, as they attended their parents -with graceful and fond officiousness, -resemble two young Hebes ministering -cups, which their touch alone -was enough to turn into nectar.</p> - -<p>“The spirits of these young persons had -been early depressed by the difficulties in -which their parents were involved; and -even in childhood they had acquired the -timid tread, the whispered tone, the -anxious and inquiring look, that the constant -sense of domestic distress painfully -teaches even to children, and which it is -the most exquisite pain to a parent to witness. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_77" title="77"> </a> -But now there was nothing to restrain -their young hearts,—that stranger, -a <em>smile</em>, fled back rejoicing to the lovely -home of their lips,—and the timidity of -their former habits only lent a grateful -shade to the brilliant exuberance of youthful -happiness. Just opposite this picture, -whose hues were so bright, and whose -shades were so tender, were seated the figures -of the aged grandfather and grandmother. -The contrast was very strong; there -was no connecting link, no graduated medium,—you -passed at once from the first and -fairest flowers of spring, to the withered -and rootless barrenness of winter.</p> - -<p>“These very aged persons, however, -had something in their looks to soothe the -eye, and Teniers or Wouverman would -perhaps have valued their figures and costume -far beyond those of their young and -lovely grandchildren. They were stiffly -and quaintly habited in their German -garb—the old man in his doublet and cap, -and the old woman in her ruff, stomacher, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_78" title="78"> </a> -and head-gear resembling a skull-cap, with -long depending pinners, through which a -few white, but very long hairs, appeared -on her wrinkled cheeks; but on the countenances -of both there was a gleam of joy, -like the cold smile of a setting sun on a -wintry landscape. They did not distinctly -hear the kind importunities of their son -and daughter, to partake more amply of -the most plentiful meal they had ever witnessed -in their frugal lives,—but they -bowed and smiled with that thankfulness -which is at once wounding and grateful -to the hearts of affectionate children. -They smiled also at the beauty of Everhard -and their elder grandchildren,—at -the wild pranks of Maurice, who was as -wild in the hour of trouble as in the hour -of prosperity;—and finally, they smiled at -all that was said, though they did not hear -half of it, and at all they saw, though they -could enjoy very little—and that <em>smile of -age</em>, that placid submission to the pleasures -of the young, mingled with undoubted -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_79" title="79"> </a> -anticipations of a more pure and perfect felicity, -gave an almost heavenly expression -to features, that would otherwise have -borne only the withering look of debility -and decay.</p> - -<p>“Some circumstances occurred during -this family feast, which were sufficiently -characteristic of the partakers. Walberg -(himself a very temperate man) pressed -his father repeatedly to take more wine -than he was accustomed to,—the old man -gently declined it. The son still pressed -it heartfully, and the old man complied -with a wish to gratify his son, not himself.</p> - -<p>“The younger children, too, caressed -their grandmother with the boisterous -fondness of children. Their mother reproached -them.—“Nay, let be,” said the -gentle old woman. “They trouble you, -mother,” said the wife of Walberg.—“They -cannot trouble me long,” said the -grandmother, with an emphatic smile. -“Father,” said Walberg, <ins title="is">“is</ins> not Everhard -grown very tall?”—“The last time I saw -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_80" title="80"> </a> -him,” said the grandfather, “I stooped to -kiss him; now I think he must stoop to -kiss me.” And, at the word, Everhard -darted like an arrow into the trembling -arms that were opened to receive him, and -his red and hairless lips were pressed to the -snowy beard of his grandfather. “Cling -there, my child,” said the exulting father.—“God -grant your kiss may never be applied -to lips less pure.”—“They never shall, -my father!” said the susceptible boy, blushing -at his own emotions—“I never wish -to press any lips but those that will bless -me like those of my grandfather.”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> -“And do you wish,” said the old man jocularly, -“that the blessing should <em>always</em> -issue from lips as rough and hoary as -mine?” Everhard stood blushing behind -the old man’s chair at this question, and -Walberg, who heard the clock strike the -hour at which he had been always accustomed, -in prosperity or adversity, to summon -his family to prayer, made a signal -which his children well understood, and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_81" title="81"> </a> -which was communicated in whispers to -their aged relatives.—“Thank God,” said -the aged grandmother to the young whisperer, -and as she spoke, she sunk on her -knees. Her grandchildren assisted her. -“Thank God,” echoed the old man, bending -his stiffened knees, and doffing his cap—“Thank -God for this ‘shadow of a great -rock in a weary land!’”—and he knelt, -while Walberg, after reading a chapter or -two from a German Bible which he held -in his hands, pronounced an extempore -prayer, imploring God to fill their hearts -with gratitude for the temporal blessings -they enjoyed, and to enable them “so to -pass through things temporal, that they -might not finally lose the things eternal.” -At the close of the prayer, the family rose -and saluted each other with that affection -which has not its root in earth, and whose -blossoms, however diminutive and colourless -to the eye of man in this wretched -soil, shall yet bear glorious fruit in the -garden of God. It was a lovely sight to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_82" title="82"> </a> -behold the young people assisting their -aged relatives to arise from their knees,—and -it was a lovelier hearing, to listen to the -happy good-nights exchanged among the -parting family. The wife of Walberg was -most assiduous in preparing the comforts -of her husband’s parents, and Walberg -yielded to her with that proud gratitude, -that feels more exaltation in a benefit conferred -by those we love, than if we conferred -it ourselves. He loved his parents, -but he was proud of his wife loving them -because they were his. To the repeated -offers of his children to assist or attend -their ancient relatives, he answered, “No, -dear children, your mother will do better,—your -mother always does best.” As he -spoke, his children, according to a custom -now forgot, kneeled before him to ask -his blessing. His hand, tremulous with affection, -rested first on the curling locks of -the darling Everhard, whose head towered -proudly above those of his kneeling sisters, -and of Maurice, who, with the irrepressible -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_83" title="83"> </a> -and venial levity of joyous childhood, -laughed as he knelt. “God bless you!” -said Walberg—“God bless you all,—and -may he make you as good as your mother, -and as happy as—your father is this night;” -and as he spoke, the happy father turned -aside and wept.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER <ins title="XXV">XXVII</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_84" title="84"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span>Quæque ipsa miserrima vidi,<br /></div> -<div class="line">Et quorum pars magna fui.<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Virgil.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“The</span> wife of Walberg, who was naturally -of a cool sedate temper, and to -whom misfortune had taught an anxious -and jealous prevoyance, was not so intoxicated -with the present prosperity of the -family, as its young, or even its aged members. -Her mind was full of thoughts -which she would not communicate to her -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_85" title="85"> </a> -husband, and sometimes did not wish to -acknowledge to herself; but to the priest, -who visited them frequently with renewed -marks of Guzman’s bounty, she spoke explicitly. -She said, that however grateful for -her brother’s kindness, for the enjoyment -of present competence, and the hope of future -wealth, she wished that her children -might be permitted to acquire the means of -independent subsistence for themselves, -and that the money destined by Guzman’s -liberality for their ornamental education, -might be applied to the purpose of ensuring -them the power of supporting themselves, -and assisting their parents. She alluded -slightly to the possible future change -in her brother’s favourable feelings towards -her, and dwelt much on the circumstance -of her children being strangers in the -country, wholly unacquainted with its language, -and averse from its religion; and -she mildly but strongly stated the difficulties -to which a heretic family of strangers -might be exposed in a Catholic country, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_86" title="86"> </a> -and implored the priest to employ his -mediation and influence with her brother, -that her children might be enabled, through -his bounty, to acquire the means of independent -subsistence, as if<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>and she paused. -The good and friendly priest (for -he was truly both) listened to her with attention; -and after satisfying his conscience, -by adjuring her to renounce her heretical -opinions, as the only means of obtaining a -reconciliation with God and her brother, -and receiving a calm, but firm negative, -proceeded to give her his best <span class="small-caps all-upper">LAY</span> advice, -which was to comply with her brother’s -wishes in every thing, to educate her children -in the manner which he prescribed, -and to the full extent of the means which -he so amply furnished. He added, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en confiance</i>, -that Guzman, though, during his -long life, he had never been suspected of -any passion but that of accumulating -money, was now possessed with a spirit -much harder to expel, and was resolved -that the heirs of his wealth should be, in -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_87" title="87"> </a> -point of all that might embellish polished -society, on a level with the descendants of -the first nobility of Spain. Finally, he -counselled submission to her brother’s -wishes in all things,—and the wife of -Walberg complied with tears, which she -tried to conceal from the priest, and had -completely effaced the traces of before she -again met her husband.</p> - -<p>“In the mean time, the plan of Guzman -was rapidly realized. A handsome house -was taken for Walberg,—his sons and -daughters were splendidly arrayed, and -sumptuously lodged; and, though education -was, and still is, on a very low level -in Spain, they were taught all that was -then supposed to qualify them as companions -for the descendants of Hidalgoes. -Any attempt, or even allusion to their being -prepared for the ordinary occupations -of life, was strictly forbidden by the orders -of Guzman. The father triumphed in -this,—the mother regretted it, but she -kept her regret to herself, and consoled -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_88" title="88"> </a> -herself with thinking, that the ornamental -education her children were receiving -might ultimately be turned to account; for -the wife of Walberg was a woman whom -the experience of misfortune had taught -to look to the future with an anxious eye, -and that eye, with ominous accuracy, had -seldom failed to detect a speck of evil in -the brightest beam of sun-shine that had -ever trembled on her chequered existence.</p> - -<p>“The injunctions of Guzman were obeyed,—the -family lived in luxury. The young -people plunged into their new life of enjoyment -with an avidity proportioned to -their youthful sensibility of pleasure, and -to a taste for refinement and elegant pursuits, -which their former obscurity had repressed, -but never extinguished. The -proud and happy father exulted in the -personal beauty, and improving talents of -his children. The anxious mother sighed -sometimes, but took care the sigh should -never reach her husband’s ear. The aged -grandfather and grandmother, whose infirmities -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_89" title="89"> </a> -had been much increased by their -journey to Spain, and possibly still more -by that strong emotion which is a habit to -youth, but a convulsion to age, sat in -their ample chairs comfortably idle, dozing -away life in intervals of unuttered though -conscious satisfaction, and calm but venerable -apathy;—they slept much, but when -they awoke, they smiled at their grandchildren, -and at each other.</p> - -<p>“The wife of Walberg, during this interval, -which seemed one of undisturbed -felicity to all but her, sometimes suggested -a gentle caution,—a doubtful and -anxious hint,—a possibility of future disappointment, -but this was soon smiled away -by the rosy, and laughing, and kissful -lips of her children, till the mother at -last began to smile at her apprehensions -herself. At times, however, she led them -anxiously in the direction of their uncle’s -house. She walked up and down the -street before his door with her children, -and sometimes lifted up her veil, as if to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_90" title="90"> </a> -try whether her eye could pierce through -walls as hard as the miser’s heart, or windows -barred like his coffers,—then glancing -on her children’s costly dress, while her -eye darted far into futurity, she sighed and -returned slowly home. This state of suspence -was soon to be terminated.</p> - -<p>“The priest, Guzman’s confessor, visited -them often; first in quality of almoner -or agent of his bounty, which was amply -and punctually bestowed through his -hands; and secondly, in quality of a professed -chess-player, at which game he had -met, even in Spain, no antagonist like -Walberg. He also felt an interest in the -family and their fortunes, which, though -his orthodoxy disowned, his heart could -not forbear to acknowledge,—so the good -priest compromised matters by playing -chess with the father, and praying for the -conversion of his family on his return to -Guzman’s house. It was while engaged -in the former exercise, that a message arrived -to summon him on the instant home,—the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_91" title="91"> </a> -priest left his queen <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en prise</i>, and -hurried into the passage to speak with the -messenger. The family of Walberg, with -agitation unspeakable, half rose to follow -him. They paused at the door, and then -retreated with a mixed feeling of anxiety -for the intelligence, and shame at the -attitude in which they might be discovered. -As they retreated, however, they -could not help hearing the words of the -messenger,—“He is at his last gasp,—he -has sent for you,—you must not lose a moment.” -As the messenger spoke, the -priest and he departed.</p> - -<p>“The family returned to their apartment, -and for some hours sat in profound -silence, interrupted only by the -ticking of the clock, which was distinctly -and solely heard, and which seemed too -loud to their quickened ears, amid that -deep stillness on which it broke incessantly,—or -by the echoes of Walberg’s hurried -step, as he started from his chair and traversed -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_92" title="92"> </a> -the apartment. At this sound -they turned, as if expecting a messenger, -then, glancing at the silent figure of Walberg, -sunk on their seats again. The family -sat up all that long night of unuttered, -and indeed unutterable emotion. The -lights burnt low, and were at length extinguished, -but no one noticed them;—the -pale light of the dawn broke feebly into -the room, but no one observed it was -morning. “God!—how long he lingers!” -exclaimed Walberg involuntarily; and -these words, though uttered under his -breath, made all the listeners start, as at -the first sounds of a human voice, which -they had not heard for many hours.</p> - -<p>“At this moment a knock was heard -at the door,—a step trod slowly along the -passage that led to the room,—the door -opened, and the priest appeared. He advanced -into the room without speaking, or -being spoken to. And the contrast of -strong emotion and unbroken silence,—this -conflict of speech that strangled -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_93" title="93"> </a> -thought in the utterance, and of thought -that in vain asked aid of speech,—the -agony and the muteness,—formed a terrible -momentary association. It was but -momentary,—the priest, as he stood, -uttered the words—“All is over!” Walberg -clasped his hands over his forehead, -and in ecstatic agony exclaimed,—“Thank -God!” and wildly catching at the -object nearest him, as if imagining it one -of his children, he clasped and hugged -it to his breast. His wife wept for -a moment at the thought of her brother’s -death, but roused herself for her children’s -sake to hear all that was to be told. The -Priest could tell no more but that Guzman -was dead,—seals had been put on -every chest, drawer, and coffer in the -house,—not a cabinet had escaped the diligence -of the persons employed,—and the -will was to be read the following day.</p> - -<p>“For the following day the family remained -in that intensity of expectation -that precluded all thought. The servants -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_94" title="94"> </a> -prepared the usual meal, but it remained -untasted. The family pressed each other -to partake of it; but as the importunity -was not enforced by the inviter setting -any example of the lesson he tried to -teach, the meal remained untasted. About -noon a grave person, in the habit of -a notary, was announced, and summoned -Walberg to be present at the opening of -Guzman’s will. As Walberg prepared to -obey the summons, one of his children -officiously offered him his hat, another his -cloke, both of which he had forgot in the -trepidation of his anxiety; and these instances -of reminiscence and attention in -his children, contrasted with his own abstraction, -completely overcame him, and -he sunk down on a seat to recover himself. -“You had better not go, my love,” said -his wife mildly. “I believe I shall—I -<em>must</em> take your advice,” said Walberg, relapsing -on the seat from which he had half -risen. The notary, with a formal bow, -was retiring. “I <em>will</em> go!” said Walberg, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_95" title="95"> </a> -swearing a German oath, whose guttural -sound made the notary start,—“I <em>will</em> go!” -and as he spoke he fell on the floor, exhausted -by fatigue and want of refreshment, -and emotion indescribable but to a -father. The notary retired, and a few -hours more were exhausted in torturing -conjecture, expressed on the mother’s part -only by clasped hands and smothered -sighs,—on the father’s by profound silence, -averted countenance, and hands that seemed -to feel for those of his children, and -then shrink from the touch,—and on the -children’s by rapidly varying auguries of -hope and of disappointment. The aged -pair sat motionless among their family;—they -knew not what was going on, but -they knew if it was good they must partake -of it,—and in the perception or expectation -of the approach of evil, their faculties -had latterly become very obtuse.</p> - -<p>“The day was far advanced,—it was -noon. The servants, with whom the munificence -of the deceased had amply supplied -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_96" title="96"> </a> -their establishment, announced that -dinner was prepared; and Ines, who retained -more presence of mind than the -rest, gently suggested to her husband the -necessity of not betraying their emotions -to their servants. He obeyed her hint -mechanically, and walked into the dining-hall, -forgetting for the first time to offer -his arm to his infirm father. His family -followed, but, when seated at the table, they -seemed not to know for what purpose they -were collected there. Walberg, consumed -by that <em>thirst of anxiety</em> which nothing -seems sufficient to quench, called repeatedly -for wine; and his wife, who found -even the attempt to eat impossible in the -presence of the gazing and unmoved attendants, -dismissed them by a signal, but -did not feel the desire of food restored -by their absence. The old couple eat as -usual, and sometimes looked up with an -expression of vague and vacant wonder, -and a kind of sluggish reluctance to admit -the fear or belief of approaching calamity. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_97" title="97"> </a> -Towards the end of their cheerless meal, -Walberg was called out; he returned in a -few minutes, and there was no appearance -of change in his countenance. He seated -himself, and only his wife perceived the -traces of a wild smile stealing over the -trembling lines of his face, as he filled a -large glass of wine, and raised it to his -lips, pronouncing—“A health to the heirs -of Guzman.” But instead of drinking the -wine, he dashed the glass to the floor, -and burying his head in the drapery of the -table on which he flung himself, he exclaimed, -“Not a ducat,—not a ducat,—all -left to the church!—Not a ducat!” * -* * * *</p> - -<p>“In the evening the priest called, and -found the family much more composed. -The certainty of evil had given them a -kind of courage. Suspence is the only -evil against which it is impossible to set up -a defence,—and, like young mariners in -an untried sea, they almost felt ready to -welcome the storm, as a relief from the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_98" title="98"> </a> -deadly and loathsome sickness of anxiety. -The honest resentment, and encouraging -manner of the priest, were a cordial to -their ears and hearts. He declared his belief, -that nothing but the foulest means -that might be resorted to by interested and -bigotted monks, could have extorted such -a will from the dying man,—his readiness -to attest, in every court in Spain, the intentions -of the testator (till within a few -hours of his death) to have bequeathed his -whole fortune to his family,—intentions -which he had repeatedly expressed to him -and others, and to whose effect he had -seen a former will of no long date,—and, -finally, gave his strenuous advice to Walberg -to bring the matter to legal arbitration, -in aid of which he promised his personal -exertions, his influence with the -ablest advocates in Seville, and every thing—but -money.</p> - -<p>“The family that night went to bed -with spirits exalted by hope, and slept in -peace. One circumstance alone marked a -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_99" title="99"> </a> -change in their feelings and habits. As -they were retiring, the old man laid his -tremulous hand on the shoulder of Walberg, -and said mildly, “My son, shall we -pray before we retire?”—“Not to-night, -father,” said Walberg, who perhaps feared -the mention of their heretical worship -might alienate the friendly priest, or who -felt the agitation of his heart too great for -the solemn exercise; “Not to-night, I am—too -happy!”</p> - -<p><ins title="The">“The</ins> priest was as good as his word,—the -ablest advocates in Seville undertook -the cause of Walberg. Proofs of undue -influence, of imposition, and of terror being -exercised on the mind of the testator, -were ingeniously made out by the diligence -and spiritual authority of the priest, -and skilfully arranged and ably pleaded by -the advocates. Walberg’s spirits rose with -every hour. The family, at the time of -Guzman’s death, were in possession of a -considerable sum of money, but this was -soon expended, together with another sum -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_100" title="100"> </a> -which the frugality of Ines had enabled -her to save, and which she now cheerfully -produced in aid of her husband’s exigencies, -and in confidence of eventual success. -When all was gone, other resources still -remained,—the spacious house was disposed -of, the servants dismissed, the furniture -sold (as usual) for about a fourth of -its value, and, in their new and humble abode -in the suburbs of Seville, Ines and -her daughters contentedly resumed those -domestic duties which they had been in -the habit of performing in their quiet -home in Germany. Amid these changes, -the grandfather and grandmother experienced -none but mere change of place, of -which they hardly appeared conscious. -The assiduous attention of Ines to their -comforts was increased, not diminished, by -the necessity of being herself the sole -ministrant to them; and smiling she pleaded -want of appetite, or trifling indisposition, -as an excuse for her own and her -children’s meal, while theirs was composed -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_101" title="101"> </a> -of every thing that could tempt the tasteless -palate of age, or that she remembered -was acceptable to theirs.</p> - -<p>“The cause had now come to a hearing, -and for the two first days the advocates -of Walberg carried all before them. On -the third the ecclesiastical advocates made -a firm and vigorous stand. Walberg returned -much dispirited;—his wife saw it, -and therefore assumed no airs of cheerfulness, -which only increase the irritation of -misfortune, but she was equable, and -steadily and tranquilly occupied in domestic -business the whole evening in his -sight. As they were separating for the -night, by a singular contingency, the old -man again reminded his son of the forgotten -hour of family prayer. “Not to-night, -father,” said Walberg impatiently; -“not to-night; I am—too unhappy!”—“Thus,” -said the old man, lifting up his -withered hands, and speaking with an -energy he had not showed for years,—“thus, -O my God! prosperity and adversity -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_102" title="102"> </a> -alike furnish us with excuses for neglecting -thee!” As he tottered from the -room, Walberg declined his head on the -bosom of his wife, who sat beside him, -and shed a few bitter tears. And Ines -whispered to herself, “The sacrifice of -God is a troubled spirit,—a broken heart -he will not despise.” * * -* * * *</p> - -<p>“The cause had been carried on with a -spirit and expedition that had no precedent -in the courts of Spain, and the fourth -day was fixed on for a final hearing and -termination of the cause. The day dawned, -and at the dawn of day Walberg arose, and -walked for some hours before the gates of -the hall of justice; and when they were -opened, he entered, and sat down mechanically -on a seat in the vacant hall, with -the same look of profound attention, and -anxious interest, that he would have assumed -had the court been seated, and the -cause about to be decided. After a few -moment’s pause, he sighed, started, and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_103" title="103"> </a> -appearing to awake from a dream, quitted -his seat, and walked up and down the -empty passages till the court was prepared -to sit.</p> - -<p>“The court met early that day, and the -cause was powerfully advocated. Walberg -sat on one seat, without ever changing -his place, till all was over; and it was -then late in the evening, and he had taken -no refreshment the entire day, and he had -never changed his place, and he had never -changed the close and corrupted atmosphere -of the crowded court for a moment. -Quid multis morer? The chance of a heretic -stranger, against the interests of -churchmen in Spain, may be calculated -by the most shallow capacity.</p> - -<p>“The family had all that day sat in the -innermost room of their humble dwelling. -Everhard had wished to accompany his -father to the court,—his mother withheld -him. The sisters involuntarily dropt their -work from time to time, and their mother -gently reminded them of the necessity of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_104" title="104"> </a> -renewing it. They did resume it, but -their hands, at variance with their feelings, -made such blunders, that their mother, -<span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc" title="dakryoen gelasasa">δακρυοεν γελασασα</span>, removed their work, and -suggested to them some active employment -in household affairs. While they -were thus engaged, evening came on,—the -family from time to time suspended their -ordinary occupations, and crowded to the -window to watch the return of their father. -Their mother no longer interfered,—she -sat in silence, and this silence formed -a strong contrast to the restless impatience -of her children. “That is my father,” -exclaimed the voices of the four at -once, as a figure crossed the street. “That -is not my father,” they repeated, as the -figure slowly retired. A knock was heard -at the door,—Ines herself rushed forward -to open it. A figure retreated, advanced -again, and again retreated. Then it -seemed to rush past her, and enter the -house like a shadow. In terror she followed -it, and with terror unutterable saw -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_105" title="105"> </a> -her husband kneeling among his children, -who in vain attempted to raise him, while -he continued to repeat, “No, let me kneel,—let -me kneel, I have undone you all! -The cause is lost, and I have made beggars -of you all!”—“Rise,—rise, dearest father,” -cried the children, gathering round him, -“nothing is lost, if you are saved!”—“Rise, -my love, from that horrible and -unnatural humiliation,” cried Ines, grasping -the arms of her husband; “help me, -my children,—father,—mother, will you -not help me?”—and as she spoke, the tottering, -helpless, and almost lifeless figures -of the aged grandfather and grandmother -arose from their chairs, and staggering forwards, -added their feeble strength,—their -<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">vis impotentiæ</i>, to sustain or succour the -weight that dragged heavily on the arms -of the children and their mother. By this -sight, more than by any effort, Walberg -was raised from the posture that agonized -his family, and placed in a chair, around -which hung the wife and children, while -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_106" title="106"> </a> -the aged father and mother, retreating torpidly -to their seats, seemed to lose in a -few moments the keen consciousness of -evil that had inspired them for an instant -with a force almost miraculous. Ines and -her children hung round Walberg, and -uttered all of consolation that helpless affection -could suggest; but perhaps there is -not a more barbed arrow can be sent -through the heart, than by the thought -that the hands that clasp ours so fondly -cannot earn for us or themselves the means -of another meal,—that the lips that are -pressed to ours so warmly, may the next -ask us for bread, and—ask in vain!</p> - -<p>“It was perhaps fortunate for this unhappy -family, that the very extremity of -their grief rendered its long indulgence impossible,—the -voice of necessity made itself -be heard distinctly and loudly amid all the -cry and clamour of that hour of agony. -Something must be done for the morrow,—and -it was to be done immediately. -“What money have you?” was the first -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_107" title="107"> </a> -articulate sentence Walberg uttered to his -wife; and when she whispered the small sum -that the expences of their lost cause had -left them, he shivered with a brief emphatic -spasm of horror,—then bursting from -their arms, and rising, he crossed the -room, as if he wished to be alone for a -moment. As he did so, he saw his youngest -child playing with the long strings of -his grandfather’s band,—a mode of sportive -teazing in which the urchin delighted, -and which was at once chid and smiled at. -Walberg struck the poor child vehemently, -and then catching him in his arms, bid -him—“Smile as long as he could!” * -* * * *</p> - -<p>“They had means of subsistence at least -for the following week; and that was such a -source of comfort to them, as it is to men -who are quitting a wreck, and drifting on a -bare raft with a slender provision towards -some coast, which they hope to reach before -it is exhausted. They sat up all that night -together in earnest counsel, after Ines had -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_108" title="108"> </a> -taken care to see the father and mother of -her husband comfortably placed in their apartment. -Amid their long and melancholy -conference, hope sprung up insensibly -in the hearts of the speakers, and a -plan was gradually formed for obtaining -the means of subsistence. Walberg was -to offer his talents as a musical teacher,—Ines -and her daughters were to undertake -embroidery,—and Everhard, who possessed -exquisite taste both in music and drawing, -was to make an effort in both departments, -and the friendly priest was to be applied -to for his needful interest and recommendation -for all. The morning broke on -their long-protracted consultation, and -found them unwearied in discussing its -subject. “We shall not starve,” said the -children hopefully.—“I trust not,” said -Walberg sighingly.—His wife, who knew -Spain, said not a word.<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER <ins title="XXVI">XXVIII</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_109" title="109"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line indent17"><span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span>This to me<br /></div> -<div class="line">In dreadful secrecy they did impart,<br /></div> -<div class="line">And I with them the third night kept the watch.<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Shakespeare.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“As</span> they spoke, a soft knock was heard, -such as kindness gives at the door of misfortune, -and Everhard started up to answer -it. “Stay,” said Walberg, absently, -“Where are the servants?” Then recollecting -himself, he smiled agonizingly, and -waved his hand to his son to go. It was -the good priest. He entered, and sat -down in silence,—no one spoke to him. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_110" title="110"> </a> -It might be truly said, as it is sublimely -said in the original, “There was neither -speech nor language, but voices were heard -among them—<i><ins title="“and">and</ins> felt too</i>.” The worthy -priest piqued himself on his orthodoxy of -all matters of belief and form enjoined by -the Catholic church; and, moreover, had acquired -a kind of monastic apathy, of sanctified -stoicism, which priests sometimes -imagine is the conquest of grace over the -rebellion of nature, when it is merely the -result of a profession that denies nature its -objects and its ties. Yet so it was, that as -he sat among this afflicted family, after -complaining of the keenness of the morning -air, and wiping away in vain the moisture, -which he said it had brought into his -eyes, he at last yielded to his feelings, and -“lifted up his voice and wept.” But tears -were not all he had to offer. On hearing -the plans of Walberg and his family, he -promised, with a faultering voice, his -ready assistance in promoting them; and, -as he rose to depart, observing that he had -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_111" title="111"> </a> -been entrusted by the faithful with a small -sum for the relief of the unfortunate, and -knew not where it could be better bestowed, -he dropped from the sleeve of his habit -a well filled purse on the floor, and -hurried away.</p> - -<p>“The family retired to rest as the day approached, -but rose in a few hours afterwards -without having slept; and the remainder -of that day, and the whole of the three following, -were devoted to applications at -every door where encouragement might be -expected, or employment obtained, the -priest in person aiding every application. -But there were many circumstances unfavourable -to the ill-starred family of Walberg. -They were strangers, and, with the -exception of their mother, who acted as -interpreter, ignorant of the language of -the country. This was “a sore evil,” extending -almost to the total preclusion of -their exertions as teachers. They were -also heretics,—and this alone was a sufficient -bar to their success in Seville. In -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_112" title="112"> </a> -some families the beauty of the daughters, -in others that of the son, was gravely debated -as an important objection. In others -the recollection of their former splendour, -suggested a mean and rancorous motive to -jealous inferiority to insult them by a rejection, -for which no other cause could -be assigned. Unwearied and undismayed, -they renewed their applications every day, -at every house where admission could be -obtained, and at many where it was denied; -and each day they returned to examine -the diminished stock, to divide the -scantier meal, calculate how far it was possible -to reduce the claims of nature to the -level of their ebbing means, and smile -when they talked of the morrow to each -other, but weep when they thought of it -alone. There is a withering monotony in -the diary of misery,—“one day telleth another.” -But there came at length a day, -when the last coin was expended, the -last meal devoured, the last resource exhausted, -the last hope annihilated, and the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_113" title="113"> </a> -friendly priest himself told them weeping, -he had nothing to give them but his -prayers.</p> - -<p>“That evening the family sat in profound -and stupified silence together for -some hours, till the aged mother of Walberg, -who had not for some months uttered -any thing but indistinct monosyllables, -or appeared conscious of any thing that -was going on, suddenly, with that ominous -energy that announces its effort to -be the last,—that bright flash of parting -life that precedes its total extinction, exclaimed -aloud, apparently addressing her -husband, “There is something wrong -here,—why did they bring us from Germany? -They might have suffered us to -die there,—they have brought us here to -mock us, I think. Yesterday,—(her memory -evidently confounding the dates of -her son’s prosperous and adverse fortune), -yesterday they clothed me in silk, and I -drank wine, and to-day they give me this -sorry crust,—(flinging away the piece of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_114" title="114"> </a> -bread which had been her share of the miserable -meal),—there is something wrong -here. I will go back to Germany,—I -will!” and she rose from her seat in the -sight of the astonished family, who, horror-struck, -as they would have been at the -sudden resuscitation of a corse, ventured -not to oppose her by word or movement. -“I will go back to Germany,” she repeated; -and, rising, she actually took three or -four firm and equal steps on the floor, -while no one attempted to approach her. -Then her force, both physical and mental, -seemed to fail,—she tottered,—her voice -sunk into hollow mutterings, as she repeated, -“I know the way,—I know the -way,—if it was not so dark.—I have not -far to go,—I am very near—<em>home</em>!” As she -spoke, she fell across the feet of Walberg. -The family collected round her, and raised—a -corse. “Thank God!” exclaimed her -son, as he gazed on his mother’s corse.—And -this reversion of the strongest feeling -of nature,—this wish for the death of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_115" title="115"> </a> -those for whom, in other circumstances, -we would ourselves have died, makes -those who have experienced it feel as if -there was no evil in life but want, and no -object of rational pursuit but the means of -avoiding it. Alas! if it be so, for what -purpose were hearts that beat, and minds -that burn, bestowed on us? Is all the -energy of intellect, and all the enthusiasm -of feeling, to be expended in contrivances -how to meet or shift off the petty but torturing -pangs of hourly necessity? Is the -fire caught from heaven to be employed in -lighting a faggot to keep the cold from the -numbed and wasted fingers of poverty. -Pardon this digression, Senhor,” said the -stranger, “but <em>I had a painful feeling, -that forced me to make it</em>.” He then proceeded.</p> - -<p>“The family collected around the dead -body,—and it might have been a subject -worthy the pencil of the first of painters, to -witness its interment, as it took place the -following night. As the deceased was a -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_116" title="116"> </a> -heretic, the corse was not allowed to be -laid in consecrated ground; and the family, -solicitous to avoid giving offence, or attracting -notice on the subject of their religion, -were the only attendants on the -funeral. In a small inclosure, at the rear -of their wretched abode, her son dug his -mother’s grave, and Ines and her daughters -placed the body in it. Everhard was -absent in search of employment,—as they -hoped,—and a light was held by the -youngest child, who smiled as he watched -the scene, as if it had been a pageant got -up for his amusement. That light, feeble -as it was, showed the strong and varying -expression of the countenances on which -it fell;—in Walberg’s there was a stern -and fearful joy, that she whom they were -laying to rest had been “taken from the -evil to come,”—in that of Ines there was -grief, mingled with something of horror, -at this mute and unhallowed ceremony.—Her -daughters, pale with grief and fear, -wept silently; but their tears were checked, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_117" title="117"> </a> -and the whole course of their feelings -changed, when the light fell on another -figure who appeared suddenly standing among -them on the edge of the grave,—it -was that of Walberg’s father. Impatient -of being left alone, and wholly unconscious -of the cause, he had groped and -tottered his way till he reached the spot; -and now, as he saw his son heap up the -earth over the grave, he exclaimed, with -a brief and feeble effort of reminiscence, -sinking on the ground, “Me, too,—lay -me there, the same spot will serve for -both!” His children raised and supported -him into the house, where the sight of -Everhard, with an unexpected supply of -provisions, made them forget the horrors -of the late scene, and postpone once more -the fears of want till to-morrow. No inquiry -how this supply was obtained, could -extort more from Everhard than that it -was the gift of charity. He looked exhausted -and dreadfully pale,—and, forbearing -to press him with further questions, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_118" title="118"> </a> -they partook of this manna-meal,—this -food that seemed to have dropped -from heaven, and separated for the night. -* * * *</p> - -<p>“Ines had, during this period of calamity, -unremittingly enforced the application -of her daughters to those accomplishments -from which she still derived the -hopes of their subsistence. Whatever -were the privations and disappointments -of the day, their musical and other exercises -were strictly attended to; and hands -enfeebled by want and grief, plied their -task with as much assiduity as when occupation -was only a variation of luxury. -This attention to the ornaments of life, -when its actual necessaries are wanted,—this -sound of music in a house where the -murmurs of domestic anxiety are heard -every moment,—this subservience of talent -to necessity, all its generous enthusiasm -lost, and only its possible utility remembered -or valued,—is perhaps the bitterest -strife that ever was fought between -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_119" title="119"> </a> -the opposing claims of our artificial and our -natural existence. But things had now -occurred that shook not only the resolution -of Ines, but even affected her feelings beyond -the power of repression. She had -been accustomed to hear, with delight, the -eager application of her daughters to their -musical studies;—now—when she heard -them, the morning after the interment of -their grandmother, renewing that application—she -felt as if the sounds struck -through her heart. She entered the room -where they were, and they turned towards -her with their usual smiling demand for -her approbation.</p> - -<p><ins title="The">“The</ins> mother, with the forced smile of a -sickening heart, said she believed there -was no occasion for their practising any -further that day. The daughters, who understood -her too well, relinquished their -instruments, and, accustomed to see every -article of furniture converted into the -means of casual subsistence, they thought -no worse than that their ghitarras might -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_120" title="120"> </a> -be disposed of this day, and the next they -hoped they would have to teach on those -of their pupils. They were mistaken. -Other symptoms of failing resolution,—of -utter and hopeless abandonment, appeared -that day. Walberg had always felt and -expressed the strongest feelings of tender -respect towards his parents—his father particularly, -whose age far exceeded that of -his mother. At the division of their meal -that day, he shewed a kind of wolfish -and greedy jealousy that made Ines tremble. -He whispered to her—“How much -my father eats—how heartily he feeds -while we have scarce a morsel!”—“And -let us want that morsel, before your father -wants one!” said Ines in a whisper—“I -have scarce tasted any thing myself.”—“Father—father,” -cried Walberg, shouting -in the ear of the doting old man, “you -are eating heartily, while Ines and her children -are starving!” And he snatched the -food from his father’s hand, who gazed at -him vacantly, and resigned the contested -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_121" title="121"> </a> -morsel without a struggle. A moment -afterwards the old man rose from his seat, -and with horrid unnatural force, tore the -untasted meat from his grandchildren’s -lips, and swallowed it himself, while his -rivelled and toothless mouth grinned at -them in mockery at once infantine and -malicious.</p> - -<p>“Squabbling about your supper?” cried -Everhard, bursting among them with a -wild and feeble laugh,—“Why, here’s -enough for to-morrow—and to-morrow.” -And he flung indeed ample means for two -day’s subsistence on the table, but he looked -<em>paler and paler</em>. The hungry family -devoured the hoard, and forgot to ask the -cause of his increasing paleness, and obviously -diminished strength. * * -* * * *</p> - -<p>“They had long been without any domestics, -and as Everhard disappeared mysteriously -every day, the daughters were -sometimes employed on the humble errands -of the family. The beauty of the elder -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_122" title="122"> </a> -daughter, Julia, was so conspicuous, -that her mother had often undertaken the -most menial errands herself, rather than -send her daughter into the streets unprotected. -The following evening, however, -being intently employed in some domestic -occupation, she allowed Julia to go -out to purchase their food for to-morrow, -and lent her veil for the purpose, directing -her daughter to arrange it in the Spanish -fashion, with which she was well acquainted, -so as to hide her face.</p> - -<p>“Julia, who went with trembling steps -on her brief errand, had somehow deranged -her veil, and a glimpse of her beauty -was caught by a cavalier who was passing. -The meanness of her dress and occupation -suggested hopes to him which he ventured -to express. Julia burst from him with the -mingled terror and indignation of insulted -purity, but her eyes rested with unconscious -avidity on the handful of gold which -glittered in his hand.—She thought of her -famishing parents,—of her own declining -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_123" title="123"> </a> -strength, and neglected useless talents. -The gold still sparkled before her,—she felt—she -knew not what, and to escape from -some feelings is perhaps the best victory -we can obtain over them. But when she -arrived at home, she eagerly thrust the -small purchase she had made into her mother’s -hand, and, though hitherto gentle, -submissive, and tractable, announced, in a -tone of decision that seemed to her startled -mother (whose thoughts were always limited -to the exigencies of the hour) like that -of sudden insanity, that she would rather -starve than ever again tread the streets of -Seville alone.</p> - -<p>“As Ines retired to her bed, she thought -she heard a feeble moan from the room -where Everhard lay, and where, from -their being compelled to sell the necessary -furniture of the bed, he had entreated his -parents to allow Maurice to sleep with him, -alleging that the warmth of his body would -be a substitute for artificial covering to his -little brother. Twice those moans were -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_124" title="124"> </a> -heard, but Ines did not dare to awake Walberg, -who had sunk into that profound sleep -which is as often the refuge of intolerable -misery, as that of saturated enjoyment. -A few moments after, when the moans -had ceased, and she had half persuaded -herself it was only the echo of that wave -that seems for ever beating in the ears -of the unfortunate,—the curtains of her -bed were thrown open, and the figure -of a child covered with blood, stained in -breast, arms, and legs, appeared before -her, and cried,—“It is Everhard’s blood—he -is bleeding to death,—I am covered -with his blood!—Mother—mother—rise -and save Everhard’s life!” The object, -the voice, the words, seemed to Ines like -the imagery of some terrible dream, such -as had lately often visited her sleep, till -the tones of Maurice, her youngest, and -(in her heart) her favourite child, made her -spring from the bed, and hurry after the -little blood-spotted figure that paddled before -her on its naked feet, till she reached -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_125" title="125"> </a> -the adjoining room where Everhard lay. -Amid all her anguish and fear, she trod as -lightly as Maurice, lest she should awake -Walberg.