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Title: The Italian, Volume 1 (of 3)
        or, the confessional of the Black Penitents

Author: Ann Ward Radcliffe

Release date: October 27, 2024 [eBook #74643]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: T. Cadell and W. Davies

Credits: Delphine Lettau and the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at pgdpcanada.net from images generously made available by Internet Archive/European Libraries


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ITALIAN, VOLUME 1 (OF 3) ***





  THE _ITALIAN_,

  OR

  THE CONFESSIONAL of the BLACK PENITENTS.

  _A ROMANCE._


  BY
  ANN RADCLIFFE,
  AUTHOR OF THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO, &c. &c.


  He, wrapt in clouds of mystery and silence,
  Broods o'er his passions, bodies them in deeds,
  And sends them forth on wings of Fate to others:
  Like the invisible Will, that guides us,
  Unheard, unknown, unsearchable!


  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. I.

  LONDON:
  Printed for T. CADELL Jun. and W. DAVIES
  (successors to Mr. CADELL) in the STRAND.

  1797.




  _THE ITALIAN_,
  OR
  THE CONFESSIONAL of the BLACK PENITENTS.


About the year 1764, some English travellers in Italy, during one of
their excursions in the environs of Naples, happened to stop before the
portico of the _Santa Maria del Pianto_, a church belonging to a very
ancient convent of the order of the _Black Penitents_. The magnificence
of this portico, though impaired by time, excited so much admiration,
that the travellers were curious to survey the structure to which it
belonged, and with this intention they ascended the marble steps that
led to it.

Within the shade of the portico, a person with folded arms, and eyes
directed towards the ground, was pacing behind the pillars the whole
extent of the pavement, and was apparently so engaged by his own
thoughts, as not to observe that strangers were approaching. He turned,
however, suddenly, as if startled by the sound of steps, and then,
without further pausing, glided to a door that opened into the church
and disappeared.

There was something too extraordinary in the figure of this man, and
too singular in his conduct, to pass unnoticed by the visitors. He was
of a tall thin figure, bending forward from the shoulders; of a sallow
complexion, and harsh features, and had an eye, which, as it looked up
from the cloke that muffled the lower part of his countenance, seemed
expressive of uncommon ferocity.

The travellers, on entering the church, looked round for the stranger,
who had passed thither before them, but he was no where to be seen,
and, through all the shade of the long aisles, only one other person
appeared. This was a friar of the adjoining convent, who sometimes
pointed out to strangers the objects in the church, which were most
worthy of attention, and who now, with this design, approached the
party that had just entered.

The interior of this edifice had nothing of the shewy ornament and
general splendor, which distinguish the churches of Italy, and
particularly those of Naples; but it exhibited a simplicity and
grandeur of design, considerably more interesting to persons of taste,
and a solemnity of light and shade much more suitable to promote the
sublime elevation of devotion.

When the party had viewed the different shrines and whatever had been
judged worthy of observation, and were returning through an obscure
aisle towards the portico, they perceived the person who had appeared
upon the steps, passing towards a confessional on the left, and, as he
entered it, one of the party pointed him out to the friar, and enquired
who he was; the friar turning to look after him, did not immediately
reply, but, on the question being repeated, he inclined his head, as in
a kind of obeisance, and calmly replied, "He is an assassin."

"An assassin!" exclaimed one of the Englishmen; "an assassin and at
liberty!"

An Italian gentleman, who was of the party, smiled at the astonishment
of his friend.

"He has sought sanctuary here," replied the friar; "within these walls
he may not be hurt."

"Do your altars, then, protect the murderer?" said the Englishman.

"He could find shelter no where else," answered the friar meekly.

"This is astonishing!" said the Englishman; "of what avail are your
laws, if the most atrocious criminal may thus find shelter from them?
But how does he contrive to exist here! He is, at least, in danger of
being starved?"

"Pardon me," replied the friar; "there are always people willing to
assist those, who cannot assist themselves; and as the criminal may not
leave the church in search of food, they bring it to him here."

"Is this possible!" said the Englishman, turning to his Italian friend.

"Why, the poor wretch must not starve," replied the friend; "which he
inevitably would do, if food were not brought to him! But have you
never, since your arrival in Italy, happened to see a person in the
situation of this man? It is by no means an uncommon one."

"Never!" answered the Englishman, "and I can scarcely credit what I see
now!"

"Why, my friend," observed the Italian, "if we were to shew no mercy
to such unfortunate persons, assassinations are so frequent, that our
cities would be half depopulated."

In notice of this profound remark, the Englishman could only gravely
bow.

"But observe yonder confessional," added the Italian, "that beyond
the pillars on the left of the aisle, below a painted window. Have
you discovered it? The colours of the glass throw, instead of light,
a shade over that part of the church, which, perhaps, prevents your
distinguishing what I mean!"

The Englishman looked whither his friend pointed, and observed a
confessional of oak, or some very dark wood, adjoining the wall, and
remarked also, that it was the same, which the assassin had just
entered. It consisted of three compartments, covered with a black
canopy. In the central division was the chair of the confessor,
elevated by several steps above the pavement of the church; and on
either hand was a small closet, or box, with steps leading up to a
grated partition, at which the penitent might kneel, and, concealed
from observation, pour into the ear of the confessor, the consciousness
of crimes that lay heavy on his heart.

"You observe it?" said the Italian.

"I do," replied the Englishman; "it is the same, which the assassin has
passed into; and I think it one of the most gloomy spots I ever beheld;
the view of it is enough to strike a criminal with despair!"

"We, in Italy, are not so apt to despair," replied the Italian
smilingly.

"Well, but what of this confessional?" enquired the Englishman. "The
assassin entered it!"

"He has no relation, with what I am about to mention," said the
Italian; "but I wish you to mark the place, because some very
extraordinary circumstances belong to it."

"What are they?" said the Englishman.

"It is now several years since the confession, which is connected with
them, was made at that very confessional," added the Italian; "the
view of it, and the sight of this assassin, with your surprize at the
liberty which is allowed him, led me to a recollection of the story.
When you return to the hotel, I will communicate it to you, if you have
no pleasanter way of engaging your time."

"I have a curiosity to hear it," replied the Englishman, "cannot you
relate it now?"

"It is much too long to be related now; that would occupy a week; I
have it in writing, and will send you the volume. A young student of
Padua, who happened to be at Naples soon after this horrible confession
became public"----

"Pardon me," interrupted the Englishman, "that is surely very
extraordinary? I thought confessions were always held sacred by the
priest, to whom they were made."

"Your observation is reasonable," rejoined the Italian; "the faith
of the priest is never broken, except by an especial command from
an higher power; and the circumstances must even then be very
extraordinary to justify such a departure from the law. But, when you
read the narrative, your surprise on this head will cease. I was going
to tell you, that it was written by a student of Padua, who, happening
to be here soon after the affair became public, was so much struck with
the facts, that, partly as an exercise, and partly in return for some
trifling services I had rendered him, he committed them to paper for
me. You will perceive from the work, that this student was very young,
as to the arts of composition, but the facts are what you require, and
from these he has not deviated. But come, let us leave the church."

"After I have taken another view of this solemn edifice," replied the
Englishman, "and particularly of the confessional you have pointed to
my notice!"

While the Englishman glanced his eye over the high roofs, and along the
solemn perspectives of the Santa del Pianto, he perceived the figure
of the assassin stealing from the confessional across the choir, and,
shocked on again beholding him, he turned his eyes and hastily quitted
the church.

The friends then separated, and the Englishman, soon after returning to
his hotel, received the volume. He read as follows:




THE _ITALIAN_.




CHAPTER I.

  "What is this secret sin; this untold tale,
  That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?"

  MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.


It was in the church of San Lorenzo at Naples, in the year 1758, that
Vincentio di Vivaldi first saw Ellena Rosalba. The sweetness and
fine expression of her voice attracted his attention to her figure,
which had a distinguished air of delicacy and grace; but her face was
concealed in her veil. So much indeed was he fascinated by the voice,
that a most painful curiosity was excited as to her countenance, which
he fancied must express all the sensibility of character that the
modulation of her tones indicated. He listened to their exquisite
expression with a rapt attention, and hardly withdrew his eyes from her
person till the matin service had concluded; when he observed her leave
the church with an aged lady, who leaned upon her arm, and who appeared
to be her mother.

Vivaldi immediately followed their steps, determined to obtain, if
possible, a view of Ellena's face, and to discover the home to which
she should retire. They walked quickly, looking neither to the right
or left, and as they turned into the Strada di Toledo he had nearly
lost them; but quickening his pace, and relinquishing the cautious
distance he had hitherto kept, he overtook them as they entered on the
Terrazzo Nuovo, which runs along the bay of Naples, and leads towards
the Gran Corso. He overtook them; but the fair unknown still held her
veil close, and he knew not how to introduce himself to her notice, or
to obtain a view of the features, which excited his curiosity. He was
embarrassed by a respectful timidity, that mingled with his admiration,
and which kept him silent, notwithstanding his wish to speak.

In descending the last steps of the _Terrazzo_, however, the foot of
the elder lady faltered, and, while Vivaldi hastened to assist her,
the breeze from the water caught the veil, which Ellena had no longer
a hand sufficiently disengaged to confine, and, wafting it partially
aside, disclosed to him a countenance more touchingly beautiful than
he had dared to image. Her features were of the Grecian outline, and,
though they expressed the tranquillity of an elegant mind, her dark
blue eyes sparkled with intelligence. She was assisting her companion
so anxiously, that she did not immediately observe the admiration she
had inspired; but the moment her eyes met those of Vivaldi, she became
conscious of their effect, and she hastily drew her veil.

The old lady was not materially hurt by her fall, but, as she
walked difficultly, Vivaldi seized the opportunity thus offered,
and insisted that she should accept his arm. She refused this with
many acknowledgments; but he pressed the offer so repeatedly and
respectfully, that, at length, she accepted it, and they walked towards
her residence together.

On the way thither, he attempted to converse with Ellena, but her
replies were concise, and he arrived at the end of the walk while he
was yet considering what he could say, that might interest and withdraw
her from this severe reserve. From the style of their residence,
he imagined that they were persons of honourable, but moderate
independence. The house was small, but exhibited an air of comfort,
and even of taste. It stood on an eminence, surrounded by a garden and
vineyards, which commanded the city and bay of Naples, an ever-moving
picture, and was canopied by a thick grove of pines and majestic
date-trees; and, though the little portico and collonade in front were
of common marble, the style of architecture was elegant. While they
afforded a shelter from the sun, they admitted the cooling breezes
that rose from the bay below, and a prospect of the whole scope of its
enchanting shores.

Vivaldi stopped at the little gate, which led into the garden, where
the elder lady repeated her acknowledgments for his care, but did
not invite him to enter; and he, trembling with anxiety and sinking
with disappointment, remained for a moment gazing upon Ellena,
unable to take leave, yet irresolute what to say that might prolong
the interview, till the old lady again bade him good-day. He then
summoned courage enough to request he might be allowed to enquire
after her health, and, having obtained her permission, his eyes bade
adieu to Ellena, who, as they were parting, ventured to thank him for
the care he had taken of her aunt. The sound of her voice, and this
acknowledgment of obligation, made him less willing to go than before,
but at length he tore himself away. The beauty of her countenance
haunting his imagination, and the touching accents of her voice still
vibrating on his heart, he descended to the shore below her residence,
pleasing himself with the consciousness of being near her, though he
could no longer behold her; and sometimes hoping that he might again
see her, however distantly, in a balcony of the house, where the silk
awning seemed to invite the breeze from the sea. He lingered hour after
hour, stretched beneath the umbrageous pines that waved over the shore,
or traversing, regardless of the heat, the base of the cliffs that
crowned it; recalling to his fancy the enchantment of her smile, and
seeming still to listen to the sweetness of her accents.

In the evening he returned to his father's palace at Naples, thoughtful
yet pleased, anxious yet happy; dwelling with delightful hope on the
remembrance of the thanks he had received from Ellena, yet not daring
to form any plan as to his future conduct. He returned time enough to
attend his mother in her evening ride on the Corso, where, in every
gay carriage that passed, he hoped to see the object of his constant
thought; but she did not appear. His mother, the Marchesa di Vivaldi,
observed his anxiety and unusual silence, and asked him some questions,
which she meant should lead to an explanation of the change in his
manners; but his replies only excited a stronger curiosity, and, though
she forbore to press her enquiries, it was probable that she might
employ a more artful means of renewing them.

Vincentio di Vivaldi was the only son of the Marchese di Vivaldi, a
nobleman of one of the most ancient families of the kingdom of Naples,
a favourite possessing an uncommon share of influence at Court, and a
man still higher in power than in rank. His pride of birth was equal to
either, but it was mingled with the justifiable pride of a principled
mind; it governed his conduct in morals as well as in the jealousy of
ceremonial distinctions, and elevated his practice as well as his
claims. His pride was at once his vice and his virtue, his safeguard
and his weakness.

The mother of Vivaldi, descended from a family as ancient as that of
his father, was equally jealous of her importance; but her pride was
that of birth and distinction, without extending to morals. She was
of violent passions, haughty, vindictive, yet crafty and deceitful;
patient in stratagem, and indefatigable in pursuit of vengeance, on the
unhappy objects who provoked her resentment. She loved her son, rather
as being the last of two illustrious houses, who was to re-unite and
support the honour of both, than with the fondness of a mother.

Vincentio inherited much of the character of his father, and very
little of that of his mother. His pride was as noble and generous as
that of the Marchese; but he had somewhat of the fiery passions of
the Marchesa, without any of her craft, her duplicity, or vindictive
thirst of revenge. Frank in his temper, ingenuous in his sentiments,
quickly offended, but easily appeased; irritated by any appearance of
disrespect, but melted by a concession, a high sense of honor rendered
him no more jealous of offence, than a delicate humanity made him ready
for reconciliation, and anxious to spare the feelings of others.

On the day following that, on which he had seen Ellena, he returned
to the villa Altieri, to use the permission granted him of enquiring
after the health of Signora Bianchi. The expectation of seeing Ellena
agitated him with impatient joy and trembling hope, which still
encreased as he approached her residence, till, having reached the
garden-gate, he was obliged to rest for a few moments to recover breath
and composure.

Having announced himself to an old female servant, who came to the
gate, he was soon after admitted to a small vestibule, where he
found Signora Bianchi winding balls of silk, and alone; though from
the position of a chair which stood near a frame for embroidery,
he judged that Ellena had but just quitted the apartment. Signora
Bianchi received him with a reserved politeness, and seemed very
cautious in her replies to his enquiries after her niece, who, he
hoped, every moment, would appear. He lengthened his visit till there
was no longer an excuse for doing so; till he had exhausted every
topic of conversation, and till the silence of Signora Bianchi seemed
to hint, that his departure was expected. With a heart saddened by
disappointment, and having obtained only a reluctant permission to
enquire after the health of that lady on some future day, he then took
leave.

On his way through the garden he often paused to look back upon the
house, hoping to obtain a glimpse of Ellena at a lattice; and threw a
glance around him, almost expecting to see her seated beneath the shade
of the luxuriant plantains; but his search was every where vain, and he
quitted the place with the slow and heavy step of despondency.

The day was employed in endeavours to obtain intelligence concerning
the family of Ellena, but of this he procured little that was
satisfactory. He was told, that she was an orphan, living under the
care of her aunt, Signora Bianchi; that her family, which had never
been illustrious, was decayed in fortune, and that her only dependence
was upon this aunt. But he was ignorant of what was very true, though
very secret, that she assisted to support this aged relative, whose
sole property was the small estate on which they lived, and that she
passed whole days in embroidering silks, which were disposed of to
the nuns of a neighbouring convent, who sold them to the Neapolitan
ladies, that visited their grate, at a very high advantage. He little
thought, that a beautiful robe, which he had often seen his mother
wear, was worked by Ellena; nor that some copies from the antique,
which ornamented a cabinet of the Vivaldi palace, were drawn by her
hand. If he had known these circumstances, they would only have served
to encrease the passion, which, since they were proofs of a disparity
of fortune, that would certainly render his family repugnant to a
connection with hers, it would have been prudent to discourage.

Ellena could have endured poverty, but not contempt; and it was to
protect herself from this effect of the narrow prejudices of the world
around her, that she had so cautiously concealed from it a knowledge
of the industry, which did honor to her character. She was not ashamed
of poverty, or of the industry which overcame it, but her spirit
shrank from the senseless smile and humiliating condescension, which
prosperity sometimes gives to indigence. Her mind was not yet strong
enough, or her views sufficiently enlarged, to teach her a contempt of
the sneer of vicious folly, and to glory in the dignity of virtuous
independence. Ellena was the sole support of her aunt's declining
years; was patient to her infirmities, and consoling to her sufferings;
and repaid the fondness of a mother with the affection of a daughter.
Her mother she had never known, having lost her while she was an
infant; and from that period Signora Bianchi had performed the duties
of one for her.

Thus innocent and happy in the silent performance of her duties and
in the veil of retirement, lived Ellena Rosalba, when she first saw
Vincentio di Vivaldi. He was not of a figure to pass unobserved when
seen, and Ellena had been struck by the spirit and dignity of his
air, and by his countenance, so frank, noble, and full of that kind
of expression, which announces the energies of the soul. But she was
cautious of admitting a sentiment more tender than admiration, and
endeavoured to dismiss his image from her mind, and by engaging in her
usual occupations, to recover the state of tranquillity, which his
appearance had somewhat interrupted.

Vivaldi, mean while, restless from disappointment, and impatient from
anxiety, having passed the greater part of the day in enquiries, which
repaid him only with doubt and apprehension, determined to return to
the villa Altieri, when evening should conceal his steps, consoled by
the certainty of being near the object of his thoughts, and hoping,
that chance might favour him once more with a view, however transient,
of Ellena.

The Marchesa Vivaldi held an assembly this evening; and a suspicion
concerning the impatience he betrayed, induced her to detain him about
her person to a late hour, engaging him to select the music for her
orchestra, and to superintend the performance of a new piece, the work
of a composer whom she had brought into fashion. Her assemblies were
among the most brilliant and crowded in Naples, and the nobility, who
were to be at the palace this evening, were divided into two parties
as to the merits of the musical genius, whom she patronised, and those
of another candidate for fame. The performance of the evening, it was
expected, would finally decide the victory. This, therefore, was a
night of great importance and anxiety to the Marchesa, for she was as
jealous of the reputation of her favourite composer as of her own, and
the welfare of her son did but slightly divide her cares.

The moment he could depart unobserved, he quitted the assembly, and,
muffling himself in his cloak, hastened to the villa Altieri, which lay
at a short distance to the west of the city. He reached it unobserved,
and, breathless with impatience, traversed the boundary of the garden;
where, free from ceremonial restraint, and near the object of his
affection, he experienced for the few first moments a joy as exquisite
as her presence could have inspired. But this delight faded with its
novelty, and in a short time he felt as forlorn as if he was separated
for ever from Ellena, in whose presence he but lately almost believed
himself.

The night was far advanced, and, no light appearing from the house, he
concluded the inhabitants had retired to rest, and all hope of seeing
her vanished from his mind. Still, however, it was sweet to be near
her, and he anxiously sought to gain admittance to the gardens, that
he might approach the window where it was possible she reposed. The
boundary, formed of trees and thick shrubs, was not difficult to be
passed, and he found himself once more in the portico of the villa.

It was nearly midnight, and the stillness that reigned was rather
soothed than interrupted by the gentle dashing of the waters of the
bay below, and by the hollow murmurs of Vesuvius, which threw up,
at intervals its sudden flame on the horizon, and then left it to
darkness. The solemnity of the scene accorded with the temper of his
mind, and he listened in deep attention for the returning sounds, which
broke upon the ear like distant thunder muttering imperfectly from
the clouds. The pauses of silence, that succeeded each groan of the
mountain, when expectation listened for the rising sound, affected the
imagination of Vivaldi at this time with particular awe, and, rapt
in thought, he continued to gaze upon the sublime and shadowy outline
of the shores, and on the sea, just discerned beneath the twilight of
a cloudless sky. Along its grey surface many vessels were pursuing
their silent course, guided over the deep waters only by the polar
star, which burned with steady lustre. The air was calm, and rose from
the bay with most balmy and refreshing coolness; it scarcely stirred
the heads of the broad pines that overspread the villa; and bore no
sounds but of the waves and the groans of the far-off mountain,--till
a chaunting of deep voices swelled from a distance. The solemn
character of the strain engaged his attention; he perceived that it
was a requiem, and he endeavoured to discover from what quarter it
came. It advanced, though distantly, and then passed away on the air.
The circumstance struck him; he knew it was usual in some parts of
Italy to chaunt this strain over the bed of the dying; but here the
mourners seemed to walk the earth, or the air. He was not doubtful as
to the strain itself;--once before he had heard it, and attended with
circumstances which made it impossible that he should ever forget it.
As he now listened to the choral voices softening in distance, a few
pathetic notes brought full upon his remembrance the divine melody he
had heard Ellena utter in the church of San Lorenzo. Overcome by the
recollection, he started away, and, wandering over the garden, reached
another side of the villa, where he soon heard the voice of Ellena
herself, performing the midnight hymn to the Virgin, and accompanied by
a lute, which she touched with most affecting and delicate expression.
He stood for a moment entranced; and scarcely daring to breathe, lest
he should lose any note of that meek and holy strain, which seemed to
flow from a devotion almost saintly. Then, looking round to discover
the object of his admiration, a light issuing from among the bowery
foliage of a clematis led him to a lattice, and shewed him Ellena. The
lattice had been thrown open to admit the cool air, and he had a full
view of her and the apartment. She was rising from a small altar where
she had concluded the service; the glow of devotion was still upon her
countenance as she raised her eyes, and with a rapt earnestness fixed
them on the heavens. She still held the lute, but no longer awakened
it, and seemed lost to every surrounding object. Her fine hair was
negligently bound up in a silk net, and some tresses that had escaped
it, played on her neck, and round her beautiful countenance, which now
was not even partially concealed by a veil. The light drapery of her
dress, her whole figure, air, and attitude, were such as might have
been copied for a Grecian nymph.

Vivaldi was perplexed and agitated between the wish of seizing an
opportunity, which might never again occur, of pleading his love, and
the fear of offending, by intruding upon her retirement at so sacred
an hour; but while he thus hesitated, he heard her sigh, and then
with a sweetness peculiar to her accent, pronounce his name. During
the trembling anxiety, with which he listened to what might follow
this mention of his name, he disturbed the clematis that surrounded
the lattice, and she turned her eyes towards the window; but Vivaldi
was entirely concealed by the foliage. She, however, rose to close the
lattice; as she approached which, Vivaldi, unable any longer to command
himself, appeared before her. She stood fixed for an instant, while her
countenance changed to an ashy paleness; and then, with trembling haste
closing the lattice, quitted the apartment. Vivaldi felt as if all his
hopes had vanished with her.