</p> - -<p>“The moon-light fell strongly through -the unshuttered windows on the wretched -closet that just contained the bed. Its -furniture was sufficiently scanty, and in -his spasms Everhard had thrown off the -sheet. So he lay, as Ines approached -his bed, in a kind of corse-like beauty, -to which the light of the moon gave -an effect that would have rendered the -figure worthy the pencil of a Murillo, -a Rosa, or any of those painters, who, -inspired by the genius of suffering, delight -in representing the most exquisite -of human forms in the extremity of human -agony. A St Bartholomew flayed, with -his skin hanging about him in graceful -drapery—a St Laurence, broiled on a gridiron, -and exhibiting his finely-formed anatomy -on its bars, while naked slaves are -blowing the coals beneath it,—even these -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_126" title="126"> </a> -were inferior to the form half-veiled,—half-disclosed -by the moon-light as it lay. -The snow-white limbs of Everhard were -extended as if for the inspection of a sculptor, -and moveless, as if they were indeed -what they resembled, in hue and symmetry, -those of a marble statue. His arms -were tossed above his head, and the blood -was trickling fast from the opened veins -of both,—his bright and curled hair was -clotted with the red stream that flowed -from his arms,—his lips were blue, and a -faint and fainter moan issued from them -as his mother hung over him. This sight -banished in a moment all other fears and -feelings, and Ines shrieked aloud to her -husband for assistance. Walberg, staggering -from his sleep, entered the room,—the -object before him was enough. Ines had -only strength left to point to it. The -wretched father rushed out in quest of medical -aid, which he was obliged to solicit -gratuitously, and in bad Spanish, while -his accents betrayed him at every door he -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_127" title="127"> </a> -knocked at,—and closed them against him -as a foreigner and a heretic. At length a -barber-surgeon (for the professions were -united in Seville) consented, with many a -yawn, to attend him, and came duly armed -with lint and styptics. The distance was -short, and he was soon by the bed of the -young sufferer. The parents observed, -with consternation unspeakable, the languid -looks of recognition, the ghastly smile -of consciousness, that Everhard viewed -him with, as he approached the bed; and -when he had succeeded in stopping the hæmorrhage, -and bound up the arms, a whisper -passed between him and the patient, -and the latter raised his bloodless hand to -his lips, and uttered, “Remember our bargain.” -As the man retired, Walberg -followed, and demanded to know the -meaning of the words he had heard. -Walberg was a German, and choleric—the -surgeon was a Spaniard, and cool. -“I shall tell you to-morrow, Senhor,” said -he, putting up his instruments,—“in the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_128" title="128"> </a> -mean time be assured of my gratuitous -attendance on your son, and of his certain -recovery. We deem you heretics in Seville, -but that youth is enough to canonize -the whole family, and cover a multitude -of sins.” And with these words he -departed. The next day he attended -Everhard, and so for several, till he was -completely recovered, always refusing the -slightest remuneration, till the father, -whom misery had made suspicious of -every thing and nothing, watched at the -door, and heard the horrible secret. He -did not disclose it to his wife,—but from -that hour, it was observed that his gloom -became more intense, and the communications -he used to hold with his family, -on the subject of their distress, and the -modes of evading it by hourly expedients, -utterly and finally ceased.</p> - -<p>“Everhard, now recovered, but still -pale as the widow of Seneca, was at last -able to join the family consultation, and -give advice, and suggest resources, with -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_129" title="129"> </a> -a mental energy that his physical weakness -could not overcome. The next day, -when they were assembled to debate on -the means of procuring subsistence for -the following one, they for the first time -missed their father. At every word that -was uttered, they turned to ask for his -sanction—but he was not there. At last -he entered the room, but without taking -a part in their consultation. He leaned -gloomily against the wall, and while Everhard -and Julia, at every sentence, turned -their appealing looks towards him, he -sullenly averted his head. Ines, appearing -to pursue some work, while her trembling -fingers could scarce direct the needle, made -a sign to her children not to observe him. -Their voices were instantly depressed, and -their heads bent closely towards each other. -Mendicity appeared the only resource of -this unfortunate family,—and they agreed, -that the evening was the best time for trying -its effect. The unhappy father remained -rocking against the shattered wainscot -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_130" title="130"> </a> -till the arrival of evening. Ines repaired -the clothes of the children, which were -now so decayed, that every attempt at repair -made a fresh rent, and the very thread -she worked with seemed less attenuated -than the worn-out materials it wrought -on.</p> - -<p>“The grandfather, still seated in his -ample chair by the care of Ines, (for his -son had grown very indifferent about him), -watched her moving fingers, and exclaimed, -with the petulance of dotage, “Aye,—you -are arraying them in embroidery, -while I am in rags.—In rags!” he repeated, -holding out the slender garments which -the beggared family could with difficulty -spare him. Ines tried to pacify him, and -showed her work, to prove that it was the -remnants of her children’s former dress she -was repairing; but, with horror unutterable, -she perceived her husband incensed -at these expressions of dotage, and venting -his frantic and fearful indignation in -language that she tried to bury the sound -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_131" title="131"> </a> -of, by pressing closer to the old man, and -attempting to fix his bewildered attention -on herself and her work. This was easily -accomplished, and all was well, till they -were about to separate on their wretched -precarious errands. Then a new and untold -feeling trembled at the heart of one -of the young wanderers. Julia remembered -the occurrence of a preceding evening,—she -thought of the tempting gold, -the flattering language, and the tender -tone of the young cavalier. She saw her -family perishing around her for want,—she -felt it consuming her own vitals,—and -as she cast her eye round the squalid room, -the gold glittered brighter and brighter in -her eye. A faint hope, aided perhaps by -a still more faint suggestion of venial -pride, swelled in her heart. “Perhaps he -might love me,” she whispered to herself, -“and think me not unworthy of his hand.” -Then despair returned to the charge. “I -must die of famine,” she thought, “if I -return unaided,—and why may I not by -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_132" title="132"> </a> -my death benefit my family! I will never -survive shame, but they may,—for they -will not know it!”—She went out, and -took a direction different from that of the -family.</p> - -<p>“Night came on,—the wanderers returned -slowly one by one,—<em>Julia was the last</em>. -Her brothers and sister had each obtained -a trifling alms, for they had learned Spanish -enough to beg in,—and the old man’s -face wore a vacant smile, as he saw the -store produced, which was, after all, scarce -sufficient to afford a meal for the youngest. -“And have you brought us nothing, Julia?” -said her parents. She stood apart, -and in silence. Her father repeated the -question in a raised and angry voice. She -started at the sound, and, rushing forward, -buried her head in her mother’s -bosom. “Nothing,—nothing,” she cried, -in a broken and suffocated voice; “I tried,—my -weak and wicked heart submitted to -the thought for a moment,—but no,—no, -not even to save you from perishing, could -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_133" title="133"> </a> -I!—I came home to perish first myself!” -Her shuddering parents comprehended her,—and -amid their agony they blessed her -and wept,—but not from grief. The meal -was divided, of which Julia at first steadily -refused to partake, as she had not contributed -to it, till her reluctance was overcome -by the affectionate importunity of the -rest, and she complied.</p> - -<p>“It was during this division of what all -believed to be their last meal, that Walberg -gave one of those proofs of sudden and -fearful violence of temper, bordering on -insanity, which he had betrayed latterly. -He seemed to notice, with sullen displeasure, -that his wife had (as she always did) -reserved the largest portion for his father. -He eyed it askance at first, muttering angrily -to himself. Then he spoke more aloud, -though not so as to be heard by the -deaf old man, who was sluggishly devouring -his sordid meal. Then the sufferings -of his children seemed to inspire -him with a kind of wild resentment, and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_134" title="134"> </a> -he started up, exclaiming, “My son sells -his blood to a surgeon, to save us from -perishing<a name="FootnoteMarker_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="footnote-marker">(2)</a>! My daughter trembles on the -verge of prostitution, to procure us a -meal!” Then fiercely addressing his father, -“And what dost thou do, old dotard? -Rise up,—rise up, and beg for us thyself, -or thou must starve!”—and, as he spoke, -he raised his arm against the helpless old -man. At this horrid sight, Ines shrieked -aloud, and the children, rushing forward, -interposed. The wretched father, incensed -to madness, dealt blows among them, -which were borne without a murmur; and -then, the storm being exhausted, he sat -down and wept.</p> - -<p>“At this moment, to the astonishment -and terror of all except Walberg, the old -man, who, since the night of his wife’s -interment, had never moved but from his -chair to his bed, and that not without assistance, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_135" title="135"> </a> -rose suddenly from his seat, and, -apparently in obedience to his son, walked -with a firm and steady pace towards the -door. When he had reached it, he paused, -looked back on them with a fruitless effort -at recollection, and went out slowly;—and -such was the terror felt by all at -this last ghastly look, which seemed like -that of a corse moving on to the place of -its interment, that no one attempted to -oppose his passage, and several moments -elapsed before Everhard had the recollection -to pursue him.</p> - -<p>“In the mean time, Ines had dismissed -her children, and sitting as near as she -dared to the wretched father, attempted -to address some soothing expressions to -him. Her voice, which was exquisitely -sweet and soft, seemed to produce a -mechanical effect on him. He turned towards -her at first,—then leaning his head -on his arm, he shed a few silent tears,—then -flinging it on his wife’s bosom, he -wept aloud. Ines seized this moment -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_136" title="136"> </a> -to impress on his heart the horror she felt -from the outrage he had committed, and -adjured him to supplicate the mercy of -God for a crime, which, in her eyes, appeared -scarce short of parricide. Walberg -wildly asked what she alluded to; and -when, shuddering, she uttered the words,—“Your -father,—your poor old father!”—he -smiled with an expression of mysterious -and supernatural confidence that -froze her blood, and, approaching her ear, -softly whispered, “I have no father! He -is dead,—long dead! I buried him the -night I dug my mother’s grave! Poor old -man,” he added with a sigh, “it was the -better for him,—he would have lived only -to weep, and perish perhaps with hunger. -But I will tell you, Ines,—and let it be a -secret, I wondered what made our provisions -decrease so, till what was yesterday -sufficient for four, is not to-day sufficient -for one. I watched, and at last I discovered—it -must be a secret—an old goblin, -who daily visited this house. It came -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_137" title="137"> </a> -in the likeness of an old man in rags, and -with a long white beard, and it devoured -every thing on the table, while the children -stood hungry by! But I struck at—I -cursed it,—I chased it in the name of the -All-powerful, and it is gone. Oh it was a -fell devouring goblin!—but it will haunt -us no more, and we shall have enough. -Enough,” said the wretched man, involuntarily -returning to his habitual associations,—“enough -for to-morrow!”</p> - -<p>“Ines, overcome with horror at this obvious -proof of insanity, neither interrupted -or opposed him; she attempted only to -soothe him, internally praying against the -too probable disturbance of her own intellects. -Walberg saw her look of distrust, -and, with the quick jealousy of partial insanity, -said, “If you do not credit me in -that, still less, I suppose, will you in the -account of that fearful visitation with -which I have latterly been familiar.”—“Oh, -my beloved!” said Ines, who recognized -in these words the source of a fear -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_138" title="138"> </a> -that had latterly, from some extraordinary -circumstances in her husband’s conduct, -taken possession of her soul, and made the -fear even of famine trifling in comparison,—“I -dread lest I understand you too well. -The anguish of want and of famine I -could have borne,—aye, and seen you bear, -but the horrid words you have lately uttered, -the horrid thoughts that escape you -in your sleep,—when I think on these, -and guess at”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> “You need not guess,” -said Walberg, interrupting her, “I will -tell you all.” And, as he spoke, his countenance -changed from its expression of -wildness to one of perfect sanity and calm -confidence,—his features relaxed, his eye -became steady, and his tone firm.—“Every -night since our late distresses, I have wandered -out in search of some relief, and -supplicated every passing stranger;—latterly, -I have met every night the enemy -of man, who”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> “Oh cease, my love, -to indulge these horrible thoughts,—they -are the results of your disturbed unhappy -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_139" title="139"> </a> -state of mind.”—“Ines, listen to me. I -see that figure as plainly as I see yours,—I -hear his voice as distinctly as you hear -mine this moment. Want and misery are -not naturally fertile in the production of -imagination,—they grasp at realities too -closely. No man, who wants a meal, conceives -that a banquet is spread before him, -and that the tempter invites him to sit -down and eat at his ease. No,—no, Ines, -the evil one, or some devoted agent of his -in human form, besets me every night,—and -how I shall longer resist the snare, I -know not.”—“And in what form does he -appear?” said Ines, hoping to turn the -channel of his gloomy thoughts, while she -appeared to follow their direction. “In -that of a middle-aged man, of a serious -and staid demeanour, and with nothing -remarkable in his aspect except the light -of two burning eyes, whose lustre is almost -intolerable. He fixes them on me -sometimes, and I feel as if there was fascination -in their glare. Every night he -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_140" title="140"> </a> -besets me, and few like me could have resisted -his seductions. He has offered, and -proved to me, that it is in his power to bestow -all that human cupidity could thirst -for, on the condition that<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>I cannot -utter! It is one so full of horror and impiety, -that, even to listen to it, is scarce -less a crime than to comply with it!”</p> - -<p>“Ines, still incredulous, yet imagining -that to soothe his delirium was perhaps the -best way to overcome it, demanded what -that condition was. Though they were -alone, Walberg would communicate it -only in a whisper; and Ines, fortified as -she was by reason hitherto undisturbed, -and a cool and steady temper, could not -but recollect some vague reports she had -heard in her early youth, before she quitted -Spain, of a being permitted to wander -through it, with power to tempt men under -the pressure of extreme calamity with -similar offers, which had been invariably -rejected, even in the last extremities of -despair and dissolution. She was not superstitious,—but, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_141" title="141"> </a> -her memory now taking -part with her husband’s representation of -what had befallen him, she shuddered at -the possibility of his being exposed to similar -temptation; and she endeavoured to -fortify his mind and conscience, by arguments -equally appropriate whether he was -the victim of a disturbed imagination, or -the real object of this fearful persecution. -She reminded him, that if, even in Spain, -where the abominations of Antichrist prevailed, -and the triumph of the mother of -witchcrafts and spiritual seduction was -complete, the fearful offer he alluded to -had been made and rejected with such unmitigated -abhorrence, the renunciation of -one who had embraced the pure doctrines -of the gospel should be expressed with a -tenfold energy of feeling and holy defiance. -“You,” said the heroic woman, “you first -taught me that the doctrines of salvation -are to be found alone in the holy scriptures,—I -believed you, and wedded you -in that belief. We are united less in the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_142" title="142"> </a> -body than in the soul, for in the body -neither of us may probably sojourn much -longer. You pointed out to me, not the -legends of fabulous saints, but the lives of -the primitive apostles and martyrs of the -true church. There I read no tales of -“voluntary humility,” of self-inflicted—fruitless -sufferings, but I read that the -people of God were “destitute, afflicted, -tormented.” And shall we dare to murmur -at following the examples of those -you have pointed out to me as ensamples -of suffering? They bore the spoiling of -their goods,—they wandered about in -sheep skins and goat skins,—they resisted -unto blood, striving against sin.—And -shall we lament the lot that has fallen -to us, when our hearts have so often -burned within us, as we read the holy -records together? Alas! what avails feeling -till it is brought to the test of fact? -How we deceived ourselves, in believing -that we indeed participated in the -feelings of those holy men, while we were -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_143" title="143"> </a> -so far removed from the test by which -they were proved! We read of imprisonments, -of tortures, and of flames!—We -closed the book, and partook of a comfortable -meal, and retired to a peaceful -bed, triumphing in the thought, while saturated -with all the world’s good, that -if their trials had been ours, we could -have sustained those trials as they did. -Now, <em>our</em> hour has come,—it is an -hour sharp and terrible!”—“It is!” murmured -the shuddering husband. “But -shall we therefore shrink?” replied his -wife. “Your ancestors, who were the -first in Germany that embraced the reformed -religion, have bled and blazed for -it, as you have often told me,—can there -be a stronger attestation to it?”—“I believe -there can,” said Walberg, whose -eyes rolled fearfully,—“that of starving -for it!—Oh Ines,” he exclaimed, as he -grasped her hands convulsively, “I have -felt,—I still feel, that a death at the stake -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_144" title="144"> </a> -would be mercy compared to the lingering -tortures of protracted famine,—to the death -that we die daily—and yet do not die! What -is this I hold?” he exclaimed, grasping unconsciously -the hand he held in his. “It -is my hand, my love,” answered the trembling -wife.—“Yours!—no—impossible!—Your -fingers were soft and cool, but these -are dry,—is this a human hand?”—“It -is mine,” said the weeping wife. “Then -you must have been famishing,” said Walberg, -awakening as if from a dream. “We -have all been so latterly,” answered Ines, -satisfied to restore her husband’s sanity, -even at the expense of this horrible confession,—“We -have all been so—but I -have suffered the least. When a family -is famishing, the children think of -their meals—but the mother thinks only -of her children. I have lived on as little -as—I could,—I had indeed no appetite.”—“Hush,” -said Walberg, interrupting -her—“what sound was that?—was it not -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_145" title="145"> </a> -like a dying groan?”—“No—it is the children -who moan in their sleep.”—“What -do they moan for?” “Hunger I <ins title="believe,’">believe,”</ins> -said Ines, involuntarily yielding to the -dreadful conviction of habitual misery.—“And -I sit and hear this,” said Walberg, -starting up,—“I sit to hear their young -sleep broken by dreams of hunger, while -for a word’s speaking I could pile this floor -with mountains of gold, and all for the risk -of”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> “Of what?”—said Ines, clinging -to him,—“of what?—Oh! think of that!—what -shall a man give in exchange for -his soul?—Oh! let us starve, die, rot before -your eyes, rather than you should seal -your perdition by that horrible”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> -“Hear me, woman!” said Walberg, turning -on her eyes almost as fierce and lustrous -as those of Melmoth, and whose -light, indeed, seemed borrowed from his; -“Hear me!—My soul is lost! They who -die in the agonies of famine know no God, -and want none—if I remain here to famish -among my children, I shall as surely blaspheme -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_146" title="146"> </a> -the Author of my being, as I shall -renounce him under the fearful conditions -proposed to me!—Listen to me, Ines, and -tremble not. To see my children die of -famine will be to me instant suicide and -impenitent despair! But if I close with -this fearful offer, I may yet repent,—I may -yet escape!—There is hope on one side—on -the other there is none—none—none! -Your hands cling round me, but their -touch is cold!—You are wasted to a shadow -with want! Shew me the means of -procuring another meal, and I will spit at -the tempter, and spurn him!—But where -is that to be found?—Let me go, then, to -meet him!—You will pray for me, Ines,—will -you not?—and the children?—No, -let them not pray for me!—in my despair -I forgot to pray myself, and their prayers -would now be a reproach to me.—Ines!—Ines—What? -am I talking to a corse?” -He was indeed, for the wretched wife had -sunk at his feet senseless. “Thank God!” -he again emphatically exclaimed, as he beheld -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_147" title="147"> </a> -her lie to all appearance lifeless before -him. “Thank God a word then has killed -her,—it was a gentler death than famine! -It would have been kind to have strangled -her with these hands! Now for the children!” -he exclaimed, while horrid thoughts -chased each other over his reeling and unseated -mind, and he imagined he heard the -roar of a sea in its full strength thundering -in his ears, and saw ten thousand waves -dashing at his feet, and every wave of -blood. “Now for the children!”—and he -felt about as if for some implement of destruction. -In doing so, his left hand crossed -his right, and grasping it, he exclaimed -as if he felt a sword in his hand,—“This -will do—they will struggle—they will supplicate,—but -I will tell them their mother -lies dead at my feet, and then what can -they say? Hold now,” said the miserable -man, sitting calmly down, “If they cry to -me, what shall I answer? Julia, and Ines -her mother’s namesake,—and poor little -Maurice, who smiles even amid hunger, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_148" title="148"> </a> -and whose smiles are worse than curses!—I -will tell them their mother is dead!” he -cried, staggering towards the door of his -childrens’ apartment—“Dead without a -blow!—that shall be their answer and -their doom.”</p> - -<p>“As he spoke, he stumbled over the -senseless body of his wife; and the tone -of his mind once more strung up to the -highest pitch of conscious agony, he -cried, “Men!—men!—what are your pursuits -and your passions?—your hopes and -fears?—your struggles and your triumphs?—Look -on me!—learn from a human being -like yourselves, who preaches his last -and fearful sermon over the corse of his -wife, and approaching the bodies of his -sleeping children, whom he soon hopes to -see corses also—corses made so by his own -hand!—Let all the world listen to me!—let -them resign factitious wants and wishes, -and furnish those who hang on them for -subsistence with the means of bare subsistence!—There -is no care, no thought beyond -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_149" title="149"> </a> -this! Let our children call on me -for instruction, for promotion, for distinction, -and call in vain—I hold myself innocent. -They may find those for themselves, -or want them if they list—but let them -never in vain call on me for bread, as -they have done,—as they do now! I -hear the moans of their hungry sleep!—World—world, -be wise, and let your children -curse you to your face for any thing -but want of bread! Oh that is the bitterest -of curses,—and it is felt most when it -is least uttered! I have felt it often, but I -shall feel it no longer!”—And the wretch -tottered towards the beds of his children.</p> - -<p>“Father!—father!” cried Julia, “are -these your hands? Oh let me live, and I -will do any thing—any thing but”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> -“Father!—dear father!” cried Ines, “spare -us!—to-morrow may bring another meal!” -Maurice, the young child, sprung from his -bed, and cried, clinging round his father, -“Oh, dear father, forgive me!—but I -dreamed a wolf was in the room, and was -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_150" title="150"> </a> -tearing out our throats; and, father, I -cried so long, that I thought you never -would come. And now—Oh God! oh -God!”—as he felt the hands of the frantic -wretch grasping his throat,—“are you the -wolf?”</p> - -<p>“Fortunately those hands were powerless -from the very convulsion of the agony -that prompted their desperate effort. The -daughters had swooned from horror,—and -their swoon appeared like death. The -child had the cunning to counterfeit death -also, and lay extended and stopping his -breath under the fierce but faultering gripe -that seized his young throat—then relinquished—then -grasped it again—and then -relaxed its hold as at the expiration of a -spasm.</p> - -<p>“When all was over, as the wretched -father thought, he retreated from the chamber. -In doing so, he stumbled over the -corse-like form of his wife.—A groan -announced that the sufferer was not dead. -“What does this mean?” said Walberg, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_151" title="151"> </a> -staggering in his delirium,—“does the -corse reproach me for murder?—or does -one surviving breath curse me for the unfinished -work?”</p> - -<p>“As he spoke, he placed his foot on his -wife’s body. At this moment, a loud -knock was heard at the door. “They are -come!” said Walberg, whose frenzy hurried -him rapidly through the scenes of an -imaginary murder, and the consequence of -a judicial process. “Well!—come in—knock -again, or lift the latch—or enter as -ye list—here I sit amid the bodies of my -wife and children—I have murdered them—I -confess it—ye come to drag me to torture, -I know—but never—never can your -tortures inflict on me more than the agony -of seeing them perish by hunger before -my eyes. Come in—come in—the deed -is done!—The corse of my wife is at my -foot, and the blood of my children is on -my hands—what have I further to fear?” -But while the wretched man spoke thus, -he sunk sullenly on his chair, appearing -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_152" title="152"> </a> -to be employed in wiping from his fingers -the traces of blood with which he imagined -they were stained. At length the -knocking at the door became louder,—the -latch was lifted,—and three figures entered -the apartment in which Walberg sat. -They advanced slowly,—two from age and -exhaustion,—and the third from strong -emotion. Walberg heeded them not,—his -eyes were fixed,—his hands locked in -each other;—nor did he move a limb as -they approached.</p> - -<p>“Do you not know us?” said the foremost, -holding up a lanthern which he -held in his hand. Its light fell on a -groupe worthy the pencil of a Rembrandt. -The room lay in complete darkness, except -where that strong and unbroken light -fell. It glared on the rigid and moveless -obduracy of Walberg’s despair, who appeared -stiffening into stone as he sat. It -showed the figure of the friendly priest -who had been Guzman’s director, and -whose features, pale and haggard with age -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_153" title="153"> </a> -and austerities, seemed to struggle with -the smile that trembled over their wrinkled -lines. Behind him stood the aged father -of Walberg, with an aspect of perfect -apathy, except when, with a momentary -effort at recollection, he shook his white -head, seeming to ask himself why he was -there—and wherefore he could not speak. -Supporting him stood the young form of -Everhard, over whose cheek and eye wandered -a glow and a lustre too bright to -last, and instantly succeeded by paleness -and dejection. He trembled, advanced,—then -shrinking back, clung to his infirm -grandfather, as if needing the support he -appeared to give. Walberg was the first -to break the silence. “I know ye who -ye are,” he said hollowly—“ye are come -to seize me—ye have heard my confession—why -do you delay? Drag me away—I -would rise and follow you if I could, but -I feel as if I had grown to this seat—you -must drag me from it <ins title="yourselves.">yourselves.”</ins></p> - -<p>“As he spoke, his wife, who had remained -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_154" title="154"> </a> -stretched at his feet, rose slowly -but firmly; and, of all that she saw or -heard, appearing to comprehend only the -meaning of her husband’s words, she clasped -her arms round him, as if to oppose -his being torn from her, and gazed on the -groupe with a look of impotent and ghastly -defiance. “Another witness,” cried -Walberg, “risen from the dead against -me? Nay, then, it is time to be gone,”—and -he attempted to rise. “Stay, father,” -said Everhard, rushing forward and detaining -him in his seat; “stay,—there is -good news, and this good priest has come -to tell it,—listen to him, father, I cannot -speak.”—“You! oh you! Everhard,” answered -the father, with a look of mournful -reproach, “you a witness against me -too,—I never raised my hand against you!—Those -whom I murdered are silent, and -will you be my accuser?”</p> - -<p>“They all now gathered round him, -partly in terror and partly in consolation,—all -anxious to disclose to him the tidings -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_155" title="155"> </a> -with which their hearts were burdened, -yet fearful lest the freight might be -too much for the frail vessel that rocked -and reeled before them, as if the next -breeze would be like a tempest to it. At -last it burst forth from the priest, who, by -the necessities of his profession, was ignorant -of domestic feelings, and of the felicities -and agonies which are inseparably -twined with the fibres of conjugal and parental -hearts. He knew nothing of what -Walberg might feel as a husband or father,—for -he could never be either; but he felt -that good news must be good news, into -whatever ears they were poured, or by -whatever lips they might be uttered. -“We have the will,” he cried abruptly, -“the true will of Guzman. The other -was—asking pardon of God and the saints -for saying so—no better than a forgery. -The will is found, and you and your family -are heirs to all his wealth. I was -coming to acquaint you, late as it was, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_156" title="156"> </a> -having with difficulty obtained the Superior’s -permission to do so, and in my way -I met this old man, whom your son was -conducting,—how came he out so late?” -At these words Walberg was observed to -shudder with a brief but strong spasm. -“The will is found!” repeated the priest, -perceiving how little effect the words -seemed to have on Walberg,—and he -raised his voice to its utmost pitch. “The -will of my uncle is found,” repeated Everhard. -“Found,—found,—found!” echoed -the aged grandfather, not knowing what -he said, but vaguely repeating the last -words he heard, and then looking round -as if asking for an explanation of them. -“The will is found, love,” cried Ines, who -appeared restored to sudden and perfect -consciousness by the sound; “Do you not -hear, love? We are wealthy,—we are -happy! Speak to us, love, and do not -stare so vacantly,—speak to us!” A long -pause followed. At length,—“Who are -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_157" title="157"> </a> -those?” said Walberg in a hollow voice, -pointing to the figures before him, whom -he viewed with a fixed and ghastly look, -as if he was gazing on a band of spectres. -“Your son, love,—and your father,—and -the good friendly priest. Why do you -look so doubtfully on us?”—“And what -do they come for?” said Walberg. Again -and again the import of their communication -was told him, in tones that, trembling -with varied emotion, scarce could -express their meaning. At length he -seemed faintly conscious of what was said, -and, looking round on them, uttered a -long and heavy sigh. They ceased to -speak, and watched him in silence.—“Wealth!—wealth!—it -comes too late. -Look there,—look there!” and he pointed -to the room where his children lay.</p> - -<p>“Ines, with a dreadful presentiment at -her heart, rushed into it, and beheld her -daughters lying apparently lifeless. The -shriek she uttered, as she fell on the bodies, -brought the priest and her son to her -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_158" title="158"> </a> -assistance, and Walberg and the old man -were left together alone, viewing each -other with looks of complete insensibility; -and this apathy of age, and stupefaction -of despair, made a singular contrast with -the fierce and wild agony of those who -still retained their feelings. It was long -before the daughters were recovered from -their death-like swoon, and still longer before -their father could be persuaded that -the arms that clasped him, and the tears -that fell on his cold cheek, were those of -his living children.</p> - -<p>“All that night his wife and family -struggled with his despair. At last recollection -seemed to burst on him at once. -He shed some tears;—then, with a minuteness -of reminiscence that was equally -singular and affecting, he flung himself -before the old man, who, speechless and -exhausted, sat passively in his chair, and -exclaiming, “Father, forgive me!” buried -his head between his father’s knees. * -* * * *</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_159" title="159"> </a>“Happiness is a powerful restorative,—in -a few days the spirits of all appeared to -have subsided into a calm. They wept -sometimes, but their tears were no longer -painful;—they resembled those showers in -a fine spring morning, which announce the -increasing warmth and beauty of the day. -The infirmities of Walberg’s father made -the son resolve not to leave Spain till his -dissolution, which took place in a few -months. He died in peace, blessing and -blessed. His son was his only spiritual attendant, -and a brief and partial interval -of recollection enabled him to understand -and express his joy and confidence in the -holy texts which were read to him from -the scriptures. The wealth of the family -had now given them importance; and, by -the interest of the friendly priest, the -body was permitted to be interred in consecrated -ground. The family then set out -for Germany, where they reside in prosperous -felicity;—but to this hour Walberg -shudders with horror when he recals the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_160" title="160"> </a> -fearful temptations of the stranger, whom -he met in his nightly wanderings in the -hour of his adversity, and the horrors of -this visitation appear to oppress his recollection -more than even the images of his -family perishing with want.</p> - -<p>“There are other narratives,” continued -the stranger, “relating to this mysterious -being, which I am in possession of, and -which I have collected with much difficulty; -for the unhappy, who are exposed to -his temptations, consider their misfortunes -as a crime, and conceal, with the most -anxious secresy, every circumstance of this -horrible visitation. Should we again meet, -Senhor, I may communicate them to you, -and you will find them no less extraordinary -than that I have just related. But it -is now late, and you need repose after the -fatigue of your journey.”—So saying, the -stranger departed.</p> - -<hr class="thought-break" /> - -<p>“Don Francisco remained seated in his -chair, musing on the singular tale he had -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_161" title="161"> </a> -listened to, till the lateness of the hour, -combining with his fatigue, and the profound -attention he had paid to the narrative -of the stranger, plunged him insensibly -into a deep slumber. He was awoke -in a few minutes by a slight noise -in the room, and looking up perceived -seated opposite to him another person, -whom he never recollected to have seen -before, but who was indeed the same who -had been refused admittance under the -roof of that house the preceding day. He -appeared seated perfectly at his ease, however; -and to Don Francisco’s look of surprise -and inquiry, replied that he was a -traveller, who had been by mistake shown -into that apartment,—that finding its occupant -asleep and undisturbed by his entrance, -he had taken the liberty of remaining -there, but was willing to retire if -his presence was considered intrusive.</p> - -<p>“As he spoke, Don Francisco had leisure -to observe him. There was something -remarkable in his expression, though -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_162" title="162"> </a> -the observer did not find it easy to define -what it was; and his manner, though not -courtly or conciliating, had an ease which -appeared more the result of independence -of thought, than of the acquired habitudes -of society.</p> - -<p>“Don Francisco welcomed him gravely -and slowly, not without a sensation of awe -for which he could scarcely account;—and -the stranger returned the salutation in a -manner that was not likely to diminish -that impression. A long silence followed. -The stranger (who did not announce his -name) was the first to break it, by apologizing -for having, while seated in an adjacent -apartment, involuntarily overheard -an extraordinary tale or narrative related -to Don Francisco, in which he confessed -he took a profound interest, such as (he -added, bowing with an air of grim and reluctant -civility) would, he trusted, palliate -his impropriety in listening to a communication -not addressed to him.</p> - -<p>“To all this Don Francisco could only -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_163" title="163"> </a> -reply by bows equally rigid, (his body -scarce forming an acute angle with his -limbs as he sat), and by looks of uneasy -and doubtful curiosity directed towards his -strange visitor, who, however, kept his seat -immoveably, and seemed, after all his apologies, -resolved to sit out Don Francisco.</p> - -<p>“Another long pause was broken by -the visitor. “You were listening, I -think,” he said, “to a wild and terrible -story of a being who was commissioned -on an unutterable errand,—even to tempt -spirits in woe, at their last mortal extremity, -to barter their hopes of future happiness -for a short remission of their temporary -sufferings.”—“I heard nothing of -that,” said Don Francisco, whose recollection, -none of the clearest naturally, was -not much improved by the length of the -narrative he had just listened to, and by -the sleep into which he had fallen since he -heard it. “Nothing?” said the visitor, -with something of abruptness and asperity -in his tone that made the hearer start—“nothing?—I -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_164" title="164"> </a> -thought there was mention -too of that unhappy being to whom Walberg -confessed his severest trials were -owing,—in comparison with whose fearful -visitations those of even famine were as -dust in the balance.”—“Yes, yes,” answered -Don Francisco, startled into sudden -recollection, “I remember there was a -mention of the devil,—or his agent,—or -something”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> “Senhor,” said the stranger -interrupting him, with an expression -of wild and fierce derision, which was lost -on Aliaga—“Senhor, I beg you will not -confound personages who have the honour -to be so nearly allied, and yet so perfectly -distinct as the devil and his agent, or agents. -You yourself, Senhor, who, of -course, as an orthodox and inveterate Catholic, -must abhor the enemy of mankind, -have often acted as his agent, and yet -would be somewhat offended at being mistaken -for him.” Don Francisco crossed -himself repeatedly, and devoutly disavowed -his ever having been an agent of the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_165" title="165"> </a> -enemy of man. “Will you dare to say -so?” said his singular visitor, not raising -his voice as the insolence of the question -seemed to require, but depressing it to the -lowest whisper as he drew his seat nearer -his astonished companion—“Will you dare -to say so?—Have you never erred?—Have -you never felt one impure sensation?—Have -you never indulged a transient feeling -of hatred, or malice, or revenge?—Have -you never forgot to do the good you ought -to do,—or remembered to do the evil you -ought not to have done?—Have you never -in trade overreached a dealer, or banquetted -on the spoils of your starving debtor?—Have -you never, as you went to your daily devotions, -cursed from your heart the wanderings -of your heretical brethren,—and -while you dipped your fingers in the holy -water, hoped that every drop that touched -your pores, would be visited on them in -drops of brimstone and sulphur?—Have -you never, as you beheld the famished, illiterate, -degraded populace of your country, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_166" title="166"> </a> -exulted in the wretched and temporary -superiority your wealth has given you,—and -felt that the wheels of your carriage -would not roll less smoothly if the way -was paved with the heads of your countrymen? -Orthodox Catholic—old Christian—as -you boast yourself to be,—is not this -true?—and dare you say you have not -been an agent of Satan? I tell you, -whenever you indulged one brutal passion, -one sordid desire, one impure imagination—whenever -you uttered one word -that wrung the heart, or embittered the -spirit of your fellow-creature—whenever -you made that hour pass in pain to whose -flight you might have lent wings of down—whenever -you have seen the tear, which -your hand might have wiped away, fall -uncaught, or forced it from an eye which -would have smiled on you in light had -you permitted it—whenever you have -done this, you have been ten times more -an agent of the enemy of man than all -the wretches whom terror, enfeebled -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_167" title="167"> </a> -nerves, or visionary credulity, has forced -into the confession of an incredible compact -with the author of evil, and whose -confession has consigned them to flames -much more substantial than those the -imagination of their persecutors pictured -them doomed to for an eternity of suffering! -Enemy of mankind!” the speaker -continued,—“Alas! how absurdly is that -title bestowed on the great angelic chief,—the -morning star fallen from its sphere! -What enemy has man so deadly as himself? -If he would ask on whom he should -bestow that title aright, let him smite his -bosom, and his heart will answer,—Bestow -it here!”</p> - -<p>“The emotion with which the stranger -spoke, roused and affected even the -sluggish and incrusted spirit of the listener. -His conscience, like a state coach-horse, -had hitherto only been brought on -solemn and pompous occasions, and then -paced heavily along a smooth and well-prepared -course, under the gorgeous trappings -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_168" title="168"> </a> -of ceremony;—now it resembled the -same animal suddenly bestrid by a fierce -and vigorous rider, and urged by lash and -spur along a new and rugged road. And -slow and reluctant as he was to own it, he -felt the power of the weight that pressed, -and the bit that galled him. He answered -by a hasty and trembling renunciation -of all engagements, direct or indirect, with -the evil power; but he added, that he -must acknowledge he had been too often -the victim of his seductions, and trusted -for the forgiveness of his wanderings to -the power of the holy church, and the intercession -of the saints.</p> - -<p>“The stranger (though he smiled somewhat -grimly at this declaration) seemed to -accept the concession, and apologized, in -his turn, for the warmth with which he -had spoken; and which he begged Don Francisco -would interpret as a mark of interest -in his spiritual concerns. This explanation, -though it seemed to commence favourably, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_169" title="169"> </a> -was not followed, however, by any attempt -at renewed conversation. The parties -appeared to stand aloof from each -other, till the stranger again alluded to his -having overheard the singular conversation -and subsequent narrative in Aliaga’s -apartment. “Senhor,” he added, in a -voice whose solemnity deeply impressed -the hearer, wearied as he was,—“I am -acquainted with circumstances relating to -the extraordinary person who was the -daily watcher of Walberg’s miseries, and -the nightly tempter of his thoughts,—known -but to him and me. Indeed I -may add, without the imputation of vanity -or presumption, that I am as well acquainted -as himself with every event of -his extraordinary existence; and that your -curiosity, if excited at all about him, could -be gratified by none so amply and faithfully -as by myself.”—“I thank you, Senhor,” -answered Don Francisco, whose -blood seemed congealing in his veins at -the voice and expression of the stranger, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_170" title="170"> </a> -he knew not why—“I thank you, but -my curiosity has been completely satisfied -by the narrative I have already listened -to. The night is far spent, and I have to -pursue my journey to-morrow; I will -therefore defer hearing the particulars -you offer to gratify me with till our next -meeting.”</p> - -<p>“As he spoke, he rose from his seat, -hoping that this action would intimate to -the intruder, that his presence was no -longer desirable. The latter continued, in -spite of the intimation, fixed in his seat. -At length, starting as if from a trance, he -exclaimed, “When shall our next meeting -be?”</p> - -<p>“Don Francisco, who did not feel particularly -anxious to renew the intimacy, -slightly mentioned, that he was on his -journey to the neighbourhood of Madrid, -where his family, whom he had not seen -for many years, resided—that the stages of -his journey were uncertain, as he would -be obliged to wait for communications -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_171" title="171"> </a> -from a friend and future relative,—(he alluded -to Montilla his intended son-in-law, -and as he spoke, the stranger gave a peculiar -smile),—and also from certain mercantile -correspondents, whose letters were of the -utmost importance. Finally, he added, in -a disturbed tone, (for the awe of the -stranger’s presence hung round him like a -chilling atmosphere, and seemed to freeze -even his words as they issued from his -mouth), he could not—easily—tell when -he might again have the honour of meeting -the stranger. “You cannot,” said the -stranger, rising and drawing his mantle -over one shoulder, while his reverted eyes -glanced fearfully on the pale auditor—“You -cannot,—but I can. Don Francisco -di Aliaga, we shall meet to-morrow -night!”</p> - -<p>“As he spoke, he still continued to -stand near the door, fixing on Aliaga eyes -whose light seemed to burn more intensely -amid the dimness of the wretched apartment. -Aliaga had risen also, and was -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_172" title="172"> </a> -gazing on his strange visitor with dim and -troubled vision,—when the latter, suddenly -retreating from the door, approached -him and said, in a stifled and mysterious -whisper, “Would you wish to witness -the fate of those whose curiosity or presumption -breaks on the secrets of that mysterious -being, and dares to touch the folds -of the veil in which his destiny has been enshrouded -by eternity? If you do, look -here!” And as he spoke, he pointed to a door -which Don Francisco well remembered to -be that which the person whom he had -met at the inn the preceding evening, and -who had related to him the tale of Guzman’s -family, (or rather relatives), had retired -by. Obeying mechanically the waving -of the arm, and the beckoning of the -stranger’s awful eye, rather than the impulse -of his own will, Aliaga followed him. -They entered the apartment; it was narrow, -and dark, and empty. The stranger -held a candle aloft, whose dim light fell on -a wretched bed, where lay what had been -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_173" title="173"> </a> -the form of a living man within a few -hours. “Look there!” said the stranger; -and Aliaga with horror beheld the figure -of the being who had been conversing -with him the preceding part of that very -evening,—extended a corse!</p> - -<p>“Advance—look—observe!” said the -stranger, tearing off the sheet which had -been the only covering of the sleeper -who had now sunk into the long and -last slumber—“There is no mark of violence, -no distortion of feature, or convulsion -of limb—no hand of man was on him. -He sought the possession of a desperate -secret—he obtained it, but he paid for it -the dreadful price that can be paid but -once by mortals. So perish those whose -presumption exceeds their power!”</p> - -<p>“Aliaga, as he beheld the body, and -heard the words of the stranger, felt himself -disposed to summon the inmates of -the house, and accuse the stranger of murder; -but the natural cowardice of a mercantile -spirit, mingled with other feelings -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_174" title="174"> </a> -which he could not analyse, and dared not -own, withheld him,—and he continued to -gaze alternately on the corse and the corse-like -stranger. The latter, after pointing -emphatically to the body, as if intimating -the danger of imprudent curiosity, or unavailing -disclosure, repeated the words, -“We meet again to-morrow night!” and -departed.</p> - -<p>“Aliaga, overcome by fatigue and emotion, -sunk down by the corse, and remained -in that trance-like state till the servants -of the inn entered the room. They were -shocked to find a dead body in the bed, -and scarce less shocked at the death-like -state in which they found Aliaga. His -known wealth and distinction procured -for him those attentions which otherwise -their terrors or their suspicions might have -withheld. A sheet was cast over the -body, and Aliaga was conveyed to another -apartment, and attended sedulously by the -domestics.</p> - -<p>“In the mean time, the Alcaide arrived; -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_175" title="175"> </a> -and having learned that the person -who had died suddenly in the inn was one -totally unknown, as being only a writer, -and a man of no importance in public or -private life, and that the person found -near his bed in a passive stupor was a -wealthy merchant,—snatched, with some -trepidation, the pen from the ink-horn -which hung at his button-hole, and sketched -the record of this sapient inquest:<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> -“That a guest had died in the house, -none could deny; but no one could suspect -Don Francisco di Aliaga of murder.”</p> - -<p>“As Don Francisco mounted his mule -the following day, on the strength of this -just verdict, a person, who did not apparently -belong to the house, was particularly -solicitous in adjusting his stirrups, &c.; -and while the obsequious Alcaide bowed -oft and profoundly to the wealthy merchant, -(whose liberality he had amply experienced -for the favourable colour he had -given to the strong circumstantial evidence -against him), this person whispered, in a -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_176" title="176"> </a> -voice that reached only the ears of Don -Francisco, “We meet to-night!”</p> - -<p>“Don Francisco checked his mule as -he heard the words. He looked round -him—the speaker was gone. Don Francisco -rode on with a feeling known to few, -and which those who have felt are perhaps -the least willing to communicate.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER <ins title="XXVII">XXIX</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_177" title="177"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">Χαλεπον <ins title="δέ">δε</ins> το φιλησαι·</span><br /></div> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">χαλεπον το μη φιλησαι·</span><br /></div> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">χαλεπωτερον δε παντων</span><br /></div> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">αποτυγχανειν φιλουντα.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“Don Francisco</span> rode on most of that -day. The weather was mild, and his servants -holding occasionally large umbrellas -over him as he rode, rendered travelling -supportable. In consequence of his long -absence from Spain, he was wholly unacquainted -with his route, and obliged to -depend on a guide; and the fidelity of a -Spanish guide being as proverbial and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_178" title="178"> </a> -trust-worthy as Punic faith, towards evening -Don Francisco found himself just -where the Princess Micomicona, in the romance -of his countryman, is said to have -discovered Don Quixote,—“amid a labyrinth -of rocks.” He immediately dispatched -his attendants in various directions, -to discover the track they were to -pursue. The guide gallopped after as fast -as his wearied mule could go, and Don -Francisco, looking round, after a long delay -on the part of his attendants, found -himself completely alone. Neither the -weather nor the prospect was calculated to -raise his spirits. The evening was very -misty, unlike the brief and brilliant twilight -that precedes the nights of the favoured -climates of the south. Heavy -showers fell from time to time,—not incessant, -but seeming like the discharge of -passing clouds, that were instantly succeeded -by others. Those clouds gathered -blacker and deeper every moment, and -hung in fantastic wreaths over the stony -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_179" title="179"> </a> -mountains that formed a gloomy perspective -to the eye of the traveller. As the -mists wandered over them, they seemed -to rise and fade, and shift their shapes and -their stations like the hills of Ubeda<a name="FootnoteMarker_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="footnote-marker">(3)</a>, as -indistinct in form and as dim in hue, as -the atmospheric illusions which in that -dreary and deceptive light sometimes gave -them the appearance of primeval mountains, -and sometimes that of fleecy and -baseless clouds.</p> - -<p>“Don Francisco at first dropt the reins -on his mule’s neck, and uttered sundry -ejaculations to the Virgin. Finding this -did no good,—that the hills still seemed -to wander before his bewildered eyes, and -the mule, on the other hand, remained -immoveable, he bethought himself of calling -on a variety of saints, whose names -the echoes of the hills returned with the -most perfect punctuality, but not one of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_180" title="180"> </a> -whom happened just then to be at leisure -to attend to his petitions. Finding the -case thus desperate, Don Francisco struck -spurs into his mule, and gallopped up a -rocky defile, where the hoofs of his beast -struck fire at every step, and their echo -from the rocks of granite made the rider -tremble, <ins title="les">lest</ins> he was pursued by banditti at -every step he took. The mule, so provoked, -gallopped fiercely on, till the rider, weary as -he was, and somewhat incommoded by its -speed, drew up the reins more tightly, at -hearing the steps of another rider close -behind him. The mule paused instantly. -Some say that animals have a kind of instinct -in discovering and recognizing the -approach of beings not of this world. -However that may be, Don Francisco’s -mule stood as if its feet had been nailed -to the road, till the approach of the traveller -set it once more into a gallop, on -which, as it appeared, the gallop of the -pursuer, whose course seemed fleeter than -that of an earthly rider, gained fast, and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_181" title="181"> </a> -in a few moments a singular figure rode -close beside Don Francisco.</p> - -<p>“He was not in a riding dress, but -muffled from head to foot in a long cloke, -whose folds were so ample as almost to hide -the flanks of his beast. As soon as he -was abreast with Aliaga, he removed that -part of the cloke which covered his head -and shoulders, and, turning towards him, -disclosed the unwelcome countenance of -his mysterious visitor the preceding night. -“We meet again, Senhor,” said the stranger, -with his peculiar smile, “and fortunately -for you, I trust. Your guide has -ridden off with the money you advanced -him for his services, and your servants are -ignorant of the roads, which, in this part -of the country, are singularly perplexed. -If you will accept of me as your guide, -you will, I believe, have reason to congratulate -yourself on our encounter.”</p> - -<p>“Don Francisco, who felt that no choice -was left, acquiesced in silence, and rode -on, not without reluctance, by the side of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_182" title="182"> </a> -his strange companion. The silence was -at length broken, by the stranger’s pointing -out the village at which Aliaga proposed -to pass the night, at no very great -distance, and at the same time noticing -the approaching of his servants, who were -returning to their master, after having -made a similar discovery. These circumstances -contributing to restore Aliaga’s -courage, he proceeded with some degree -of confidence, and even began to listen -with interest to the conversation of the -stranger; particularly as he observed, that -though the village was near, the windings -of the road were likely to retard -their arrival for some hours. The interest -which had thus been excited, -the stranger seemed resolved to improve -to the uttermost. He rapidly unfolded -the stores of his rich and copiously furnished -mind; and, by skilfully blending -his displays of general knowledge with -particular references to the oriental countries -where Aliaga had resided, their commerce, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_183" title="183"> </a> -their customs, and their manners, and -with a perfect acquaintance with the most -minute topics of mercantile discourse,—he -so far conciliated his fellow-traveller, that -the journey, begun in terror, ended in delight, -and Aliaga heard with a kind of -pleasure, (not however unmixed with awful -reminiscences), the stranger announce -his intention of passing the night at the -same inn.</p> - -<p>“During the supper, the stranger redoubled -his efforts, and confirmed his success. -He was indeed a man who could -please when he pleased, and whom. His -powerful intellects, extensive knowledge, -and accurate memory, qualified him to -render the hour of companionship delightful -to all whom genius could interest, or -information amuse. He possessed a fund -of anecdotical history, and, from the fidelity -of his paintings, always appeared himself -to have been an agent in the scenes -he described. This night, too, that the -attractions of his conversation might want -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_184" title="184"> </a> -no charm, and have no shade, he watchfully -forbore those bursts of passion,—those -fierce explosions of misanthropy and malediction, -and that bitter and burning irony -with which, at other times, he seemed to -delight to interrupt himself and confound -his hearer.</p> - -<p>“The evening thus passed pleasurably; -and it was not till supper was removed, -and the lamp placed on the table beside -which the stranger and he were seated alone, -that the ghastly scene of the preceding -night rose like a vision before the eyes -of Aliaga. He thought he saw the corse -lying in a corner of the room, and waving -its dead hand, as if to beckon him away -from the society of the stranger. The vision -passed away,—he looked up,—they -were alone. It was with the utmost effort -of his mixed politeness and fear, that he -prepared himself to listen to the tale which -the stranger had frequently, amid their -miscellaneous conversation, alluded to, and -showed an evident anxiety to relate.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_185" title="185"> </a>“These allusions were attended with -unpleasant reminiscences to the hearer,—but -he saw that it was to be, and armed -himself as he might with courage to hear. -“I would not intrude on you, Senhor,” -said the stranger, with an air of grave interest -which Aliaga had never seen him -assume before—“I would not intrude on -you with a narrative in which you can feel -but little interest, were I not conscious -that its relation may operate as a warning -the most awful, salutary, and efficacious -to yourself.”—“Me!” exclaimed Don -Francisco, revolting with all the horror of -an orthodox Catholic at the sound.—“Me!” -he repeated, uttering a dozen ejaculations -to the saints, and making the -sign of the cross twice that number of -times.—“Me!” he continued, discharging -a whole volley of fulmination against all -those who, being entangled in the snares -of Satan, sought to draw others into them, -whether in the shape of heresy, witchcraft, -or otherwise. It might be observed, however, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_186" title="186"> </a> -that he laid most stress on heresy, -the latter evil, from the rigour of their -mythology, or other causes, which it were -not unworthy philosophical curiosity to inquire -into, being almost unknown in -Spain;—and he uttered this protestation -(which was doubtless very sincere) with -such a hostile and denunciatory tone, that -Satan, if he was present, (as the speaker -half imagined), would have been almost -justified in making reprisals. Amid -the assumed consequence which passion, -whether natural or artificial, always -gives to a man of mediocrity, he felt -himself withering in the wild laugh of -the stranger. “You,—you!” he exclaimed, -after a burst of sound that seemed -rather like the convulsion of a demoniac, -than the mirth, however frantic, -of a human being—“you!—oh, there’s -metal more attractive! Satan himself, however -depraved, has a better taste than to -crunch such a withered scrap of orthodoxy -as you between his iron teeth. No!—the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_187" title="187"> </a> -interest I alluded to as possible for -you to feel, refers to another one, for whom -you ought to feel if possible more than for -yourself. Now, worthy Aliaga, your personal -fears being removed, sit and listen -to my tale. You are sufficiently acquainted, -through the medium of commercial -feelings, and the general information which -your habits have forced on you, with the -history and manners of those heretics who -inhabit the country called England.”</p> - -<p>“Don Francisco, as a merchant, avouched -his knowledge of their being fair dealers, -and wealthy liberal speculators in -trade; but (crossing himself frequently) -he pronounced his utter detestation of -them as enemies to the holy church, and -implored the stranger to believe that he -would rather renounce the most advantageous -contract he had ever made with -them in the mercantile line, than be suspected -of<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> “I suspect nothing,” said -the stranger, interrupting him, with that -smile that spoke darker and bitterer things -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_188" title="188"> </a> -than the fiercest frown that ever wrinkled -the features of man.—“Interrupt me no -more,—listen, as you value the safety of -a being of more value than all your race -beside. You are acquainted tolerably -with the English history, and manners, -and habits; the latter events of their history -are indeed in the mouths of all Europe.” -Aliaga was silent, and the stranger -proceeded.</p> - -<div class="section"> - -<h3 id="The_Lovers_Tale">The Lovers’ Tale.</h3> - -</div> - -<p>“<span class="small-caps">In</span> a part of that heretic country lies -a portion of land they call Shropshire, (“I -have had dealings with <ins title="Shewsbury">Shrewsbury</ins> merchants,” -said Aliaga to himself, “they furnished -goods, and paid bills with distinguished -punctuality,”)—there stood Mortimer -Castle, the seat of a family who -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_189" title="189"> </a> -boasted of their descent from the age of -the Norman Conqueror, and had never -mortgaged an acre, or cut down a tree, or -lowered a banner on their towers at the -approach of a foe, for five hundred years. -Mortimer castle had held out during the -wars of Stephen and Matilda,—it had -even defied the powers that summoned it -to capitulation alternately, (about once a -week), during the struggle between the -houses of York and Lancaster,—it had also -disdained the summons of Richard and -Richmond, as their successive blasts shook -its battlements, while the armies of the -respective leaders advanced to the field of -Bosworth. The Mortimer family, in fact, -by their power, their extensive influence, -their immense wealth, and the independency -of their spirit, had rendered themselves -formidable to every party, and superior -to all.</p> - -<p>“At the time of the Reformation, Sir -Roger Mortimer, the descendant of this -powerful family, vigorously espoused the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_190" title="190"> </a> -cause of the Reformers; and when the nobility -and gentry of the neighbourhood -sent their usual dole, at Christmas, of beef -and ale to their tenants, Sir Roger, with his -chaplain attending him, went about from -cottage to cottage, distributing Bibles in -English, of the edition printed by Tyndal -in Holland. But his loyalism prevailed -so far, that he circulated along with -them the uncouth print, cut out of his own -copy, of the King (Henry VIII.) dispensing -copies of the Bible from both hands, -which the people, as represented in the -engraving, caught at with theirs, and -seemed to devour as the word of life, almost -before it could reach them.</p> - -<p>“In the short reign of Edward, the family -was protected and cherished; and the -godly Sir Edmund, son and successor to -Sir Roger, had the Bible laid open in his -hall window, that while his domestics -passed on their errands, as he expressed -himself,—“he that runs may read.” In -that of Mary, they were oppressed, confiscated, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_191" title="191"> </a> -and menaced. Two of their servants -were burned at Shrewsbury; and it -was said that nothing but a large sum, -advanced to defray the expences of the -entertainments made at Court on the arrival -of Philip of Spain, saved the godly -Sir Edmund from the same fate.</p> - -<p>“Sir Edmund, to whatever cause he -owed his safety, did not enjoy it long. -He had seen his faithful and ancient servants -brought to the stake, for the opinions -he had taught them,—he had attended -them in person to the awful spot, and seen -the Bibles he had attempted to place in -their hands flung into the flames, as they -were kindled round them,—he had turned -with tottering steps from the scene, but -the crowd, in the triumph of their barbarity, -gathered round, and kept him close, -so that he not only involuntarily witnessed -the whole spectacle, but felt the very -heat of the flames that were consuming -the bodies of the sufferers. Sir Edmund -returned to Mortimer Castle, and died.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_192" title="192"> </a>“His successor, during the reign of -Elizabeth, stoutly defended the rights of -the Reformers, and sometimes grumbled -at those of prerogative. These grumblings -were said to have cost him dear—the -court of purveyors charged him £.3000, -an enormous sum in those days, for an -expected visit of the Queen and her court—a -visit which was never paid. The -money was, however, paid; and it was -said that Sir Orlan de Mortimer raised -part of the money by disposing of his falcons, -the best in England, to the Earl of -Leicester, the <em>then</em> favourite of the Queen. -At all events, there was a tradition in the -family, that when, on his last ride through -his territorial demesne, Sir Orlando saw -his favourite remaining bird fly from the -falconer’s hand, and break her jesses, he -exclaimed, “Let her fly; she knows the -way to my lord of Leicester’s.”</p> - -<p>“During the reign of James, the Mortimer -family took a more decided part. -The influence of the Puritans (whom -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_193" title="193"> </a> -James hated with a hatred passing that of -even a controversialist, and remembered -with pardonable filial resentment, as the -inveterate enemies of his ill-fated mother) -was now increasing every hour. Sir Arthur -Mortimer was standing by King -James at the first representation of “Bartholomew -Fair,” written by Ben Jonson, -when the prologue uttered these words<a name="FootnoteMarker_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="footnote-marker">(4)</a>:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">“Your Majesty is welcome to a Fair;<br /></div> -<div class="line">Such place, such men, such language, and such ware,<br /></div> -<div class="line">You must expect—with these the <em>zealous noise</em><br /></div> -<div class="line">Of your land’s faction, scandalized at toys.”<br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>“My lord,” said the King, (for Sir Arthur -was one of the lords of the privy -council), “how deem you by that?”—“Please -your Majesty,” answered Sir -Arthur, “those Puritans, as I rode to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_194" title="194"> </a> -London, cut off mine horse’s tail, as they -said the ribbons with which it was tied savoured -too much of the pride of the beast -on which the scarlet whore sits. Pray -God their shears may never extend from -the tails of horses to the heads of kings!” -And as he spoke with affectionate and -ominous solicitude, he happened to place -his hand on the head of Prince Charles, -(afterwards Charles I.), who was sitting -next his brother Henry, Prince of Wales, -and to whom Sir Arthur Mortimer had -had the high honour to be sponsor, as -proxy for a sovereign prince.</p> - -<p>“The awful and troubled times which -Sir Arthur had predicted soon arrived, -though he did not live to witness them. -His son, Sir Roger Mortimer, a man lofty -alike in pride and in principle, and immoveable -in both,—an Arminian in creed, and -an aristocrat in politics,—the zealous friend -of the misguided Laud, and the bosom-companion -of the unfortunate Strafford,—was -among the first to urge King Charles -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_195" title="195"> </a> -to those high-handed and impolitic measures, -the result of which was so fatal.</p> - -<p>“When the war broke out between the -King and the Parliament, Sir Roger espoused -the royal cause with heart and -hand,—raised a large sum in vain, to prevent -the sale of the crown-jewels in Holland,—and -led five hundred of his tenants, -armed at his own expence, to the battles of -Edge-hill and Marston-moor.</p> - -<p>“His wife was dead, but his sister, Mrs -Ann Mortimer, a woman of uncommon -beauty, spirit, and dignity of character, -and as firmly attached as her brother to -the cause of the court, of which she had -been once the most brilliant ornament, -presided over his household, and by her -talents, courage, and promptitude, had -been of considerable service to the cause.</p> - -<p>“The time came, however, when valour -and rank, and loyalty and beauty, found -all their efforts ineffectual; and of the five -hundred brave men that Sir Roger had -led into the field to his sovereign’s aid, he -brought back thirty maimed and mutilated -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_196" title="196"> </a> -veterans to Mortimer Castle, on the disastrous -day that King Charles was persuaded -to put himself into the hands of the -disaffected and mercenary Scots, who sold -him for their arrears of pay due by the -Parliament.</p> - -<p>“The reign of rebellion soon commenced,—and -Sir Roger, as a distinguished -loyalist, felt the severest scourge of its -power. Sequestrations and compositions,—fines -for malignancy, and forced loans -for the support of a cause he detested,—drained -the well-filled coffers, and depressed -the high spirit, of the aged loyalist. -Domestic inquietude was added to his -other calamities. He had three children.—His -eldest son had fallen fighting in the -King’s cause at the battle of Newbury, -leaving an infant daughter, then supposed -the heiress of immense wealth. His second -son had embraced the Puritanic -cause, and, lapsing from error to error, -married the daughter of an Independent, -whose creed he had adopted; and, according -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_197" title="197"> </a> -to the custom of those days, fought -all day at the head of his regiment, and -preached and prayed to them all night, in -strict conformity with that verse in the -psalms, which served him alternately for -his text and his battle-word—“Let the -praises of God be in their mouth, and a -two-edged sword in their hands.” This -double exercise of the sword and the word, -however, proved too much for the strength -of the saint-militant; and after having, -during Cromwell’s Irish campaign, vigorously -headed the attack on Cloghan Castle<a name="FootnoteMarker_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="footnote-marker">(5)</a>, -the ancient seat of the O’Moores, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_198" title="198"> </a> -princes of Leix,—and being scalded -through his buff-coat by a discharge of -hot water from the bartizan,—and then -imprudently given the word of exhortation -for an hour and forty minutes to his -soldiers, on the bare heath that surrounded -the castle, and under a drenching rain,—he -died of a pleurisy in three days, and -left, like his brother, an infant daughter -who had remained in England, and had -been educated by her mother. It was -said in the family, that this man had written -the first lines of Milton’s poem “on -the new forcers of conscience under the -Long Parliament.” It is certain, at least, -that when the fanatics who surrounded his -dying bed were lifting up their voices to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_199" title="199"> </a> -sing a hymn, he thundered with his last -breath,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">“Because ye have thrown off your prelate lord,<br /></div> -<div class="line">And with stiff vows renounce his Liturgy,<br /></div> -<div class="line">To seize the widowed w—e pluralitie,<br /></div> -<div class="line">From them whose sin ye envied not, abhorr’d,” &c.<br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>“Sir Roger felt, though from different -causes, pretty much the same degree of -emotion on the deaths of his two sons. -He was fortified against affliction at the -death of the elder, from the consolation -afforded him by the cause in which he -had fallen; and that in which the apostate, -as his father always called him, had perished, -was an equal preventive against his -feeling any deep or bitter grief on his dissolution.</p> - -<p>“When his eldest son fell in the royal -cause, and his friends gathered round him -in officious condolence, the old loyalist replied, -with a spirit worthy of the proudest -days of classic heroism, “It is not for my -dead son that I should weep, but for my -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_200" title="200"> </a> -living one.” His tears, however, were -flowing at that time for another cause.</p> - -<p>“His only daughter, during his absence, -in spite of the vigilance of Mrs Ann, had -been seduced by some Puritan servants in -a neighbouring family, to hear an Independent -preacher of the name of Sandal, -who was then a serjeant in Colonel Pride’s -regiment, and who was preaching in a -barn in the neighbourhood, in the intervals -of his military exercises. This man -was a natural orator, and a vehement enthusiast; -and, with the license of the day, -that compromised between a pun and a -text, and delighted in the union of both, -this serjeant-preacher had baptized himself -by the name of—“Thou-art-not-worthy-to-unloose-the-latchets-of-his-shoes,—<em>Sandal</em><ins title=".">.”</ins></p> - -<p>“This was the text on which he preached, -and his eloquence had such effect on -the daughter of Sir Roger Mortimer, that, -forgetting the dignity of her birth, and -the loyalty of her family, she united her -destiny with this low-born man; and, believing -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_201" title="201"> </a> -herself to be suddenly inspired -from this felicitous conjunction, she actually -out-preached two female Quakers in -a fortnight after their marriage, and wrote -a letter (very ill-spelled) to her father, in -which she announced her intention to -“suffer affliction with the people of God,” -and denounced his eternal damnation, if -he declined embracing the creed of her -husband;—which creed was changed the -following week, on his hearing a sermon -from the celebrated Hugh Peters, and a -month after, on hearing an itinerant -preacher of the Ranters or Antinomians, -who was surrounded by a troop of licentious, -half-naked, drunken disciples, whose -vociferations of—“We are the naked -truth,” completely silenced a fifth-monarchy -man, who was preaching from a -tub on the other side of the road. To this -preacher Sandal was introduced, and being -a man of violent passions, and unsettled -principles, he instantly embraced the -opinions of the last speaker, (dragging his -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_202" title="202"> </a> -wife along with him into every gulph of -polemical or political difficulty he plunged -in), till he happened to hear another -preacher of the Cameronians, whose constant -topic, whether of triumph or of consolation, -was the unavailing efforts made -in the preceding reign, to force the -Episcopalian system down the throats -of the Scots; and, in default of a text, -always repeated the words of Archy, -jester to Charles the First, who, on the -first intimation of the reluctance of the -Scots to admit Episcopal jurisdiction, exclaimed -to Archbishop Laud, “My Lord, -who is the fool now?”—for which he had -his coat stripped over his head, and was -forbid the court. So Sandal vacillated between -creed and creed, between preacher -and preacher, till he died, leaving his widow -with one son. Sir Roger announced -to his widowed daughter, his determined -purpose never to see her more, but he promised -his protection to her son, if entrusted -to his care. The widow was too poor -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_203" title="203"> </a> -to decline compliance with the offer of her -deserted father.</p> - -<p>“So in Mortimer Castle were, in their -infancy, assembled the three grandchildren, -born under such various auspices -and destinies. Margaret Mortimer the -heiress, a beautiful, intelligent, spirited -girl, heiress of all the pride, aristocratical -principle, and possible wealth of the family; -Elinor Mortimer, the daughter of -the Apostate, received rather than admitted -into the house, and educated in all the -strictness of her Independent family; and -John Sandal, the son of the rejected -daughter, whom Sir Roger admitted into -the Castle only on the condition of his being -engaged in the service of the royal -family, banished and persecuted as they -were; and he renewed his correspondence -with some emigrant loyalists in Holland, -for the establishment of his protegé, whom -he described, in language borrowed from -the Puritan preachers, as “a brand snatched -from the burning.”</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_204" title="204"> </a>“While matters were thus at the Castle, -intelligence arrived of Monk’s unexpected -exertions in favour of the banished family. -The result was as rapid as it was -auspicious. The Restoration took place -within a few days after, and the Mortimer -family were then esteemed of so -much consequence, that an express, girthed -from his waist to his shoulders, was -dispatched from London to announce the -intelligence. He arrived when Sir Roger, -whose chaplain he had been compelled by -the ruling party to dismiss as a malignant, -was reading prayers himself to his -family. The return and restoration of -Charles the Second was announced. The -old loyalist rose from his knees, waved -his cap, (which he had reverently -taken from his white head), and, suddenly -changing his tone of supplication -for one of triumph, exclaimed, “Lord, -now lettest thou thy servant depart in -peace, according to thy word, for mine eyes -have seen thy salvation!” As he spoke, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_205" title="205"> </a> -the old man sunk on the cushion which -Mrs Ann had placed beneath his knees. -His grandchildren rose from their knees -to assist him,—it was too late,—his spirit -had parted in that last exclamation.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER <ins title="XXVIII">XXX</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_206" title="206"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span>She sat, and thought<br /></div> -<div class="line">Of what a sailor suffers.<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Cowper.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“The</span> intelligence that was the cause of -old Sir Roger’s death, who might be said -to be conducted from this world to the -next by a blessed <em>euthanasia</em>, (a kind of -passing with a light and lofty step from a -narrow entry to a spacious and glorious apartment, -without ever feeling he trod the -dark and rugged threshold that lies between), -was the signal and pledge to this -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_207" title="207"> </a> -ancient family of the restitution of their -faded honours, and fast-declining possessions. -Grants, reversals of fines, restoration -of land and chattels, and offers of -pensions, and provisions, and remunerations, -and all that royal gratitude, in the -effervescence of its enthusiasm, could bestow, -came showering on the Mortimer -family, as fast and faster than fines, confiscations, -and sequestrations, had poured -on them in the reign of the usurper. In -fact, the language of King Charles to the -Mortimers was like that of the Eastern -monarchs to their favourites,—“Ask what -thou wilt, and it shall be granted to thee, -even to the half of my kingdom.” The -Mortimers asked only for their own,—and -being thus more reasonable, both in their -expectations and demands, than most other -applicants at that period, they succeeded -in obtaining what they required.</p> - -<p>“Thus Mrs Margaret Mortimer (so unmarried -females were named at the date of -the narrative) was again acknowledged as -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_208" title="208"> </a> -the wealthy and noble heiress of the Castle. -Numerous invitations were sent to her to -visit the court, which, though recommended -by letters from divers of the -court-ladies, who had been acquainted, -traditionally at least, with her family, and -enforced by a letter from Catherine of -Braganza, written by her own hand, in -which she acknowledged the obligations of -the king to the house of Mortimer, were -steadily rejected by the high-minded heiress -of its honours and its spirit.—“From -these towers,” said she to Mrs Ann, “my -grandfather led forth his vassals and tenants -in aid of his king,—to these towers -he led what was left of them back, when -the royal cause seemed lost for ever. Here -he lived and died for his sovereign,—and -here will I live and die. And I feel that -I shall do more effectual service to his Majesty, -by residing on my estates, and protecting -my tenants, and repairing,”—she added -with a smile,—“even with my needle, the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_209" title="209"> </a> -rents made in the banners of our house by -many a Puritan’s bullet, than if I flaunted -it in Hyde-Park in my glass coach, or -masqueraded it all night in that of <a name="FootnoteMarker_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="footnote-marker">(6)</a>St -James’s, even though I were sure to encounter -the Duchess of Cleveland on one -side, and Louise de Querouaille on the -other,—fitter place for them than me.”—And -so saying, Mrs Margaret Mortimer -resumed her tapestry work. Mrs Ann -looked at her with an eye that spoke volumes,—and -the tear that trembled in it -made the lines more legible.</p> - -<p>“After the decided refusal of Mrs Margaret -Mortimer to go to London, the family -resumed their former ancestorial habits -of stately regularity, and decorous -grandeur, such as became a magnificent -and well-ordered household, of which a -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_210" title="210"> </a> -noble maiden was the head and president. -But this regularity was without rigour, -and this monotony without apathy—the -minds of these highly fated females were -too familiar with trains of lofty thinking, -and images of noble deeds, to sink into -vacancy, or feel depression from solitude. -I behold them,” said the stranger, “as I -once saw them, seated in a vast irregularly -shaped apartment, wainscotted with oak -richly and quaintly carved, and as black as -ebony—Mrs Ann Mortimer, in a recess -which terminated in an ancient casement -window, the upper panes of which -were gorgeously emblazoned with the arms -of the Mortimers, and some legendary atchievements -of the former heroes of the -family. A book she valued much<a name="FootnoteMarker_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="footnote-marker">(7)</a> lay -on her knee, on which she fixed her eyes -intently—the light that came through -the casement chequering its dark lettered -pages with hues of such glorious and fantastic -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_211" title="211"> </a> -colouring, that they resembled the -leaves of some splendidly-illuminated missal, -with all its pomp of gold, and azure, -and vermilion.</p> - -<p>“At a little distance sat her two grand-nieces, -employed in work, and relieving -their attention to it by conversation, for -which they had ample materials. They -spoke of the poor whom they had visited -and assisted,—of the rewards they had distributed -among the industrious and orderly,—and -of the books which they were -studying; and of which the well-filled -shelves of the library furnished them with -copious and noble stores.</p> - -<p>“Sir Roger had been a man of letters -as well as of arms. He had been often -heard to say, that next to a well-stocked -armoury in time of war, was a well-stocked -library in time of peace; and even in the -midst of his latter grievances and privations, -he contrived every year to make an -addition to his own.</p> - -<p>“His grand-daughters, well instructed by -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_212" title="212"> </a> -him in the French and Latin languages, -had read Mezeray, Thuanus, and Sully. -In English, they had Froissart in the -black-letter translation of Pynson, imprinted -1525. Their poetry, exclusive of -the classics, consisted chiefly of Waller, -Donne, and that constellation of writers -that illuminated the drama in the latter -end of the reign of Elizabeth, and the -commencement of that of James,—Marlow, -and Massinger, and Shirley, and Ford—<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">cum -multis aliis</i>. Fairfax’s translations -had made them familiar with the continental -poets; and Sir Roger had consented -to admit, among his modern collection, -the Latin poems (the only ones then published) -of Milton, for the sake of that <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">in -Quintum Novembris</i>,—for Sir Roger, next -to the fanatics, held the Catholics in utter -abomination.”</p> - -<p>“Then he will be damned to all eternity,” -said Aliaga, “and that’s some satisfaction.”</p> - -<p>“Thus their retirement was not inelegant, -nor unaccompanied with those -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_213" title="213"> </a> -delights at once soothing and elating, -which arise from a judicious mixture of -useful occupation and literary tastes.</p> - -<p>“On all they read or conversed of, Mrs -Ann Mortimer was a living comment. -Her conversation, rich in anecdote, and -accurate to minuteness, sometimes rising -to the loftiest strains of eloquence, as she -related “deeds of the days of old,” and often -borrowing the sublimity of inspiration, -as the reminiscences of religion softened -and solemnized the spirit with which she -spake,—like the influence of time on fine -paintings, that consecrates the tints it mellows, -and makes the colours it has half obscured -more precious to the eye of feeling -and of taste, than they were in the glow -of their early beauty,—her conversation -was to her grand-nieces at once history -and poetry.</p> - -<p>“The events of English history then -not recorded, had a kind of traditional -history more vivid, if not so faithful as the -records of modern historians, in the memories -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_214" title="214"> </a> -of those who had been agents and -sufferers (the terms are probably synonimous) -in those memorable periods.</p> - -<p>“There was an entertainment then, banished -by modern dissipation now, but alluded -to by the great poet of that nation, -whom your orthodox and undeniable creed -justly devotes to eternal damnation.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">“In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire,<br /></div> -<div class="line center">*   *   *   *</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span><span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span><span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>and tell the tales<br /></div> -<div class="line">Of woful ages long ago betid;<br /></div> -<div class="line">And send the hearers weeping to their beds.<br /></div> -<div class="line center">*   *   *   *</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">We cited up a thousand heavy times.”<br /></div> -<div class="line center">*   *   *   *</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>“When memory thus becomes the depository -of grief, how faithfully is the -charge kept!—and how much superior are -the touches of one who paints from the -life, and the heart, and the senses,—to -those of one who dips his pen in his ink-stand, -and casts his eye on a heap of musty -parchments, to glean his facts or his -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_215" title="215"> </a> -feelings from them! Mrs Ann Mortimer -had much to tell,—and she told it well. -If history was the subject, she could relate -the events of the civil wars—events which -resembled indeed those of all civil wars, -but which derived a peculiar strength of -character, and brilliancy of colouring, from -the hand by which they were sketched. -She told of the time when she rode behind -her brother, Sir Roger, to meet the -King at Shrewsbury; and she almost -echoed the shout uttered in the streets -of that loyal city, when the University -of Oxford sent in its plate to be coined -for the exigences of the royal cause. She -told also, with grave humour, the anecdote -of Queen Henrietta making her -escape with some difficulty from a house -on fire,—and, when her life was scarce secure -from the flames that consumed it, -rushing back among them—to save her -lap-dog!</p> - -<p>“But of all her historical anecdotes, -Mrs Ann valued most what she had to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_216" title="216"> </a> -relate of her own family. On the virtue -and valour of her brother Sir Roger, she -dwelt with an unction whose balm imparted -itself to her hearers; and even Elinor, in -spite of the Puritanism of her early principles, -wept as she listened. But when -Mrs Ann told of the King taking shelter -for one night in the Castle, under the protection -only of her mother and herself, to -whom he intrusted his rank and his misfortunes, -(arriving under a disguise),—(Sir -Roger being absent fighting his battles -in Yorkshire)—when she added that -her aged mother, Lady Mortimer, then -seventy-four, after spreading her richest -velvet mantle, lined with fur, as a quilt -for the bed of her persecuted sovereign, -tottered into the armoury, and, presenting -the few servants that followed her with -what arms could be found, adjured them -by brand and blade, by lady’s love, and -their hopes of heaven, to defend her royal -guest. When she related that a band of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_217" title="217"> </a> -<ins title="natics">fanatics</ins>, after robbing a church of all its silver-plate, -and burning the adjacent vicarage, -drunk with their success, had invested -the Castle, and cried aloud for “<em>the -man</em>” to be brought unto them, that he -might be hewed to pieces before the Lord -in Gilgal—and Lady Mortimer had called -on a young French officer in Prince -Rupert’s corps, who, with his men, had -been billetted on the Castle for some days—and -that this youth, but seventeen years -of age, had met two desperate attacks of -the assailants, and twice retired covered -with his own blood and that of the assailants, -whom he had in vain attempted to -repel—and that Lady Mortimer, finding -all was lost, had counselled the royal fugitive -to make his escape,—and furnished -him with the best horse left in Sir Roger’s -stables to effect his flight, while she returned -to the great hall, whose windows -were now shattered by the balls that hissed -and flew round her head, and whose -doors were fast yielding to the crows and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_218" title="218"> </a> -other instruments which a Puritan smith, -who was both chaplain and colonel of the -band, had lent them, and instructed them -in the use of—and how Lady Mortimer fell -on her knees before the young Frenchman, -and adjured him to make good the defence -till King Charles was safe, and free, and far—and -how the young Frenchman had -done all that man could do;—and finally, -when the Castle, after an hour’s obstinate -resistance, yielded to the assault of the fanatics, -he had staggered, covered with -blood, to the foot of the great chair -which that ancient lady had immoveably -occupied, (paralyzed by terror and -exhaustion), and dropping his sword, <em>then -for the first time</em>, exclaimed, “J’ai fait -mon devoir!” and expired at her feet—and -how her mother sat in the same rigour -of attitude, while the fanatics ravaged -through the Castle,—drank half the -wines in the cellar,—thrust their bayonets -through the family-pictures, which they -called the idols of the high-places,—fired -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_219" title="219"> </a> -bullets through the wainscot, and converted -half the female servants after their own -way,—and on finding their search after -the King fruitless, in mere wantonness of -mischief, were about to discharge a piece -of ordnance in the hall that must have -shattered it in pieces, while Lady Mortimer -sat torpidly looking on,—till, perceiving -that the piece was accidentally pointed -towards the very door through which -King Charles had passed from the hall, -her recollection seemed suddenly to return, -and starting up and rushing before -the mouth of the piece, exclaimed, “<em>Not -there!</em>—you shall not <em>there</em>!”—and as -she spoke, dropt dead in the hall. When -Mrs Ann told these and other thrilling -tales of the magnanimity, the loyalty, -and the sufferings of her high ancestry, -in a voice that alternately swelled with -energy, and trembled with emotion, and -as she told them, pointed to the spot -where each had happened,—her young -hearers felt a deep stirring of the heart,—a -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_220" title="220"> </a> -proud yet mellowed elation that never -yet was felt by the reader of a written history, -though its pages were as legitimate -as any sanctioned by the royal licenser at -Madrid.</p> - -<p>“Nor was Mrs Ann Mortimer less qualified -to take an interesting share in their -lighter studies. When Waller’s poetry -was its subject, she could tell of the charms -of his Sacharissa, whom she knew well,—the -Lady Dorothea Sidney, daughter of -the Earl of Leicester,—and compare, with -those of his Amoret, the Lady Sophia -Murray. And in balancing the claims of -these poetical heroines, she gave so accurate -an account of their opposite styles of -beauty,—entered so minutely into the details -of their dress and deportment,—and so -affectingly hinted, with a mysterious sigh, -that there was <em>one</em> then at court whom -Lucius, Lord Falkland, the gallant, the -learned, and the polished, had whispered -was far superior to both,<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>that her auditors -more than suspected she had herself -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_221" title="221"> </a> -been one of the most brilliant stars in that -galaxy whose faded glories were still reflected -in her memory,—and that Mrs -Ann, amid her piety and patriotism, still -blended a fond reminiscence of the gallantries -of that court where her youth had -been spent,—and over which the beauty, -the magnificent taste, and national -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gaiete</i> of the ill-fated Henrietta, had -once thrown a light as dazzling as it was -transient. She was listened to by Margaret -and Elinor with equal interest, but -with far different feelings. Margaret, -beautiful, vivacious, haughty, and generous, -and resembling her grandfather and -his sister alike in character and person, -could have listened for ever to narrations -that, while they confirmed her principles, -gave a kind of holiness to the governing -feelings of her heart, and made her enthusiasm -a kind of virtue in her eyes. An -aristocrat in politics, she could not conceive -that public virtue could soar to a -higher pitch than a devoted attachment to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_222" title="222"> </a> -the house of Stuart afforded for its flight; -and her religion had never given her any -disturbance.<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>Strictly attached to the -Church of England, as her forefathers -had been from its first establishment, she -included in an adherence to this not only -all the graces of religion, but all the virtues -of morality; and she could hardly -conceive how there could be majesty in -the sovereign, or loyalty in the subject, or -valour in man, or virtue in woman, unless -they were comprised within the pale of -the Church of England. These qualities, -with their adjuncts, had been always represented -to her as co-existent with an attachment -to monarchy and Episcopacy, -and vested solely in those heroic characters -of her ancestry, whose lives, and even -deaths, it was a proud delight to their -young descendant to listen to,—while all -the opposite qualities,—all that man can -hate, or woman despise,—had been represented -to her as instinctively resident in -the partizans of republicanism and the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_223" title="223"> </a> -Presbytery. Thus her feelings and her -principles,—her reasoning powers and the -habits of her life, all took one way; and -she was not only unable to make the least -allowance for a divergence from this way, -but utterly unable to conceive that another -existed for those who believed in a God, -or acknowledged human power at all. She -was as much at a loss to conceive how any -good could come out of that Nazareth of -her abhorrence, as an ancient geographer -would have been to have pointed out America -in a classical map.—Such was Margaret.