After lingering in the garden for some time without perceiving a light
in any other part of the building, or hearing a sound proceed from
it, he took his melancholy way to Naples. He now began to ask himself
some questions, which he ought to have urged before, and to enquire
wherefore he sought the dangerous pleasure of seeing Ellena, since her
family was of such a condition as rendered the consent of his parents
to a marriage with her unattainable.

He was lost in revery on this subject, sometimes half resolved to seek
her no more, and then shrinking from a conduct, which seemed to strike
him with the force of despair, when, as he emerged from the dark arch
of a ruin, that extended over the road, his steps were crossed by a
person in the habit of a monk, whose face was shrouded by his cowl
still more than by the twilight. The stranger, addressing him by his
name, said, "Signor! your steps are watched; beware how you revisit
Altieri!" Having uttered this, he disappeared, before Vivaldi could
return the sword he had half drawn into the scabbard, or demand an
explanation of the words he had heard. He called loudly and repeatedly,
conjuring the unknown person to appear, and lingered near the spot for
a considerable time; but the vision came no more.

Vivaldi arrived at home with a mind occupied by this incident, and
tormented by the jealousy to which it gave rise; for, after indulging
various conjectures, he concluded with believing the notice, of which
he had been warned, to be that of a rival, and that the danger which
menaced him, was from the poniard of jealousy. This belief discovered
to him at once the extent of his passion, and of the imprudence, which
had thus readily admitted it; yet so far was this new prudence from
overcoming his error, that, stung with a torture more exquisite than he
had ever known, he resolved, at every event, to declare his love, and
sue for the hand of Ellena. Unhappy young man, he knew not the fatal
error, into which passion was precipitating him!

On his arrival at the Vivaldi palace, he learned, that the Marchesa had
observed his absence, had repeatedly enquired for him, and had given
orders that the time of his return should be mentioned to her. She had,
however, retired to rest; but the Marchese, who had attended the King
on an excursion to one of the royal villas on the bay, returned home
soon after Vincentio; and, before he had withdrawn to his apartment,
he met his son with looks of unusual displeasure, but avoided saying
any thing, which either explained or alluded to the subject of it; and,
after a short conversation, they separated.

Vivaldi shut himself in his apartment to deliberate, if that may
deserve the name of deliberation, in which a conflict of passions,
rather than an exertion of judgment, prevailed. For several hours he
traversed his suite of rooms, alternately tortured by the remembrance
of Ellena, fired with jealousy, and alarmed for the consequence of the
imprudent step, which he was about to take. He knew the temper of his
father, and some traits of the character of his mother, sufficiently
to fear that their displeasure would be irreconcilable concerning the
marriage he meditated; yet, when he considered that he was their only
son, he was inclined to admit a hope of forgiveness, notwithstanding
the weight which the circumstance must add to their disappointment.
These reflexions were frequently interrupted by fears lest Ellena had
already disposed of her affections to this imaginary rival. He was,
however, somewhat consoled by remembering the sigh she had uttered, and
the tenderness, with which she had immediately pronounced his name.
Yet, even if she were not averse to his suit, how could he solicit
her hand, and hope it would be given him, when he should declare that
this must be in secret? He scarcely dared to believe that she would
condescend to enter a family who disdained to receive her; and again
despondency overcame him.

The morning found him as distracted as the night had left him; his
determination, however, was fixed; and this was, to sacrifice what
he now considered as a delusive pride of birth, to a choice which
he believed would ensure the happiness of his life. But, before
he ventured to declare himself to Ellena, it appeared necessary to
ascertain whether he held an interest in her heart, or whether she had
devoted it to the rival of his love, and who this rival really was.
It was so much easier to wish for such information than to obtain it,
that, after forming a thousand projects, either the delicacy of his
respect for Ellena, or his fear of offending her, or an apprehension
of discovery from his family before he had secured an interest in her
affections, constantly opposed his views of an enquiry.

In this difficulty he opened his heart to a friend, who had long
possessed his confidence, and whose advice he solicited with somewhat
more anxiety and sincerity than is usual on such occasions. It was
not a sanction of his own opinion that he required, but the impartial
judgment of another mind. Bonarmo, however little he might be qualified
for the office of an adviser, did not scruple to give his advice. As
a means of judging whether Ellena was disposed to favour Vivaldi's
addresses, he proposed that, according to the custom of the country,
a serenade should be given; he maintained, that, if she was not
disinclined towards him, some sign of approbation would appear; and if
otherwise, that she would remain silent and invisible. Vivaldi objected
to this coarse and inadequate mode of expressing a love so sacred as
his, and he had too lofty an opinion of Ellena's mind and delicacy, to
believe, that the trifling homage of a serenade would either flatter
her self-love, or interest her in his favour; nor, if it did, could he
venture to believe, that she would display any sign of approbation.

His friend laughed at his scruples and at his opinion of what he
called such romantic delicacy, that his ignorance of the world was his
only excuse for having cherished them. But Vivaldi interrupted this
raillery, and would neither suffer him for a moment to speak thus of
Ellena, or to call such delicacy romantic. Bonarmo, however, still
urged the serenade as at least a possible means of discovering her
disposition towards him before he made a formal avowal of his suit; and
Vivaldi, perplexed and distracted with apprehension and impatience to
terminate his present state of suspense, was at length so far overcome
by his own difficulties, rather than by his friend's persuasion, that
he consented to make the adventure of a serenade on the approaching
night. This was adopted rather as a refuge from despondency, than with
any hope of success; for he still believed that Ellena would not give
any hint, that might terminate his uncertainty.

Beneath their cloaks they carried musical instruments, and, muffling
up their faces, so that they could not be known, they proceeded in
thoughtful silence on the way to the villa Altieri. Already they had
passed the arch, in which Vivaldi was stopped by the stranger on the
preceding night, when he heard a sudden sound near him, and, raising
his head from the cloak, he perceived the same figure! Before he had
time for exclamation, the stranger crossed him again. "Go not to the
villa Altieri," said he in a solemn voice, "lest you meet the fate you
ought to dread."

"What fate?" demanded Vivaldi, stepping back; "speak, I conjure you!"

But the monk was gone, and the darkness of the hour baffled observation
as to the way of his departure.

"_Dio mi guardi!_" exclaimed Bonarmo, "this is almost beyond belief!
but let us return to Naples; this second warning ought to be obeyed."

"It is almost beyond endurance," exclaimed Vivaldi; "which way did he
pass?"

"He glided by me," replied Bonarmo, "and he was gone before I could
cross him!"

"I will tempt the worst at once," said Vivaldi; "if I have a rival, it
is best to meet him. Let us go on."

Bonarmo remonstrated, and represented the serious danger that
threatened from so rash a proceeding. "It is evident that you have
a rival," said he; "and your courage cannot avail you against hired
bravos." Vivaldi's heart swelled at the mention of a rival. "If you
think it dangerous to proceed, I will go alone," said he.

Hurt by this reproof, Bonarmo accompanied his friend in silence, and
they reached without interruption the boundary of the villa. Vivaldi
led to the place by which he had entered on the preceding night, and
they passed unmolested into the garden.

"Where are these terrible bravos of whom you warned me?" said Vivaldi,
with taunting exultation.

"Speak cautiously," replied his friend; "we may, even now, be within
their reach."

"They also may be within ours," observed Vivaldi.

At length, these adventurous friends came to the orangery, which was
near the house, when, tired by the ascent, they rested to recover
breath, and to prepare their instruments for the serenade. The night
was still, and they now heard, for the first time, murmurs as of a
distant multitude; and then the sudden splendor of fireworks broke upon
the sky. These arose from a villa on the western margin of the bay,
and were given in honour of the birth of one of the royal princes.
They soared to an immense height, and, as their lustre broke silently
upon the night, it lightened on the thousand up-turned faces of the
gazing crowd, illumined the waters of the bay, with every little boat
that skimmed its surface, and shewed distinctly the whole sweep of
its rising shores, the stately city of Naples on the strand below,
and, spreading far among the hills, its terraced roofs crowded with
spectators, and the Corso tumultuous with carriages and blazing with
torches.

While Bonarmo surveyed this magnificent scene, Vivaldi turned his eyes
to the residence of Ellena, part of which looked out from among the
trees, with a hope that the spectacle would draw her to a balcony; but
she did not appear, nor was there any light, that might indicate her
approach.

While they still rested on the turf of the orangery, they heard a
sudden rustling of the leaves, as if the branches were disturbed by
some person who endeavoured to make his way between them, when Vivaldi
demanded who passed. No answer was returned, and a long silence
followed.

"We are observed," said Bonarmo, at length, "and are even now, perhaps,
almost beneath the poniard of the assassin: let us be gone."

"O that my heart were as secure from the darts of love, the assassin
of my peace," exclaimed Vivaldi, "as yours is from those of bravos! My
friend, you have little to interest you, since your thoughts have so
much leisure for apprehension."

"My fear is that of prudence, not of weakness," retorted Bonarmo, with
acrimony; "you will find, perhaps, that I have none, when you most wish
me to possess it."

"I understand you," replied Vivaldi; "let us finish this business, and
you shall receive reparation, since you believe yourself injured: I am
as anxious to repair an offence, as jealous of receiving one."

"Yes," replied Bonarmo, "you would repair the injury you have done your
friend with his blood."

"Oh! never, never!" said Vivaldi, falling on his neck. "Forgive my
hasty violence; allow for the distraction of my mind."

Bonarmo returned the embrace. "It is enough," said he; "no more, no
more! I hold again my friend to my heart."

While this conversation passed, they had quitted the orangery, and
reached the walls of the villa, where they took their station under
a balcony that overhung the lattice, through which Vivaldi had seen
Ellena on the preceding night. They tuned their instruments, and opened
the serenade with a duet.

Vivaldi's voice was a fine tenor, and the same susceptibility, which
made him passionately fond of music, taught him to modulate its
cadence with exquisite delicacy, and to give his emphasis with the
most simple and pathetic expression. His soul seemed to breathe in the
sounds,--so tender, so imploring, yet so energetic. On this night,
enthusiasm inspired him with the highest eloquence, perhaps, which
music is capable of attaining; what might be its effect on Ellena he
had no means of judging, for she did not appear either at the balcony
or the lattice, nor gave any hint of applause. No sounds stole on the
stillness of the night, except those of the serenade, nor did any
light from within the villa break upon the obscurity without; once,
indeed, in a pause of the instruments, Bonarmo fancied he distinguished
voices near him, as of persons who feared to be heard, and he listened
attentively, but without ascertaining the truth. Sometimes they seemed
to sound heavily in his ear, and then a death-like silence prevailed.
Vivaldi affirmed the sound to be nothing more than the confused murmur
of the distant multitude on the shore, but Bonarmo was not thus easily
convinced.

The musicians, unsuccessful in their first endeavour to attract
attention, removed to the opposite side of the building, and placed
themselves in front of the portico, but with as little success;
and, after having exercised their powers of harmony and of patience
for above an hour, they resigned all further effort to win upon the
obdurate Ellena. Vivaldi, notwithstanding the feebleness of his first
hope of seeing her, now suffered an agony of disappointment; and
Bonarmo, alarmed for the consequence of his despair, was as anxious to
persuade him that he had no rival, as he had lately been pertinacious
in affirming that he had one.