</p> - -<p>“Elinor, on the other hand, bred up amid -a clamour of perpetual contention,—for -the house of her mother’s family, in -which her first years had been passed, was, -in the language of the profane of those -times, a scruple-shop, where the godly of -all denominations held their conferences -of contradiction,—had her mind early awakened -to differences of opinion, and opposition -of principle. Accustomed to hear -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_224" title="224"> </a> -these differences and oppositions often expressed -with the most unruly vehemence, -she had never, like Margaret, indulged in -a splendid aristocracy of imagination, that -bore every thing before it, and made prosperity -and adversity alike pay tribute to -the pride of its triumph. Since her admission -into the house of her grandfather, -the mind of Elinor had become still more -humble and patient,—more subdued and -self-denied. Compelled to hear the opinions -she was attached to decried, and the -characters she reverenced vilified, she sat -in reflective silence; and, balancing the -opposite extremes which she was destined -to witness, she came to the right conclusion,—that -there must be good on both -sides, however obscured or defaced by passion -and by interest, and that great and -noble qualities must exist in either party, -where so much intellectual power, and so -much physical energy, had been displayed -by both. Nor could she believe that these -clear and mighty spirits would be for ever -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_225" title="225"> </a> -opposed to each other in their future destinations,—she -loved to view them as children -who had “fallen out by the way,” -from mistaking the path that led to their -father’s house, but who would yet rejoice -together in the light of his presence, and -smile at the differences that divided them -on their journey.</p> - -<p>“In spite of the influence of her early -education, Elinor had learned to appreciate -the advantages of her residence in -her grandfather’s castle. She was fond of -literature and of poetry. She possessed -imagination and enthusiasm,—and these -qualities met with their loveliest indulgence -amid the picturesque and historical -scenery that surrounded the Castle,—the -lofty tales told within its walls, and to -which every stone in them seemed to cry -out in attestation,—and the heroic and -chivalrous characters of its inmates, with -whom the portraits of their high descended -ancestry seemed starting from their -gorgeous frames to converse, as the tale of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_226" title="226"> </a> -their virtues and their valour was told in -their presence. This was a different scene -from that in which she had passed her -childhood. The gloomy and narrow apartments, -divested of all ornament, and -awaking no associations but those of an -awful futurity—the uncouth habits, austere -visages, denunciatory language, and -polemical fury of its inmates or guests, -struck her with a feeling for which she reproached -herself, but did not suppress; -and though she continued a rigid Calvinist -in her creed, and listened whenever -she could to the preaching of the non-conformist -ministers, she had adopted in her -pursuits the literary tastes, and in her -manners the dignified courtesy, that became -the descendant of the Mortimers.</p> - -<p>“Elinor’s beauty, though of a style -quite different from that of her cousin, -was yet beauty of the first and finest -character. Margaret’s was luxuriant, -lavish, and triumphant,—every movement -displayed a conscious grace,—every -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_227" title="227"> </a> -look demanded homage, and obtained -it the moment it was demanded. Elinor’s -was pale, contemplative, and touching;—her -hair was as black as jet, and the -thousand small curls into which, according -to the fashion of the day, it was -woven, seemed as if every one of them -had been twined by the hand of nature,—they -hung so softly and shadowingly, that -they appeared like a veil dropping over -the features of a nun, till she shook them -back, and there beamed among them an -eye of dark and brilliant light, like a star -amid the deepening shades of twilight. -She wore the rich dress prescribed by the -taste and habits of Mrs Ann, who had -never, even in the hour of extreme adversity, -relaxed in what may be called the -rigour of her aristocratical costume, and -would have thought it little less than a -desecration of the solemnity, had she appeared -at prayers, even though celebrated -(as she loved to term it) in the Castle-hall, -unless arrayed in satins and velvets, that, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_228" title="228"> </a> -like ancient suits of armour, could have -stood alone and erect without the aid of -human inhabitant. There was a soft and -yielding tone in the gently modulated harmony -of Elinor’s form and movements,—a -gracious melancholy in her smile,—a tremulous -sweetness in her voice,—an appeal in -her look, which the heart that refused to -answer could not have living pulse within -its region. No head of Rembrandt’s, amid -its contrasted luxuries of light and shade,—no -form of Guido’s, hovering in exquisite -and speechful undulation between -earth and heaven, could vie with the tint -and character of Elinor’s countenance and -form. There was but one touch to be -added to the picture of her beauty, and -that touch was given by no physical grace,—no -exterior charm. It was borrowed -from a feeling as pure as it was intense,—as -unconscious as it was profound. The -secret fire that lit her eyes with that lambent -glory, while it caused the paleness of -her young cheek,—that preyed on her -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_229" title="229"> </a> -heart, while it seemed to her imagination -that she clasped a young cherub in her -arms, like the unfortunate queen of Virgil,—that -fire was a secret even to herself.—She -knew she felt, but knew not what -she felt.</p> - -<p>“When first admitted into the Castle, -and treated with sufficient <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">hauteur</i> by her -grandfather and his sister, who could not -forget the mean descent and fanatic principles -of her father’s family, she remembered, -that, amid the appalling grandeur -and austere reserve of her reception, her -cousin, John Sandal, was the only one -who spoke to her in accents of tenderness, -or turned on her an eye that beamed consolation. -She remembered him as the -beautiful and gentle boy who had lightened -all her tasks, and partaken in all her recreations.</p> - -<p>“At an early age John Sandal, at his -own request, had been sent to sea, and -had never since visited the Castle. On -the Restoration, the remembered services -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_230" title="230"> </a> -of the Mortimer family, and the high -fame of the youth’s courage and ability, -had procured him a distinguished situation -in the navy. John Sandal’s consequence -now rose in the eyes of the family, of -whom he was at first an inmate on toleration -only; and even Mrs Ann Mortimer -began to express some anxiety to hear tidings -of her valiant cousin John. When -she spoke thus, the light of Elinor’s eye -fell on her aunt with as rich a glow as -ever summer sun on an evening landscape; -but she felt, at the same moment, -an oppression,—an indefinable suspension -of thought, of speech, almost of breath, -which was only relieved by the tears -which, when retired from her aunt’s presence, -she indulged in. Soon this feeling -was exchanged for one of deeper and more -agitating interest. The war with the -Dutch broke out, and Captain John Sandal’s -name, in spite of his youth, appeared -conspicuous among those of the officers -appointed to that memorable service.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_231" title="231"> </a>“Mrs Ann, long accustomed to hear -the names of her family uttered always -in the same breath with the stirring report -of high heroic deeds, felt the elation of -spirit she had experienced in by-gone days, -combined with happier associations, and -more prosperous auguries. Though far -advanced in life, and much declined in -strength, it was observed, that during the -reports of the war, and while she listened -to the accounts of her kinsman’s valour -and fast-advancing eminence, her step became -firm and elastic, her lofty figure dilated -to its youthful height, and a colour -at times visited her cheek, with as rich and -brilliant a tinge as when the first sighs of -love murmured over its young roses. The -high minded Margaret, partaking that -enthusiasm which merged all personal feeling -in the glory of her family and of her -country, heard of the perils to which her -cousin (whom she hardly remembered) was -exposed, only with a haughty confidence -that he would meet them as she felt she -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_232" title="232"> </a> -would have met them herself, had she -been, like him, the last male descendant -of the family of Mortimer. Elinor trembled -and wept,—and when alone she prayed -fervently.</p> - -<p>“It was observable, however, that the -respectful interest with which she had hitherto -listened to the family legends so -eloquently told by Mrs Ann, was now exchanged -for a restless and unappeaseable -anxiety for tales of the naval heroes who -had dignified the family history. Happily -she found a willing narrator in Mrs Ann, -who had little need to search her memory, -and no occasion to consult her invention, -for splendid stories of those whose home -was the deep, and whose battle-field was -the wild waste ocean. Amid the gallery -richly hung with family portraits, she -pointed out the likeness of many a bold -adventurer, whom the report of the riches -and felicities of the new discovered world -had tempted on speculations sometimes -wild and disastrous, sometimes prosperous -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_233" title="233"> </a> -beyond the golden dreams of cupidity. -“How precarious!—how perilous!” murmured -Elinor, shuddering. But when Mrs -Ann told the tale of her uncle, the literary -speculator, the polished scholar, the -brave and gentle of the family, who had -accompanied Sir Walter Raleigh on his -calamitous expedition, and years after died -of grief for his calamitous death, Elinor, -with a start of horror, caught her aunt’s -arm, emphatically extended towards the -portrait, and implored her to desist. The -decorum of the family was so great, that -this liberty could not be taken without an -apology for indisposition;—it was duly -though faintly made, and Elinor retired to -her apartment.</p> - -<p>“From February 1665,—from the first -intelligence of De Ruyter’s enterprises, -till the animating period when the Duke -of York was appointed to the command -of the Royal fleet,—all was eager and anticipative -excitement, and eloquent expatiations -on ancient achievements, and presageful -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_234" title="234"> </a> -hopes of new honours, on the part -of the heiress of Mortimer and Mrs Ann, -and profound and speechless emotion on -that of Elinor.</p> - -<p>“The hour arrived, and an express was -dispatched from London to Mortimer -Castle with intelligence, in which King -Charles, with that splendid courtesy which -half redeemed his vices, announced himself -most deeply interested, inasmuch as -it added to the honours of the loyal family, -whose services he appreciated so highly. -The victory was complete,—and Captain -John Sandal, in the phrase which -the King’s attachment to French manners -and language was beginning to render popular, -had “covered himself with glory.” -Amid the thickest of the fight, in an open -boat, he had carried a message from Lord -Sandwich to the Duke of York, under a -shower of balls, and when older officers -had stoutly declined the perilous errand; -and when, on his return, Opdam the -Dutch Admiral’s ship blew up, amid the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_235" title="235"> </a> -crater of the explosion John Sandal plunged -into the sea, to save the half-drowning, -half-burning wretches who clung -to the fragments that scorched them, or -sunk in the boiling waves; and then,—dismissed -on another fearful errand, flung -himself between the Duke of York and -the ball that struck at one blow the Earl -of Falmouth, Lord Muskerry, and Mr -Boyle, and when they all fell at the same -moment, wiped, with unfaultering hand, -and on bended knee, their brains and gore, -with which the Duke of York was covered -from head to foot. When this was -read by Mrs Ann Mortimer, with many -pauses, caused by sight dim with age, and -diffused with tears,—and when at length, -finishing the long and laborious read detail, -Mrs Ann exclaimed—“He is a hero!” -Elinor tremblingly whispered to herself—“He -is a Christian.”</p> - -<p>“The details of such an event forming -a kind of era in a family so sequestered, -imaginative, and heroic, as that of the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_236" title="236"> </a> -Mortimers, the contents of the letter signed -by the King’s own hand were read over -and over again. They formed the theme -of converse at their meals, and the subject -of their study and comment when alone. -Margaret dwelt much on the gallantry of -the action, and half-imagined she saw the -tremendous explosion of Opdam’s ship. -Elinor repeated to herself, “And he -plunged amid the burning wave to save -the lives of the men he had conquered!” -And some months elapsed before the brilliant -vision of glory, and of grateful royalty, -faded from their imagination; and -when it did, like that of Micyllus, it left -honey on the eye-lids of the dreamer.</p> - -<p>“From the date of the arrival of this -intelligence, a change had taken place in -the habits and manners of Elinor, so striking -as to become the object of notice to all -but herself. Her health, her rest, and her -imagination, became the prey of indefinable -fantasies. The cherished images of -the past,—the lovely visions of her golden -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_237" title="237"> </a> -childhood,—seemed fearfully and insanely -contrasted in her imagination with the -ideas of slaughter and blood,—of decks -strewed with corses,—and of a young and -terrible conqueror bestriding them amid -showers of ball and clouds of fire. Her -very senses reeled between these opposite -impressions. Her reason could not brook -the sudden transition from the smiling and -Cupid-like companion of her childhood, to -the hero of the embattled deep, and of nations -and navies on fire,—garments rolled -in blood,—the thunder of the battle and -the shouting.</p> - -<p>“She sat and tried, as well as her wandering -fancy would allow her, to reconcile -the images of that remembered eye, whose -beam rested on her like the dark blue of -a summer heaven swimming in dewy -light,—with the flash that darted from the -burning eye of the conqueror, whose light -was as fatal where it fell as his sword. -She saw him, as he had once sat beside -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_238" title="238"> </a> -her, smiling like the first morning in -spring,—and smiled in return. The slender -form, the soft and springy movements, -the kiss of childhood that felt like velvet, -and scented like balm,—was suddenly exchanged -in her dream (for all her thoughts -were dreams) for a fearful figure of one -drenched in blood, and spattered with -brains and gore. And Elinor, half-screaming, -exclaimed, “Is this he whom I -loved?” Thus her mind, vacillating between -contrasts so strongly opposed, began -to feel its moorings give way. She -drifted from rock to rock, and on every -rock she struck a wreck.</p> - -<p>“Elinor relinquished her usual meetings -with the family—she sat in her own -apartment all the day, and most of the -evening. It was a lonely turret projecting -so far from the walls of the Castle, -that there were windows, or rather casements, -on three sides. There Elinor sat -to catch the blast, let it blow as it would, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_239" title="239"> </a> -and imagined she heard in its moanings -the cries of drowning seamen. No music -that her lute, or that which Margaret -touched with a more powerful and brilliant -finger, could wean her from this melancholy -indulgence.</p> - -<p>“Hush!” she would say to the females -who attended her—“Hush! let me listen -to the blast!—It waves many a banner -spread for victory,—it sighs over many a -head that has been laid low!”</p> - -<p>“Her amazement that a being could -be at once so gentle and so ferocious—her -dread that the habits of his life must have -converted the <em>angel of her wilderness</em> into -a brave but brutal seaman, estranged from -the feelings that had rendered the beautiful -boy so indulgent to her errors,—so -propitiatory between her and her proud -relatives,—so aidant in all her amusements,—so -necessary to her very existence.—The -tones of this dreamy life harmonized, -awfully for Elinor, with the sound of the -blast as it shook the turrets of the Castle, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_240" title="240"> </a> -or swept the woods that groaned and bowed -beneath its awful visitings. And this -secluded life, intense feeling, and profound -and heart-rooted secret of her silent passion, -held perhaps fearful and indescribable -alliance with that aberration of mind, that -prostration at once of the heart and the -intellect, that have been found to bring -forth, according as the agents were impelled, -“the savour of life unto life, or of -death unto death.” She had all the intensity -of passion, combined with all the -devotedness of religion; but she knew not -which way to steer, or what gale to follow. -She trembled and shrunk from her doubtful -pilotage, and the rudder was left to the -mercy of the winds and waves. Slender -mercy do those experience who commit -themselves to the tempests of the mental -world—better if they had sunk at once -amid the strife of the dark waters in their -wild and wintry rage; there they would -soon have arrived at the haven where they -would be secure.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_241" title="241"> </a><ins title="Such">“Such</ins> was the state of Elinor, when the -arrival of one who had been long a stranger -in the vicinity of the Castle caused a -strong sensation in its inhabitants.</p> - -<p>“The widow Sandal, the mother of the -young seaman, who had hitherto lived in -obscurity on the interest of the small fortune -bequeathed her by Sir Roger, (under -the rigid injunction of never visiting the -Castle), suddenly arrived in Shrewsbury, -which was scarce a mile from it, and declared -her intention of fixing her residence -there.</p> - -<p>“The affection of her son had showered -on her, with the profusion of a sailor, and -the fondness of a child, all the rewards of -his services—but their glory;—and in comparative -affluence, and honoured and pointed -to as the mother of the young hero -who stood high in royal favour, the widow -of many sorrows took up her abode once -more near the seat of her ancestors.</p> - -<p>“At this period, every step taken by the -member of a family was a subject of anxious -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_242" title="242"> </a> -and solemn consultation to those who considered -themselves its heads, and there was -a kind of chapter held in Mortimer Castle -on this singular movement of the widow -Sandal. Elinor’s heart beat hard during the -debate—it subsided, however, at the determination, -that the severe sentence of Sir -Roger was not to be extended beyond -his death, and that a descendant of the -house of Mortimer should never live -neglected while almost under the shadow -of its walls.</p> - -<p>“The visit was accordingly solemnly -paid, and gratefully received,—there was -much stately courtesy on the part of Mrs -Ann towards her niece, (whom she called -cousin after the old English fashion), and -a due degree of retrospective humility -and decorous dejection on that of the widow. -They parted mutually softened towards, -if not pleased with each other, and -the intercourse thus opened was unremittingly -sustained by Elinor, whose weekly -visits of ceremony soon became the daily -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_243" title="243"> </a> -visits of interest and of habit. The object -of the thoughts of both was the theme -of the tongue of but one; and, as is not uncommon, -she who said nothing felt the -most. The details of his exploits, the description -of his person, the fond enumeration -of the promises of his childhood, and -the graces and goodliness of his youth, -were dangerous topics for the listener, to -whom the bare mention of his name caused -an intoxication of the heart, from which -it scarce recovered for hours.</p> - -<p>“The frequency of these visits was not -observed to be diminished by a faint rumour, -which the widow seemed to believe, -rather from hope than probability, that -Captain Sandal was about to visit the -neighbourhood of the Castle. It was one -evening in autumn, that Elinor, who had -been prevented during the day from visiting -her aunt, set out attended only by her -maid and her usher. There was a private -path through the park, that opened by a -small door on the verge of the suburbs -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_244" title="244"> </a> -where the widow lived. Elinor, on her -arrival, found her aunt from home, and -was informed she had gone to pass the -evening with a friend in Shrewsbury. -Elinor hesitated for a moment, and then -recollecting that this friend was a grave -staid widow of one of Oliver’s knights, -wealthy, however, and well respected, and -a common acquaintance, she resolved to -follow her thither. As she entered the -room, which was spacious, but dimly lit -by an old-fashioned casement window, she -was surprised to see it filled with an unusual -number of persons, some of whom -were seated, but the greater number were -collected in the ample recess of the window, -and among them Elinor saw a figure, -remarkable rather for its height, than its -attitude or pretension,—it was that of a -tall slender boy, about eighteen, with a -beautiful infant in his arms, whom he was -caressing with a tenderness that seemed -rather associated with the retrospective -fondness of brotherhood, than the anticipated -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_245" title="245"> </a> -hope of paternity. The mother of -the infant, proud of the notice bestowed on -her child, made, however, the usual incredulous -apology for its troubling him.</p> - -<p>“Troubling me!” said the boy, in tones -that made Elinor think it was the first time -she had heard music. “Oh, no—if you -knew how fond I am of children,—how -long it is since I had the delight of pressing -one to my breast—how long it may be -again before”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> and averting his head, -he bowed it over the babe. The room was -very dark, from the increasing shades of -evening, deepened by the effect of the -heavy wainscotting of its walls; but at this -moment, the last bright light of an autumnal -evening, in all its rich and fading -glory, burst on the casement, powering on -every object a golden and purpureal light. -That end of the apartment in which Elinor -sat remained in the deepest shade. -She then distinctly beheld the figure which -her heart seemed to recognize before her -senses. His luxuriant hair, of the richest -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_246" title="246"> </a> -brown, (its feathery summits tinged by the -light resembling the halo round some glorified -head), hung, according to the fashion -of the day, in clusters on his bosom, and -half-concealed the face of the infant, as it -lay like a nestling among them.</p> - -<p>“His dress was that of a naval officer,—it -was splendidly adorned with lace, and -the superb insignia of a foreign order, -the guerdon of some daring deed; and as -the infant played with these, and then looked -upward, as if to repose its dazzled sight -on the smile of its young protector, Elinor -thought she had never beheld association -and contrast so touchingly united,—it was -like a finely coloured painting, where the -tints are so mellowed and mingled into -each other, that the eye feels no transition -in passing from one brilliant hue to another, -with such exquisite imperceptibility -are they graduated,—it was like a fine -piece of music, where the art of the modulator -prevents your knowing that you pass -from one key to another; so softly are the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_247" title="247"> </a> -intermediate tones of harmony touched, -that the ear knows not where it wanders, -but wherever it wanders, feels its path -is pleasant. The young loveliness of -the infant, almost assimilated to the beauty -of the youthful caresser, and yet contrasted -with the high and heroic air of his figure, -and the adornments of his dress, (splendid -as they were), all emblematic of deeds of -peril and of death, seemed to the imagination -of Elinor like the cherub-angel of -peace reposing on the breast of valour, -and whispering that his toils were done. -She was awoke from her vision by the -voice of the widow.—“Niece, this is your -cousin John Sandal.” Elinor started, and -received the salute of her kinsman, thus -abruptly introduced, with an emotion, -which, if it deprived her of those courtly -graces which ought to have embellished -her reception of the distinguished stranger, -gave her, at least, the more touching ones -of diffidence.</p> - -<p>“The forms of the day admitted of, and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_248" title="248"> </a> -even sanctioned, a mode of salutation since -exploded; and as Elinor felt the pressure -of a lip as vermeil as her own, she trembled -to think that that lip had often given -the war-word to beings athirst for human -blood, and that the arm that enfolded her -so tenderly had pointed the weapons -of death with resistless and terrible aim -against bosoms that beat with all the cords -of human affection. She loved her young -kinsman, but she trembled in the arms -of the hero.</p> - -<p>“John Sandal sat down by her, and in -a few moments the melody of his tones, -the gentle facility of his manner, the eyes -that smiled when the lips were closed, and -the lips whose smile was more eloquent -in silence than the language of the brightest -eyes, made her gradually feel at ease -with herself—she attempted to converse, -but paused to listen—she tried to look up, -but felt like the worshippers of the sun, -sickening under the blaze she gazed on,—and -<em>averted her eyes that she might see</em>. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_249" title="249"> </a> -There was a mild, inoppressive, but most -seductive light in the dark-blue eyes that -fell so softly on hers, like moon-light floating -over a fine landscape. And there -was a young and eloquent tenderness in -the tones of that voice, which she expected -to have spoken in thunder, that disarmed -and dulcified speech almost to luxury. Elinor -sat, and imbibed poison at every inlet of -the senses, ear, and eye, and touch, for her -kinsman, with a venial, and to her imperceptible -licence, had taken her hand as he -spoke. And he spoke much, but not of war -and blood, of the scenes where he had been -so eminent, and of the events to which his -simple allusion would have given interest -and dignity,—but of his return to his family, -of the delight he felt at again beholding his -mother, and of the hopes that he indulged -of being not an unwelcome visitor at the -Castle. He inquired after Margaret with -affectionate earnestness, and after Mrs Ann -with reverential regard; and in mentioning -the names of these relatives, he spoke -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_250" title="250"> </a> -like one whose heart was at home before -his steps, and whose heart could make -every spot where it rested a home to itself -and to others. Elinor could have -listened for ever. The names of the relatives -she loved and revered sounded in her -ears like music, but the advancing night -warned her of the necessity of returning to -the Castle, where the hours were scrupulously -observed; and when John Sandal -offered to attend her home, she had no -longer a motive to delay her departure.</p> - -<p>“It had appeared dark in the room -where they were sitting, but it was still -rich and purple twilight in the sky, when -they set out for the Castle.</p> - -<p>“Elinor took the path through the park, -and, absorbed in new feelings, was for the -first time insensible of its woodland beauty, -at once gloomy and resplendent, mellowed -by the tints of autumnal colouring, and -glorious with the light of an autumnal evening,—till -she was roused to attention by -the exclamations of her companion, who -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_251" title="251"> </a> -appeared rapt into delight at what he beheld. -This sensibility of nature, this fresh -and unworn feeling, in one whom she had -believed hardened by scenes of toil and -terror against the perception of beauty,—whom -her imagination had painted to her -as <em>fitter to cross the Alps, than to luxuriate -in Campania</em>,—touched her deeply. She -attempted to reply, but was unable,—she -remembered how her quick susceptibility -of nature had enabled her to sympathize -with and improve on the admiration expressed -by others, and she wondered at her -silence, for she knew not its cause.</p> - -<p>“As they approached the Castle, the -scene became glorious beyond the imagination -of a painter, whose eye has dreamed -of sun-set in foreign climes. The vast -edifice lay buried in shade,—all its varied -and strongly charactered features of tower -and pinnacle, bartizan and battlement, -were melted into one dense and sombrous -mass. The distant hills, with their conical -summits, were still clearly defined in -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_252" title="252"> </a> -the dark-blue heaven, and their peaks still -retained a hue of purple so brilliant and -lovely, that it seemed as if the light had -loved to linger there, and, parting, had -left that tint as the promise of a glorious -morning. The woods that surrounded -the Castle stood as dark, and apparently -as solid as itself. Sometimes a gleam like -gold trembled over the tufted foliage of -their summits, and at length, through a -glade which opened among the dark and -massive boles of the ancient trees, one -last rich and gorgeous flood of light burst -in, turned every blade of grass it touched -into emerald for a moment,—paused on its -lovely work—and parted. The effect was -so instantaneous, brilliant, and evanishing, -that Elinor had scarce time for a half uttered -exclamation, as she extended her -arm in the direction where the light had -fallen so brightly and so briefly. She raised -her eyes to her companion, in that full -consciousness of perfect sympathy that -make words seem like counters, compared -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_253" title="253"> </a> -to the sterling gold of a heart-minted look. -Her companion had turned towards it -too. He neither uttered exclamation, nor -pointed with finger,—he smiled, and his -countenance was as that of an angel. It -seemed to reflect and answer the last -bright farewell of day, as if friends had -parted smiling at each other. It was not -alone the lips that smiled,—the eyes, the -cheeks, every feature had its share in that -effulgent light that was diffused over his -aspect, and all combined to make that -harmony to the eye, which is often as deliciously -perceptible, as the combination of -the most exquisite voices with the most -perfect modulation, is to the ear. To the -last hour of her mortal existence, that -smile, and the scene where it was <em>uttered</em>, -were engraved on the heart of Elinor. It -announced at once a spirit, that, like the -ancient statue, answered every ray of light -that fell on it with a voice of melody, and -blended the triumph of the glories of nature -with the profound and tender felicities -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_254" title="254"> </a> -of the heart. They spoke no more -during the remainder of their walk, but -there was more eloquence in their silence -than in many words. * * -* * * *</p> - -<p>“It was almost night before they arrived -at the Castle. Mrs Ann received -her distinguished kinsman with stately -cordiality, and affection mingled with -pride. Margaret welcomed him rather as -the hero than the relative; and John, after -the ceremonies of introduction, turned to -repose himself on the smile of Elinor. -They had arrived just at the time when -the chaplain was about to read the evening -prayers,—a form so strictly adhered to -at the Castle, that not even the arrival -of a stranger was permitted to interfere -with its observance. Elinor watched this -moment with peculiar solicitude;—her -religious feelings were profound, and -amid all the young hero’s vivid display of -the gentlest affections, and purest sensibilities -by which our wretched existence can be -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_255" title="255"> </a> -enhanced or beautified, she still dreaded -that religion, the companion of deep -thought and solemn habits, might wander -far for an abode before it settled in the -heart of a sailor. The last doubt passed -from her mind, as she beheld the intense -but silent devotion with which John mingled -in the family rite. There is something -very ennobling in the sight of male -piety. To see that lofty form, that never -bowed to man, bowed to the earth to -God,—to behold the knee, whose joints -would be as adamant under the influence -of mortal force or threat, as flexible as -those of infancy in the presence of the -Almighty,—to see the locked and lifted -hands, to hear the fervent aspiration, -to feel the sound of the mortal weapon -as it drags on the floor beside the kneeling -warrior,—these are things that touch the -senses and the heart at once, and suggest -the awful and affecting image of all physical -energy prostrate before the power of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_256" title="256"> </a> -the Divinity. Elinor watched him even -to the forgetfulness of her own devotions;—and -when his white hands, that -seemed never formed to grasp a weapon of -destruction, were clasped in devotion, and -one of them slightly and occasionally raised -to part the redundant curls that shaded -his face as he knelt, she thought that she -beheld at once angelic strength and angelic -purity.</p> - -<p>“When the service concluded, Mrs -Ann, after repeating her solemn welcome -to her nephew, could not help expressing -her satisfaction at the devotion he had -showed; but she mingled with that expression -a kind of incredulity, that men accustomed -to toil and peril could ever have -devotional feelings. John Sandal bowed -to the congratulatory part of Mrs Ann’s -speech, and, resting one hand on his short -sword, and with the other removing the -thick ringlets of his luxuriant hair, he -stood before them a hero in deed, and a -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_257" title="257"> </a> -boy in form. A blush overspread his -young features, as he said, in accents at -once emphatic and tremulous, “Dear -Aunt, why should you accuse those of -neglecting the protection of the Almighty -who need it most. They who “go down -to the sea in ships, and occupy their business -in the great waters,” have the best -right to feel, in their hour of peril, “it is -but the wind and the storm fulfilling his -word.” A seaman without a belief and -hope in God, is worse off than a seaman -without chart or pilot.”</p> - -<p>“As he spoke with that trembling eloquence -that makes conviction be felt almost -before it is heard, Mrs Ann held out -to him her withered but still snow-white -hand to kiss. Margaret presented hers -also, like a heroine to a feudal knight; -and Elinor turned aside, and wept in delicious -agony. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“When we set ourselves resolutely to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_258" title="258"> </a> -discover perfection in a character, we are -always sure to find it. But Elinor -needed little aid from the pencil of imagination -to colour the object that had -been stamped by an ineffaceable touch upon -her heart. Her kinsman’s character and -temper developed themselves slowly, or -rather were developed by external and accidental -causes; for a diffidence almost feminine -prevented his ever saying much,—and -when he did, himself was the last -theme he touched on. He unfolded himself -like a blowing flower,—the soft and -silken leaves expanded imperceptibly to -the eye, and every day the tints were -deepening, and the scent becoming richer, -till Elinor was dazzled by their lustre, and -inebriated with the fragrance.</p> - -<p>“This wish to discover excellencies in -the object we love, and to identify esteem -and passion by seeking the union of moral -beauty and physical grace, is a proof that -love is of a very ennobling character,—that, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_259" title="259"> </a> -however the stream may be troubled -by many things, the source at least is -pure,—and that the heart capable of feeling -it intensely, proves it possesses an -energy that may one day be rewarded by -a brighter object, and a holier flame, than -earth ever afforded, or nature ever could -kindle. * * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Since her son’s arrival, the widow -Sandal had betrayed a marked degree of -anxiety, and a kind of restless precaution -against some invisible evil. She was now -frequently at the Castle. She could not -be blind to the increasing attachment of -John and Elinor,—and her only thought -was how to prevent the possibility of -their union, by which the interest of the -former and her own importance would be -materially affected.</p> - -<p>“She had obtained, by indirect means, -a knowledge of the contents of Sir Roger’s -will; and the whole force of a mind which -possessed more of art than of power, and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_260" title="260"> </a> -of a temper which had more passion than -energy, was strained to realize the hopes -it suggested. Sir Roger’s will was singular. -Alienated as he was from his -daughter Sandal, and his younger son the -father of Elinor, by the connexions they -had adopted, it seemed to be the strongest -object of his wishes to unite their descendants, -and invest the wealth and rank of -the house of Mortimer in the last of its representatives. -He had therefore bequeathed -his immense estates to his grand-daughter -Margaret, in the event of her marrying -her kinsman John Sandal;—in the case of -his marrying Elinor, he was entitled to no -more than her fortune of £.5000;—and -the bequest of the greater part of the property -to a distant relative who bore the -name of Mortimer, was to be the consequence -of the non-intermarriage of Sandal -with either of his cousins.</p> - -<p>“Mrs Ann Mortimer, anticipating the -effect that this opposition of interest to affection -might produce in the family, had -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_261" title="261"> </a> -kept the contents of the will a secret,—but -Mrs Sandal had discovered it by means of -the domestics at the Castle, and her mind -wrought intensely on the discovery. She -was a woman too long familiar with want -and privation to dread any evil but their -continuance, and too ambitious of the remembered -distinctions of her early life, -not to risk any thing that might enable -her to recover them. She felt a personal -feminine jealousy of the high-minded Mrs -Ann, and the noble-hearted beautiful Margaret, -which was unappeasable; and she -hovered round the walls of the Castle like -a departed spirit groaning for its re-admission -to the place from which it had been -driven, and feeling and giving no peace -till its restoration was accomplished.</p> - -<p>“When with these feelings was united -the anxiety of maternal ambition for her -son, who might be raised to a noble inheritance, -or sunk to comparative mediocrity -by his choice, the result may be easily -guessed; and the widow Sandal, once determined -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_262" title="262"> </a> -on the end, felt little scruple about -the means. Want and envy had -given her an unslakeable appetite for the -restored splendours of her former state; -and false religion had taught her every -shade and penumbra of hypocrisy, every -meanness of artifice, every obliquity of insinuation. -In her varied life she had -known the good, and chosen the evil. -The widow Sandal was now determined -to interpose an insurmountable obstruction -to their union. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Mrs Ann still flattered herself that -the secret of Sir Roger’s will was suppressed. -She saw the intense and disruptable -feeling that seemed to mark John and -Elinor for each other; and, with a feeling -half-borrowed from magnanimity, half -from romance, (for Mrs Ann had been -fond of the high-toned romances of her -day), she looked forward to the felicity -of their union as being little disturbed by -the loss of land and lordship,—of the immense -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_263" title="263"> </a> -revenues,—and the far-descended -titles of the Mortimer family.</p> - -<p>“Highly as she prized these distinctions, -dear to every noble mind, she prized -still more highly the union of devoted -hearts and congenial spirits, who, trampling -on the golden apples that were flung -in their path, pressed forward with unremitting -ardour for the prize of felicity.</p> - -<p>“The wedding-day of John and Elinor -was fixed,—the bridal clothes were made,—the -noble and numerous friends summoned,—the -Castle hall decorated, the bells of -the parish church ringing out a loud and -merry peal, and the blue-coated serving -men adorned with favours, and employed -in garnishing the wassail bowl, which was -doomed by many a <ins title="thristy">thirsty</ins> eye to be often -drained and often replenished. Mrs Ann -herself took with her own hands, from an -ample chest of ebony, a robe of velvet and -satin, which she had worn at the court of -James the First, on the marriage of the -princess Elizabeth with the prince palatine, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_264" title="264"> </a> -of whom the former, to borrow the language -of a contemporary writer, had -“brided and bridled it so well, and indeed -became herself so handsomely,” that Mrs -Ann, as she arrayed herself, thought she -saw the splendid vision of the royal bridal -float before her faded eyes in dim but gorgeous -pageantry once more. The heiress, -too, attired herself splendidly, but it was -observed, that her beautiful cheek was -paler than even that of the bride, and the -smile which held a fixed unjoyous station -on her features all that morning, seemed -more like the effort of resolution than the -expression of felicity. The widow Sandal -had betrayed considerable agitation, and -quitted the Castle at an early hour. The -bridegroom had not yet appeared, and the -company, after having in vain for some -time awaited his arrival, set out for the -church, where they supposed he was impatiently -expecting them.</p> - -<p>“The cavalcade was magnificent and -numerous—the dignity and consequence of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_265" title="265"> </a> -the Mortimer family had assembled all -who had aspired to the distinction of their -acquaintance, and such was then the feudal -grandeur attendant on the nuptials of -a high-descended family, that relatives, -however remote in blood or in local distance, -collected for sixty miles in every -direction around the Castle, and presented -a “host of friends, gorgeously arrayed and -attended on that eventful morning.”</p> - -<p>“Most of the company, even including -the females, were mounted on horseback, -and this, by apparently increasing the number -of the procession, added to its tumultuous -magnificence. There were some cumbrous -vehicles, misnomed carriages, of a -fashion indescribably inconvenient, but -gorgeously gilded and painted,—and the -Cupids on the pannels had been re-touched -for the occasion. The bride was lifted -on her palfrey by two peers,—Margaret -rode beside her gallantly attended,—and -Mrs Ann, who once more saw nobles contending -for her withered hand, and adjusting -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_266" title="266"> </a> -her silken rein, felt the long-faded glories -of her family revive, and led the van -of the pompous procession with as much -dignity of demeanour, and as much glow -of faded beauty, once eminent and resistless, -as if she still followed the gorgeous -nuptial progress of the princess palatine. -They arrived at the church,—the bride, -the relatives, the splendid company, the -minister—all but the bridegroom, were -there. There was a long painful silence. -Several gentlemen of the bridal party rode -rapidly out in every direction in which it -was thought probable to meet him,—the -clergyman stood at the altar, till, weary of -standing, he retired. The crowd from the -neighbouring villages, combined with the -numerous attendants, filled the church-yard. -Their acclamations were incessant,—the -heat and distraction became intolerable, -and Elinor begged for a few moments -to be allowed to retire to the vestry.</p> - -<p>“There was a casement window which -opened on the road, and Mrs Ann supported -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_267" title="267"> </a> -the bride as she tottered towards -it, attempting to loose her wimple, and -veil of costly lace. As Elinor approached -the casement, the thundering hoofs of a -horse at full speed shook the road. Elinor -looked up mechanically,—the rider was -John Sandal,—he cast a look of horror at -the pale bride, and plunging his desperate -spurs deeper, disappeared in a moment. * -* * * *</p> - -<p>“A year after this event, two figures were -seen to walk, or rather wander, almost -every evening, in the neighbourhood of a -small hamlet in a remote part of Yorkshire. -The vicinage was picturesque and -attractive, but these figures seemed to -move amid the scenery like beings, who, -if they still retained eyes for nature, had -lost all heart for it. That wan and attenuated -form, so young, yet so withered, -whose dark eyes emit a fearful light amid -features chill and white as those of a statue, -and the young graces of whose form seem -to have been nipt like those of a lily that -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_268" title="268"> </a> -bloomed too soon in spring, and was destroyed -by the frost of the treacherous season, -whose whispers had first invited it to -bud,—that is Elinor Mortimer,—and that -figure that walks beside her, so stiff and -rectangular, that it seems as its motion -was regulated by mechanism, whose sharp -eyes are directed so straight forward, that -they see neither tree on the right hand, or -glade on the left, or heaven above, or earth -beneath, or any thing but a dim vision of -mystic theology for ever before them, -which is aptly reflected in their cold contemplative -light, that is the Puritan maiden -sister of her mother, with whom Elinor -had fixed her residence. Her dress is arranged -with as much precision as if a mathematician -had calculated the angles of -every fold,—every pin’s point knows its -place, and does its duty—the plaits of her -round-eared cap do not permit one hair to -appear on her narrow forehead, and her large -hood, adjusted after the fashion in which it -was worn by the godly sisters, who rode out -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_269" title="269"> </a> -to meet Prynne on his return from the pillory, -lends a deeper shade to her rigid features,—a -wretched-looking lacquey is carrying -a huge clasped bible after her, in the -mode in which she remembered to have -seen Lady Lambert and Lady Desborough -march to prayer, attended by their -pages, while she proudly followed in their -train, distinguished as the sister of that -godly man and powerful preacher of the -word, Sandal. From the day of her disappointed -nuptials, Elinor, with that insulted -feeling of maiden pride, which not -even the anguish of her broken heart could -suppress, had felt an unappeaseable anxiety -to quit the scene of her disgrace and her -misfortune. It was vainly opposed by her -aunt and Margaret, who, horror-struck at -the event of those disastrous nuptials, and -wholly unconscious of the cause, had implored -her, with all the energy of affection, -to fix her residence at the Castle, within -whose walls they pledged themselves he who -had abandoned her should never be permitted -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_270" title="270"> </a> -to place his foot. Elinor answered the -impassioned importunities, only by eager -and clinging pressures of her cold hands, -and by tears which trembled on her eye-lids, -without the power to fall.—“Nay, stay -with us,” said the kind and noble-hearted -Margaret, “you shall not leave us!” And -she pressed the hands of her kinswoman, -with that cordial touch that gives a welcome -as much to the heart as to the home of -the inviter.—“Dearest cousin,” said Elinor, -answering, for the first time, this affectionate -appeal with a faint and ghastly -smile—“I have so many enemies within -these walls, that I can no longer encounter -them with safety to my life.”—“Enemies!” -repeated Margaret.—“Yes, dearest -cousin—there is not a spot where <em>he</em> trod—not -a prospect on which he has gazed—not -an echo which has repeated the sound -of his voice,—that does not send daggers -through my heart, which those who wish -me to live would not willingly see infixed -any longer.” To the emphatic agony with -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_271" title="271"> </a> -which these words were uttered, Margaret -had nothing to reply but with tears; and -Elinor set out on her journey to the relative -of her mother, a rigid Puritan, who -resided in Yorkshire.</p> - -<p>“As the carriage was ordered for her -departure, Mrs Ann, supported by her -female attendants, stood on the draw-bridge -to take leave of her niece, with solemn -and affectionate courtesy. Margaret -wept bitterly, and aloud, as she stood at a -casement, and waved her hand to Elinor. -Her aunt never shed a tear, till out of the -presence of the domestics,—but when all -was over,—“she entered into her chamber, -and wept there.”</p> - -<p>“When her carriage had driven some -miles from the Castle, a servant on a fleet -horse followed it at full speed with Elinor’s -lute, which had been forgotten,—it -was offered to her, and after viewing it for -some moments with a look in which memory -struggled with grief, she ordered its -strings to be broken on the spot, and proceeded -on her journey.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_272" title="272"> </a>“The retreat to which Elinor had retired, -did not afford her the tranquillity she expected. -Thus, change of place always deceives -us with the tantalizing hope of relief, -as we toss on the feverish bed of life.</p> - -<p>“She went in a faint expectation of the -revival of her religious feelings—she went -to wed, amid the solitude and desert -where she had first known him, the immortal -bridegroom, who would never desert -her as the mortal one had done,—but -she did not find him there—the voice of -God was no longer heard in the garden—either -her religious sensibility had abated, -or those from whom she first received the -impression, had no longer power to renew -it, or perhaps the heart which has exhausted -itself on a mortal object, does not -find its powers soon recruited to meet the -image of celestial beneficence, and exchange -at once the visible for the invisible,—the -felt and present, for the future and -the unknown.</p> - -<p>“Elinor returned to the residence of -her mother’s family in the hope of renewing -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_273" title="273"> </a> -former images, but she found only -the words that had conveyed those ideas, -and she looked around in vain for the impressions -they had once suggested. When -we thus come to feel that <em>all</em> has been illusion, -even on the most solemn subjects,—that -the future world seems to be deserting -us along with the present, and that -our own hearts, with all their treachery, -have done us no more wrong than the -false impressions which we have received -from our religious instructors, we are like -the deity in the painting of the great Italian -artist, extending one hand to the sun, -and the other to the moon, but touching -neither. Elinor had imagined or hoped, -that the language of her aunt would have -revived her habitual associations—she was -disappointed. It is true no pains were -spared—when Elinor wished to read, she -was furnished amply with the Westminster -Confession, or Prynne’s Histriomastrix; or -if she wished for lighter pages, for the -Belles Lettres of Puritanism, there were -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_274" title="274"> </a> -John Bunyan’s Holy War, or the life of -Mr Badman. If she closed the book in -despair at the insensibility of her untouched -heart, she was invited to a godly conference, -where the non-<ins title="comformist">conformist</ins> ministers, -who had been, in the language of -the day, extinguished under the Bartholomew -bushel<a name="FootnoteMarker_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="footnote-marker">(8)</a>, met to give the precious -word in season to the scattered fold of the -Lord. Elinor knelt and wept too at these -meetings; but, while her form was prostrated -before the Deity, her tears fell for one -whom she dared not name. When, in incontroulable -agony, she sought, like Joseph, -where she might weep unobserved -and unrestrained, and rushed into the narrow -garden that skirted the cottage of her -aunt, and wept there, she was followed by -the quiet, sedate figure, moving at the -rate of an inch in a minute, who offered -her for her consolation, the newly published -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_275" title="275"> </a> -and difficultly obtained work of Marshall -on Sanctification.</p> - -<p>“Elinor, accustomed too much to that -fatal excitement of the heart, which renders -all other excitement as faint and feeble -as the air of heaven to one who has -been inhaling the potent inebriation of the -strongest perfumes, wondered how this -being, so abstracted, cold, and unearthly, -could tolerate her motionless existence. -She rose at a fixed hour,—at a fixed hour -she prayed,—at a fixed hour received the -godly friends who visited her, and whose -existence was as monotonous and apathetic -as her own,—at a fixed hour she dined,—and -at a fixed hour she prayed again, and -then retired,—yet she prayed without unction, -and fed without appetite, and retired to -rest without the least inclination to sleep. -Her life was mere mechanism, but the -machine was so well wound up, that it appeared -to have some quiet consciousness -and sullen satisfaction in its movements.</p> - -<p>“Elinor struggled in vain for the renewal -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_276" title="276"> </a> -of this life of cold mediocrity,—she -thirsted for it as one who, in the deserts of -Afric, expiring for want of water, would -wish for the moment to be an inmate of -Lapland, to drink of their eternal snows,—yet -at that moment wonders how its -inhabitants can live among <span class="small-caps all-upper">SNOW</span>. She -saw a being far inferior to herself in mental -power,—of feelings that hardly deserved -the name—<em>tranquil</em>, and wondered that -she herself was wretched.—Alas! she -did not know, that the heartless and unimaginative -are those alone who entitle -themselves to the comforts of life, and -who can alone enjoy them. A cold and -sluggish mediocrity in their occupations -or their amusements, is all they require—pleasure -has with them no meaning but -the exemption from actual suffering, nor -do they annex any idea to pain but the -immediate infliction of corporeal suffering, -or of external calamity—the source of -pain or pleasure is never found in their -<em>hearts</em>—while those who have profound -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_277" title="277"> </a> -feelings scarce ever look elsewhere for -either. So much the worse for them,—the -being reduced to providing for the necessities -of human life, and being satisfied -when that provision is made, is perhaps -the best condition of human life—beyond -that, all is the dream of insanity, or the -agony of disappointment. Far better the -dull and dusky winter’s day, whose gloom, -if it never abates, never increases,—(and -to which we lift up an eye of listlessness, -in which there is no apprehension of future -and added terrors),—to the glorious -fierceness of the summer’s day, whose sun -sets amid purple and gold,—while, panting -under its parting beams, we see the clouds -collecting in the darkening East, and view -the armies of heaven on their march, -whose thunders are to break our rest, and -whose lightnings may crumble us to ashes. -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Elinor strove hard with her fate,—the -strength of her intellect had been much -developed since her residence at Mortimer -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_278" title="278"> </a> -Castle, and there also the energies of her -heart had been developed fatally. How -dreadful is the conflict of superior intellect -and a burning heart, with the perfect mediocrity -of the characters and circumstances -they are generally doomed to live with! -The battering-rams play against wool-bags,—the -lightnings glance on ice, hiss, and -are extinguished. The greater strength we -exhibit, we feel we are more and more -paralyzed by the weakness of our enemies,—our -very energy becomes our bitterest -enemy, as it fights in vain against the impregnable -fortress of total vacuity! It is -in vain we assail a foe who neither -knows our language or uses our weapons. -Elinor gave it up,—yet still she struggled -with her own feelings; and perhaps the -conflict which she now undertook was the -hardest of all. She had received her first -religious impressions under the roof of her -Puritanic aunt, and, true or false, they had -been so vivid, that she was anxious to revive -them. When the heart is robbed of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_279" title="279"> </a> -its first-born, there is nothing it will not -try to adopt. Elinor remembered a very -affecting scene that had occurred in her -childhood, beneath the roof where she now -resided.</p> - -<p>“An old non-conformist minister, a very -Saint John for sanctity of life, and simplicity -of manners, had been seized by a -magistrate while giving the word of consolation -to a few of his flock who had met -at the cottage of her aunt.</p> - -<p>“The old man had supplicated for a -moment’s delay on the part of the civil -power, and its officers, by an unusual effort -of toleration or of humanity, complied. -Turning to his congregation, who, amid -the tumult of the arrest, had never risen -from their knees, and only changed the -voice of supplication from praying with -their pastor, to praying for him,—he -quoted to them that beautiful passage from -the prophet Malachi, which appears to -give such delightful encouragement to the -spiritual intercourse of Christians,—“Then -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_280" title="280"> </a> -they that feared the Lord, spoke often to -one another, and the Lord heard it,” &c. -As he spoke, the old man was dragged -away by some rougher hands, and died -soon after in confinement.</p> - -<p>“On the young imagination of Elinor, -this scene was indelibly written. Amid -the magnificence of Mortimer Castle, it -had never been effaced or obscured, and -now she tried to make herself in love with -the sounds and the scene that had so deeply -touched her infant heart.</p> - -<p>“Resolute in her purposes, she spared -no pains to excite this reminiscence of religion,—it -was her last resource. Like the -wife of Phineas, she struggled to bear an -heir of the soul, even while she named -him <em>Ichabod</em>,—and felt the glory was departed. -She went to the narrow apartment,—she -seated herself in the very chair -that venerable man occupied when he was -torn from it, and his departure appeared -to her like that of an ascending prophet. -She would <em>then</em> have caught the folds of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_281" title="281"> </a> -his mantle, and mounted with him, even -though his flight had led to prison and to -death. She tried, by repeating his last -words, to produce the same effect they had -once had on her heart, and wept in indescribable -agony at feeling those words had -no meaning now for her. When life and -passion have thus rejected us, the backward -steps we are compelled to tread towards -the path we have wandered from, are ten -thousand times more torturing and arduous -than those we have exhausted in their -pursuit. Hope then supported our hands -every step we took. Remorse and disappointment -scourge us back, and every step -is tinged with tears or with blood; and -well it is for the pilgrim if that blood is -drained from his heart, for then—his pilgrimage -will be sooner terminated. * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“At times Elinor, who had forgotten -neither the language or habits of her former -existence, would speak in a manner -that gave her Puritanic relative hopes that, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_282" title="282"> </a> -according to the language of the times, -“the root of the matter was in her,”—and -when the old lady, in confidence of her returning -orthodoxy, discussed long and -learnedly on the election and perseverance -of the saints, the listener would startle -her by a burst of feeling, that seemed to -her aunt more like the ravings of a demoniac, -than the language of a human -being,—especially one who had from her -youth known the Scriptures. She would -say, “Dearest aunt, I am not insensible of -what you say; from a child, (thanks to -your care), I have known the holy scriptures. -I <em>have</em> felt the power of religion. -At a latter period I have experienced all -the enjoyments of an intellectual existence. -Surrounded by splendour, I have -conversed with enlarged minds,—I have -seen all that life can shew me,—I have -lived with the mean and the rich,—the -spiritual in their poverty, and the worldly-minded -in their grandeur,—I have deeply -drank of the cup which both modes of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_283" title="283"> </a> -existence held to my lip,—and at this -moment I swear to you,—<em>one moment of -heart</em>,—one dream such as once I dreamed, -(and thought I should never awake -from), is worth all the existence that the -earthly-minded lavish on this world, and -those who mystify expend on the next!”—“Unfortunate -wretch! and undone for everlasting!” -cried the terrified Calvinist, lifting -up her hands,—“Cease, cease,” said Elinor -with that dignity which grief alone can -give,—“If I have indeed devoted to an -earthly love that which is due to God -alone, is not my punishment certain in a -future state? Has it not already commenced -here? May not then all reproaches be -spared when we are suffering more than -human enmity can wish us,—when our -very existence is a bitterer reproach to us -than malignity can utter?”—As she spoke, -she added, wiping a cold tear from her -wasted cheek, “My stroke is heavier than -my groaning!”</p> - -<p>“At other times she appeared to listen -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_284" title="284"> </a> -to the language of the Puritan preachers -(for all were preachers who frequented the -house) with some appearance of attention, -and then, rushing from them without any -conviction but that of despair, exclaimed -in her haste, “All men are liars!” Thus -it fares with those who wish to make an -instant transition from one world to another,—it -is impossible,—the cold wave interposes—for -ever interposes, between the -wilderness and the land of promise—and -we may as soon expect to tread the -threshold which parts life and death without -pain, as to cross the interval which -separates two modes of existence so distinct -as those of passion and religion, without -struggles of the soul inexpressible—without -groanings which cannot be uttered.</p> - -<p>“To these struggles there was soon to -be an addition. Letters at this period circulated -very slowly, and were written only -on important occasions. Within a very -short period, Elinor received two letters by -express from Mortimer Castle, written by -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_285" title="285"> </a> -her cousin Margaret. The first announced -the arrival of John Sandal at the Castle,—the -second, the death of Mrs Ann,—the -postscriptums of both contained certain -mysterious hints relative to the interruption -of the marriage,—intimations that the -cause was known only to the writer, to -Sandal and to his mother,—and entreaties -that Elinor would return to the Castle, -and partake of the <em>sisterly</em> love with which -Margaret and John Sandal would be glad -to receive her. The letters dropt from her -hand as she received them,—of John Sandal -she had never ceased to think, but she -had never ceased to wish not to think,—and -his name even now gave her a pang which -she could neither utter or suppress, and -which burst forth in an involuntary shriek, -that seemed like the last string that breaks -in the exquisite and too-highly strung instrument -of the human heart.</p> - -<p>“Over the account of Mrs Ann’s death, -she lingered with that fearful feeling that -a young adventurer experiences, who sees -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_286" title="286"> </a> -a noble vessel set out before him on a -voyage of discovery, and wishes, while lingering -in harbour himself, that he was -already at the shore where <em>it</em> has arrived, -and tasted of its repose, and participated -in its treasures.</p> - -<p>“Mrs Ann’s death had not been unworthy -of that life of magnanimity and -high heroic feeling which had marked -every hour of her mortal existence—she -had espoused the cause of the rejected Elinor, -and sworn in the chapel of Mortimer -Castle, while Margaret knelt beside, never -to admit within its walls the deserter of -his betrothed bride.</p> - -<p><ins title="On">“On</ins> a dim autumnal evening, when Mrs -Ann, with fading sight but undiminished -feeling, was poring over some of Lady -Russel’s letters in manuscript, and, to relieve -her eyes, sometimes glanced on -the manuscript of Nelson’s Fasts and Festivals -of the Church of England,—it was -announced to her that a Cavalier (the servants -well knew the charm of that name -to the ear of the ancient loyalist) had -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_287" title="287"> </a> -crossed the draw-bridge, entered the hall, -and was advancing to the apartment where -she sat. “Let him be admitted,” was her -answer, and rising from her chair, which -was so lofty and so spacious, that as she -lifted herself from it to greet the stranger -with a courtly reception, her form appeared -like a spectre rising from an ancient -monument,—she stood facing the entrance—at -that entrance appeared John Sandal. -She bent forwards for a moment, but her -eyes, bright and piercing, still recognized -him in a moment.</p> - -<p>“Back!—back!”—exclaimed the stately -ancestress, waving him off with her withered -hand—“Back!—profane not this floor -with another step!”—“Hear me, madam, -for one moment—suffer me to address you, -even on my knees—I pay the homage to -your rank and relationship—misunderstand -it not as an acknowledgement of -guilt on my part!”</p> - -<p>“Mrs Ann’s features at this action -underwent a slight contraction—a short -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_288" title="288"> </a> -spasmodic affection. “Rise, Sir—rise,” -she said—“and say what you have to say—but -utter it, Sir, at the door whose -threshold you are unworthy to tread.”</p> - -<p>“John Sandal rose from his knees, and -pointed instinctively as he rose to the -portrait of Sir Roger Mortimer, to whom -he bore a striking resemblance. Mrs Ann -acknowledged the appeal—she advanced a -few steps on the oaken floor—she stood -erect for a moment, and then, pointing -with a dignity of action which no pencil -could embody to the portrait, seemed to -consider her attitude as a valid and eloquent -answer—it said—he to whose resemblance -you point, and claim protection from, never -like you dishonoured these walls by an act -of baseness—of heartless treachery! Betrayer!—look -to his portrait! Her expression -had in it something of the sublime—the -next moment a strong spasm contracted -her features—she attempted to speak, -but her lips no longer obeyed her—she -seemed to speak, but was not heard even -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_289" title="289"> </a> -by herself. She stood for a moment before -John Sandal in that rigid immoveable attitude -that says, “Advance not another -step at your peril—insult not the portraits -of your ancestors—insult not their living -representative, by another step of intrusion!” -As she spoke thus, (for her attitude -spoke), a stronger spasm contracted -her features. She attempted to move—the -same rigid constriction extended to -her limbs; and, waving her prohibitory -arm still, as if in defiance at once of the -approach of death and of her rejected -kinsman, she dropt at his feet. * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“She did not long survive the interview, -nor did she ever recover the use of -speech. Her powerful intellect was, however, -unimpaired; and to the last she expressed -herself most intelligibly by action, -as determined not to hear a word explanatory -of Sandal’s conduct. This explanation -was therefore made to Margaret, who, -though much shocked and agitated at the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_290" title="290"> </a> -first disclosure, seemed afterwards perfectly -reconciled to it. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Shortly after the receipt of these letters, -Elinor took a sudden, but perhaps -not singular resolution,—she determined to -set out immediately for Mortimer Castle. -It was not her weariness of the withering -life, the <span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc" title="abiôtos bios">αβιωτος βιος</span> she lived at her Puritanic -aunt’s—it was not the wish to enjoy -again the stately and splendid ceremonial -of Mortimer Castle, contrasted with the -frugal fare and monastic rigour of the cottage -in Yorkshire—it was not even the -wish for that change of place that always -flatters us with change of circumstance, as -if we did not carry our own hearts with us -wherever we go, and might not therefore -be sure that an innate and eroding ulcer -must be our companion from the Pole to -the Equator—it was not this, but a whisper -half unheard, yet believed, (just in -proportion as it was inaudible and incredible), -that murmured from the bottom of -her credulous heart, ‘Go—and <em>perhaps</em>’—</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_291" title="291"> </a>“Elinor set out on her journey, and -after having performed it with fewer difficulties -than can be imagined, considering -the state of the roads, and the modes of -travelling in the year 1667 or thereabouts, -she arrived in the vicinity of Mortimer -Castle. It was a scene of reminiscence to -her,—her heart throbbed audibly as the -carriage stopped at a Gothic gate, through -which there was a walk between two rows -of lofty elms. She alighted, and to the -request of the servant who followed her, -that he might be permitted to shew her -the way through a path entangled by -the intersecting roots of the trees, and -dim with twilight, she answered only -by her tears. She waved him off, and -advanced on foot and alone. She remembered, -from the bottom of her soul, -how she had once wandered amid that -very grove with John Sandal—how his -smile had shed a richer light on the -landscape, than even the purple smile of -the dying day-light. She thought of that -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_292" title="292"> </a> -smile, and lingered to catch it amid the -rich and burning hues flung by the fading -light on the many-tinted boles of the ancient -trees. The trees were there—and -the light was there—but his smile, that -once eclipsed the sun-light, was there no -longer!</p> - -<p>“She advanced alone—the lofty avenue -of trees still retained its magnificent depth -of shade, and gorgeous colouring of trunk -and leaf. She sought among them for -that which she had once felt—and God -and nature alone are conscious of the agony -with which we demand from them the -object which we are conscious was once -consecrated to our hearts, and which we -now require of both in vain! God withholds,—and -Nature denies them!</p> - -<p>“As Elinor with trembling steps advanced -towards the Castle, she saw the -funeral scutcheon which Mrs Margaret, in -honour of her grand-aunt, had caused to -be affixed over the principal tower since -her decease, with the same heraldric decorum -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_293" title="293"> </a> -as if the last male of the Mortimer -family were extinct. Elinor looked up, -and many thoughts rushed on her heart.—“There -is one departed,” she thought, -“whose mind was always fixed on glorious -thoughts—the most exalted actions of humanity, -or the sublime associations of eternity! -Her noble heart had room but for -two illustrious guests—the love of God, -and the love of her country. They tarried -with her to the last, for they found the -abode worthy of them; and when they -parted, the inmate found the mansion -untenantable any longer—the soul fled -with its glorious visitors to heaven! My -treacherous heart welcomed another inmate, -and how has he repaid its hospitality?—By -leaving the mansion in ruins!” -As she spoke thus, she approached the entrance -of the Castle.</p> - -<p>“In the spacious hall she was received -by Margaret Mortimer with the embrace -of rooted affection, and by John -Sandal, who advanced after the first enthusiasm -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_294" title="294"> </a> -of meeting was over, with that -calm and brother-like good-will, from -which there was—nothing to be hoped. -There was the same heavenly smile, the -same clasp of the hand, the same tender -and almost feminine expression of anxiety -for her safety—even Margaret herself, -who must have felt, and who did feel -the perils of the long journey, did not -enter into them with that circumstantiality, -or appear to sympathize with them -so vividly, or, when the tale of toil and -travel was told, appear to urge the necessity -of speedy retirement, with such solicitude -as did John Sandal. Elinor, faint -and gasping, grasped the hands of both, -and by an involuntary motion locked both -together. The widow Sandal was present—she -shewed much agitation at the appearance -of Elinor; but when she saw this -extraordinary and spontaneous movement, -it was observed she smiled.</p> - -<p>“Soon after, Elinor retired to the apartment -she had formerly occupied. By -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_295" title="295"> </a> -the affectionate and delicate prevoyance of -Margaret, the furniture had all been changed—there -was nothing to remind her of -former days, except her heart. She sat for -some time reflecting on her reception, and -hope died within her heart as she thought -of it. The strongest expression of aversion -or disdain would not have been so -withering.</p> - -<p>“It is certain that the fiercest passions -may be exchanged for their widest extremes -in a time incredibly short, and by -means the most incalculable. Within the -narrow circle of a day, enemies may embrace, -and lovers may hate,—but, in the -course of centuries, pure complacency and -cordial good-will never can be exalted -into passion. The wretched Elinor felt -this,—and feeling it, knew that all was -lost.</p> - -<p>“She had now, for many days, to undergo -the torture of complacent and fraternal -affection from the man she loved,—and -perhaps a keener torture was never -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_296" title="296"> </a> -endured. To feel hands that we long to -press to our burning hearts, touch ours -with cool and pulseless tranquillity—to -see eyes in whose light we live, throw on -us a cold but smiling beam, that gives -light, but not fertility, to the parched and -thirsting soil of the heart—to hear the ordinary -language of affectionate civility addressed -to us in tones of the most delicious -suavity—to seek in these expressions an -ulterior meaning, and to find it not<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> -This—this is an agony which only those -who have felt can conceive!</p> - -<p>“Elinor, with an effort that cost her -heart many a pang, mingled in the habits -of the house, which had been greatly -changed since the death of Mrs Ann. The -numerous suitors of the wealthy and noble -heiress, now crowded to the Castle; -and, according to the custom of the times, -they were sumptuously entertained, and -invited to prolong their stay by numerous -banquets.</p> - -<p>“On these occasions, John Sandal was -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_297" title="297"> </a> -the first to pay distinguished attention to -Elinor. They danced together; and though -her Puritanic education had taught her an -abhorrence of those “devil’s measures,” as -her family was accustomed to term them, -she tried to adapt herself to the gay steps -of the Canaries<a name="FootnoteMarker_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="footnote-marker">(9)</a>, and the stately movements -of the Measures—(for the newer -dances had not, even in report, reached -Mortimer Castle)—and her slender and -graceful form needed no other inspiration -than the support of John Sandal’s arms, -(who was himself an exquisite dancer), to -assume all the graces of that delightful -exercise. Even the practised courtiers -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_298" title="298"> </a> -applauded her. But, when it was over, -Elinor felt, that had John Sandal been -dancing with a being the most indifferent -to him on earth, his manner would have -been exactly the same. No one could -point with more smiling grace to her -slight deviations from the figure,—no one -could attend her to her seat with more -tender and anxious politeness, and wave -the vast fan of those days over her with -more graceful and assiduous courtesy. -But Elinor felt that these attentions, however -flattering, were offered not by a -lover. * * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Sandal was absent on a visit to some -neighbouring nobleman, and Margaret and -Elinor were one evening completely alone. -Each seemed equally anxious for an explanation, -which neither appeared willing -to begin. Elinor had lingered till twilight -at the casement, from which she -had seen him ride, and lingered still -when to see him was no longer possible. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_299" title="299"> </a> -Her sight was strained to catch a glimpse -of him through the gathering clouds, as -her imagination still toiled to catch a -gleam of that light of the heart, which -now struggled dimly amid clouds of -gloomy and unpierceable mystery. “Elinor,” -said Margaret emphatically, “look -for him no longer,—he never can be -yours!”</p> - -<p>“The sudden address, and the imperative -tone of conviction, had upon Elinor -the effect of being addressed by a -supernatural monitor. She was unable -even to ask how the terrible intelligence -that burst on her so decisively, was obtained.</p> - -<p>“There is a state of mind in which we -listen thus to a human voice as if it were -an oracle,—and instead of asking an explanation -of the destiny it announces, we -wait submissively for what yet remains to -be told. In this mood, Elinor slowly advanced -from the casement, and asked in a -voice of fearful calmness, “Has he explained -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_300" title="300"> </a> -himself perfectly to you?”—“Perfectly.”—“And -there is nothing to expect?”—“Nothing.”—“And you have -heard this from himself—his very self?”—“I -have; and, dear Elinor, let us never -again speak on the subject.”—“Never!” -answered Elinor,—“Never!”</p> - -<p>“The veracity and dignity of Margaret’s -character, were inviolable securities -for the truth of what she uttered; and -perhaps that was the very reason why Elinor -tried to shrink most from the conviction. -In a morbid state of heart, we cannot -bear truth—the falsehood that intoxicates -us for a moment, is worth more than -the truth that would disenchant us for life.—<em>I -hate him because he tells me the truth</em>, -is the language natural to the human -mind, from the slave of power to the slave -of passion. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Other symptoms that could not escape -the notice of the most shallow, struck her -every hour. That devotion of the eye and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_301" title="301"> </a> -heart,—of the language and the look, -that cannot be mistaken,—were all obviously -directed to Margaret. Still Elinor -lingered in the Castle, and said to herself, -while every day she saw and felt what was -passing, “Perhaps.” That is the last word -that quits the lips of those who love. * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“She saw with all her eyes,—she felt to -the bottom of her soul,—the obviously increasing -attachment of John Sandal and -Margaret; yet still she dreamed of interposing -obstacles,—of <em>an explanation</em>. -When passion is deprived of its proper -aliment, there is no telling the food on -which it will prey,—the impossibilities to -which, like a famished garrison, it will -look for its wretched sustenance.</p> - -<p>“Elinor had ceased to demand the heart -of the being she was devoted to. She now -lived on his looks. She said to herself, -Let him smile, though not on me, and I -am happy still—wherever the sun-light -falls, the earth must be blessed. Then she -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_302" title="302"> </a> -sunk to lower claims. She said, Let me -but be in his presence, and that is enough—let -his smiles and his soul be devoted to -another, one wandering ray may reach me, -and that will be enough!</p> - -<p>“Love is a very noble and exalting -sentiment in its first germ and principle. -We never loved without arraying the object -in all the glories of moral as well as -physical perfection, and deriving a kind of -dignity to ourselves from our capacity of -admiring a creature so excellent and dignified; -but this lavish and magnificent -prodigality of the imagination often leaves -the heart a bankrupt. Love in its iron -age of disappointment, becomes very degraded—it -submits to be satisfied with -merely exterior indulgences—a look, a -touch of the hand, though occurring by -accident—a kind word, though uttered almost -unconsciously, suffices for its humble -existence. In its first state, it is like man -before the fall, inhaling the odours of paradise, -and enjoying the communion of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_303" title="303"> </a> -the Deity; in the latter, it is like the same -being toiling amid the briar and the thistle, -barely to maintain a squalid existence -without enjoyment, utility, or loveliness. -* * * * * *</p> - -<p>“About this time, her Puritan aunt -made a strong effort to recover Elinor out of -the snare of the enemy. She wrote a long -letter (a great exertion for a woman far -advanced in years, and never in the habits -of epistolary composition) adjuring her -apostate niece to return to the guide of -her youth, and the covenant of her God,—to -take shelter in the everlasting arms -while they were still held out to her,—and -to flee to the city of refuge while its gates -were yet open to receive her. She urged -on her the truth, power, and blessedness of -the system of Calvin, which she termed -the gospel.—She supported and defended -it with all the metaphysical skill, and all -the scriptural knowledge she possessed,—and -the latter was not scanty.—And she -affectingly reminded her, that the hand -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_304" title="304"> </a> -that traced these lines, would be unable -ever to repeat the admonition, and would -probably be mouldering into dust while -she was employed in their perusal.</p> - -<p>“Elinor wept while she read, but that -was all. She wept from physical emotion, -not from mental conviction; nor is there -such an induration of heart caused by any -other power, as by that of the passion -which seems to soften it most. She answered -the letter, however, and the effort -scarce cost her less than it did her decrepid -and dying relative. She acknowledged -her dereliction of all religious feeling, and -bewailed it—the more, she added with -painful sincerity, because I <em>feel my grief -is not sincere</em>. “Oh, my God!” she continued, -“you who have clothed my heart -with such burning energies—you who -have given to it a power of loving so intense, -so devoted, so concentrated—you -have not given it in vain;—no, in some -happier world, or perhaps even in this, -when this “tyranny is overpast,” you will -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_305" title="305"> </a> -fill my heart with an image worthier than -him whom I once believed your image on -earth. The stars, though their light appears -so dim and distant to us, were not -lit by the Almighty hand in vain. Their -glorious light burns for remote and happier -worlds; and the beam of religion that -glows so feebly to eyes almost blind with -earthly tears, may be rekindled when a -broken heart has been my passport to a -place of rest. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Do not think me, dear aunt, deserted -by all hope of religion, even though I have -lost the sense of it. Was it not said by -unerring lips to a sinner, that her transgressions -were forgiven because she <em>loved -much</em>? And does not this capacity of -love prove that it will one day be more -worthily filled, and more happily employed. -* * * * * *</p> - -<p>“Miserable wretch that I am! At this -moment, a voice from the bottom of my -heart asks me “<em>Whom</em> hast thou loved so -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_306" title="306"> </a> -much? Was it man or God, that thou -darest to compare thyself with her who -knelt and wept—not before a mortal idol, -but at the feet of an incarnate divinity?” -* * * * * *</p> - -<p>“It may yet befall, that the ark which -has floated through the waste of waters -may find its resting-place, and the trembling -inmate debark on the shores of an -unknown but purer world.” * * -* * * * * *</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER <ins title="XXIX">XXXI</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_307" title="307"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">There is an oak beside the froth-clad pool,<br /></div> -<div class="line">Where in old time, as I have often heard,<br /></div> -<div class="line">A woman desperate, a wretch like me,<br /></div> -<div class="line">Ended her woes!—Her woes were not like mine!<br /></div> -<div class="line center">*   *   *   *</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span><span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span><span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>Ronan will know;<br /></div> -<div class="line">When he beholds me floating on the stream,<br /></div> -<div class="line">His heart will tell him why Rivine died!<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Home’s Fatal Discovery.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps"><ins title="The">“The</ins></span> increasing decline of Elinor’s health -was marked by all the family; the very -servant who stood behind her chair looked -sadder every day—even Margaret began -to repent of the invitation she had given -her to the Castle.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_308" title="308"> </a>“Elinor felt this, and would have spared -her what pain she could; but it was -not possible for herself to be insensible of -the fast-fading remains of her withering -youth and blighted beauty. The place—the -place itself, was the principal cause of -that mortal disease that was consuming -her; yet from that place she felt she had -less resolution to tear herself every day. -So she lived, like those sufferers in -eastern prisons, who are not allowed to -taste food unless mixed with poison, and -who must perish alike whether they eat or -forbear.</p> - -<p>“Once, urged by intolerable pain of -heart, (tortured by living in the placid -light of John Sandal’s sunny smile), she -confessed this to Margaret. She said, -“It is impossible for me to support this -existence—impossible! To tread the floor -which those steps have trod—to listen -for their approach, and when they come, -feel they do not bear him we seek—to -see every object around me reflect his -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_309" title="309"> </a> -image, but never—never to see the reality—to -see the door open which once -disclosed his figure, and when it opens, -not to see <em>him</em>, and when he does appear, -to see him not what he was—to feel -he is the same and not the same,—the -same to the eye, but not to the heart—to -struggle thus between the dream of imagination -and the cruel awaking of reality—Oh! -Margaret—that undeception plants -a dagger in the heart, whose point no -human hand can extract, and whose venom -no human hand can heal!” Margaret -wept as Elinor spoke thus, and slowly, -very slowly, expressed her consent that -Elinor should quit the Castle, if it was -necessary for her peace.</p> - -<p>“It was the very evening after this -conversation, that Elinor, whose habit -was to wander among the woods that -surrounded the Castle unattended, met -with John Sandal. It was a glorious -autumnal evening, just like that on which -they had first met,—the associations of nature -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_310" title="310"> </a> -were the same, those of the heart -alone had suffered change. There is that -light in an autumnal sky,—that shade in -autumnal woods,—that dim and hallowed -glory in the evening of the year, -which is indefinably combined with recollections. -Sandal, as they met, had -spoken to her in the same voice of melody, -and with the same heart-thrilling tenderness -of manner, that had never ceased to -visit her ear since their first meeting, like -music in dreams. She imagined there -was more than usual feeling in his manner; -and the spot where they were, and -which memory made populous and eloquent -with the imagery and speech of -other days, flattered this illusion. A -vague hope trembled at the bottom of -her heart,—she thought of what she dared -not to utter, and yet dared to believe. -They walked on together,—together they -watched the last light on the purple hills, -the deep repose of the woods, whose summits -were still like “feathers of gold,”—together -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_311" title="311"> </a> -they once more tasted the confidence -of nature, and, amid the most perfect -silence, there was a mutual and unutterable -eloquence in their hearts. The -thoughts of other days rushed on Elinor,—she -ventured to raise her eyes to that -countenance which she once more saw “as -it had been that of an angel.” The glow -and the smile, that made it appear like a -reflexion of heaven, were there still,—but -that glow was borrowed from the bright -flush of the glorious west, and that smile -was for nature,—not for her. She lingered -till she felt it fade with the fading -light,—and a <em>last</em> conviction striking her -heart, she burst into an agony of tears. -To his words of affectionate surprise, and -gentle consolation, she answered only by -fixing her appealing eyes on him, and agonizingly -invoking his name. She had -trusted to nature, and to this scene of -their first meeting, to act as an interpreter -between them,—and still even in despair -she trusted to it.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_312" title="312"> </a>“Perhaps there is not a more agonizing -moment than that in which we feel the -aspect of nature give a perfect vitality to -the associations of <em>our</em> hearts, while they -lie buried in those in which we try <em>in vain -to revive them</em>.</p> - -<p>“She was soon undeceived. With that -benignity which, while it speaks of consolation, -forbids hope—with that smile which -angels may be supposed to give on the -last conflict of a sufferer who is casting off -the garments of mortality in pain and hope—with -such an expression he whom she -loved regarded her. From another world -he might have cast such a glance on her,—and -it sealed her doom in this for ever. * -* * * * * *</p> - -<p>“As, unable to witness the agony of the -wound he had inflicted but could not heal, -he turned from her, the last light of day -faded from the hills—the sun of both -worlds set on her eye and soul—she sunk -on the earth, and notes of faint music that -seemed designed to echo the words—“No—no—no—never—never -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_313" title="313"> </a> -more!” trembled -in her ears. They were as simple and -monotonous as the words themselves, and -were played accidentally by a peasant boy -who was wandering in the woods. But -to the unfortunate, every thing seems prophetic; -and amid the shades of evening, -and accompanied by the sound of his departing -footsteps, the breaking heart of -Elinor accepted the augury of these melancholy -notes<a name="FootnoteMarker_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="footnote-marker">(10)</a>. * * * -* * * * * *</p> - -<p>“A few days after this final meeting, -Elinor wrote to her aunt in York to announce, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_314" title="314"> </a> -that if she still lived, and was not -unwilling to admit her, she would reside -with her for life; and she could not help -intimating, that <em>her</em> life would probably -not outlast that of her hostess. She did -not tell what the widow Sandal had whispered -to her at her first arrival at the Castle, -and what she now ventured to repeat -with a tone that struggled between the -imperative and the persuasive,—the conciliating -and the intimidative. Elinor -yielded,—and the indelicacy of this representation, -had only the effect to make her -shrink from its repetition.</p> - -<p>“On her departure, Margaret wept, -and Sandal shewed as much tender officiousness -about her journey, as if it were -to terminate in their renewed bridal. To -escape from this, Elinor hastened her preparations -for departure.</p> - -<p>“When she arrived at a certain distance -from the Castle, she dismissed the -family carriage, and said she would go on -foot with her female servant to the farmhouse -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_315" title="315"> </a> -where horses were awaiting her. -She went there, but remained concealed, -for the report of the approaching bridal -resounded in her ears. * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“The day arrived—Elinor rose very early—the -bells rung out a merry peal—(as she -had once heard them do on another occasion)—the -troops of friends arrived in greater -numbers, and with equal gaiety as they -had once assembled to escort her—she saw -their equipages gleaming along—she heard -the joyous shouts of half the county—she -imagined to herself the timid smile of -Margaret, and the irradiated countenance -of him who had been <em>her</em> bridegroom.</p> - -<p>“Suddenly there was a pause. She felt -that the ceremony was going on—was -finished—that the irrevocable words were -spoken—the indissoluble tie was knit! -Again the shout and wild joyance burst -forth as the sumptuous cavalcade returned -to the Castle. The glare of the equipages,—the -splendid habits of the riders,—the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_316" title="316"> </a> -cheerful groupe of shouting tenantry,<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>she -saw it all! * * * * -* * * * * *</p> - -<p>“When all was over, Elinor glanced -accidentally at her dress—it was white like -her bridal habit;—shuddering she exchanged -it for a mourning habit, and set out, as -she hoped, on her last journey.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER <ins title="XXX">XXXII</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_317" title="317"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">Fuimus, non sumus.<br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“When</span> Elinor arrived in Yorkshire, -she found her aunt was dead. Elinor -went to visit her grave. It was, in compliance -with her last request, placed near -the window of the independent meeting-house, -and bore for inscription her favourite -text, “Those whom he foreknew, he -also predestinated,” &c. &c. Elinor stood -by the grave some time, but could not -shed a tear. This contrast of a life so rigid, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_318" title="318"> </a> -and a death so hopeful,—this silence -of humanity, and eloquence of the grave,—pierced -through her heart, as it will -through every heart that has indulged in -the inebriation of human passion, and feels -that the draught has been drawn from -broken cisterns.</p> - -<p>“Her aunt’s death made Elinor’s life, -if possible, more secluded, and her habits -more monotonous than they would otherwise -have been. She was very charitable -to the cottagers in her neighbourhood; but -except to visit their habitations, she never -quitted her own. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Often she contemplated a small stream -that flowed at the end of her garden. As -she had lost all her sensibility of nature, -another motive was assigned for this mute -and dark contemplation; and her servant, -much attached to her, watched her -closely. * * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“She was roused from this fearful state -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_319" title="319"> </a> -of stupefaction and despair, which those -who have felt shudder at the attempt to -describe, by a letter from Margaret. She -had received several from her which lay -unanswered, (no unusual thing in those -days), but this she tore open, read with interest -inconceivable, and prepared instantly -to answer by action.</p> - -<p>“Margaret’s high spirits seemed to have -sunk in her hour of danger. She hinted -that that hour was rapidly approaching, -and that she earnestly implored the presence -of her affectionate kinswoman to -soothe and sustain in the moment of her -approaching peril. She added, that the -manly and affectionate tenderness of John -Sandal at this period, had touched her -heart more deeply, if possible, than all the -former testimonies of his affection—but -that she could not bear his resignation of -all his usual habits of rural amusement, and -of the neighbouring society—that she in -vain had chided him from her couch, where -she lingered in pain and hope, and hoped -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_320" title="320"> </a> -that Elinor’s presence might induce him -to yield to her request, as he must feel, on -her arrival, the dearest companion of her -youth was present—and that, at such a -moment, a female companion was more -suitable than even the gentlest and most -affectionate of the other sex. * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Elinor set out directly. The purity -of her feelings had formed an impenetrable -barrier between her heart and its object,—and -she apprehended no more danger -from the presence of one who was -wedded, and wedded to her relative, than -from that of her own brother.</p> - -<p>“She arrived at the Castle—Margaret’s -hour of danger had begun—she had been -very ill during the preceding period. The -natural consequences of her situation had -been aggravated by a feeling of dignified -responsibility on the birth of an heir to -the house of Mortimer—and this feeling -had not contributed to render that situation -more supportable.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_321" title="321"> </a>“Elinor bent over the bed of pain—pressed -her cold lips to the burning lips of -the sufferer—and prayed for her.</p> - -<p>“The first medical assistance in the -country (then very rarely employed on -such occasions) had been obtained at a -vast expence. The widow Sandal, declining -all attendance on the sufferer, -paced through the adjacent apartments in -agony unutterable and <em>unuttered</em>.</p> - -<p>“Two days and nights went on in hope -and terror—the bell-ringers sat up in every -church within ten miles round—the tenantry -crowded round the Castle with honest -heartfelt solicitude—the neighbouring -nobility sent their messages of inquiry -every hour. An accouchement in a -noble family was then an event of importance.</p> - -<p>“The hour came—twins were born dead—and -the young mother was fated to follow -them within a few hours! While life -yet remained, Margaret shewed the remains -of the lofty spirit of the Mortimers. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_322" title="322"> </a> -She sought with her cold hand that of her -wretched husband and of the weeping Elinor. -She joined them in an embrace -which one of them at least understood, -and prayed that their union might be -eternal. She then begged to see the bodies -of her infant sons—they were produced; -and it was said that she uttered expressions, -intimating that, had they not -been the heirs of the Mortimer family—had -not expectation been wound so high, -and supported by all the hopes that life -and youth could flatter her with,—she and -they might yet have existed.</p> - -<p>“As she spoke, her voice grew feebler, -and her eyes dim—their last light was -turned on him she loved; and when sight -was gone, she still felt his arms enfold her. -The next moment they enfolded—nothing!