At length, they left the gardens, Vivaldi protesting that he would not
rest till he had discovered the stranger, who so wantonly destroyed his
peace, and had compelled him to explain his ambiguous warnings; and
Bonarmo remonstrating on the imprudence and difficulty of the search,
and representing that such conduct would probably be the means of
spreading a report of his attachment, where most he dreaded it should
be known.

Vivaldi refused to yield to remonstrance or considerations of any kind.
"We shall see," said he, "whether this demon in the garb of a monk,
will haunt me again at the accustomed place; if he does, he shall not
escape my grasp; and if he does not, I will watch as vigilantly for his
return, as he seems to have done for mine. I will lurk in the shade of
the ruin, and wait for him, though it be till death!"

Bonarmo was particularly struck by the vehemence with which he
pronounced the last words, but he no longer opposed his purpose, and
only bade him consider whether he was well armed, "For," he added, "you
may have need of arms there, though you had no use for them at the
villa Altieri. Remember that the stranger told you that your steps were
watched."

"I have my sword," replied Vivaldi, "and the dagger which I usually
wear; but I ought to enquire what are your weapons of defence."

"Hush!" said Bonarmo, as they turned the foot of a rock that overhung
the road, "we are approaching the spot; yonder is the arch!" It
appeared duskily in the perspective, suspended between two cliffs,
where the road wound from sight, on one of which were the ruins of
the Roman fort it belonged to, and on the other, shadowing pines, and
thickets of oak that tufted the rock to its base.

They proceeded in silence, treading lightly, and often throwing a
suspicious glance around, expecting every instant that the monk would
steal out upon them from some recess of the cliffs. But they passed
on unmolested to the arch-way. "We are here before him, however," said
Vivaldi as they entered the darkness. "Speak low, my friend," said
Bonarmo, "others besides ourselves may be shrouded in this obscurity. I
like not the place."

"Who but ourselves would chuse so dismal a retreat?" whispered Vivaldi,
"unless indeed, it were banditti; the savageness of the spot would, in
truth, suit their humour, and it suits well also with my own."

"It would suit their purpose too, as well as their humour," observed
Bonarmo. "Let us remove from this deep shade, into the more open road,
where we can as closely observe who passes."

Vivaldi objected that in the road they might themselves be observed,
"and if we are seen by my unknown tormentor, our design is defeated,
for he comes upon us suddenly, or not at all, lest we should be
prepared to detain him."

Vivaldi, as he said this, took his station within the thickest gloom of
the arch, which was of considerable depth, and near a flight of steps
that was cut in the rock, and ascended to the fortress. His friend
stepped close to his side. After a pause of silence, during which
Bonarmo was meditating, and Vivaldi was impatiently watching, "Do you
really believe," said the former, "that any effort to detain him would
be effectual? He glided past me with a strange facility, it was surely
more than human!"

"What is it you mean?" enquired Vivaldi.

"Why, I mean that I could be superstitious. This place, perhaps,
infests my mind with congenial gloom, for I find that, at this moment,
there is scarcely a superstition too dark for my credulity."

Vivaldi smiled. "And you must allow," added Bonarmo, "that he has
appeared under circumstances somewhat extraordinary. How should he know
your name, by which, you say, he addressed you at the first meeting?
How should he know from whence you came, or whether you designed to
return? By what magic could he become acquainted with your plans?"

"Nor am I certain that he is acquainted with them," observed Vivaldi;
"but if he is, there was no necessity for superhuman means to obtain
such knowledge."

"The result of this evening surely ought to convince you that he
is acquainted with your designs," said Bonarmo. "Do you believe it
possible that Ellena could have been insensible to your attentions, if
her heart had not been pre-engaged, and that she would not have shewn
herself at a lattice?"

"You do not know Ellena," replied Vivaldi, "and therefore I once
more pardon you the question. Yet had she been disposed to accept my
addresses, surely some sign of approbation,"--he checked himself.

"The stranger warned you not to go to the villa Altieri," resumed
Bonarmo, "he seemed to anticipate the reception, which awaited you, and
to know a danger, which hitherto you have happily escaped."

"Yes, he anticipated too well that reception," said Vivaldi, losing his
prudence in passionate exclamation; "and he is himself, perhaps, the
rival, whom he has taught me to suspect. He has assumed a disguise only
the more effectually to impose upon my credulity, and to deter me from
addressing Ellena. And shall I tamely lie in wait for his approach?
Shall I lurk like a guilty assassin for this rival?"

"For heaven's sake!" said Bonarmo, "moderate these transports;
consider where you are. This surmise of yours is in the highest degree
improbable." He gave his reasons for thinking so, and these convinced
Vivaldi, who was prevailed upon to be once more patient.

They had remained watchful and still for a considerable time, when
Bonarmo saw a person approach the end of the arch-way nearest to
Altieri. He heard no step, but he perceived a shadowy figure station
itself at the entrance of the arch, where the twilight of this
brilliant climate was, for a few paces, admitted. Vivaldi's eyes
were fixed on the road leading towards Naples, and he, therefore,
did not perceive the object of Bonarmo's attention, who, fearful of
his friend's precipitancy, forbore to point out immediately what he
observed, judging it more prudent to watch the motions of this unknown
person, that he might ascertain whether it really were the monk. The
size of the figure, and the dark drapery in which it seemed wrapt,
induced him, at length, to believe that this was the expected stranger;
and he seized Vivaldi's arm to direct his attention to him, when the
form gliding forward disappeared in the gloom, but not before Vivaldi
had understood the occasion of his friend's gesture and significant
silence. They heard no footstep pass them, and, being convinced that
this person, whatever he was, had not left the arch-way, they kept
their station in watchful stillness. Presently they heard a rustling,
as of garments, near them, and Vivaldi, unable longer to command his
patience, started from his concealment, and with arms extended to
prevent any one from escaping, demanded who was there.

The sound ceased, and no reply was made. Bonarmo drew his sword,
protesting he would stab the air till he found the person who lurked
there; but that if the latter would discover himself, he should receive
no injury. This assurance Vivaldi confirmed by his promise. Still no
answer was returned; but as they listened for a voice, they thought
something passed them, and the avenue was not narrow enough to have
prevented such a circumstance. Vivaldi rushed forward, but did not
perceive any person issue from the arch into the highway, where the
stronger twilight must have discovered him.

"Somebody certainly passed," whispered Bonarmo, "and I think I hear a
sound from yonder steps, that lead to the fortress."

"Let us follow," cried Vivaldi, and he began to ascend.

"Stop, for heaven's sake stop!" said Bonarmo; "consider what you are
about! Do not brave the utter darkness of these ruins; do not pursue
the assassin to his den!"

"It is the monk himself!" exclaimed Vivaldi, still ascending; "he shall
not escape me!"

Bonarmo paused a moment at the foot of the steps, and his friend
disappeared; he hesitated what to do, till ashamed of suffering him
to encounter danger alone, he sprang to the flight, and not without
difficulty surmounted the rugged steps.

Having reached the summit of the rock, he found himself on a terrace,
that ran along the top of the arch-way and had once been fortified;
this, crossing the road, commanded the defile each way. Some remains of
massy walls, that still exhibited loops for archers, were all that now
hinted of its former use. It led to a watch-tower almost concealed in
thick pines, that crowned the opposite cliff, and had thus served not
only for a strong battery over the road, but, connecting the opposite
sides of the defile, had formed a line of communication between the
fort and this out-post.

Bonarmo looked round in vain for his friend, and the echoes of his own
voice only, among the rocks, replied to his repeated calls. After some
hesitation whether to enter the walls of the main building, or to cross
to the watch-tower, he determined on the former, and entered a rugged
area, the walls of which, following the declivities of the precipice,
could scarcely now be traced. The citadel, a round tower, of majestic
strength, with some Roman arches scattered near, was all that remained
of this once important fortress; except, indeed, a mass of ruins near
the edge of the cliff, the construction of which made it difficult to
guess for what purpose it had been designed.

Bonarmo entered the immense walls of the citadel, but the utter
darkness within checked his progress, and, contenting himself with
calling loudly on Vivaldi, he returned to the open air.

As he approached the mass of ruins, whose singular form had interested
his curiosity, he thought he distinguished the low accents of a human
voice, and while he listened in anxiety, a person rushed forth from a
door-way of the ruin, carrying a drawn sword. It was Vivaldi himself.
Bonarmo sprang to meet him; he was pale and breathless, and some
moments elapsed before he could speak, or appeared to hear the repeated
enquiries of his friend.

"Let us go," said Vivaldi, "let us leave this place!"

"Most willingly," replied Bonarmo, "but where have you been, and who
have you seen, that you are thus affected?"

"Ask me no more questions, let us go," repeated Vivaldi.

They descended the rock together, and when, having reached the
arch-way, Bonarmo enquired, half sportively, whether they should remain
any longer on the watch, his friend answered, "No!" with an emphasis
that startled him. They passed hastily on the way to Naples, Bonarmo
repeating enquiries which Vivaldi seemed reluctant to satisfy, and
wondering no less at the cause of this sudden reserve, than anxious to
know whom he had seen.

"It was the monk, then," said Bonarmo; "you secured him at last?"

"I know not what to think," replied Vivaldi, "I am more perplexed than
ever."

"He escaped you then?"

"We will speak of this in future," said Vivaldi; "but be it as it may,
the business rests not here. I will return in the night of to-morrow
with a torch; dare you venture yourself with me?"

"I know not," replied Bonarmo, "whether I ought to do so, since I am
not informed for what purpose."

"I will not press you to go," said Vivaldi; "my purpose is already
known to you."

"Have you really failed to discover the stranger--have you still doubts
concerning the person you pursued?"

"I have doubts, which to-morrow night, I hope, will dissipate."

"This is very strange!" said Bonarmo, "It was but now that I witnessed
the horror, with which you left the fortress of Paluzzi, and already
you speak of returning to it! And why at night--why not in the day,
when less danger would beset you?"

"I know not as to that," replied Vivaldi, "you are to observe that
day-light never pierces within the recess, to which I penetrated; we
must search the place with torches at whatsoever hour we would examine
it."

"Since this is necessary," said Bonarmo, "how happens it that you found
your way in total darkness?"

"I was too much engaged to know how; I was led on, as by an invisible
hand."

"We must, notwithstanding," observed Bonarmo, "go in day-time, if not
by day-light, provided I accompany you. It would be little less than
insanity to go twice to a place, which is probably infested with
robbers, and at their own hour of midnight."

"I shall watch again in the accustomed place," replied Vivaldi, "before
I use my last resource, and this cannot be done during the day.
Besides, it is necessary that I should go at a particular hour, the
hour when the monk has usually appeared."

"He did escape you, then?" said Bonarmo, "and you are still ignorant
concerning who he is?"

Vivaldi rejoined only with an enquiry whether his friend would
accompany him. "If not," he added, "I must hope to find another
companion."

Bonarmo said, that he must consider of the proposal, and would acquaint
him with his determination before the following evening.

While this conversation concluded, they were in Naples, and at the
gates of the Vivaldi palace, where they separated for the remainder of
the night.




CHAPTER II.

  OLIVIA. "Why what would you?"

  VIOLA. "Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
  And call upon my soul within the house;
  Write loyal cantos of contemned love,
  And sing them loud even in the dead of night:
  Halloo your name to the reverberate hills,
  And make the babbling gossip of the air
  Cry out, Olivia! O! you should not rest
  Between the elements of air and earth,
  But you should pity me."

  TWELFTH NIGHT.


Since Vivaldi had failed to procure an explanation of the words of the
monk, he determined to relieve himself from the tortures of suspence,
respecting a rival, by going to the villa Altieri, and declaring his
pretensions. On the morning immediately following his late adventure,
he went thither, and on enquiring for Signora Bianchi, was told that
she could not be seen. With much difficulty he prevailed upon the old
house-keeper to deliver a request that he might be permitted to wait
upon her for a few moments. Permission was granted him, when he was
conducted into the very apartment where he had formerly seen Ellena.
It was unoccupied and he was told that Signora Bianchi would be there
presently.

During this interval, he was agitated at one moment with quick
impatience, and at another with enthusiastic pleasure, while he gazed
on the altar whence he had seen Ellena rise, and where, to his fancy,
she still appeared; and on every object, on which he knew her eyes had
lately dwelt. These objects, so familiar to her, had in the imagination
of Vivaldi acquired somewhat of the sacred character she had impressed
upon his heart, and affected him in some degree as her presence would
have done. He trembled as he took up the lute she had been accustomed
to touch, and, when he awakened the chords, her own voice seemed to
speak. A drawing, half-finished, of a dancing nymph remained on a
stand, and he immediately understood that her hand had traced the
lines. It was a copy from Herculaneum, and, though a copy, was touched
with the spirit of original genius. The light steps appeared almost to
move, and the whole figure displayed the airy lightness of exquisite
grace. Vivaldi perceived this to be one of a set that ornamented the
apartment, and observed with surprise, that they were the particular
subjects, which adorned his father's cabinet, and which he had
understood to be the only copies permitted from the originals in the
royal museum.

Every object, on which his eyes rested, seemed to announce the
presence of Ellena; and the very flowers that so gaily embellished the
apartment, breathed forth a perfume, which fascinated his senses and
affected his imagination. Before Signora Bianchi appeared, his anxiety
and apprehension had encreased so much, that, believing he should be
unable to support himself in her presence, he was more than once upon
the point of leaving the house. At length, he heard her approaching
step from the hall, and his breath almost forsook him. The figure
of Signora Bianchi was not of an order to inspire admiration, and a
spectator might have smiled to see the perturbation of Vivaldi, his
faultering step and anxious eye, as he advanced to meet the venerable
Bianchi, as he bowed upon her faded hand, and listened to her querulous
voice. She received him with an air of reserve, and some moments passed
before he could recollect himself sufficiently to explain the purpose
of his visit; yet this, when he discovered it, did not apparently
surprise her. She listened with composure, though with somewhat of
a severe countenance, to his protestations of regard for her niece,
and when he implored her to intercede for him in obtaining the hand
of Ellena, she said, "I cannot be ignorant that a family of your rank
must be averse to a union with one of mine; nor am I unacquainted
that a full sense of the value of birth is a marking feature in the
characters of the Marchese and Marchesa di Vivaldi. This proposal must
be disagreeable or, at least, unknown to them; and I am to inform you,
Signor, that, though Signora di Rosalba is their inferior in rank, she
is their equal in pride."

Vivaldi disdained to prevaricate, yet was shocked to own the truth thus
abruptly. The ingenuous manner, however, with which he at length did
this, and the energy of a passion too eloquent to be misunderstood,
somewhat soothed the anxiety of Signora Bianchi, with whom other
considerations began to arise. She considered that from her own age
and infirmities she must very soon, in the course of nature, leave
Ellena a young and friendless orphan; still somewhat dependent upon
her own industry, and entirely so on her discretion. With much
beauty and little knowledge of the world, the dangers of her future
situation appeared in vivid colours to the affectionate mind of
Signora Bianchi; and she sometimes thought that it might be right
to sacrifice considerations, which in other circumstances would be
laudable, to the obtaining for her niece the protection of a husband
and a man of honour. If in this instance she descended from the lofty
integrity, which ought to have opposed her consent that Ellena should
clandestinely enter any family, her parental anxiety may soften the
censure she deserved.

But, before she determined upon this subject, it was necessary to
ascertain that Vivaldi was worthy of the confidence she might repose
in him. To try, also, the constancy of his affection, she gave little
present encouragement to his hopes. His request to see Ellena she
absolutely refused, till she should have considered further of his
proposals; and his enquiry whether he had a rival, and, if he had,
whether Ellena was disposed to favour him, she evaded, since she knew
that a reply would give more encouragement to his hopes, than it might
hereafter be proper to confirm.

Vivaldi, at length, took his leave, released, indeed, from absolute
despair, but scarcely encouraged to hope; ignorant that he had a rival,
yet doubtful whether Ellena honoured himself with any share of her
esteem.

He had received permission to wait upon Signora Bianchi on a future
day, but till that day should arrive, time appeared motionless; and,
since it seemed utterly impossible to endure this interval of suspence,
his thoughts on the way to Naples were wholly engaged in contriving the
means of concluding it, till he reached the well-known arch, and looked
round, though hopelessly, for his mysterious tormentor. The stranger
did not appear; and Vivaldi pursued the road, determined to re-visit
the spot at night, and also to return privately to villa Altieri, where
he hoped a second visit might procure for him some relief from his
present anxiety.

When he reached home he found that the Marchese, his father, had left
an order for him to await his arrival; which he obeyed; but the day
passed without his return. The Marchesa, when she saw him, enquired,
with a look that expressed much, how he had engaged himself of late,
and completely frustrated his plans for the evening, by requiring
him to attend her to Portici. Thus he was prevented from receiving
Bonarmo's determination, from watching at Paluzzi, and from revisiting
Ellena's residence.

He remained at Portici the following evening, and, on his return to
Naples, the Marchese being again absent, he continued ignorant of
the intended subject of the interview. A note from Bonarmo brought a
refusal to accompany him to the fortress, and urged him to forbear so
dangerous a visit. Being for this night unprovided with a companion
for the adventure, and unwilling to go alone, Vivaldi deferred it to
another evening; but no consideration could deter him from visiting
the villa Altieri. Not chusing to solicit his friend to accompany him
thither, since he had refused his first request, he took his solitary
lute, and reached the garden at an earlier hour than usual.

The sun had been set above an hour, but the horizon still retained
somewhat of a saffron brilliancy, and the whole dome of the sky had an
appearance of transparency, peculiar to this enchanting climate, which
seemed to diffuse a more soothing twilight over the reposing world. In
the south-east the outline of Vesuvius appeared distinctly, but the
mountain itself was dark and silent.

Vivaldi heard only the quick and eager voices of some Lazzaroni at a
distance on the shore, as they contended at the simple game of maro.
From the bowery lattices of a small pavilion within the orangery,
he perceived a light, and the sudden hope, which it occasioned, of
seeing Ellena, almost overcame him. It was impossible to resist the
opportunity of beholding her, yet he checked the impatient step he was
taking, to ask himself, whether it was honorable thus to steal upon her
retirement, and become an unsuspected observer of her secret thoughts.
But the temptation was too powerful for this honorable hesitation;
the pause was momentary; and, stepping lightly towards the pavilion,
he placed himself near an open lattice, so as to be shrouded from
observation by the branches of an orange-tree, while he obtained a
full view of the apartment. Ellena was alone, sitting in a thoughtful
attitude and holding her lute, which she did not play. She appeared
lost to a consciousness of surrounding objects, and a tenderness was
on her countenance, which seemed to tell him that her thoughts were
engaged by some interesting subject. Recollecting that, when last he
had seen her thus, she pronounced his name, his hope revived, and he
was going to discover himself and appear at her feet, when she spoke,
and he paused.

"Why this unreasonable pride of birth!" said she; "A visionary
prejudice destroys our peace. Never would I submit to enter a family
averse to receive me; they shall learn, at least, that I inherit
nobility of soul. O! Vivaldi! but for this unhappy prejudice!"--

Vivaldi, while he listened to this, was immovable; he seemed as if
entranced; the sound of her lute and voice recalled him, and he heard
her sing the first stanza of the very air, with which he had opened the
serenade on a former night, and with such sweet pathos as the composer
must have felt when he was inspired with the idea.

She paused at the conclusion of the first stanza, when Vivaldi,
overcome by the temptation of such an opportunity for expressing his
passion, suddenly struck the chords of the lute, and replied to her in
the second. The tremor of his voice, though it restrained his tones,
heightened its eloquence. Ellena instantly recollected it; her colour
alternately faded and returned; and, before the verse concluded, she
seemed to have lost all consciousness. Vivaldi was now advancing into
the pavilion, when his approach recalled her; she waved him to retire,
and before he could spring to her support, she rose and would have
left the place, had he not interrupted her and implored a few moments
attention.

"It is impossible," said Ellena.

"Let me only hear you say that I am not hateful to you," rejoined
Vivaldi; "that this intrusion has not deprived me of the regard, with
which but now you acknowledged you honoured me."--

"Oh, never, never!" interrupted Ellena, impatiently; "forget that I
ever made such acknowledgment; forget that you ever heard it; I know
not what I said."

"Ah, beautiful Ellena! do you think it possible I ever can forget it?
It will be the solace of my solitary hours, the hope that shall sustain
me."--

"I cannot be detained Signor," interrupted Ellena, still more
embarrassed, "or forgive myself for having permitted such a
conversation;" but as she spoke the last words, an involuntary smile
seemed to contradict their meaning. Vivaldi believed the smile in
spite of the words; but, before he could express the lightning joy
of conviction, she had left the pavilion; he followed through the
garden--but she was gone.

From this moment Vivaldi seemed to have arisen into a new existence;
the whole world to him was Paradise; that smile seemed impressed upon
his heart for ever. In the fulness of present joy, he believed it
impossible that he could ever be unhappy again, and defied the utmost
malice of future fortune. With footsteps light as air, he returned to
Naples, nor once remembered to look for his old monitor on the way.

The Marchese and his mother being from home, he was left at his leisure
to indulge the rapturous recollection, that pressed upon his mind, and
of which he was impatient of a moment's interruption. All night he
either traversed his apartment with an agitation equal to that, which
anxiety had so lately inflicted, or composed and destroyed letters to
Ellena; sometimes fearing that he had written too much, and at others
feeling that he had written too little; recollecting circumstances
which he ought to have mentioned, and lamenting the cold expression of
a passion, to which it appeared that no language could do justice.

By the hour when domestics had risen, he had, however, completed a
letter somewhat more to his satisfaction, and he dispatched it to the
villa Altieri by a confidential person; but the servant had scarcely
quitted the gates, when he recollected new arguments, which he wished
to urge, and expressions to change of the utmost importance to enforce
his meaning, and he would have given half the world to have recalled
the messenger.

In this state of agitation he was summoned to attend the Marchese, who
had been too much engaged of late to keep his own appointment. Vivaldi
was not long in doubt as to the subject of this interview.

"I have wished to speak with you," said the Marchese, assuming an air
of haughty severity, "upon a subject of the utmost importance to your
honour and happiness; and I wished, also, to give you an opportunity
of contradicting a report, which would have occasioned me considerable
uneasiness, if I could have believed it. Happily I had too much
confidence in my son to credit this; and I affirmed that he understood
too well what was due both to his family and himself, to take any step
derogatory from the dignity of either. My motive for this conversation,
therefore, is merely to afford you a moment for refuting the calumny I
shall mention, and to obtain for myself authority for contradicting it
to the persons who have communicated it to me."

Vivaldi waited impatiently for the conclusion of this exordium, and
then begged to be informed of the subject of the report.

"It is said," returned the Marchese, "that there is a young woman, who
is called Ellena Rosalba,--I think that is the name;--do you know any
person of the name?"

"Do I know!" exclaimed Vivaldi, "but pardon me, pray proceed, my Lord."