</p> - -<p>“In the terrible spasms of masculine -agony—the more intensely felt as they -are more rarely indulged—the young widower -dashed himself on the bed, which -shook with his convulsive grief; and Elinor, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_323" title="323"> </a> -losing all sense but that of a calamity -so sudden and so terrible, echoed his deep -and suffocating sobs, as if she whom they -deplored had not been the only obstacle to -her happiness. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Amid the voice of mourning that -rung through the Castle from vault to -tower in that day of trouble, none was -loud like that of the widow Sandal—her -wailings were shrieks, her grief was despair. -Rushing through the rooms like -one distracted, she tore her hair out by the -roots, and imprecated the most fearful curses -on her head. At length she approached -the apartment where the corse lay. The -servants, shocked at her distraction, would -have withheld her from entering it, but -could not. She burst into the room, cast -one wild look on its inmates—the still -corse and the dumb mourners—and then, -flinging herself on her knees before her -son, confessed the secret of her guilt, and -developed to its foul base the foundation -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_324" title="324"> </a> -of that pile of iniquity and sorrow which -had now reached its summit.</p> - -<p>“Her son listened to this horrible confession -with fixed eye and features unmoved; -and at its conclusion, when the wretched -penitent implored the assistance of her -son to raise her from her knees, he repelled -her outstretched hands, and with a -weak wild laugh, sunk back on the bed. -He never could be removed from it till -the corse to which he clung was borne -away, and then the mourners hardly knew -which to deplore—her who was deprived -of the light of life, or him in whom the -light of reason was extinguished for ever! -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“The wretched, guilty mother, (but -for her fate no one can be solicitous), a -few months after, on her dying bed, declared -the secret of her crime to a minister -of an independent congregation, who was -induced, by the report of her despair, to -visit her. She confessed that, being instigated -by avarice, and still more by the desire -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_325" title="325"> </a> -of regaining her lost consequence in the -family, and knowing the wealth and dignity -her son would acquire, and in which -she must participate, by his marriage with -Margaret, she had, after using all the -means of persuasion and intreaty, been -driven, in despair at her disappointment, -to fabricate a tale as false as it was horrible, -which she related to her deluded son -on the evening before his intended nuptials -with Elinor. She had assured him -he was not her son, but the offspring of -the illicit commerce of her husband the -preacher with the Puritan mother of Elinor, -who had formerly been one of his -congregation, and whose well-known and -strongly-expressed admiration of his preaching -had been once supposed extended to -his person,—had caused her much jealous -anxiety in the early years of their marriage, -and was now made the basis of this -horrible fiction. She added, that Margaret’s -obvious attachment to her cousin had, -in some degree, palliated her guilt to herself; -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_326" title="326"> </a> -but that, when she saw him quit her -house in despair on the morning of his intended -marriage, and rush he knew not -whither, she was half tempted to recall -him, and confess the truth. Her mind -again became hardened, and she reflected -that her secret was safe, as she had bound -him by an oath, from respect to his father’s -memory, and compassion to the -guilty mother of Elinor, never to disclose -the truth to her daughter.</p> - -<p>“The event had succeeded to her guilty -wishes.—Sandal beheld Elinor with the -eyes of a brother, and the image of Margaret -easily found a place in his unoccupied -affections. But, as often befals to the -dealers in falsehood and obliquity, the apparent -accomplishment of her hopes proved -her ruin. In the event of the marriage -of John and Margaret proving issueless, -the estates and title went to the distant -relative named in the will; and her son, -deprived of reason by the calamities in -which her arts had involved him, was by -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_327" title="327"> </a> -them also deprived of the wealth and rank -to which they were meant to raise him, -and reduced to the small pension obtained -by his former services,—the poverty of the -King, then himself a pensioner of Lewis -XIV., forbidding the possibility of added -remuneration. When the minister heard -to the last the terrible confession of the -dying penitent, in the awful language -ascribed to Bishop Burnet when consulted -by another criminal,—he bid her “almost -despair,” and departed. * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Elinor has retired, with the helpless -object of her unfading love and unceasing -care, to her cottage in Yorkshire. There, -in the language of that divine and blind -old man, the fame of whose poetry has not -yet reached this country, it is</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">“Her delight to see him sitting in the house,”<br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent">and watch, like the father of the Jewish -champion, the growth of that “God-given -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_328" title="328"> </a> -strength,” that intellectual power, which, -unlike Samson’s, will never return.</p> - -<p>“After an interval of two years, during -which she had expended a large part of -the capital of her fortune in obtaining the -first medical advice for the patient, and -“suffered many things of many physicians,” -she gave up all hope,—and, reflecting -that the interest of her fortune thus -diminished would be but sufficient to procure -the comforts of life for herself and him -whom she has resolved never to forsake, -she sat down in patient misery with her -melancholy companion, and added one -more to the many proofs of woman’s -heart, “unwearied in well-doing,” without -the intoxication of passion, the excitement -of applause, or even the gratitude of -the unconscious object.</p> - -<p>“Were this a life of calm privation, -and pulseless apathy, her efforts would -scarce have merit, and her sufferings hardly -demand compassion; but it is one of -pain incessant and immitigable. The first-born -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_329" title="329"> </a> -of her heart lies dead within it; but -that heart is still alive with all its keenest -sensibilities, its most vivid hopes, and its -most exquisite sense of grief. * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“She sits beside him all day—she -watches that eye whose light was life, and -sees it fixed on her in glassy and unmeaning -complacency—she dreams of that -smile which burst on her soul like the -morning sun over a landscape in spring, -and sees that smile of vacancy which tries -to convey satisfaction, but cannot give it -the language of expression. Averting -her head, she thinks of other days. A vision -passes before her.—Lovely and glorious -things, the hues of whose colouring -are not of this world, and whose web is too -fine to be woven in the loom of life,—rise to -her eye like the illusions of enchantment. -A strain of rich remembered music floats -in her hearing—she dreams of the hero, -the lover, the beloved,—him in whom were -united all that could dazzle the eye, inebriate -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_330" title="330"> </a> -the imagination, and melt the heart. -She sees him as he first appeared to her,—and -the mirage of the desert present not a -vision more delicious and deceptive—she -bends to drink of that false fountain, and -the stream disappears—she starts from her -reverie, and hears the weak laugh of the -sufferer, as he moves a little water in a -shell, and imagines he sees the ocean in a -storm! * * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“She has one consolation. When a -short interval of recollection returns,—when -his speech becomes articulate,—he -utters <em>her</em> name, not that of Margaret, -and a beam of early hope dances on her -heart as she hears it, but fades away as fast -as the rare and wandering ray of intellect -from the lost mind of the sufferer! * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Unceasingly attentive to his health -and his comforts, she walked out with -him every evening, but led him through -the most sequestered paths, to avoid those -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_331" title="331"> </a> -whose mockful persecution, or whose vacant -pity, might be equally torturing to -her feelings, or harassing to her still gentle -and smiling companion.</p> - -<p>“It was at this period,” said the stranger -to Aliaga, “I first became acquainted -with<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> I mean—at this time a stranger, -who had taken up his abode near the -hamlet where Elinor resided, was seen to -watch the two figures as they passed slowly -on their retired walk. Evening after -evening he watched them. He knew the -history of these two unhappy beings, and -prepared himself to take advantage of it. -It was impossible, considering their secluded -mode of existence, to obtain an introduction. -He tried to recommend himself -by his occasional attentions to the invalid—he -sometimes picked up the flowers that -an unconscious hand flung into the stream, -and listened, with a gracious smile, to the -indistinct sounds in which the sufferer, -who still retained all the graciousness -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_332" title="332"> </a> -of his perished mind, attempted to thank -him.</p> - -<p>“Elinor felt grateful for these occasional -attentions; but she was somewhat alarmed -at the assiduity with which the stranger -attended their melancholy walk every -evening,—and, whether encouraged, neglected, -or even repelled, still found the -means of insinuating himself into companionship. -Even the mournful dignity of -Elinor’s demeanour,—her deep dejection,—her -bows or brief replies,—were unavailing -against the gentle but indefatigable -importunity of the intruder.</p> - -<p>“By degrees he ventured to speak to -her of her misfortunes,—and that topic is -a sure key to the confidence of the unhappy. -Elinor began to listen to him;—and, -though somewhat amazed at the knowledge -he displayed of every circumstance -of her life, she could not but feel soothed -by the tone of sympathy in which he -spoke, and excited by the mysterious hints -of hope which he sometimes suffered to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_333" title="333"> </a> -escape him as if involuntarily. It was observed -soon by the inmates of the hamlet, -whom idleness and the want of any object -of excitement had made curious, that Elinor -and the stranger were inseparable in -their evening walks. * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“It was about a fortnight after this observation -was first made, that Elinor, unattended, -drenched with rain, and her head -uncovered, loudly and eagerly demanded -admittance, at a late hour, at the house of -a neighbouring clergyman. She was admitted,—and -the surprise of her reverend -host at this visit, equally unseasonable and -unexpected, was exchanged for a deeper -feeling of wonder and terror as she related -the cause of it. He at first imagined -(knowing her unhappy situation) that the -constant presence of an insane person -might have a contagious effect on the intellects -of one so perseveringly exposed to -that presence.</p> - -<p>“As Elinor, however, proceeded to disclose -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_334" title="334"> </a> -the awful proposal, and the scarcely -less awful name of the unholy intruder, -the clergyman betrayed considerable emotion; -and, after a long pause, desired permission -to accompany her on their next -meeting. This was to be the following -evening, for the stranger was unremitting -in his attendance on her lonely walks.</p> - -<p>“It is necessary to mention, that this -clergyman had been for some years abroad—that -events had occurred to him in foreign -countries, of which strange reports -were spread, but on the subject of which -he had been always profoundly silent—and -that having but lately fixed his residence -in the neighbourhood, he was equally a -stranger to Elinor, and to the circumstances -of her past life, and of her present situation. * * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“It was now autumn,—the evenings -were growing short,—and the brief twilight -was rapidly succeeded by night. On -the dubious verge of both, the clergyman -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_335" title="335"> </a> -quitted his house, and went in the direction -where Elinor told him she was accustomed -to meet the stranger.</p> - -<p>“They were there before him; and in -the shuddering and averted form of Elinor, -and the stern but calm importunity -of her companion, he read the terrible secret -of their conference. Suddenly he advanced -and stood before the stranger. -They immediately recognised each other. -An expression that was never before beheld -there—an expression of fear—wandered -over the features of the stranger! -He paused for a moment, and then departed -without uttering a word—nor was -Elinor ever again molested by his presence. -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“It was some days before the clergyman -recovered from the shock of this singular -encounter sufficiently to see Elinor, -and explain to her the cause of his deep -and painful agitation.</p> - -<p>“He sent to announce to her when he -was able to receive her, and appointed the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_336" title="336"> </a> -night for the time of meeting, for he -knew that during the day she never forsook -the helpless object of her unalienated -heart. The night arrived—imagine them -seated in the antique study of the clergyman, -whose shelves were filled with the -ponderous volumes of ancient learning—the -embers of a peat fire shed a dim and -fitful light through the room, and the -single candle that burned on a distant -oaken stand, seemed to shed its light on -that alone—not a ray fell on the figures of -Elinor and her companion, as they sat in -their massive chairs of carved-like figures -in the richly-wrought nitches of some Catholic -place of worship<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>”</p> - -<p>“That is a most profane and abominable -comparison,” said Aliaga, starting from -the doze in which he had frequently indulged -during this long narrative.</p> - -<p>“But hear the result,” said the pertinacious -narrator. “The clergyman confessed -to Elinor that he had been acquainted -with an Irishman of the name of Melmoth, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_337" title="337"> </a> -whose various erudition, profound -intellect, and intense appetency for information, -had interested him so deeply as to -lead to a perfect intimacy between them. -At the breaking out of the troubles in -England, the clergyman had been compelled, -with his father’s family, to seek refuge -in Holland. There again he met -Melmoth, who proposed to him a journey -to Poland—the offer was accepted, and to -Poland they went. The clergyman here -told many extraordinary tales of Dr Dee, -and of Albert Alasco, the Polish adventurer, -who were their companions both -in England and Poland—and he added, -that he felt his companion Melmoth was -irrevocably attached to the study of that -art which is held in just abomination by -all “who name the name of Christ.” The -power of the intellectual vessel was too -great for the narrow seas where it was -coasting—it longed to set out on a voyage -of discovery—in other words, Melmoth attached -himself to those impostors, or worse, -who promised him the knowledge and the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_338" title="338"> </a> -power of the future world—on conditions -that are unutterable.” A strange expression -crossed his face as he spoke. He recovered -himself, and added, “From that hour -our intercourse ceased. I conceived of -him as of one given up to diabolical delusions—to -the power of the enemy.</p> - -<p><ins title="I">“I</ins> had not seen Melmoth for some years. -I was preparing to quit Germany, when, -on the eve of my departure, I received -a message from a person who announced -himself as my friend, and who, believing -himself dying, wished for the attendance -of a Protestant minister. We were then -in the territories of a Catholic electoral -bishop. I lost no time in attending the -sick person. As I entered his room, conducted -by a servant, who immediately -closed the door and retired, I was astonished -to see the room filled with an astrological -apparatus, books and implements -of a science I did not understand; in a -corner there was a bed, near which there -was neither priest or physician, relative or -friend—on it lay extended the form of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_339" title="339"> </a> -Melmoth. I approached, and attempted -to address to him some words of consolation. -He waved his hand to me to be -silent—and I was so. The recollection -of his former habits and pursuits, and the -view of his present situation, had an effect -that appalled more than it amazed me. -“Come near,” said Melmoth, speaking -very faintly—“nearer. I am dying—how -my life has been passed you know but -too well. Mine was the great angelic sin—pride -and intellectual glorying! It was -the first mortal sin—a boundless aspiration -after forbidden knowledge! I am now -dying. I ask for no forms of religion—I -wish not to hear words that have to me -no meaning, or that I wish had none! -Spare your look of horror. I sent for -you to exact your solemn promise that -you will conceal from every human being -the fact of my death—let no man know -that I died, or when, or where.”</p> - -<p>“He spoke with a distinctness of tone, -and energy of manner, that convinced -me he could not be in the state he described -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_340" title="340"> </a> -himself to be, and I said, “But I -cannot believe you are dying—your intellects -are clear, your voice is strong, -your language is coherent, and but for -the paleness of your face, and your lying -extended on that bed, I could not even -imagine you were ill.” He answered, -“Have you patience and courage to abide -by the proof that what I say is true?” -I replied, that I doubtless had patience, -and for the courage, I looked to that Being -for whose name I had too much reverence -to utter in his hearing. He acknowledged -my forbearance by a ghastly -smile which I understood too well, and -pointed to a clock that stood at the foot -of his bed. “Observe,” said he, “the hour-hand -is on eleven, and I am now sane, -clear of speech, and apparently healthful—tarry -but an hour, and you yourself will -behold me dead!”</p> - -<p>“I remained by his bed-side—the eyes of -both were fixed intently on the slow motion -of the clock. From time to time he -spoke, but his strength now appeared obviously -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_341" title="341"> </a> -declining. He repeatedly urged -on me the necessity of profound secresy, -its importance to myself, and yet he hinted -at the possibility of our future meeting. -I asked why he thought proper to -confide to me a secret whose divulgement -was so perilous, and which might have -been so easily concealed? Unknowing whether -he existed, or where, I must have -been equally ignorant of the mode and -place of his death. To this he returned -no answer. As the hand of the clock approached -the hour of twelve, his countenance -changed—his eyes became dim—his -speech inarticulate—his jaw dropped—his -respiration ceased. I applied a glass -to his lips—but there was not a breath to -stain it. I felt his wrist—but there was no -pulse. I placed my hand on his heart—there -was not the slightest vibration. In -a few minutes the body was perfectly -cold. I did not quit the room till nearly -an hour after—the body gave no signs of -returning animation.</p> - -<p>“Unhappy circumstances detained me -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_342" title="342"> </a> -long abroad. I was in various parts of the -Continent, and every where I was haunted -with the report of Melmoth being still -alive. To these reports I gave no credit, -and returned to England in the full conviction -of his being dead. <em>Yet it was -Melmoth who walked and spoke with you -the last night of our meeting.</em> My eyes -never more faithfully attested the presence -of living being. It was Melmoth himself, -such as I beheld him many years ago, -when my hairs were dark and my steps -were firm. I am changed, but he is the -same—time seems to have forborne to -touch him from terror. By what means or -power he is thus enabled to continue his -posthumous and preternatural existence, -it is impossible to conceive, unless the -fearful report that every where followed -his steps on the Continent, be indeed true.”</p> - -<p>“Elinor, impelled by terror and wild -curiosity, inquired into that report which -dreadful experience had anticipated the -meaning of. “Seek no farther,” said the -minister, “you know already more than -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_343" title="343"> </a> -should ever have reached the human ear, -or entered into the conception of the human -mind. Enough that you have been enabled -by Divine Power to repel the assaults -of the evil one—the trial was terrible, -but the result will be glorious. Should -the foe persevere in his attempts, remember -that he has been already repelled amid -the horrors of the dungeon and of the -scaffold, the screams of Bedlam and the -flames of the Inquisition—he is yet to be -subdued by a foe that he deemed of all -others the least invincible—the withered -energies of a broken heart. He has traversed -the earth in search of victims, -“Seeking whom he might devour,”—and -has found no prey, even where he might -seek for it with all the cupidity of infernal -expectation. Let it be your glory and -crown of rejoicing, that even the feeblest -of his adversaries has repulsed him with -a power that will always annihilate his.” -* * * * -* * * *</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_344" title="344"> </a>“Who is that faded form that supports -with difficulty an emaciated invalid, and -seems at every step to need the support -she gives?—It is still Elinor tending John. -Their path is the same, but the season is -changed—and that change seems to her to -have passed alike on the mental and physical -world. It is a dreary evening in -Autumn—the stream flows dark and turbid -beside their path—the blast is groaning -among the trees, and the dry discoloured -leaves are sounding under their -feet—their walk is uncheered by human -converse, for one of them no longer thinks, -and seldom speaks!</p> - -<p>“Suddenly he gives a sign that he -wishes to be seated—it is complied with, -and she sits beside him on the felled -trunk of a tree. He declines his head -on her bosom, and she feels with delighted -amazement, a few tears streaming -on it for the first time for years—a -soft but conscious pressure of her -hand, seems to her like the signal of reviving -intelligence—with breathless hope -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_345" title="345"> </a> -she watches him as he slowly raises his -head, and fixes his eyes—God of all consolation, -there is intelligence in his glance! -He thanks her with an unutterable look -for all her care, her long and painful labour -of love! His lips are open, but long -unaccustomed to utter human sounds, the -effort is made with difficulty—again that -effort is repeated and fails—his strength is -exhausted—his eyes close—his last gentle -sigh is breathed on the bosom of faith and -love—and Elinor soon after said to those -who surrounded her bed, that she died -happy, since he knew her once more! She -gave one parting awful sign to the minister, -which was understood and answered!</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER <ins title="XXXI">XXXIII</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_346" title="346"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">Cum mihi non tantum furesque feræque suëtæ,<br /></div> -<div class="line">Hunc vexare locum, curæ sunt atque labori;<br /></div> -<div class="line">Quantum carminibus quæ versant atque venenis,<br /></div> -<div class="line">Humanos animos.<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Horace.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“It</span> is inconceivable to me,” said Don -Aliaga to himself, as he pursued his journey -the next day—“it is inconceivable to -me how this person forces himself on my -company, harasses me with tales that have -no more application to me than the legend -of the Cid, and may be as apocryphal as -the ballad of Roncesvalles—and now he -has ridden by my side all day, and, as if -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_347" title="347"> </a> -to make amends for his former uninvited -and unwelcome communicativeness, he -has never once opened his lips.”</p> - -<p>“Senhor,” said the stranger, then speaking -for the first time, as if he read Aliaga’s -thoughts—“I acknowledge myself in error -for relating to you a narrative in which -you must have felt there was little to interest -you. Permit me to atone for it, by -recounting to you a very brief one, in -which I flatter myself you will be disposed -to feel a very peculiar interest.”—“You -assure me it will be brief,” said Aliaga. -“Not only so, but the last I shall obtrude -on your patience,” replied the stranger. -“On that condition,” said Aliaga, “in -God’s name, brother, proceed. And look -you handle the matter discreetly, as you -have said.”</p> - -<p>“There was,” said the stranger, “a certain -Spanish merchant, who set out prosperously -in business; but, after a few -years, finding his affairs assume an unfavourable -aspect, and being tempted by an -offer of partnership with a relative who -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_348" title="348"> </a> -was settled in the East Indies, had embarked -for those countries with his wife -and son, leaving behind him an infant -daughter in Spain.”—“That was exactly -my case,” said Aliaga, wholly unsuspicious -of the tendency of this tale.</p> - -<p>“Two years of successful occupation -restored him to opulence, and to the hope -of vast and future accumulation. Thus -encouraged, our Spanish merchant entertained -ideas of settling in the East Indies, -and sent over for his young daughter with -her nurse, who embarked for the East Indies -with the first opportunity, which was -then very rare.”—“This reminds me exactly -of what occurred to myself,” said -Aliaga, whose faculties were somewhat -obtuse.</p> - -<p>“The nurse and infant were supposed -to have perished in a storm which wrecked -the vessel on an isle near the mouth -of a river, and in which the crew and -passengers perished. It was said that the -nurse and child alone escaped; that by -some extraordinary chance they arrived -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_349" title="349"> </a> -at this isle, where the nurse died from -fatigue and want of nourishment, and -the child survived, and grew up a wild -and beautiful daughter of nature, feeding -on fruits,—and sleeping amid roses,—and -drinking the pure element,—and inhaling -the harmonies of heaven,—and repeating -to herself the few Christian words her -nurse had taught her, in answer to the -melody of the birds that sung to her, and -of the stream whose waves murmured in -accordance to the pure and holy music of -her unearthly heart.”—“I never heard a -word of this before,” muttered Aliaga to -himself. The stranger went on.</p> - -<p>“It was said that some vessel in distress -arrived at the isle,—that the captain had -rescued this lovely lonely being from the -brutality of the sailors,—and, discovering -from some remains of the Spanish tongue -which she still spoke, and which he supposed -must have been cultivated during -the visits of some other wanderer to the -isle, he undertook, like a man of honour, -to conduct her to her parents, whose names -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_350" title="350"> </a> -she could tell, though not their residence, -so acute and tenacious is the memory of -infancy. He fulfilled his promise, and the -pure and innocent being was restored to -her family, who were then residing in the -city of Benares.” Aliaga, at these words, -stared with a look of intelligence somewhat -ghastly. He could not interrupt the -stranger—he drew in his breath, and closed -his teeth.</p> - -<p>“I have since heard,” said the stranger, -“that the family has returned to Spain,—that -the beautiful inhabitant of the foreign -isle is become the idol of your cavaliers of -Madrid,—your loungers of the Prado,—your -<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">sacravienses</i>,—your—by what other -name of contempt shall I call them? But -listen to me,—there is an eye fixed on her, -and its fascination is more deadly than -that fabled of the snake!—There is an arm -extended to seize her, in whose grasp humanity -withers!—That arm even now relaxes -for a moment,—its fibres thrill with -pity and horror,—it releases the victim for -a moment,—it even beckons her father to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_351" title="351"> </a> -her aid!—Don Francisco, do you understand -me now?—Has this tale interest or -application for you?”</p> - -<p>“He paused, but Aliaga, chilled with -horror, was unable to answer him but by -a feeble exclamation. “If it has,” resumed -the stranger, “lose not a moment to -save your daughter!” and, clapping spurs -to his mule, he disappeared through a -narrow passage among the rocks, apparently -never intended to be trod by earthly -traveller. Aliaga was not a man susceptible -of strong impressions from nature; -but, if he had been, the scene amid which -this mysterious warning was uttered would -have powerfully ministered to its effect. -The time was evening,—a grey and misty -twilight hung over every object;—the -way lay through a rocky road, that wound -among mountains, or rather stony hills, -bleak and bare as those which the weary -traveller through the <a name="FootnoteMarker_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="footnote-marker">(11)</a>western isle sees -rising amid the moors, to which they form -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_352" title="352"> </a> -a contrast without giving a relief. Heavy -rains had made deep gullies amid the hills, -and here and there a mountain-stream -brawled amid its stony channel, like a proud -and noisy upstart, while the vast chasms -that had been the beds of torrents which -once swept through them in thunder, now -stood gaping and ghastly like the deserted -abodes of ruined nobility. Not a sound -broke on the stillness, except the monotonous -echo of the hoofs of the mules answered -from the hollows of the hill, and -the screams of the birds, which, after a few -short circles in the damp and cloudy air, -fled back to their retreats amid the cliffs. -* * * * * -* * * *</p> - -<p>“It is almost incredible, that after this -warning, enforced as it was by the perfect -acquaintance which the stranger displayed -of Aliaga’s former life and family-circumstances, -it should not have had the effect of -making him hurry homewards immediately, -particularly as it seems he thought it -of sufficient importance to make it the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_353" title="353"> </a> -subject of correspondence with his wife. -So it was however.</p> - -<p>“At the moment of the stranger’s departure, -it was his resolution not to lose -a moment in hastening homewards; but -at the next stage he arrived at, there were -letters of business awaiting him. A mercantile -correspondent gave him the information -of the probable failure of a house -in a distant part of Spain, where his speedy -presence might be of vital consequence. -There were also letters from Montilla, his -intended son-in-law, informing him that -the state of his father’s health was so precarious, -it was impossible to leave him till -his fate was decided. As the decisions of -fate involved equally the wealth of the -son, and the life of the father, Aliaga could -not help thinking there was as much prudence -as affection in this resolution.</p> - -<p>“After reading these letters, Aliaga’s -mind began to flow in its usual channel. -There is no breaking through the inveterate -habitudes of a thorough-paced mercantile -mind, “though one rose from the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_354" title="354"> </a> -dead.” Besides, by this time the mysterious -image of the stranger’s presence and -communications were fading fast from a -mind not at all habituated to visionary -impressions. He shook off the terrors of -this visitation by the aid of time, and gave -his courage the credit due to that aid. -Thus we all deal with the illusions of the -imagination,—with this difference only, -that the impassioned recal them with the -tear of regret, and the unimaginative with -the blush of shame. Aliaga set out for -the distant part of Spain where his presence -was to save this tottering house in -which he had an extensive concern, and -wrote to Donna Clara, that it might be -some months before he returned to the -neighbourhood of Madrid.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER <ins title="XXXII">XXXIV</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_355" title="355"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">Husband, husband, I’ve the ring<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">Thou gavest to-day to me;<br /></div> -<div class="line">And thou to me art ever wed,<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">As I am wed to thee!<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Little’s Poems.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“The</span> remainder of that dreadful night -when Isidora disappeared, had been passed -almost in despair by Donna Clara, who, -amid all her rigour and chilling mediocrity, -had still the feelings of a mother—and -by Fra Jose, who, with all his selfish luxury -and love of domination, had a heart -where distress never knocked for admittance, -that she did not find pity ready to -open the door.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_356" title="356"> </a>“The distress of Donna Clara was aggravated -by her fear of her husband, of -whom she stood in great awe, and who, -she dreaded, might reproach her with unpardonable -negligence of her maternal authority.</p> - -<p>“In this night of distress, she was often -tempted to call on her son for advice and -assistance; but the recollection of his violent -passions deterred her, and she sat -in passive despair till day. Then, with -an unaccountable impulse, she rose from -her seat, and hurried to her daughter’s apartment, -as if she imagined that the events -of the preceding night were only a fearful -and false illusion that would be dispersed -by the approach of day.</p> - -<p>“It seemed, indeed, as if they were, for -on the bed lay Isidora in a profound sleep, -with the same pure and placid smile as -when she was lulled into slumber by the -melodies of nature, and the sound was prolonged -in her dream by the whispered -songs of the spirits of the Indian Ocean. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_357" title="357"> </a> -Donna Clara uttered a shriek of surprise, -that had the singular effect of rousing Fra -Jose from a deep sleep into which he had -fallen at the approach of day. Starting at -the sound, the good-natured, pampered -priest, tottered into the room, and saw, -with incredulity that slowly yielded to -frequent application to his obstinate and -adhesive eye-lids, the form of Isidora extended -in profound slumber.</p> - -<p>“Oh what an exquisite enjoyment!” -said the yawning priest, as he looked on -the sleeping beauty without another emotion -than that of the delight of an uninterrupted -repose.—“Pray, don’t disturb her,” -he said, yawning himself out of the room—“after -such a night as we all have had, -sleep must be a very refreshing and laudable -exercise; and so I commend you to -the protection of the holy saints!”—“Oh -reverend Father!—Oh holy Father!” cried -Donna Clara clinging to him, “desert me -not in this extremity—this has been the -work of magic—of infernal spirits. See -how profoundly she sleeps, though we are -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_358" title="358"> </a> -speaking, and it is now day-light.”—“Daughter, -you are much mistaken,” answered -the drowsy priest; “people can sleep -soundly even in the day-time; and for proof -send me, as I am now retiring to rest, a -bottle of Foncarral or Valdepenas—not -that I value the richest vintage of Spain -from the Chacoli of Biscay to the Mataro -of Catalonia,<a name="FootnoteMarker_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="footnote-marker">(12)</a> but I would never have -it said that I slept in the day-time, but -for sufficient reason.”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>“Holy Father!” -answered Donna Clara, “do you not think -my daughter’s disappearance and intense -slumber are the result of preternatural -causes?”—“Daughter,” answered the priest, -contracting his brows, “let me have some -wine to slake the intolerable thirst caused -by my anxiety for the welfare of your -family, and let me meditate some hours -afterwards on the measures best to be -adopted, and then—when I awake, I will -give you my opinion.”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>“Holy Father, -you shall judge for me in every -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_359" title="359"> </a> -thing.”—“It were not amiss, daughter,” -said the priest retiring, “if a few slices -of ham, or some poignant sausages, accompanied -the wine—it might, as it were, abate -the deleterious effects of that abominable -liquor, which I never drink but on emergencies -like these.”—“Holy Father, they -shall be ordered,” said the anxious mother—“but -do you not think my daughter’s -sleep is supernatural?”—“Follow -me to mine apartment, daughter,” answered -the priest, exchanging his cowl for -a night-cap, which one of the numerous -household obsequiously presented him, -“and you will soon see that sleep is a -natural effect of a natural cause. Your -daughter has doubtless passed a very fatiguing -night, and so have you, and so -have I, though perhaps from very different -causes; but all those causes dispose us to -a profound repose.—I have no doubt of -mine—fetch up the wine and sausages—I -am very weary—Oh I am weak and worn -with fasts and watching, and the labours -of exhortation. My tongue cleaves to the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_360" title="360"> </a> -roof of my mouth, and my jaws cling together,—perhaps -a draught or two might -dissolve their parching adhesion. But I do -so hate wine<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>why the devil don’t you -fetch up the bottle?”</p> - -<p>“The attendant domestic, terrified by -the tone of wrath in which the last words -were uttered, hurried on with submissive -expedition, and Fra Jose sat down at -length in his apartment to ruminate on -the calamities and perplexities of the family, -till he was actually overcome by the -subject, and exclaimed in a tone of despair, -“Both bottles empty! Then it is useless -to meditate further on this subject.” * -* * * *</p> - -<p>“He was roused at an earlier hour than -he wished, by a message from Donna -Clara, who, in the distress of a weak mind, -accustomed always to factitious and external -support, now felt as if every step she -took without it, must lead to actual and -instant perdition. Her fear of her husband, -next to her superstitious fears, held the -strongest power over her mind, and that -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_361" title="361"> </a> -morning she called Fra Jose to an early -consultation of terror and inquietude.—Her -great object was to conceal, if possible, -the absence of her daughter on that -eventful night; and finding that none of -the domestics appeared conscious of it, and -that amid the numerous household, only -<em>one aged servant was absent</em>, of whose -absence no one took notice amid the superfluous -multitude of a Spanish establishment, -her courage began to revive. It was -raised still higher by a letter from Aliaga, -announcing the necessity of his visiting a -distant part of Spain, and of the marriage -of his daughter with Montilla being deferred -for some months<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>this sounded -like reprieve in the ears of Donna Clara—she -consulted with the priest, who answered -in words of comfort, that if Donna -Isidora’s short absence were known, it was -but a slight evil, and if it were not known, -it was none at all,—and he recommended -to her, to ensure the secresy of the -servants by means that he swore by his -habit were infallible, as he had known them -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_362" title="362"> </a> -operate effectively among the servants of a -far more powerful and extensive establishment.—“Reverend -Father,” said Donna -Clara, “I know of no establishment among -the grandees of Spain more splendid than -ours.”—“But I do, daughter,” said the -priest, “and the head of that establishment -is—the Pope;—but go now, and awake -your daughter, who deserves to sleep till -dooms-day, as she seems totally to have -forgotten the hour of breakfast. It is not -for myself I speak, daughter, but I cannot -bear to see the regularity of a magnificent -household thus interrupted; for myself, -a basin of chocolate, and a cluster of -grapes, will be sufficient; and to allay -the crudity of the grapes, a glass of -Malaga.—Your glasses, by the bye, are the -shallowest I ever drank out of—could you -not find some means to get from Ildefonso<a name="FootnoteMarker_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="footnote-marker">(13)</a> -glasses of the right make, with short -shanks and ample bodies? Yours resemble -those of Quichotte, all limbs and no trunk. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_363" title="363"> </a> -I like one that resembles his squire, a spacious -body and a shank that may be measured -by my little finger.”—“I will send -to St Ildefonso this day,” answered Donna -Clara.—“Go and awake your daughter -first,” said the priest.</p> - -<p>“As he spoke, Isidora entered the -room—the mother and the priest both -stood amazed. Her countenance was as -serene, her step as equal, and her mein as -composed, as if she were totally unconscious -of the terror and distress her disappearance -the preceding night had caused. -To the first short silence of amazement, -succeeded a storm of interrogations from -Donna Clara and Fra Jose in concert—why—where—wherefore—and -what, and -with whom and how—that was all they -could articulate. They might as well -have spared themselves the trouble, for -neither that day nor many following, could -the remonstrances, intreaties, or menaces -of her mother, aided by the spiritual authority -and more powerful anxiety of the -priest, extort from her a word of explanation -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_364" title="364"> </a> -on the cause of her absence that awful -night. When closely and sternly pressed, -Isidora’s mind seemed to assume something -of the wild but potent spirit of independence, -which her early habits and -feelings might have communicated to her. -She had been her own teacher and mistress -for seventeen years, and though naturally -gentle and tractable, when imperious -mediocrity attempted to tyrannize over -her, she felt a sense of disdain which she -expressed only by profound silence.</p> - -<p>“Fra Jose, incensed at her obstinacy, and -trembling for the loss of his power over -the family, threatened to exclude her from -confession, unless she disclosed to him the -secret of that night—“Then I will confess -to God!” said Isidora. Her mother’s importunity -she found it more difficult to resist, -for her feminine heart loved all that was -feminine even in its most unattractive -shape, and the persecution from that quarter -was alike monotonous and unremitting.</p> - -<p>“There was a weak but harassing -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_365" title="365"> </a> -tenacity about Donna Clara, that is the -general adjunct to the female character -when it combines intellectual mediocrity -with rigid principle. When she laid siege -to a secret, the garrison might as well capitulate -at once.—What she wanted in vigour -and ability, she supplied by a minute -and gnawing assiduity. She never ventured -to carry the fort by storm, but her obstinacy -blockaded it till it was forced to -surrender. But here even <em>her</em> importunity -failed.—Isidora remained respectfully, but -resolutely silent; finding matters thus desperate, -Donna Clara, who had a fine talent -for keeping as well as discovering a secret, -agreed with Fra Jose not to utter a syllable -of the business to her father and brother.—“We -will show,<ins title="“">”</ins> said Donna -Clara, with a sagacious and self-approving -nod, “that we can keep a secret as well as -she.”—“Right, daughter,” said Fra Jose, -“imitate her in the only point in which -you can flatter yourself with the hope of -resemblance. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_366" title="366"> </a>“The secret was, however, soon disclosed. -Some months had elapsed, and the -visits of her husband began to give an habitual -calm and confidence to the mind of -Isidora. He imperceptibly was exchanging -his ferocious misanthropy for a kind of pensive -gloom.—It was like the dark, cold, but -unterrific and comparatively soothing night, -that succeeds to a day of storm and earthquake. -The sufferers remember the terrors -of the day, and the still darkness of -the night feels to them like a shelter. -Isidora gazed on her espoused with delight, -when she saw no longer his withering -frown, or more withering smile; and -she felt the hope that the calm purity -of female hearts always suggests, that its -influence will one day float over the formless -and the void, like the spirit that moved -upon the face of the waters; and that the -unbelieving husband may yet be saved -by the believing wife.</p> - -<p>“These thoughts were her comfort, and -it was well she had thoughts to comfort -her, for facts are miserable allies when imagination -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_367" title="367"> </a> -fights its battle with despair. On -one of those nights that she expected Melmoth, -he found her employed in her -usual hymn to the Virgin, which she accompanied -on her lute. “Is it not rather -late to sing your vesper hymn to the -Virgin after midnight?” said Melmoth -with a ghastly smile. “Her ear is open -at all <ins title="simes">times</ins>, I have been told,” answered -Isidora.—“If it is, then, love,” said Melmoth, -vaulting as usual through the casement, -“add a stanza to your hymn in favour -of me.”—“Alas!” said Isidora, dropping -her lute, “you do not believe, love, -in what the Holy Church requires.”—“Yes, -I do believe, when I listen to you.”—“And -only then?”—“Sing again your -hymn to the Virgin.”</p> - -<p>“Isidora complied, and watched the effect -on the listener. He seemed affected—he -motioned to her to repeat it. “My love,” -said Isidora, “is not this more like the repetition -of a theatrical song called for by -an audience, than a hymn which he who -listens to loves his wife better for, because -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_368" title="368"> </a> -she loves her God.”—“It is a shrewd question,” -said Melmoth, “but why am I in -your imagination excluded from the love -of God?”—“Do you ever visit the church,” -answered the anxious Isidora. A profound -silence.—“Do you ever receive the -Holy Sacrament?”—Melmoth did not -utter a word.—“Have you ever, at my -earnest solicitation, enabled me to announce -to my anxious family the tie that -united us?”—No answer.—“And now—that—perhaps—I -dare not utter what I feel! -Oh! how shall I appear before eyes that -watch me even now so closely?—what shall -I say?—a wife without a husband—a mother -without a father for her child, or one -whom a fearful oath has bound her never -to declare! Oh! Melmoth, pity me,—deliver -me from this life of constraint, falsehood, -and dissimulation. Claim me as -your wedded wife in the face of my family, -and in the face of ruin your wedded -wife will follow—will cling to—will perish -with you!” Her arms clung round him, -her cold but heart-wrung tears fell fast -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_369" title="369"> </a> -on his cheek, and the imploring arms of -woman supplicating for deliverance in her -hour of shame and terror, seldom are twined -round us in vain. Melmoth felt the appeal—it -was but for a moment. He caught -the white arms extended towards him—he -fixed an eager and fearful look of inquiry -on his victim-consort, as he asked—“And -is it so?” The pale and shuddering -wife shrunk from his arms at the question—her -silence answered him. The agonies -of nature throbbed audibly in his -heart. He said to himself—it is mine—the -fruit of affection—the first-born of the -heart and of nature—mine—mine,—and -whatever becomes of me, there shall yet -be a human being on earth who traces me -in its external form, and who will be -taught to pray for its father, even when its -prayer falls parched and hissing on the -fires that burn for ever, like a wandering -drop of dew on the burning sands of the -desert! * * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_370" title="370"> </a>“From the period of this communication, -Melmoth’s tenderness for his wife -visibly increased.</p> - -<p>“Heaven only knows the source of that -wild fondness with which he contemplated -her, and in which was still mingled something -of ferocity. His warm look seemed -like the glow of a sultry summer day, -whose heat announces a storm, and compels -us by its burning oppression, to look -to the storm almost for relief.</p> - -<p>“It is not impossible that he looked to -some future object of his fearful experiment—and -a being so perfectly in his power -as his own child, might have appeared to -him fatally fitted for his purpose—the -quantum of misery, too, necessary to -qualify the probationer, it was always in -his own power to inflict. Whatever was -his motive, he assumed as much tenderness -as it was possible for him to assume, -and spoke of the approaching event with -the anxious interest of a human father.</p> - -<p>“Soothed by his altered manner, Isidora -bore with silent sufferance the burden of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_371" title="371"> </a> -her situation, with all its painful accompaniments -of indisposition and dejection, aggravated -by hourly fear and mysterious -secresy. She hoped he would at length reward -her by an open and honourable declaration, -but this hope was expressed only in -her patient smiles. The hour approached -fast, and fearful and indefinite apprehensions -began to overshadow her mind, relative -to the fate of the infant about to be -born under circumstances so mysterious.</p> - -<p>“At his next nightly visit, Melmoth -found her in tears.</p> - -<p>“Alas!” said she in answer to his abrupt -inquiry, and brief attempt at consolation, -“How many causes have I for tears—and -how few have I shed? If you would -have them wiped away, be assured it is -only your hand can do it. I feel,” she -added, “that this event will be fatal to -me—I know I shall not live to see my -child—I demand from you the only promise -that can support me even under this -conviction”—Melmoth interrupted her by -the assurance, that these apprehensions -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_372" title="372"> </a> -were the inseparable concomitants of her -situation, and that many mothers, surrounded -by a numerous offspring, smiled as they -recollected their fears that the birth of each -would be fatal to them.</p> - -<p>“Isidora shook her head. “The presages,” -said she, “that visit me, are such -as never visited mortality in vain. I have -always believed, that as we approach the -invisible world, its voice becomes more -audible to us, and grief and pain are very -eloquent interpreters between us and eternity—quite -distinct from all corporeal suffering, -even from all mental terror, is that -deep and unutterable impression which is -alike incommunicable and ineffaceable—it -is as if heaven spoke to us alone, and told -us to keep its secret, or divulge it on the -condition of never being believed. Oh! -Melmoth, do not give that fearful smile -when I speak of heaven—soon I may be -your only intercessor there.” “My dear -saint,” said Melmoth, laughing and kneeling -to her in mockery, “let me make early -interest for your mediation—how many -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_373" title="373"> </a> -ducats will it cost me to get you canonized?—you -will furnish me, I hope, with an -authentic account of legitimate miracles—one -is ashamed of the nonsense that is -sent monthly to the Vatican.” “<em>Let -your conversion be the first miracle on the -list</em>,” said Isidora, with an energy that made -Melmoth tremble—it was dark—but she -felt that he trembled—she pursued her -imagined triumph—“Melmoth,” she exclaimed, -“I have a right to demand one -promise from you—for you I have sacrificed -every thing—never was woman more -devoted—never did woman give proofs of -devotion like mine. I might have been -the noble, honoured wife of one who would -have laid his wealth and titles at my feet. -In this my hour of danger and suffering, -the first families in Spain would have been -waiting round my door. Alone, unaided, -unsustained, unconsoled, I must undergo -the terrible struggle of nature—terrible to -those whose beds are smoothed by the -hands of affection, whose agonies are -soothed by the presence of a mother—who -hears the first feeble cry of her infant -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_374" title="374"> </a> -echoed by the joy of exulting noble relatives. -Oh Melmoth! what must be mine! -I must suffer in secresy and in silence! I -must see my babe torn from me before I -have even kissed it,—and the chrism-mantle -will be one of that mysterious darkness -which your fingers have woven! Yet grant -me one thing—one thing!” continued the -suppliant, growing earnest in her prayer -even to agony; “swear to me that my -child shall be baptised according to the -forms of the Catholic church,—that it shall -be a Christian as far as those forms can -make it,—and I shall feel that, if all my -fearful presages are fulfilled, I shall leave -behind me one who will pray for his father, -and whose prayer may be accepted. Promise -me,—swear to me,” she added, in intenser -agony, “that my child shall be a -Christian! Alas! if my voice be not worthy -to be heard in heaven, that of a cherub -may! Christ himself suffered children -to come unto him while on earth, and will -he repel them in heaven?—Oh! no,—no! -he will not repel <em>yours</em>!”</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_375" title="375"> </a>“Melmoth listened to her with feelings -that it is better to suppress than explain -or expatiate on. Thus solemnly adjured, -however, he promised that the child -should be baptised; and added, with an -expression which Isidora’s delight at this -concession did not give her time to understand, -that it should be a Christian as far -as the rites and ceremonies of the Catholic -church could make it one. While he added -many a bitter hint of the inefficacy of -any external rites—and the impotentiality -of any hierarchy—and of the deadly and -desperate impositions of priests under -every dispensation—and exposed them -with a spirit at once ludicrous and Satanic,—a -spirit that mingled ridicule with horror, -and seemed like a Harlequin in the -infernal regions, flirting with the furies, -Isidora still repeated her solemn request -that her child, if it survived her, should -be baptised. To this he assented; and -added, with a sarcastic and appalling levity,—“And -a Mahometan, if you should -change your mind,—or any other mythology -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_376" title="376"> </a> -you please to adopt;—only send me -word,—priests are easily obtained, and ceremonies -cheaply purchased! Only let me -know your future intentions,—when you -know them yourself.”—“I shall not be -here to tell you,” said Isidora, replying with -profound conviction to this withering levity, -like a cold winter day to the glow of a -capricious summer one, that blends the -sunshine and the lightning;—“Melmoth, -I shall not be here then!” And this energy -of despair in a creature so young, -so inexperienced, except in the vicissitudes -of the heart, formed a strong contrast to -the stony apathy of one who had traversed -life from Dan to Beersheba, and found all -barren, or—made it so.</p> - -<p>“At this moment, while Isidora wept -the cold tears of despair, without daring -to ask the hand of him she loved to dry -them, the bells of a neighbouring convent, -where they were performing a mass for -the soul of a departed brother, suddenly -rung out. Isidora seized that moment, -when the very air was eloquent with the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_377" title="377"> </a> -voice of religion, to impress its power on -that mysterious being whose presence inspired -her equally with terror and with -love. “Listen,—listen!” she cried. The -sounds came slowly and stilly on, as if it -was an involuntary expression of that profound -sentiment that night always inspires,—the -reverberating watch-word from sentinel -to sentinel, when wakeful and reflecting -minds have become the “watchers -of the night<a name="FootnoteMarker_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="footnote-marker">(14)</a>.” The effect of these -sounds was increased, by their catching -from time to time the deep and thrilling -chorus of the voices,—these voices more -than harmonized, they were coincident -with the toll of the bell, and seemed like -them set in involuntary motion,—music -played by invisible hands.</p> - -<p>“Listen,” repeated Isidora, “is there -no truth in the voice that speaks to you in -tones like these? Alas! if there be no -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_378" title="378"> </a> -truth in religion, there is none on earth! -Passion itself evanishes into an illusion, -unless it is hallowed by the consciousness -of a God and of futurity. That sterility -of the heart that forbids the growth of -divine feeling, must be hostile also to every -tender and generous sentiment. <em>He who -is without a God must be without a heart!</em> -Oh, my love, will you not, as you bend -over my grave, wish my last slumbers to -have been soothed by sounds like these,—wish -that they may whisper peace to your -own? Promise me, at least, that you will -lead your child to my tomb-stone,—that -you will suffer it to read the inscription -that tells I died in the faith of Christ, and -the hope of immortality. Its tears will be -powerful pleaders to you not to deny it -the consolation that faith has given me -in hours of suffering, and the hopes with -which it will illuminate my parting hour. -Oh promise me this at least, that you will -suffer your child to visit my grave—that -is all. Do not interrupt or distract the -impression by sophistry or levity, or by -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_379" title="379"> </a> -that wild and withering eloquence that -flashes from your lips, not to enlighten but -to blast. You will not weep, but you will -be silent,—leave Heaven and nature free -to their work. The voice of God will -speak to its heart, and my spirit, as it witnesses -the conflict, will tremble though in -paradise,—and, even in heaven, will feel -an added joy, when it beholds the victory -won. Promise me, then,—swear to me!” -she added, with agonizing energy of tone -and gesture. “Your child shall be a -Christian!” said Melmoth.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER <ins title="XXXII">XXXV</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_380" title="380"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span><span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span>—Oh, spare me, Grimbald!<br /></div> -<div class="line">I will tempt hermits for thee in their cells,<br /></div> -<div class="line">And virgins in their dreams.<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Dryden’s King Arthur.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">It</span> is a singular, but well-attested fact, -that women who are compelled to undergo -all the inconveniences and uneasiness of -clandestine pregnancy, often fare better -than those whose situation is watched over -by tender and anxious relatives; and that -concealed or illegitimate births are actually -attended with less danger and suffering -than those which have all the aid that skill -and affection can give. So it appeared -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_381" title="381"> </a> -likely to fare with Isidora. The retirement -in which her family lived—the temper of -Donna Clara, as slow to suspect from want -of penetration, as she was eager in pursuing -an object once discovered, from the -natural cupidity of a vacant mind—these -circumstances, combined with the dress of -the day, the enormous and enveloping -fardingale, gave safety to her secret, at -least till the arrival of its crisis. As this -crisis approached, one may easily imagine -the secret and trembling preparation—the -important nurse, proud of the trust reposed -in her—the confidential maid—the -faithful and discreet medical attendant—to -obtain all these Melmoth supplied her -amply with money—a circumstance that -would have surprised Isidora, as his appearance -was always remarkably plain and -private, if, at this moment of anxiety, any -thought but that of <em>the hour</em> could have -found room in her mind. * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“On the evening supposed to be that preceding -the dreaded event, Melmoth had -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_382" title="382"> </a> -thrown an unusual degree of tenderness -into his manner—he gazed on her frequently -with anxious and silent fondness—he -seemed to have something to communicate -which he had not courage to disclose. -Isidora, well versed in the language -of the countenance, which is often, more -than that of words, the language of the -heart, intreated him to tell her what he -<em>looked</em>. “Your father is returning,” said -Melmoth reluctantly. “He will certainly -be here in a few days, perhaps in a few -hours.” Isidora heard him in silent horror. -“My father!” she cried—“I have never -seen my father.—Oh, how shall I meet him -now! And is my mother ignorant of this?—would -she not have apprized me?”—“She -is ignorant at present; but she will not long -be so.”—“And from whence could <em>you</em> -have obtained intelligence that she is ignorant -of?” Melmoth paused some time,—his -features assumed a more contracted -and gloomy character than they had done -laterally—he answered with slow and -stern reluctance—“Never again ask me -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_383" title="383"> </a> -that question—the intelligence that I can -give you must be of more importance to -you than the means by which I obtain it—enough -for you that it is true.”—“Pardon -me, love,” said Isidora; “it is probable -that I may never again offend you—will -you not, then, forgive my <em>last</em> offence?”</p> - -<p>“Melmoth seemed too intently occupied -with his own thoughts to answer even her -tears. He added, after a short and sullen -pause, “Your betrothed bridegroom is -coming with your father—Montilla’s father -is dead—the arrangements are all concluded -for your nuptials—your bridegroom is -coming to wed the wife of another—with -him comes your fiery, foolish brother, who -has set out to meet his father and his future -relative. There will be a feast prepared -in the house on the occasion of your -future nuptials—you may hear of a strange -guest appearing at your festival—I will be -there!”</p> - -<p>“Isidora stood stupified with horror. -“Festival!” she repeated—“a bridal festival!—and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_384" title="384"> </a> -I already wedded to you, and -about to become a mother!”</p> - -<p class="center">*   *   *   *</p> - -<p>“At this moment the trampling of -many horsemen was heard as they approached -the villa—the tumult of the domestics -hurrying to admit and receive -them, resounded through the apartments—and -Melmoth, with a gesture that seemed -to Isidora rather like a menace than a -farewell, instantly disappeared; and within -an hour, Isidora knelt to the father she had -never till then beheld—suffered herself to -be saluted by Montilla—and accepted the -embrace of her brother, who, in the petulance -of his spirit, half rejected the chill -and altered form that advanced to greet -him.</p> - -<p class="center">*   *   *   *</p> - -<p>“Every thing at the family meeting -was conducted in true Spanish formality. -Aliaga kissed the cold hand of his withered -wife—the numerous domestics exhibited a -grave joy at the return of their master—Fra -Jose assumed increased importance, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_385" title="385"> </a> -and called for dinner in a louder tone. -Montilla, the lover, a cold and quiet character, -took things as they occurred.</p> - -<p>“Every thing lay hushed under a brief -and treacherous calm. Isidora, who trembled -at the approaching danger, felt her -terrors on a sudden suspended. It was not -so very near as she apprehended—and she -bore with tolerable patience the daily mention -of her approaching nuptials, while she -was momently harassed by her confidential -servants with hints of the impossibility -of the event of which they were in expectation, -being much longer delayed. Isidora -heard, felt, endured all with courage—the -grave congratulation of her father -and mother—the self-complacent attentions -of Montilla, sure of the bride and of her -dower—the sullen compliance of the brother, -who, unable to refuse his consent, -was for ever hinting that <em>his</em> sister might -have formed a higher connection. All -these passed over her mind like a dream—the -reality of her existence seemed internal, -and she said to herself,—“Were I at -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_386" title="386"> </a> -the altar, were my hand locked in that of -Montilla, Melmoth would rend me from -him.” A wild but deeply-fixed conviction—a -wandering image of preternatural -power, overshadowed her mind while she -thought of Melmoth;—and this image, -which had caused her so much terror and -inquietude in her early hours of love, now -formed her only resource against the hour -of inconceivable suffering; as those unfortunate -females in the Eastern Tales, whose -beauty has attracted the fearful passion of -some evil genie, are supposed to depend, -at their nuptial hour, on the presence of -the seducing spirit, to tear from the arms -of the agonised parent, and the distracted -bridegroom, the victim whom he has reserved -for himself, and whose wild devotion -to him gives a dignity to the union -so unhallowed and unnatural<a name="FootnoteMarker_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="footnote-marker">(15)</a>. * -* * * * *</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_387" title="387"> </a>“Aliaga’s heart expanded amid the approaching -completion of the felicitous -plans he had formed, and with his heart, -his purse, which was its depositary, opened -also, and he resolved to give a splendid -fete in honour of his daughter’s nuptials. -Isidora remembered Melmoth’s prediction -of a fatal festival; and his words, “I will -be there,” gave her for a time a kind of -trembling confidence. But as the preparations -were carried on under her very eye,—as -she was hourly consulted about the -disposal of the ornaments, and the decorations -of the apartments,—her resolution -failed, and while she uttered a few incoherent -words, her eye was glazed with horror.</p> - -<p>“The entertainment was to be a masked -ball; and Isidora, who imagined that -this might suggest to Melmoth some auspicious -expedient for her escape, watched -in vain for some hint of hope,—some allusion -to the probability of this event facilitating -her extrication from those snares of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_388" title="388"> </a> -death that seemed compassing her about. -He never uttered a word, and her dependence -on him was at one moment confirmed, -at another shaken to its foundation, by -this terrible silence. In one of these latter -moments, the anguish of which was increased -beyond expression by a conviction -that her hour of danger was not far distant, -she exclaimed to Melmoth—“Take -me—take me from this place! My existence -is nothing—it is a vapour that soon -must be exhaled—but my reason is threatened -every moment! I cannot sustain the -horrors to which I am exposed! All this day -I have been dragged through rooms decorated -for my impossible nuptials!—Oh, Melmoth, -if you no longer love me, at least commiserate -me! Save me from a situation of -horror unspeakable!—have mercy on your -child, if not on me! I have hung on your -looks,—I have watched for a word of hope—you -have not uttered a sound—you -have not cast a glance of hope on me! -I am wild!—I am reckless of all but the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_389" title="389"> </a> -imminent and <em>present</em> horrors of to-morrow—you -have talked of your power -to approach, to enter these walls without -suspicion or discovery—you boasted of -that cloud of mystery in which you -could envelope yourself. Oh! in this last -moment of my extremity, wrap me in its -tremendous folds, and let me escape in -them, though they prove my shroud!—Think -of the terrible night of our marriage! -I followed you then in fear and -confidence—your touch dissolved every -earthly barrier—your steps trod an unknown -path, yet I followed you!—Oh! -If you really possess that mysterious and -inscrutable power, which I dare not either -question or believe, exert it for me in this -terrible emergency—aid my escape—and -though I feel I shall never live to thank -you, the <em>silent suppliant</em> will remind you -by its smiles of the tears that I now shed; -and if they are shed in vain, its smile will -have a bitter eloquence as it plays with the -flowers on its mother’s grave!”</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_390" title="390"> </a>“Melmoth, as she spoke, was profoundly -silent, and deeply attentive. He said -at last, “Do you then resign yourself to -me?”—“Alas! have I not?”—“A question -is not an answer. Will you, renouncing -all other engagements, all other hopes, -depend on me solely for your extrication -from this fearful emergency?”—“I will—I -do!”—“Will you promise, that if I -render you the service you require, if I -employ the power you say I have alluded -to, you will be <em>mine</em>?”—“<em>Yours!</em>—Alas! -am I not yours already?”—“You -embrace <em>my</em> protection, then? You voluntarily -seek the shelter of that power -which I can promise? You yourself will -me to employ that power in effecting your -escape?—Speak—do I interpret your sentiments -aright?—I am unable to exercise -those powers you invest me with, unless -you yourself require me to do so. I -have waited—I have watched for the demand—it -has been made—would that it -never had!” An expression of the fiercest -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_391" title="391"> </a> -agony corrugated his stern features as -he spoke.—“But it may yet be withdrawn—reflect!”—“And -you will not -then save me from shame and danger? Is -this the proof of your love—is this the -boast of your power?” said Isidora, half -frantic at this delay. “If I adjure you to -pause—if I myself hesitate and tremble—it -is to give time for the salutary whisper -of your better angel.”—“Oh! save me, -and you shall be my angel!” said Isidora, -falling at his feet. Melmoth shook -through his whole frame as he heard these -words. He raised and soothed her, however, -with promises of safety, though in a -voice that seemed to announce despair—and -then turning from her, burst into a -passionate soliloquy.—“Immortal Heaven! -what is man?—A being with the ignorance, -but not the instinct, of the -feeblest animals!—They are like birds—when -thy hand, O Thou whom I dare not -call Father, is on them, they scream and -quiver, though the gentle pressure is intended -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_392" title="392"> </a> -only to convey the wanderer back -to his cage—while, to shun the light fear -that scares their senses, they rush into the -snare that is spread in their sight, and -where their captivity is hopeless!” As he -spoke, hastily traversing the room, his -foot struck against a chair on which a gorgeous -dress was spread. “What is this?” -he exclaimed—“What ideot trumpery, -what May-queen foolery is this?”—“It is -the habit I am to wear at the feast to-night,” -said Isidora—“My attendants are -coming—I hear them at the door—oh, -with what a throbbing heart I shall -put on this glittering mockery!—But -you will not desert me then?” she added, -with wild and breathless anxiety. -“Fear not,” said Melmoth, solemnly—“You -have demanded my aid, and it -shall be accorded. May your heart tremble -no more when you throw off that -habit, than now when you are about to -put it on!”</p> - -<p>“The hour approached, and the guests -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_393" title="393"> </a> -were arriving. Isidora, arrayed in a splendid -and fanciful garb, and rejoicing in the -shelter which her mask afforded to the expression -of her pale features, mingled -among the groupe. She walked one measure -with Montilla, and then declined -dancing on the pretence of assisting her -mother in receiving and entertaining her -guests.</p> - -<p>“After a sumptuous banquet, dancing -was renewed in the spacious hall, and Isidora -followed the company thither with a -beating heart. Twelve was the hour at -which Melmoth had promised to meet her, -and by the clock, which was placed over -the door of the hall, she saw it wanted but -a quarter to twelve. The hand moved on—it -arrived at the hour—the clock struck! -Isidora, whose eyes had been rivetted on -its movements, now withdrew them in -despair. At that moment she felt her -arm gently touched, and one of the -maskers, bending towards her, whispered, -“I am here!” and he added the sign -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_394" title="394"> </a> -which Melmoth and she had agreed on -as the signal of their meeting. Isidora, -unable to reply, could only return -the sign. “Make haste,” he added—“All -is arranged for your flight—there is not a -moment to be lost—I will leave you now, -but meet me in a few moments in the -western portico—the lamps are extinguished -there, and the servants have neglected -to relight them—be silent and be swift!” -He disappeared as he spoke, and Isidora, -after a few moments, followed him. -Though the portico was dark, a faint gleam -from the splendidly illuminated rooms disclosed -to her the figure of Melmoth. He -drew her arm under his in silence, and -proceeded to hurry her from the spot. -“Stop, villain, stop!” exclaimed the voice -of her brother, who, followed by Montilla, -sprung from the balcony—“Where do you -drag my sister?—and you, degraded wretch, -where are you about to fly, and with -whom?” Melmoth attempted to pass him, -supporting Isidora with one arm, while -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_395" title="395"> </a> -the other was extended to repel his approach; -but Fernan, drawing his sword, -placed himself directly in their way, at the -same time calling on Montilla to raise the -household, and tear Isidora from his arms. -“Off, fool—off!” exclaimed Melmoth—“Rush -not on destruction!—I seek not -your life—one victim of your house is enough—let -us pass ere you perish!”—“Boaster, -prove your words!” said Fernan, -making a desperate thrust at him, -which Melmoth coolly put by with his -hand. “Draw, coward!” cried Fernan, -rendered furious by this action—“My -next will be more successful!” Melmoth -slowly drew his sword. “Boy!” said he -in an awful voice—“If I turn this point against -you, your life is not worth a moment’s -purchase—be wise and let us pass.” -Fernan made no answer but by a fierce -attack, which was instantly met by his -antagonist.</p> - -<p>“The shrieks of Isidora had now reached -the ears of the revellers, who rushed in -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_396" title="396"> </a> -crowds to the garden—the servants followed -them with flambeaux snatched from -the walls adorned for this ill-omened festival, -and the scene of the combat was in -a moment as light as day, and surrounded -by a hundred spectators.</p> - -<p>“Part them—part them—save them!” -shrieked Isidora, writhing at the feet of -her father and mother, who, with the rest, -were gazing in stupid horror at the scene—“Save -my brother—save my husband!” -The whole dreadful truth rushed on Donna -Clara’s mind at these words, and casting -a conscious look at the terrified priest, -she fell to the ground. The combat was -short as it was unequal,—in two moments -Melmoth passed his sword twice through -the body of Fernan, who sunk beside Isidora, -and expired! There was a universal -pause of horror for some moments—at -length a cry of—“Seize the murderer!” -burst from every lip, and the crowd began -to close around Melmoth. He attempted -no defence. He retreated a few paces, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_397" title="397"> </a> -and sheathing his sword, waved them back -only with his arm; and this movement, -that seemed to announce an internal -power above all physical force, had the effect -of nailing every spectator to the spot -where he stood.</p> - -<p>“The light of the torches, which the -trembling servants held up to gaze on him, -fell full on his countenance, and the voices -of a few shuddering speakers exclaimed, -“<span class="small-caps">Melmoth the wanderer!</span>”—“I am—I -am!” said that unfortunate being—“and -who now will oppose my passing—who -will become my companion?—I seek not -to injure now—but I will not be detained. -Would that breathless fool had yielded to -my bidding, not to my sword—there was -but one human chord that vibrated in -my heart—it is broken to-night, and for -ever! I will never tempt woman more! -Why should the whirlwind, that can -shake mountains, and overwhelm cities -with its breath, descend to scatter the -leaves of the rose-bud?” As he spoke, -his eyes fell on the form of Isidora, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_398" title="398"> </a> -which lay at his feet extended beside that -of Fernan. He bent over it for a moment—a -pulsation like returning life agitated -her frame. He bent nearer—he whispered, -unheard by the rest,—“Isidora, -will you fly with me—this is the moment—every -arm is paralyzed—every mind is -frozen to its centre!—Isidora, rise and fly -with me—this is your hour of safety!” -Isidora, who recognized the voice but not -the speaker, raised herself for a moment—looked -on Melmoth—cast a glance on the -bleeding bosom of Fernan, and fell on it -dyed in that blood. Melmoth started up—there -was a slight movement of hostility -among some of the guests—he turned one -brief and withering glance on them—they -stood every man his hand on his sword, -without the power to draw them, and the -very domestics held up the torches in their -trembling hands, as if with involuntary -awe they were lighting him out. So he -passed on unmolested amid the groupe, -till he reached the spot where Aliaga, stupified -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_399" title="399"> </a> -with horror, stood beside the bodies -of his son and daughter. “Wretched old -man!” he exclaimed, looking on him as -the unhappy father strained his glazing -and dilated eyes to see who spoke to him, -and at length with difficulty recognized -the form of <em>the stranger</em>—the companion -of his fearful journey some months past—“Wretched -old man—you were warned—but -you neglected the warning—I adjured -you to save your daughter—<em>I best</em> knew -her danger—you saved your gold—now -estimate the value of the dross you grasped, -and the precious ore you dropt! <em>I stood -between myself and her</em>—I warned—I -menaced—it was not for me to intreat. -Wretched old man—see the result!”—and -he turned slowly to depart. An involuntary -sound of execration and horror, half -a howl and half a hiss, pursued his parting -steps, and the priest, with a dignity that -more became his profession than his character, -exclaimed aloud, “Depart accursed, -and trouble us not—go, cursing and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_400" title="400"> </a> -to curse.”—“I go conquering and to -conquer,” answered Melmoth with wild -and fierce triumph—“wretches! your -vices, your passions, and your weaknesses, -make you my victims. Upbraid yourselves, -and not me. Heroes in your -guilt, but cowards in your despair, you -would kneel at my feet for the terrible -immunity with which I pass through -you at this moment.—I go accursed of -every human heart, yet untouched by one -human hand!”—As he retired slowly, the -murmur of suppressed but instinctive and -irrepressible horror and hatred burst from -the groupe. He past on scowling at them -like a lion on a pack of bayed hounds, -and departed unmolested—unassayed—no -weapon was drawn—no arm was lifted—the -mark was on his brow,—and those who -could read it knew that all human power -was alike forceless and needless,—and those -who could not succumbed in passive horror. -Every sword was in its sheath as -Melmoth quitted the garden. “Leave -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_401" title="401"> </a> -him to God!”—was the universal exclamation. -“You could not leave him in worse -hands,” exclaimed Fra Jose—“He will -certainly be damned—and—that is some -comfort to this afflicted family.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER <ins title="XXXIII">XXXVI</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_402" title="402"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">Nunc animum pietas, et materna nomina frangunt.<br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“In</span> less than half an hour, the superb -apartments, the illuminated gardens of -Aliaga, did not echo a footstep; all -were gone, except a few who lingered, -some from curiosity, some from humanity, -to witness or condole with the sufferings -of the wretched parents. The sumptuously -decorated garden now presented a sight -horrid from the contrasted figures and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_403" title="403"> </a> -scenery. The domestics stood like statues, -holding the torches still in their hands—Isidora -lay beside the bloody corse of -her brother, till an attempt was made -to remove it, and then she clung to it -with a strength that required strength -to tear her from it—Aliaga, who had -not uttered a word, and scarcely drawn -a breath, sunk on his knees to curse his -half-lifeless daughter—Donna Clara, who -still retained a woman’s heart, lost all -fear of her husband in this dreadful emergency, -and, kneeling beside him, held -his uplifted hands, and struggled hard -for the suspension of the malediction—Fra -Jose, the only one of the groupe -who appeared to possess any power of recollection -or of mental sanity, addressed -repeatedly to Isidora the question, “Are -you married,—and married to that fearful -being?”—“I am married!” answered the -victim, rising from beside the corse of her -brother. “I am married!” she added, -glancing a look at her splendid habit, and -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_404" title="404"> </a> -displaying it with a frantic laugh. A loud -knocking at the garden gate was heard at -this moment. “I <em>am</em> married!” shrieked -Isidora, “and here comes the witness of -my nuptials!”</p> - -<p>“As she spoke, some peasants from the -neighbourhood, assisted by the domestics -of Don Aliaga, brought in a corse, so altered -from the fearful change that passes -on the mortal frame, that the nearest relative -could not have known it. Isidora recognized -it in a moment for the body of -the old domestic who had disappeared so -mysteriously on the night of her frightful -nuptials. The body had been discovered -but that evening by the peasants; it was -lacerated as by a fall from rocks, and so -disfigured and decayed as to retain no resemblance -to humanity. It was recognizable -only by the livery of Aliaga, which, -though much defaced, was still distinguishable -by some peculiarities in the -dress, that announced that those defaced -garments covered the mortal remains of -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_405" title="405"> </a> -the old domestic. “There!” cried Isidora -with delirious energy—“There is the -witness of my fatal marriage!”</p> - -<p>“Fra Jose hung over the illegible fragments -of that whereon nature had once -written—‘This is a human being,’ and, -turning his eyes on Isidora, with involuntary -horror he exclaimed, “Your witness -is dumb!” As the wretched Isidora was -dragged away by those who surrounded -her, she felt the first throes of maternal -suffering, and exclaimed, “Oh! there -will be a living witness—if you permit it -to live!” Her words were soon realized; -she was conveyed to her apartment, and -in a few hours after, scarcely assisted and -wholly unpitied by her attendants, gave -birth to a daughter.</p> - -<p>“This event excited a sentiment in the -family at once ludicrous and horrible. Aliaga, -who had remained in a state of stupefaction -since his son’s death, uttered but -one exclamation—“Let the wife of the -sorcerer, and their accursed offspring, be -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_406" title="406"> </a> -delivered into the hands of the merciful -and holy tribunal, the Inquisition.” He -afterwards muttered something about his -property being confiscated, but to this nobody -paid attention. Donna Clara was -almost distracted between compassion for -her wretched daughter, and being grandmother -to an infant demon, for such she -deemed the child of “Melmoth the Wanderer” -must be—and Fra Jose, while he -baptized the infant with trembling hands, -almost expected a fearful sponsor to appear -and blast the rite with his horrible negative -to the appeal made in the name of all -that is holy among Christians. The baptismal -ceremony was performed, however, with -an omission which the good-natured priest -overlooked—there was no sponsor—the -lowest domestic in the house declined with -horror the proposal of being sponsor for -the child of that terrible union. The -wretched mother heard them from her bed -of pain, and loved her infant better for its -utter destitution. * * -* * * *</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_407" title="407"> </a>“A few hours put an end to the -consternation of the family, on the -score of religion at least. The officers of -the Inquisition arrived, armed with all -the powers of their tribunal, and strongly -excited by the report, that the Wanderer -of whom they had been long in -search, had lately perpetrated an act that -brought him within the sphere of their -jurisdiction, by involving the life of -the only being his solitary existence held -alliance with. “We hold him by the -cords of a man,” said the chief inquisitor, -speaking more from what he read than -what he felt—“if he burst these cords he -is more than man. He has a wife and -child, and if there be human elements in -him, if there be any thing mortal clinging -to his heart, we shall wind round -the roots of it, and extract it.” * -* * * *</p> - -<p>“It was not till after some weeks, that -Isidora recovered her perfect recollection. -When she did, she was in a prison, a pallet -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_408" title="408"> </a> -of straw was her bed, a crucifix and a -death’s head the only furniture of her cell; -the light struggled through a narrow grate, -and struggled in vain, to cast one gleam -on the squalid apartment that it visited -and shrunk from. Isidora looked round -her—she had light enough to see her child—she -clasped it to her bosom, from which -it had unconsciously drawn its feverish -nourishment, and wept in extasy. “It is -my own,” she sobbed, “and only mine! -It has no father—he is at the ends of the -earth—he has left me alone—but I am not -alone while you are left to me!”</p> - -<p>“She was left in solitary confinement -for many days, undisturbed and unvisited. -The persons in whose hands she was had -strong reasons for this mode of treatment. -They were desirous that she should recover -perfect sanity of intellect previous -to her examination, and they also wished -to give her time to form that profound attachment -to the innocent companion of her -solitude, that might be a powerful engine -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_409" title="409"> </a> -in their hands in discovering those circumstances -relative to Melmoth that had hitherto -baffled all the power and penetration -of the Inquisition itself. All reports -agreed that the Wanderer had never before -been known to make a woman the -object of his temptation, or to entrust her -with the terrible secret of his destiny<a name="FootnoteMarker_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="footnote-marker">(16)</a>; and -the Inquisitors were heard to say to each -other, “Now that we have got the Delilah -in our hands, we shall soon have the -Sampson.”</p> - -<p>“It was on the night previous to her -examination, (of which she was unapprized), -that Isidora saw the door of her -cell opened, and a figure appear at it, -whom, amid the dreary obscurity that surrounded -her, she recognized in a moment,—it -was Fra Jose. After a long pause of -mutual horror, she knelt in silence to receive -his benediction, which he gave with -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_410" title="410"> </a> -feeling solemnity; and then the good -monk, whose propensities, though somewhat -“earthly and sensual,” were never -“devilish,” after vainly drawing his cowl -over his face to stifle his sobs, lifted up his -voice and “wept bitterly.”</p> - -<p>“Isidora was silent, but her silence was -not that of sullen apathy, or of conscience-seared -impenitence. At length Fra Jose -seated himself on the foot of the pallet, at -some distance from the prisoner, who was -also sitting, and bending her cheek, down -which a cold tear slowly flowed, over her -infant. “Daughter,” said the monk, collecting -himself, “it is to the indulgence -of the holy office I owe this permission to -visit you.”—“I thank them,” said Isidora, -and her tears flowed fast and relievingly. -“I am permitted also to tell you that your -examination will take place to-morrow,—to -adjure you to prepare for it,—and, if -there be any thing which”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> “My -examination!” repeated Isidora with surprise, -but evidently without terror, “on -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_411" title="411"> </a> -what subject am I then to be examined?”—“On -that of your inconceivable union -with a being devoted and accursed.” -His voice was choaked with horror, and -he added, “Daughter, are you then indeed -the wife of—of—that being, whose -name makes the flesh creep, and the hair -stand on end?”—“I am.”—“Who were -the witnesses of your marriage, and what -hand dared to bind yours with that unholy -and unnatural bond?”—“There were no -witnesses—we were wedded in darkness. -I saw no form, but I thought I heard -words uttered—I know I felt a hand place -mine in Melmoth’s—its touch was as cold -as that of the dead.”—“Oh complicated -and mysterious horror!” said the priest, -turning pale, and crossing himself with -marks of unfeigned terror; he bowed his -head on his arm for some time, and remained -silent from unutterable emotion. -“Father,” said Isidora at length, “you -knew the hermit who lived amid the ruins -of the monastery near our house,—he was a -priest also,—he was a holy man, it was he -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_412" title="412"> </a> -who united us!” Her voice trembled.<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> -“Wretched victim!” groaned the priest, -without raising his head, “you know not -what you utter—that holy man is known -to have died the very night preceding that -of your dreadful union.”</p> - -<p>“Another pause of mute horror followed, -which the priest at length broke.—“Unhappy -daughter,” said he in a composed -and solemn voice, “I am indulged -with permission to give you the benefit -of the sacrament of confession, previous -to your examination. I adjure you to unburden -your soul to me,—will you?”—“I -will, my father.”—“Will you answer -me, as you would answer at the tribunal -of God?”—“Yes,—as I would answer at -the tribunal of God.” As she spake, she -prostrated herself before the priest in the -attitude of confession. * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“And you have now disclosed the -whole burden of your spirit?”—“I have, -my father.” The priest sat thoughtfully -for a considerable time. He then put to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_413" title="413"> </a> -her several singular questions relative to -Melmoth, which she was wholly unable to -answer. They seemed chiefly the result -of those impressions of supernatural power -and terror, which were every where associated -with his image. “My father,” -said Isidora, when he had ceased, in a -faultering voice, “My father, may I inquire -about my unhappy parents?” The -priest shook his head, and remained silent. -At length, affected by the agony with -which she urged her inquiry, he reluctantly -said she might guess the effect -which the death of their son, and the imprisonment -of their daughter in the Inquisition, -must have on parents, who were -no less eminent for their zeal for the Catholic -faith, than for their parental affection. -“Are they alive?” said Isidora.—“Spare -yourself the pain of further inquiries, -daughter,” said the priest, “and -be assured, that if the answer was such as -could give you comfort, it would not be -withheld.”</p> - -<p>“At this moment a bell was heard to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_414" title="414"> </a> -sound in a distant part of the structure. -“That bell,” said the priest, “announces -that the hour of your examination approaches—farewell, -and may the saints be -with you.”—“Stay, father,—stay one moment,—but -one moment!<ins title="’">”</ins> cried Isidora, -rushing franticly between him and the -door. Fra Jose paused. Isidora sunk -before him, and, hiding her face with her -hands, exclaimed in a voice choaked with -agony, “Father, do you think—that I -am—lost for ever?”—“Daughter,” said the -priest in heavy accents, and in a troubled -and doubting spirit, “Daughter,—I have -given you what comfort I could—press -for no more, lest what I have given (with -many struggles of conscience) may be -withdrawn. Perhaps you are in a state -on which I can form no judgment, and -pronounce no sentence. May God be -merciful to you, and may the holy tribunal -judge you in its mercy also.”—“Yet -stay, father—stay one moment—only one -moment—only one question more.” As -she spoke, she caught her pale and innocent -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_415" title="415"> </a> -companion from the pallet where it -slept, and held it up to the priest. “Father, -tell me, <em>can</em> this be the child of a -demon?—can it be, this creature that -smiles on me—that smiles on you, while -you are mustering curses against it?—Oh, -holy drops have sprinkled it from -your own hand!—Father, you have spoke -holy words over it. Father, let them -tear me with their pincers, let them roast -me on their flames, but will not my -child escape—my innocent child, that -smiles on you?—Holy father, dear father, -look back on my child.” And she crawled -after him on her knees, holding up the -miserable infant in her arms, whose weak -cry and wasted frame, pleaded against the -dungeon-life to which its infancy had been -doomed.</p> - -<p><ins title="Fra">“Fra</ins> Jose melted at the appeal, and he -was about to bestow many a kiss and many -a prayer on the wretched babe, when the -bell again was sounded, and hasting away, -he had but time to exclaim, “My daughter, -may God protect you!”—“God protect -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_416" title="416"> </a> -me,” said Isidora, clasping her infant -to her bosom. The bell sounded again, -and Isidora knew that the hour of her -trial approached.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER <ins title="XXXIV">XXXVII</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_417" title="417"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">Fear not now the fever’s fire,<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">Fear not now the death-bed groan;<br /></div> -<div class="line">Pangs that torture, pains that tire<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">Bed-rid age with feeble moan.<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Mason.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">“The</span> first examination of Isidora was -conducted with the circumspective formality -that has always been known to mark -the proceedings of that tribunal. The second -and the third were alike strict, penetrating -and inoperative, and the holy -office began to feel its highest functionaries -were no match for the extraordinary prisoner -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_418" title="418"> </a> -who stood before them, who, combining -the extremes of simplicity and magnanimity, -uttered every thing that might -criminate herself, but evaded with skill -that baffled all the arts of inquisitorial examination, -every question that referred to -Melmoth.</p> - -<p>“In the course of the first examination, -they hinted at the torture. Isidora, with -something of the free and nature-taught -dignity of her early existence, smiled as -they spoke of it. An official whispered -one of the inquisitors, as he observed the -peculiar expression of her countenance, -and the torture was mentioned no more.</p> - -<p>“A second—a third examination followed -at long intervals—but it was -observed, that every time the mode of -examination was less severe, and the treatment -of the prisoner more and more -indulgent—her youth, her beauty, her -profound simplicity of character and -language, developed strongly on this -singular emergency, and the affecting -circumstance of her always appearing with -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_419" title="419"> </a> -her child in her arms, whose feeble cries -she tried to hush, while she bent forward -to hear and answer the questions addressed -to her—all these seemed to have wrought -powerfully on the minds of men not accustomed -to yield to external impressions. -There was also a docility, a submission, -about this beautiful and unfortunate being—a -contrite and bending spirit—a sense -of wretchedness for the misfortunes of her -family—a consciousness of her own, that -touched the hearts even of inquisitors.</p> - -<p>“After repeated examinations, when -nothing could be extorted from the prisoner, -a skilful and profound artist in the school of -mental anatomy, whispered to the inquisitor -something about the infant whom -she held in her arms. “She has defied the -rack,” was the answer. “Try her on <em>that -rack</em>,” was rejoined, and the hint was -taken.</p> - -<p>“After the usual formalities were gone -through, Isidora’s sentence was read to -her. She was condemned, as a suspected -heretic, to perpetual confinement in the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_420" title="420"> </a> -prison of the Inquisition—her child was -to be taken from her, and brought up in -a convent, in order to<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span></p> - -<p>“Here the reading of the sentence was -interrupted by the prisoner, who, uttering -one dreadful shriek of maternal agony, -louder than any other mode of torture had -ever before extorted, fell prostrate on the -floor. When she was restored to sensation, -no authority or terror of the place or -the judges, could prevent her pouring -forth those wild and piercing supplications, -which, from the energy with which they -are uttered, appear to the speaker himself -like commands,—that the latter part of -her sentence might be remitted—the former -appeared to make not the least impression -on her—eternal solitude, passed -in eternal darkness, seemed to give her -neither fear or pain, but she wept, and -pleaded, and raved, that she might not -be separated from her infant.