The Marchese paused, and regarded his son with sternness, but without
surprize. "It is said, that a young person of this name has contrived
to fascinate your affections, and"----

"It is most true, my Lord, that Signora Rosalba has won my affections,"
interrupted Vivaldi with honest impatience, "but without contrivance."

"I will not be interrupted," said the Marchese, interrupting in his
turn. "It is said that she has so artfully adapted her temper to yours,
that, with the assistance of a relation who lives with her, she has
reduced you to the degrading situation of her devoted suitor."

"Signora Rosalba has, my Lord, exalted me to the honour of being her
suitor," said Vivaldi, unable longer to command his feelings. He was
proceeding, when the Marchese abruptly checked him, "You avow your
folly then!"

"My Lord, I glory in my choice."

"Young man," rejoined his father, "as this is the arrogance and
romantic enthusiasm of a boy, I am willing to forgive it for once,
and observe me, only for once. If you will acknowledge your error,
instantly dismiss this new favourite."--

"My Lord!"

"You must instantly dismiss her," repeated the Marchese with sterner
emphasis; "and, to prove that I am more merciful than just, I am
willing, on this condition, to allow her a small annuity as some
reparation for the depravity, into which you have assisted to sink her."

"My Lord!" exclaimed Vivaldi aghast, and scarcely daring to trust his
voice, "my Lord!--depravity?" struggling for breath. "Who has dared
to pollute her spotless fame by insulting your ears with such infamous
falsehood? Tell me, I conjure you, instantly tell me, that I may hasten
to give him his reward. Depravity!--an annuity--an annuity! O Ellena!
Ellena!" As he pronounced her name tears of tenderness mingled with
those of indignation.

"Young man," said the Marchese, who had observed the violence of his
emotion with strong displeasure and alarm, "I do not lightly give faith
to report, and I cannot suffer myself to doubt the truth of what I have
advanced. You are deceived, and your vanity will continue the delusion,
unless I condescend to exert my authority, and tear the veil from your
eyes. Dismiss her instantly, and I will adduce proof of her former
character which will stagger even your faith, enthusiastic as it is."

"Dismiss her!" repeated Vivaldi with calm yet stern energy, such as his
father had never seen him assume; "My Lord, you have never yet doubted
my word, and I now pledge you that honourable word, that Ellena is
innocent. Innocent! O heavens, that it should ever be necessary to
affirm so, and, above all, that it should ever be necessary for me to
vindicate her!"

"I must indeed lament that it ever should," replied the Marchese
coldly. "You have pledged your word, which I cannot question. I
believe, therefore, that you are deceived; that you think her virtuous,
notwithstanding your midnight visits to her house. And grant she is,
unhappy boy! what reparation can you make her for the infatuated folly,
which has thus stained her character? What"----

"By proclaiming to the world, my Lord, that she is worthy of becoming
my wife," replied Vivaldi, with a glow of countenance, which announced
the courage and the exultation of a virtuous mind.

"Your wife!" said the Marchese, with a look of ineffable disdain, which
was instantly succeeded by one of angry alarm.--"If I believed you
could so far forget what is due to the honour of your house, I would
for ever disclaim you as my son."

"O! why," exclaimed Vivaldi, in an agony of conflicting passions, "why
should I be in danger of forgetting what is due to a father, when I am
only asserting what is due to innocence; when I am only defending her,
who has no other to defend her! Why may not I be permitted to reconcile
duties so congenial! But, be the event what it may, I will defend the
oppressed, and glory in the virtue, which teaches me, that it is the
first duty of humanity to do so. Yes, my Lord, if it must be so, I am
ready to sacrifice inferior duties to the grandeur of a principle,
which ought to expand all hearts and impel all actions. I shall best
support the honour of my house by adhering to its dictates."

"Where is the principle," said the Marchese, impatiently, "which shall
teach you to disobey a father; where is the virtue which shall instruct
you to degrade your family?"

"There can be no degradation, my Lord, where there is no vice," replied
Vivaldi; "and there are instances, pardon me, my Lord, there are some
few instances in which it is virtuous to disobey."

"This paradoxical morality," said the Marchese, with passionate
displeasure, "and this romantic language, sufficiently explain to me
the character of your associates, and the innocence of her, whom you
defend with so chivalric an air. Are you to learn, Signor, that you
belong to your family, not your family to you; that you are only a
guardian of its honour, and not at liberty to dispose of yourself? My
patience will endure no more!"

Nor could the patience of Vivaldi endure this repeated attack on
the honor of Ellena. But, while he yet asserted her innocence, he
endeavoured to do so with the temper, which was due to the presence
of a father; and, though he maintained the independence of a man, he
was equally anxious to preserve inviolate the duties of a son. But
unfortunately the Marchese and Vivaldi differed in opinion concerning
the limits of these duties; the first extending them to passive
obedience, and the latter conceiving them to conclude at a point,
wherein the happiness of an individual is so deeply concerned as in
marriage. They parted mutually inflamed; Vivaldi unable to prevail
with his father to mention the name of his infamous informant, or to
acknowledge himself convinced of Ellena's innocence; and the Marchese
equally unsuccessful in his endeavours to obtain from his son a promise
that he would see her no more.

Here then was Vivaldi, who only a few short hours before had
experienced a happiness so supreme as to efface all impressions of the
past, and to annihilate every consideration of the future; a joy so
full that it permitted him not to believe it possible that he could
ever again taste of misery; he, who had felt as if that moment was as
an eternity, rendering him independent of all others,--even he was thus
soon fallen into the region of time and of suffering.

The present conflict of passion appeared endless; he loved his
father, and would have been more shocked to consider the vexation
he was preparing for him, had he not been resentful of the contempt
he expressed for Ellena. He adored Ellena; and, while he felt the
impractability of resigning his hopes, was equally indignant of the
slander, which affected her name, and impatient to avenge the insult
upon the original defamer.

Though the displeasure of his father concerning a marriage with Ellena
had been already foreseen, the experience of it was severer and more
painful than he had imagined; while the indignity offered to Ellena
was as unexpected as intolerable. But this circumstance furnished him
with an additional argument for addressing her; for, if it had been
possible that his love could have paused, his honour seemed now engaged
in her behalf; and, since he had been a means of sullying her fame, it
became his duty to restore it. Willingly listening to the dictates of
a duty so plausible, he determined to persevere in his original design.
But his first efforts were directed to discover her slanderer, and
recollecting, with surprize, those words of the Marchese, which had
confessed a knowledge of his evening visits to the villa Altieri, the
doubtful warnings of the monk seemed explained. He believed that this
man was at once the spy of his steps, and the defamer of his love, till
the inconsistency of such conduct with the seeming friendliness of his
admonitions, struck Vivaldi and compelled him to believe the contrary.

Meanwhile, the heart of Ellena had been little less tranquil. It
was divided by love and pride; but had she been acquainted with the
circumstances of the late interview between the Marchese and Vivaldi,
it would have been divided no longer, and a just regard for her own
dignity would instantly have taught her to subdue, without difficulty,
this infant affection.

Signora Bianchi had informed her niece of the subject of Vivaldi's
visit; but she had softened the objectionable circumstances that
attended his proposal, and had, at first, merely hinted that it was not
to be supposed his family would approve a connection with any person
so much their inferior in rank as herself. Ellena, alarmed by this
suggestion, replied, that, since she believed so, she had done right to
reject Vivaldi's suit; but her sigh, as she said this, did not escape
the observation of Signora Bianchi, who ventured to add, that she had
not _absolutely_ rejected his offers.

While in this and future conversations, Ellena was pleased to perceive
her secret admiration thus justified by an approbation so indisputable
as that of her aunt, and was willing to believe that the circumstance,
which had alarmed her just pride, was not so humiliating as she at
first imagined, Bianchi was careful to conceal the real considerations,
which had induced her to listen to Vivaldi, being well assured that
they would have no weight with Ellena, whose generous heart and
inexperienced mind would have revolted from mingling any motives of
interest with an engagement so sacred as that of marriage. When,
however, from further deliberation upon the advantages, which such
an alliance must secure for her niece, Signora Bianchi determined to
encourage his views, and to direct the mind of Ellena, whose affections
were already engaged on her side, the opinions of the latter were
found less ductile than had been expected. She was shocked at the idea
of entering clandestinely the family of Vivaldi. But Bianchi, whose
infirmities urged her wishes, was now so strongly convinced of the
prudence of such an engagement for her niece, that she determined to
prevail over her reluctance, though she perceived that this must be by
means more gradual and persuasive than she had believed necessary. On
the evening, when Vivaldi had surprised from Ellena an acknowledgment
of her sentiments, her embarrassment and vexation, on her returning
to the house, and relating what had occurred, sufficiently expressed
to Signora Bianchi the exact situation of her heart. And when, on the
following morning, his letter arrived, written with the simplicity and
energy of truth, the aunt neglected not to adapt her remarks upon it,
to the character of Ellena, with her usual address.

Vivaldi, after the late interview with the Marchese, passed the
remainder of the day in considering various plans, which might discover
to him the person, who had abused the credulity of his father; and in
the evening he returned once more to the villa Altieri, not in secret,
to serenade the dark balcony of his mistress, but openly, and to
converse with Signora Bianchi, who now received him more courteously
than on his former visit. Attributing the anxiety in his countenance
to the uncertainty, concerning the disposition of her niece, she
was neither surprised or offended, but ventured to relieve him from
a part of it, by encouraging his hopes. Vivaldi dreaded lest she
should enquire further respecting the sentiments of his family, but
she spared both his delicacy and her own on this point; and, after a
conversation of considerable length, he left the villa Altieri with a
heart somewhat soothed by approbation, and lightened by hope, although
he had not obtained a sight of Ellena. The disclosure she had made of
her sentiments on the preceding evening, and the hints she had received
as to those of his family, still wrought upon her mind with too much
effect to permit an interview.

Soon after his return to Naples, the Marchesa, whom he was surprised
to find disengaged, sent for him to her closet, where a scene passed
similar to that which had occurred with his father, except that the
Marchesa was more dexterous in her questions, and more subtle in
her whole conduct; and that Vivaldi, never for a moment, forgot the
decorum which was due to a mother. Managing his passions, rather
than exasperating them, and deceiving him with respect to the degree
of resentment she felt from his choice, she was less passionate than
the Marchese in her observations and menaces, perhaps, only because
she entertained more hope than he did of preventing the evil she
contemplated.

Vivaldi quitted her, unconvinced by her arguments, unsubdued by her
prophecies, and unmoved in his designs. He was not alarmed, because
he did not sufficiently understand her character to apprehend her
purposes. Despairing to effect these by open violence, she called in
an auxiliary of no mean talents, and whose character and views well
adapted him to be an instrument in her hands. It was, perhaps, the
baseness of her own heart, not either depth of reflexion or keenness of
penetration, which enabled her to understand the nature of his; and she
determined to modulate that nature to her own views.

There lived in the Dominican convent of the Spirito Santo, at Naples, a
man called father Schedoni; an Italian, as his name imported, but whose
family was unknown, and from some circumstances, it appeared, that he
wished to throw an impenetrable veil over his origin. For whatever
reason, he was never heard to mention a relative, or the place of his
nativity, and he had artfully eluded every enquiry that approached
the subject, which the curiosity of his associates had occasionally
prompted. There were circumstances, however, which appeared to indicate
him to be a man of birth, and of fallen fortune; his spirit, as it had
sometimes looked forth from under the disguise of his manners, seemed
lofty; it shewed not, however, the aspirings of a generous mind, but
rather the gloomy pride of a disappointed one. Some few persons in the
convent, who had been interested by his appearance, believed that the
peculiarities of his manners, his severe reserve and unconquerable
silence, his solitary habits and frequent penances, were the effect of
misfortunes preying upon a haughty and disordered spirit; while others
conjectured them the consequence of some hideous crime gnawing upon an
awakened conscience.

He would sometimes abstract himself from the society for whole days
together, or when with such a disposition he was compelled to mingle
with it, he seemed unconscious where he was, and continued shrouded
in meditation and silence till he was again alone. There were times
when it was unknown whither he had retired, notwithstanding that his
steps had been watched, and his customary haunts examined. No one ever
heard him complain. The elder brothers of the convent said that he had
talents, but denied him learning; they applauded him for the profound
subtlety which he occasionally discovered in argument, but observed
that he seldom perceived truth when it lay on the surface; he could
follow it through all the labyrinths of disquisition, but overlooked
it, when it was undisguised before him. In fact he cared not for truth,
nor sought it by bold and broad argument, but loved to exert the wily
cunning of his nature in hunting it through artificial perplexities.
At length, from a habit of intricacy and suspicion, his vitiated
mind could receive nothing for truth, which was simple and easily
comprehended.

Among his associates no one loved him, many disliked him, and more
feared him. His figure was striking, but not so from grace; it was
tall, and, though extremely thin, his limbs were large and uncouth,
and as he stalked along, wrapt in the black garments of his order,
there was something terrible in its air; something almost superhuman.
His cowl, too, as it threw a shade over the livid paleness of his
face, encreased its severe character, and gave an effect to his large
melancholy eye, which approached to horror. His was not the melancholy
of a sensible and wounded heart, but apparently that of a gloomy and
ferocious disposition. There was something in his physiognomy extremely
singular, and that can not easily be defined. It bore the traces of
many passions, which seemed to have fixed the features they no longer
animated. An habitual gloom and severity prevailed over the deep lines
of his countenance; and his eyes were so piercing that they seemed to
penetrate, at a single glance into the hearts of men, and to read their
most secret thoughts; few persons could support their scrutiny, or even
endure to meet them twice. Yet, notwithstanding all this gloom and
austerity, some rare occasions of interest had called forth a character
upon his countenance entirely different; and he could adapt himself to
the tempers and passions of persons, whom he wished to conciliate, with
astonishing facility, and generally with complete triumph. This monk,
this Schedoni, was the confessor and secret adviser of the Marchesa di
Vivaldi. In the first effervescence of pride and indignation, which
the discovery of her son's intended marriage occasioned, she consulted
him on the means of preventing it, and she soon perceived that his
talents promised to equal her wishes. Each possessed, in a considerable
degree, the power of assisting the other; Schedoni had subtlety with
ambition to urge it; and the Marchesa had inexorable pride, and courtly
influence; the one hoped to obtain a high benefice for his services,
and the other to secure the imaginary dignity of her house, by her
gifts. Prompted by such passions, and allured by such views, they
concerted in private, and unknown even to the Marchese, the means of
accomplishing their general end.

Vivaldi, as he quitted his mother's closet, had met Schedoni in the
corridor leading thither. He knew him to be her confessor, and was not
much surprised to see him, though the hour was an unusual one. Schedoni
bowed his head, as he passed, and assumed a meek and holy countenance;
but Vivaldi, as he eyed him with a penetrating glance, now recoiled
with involuntary emotion; and it seemed as if a shuddering presentiment
of what this monk was preparing for him, had crossed his mind.




CHAPTER III.

        ----"Art thou any thing?
  Art thou some God, some Angel, or some Devil
  That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to stand?
  Speak to me, what thou art."

  JULIUS CÆSAR.


Vivaldi, from the period of his last visit to Altieri, was admitted
a frequent visitor to Signora Bianchi, and Ellena was, at length,
prevailed upon to join the party, when the conversation was always
on indifferent topics. Bianchi, understanding the disposition of her
niece's affections, and the accomplished mind and manners of Vivaldi,
judged that he was more likely to succeed by silent attentions than by
a formal declaration of his sentiments. By such declaration, Ellena,
till her heart was more engaged in his cause, would, perhaps, have
been alarmed into an absolute rejection of his addresses, and this was
every day less likely to happen, so long as he had an opportunity of
conversing with her.

Signora Bianchi had acknowledged to Vivaldi that he had no rival
to apprehend; that Ellena had uniformly rejected every admirer who
had hitherto discovered her within the shade of her retirement, and
that her present reserve proceeded more from considerations of the
sentiments of his family than from disapprobation of himself. He
forbore, therefore, to press his suit, till he should have secured a
stronger interest in her heart, and in this hope he was encouraged by
Signora Bianchi, whose gentle remonstrances in his favour became every
day more pleasing and more convincing.

Several weeks passed away in this kind of intercourse, till Ellena,
yielding to the representations of Signora Bianchi, and to the
pleadings of her own heart, received Vivaldi as an acknowledged
admirer, and the sentiments of his family were no longer remembered,
or, if remembered, it was with a hope that they might be overcome by
considerations more powerful.

The lovers, with Signora Bianchi and a Signor Giotto, a distant
relation of the latter, frequently made excursions in the delightful
environs of Naples; for Vivaldi was no longer anxious to conceal his
attachment, but wished to contradict any report injurious to his love,
by the publicity of his conduct; while the consideration, that Ellena's
name had suffered by his late imprudence, contributed, with the
unsuspecting innocence and sweetness of her manners towards him, who
had been the occasion of her injuries, to mingle a sacred pity with his
love, which obliterated all family politics from his mind, and bound
her irrecoverably to his heart.

These excursions sometimes led them to Puzzuoli, Baia, or the woody
cliffs of Pausilippo, and as, on their return, they glided along
the moon-light bay, the melodies of Italian strains seemed to give
enchantment to the scenery of its shore. At this cool hour the voices
of the vine-dressers were frequently heard in trio, as they reposed,
after the labour of the day, on some pleasant promontory, under the
shade of poplars; or the brisk music of the dance from fishermen,
on the margin of the waves below. The boatmen rested on their oars,
while their company listened to voices modulated by sensibility to
finer eloquence, than is in the power of art alone to display; and at
others, while they observed the airy natural grace, which distinguishes
the dance of the fishermen and peasants of Naples. Frequently as they
glided round a promontory, whose shaggy masses impended far over the
sea, such magic scenes of beauty unfolded, adorned by these dancing
groups on the bay beyond, as no pencil could do justice to. The deep
clear waters reflected every image of the landscape, the cliffs,
branching into wild forms, crowned with groves, whose rough foliage
often spread down their steeps in picturesque luxuriance; the ruined
villa on some bold point, peeping through the trees; peasants' cabins
hanging on the precipices, and the dancing figures on the strand--all
touched with the silvery tint and soft shadows of moon-light. On the
other hand, the sea trembling with a long line of radiance, and shewing
in the clear distance the sails of vessels stealing in every direction
along its surface, presented a prospect as grand as the landscape was
beautiful.

One evening that Vivaldi sat with Ellena and Signora Bianchi, in
the very pavilion where he had overheard that short but interesting
soliloquy, which assured him of her regard, he pleaded with more than
his usual earnestness for a speedy marriage. Bianchi did not oppose his
arguments; she had been unwell for some time, and, believing herself to
be declining fast, was anxious to have their nuptials concluded. She
surveyed with languid eyes, the scene that spread before the pavilion.
The strong effulgence which a setting-sun threw over the sea, shewing
innumerable gaily painted ships, and fishing-boats returning from
Santa Lucia into the port of Naples, had no longer power to cheer her.
Even the Roman tower that terminated the mole below, touched as it was
with the slanting rays; and the various figures of fishermen, who lay
smoking beneath its walls, in the long shadow, or stood in the sunshine
on the beach, watching the approaching boats of their comrades,
combined a picture which was no longer interesting. "Alas!" said she,
breaking from meditative silence, "this sun so glorious, which lights
up all the various colouring of these shores, and the glow of those
majestic mountains; alas! I feel that it will not long shine for me--my
eyes must soon close upon the prospect for ever!"

To Ellena's tender reproach for this melancholy suggestion Bianchi
replied only by expressing an earnest wish to witness the certainty of
her being protected; adding, that this must be soon, or she should not
live to see it. Ellena, extremely shocked both by this presage of her
aunt's fate, and by the direct reference made to her own condition in
the presence of Vivaldi, burst into tears, while he, supported by the
wishes of Signora Bianchi, urged his suit with encreased interest.

"This is not a time for fastidious scruples," said Bianchi, "now that
a solemn truth calls out to us. My dear girl, I will not disguise my
feelings; they assure me I have not long to live. Grant me then the
only request I have to make, and my last hours will be comforted."

After a pause she added, as she took the hand of her niece, "This
will, no doubt, be an awful separation to us both; and it must also be
a mournful one, Signor," turning to Vivaldi, "for she has been as a
daughter to me, and I have, I trust, fulfilled to her the duties of a
mother. Judge then, what will be her feelings when I am no more. But it
will be your care to sooth them."

Vivaldi looked at Ellena, and would have spoken; her aunt, however,
proceeded. "My own feelings would now be little less poignant, if I
did not believe that I was confiding her to a tenderness, which cannot
diminish; that I should prevail with her to accept the protection of a
husband. To you, Signor, I commit the legacy of my child. Watch over
her future moments, guard her from inquietude as vigilantly as I have
done, and, if possible, from misfortune! I have yet much to say, but my
spirits are exhausted."

While he listened to this sacred charge, and recollected the injury
Ellena had already sustained for his sake, by the cruel obliquy which
the Marchese had thrown upon her character, he suffered a degree of
generous indignation, of which he scarcely could conceal the cause,
and a succeeding tenderness that almost melted him to tears; and
he secretly vowed to defend her fame and protect her peace, at the
sacrifice of every other consideration.

Bianchi, as she concluded her exhortation, gave Ellena's hand to
Vivaldi, who received it with emotion such as his countenance, only,
could express, and with solemn fervour raising his eyes to heaven,
vowed that he never would betray the confidence thus reposed in him,
but would watch over the happiness of Ellena with a care as tender,
as anxious, and as unceasing as her own; that from this moment he
considered himself bound by ties not less sacred than those which the
church confers, to defend her as his wife, and would do so, to the
latest moment of his existence. As he said this, the truth of his
feelings appeared in the energy of his manner.

Ellena, still weeping, and agitated by various considerations, spoke
not, but withdrawing the handkerchief from her face, she looked at him
through her tears, with a smile so meek, so affectionate, so timid, yet
so confiding, as expressed all the mingled emotions of her heart, and
appealed more eloquently to his, than the most energetic language could
have done.

Before Vivaldi left the villa, he had some further conversation with
Signora Bianchi, when it was agreed that the nuptials should be
solemnized on the following week, if Ellena could be prevailed on to
confirm her consent so soon; and that when he returned the next day,
her determination would probably be made known to him.

He departed for Naples once more with the lightly-bounding steps of
joy, which, however, when he arrived there, was somewhat alloyed by a
message from the Marchese, demanding to see him in his cabinet. Vivaldi
anticipated the subject of the interview, and obeyed the summons with
reluctance.

He found his father so absorbed in thought, that he did not immediately
perceive him. On raising his eyes from the floor, where discontent
and perplexity seemed to have held them, he fixed a stern regard on
Vivaldi. "I understand," said he, "that you persist in the unworthy
pursuit against which I warned you. I have left you thus long to your
own discretion, because I was willing to afford you an opportunity of
retracting with grace the declaration, which you have dared to make me
of your principles and intentions; but your conduct has not therefore
been the less observed. I am informed that your visits have been as
frequent at the residence of the unhappy young woman, who was the
subject of our former conversation, as formerly, and that you are as
much infatuated."