</p> - -<p>“The judges listened with fortified -hearts, and in unbroken silence. When -she found all was over, she rose from her -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_421" title="421"> </a> -posture of humiliation and agony—and -there was something even of dignity about -her as she demanded, in a calm and altered -voice, that her child might not be removed -from her till the following day. She -had also self-possession enough to enforce -her petition by the remark, that its life -might be the sacrifice if it was too suddenly -deprived of the nourishment it was accustomed -to receive from her. To this request -the judges acceded, and she was remanded -to her cell. * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“The time elapsed. The person who -brought her food departed without uttering -a word; nor did she utter a word to -him. It was about midnight that the -door of her cell was unlocked, and two -persons in official habits appeared at it. -They seemed to pause, like the heralds at -the tent of Achilles, and then, like them, -forced themselves to enter. These men -had haggard and livid faces—their attitudes -were perfectly stony and automaton-like—their -movements appeared the result -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_422" title="422"> </a> -of mere mechanism—yet these men were -touched. The miserable light within hardly -shewed the pallet on which the prisoner -was seated; but a strong red light -from the torch the attendant held, flared -broadly on the arch of the door under -which the figures appeared. They -approached with a motion that seemed simultaneous -and involuntary—and uttered -together, in accents that seemed to issue -from one mouth, “Deliver your child -to us.” In a voice as hoarse, dry, and -natureless, the prisoner answered, “Take -it!”</p> - -<p>“The men looked about the cell—it -seemed as if they knew not where to find -the offspring of humanity amid the cells -of the Inquisition. The prisoner was silent -and motionless during their search. -It was not long—the narrow apartment, -the scanty furniture, afforded little room -for the investigation. When it was concluded, -however, the prisoner, bursting -into a wild laugh, exclaimed, “Where -would you search for a child but in its -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_423" title="423"> </a> -mother’s bosom? Here—here it is—take -it—take it!” And she put it into their -hands. “Oh what fools ye were to seek -my child any where but on its mother’s -bosom! It is your’s now!” she shrieked -in a voice that froze the officials.—“Take -it—take it from me!”</p> - -<p>“The agents of the holy office advanced; -and the technicality of their movements -was somewhat suspended when Isidora -placed in their hands the corse of her -infant daughter. Around the throat of -the miserable infant, born amid agony, -and nursed in a dungeon, there was a black -mark, which the officials made their use of -in representing this extraordinary circumstance -to the holy office. By some it was -deemed as the sign impressed by the evil -one at its birth—by others as the fearful -effect of maternal despair.</p> - -<p>“It was determined that the prisoner -should appear before them within four-and-twenty -hours, and account for the -death of her child. * * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_424" title="424"> </a>“Within less than half that number of -hours, a mightier arm than that of the Inquisition -was dealing with the prisoner—an -arm that seemed to menace, but was -indeed stretched out to save, and before -whose touch the barriers of the dreaded -Inquisition itself were as frail as the fortress -of the spider who hung her web on -its walls. Isidora was dying of a disease -not the less mortal because it makes no -appearance in an obituary—she was dying -of that internal and incurable wound—a -broken heart.</p> - -<p>“When the inquisitors were at last -convinced that there was nothing more to -be obtained by torture, bodily or mental -torture, they suffered her to die unmolested, -and granted her last request, that Fra -Jose might be permitted to visit her. * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“It was midnight, but its approach was -unknown in that place, where day and -night are the same. A dim lamp was substituted -for that weak and struggling beam -that counterfeited day-light. The penitent -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_425" title="425"> </a> -was stretched on her bed of rest—the -humane priest sat beside her; and if -his presence gave no dignity to the scene, -it at least softened it by the touches of humanity. -* * * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“My father,” said the dying Isidora, -“you pronounced me forgiven.”—“Yes, -my daughter,” said the priest, “you have -assured me you are innocent of the death -of your infant.”—“You never could have -believed me guilty,” said Isidora, raising -herself on her pallet at the appeal—“the -consciousness of <em>its</em> existence alone would -have kept me alive, even in my prison. -Oh, my father, how was it possible it -could live, buried with me in this dreadful -place almost as soon as it respired? -Even the morbid nourishment it received -from me was dried up when my -sentence was read. It moaned all night—towards -morning its moans grew fainter, -and I was glad—at last they ceased, -and I was very—happy!” But, as she talked -of this fearful happiness, she wept.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_426" title="426"> </a>“My daughter, is your heart disengaged -from that awful and disastrous tie that -bound it to misfortune here, and to perdition -hereafter?” It was long before she -could answer; at length she said in a -broken voice, “My father, I have not now -strength to search or to struggle with my -heart. Death must very soon break every -tie that was twined with it, and it is useless -to anticipate my liberation; the effort -would be agony—fruitless agony, for, -while I live, I must love my destroyer! -Alas! in being the enemy of mankind, -was not his hostility to me inevitable -and fatal? In rejecting his last terrible -temptation—in resigning him to his destiny, -and preferring submission to my own, -I feel my triumph complete, and my salvation -assured.”—“Daughter, I do not -comprehend you.”—“Melmoth,” said Isidora, -with a strong effort, “Melmoth was -here last night—within the walls of the -Inquisition—within this very cell!” The -priest crossed himself with marks of the -profoundest horror, and, as the wind -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_427" title="427"> </a> -swept hollowly through the long passage, -almost expected the shaken door would -burst open, and disclose the figure of the -Wanderer. * * * -* * * *</p> - -<p>“My father, I have had many dreams,” -answered the penitent, shaking her head -at a suggestion of the priest’s, “many—many -wanderings, but this was no dream. -I have dreamed of the garden-land where -I beheld him first—I have dreamed of the -nights when he stood at my casement, and -trembled in sleep at the sound of my mother’s -step—and I have had holy and -hopeful visions, in which celestial forms -appeared to me, and promised me his conversion—but -this was no dream—I saw -him last night. Father, he was here the -whole night—he promised—he assured -me—he adjured me to accept of liberation -and safety, of life and of felicity. -He told me, nor could I doubt him, that, -by whatever means he effected his entrance, -he could also effect my escape. -He offered to live with me in that Indian -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_428" title="428"> </a> -isle—that paradise of ocean, far from -human resort or human persecution. He -offered to love me alone, and for ever—and -then I listened to him. Oh, my father, -I am very young, and life and love -sounded sweetly in my ears, when I looked -at my dungeon, and thought of dying -on this floor of stone! But—when he -whispered the terrible condition on which -the fulfilment of his promise depended—when -he told me that”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span></p> - -<p>“Her voice failed with her failing -strength, and she could utter no more. -“<ins title="Daughter,">Daughter,”</ins> said the priest, bending over -her bed, “daughter, I adjure you, by the -image represented on this cross I hold to your -dying lips—by your hopes of that salvation -which depends on the truth you utter -to me, your priest and your friend—the -conditions proposed by your tempter!” -“Promise me absolution for repeating the -words, for I should wish that my last -breath might not be exhaled in uttering—what -I must.”—“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Te absolvo</i>,” &c. said -the priest, and bent his ear to catch the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_429" title="429"> </a> -sounds. The moment they were uttered, -he started as from the sting of a serpent, -and, seating himself at the extremity of -the cell, rocked in dumb horror. “My -father, you promised me absolution,” said -the penitent. “<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Jam tibi dedi, moribunda</i>,” -answered the priest, in the confusion -of thoughts using the language appropriated -to the service of religion. -“Moribunda indeed!” said the sufferer, -falling back on her pallet, “Father, let me -feel a human hand in mine as I part!”—“Call -upon God, daughter!” said the -priest, applying the crucifix to her cold -lips. “I loved his religion,” said the penitent, -kissing it devoutly, “I loved it before -I knew it, and God must have been -my teacher, for I had no other! Oh!” she -exclaimed, with that deep conviction that -must thrill every dying heart, and whose -echo (would God) might pierce every living -one—“Oh that I had loved none but -God—how profound would have been my -peace—how glorious my departure—<em>now</em>—<em>his</em> -image pursues me even to the brink -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_430" title="430"> </a> -of the grave, into which I plunge to escape -it!”</p> - -<p>“My daughter,” said the priest, while -the tears rolled fast down his cheeks—“my -daughter, you are passing to bliss—the -conflict was fierce and short, but the -victory is sure—harps are tuned to a new -song, even a song of welcome, and wreaths -of palm are weaving for you in paradise!”</p> - -<p>“Paradise!” uttered Isidora, with her -last breath—“<em>Will he be there!</em>”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER <ins title="XXXV">XXXVIII</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_431" title="431"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">Loud tolled the bell, the priests prayed well,<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">The tapers they all burned bright,<br /></div> -<div class="line">The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">They told their beads all night!<br /></div> -<div class="line center">*   *   *   *</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">The second night<span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span><br /></div> -<div class="line center">*   *   *   *</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">The monk and the nun they told their beads<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">As fast as they could tell,<br /></div> -<div class="line">And aye the louder grew the noise,<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">The faster went the bell!<br /></div> -<div class="line center">*   *   *   *</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">The third night came<span style="white-space: nowrap;">———</span><br /></div> -<div class="line center">*   *   *   *</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">The monk and the nun forgot their beads,<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">They fell to the ground dismayed,<br /></div> -<div class="line">There was not a single saint in heaven<br /></div> -<div class="line indent2">Whom they did not call to their aid!<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Southey.</span><br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">Monçada</span> here concluded the tale of the -Indian,—the victim of Melmoth’s passion, -no less than of his destiny, both alike unhallowed -and unutterable. And he announced -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_432" title="432"> </a> -his intention of disclosing to him -the fates of the other victims, whose skeletons -were preserved in the vault of the -Jew Adonijah in Madrid. He added, that -the circumstances relating to them, were -of a character still darker and more awful -than those he had recited, as they were -the result of impressions made on masculine -minds, without any excitement but -that of looking into futurity. He mentioned, -too, that the circumstances of -his residence in the house of the Jew, -his escape from it, and the reasons of -his subsequent arrival in Ireland, were -scarcely less extraordinary than any thing -he had hitherto related. Young Melmoth, -(whose name perhaps the reader has -forgot), did “seriously incline” to the purpose -of having his dangerous curiosity -further gratified, nor was he perhaps altogether -without the wild hope of seeing the -original of that portrait he had destroyed, -burst from the walls and take up the fearful -tale himself.</p> - -<p>The narrative of the Spaniard had occupied -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_433" title="433"> </a> -many days; at their termination, -young Melmoth signified to his guest that -he was prepared to hear the sequel.</p> - -<p>A night was fixed for the continuation -of the recital. Young Melmoth and his -guest met in the usual apartment—it was -a dreary, stormy night—the rain that had -fallen all day, seemed now to have yielded -to the wind, that came in strong and sudden -bursts, suddenly hushed, as if collecting -strength for the tempest of the night. -Monçada and Melmoth drew their chairs -closer to the fire, looking at each other with -the aspect of men who wish to inspire each -other with courage to listen, and to tell, -and are the more eager to inspire it, because -neither feels it himself.</p> - -<p>At length Monçada collected his voice -and resolution to proceed, but as he went -on, he perceived he could not fix his -hearer’s attention, and he paused.</p> - -<p>“I thought,” said Melmoth, answering -his silence, “I thought I heard a noise—as -of a person walking in the passage.” -“Hush! and listen,” said Monçada, “I -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_434" title="434"> </a> -would not wish to be overheard.” They -paused and held their breath—the sound -was renewed—it was evidently that of steps -approaching the door, and then retiring -from it. “We are watched,” said Melmoth, -half-rising from his chair, but at -that moment the door opened, and a -figure appeared at it, which Monçada recognized -for the subject of his narrative, -and his mysterious visitor in the prison of -the Inquisition, and Melmoth for the original -of the picture, and the being whose -unaccountable appearance had filled him -with consternation, as he sat beside his -dying uncle’s bed.</p> - -<p>The figure stood at the door for some -time, and then advancing slowly till it -gained the centre of the room, it remained -there fixed for some time, but without -looking at them. It then approached the -table where they sat, in a slow but distinctly -heard step, and stood before them -as a living being. The profound horror -that was equally felt by both, was differently -expressed by each. Monçada crossed -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_435" title="435"> </a> -himself repeatedly, and attempted to -utter many prayers. Melmoth, nailed to -his chair, fixed his sightless eyes on the -form that stood before him—it was indeed -Melmoth the Wanderer—the same -as he was in the past century—the same -as he may be in centuries to come, -should the fearful terms of his existence -be renewed. His “natural force -was not abated,” but “his eye was dim,”—that -appalling and supernatural lustre of -the visual organ, that beacon lit by an infernal -fire, to tempt or to warn the adventurers -of despair from that coast on which -many struck, and some sunk—that portentous -light was no longer visible—the form -and figure were those of a living man, of -the age indicated in the portrait which the -young Melmoth had destroyed, but the -eyes were as the eyes of the dead. * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>As the Wanderer advanced still nearer -till his figure touched the table, Monçada -and Melmoth started up in irrepressible -horror, and stood in attitudes of defence, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_436" title="436"> </a> -though conscious at the moment that all -defence was hopeless against a being that -withered and mocked at human power. -The Wanderer waved his arm with an -action that spoke defiance without hostility—and -the strange and solemn accents of -the only human voice that had respired -mortal air beyond the period of mortal life, -and never spoken but to the ear of guilt -or suffering, and never uttered to that ear -aught but despair, rolled slowly on their -hearing like a peal of distant thunder.</p> - -<p>“Mortals—you are here to talk of my -destiny, and of the events which it has -involved. That destiny is accomplished, I -believe, and with it terminate those events -that have stimulated your wild and wretched -curiosity. I am here to tell you of both!—I—I—of -whom you speak, am here!—Who -can tell so well of Melmoth the Wanderer -as himself, now that he is about to resign -that existence which has been the object of -terror and wonder to the world?—Melmoth, -you behold your ancestor—the being -on whose portrait is inscribed the date -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_437" title="437"> </a> -of a century and a half, is before you.—Monçada, -you see an acquaintance of a -later date.”—(A grim smile of recognition -wandered over his features as he spoke).—“Fear -nothing,” he added, observing the -agony and terror of his involuntary hearers—“What -have you to fear?” he continued, -while a flash of derisive malignity -once more lit up the sockets of his dead -eyes—“You, Senhor, are armed with -your beads—and you, Melmoth, are fortified -by that vain and desperate inquisitiveness, -which might, at a former period, -have made you my victim,”—(and his features -underwent a short but horrible convulsion)—“but -now makes you only my mockery.</p> - -<p class="center">*   *   *   *</p> - -<p>“Have you aught to quench my thirst?” -he added, seating himself. The senses of -Monçada and his companion reeled in delirious -terror, and the former, in a kind of -wild confidence, filled a glass of water, and -offered it to the Wanderer with a hand as -steady, but somewhat colder, as he would -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_438" title="438"> </a> -have presented it to one who sat beside -him in human companionship. The Wanderer -raised it to his lips, and tasted a few -drops, then replacing it on the table, said -with a laugh, wild indeed, but no longer -ferocious—“Have you seen,” said he to -Monçada and Melmoth, who gazed with dim -and troubled sight on this vision, and wist -not what to think—“Have you seen the -fate of Don Juan, not as he is pantomimed -on your paltry stage, but as he is represented -in the real horrors of his destiny -by the Spanish writer<a name="FootnoteMarker_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="footnote-marker">(17)</a>? There the spectre -returns the hospitality of his inviter, and -summons him in turn to a feast.—The -banquet-hall is a church—he arrives—it is -illuminated with a mysterious light—invisible -hands hold lamps fed by no earthly -substance, to light the apostate to his -doom!—He enters the church, and is greeted -by a numerous company—the spirits of -those whom he has wronged and murdered, -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_439" title="439"> </a> -uprisen from their charnel, and swathed -in shrouds, stand there to welcome -him!—As he passes among them, they -call on him in hollow sounds to pledge -them in goblets of blood which they present -to him—and beneath the altar, by -which stands the spirit of him whom the -parricide has murdered, the gulph of perdition -is yawning to receive him!<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span> -Through such a band I must soon prepare -to pass!—Isidora! thy form will be the -last I must encounter—and—the most terrible! -Now for the last drop I must taste -of earth’s produce—the last that shall wet -my mortal lips!” He slowly finished the -draught of water. Neither of his companions -had the power to speak. He sat -down in a posture of heavy musing, and -neither ventured to interrupt him.</p> - -<p>They kept silence till the morning was -dawning, and a faint light streamed through -the closed shutters. Then the Wanderer -raised his heavy eyes, and fixed them on -Melmoth. “Your ancestor has come -home,” he said; “his wanderings are over!—What -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_440" title="440"> </a> -has been told or believed of me -is now of light avail to me. The secret of -my destiny rests with myself. If all that -fear has invented, and credulity believed -of me be true, to what does it amount? -That if my crimes have exceeded those of -mortality, so will my punishment. I have -been on earth a terror, but not an evil to -its inhabitants. None can participate in -my destiny but with his own consent—<em>none -have consented</em>—none can be involved -in its tremendous penalties, but by participation. -I alone must sustain the penalty. -If I have put forth my hand, and -eaten of the fruit of the interdicted tree, -am I not driven from the presence of -God and the region of paradise, and sent -to wander amid worlds of barrenness and -curse for ever and ever?</p> - -<p>“It has been reported of me, that I -obtained from the enemy of souls a range -of existence beyond the period allotted to -mortality—a power to pass over space -without disturbance or delay, and visit remote -regions with the swiftness of thought—to -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_441" title="441"> </a> -encounter tempests without the <em>hope</em> of -their blasting me, and penetrate into dungeons, -whose bolts were as flax and tow at -my touch. It has been said that this -power was accorded to me, that I might -be enabled to tempt wretches in their fearful -hour of extremity, with the promise -of deliverance and immunity, on condition -of their exchanging situations with me. -If this be true, it bears attestation to a -truth uttered by the lips of one I may not -name, and echoed by every human heart -in the habitable world.</p> - -<p>“No one has ever exchanged destinies -with Melmoth the Wanderer. <em>I have traversed -the world in the search, and no one, -to gain that world, would lose his own -soul!</em>—Not Stanton in his cell—nor you, -Monçada, in the prison of the Inquisition—nor -Walberg, who saw his children perishing -with want—nor—another”—</p> - -<p>He paused, and though on the verge of -his dark and doubtful voyage, he seemed -to cast one look of bitter and retrospective -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_442" title="442"> </a> -anguish on the receding shore of life, and -see, through the mists of memory, one -form that stood there to bid him farewell. -He rose—“Let me, if possible, obtain an -hour’s repose. Aye, repose—sleep!” he repeated, -answering the silent astonishment -of his hearers’ looks, “my existence is still -human!”—and a ghastly and derisive smile -wandered over his features for the last -time, as he spoke. How often had that -smile frozen the blood of his victims! -Melmoth and Monçada quitted the apartment; -and the Wanderer, sinking back in -his chair, slept profoundly. He slept, but -what were the visions of his last earthly -slumber?</p> - -<div class="section"> - -<h3 id="The_Wanderers_Dream">The Wanderer’s Dream.</h3> - -</div> - -<p><span class="small-caps">He</span> dreamed that he stood on the summit -of a precipice, whose downward height -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_443" title="443"> </a> -no eye could have measured, but for the -fearful waves of a fiery ocean that lashed, -and blazed, and roared at its bottom, -sending its burning spray far up, so as to -drench the dreamer with its sulphurous -rain. The whole glowing ocean below was -alive—every billow bore an agonizing soul, -that rose like a wreck or a putrid corse on -the waves of earth’s oceans—uttered a -shriek as it burst against that adamantine -precipice—sunk—and rose again to repeat -the tremendous experiment! Every billow -of fire was thus instinct with immortal -and agonizing existence,—each was -freighted with a soul, that rose on the -burning wave in torturing hope, burst on -the rock in despair, added its eternal shriek -to the roar of that fiery ocean, and sunk -to rise again—in vain, and—for ever!</p> - -<p>Suddenly the Wanderer felt himself -flung half-way down the precipice. He -stood, in his dream, tottering on a crag midway -down the precipice—he looked upward, -but the upper air (for there was no -heaven) showed only blackness unshadowed -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_444" title="444"> </a> -and impenetrable—but, blacker than that -blackness, he could distinguish a gigantic -outstretched arm, that held him as in sport -on the ridge of that infernal precipice, -while another, that seemed in its motions -to hold fearful and invisible conjunction -with the arm that grasped him, as if both -belonged to some being too vast and horrible -even for the imagery of a dream to -shape, pointed upwards to a dial-plate fixed -on the top of that precipice, and which -the flashes of that ocean of fire made fearfully -conspicuous. He saw the mysterious -single hand revolve—he saw it reach the -appointed period of 150 years—(for in this -mystic plate centuries were marked, not -hours)—he shrieked in his dream, and, -with that strong impulse often felt in -sleep, burst from the arm that held him, -to arrest the motion of the hand.</p> - -<p>In the effort he fell, and falling grasped -at aught that might save him. His fall -seemed perpendicular—there was nought -to save him—the rock was as smooth as -ice—the ocean of fire broke at its foot! -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_445" title="445"> </a> -Suddenly a groupe of figures appeared, -ascending as he fell. He grasped at them -successively;—first Stanton—then Walberg—Elinor -Mortimer—Isidora—Monçada—all -passed him,—to each he seemed in -his slumber to cling in order to break -his fall—all ascended the precipice. He -caught at each in his downward flight, -but all forsook him and ascended.</p> - -<p>His last despairing reverted glance was -fixed on the clock of eternity—the upraised -black arm seemed to push forward -the hand—it arrived at its period—he fell—he -sunk—he blazed—he shrieked! The -burning waves boomed over his sinking -head, and the clock of eternity rung out its -awful chime—“Room for the soul of the -Wanderer!”—and the waves of the burning -ocean answered, as they lashed the adamantine -rock—“There is room for -more!”<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span>The Wanderer awoke.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER <ins title="XXXVI">XXXIX</ins>.<a class="pagenum" name="Page_446" title="446"> </a></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line">And in he came with eyes of flame,<br /></div> -<div class="line">The fiend to fetch the dead.<br /></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Southey’s</span> <cite>Old Woman of Berkeley</cite>.<br /></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps">Melmoth</span> and Monçada did not dare to -approach the door till about noon. They -then knocked gently at the door, and finding -the summons unanswered, they entered -slowly and irresolutely. The apartment -was in the same state in which they -had left it the preceding night, or rather -morning; it was dusky and silent, the shutters -had not been opened, and the Wanderer -still seemed sleeping in his chair.</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_447" title="447"> </a>At the sound of their approach he half-started -up, and demanded what was the -hour. They told him. “My hour is -come,” said the Wanderer, “it is an hour -you must neither partake or witness—the -clock of eternity is about to strike, but its -knell must be unheard by mortal ears!” -As he spoke they approached nearer, and -saw with horror the change the last few -hours had wrought on him. The fearful -lustre of his eyes had been deadened before -their late interview, but now the lines -of extreme age were visible in every feature. -His hairs were as white as snow, -his mouth had fallen in, the muscles of his -face were relaxed and withered—he was -the very image of hoary decrepid debility. -He started himself at the impression which -his appearance visibly made on the intruders. -“You see what I feel,” he exclaimed, -“the hour then is come. I am -summoned, and I must obey the summons—my -master has other work for me! -When a meteor blazes in your atmosphere—when -a comet pursues its burning -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_448" title="448"> </a> -path towards the sun—look up, and perhaps -you may think of the spirit condemned -to guide the blazing and erratic -orb.”</p> - -<p>The spirits, that had risen to a kind of -wild elation, as suddenly subsided, and -he added, “Leave me, I must be alone -for the few last hours of my mortal existence—if -indeed they are to be the last.” -He spoke this with an inward shuddering, -that was felt by his hearers. “In this apartment,” -he continued, “I first drew -breath, in this I must perhaps resign it,—would—would -I had never been born! * -* * * * *</p> - -<p>“Men—retire—leave me alone. Whatever -noises you hear in the course of the -awful night that is approaching, come not -near this apartment, at peril of your lives. -Remember,” raising his voice, which still -retained all its powers, “remember your -lives will be the forfeit of your desperate -curiosity. For the same stake I risked -more than life—and lost it!—Be warned—retire!”</p> - -<p><a class="pagenum" name="Page_449" title="449"> </a>They retired, and passed the remainder -of that day without even thinking of food, -from that intense and burning anxiety -that seemed to prey on their very vitals. -At night they retired, and though each -lay down, it was without a thought of repose. -Repose indeed would have been -impossible. The sounds that soon after -midnight began to issue from the apartment -of the Wanderer, were at first of a -description not to alarm, but they were -soon exchanged for others of such indescribable -horror, that Melmoth, though he -had taken the precaution of dismissing the -servants to sleep in the adjacent offices, -began to fear that those sounds might -reach them, and, restless himself from insupportable -inquietude, rose and walked -up and down the passage that led to that -room of horror. As he was thus occupied, -he thought he saw a figure at the lower -end of the passage. So disturbed was his -vision, that he did not at first recognize -Monçada. Neither asked the other the -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_450" title="450"> </a> -reason of his being there—they walked -up and down together silently.</p> - -<p>In a short time the sounds became so -terrible, that scarcely had the awful warning -of the Wanderer power to withhold -them from attempting to burst into the -room. These noises were of the most -mixed and indescribable kind. They could -not distinguish whether they were the -shrieks of supplication, or the yell of blasphemy—they -hoped inwardly they might -be the former.</p> - -<p>Towards morning the sounds suddenly -ceased—they were stilled as in a moment. -The silence that succeeded seemed -to them for a few moments more terrible -than all that preceded. After consulting -each other by a glance, they hastened together -to the apartment. They entered—it -was empty—not a vestige of its last inhabitant -was to be traced within.</p> - -<p>After looking around in fruitless amazement, -they perceived a small door opposite -to that by which they had entered. -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_451" title="451"> </a> -It communicated with a back staircase, and -was open. As they approached it, they -discovered the traces of footsteps that -appeared to be those of a person who -had been walking in damp sand or clay. -These traces were exceedingly plain—they -followed them to a door that opened -on the garden—that door was open -also. They traced the foot-marks distinctly -through the narrow gravel walk, -which was terminated by a broken fence, -and opened on a heathy field which spread -half-way up a rock whose summit overlooked -the sea. The weather had been -rainy, and they could trace the steps distinctly -through that heathy field. They -ascended the rock together.</p> - -<p>Early as it was, the cottagers, who -were poor fishermen residing on the shore, -were all up, and assuring Melmoth and -his companion that they had been disturbed -and terrified the preceding night by -sounds which they could not describe. It -was singular that these men, accustomed -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_452" title="452"> </a> -by nature and habit alike to exaggeration -and superstition, used not the language of -either on this occasion.</p> - -<p>There is an overwhelming mass of -conviction that falls on the mind, that -annihilates idiom and peculiarities, and -crushes out truth from the heart. Melmoth -waved back all who offered to accompany -him to the precipice which -over-hung the sea. Monçada alone followed -him.</p> - -<p>Through the furze that clothed this -rock, almost to its summit, there was a -kind of tract as if a person had dragged, -or been dragged, his way through -it—a down-trodden track, over which -no footsteps but those of one impelled by -force had ever passed. Melmoth and -Monçada gained at last the summit of the -rock. The ocean was beneath—the wide, -waste, engulphing ocean! On a crag beneath -them, something hung as floating -to the blast. Melmoth clambered down -and caught it. It was the handkerchief -<a class="pagenum" name="Page_453" title="453"> </a> -which the Wanderer had worn about his -neck the preceding night—that was the -last trace of the Wanderer!</p> - -<p>Melmoth and Monçada exchanged -looks of silent and unutterable horror, and -returned slowly home.</p> - -<p class="end">FINIS.</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="small-caps">John Pillans</span>, Printer, Edinburgh.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_1" href="#FootnoteMarker_1" class="label">(1)</a> -Here Monçada expressed his surprise at this -passage, (as savouring more of Christianity than Judaism), -considering it occurred in the manuscript of -a Jew. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_2" href="#FootnoteMarker_2" class="label">(2)</a> -Fact,—it occurred in a French family not many -years ago. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_3" href="#FootnoteMarker_3" class="label">(3)</a> -Vide Cervantes, apud Don Quixote de Collibus -Ubedæ. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_4" href="#FootnoteMarker_4" class="label">(4)</a> -Vide Jonson’s play, in which is introduced a -Puritan preacher, a <em>Banbury man</em>, named Zeal-of-the-land -Busy. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_5" href="#FootnoteMarker_5" class="label">(5)</a> -I have been an inmate in this castle for many -months—it is still inhabited by the venerable descendant -of that ancient family. His son is now High-Sheriff -of the King’s county. Half the castle was -battered down by Oliver Cromwell’s forces, and rebuilt -in the reign of Charles the Second. The remains -of the <em>castle</em> are a tower of about forty feet -square, and five stories high, with a single spacious -apartment on each floor, and a narrow staircase communicating -with each, and reaching to the bartizan. -A beautiful ash-plant, which I have often admired, -is now displaying its foliage between the stones of -the bartizan,—and how it got or grew there, heaven -only knows. There it is, however; and it is better -to see it there than to feel the discharge of hot water -or molten lead from the apertures. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_6" href="#FootnoteMarker_6" class="label">(6)</a> -See a comedy of Wycherly’s, entitled, “Love -in a Wood, or St James’s Park,” where the company -are represented going there at night in masks, and -with torches. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_7" href="#FootnoteMarker_7" class="label">(7)</a> -Taylor’s Book of Martyrs. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_8" href="#FootnoteMarker_8" class="label">(8)</a> -Anachronism—n’importe. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_9" href="#FootnoteMarker_9" class="label">(9)</a> -In Cowley’s “Cutter of Coleman Street,” Mrs -Tabitha, a rigid Puritan, tells her husband she had -danced the Canaries in her youth. And in Rushworth’s -Collections, if I remember right, Prynne -vindicates himself from the charge of a general denunciation -against dancing, and even speaks of the -“Measures,” a stately, solemn dance, with some approbation. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_10" href="#FootnoteMarker_10" class="label">(10)</a> -As this whole scene is taken from fact, I subjoin -the notes whose modulation is so simple, and -whose effect was so profound.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <a id="music" name="music"></a> - <img src="images/music.png" - alt="Music" /> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_11" href="#FootnoteMarker_11" class="label">(11)</a> -Ireland,—forsan. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_12" href="#FootnoteMarker_12" class="label">(12)</a> -Vide Dillon’s travels through Spain. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_13" href="#FootnoteMarker_13" class="label">(13)</a> -The celebrated manufactory for glass in Spain. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_14" href="#FootnoteMarker_14" class="label">(14)</a> -He called unto me out of Seir, Watchman, what -of the night?—Watchman, what of the night?<span style="white-space: nowrap;">——</span><span class="small-caps">Isaiah.</span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_15" href="#FootnoteMarker_15" class="label">(15)</a> -Vide the beautiful tale of Auheta the Princess -of Egypt, and Maugraby the Sorcerer, in the Arabian -Tales. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_16" href="#FootnoteMarker_16" class="label">(16)</a> -From this it should seem that they were unacquainted -with the story of Elinor Mortimer. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a name="Footnote_17" href="#FootnoteMarker_17" class="label">(17)</a> -Vide the original play, of which there is a curious -and very obsolete translation. -</p> -</div> -</div> - - -<div class="transcribers-note page-break-after"> -<p class="center"><a name="tn-bottom"></a><b>Transcriber’s Note:</b></p> -<p>The following is a list of corrections made to the original. The -first passage is the original passage, the second the corrected one.</p> - -<ul id="corrections"> -<li><a href="#Page_1">Page 1</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXI</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXIII</span>. -</li> - -<li><a href="#Page_14">Page 14</a>:<br /> -<i>et <span class="correction">senie</span> confectus</i>,”—or finally, the<br /> -<i>et <span class="correction">senio</span> confectus</i>,”—or finally, the -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_22">Page 22</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXII</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXIV</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_24">Page 24</a>:<br /> -of steps pursuing <span class="correction">her.”</span><br /> -of steps pursuing <span class="correction">her.</span> -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_42">Page 42</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">As</span> they approached, in spite of the<br /> -<span class="correction">“As</span> they approached, in spite of the -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_48">Page 48</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">darknesss</span> so profound, that Isidora did<br /> -<span class="correction">darkness</span> so profound, that Isidora did -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_49">Page 49</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">nor</span> what she said. All was mist and darkness<br /> -<span class="correction">not</span> what she said. All was mist and darkness -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_50">Page 50</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXIII</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXV</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_50">Page 50</a>:<br /> -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">Τηλε <span class="correction">μἐιργουσι</span> ψυχαι, <span class="correction">ειδοωλα</span> καμοντων.</span></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Homer.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">Τηλε <span class="correction">μ’ ειργουσι</span> ψυχαι, <span class="correction">ειδωλα</span> καμοντων.</span></div> -<div class="line right"><span class="small-caps">Homer.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</li> - -<li><a href="#Page_50">Page 50</a>:<br /> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps"><span class="correction">We</span></span> have now to retrace a short period</p> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps"><span class="correction">“We</span></span> have now to retrace a short period</p> -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_56">Page 56</a>:<br /> -may be, could not <span class="correction">aviod</span> giving him his<br /> -may be, could not <span class="correction">avoid</span> giving him his -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_57">Page 57</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">knowledge.</span><br /> -<span class="correction">knowledge.”</span> -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_61">Page 61</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXIV</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXVI</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_73">Page 73</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">This</span> night he perhaps began to feel the<br /> -<span class="correction">“This</span> night he perhaps began to feel the -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_73">Page 73</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">The</span> weather was gloomy and cold that<br /> -<span class="correction">“The</span> weather was gloomy and cold that -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_79">Page 79</a>:<br /> -“Father,” said Walberg, <span class="correction">is</span> not Everhard<br /> -“Father,” said Walberg, <span class="correction">“is</span> not Everhard -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_84">Page 84</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXV</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXVII</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_99">Page 99</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">The</span> priest was as good as his word,—the<br /> -<span class="correction">“The</span> priest was as good as his word,—the -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_109">Page 109</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXVI</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXVIII</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_110">Page 110</a>:<br /> -among them—<i><span class="correction">“and</span> felt too</i>.” The worthy<br /> -among them—<i><span class="correction">and</span> felt too</i>.” The worthy -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_119">Page 119</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">The</span> mother, with the forced smile of a<br /> -<span class="correction">“The</span> mother, with the forced smile of a -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_145">Page 145</a>:<br /> -do they moan for?” “Hunger I <span class="correction">believe,’</span><br /> -do they moan for?” “Hunger I <span class="correction">believe,”</span> -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_153">Page 153</a>:<br /> -must drag me from it <span class="correction">yourselves.</span><br /> -must drag me from it <span class="correction">yourselves.”</span> -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_177">Page 177</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXVII</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXIX</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_177">Page 177</a>:<br /> -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">Χαλεπον <span class="correction">δέ</span> το φιλησαι·</span></div> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">χαλεπον το μη φιλησαι·</span></div> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">χαλεπωτερον δε παντων</span></div> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">αποτυγχανειν φιλουντα.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div><br /> -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">Χαλεπον <span class="correction">δε</span> το φιλησαι·</span></div> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">χαλεπον το μη φιλησαι·</span></div> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">χαλεπωτερον δε παντων</span></div> -<div class="line"><span class="greek" lang="grc" xml:lang="grc">αποτυγχανειν φιλουντα.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_180">Page 180</a>:<br /> -tremble, <span class="correction">les</span> he was pursued by banditti at<br /> -tremble, <span class="correction">lest</span> he was pursued by banditti at -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_188">Page 188</a>:<br /> -have had dealings with <span class="correction">Shewsbury</span> merchants,”<br /> -have had dealings with <span class="correction">Shrewsbury</span> merchants,” -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_200">Page 200</a>:<br /> -by the name of—“Thou-art-not-worthy-to-unloose-the-latchets-of-his-shoes,—<em>Sandal</em><span class="correction">.</span><br /> -by the name of—“Thou-art-not-worthy-to-unloose-the-latchets-of-his-shoes,—<em>Sandal</em><span class="correction">.”</span> -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_206">Page 206</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXVIII</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXX</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_217">Page 217</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">natics</span>, after robbing a church of all its silver-plate,<br /> -<span class="correction">fanatics</span>, after robbing a church of all its silver-plate, -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_241">Page 241</a>:<br /> - <span class="correction">Such</span> was the state of Elinor, when the<br /> - <span class="correction">“Such</span> was the state of Elinor, when the -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_263">Page 263</a>:<br /> -doomed by many a <span class="correction">thristy</span> eye to be often<br /> -doomed by many a <span class="correction">thirsty</span> eye to be often -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_274">Page 274</a>:<br /> -where the non-<span class="correction">comformist</span> ministers,<br /> -where the non-<span class="correction">conformist</span> ministers, -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_286">Page 286</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">On</span> a dim autumnal evening, when Mrs<br /> -<span class="correction">“On</span> a dim autumnal evening, when Mrs -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_307">Page 307</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXIX</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXI</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_307">Page 307</a>:<br /> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps"><span class="correction">The</span></span> increasing decline of Elinor’s health</p> -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="small-caps"><span class="correction">“The</span></span> increasing decline of Elinor’s health</p> -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_317">Page 317</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXX</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXII</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_338">Page 338</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">I</span> had not seen Melmoth for some years.<br /> -<span class="correction">“I</span> had not seen Melmoth for some years. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_346">Page 346</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXI</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXIII</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_355">Page 355</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXII</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXIV</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_365">Page 365</a>:<br /> -will show,<span class="correction">“</span> said Donna<br /> -will show,<span class="correction">”</span> said Donna -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_367">Page 367</a>:<br /> -at all <span class="correction">simes</span>, I have been told,” answered<br /> -at all <span class="correction">times</span>, I have been told,” answered -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_380">Page 380</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXII</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXV</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_402">Page 402</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXIII</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXVI</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_414">Page 414</a>:<br /> -one moment!<span class="correction">’</span> cried Isidora,<br /> -one moment!<span class="correction">”</span> cried Isidora, -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_415">Page 415</a>:<br /> -<span class="correction">Fra</span> Jose melted at the appeal, and he<br /> -<span class="correction">“Fra</span> Jose melted at the appeal, and he -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_417">Page 417</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXIV</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXVII</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_428">Page 428</a>:<br /> -“<span class="correction">Daughter,</span> said the priest, bending over<br /> -“<span class="correction">Daughter,”</span> said the priest, bending over -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_431">Page 431</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXV</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXVIII</span>. -</li> -<li><a href="#Page_446">Page 446</a>:<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXVI</span>.<br /> -CHAPTER <span class="correction">XXXIX</span>. -</li> -</ul> -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Melmoth the Wanderer Vol. 4 (of 4), by -Charles Robert Maturin - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MELMOTH THE WANDERER VOL. 4 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