"If it is Signora Rosalba, whom your lordship means," said Vivaldi,
"she is not unhappy; and I do not scruple to own, that I am as
sincerely attached to her as ever. Why, my dear father," continued
he, subduing the feelings which this degrading mention of Ellena had
aroused, "why will you persist in opposing the happiness of your son;
and above all, why will you continue to think unjustly of her, who
deserves your admiration, as much as my love?"

"As I am not a lover," replied the Marchese, "and that the age of
boyish credulity is past with me, I do not wilfully close my mind
against examination, but am directed by proof and yield to conviction."

"What proof is it, my Lord, that has thus easily convinced you?" said
Vivaldi; "who is it that persists in abusing your confidence, and in
destroying my peace?"

The Marchese haughtily reproved his son for such doubts and questions,
and a long conversation ensued, which seemed neither to reconcile the
interests or the opinions of either party. The Marchese persisted
in accusation and menace; and Vivaldi in defending Ellena, and in
affirming, that his affections and intentions were irrecoverable.

Not any art of persuasion could prevail with the Marchese to adduce
his proofs, or deliver up the name of his informer; nor any menace
awe Vivaldi into a renunciation of Ellena; and they parted mutually
dissatisfied. The Marchese had failed on this occasion to act with his
usual policy, for his menaces and accusations had aroused spirit and
indignation, when kindness and gentle remonstrance would certainly
have awakened filial affection, and might have occasioned a contest in
the breast of Vivaldi. Now, no struggle of opposing duties divided his
resolution. He had no hesitation on the subject of their dispute; but,
regarding his father as a haughty oppressor who would rob him of his
most sacred right; and as one who did not scruple to stain the name of
the innocent and the defenceless, when his interest required it, upon
the doubtful authority of a base informer, he suffered neither pity or
remorse to mingle with the resolution of asserting the freedom of his
nature; and was even more anxious than before, to conclude a marriage
which he believed would secure his own happiness, and the reputation of
Ellena.

He returned, therefore, on the following day to the villa Altieri, with
encreased impatience to learn the result of Signora Bianchi's further
conversation with her niece, and the day on which the nuptials might
be solemnized. On the way thither, his thoughts were wholly occupied
by Ellena, and he proceeded mechanically, and without observing where
he was, till the shade which the well-known arch threw over the road
recalled him to local circumstances, and a voice instantly arrested
his attention. It was the voice of the monk, whose figure again passed
before him. "Go not to the villa Altieri," it said solemnly, "for death
is in the house!"

Before Vivaldi could recover from the dismay into which this abrupt
assertion and sudden appearance had thrown him, the stranger was gone.
He had escaped in the gloom of the place, and seemed to have retired
into the obscurity, from which he had so suddenly emerged, for he was
not seen to depart from under the arch-way. Vivaldi pursued him with
his voice, conjuring him to appear, and demanding who was dead; but no
voice replied.

Believing that the stranger could not have escaped unseen from the arch
by any way, but that leading to the fortress above, Vivaldi began to
ascend the steps, when, considering that the more certain means of
understanding this awful assertion would be, to go immediately to the
villa Altieri, he left this portentous ruin, and hastened thither.

An indifferent person would probably have understood the words of
the monk to allude to Signora Bianchi, whose infirm state of health
rendered her death, though sudden, not improbable; but to the
affrighted fancy of Vivaldi, the dying Ellena only appeared. His
fears, however probabilities might sanction, or the event justify
them, were natural to ardent affection; but they were accompanied by
a presentiment as extraordinary as it was horrible;--it occurred to
him more than once, that Ellena was murdered. He saw her wounded, and
bleeding to death; saw her ashy countenance, and her wasting eyes,
from which the spirit of life was fast departing, turned piteously
on himself, as if imploring him to save her from the fate that was
dragging her to the grave. And, when he reached the boundary of the
garden, his whole frame trembled so, with horrible apprehension,
that he rested a while, unable to venture further towards the truth.
At length, he summoned courage to dare it, and, unlocking a private
gate, of which he had lately received the key, because it spared him a
considerable distance of the road to Naples, he approached the house.
Every place around it was silent and forsaken; many of the lattices
were closed, and, as he endeavoured to collect from every trivial
circumstance some conjecture, his spirits still sunk as he advanced,
till, having arrived within a few paces of the portico, all his fears
were confirmed. He heard from within a feeble sound of lamentation, and
then some notes of that solemn and peculiar kind of recitative, which
is in some parts of Italy the requiem of the dying. The sounds were
so low and distant that they only murmured on his ear; but, without
pausing for information, he rushed into the portico, and knocked
loudly at the folding doors, now closed against him.

After repeated summonses, Beatrice, the old house-keeper, appeared.
She did not wait for Vivaldi's enquiries. "Alas! Signor," said she,
"alas-a-day! who would have thought it; who would have expected such a
change as this! It was only yester-evening that you was here,--she was
then as well as I am; who would have thought that she would be dead
to-day?"

"She _is_ dead, then!" exclaimed Vivaldi, struck to the heart; "she
_is_ dead!" staggering towards a pillar of the hall, and endeavouring
to support himself against it. Beatrice, shocked at his condition,
would have gone for assistance, but he waved her to stay. "When did she
die," said he, drawing breath with difficulty, "how and where?"

"Alas! here in the villa, Signor," replied Beatrice, weeping; "who
would have thought that I should live to see this day! I hoped to have
laid down my old bones in peace."

"What has caused her death?" interrupted Vivaldi impatiently, "and when
did she die?"

"About two of the clock this morning, Signor; about two o'clock. O
miserable day, that I should live to see it!"

"I am better," said Vivaldi, raising himself; "lead me to her
apartment,--I must see her. Do not hesitate, lead me on."

"Alas! Signor, it is a dismal sight; why should you wish to see her? Be
persuaded; do not go, Signor; it is a woeful sight!"

"Lead me on," repeated Vivaldi sternly; "or if you refuse, I will find
the way myself."

Beatrice, terrified by his look and gesture, no longer opposed him,
begging only that he would wait till she had informed her lady of
his arrival; but he followed her closely up the staircase and along
a corridor that led round the west side of the house, which brought
him to a suite of chambers darkened by the closed lattices, through
which he passed towards the one where the body lay. The requiem had
ceased, and no sound disturbed the awful stillness that prevailed in
these deserted rooms. At the door of the last apartment, where he was
compelled to stop, his agitation was such, that Beatrice, expecting
every instant to see him sink to the floor, made an effort to support
him with her feeble aid, but he gave a signal for her to retire. He
soon recovered himself and passed into the chamber of death, the
solemnity of which might have affected him in any other state of his
spirits; but these were now too severely pressed upon by real suffering
to feel the influence of local circumstances. Approaching the bed on
which the corpse was laid, he raised his eyes to the mourner who hung
weeping over it, and beheld--Ellena! who, surprized by this sudden
intrusion, and still more by the agitation of Vivaldi, repeatedly
demanded the occasion of it. But he had neither power or inclination
to explain a circumstance, which must deeply wound the heart of Ellena,
since it would have told that the same event, which excited her grief,
accidentally inspired his joy.

He did not long intrude upon the sacredness of sorrow, and the short
time he remained was employed in endeavours to command his own emotion
and to soothe her's.

When he left Ellena, he had some conciliation with Beatrice, as to
the death of Signora Bianchi, and understood that she had retired to
rest on the preceding night apparently in her usual state of health.
"It was about one in the morning, Signor," continued Beatrice, "I was
waked out of my first sleep by a noise in my lady's chamber. It is a
grievous thing to me, Signor, to be waked from my first sleep, and I,
Santa Maria forgive me! was angry at being disturbed! So I would not
get up, but laid my head upon the pillow again, and tried to sleep;
but presently I heard the noise again; nay now, says I, somebody must
be up in the house, that's certain. I had scarcely said so, Signor,
when I heard my young lady's voice calling 'Beatrice! Beatrice!' Ah!
poor young lady! she was indeed in a sad fright, as well she might. She
was at my door in an instant, and looked as pale as death, and trembled
so! 'Beatrice,' said she, 'rise this moment; my aunt is dying.' She did
not stay for my answer, but was gone directly. Santa Maria protect me!
I thought I should have swooned outright."

"Well, but your lady?" said Vivaldi, whose patience the tedious
circumlocution of old Beatrice had exhausted.

"Ah! my poor lady! Signor, I thought I never should have been able to
reach her room; and when I got there, I was scarcely more alive than
herself.--There she lay on her bed! O it was a grievous sight to see!
there she lay, looking so piteously; I saw she was dying. She could not
speak, though she tried often, but she was sensible, for she would
look so at Signora Ellena, and then try again to speak; it almost broke
one's heart to see her. Something seemed to lie upon her mind, and
she tried almost to the last to tell it; and as she grasped Signora
Ellena's hand, she would still look up in her face with such doleful
expression as no one who had not a heart of stone could bear. My poor
young mistress was quite overcome by it, and cried as if her heart
would break. Poor young lady! she has lost a friend indeed, such a one
as she must never hope to see again."

"But she shall find one as firm and affectionate as the last!"
exclaimed Vivaldi fervently.

"The good Saint grant it may prove so!" replied Beatrice, doubtingly.
"All that could be done for our dear lady," she continued, "was tried,
but with no avail. She could not swallow what the Doctor offered her.
She grew fainter and fainter, yet would often utter such deep sighs,
and then would grasp my hand so hard! At last she turned her eyes
from Signora Ellena, and they grew duller and fixed, and she seemed
not to see what was before her. Alas! I knew then she was going; her
hand did not press mine as it had done a minute or two before, and a
deadly coldness was upon it. Her face changed so too in a few minutes!
This was about two o'clock, and she died before her confessor could
administer."

Beatrice ceased to speak, and wept; Vivaldi almost wept with her, and
it was some time before he could command his voice sufficiently to
enquire, what were the symptoms of Signora Bianchi's disorder, and
whether she had ever been thus suddenly attacked before.

"Never, Signor!" replied the old house-keeper; "and though, to be sure,
she has long been very infirm, and going down, as one may say, yet,"--

"What is it you mean?" said Vivaldi.

"Why, Signor, I do not know what to think about my lady's death. To be
sure, there is nothing certain; and I may only get scoffed at, if I
speak my mind abroad, for nobody would believe me, it is so strange,
yet I must have my own thoughts, for all that."

"Do speak intelligibly," said Vivaldi, "you need not apprehend censure
from me."

"Not from you, Signor, but if the report should get abroad, and it was
known that I had set it a-going."

"That never shall be known from me," said Vivaldi, with encreased
impatience, "tell me, without fear, all that you conjecture."

"Well then, Signor, I will own, that I do not like the suddenness of my
lady's death, no, nor the manner of it, nor her appearance after death!"

"Speak explicitly, and to the point," said Vivaldi.

"Nay, Signor, there are some folks that will not understand, if you
speak ever so plain, I am sure I speak plain enough. If I might tell my
mind,--I do not believe she came fairly by her death at last!"

"How!" said Vivaldi, "your reasons?"

"Nay, Signor, I have given them already; I said I did not like the
suddenness of her death, nor her appearance after, nor"--

"Good heaven!" interrupted Vivaldi, "you mean poison!"

"Hush, Signor, hush! I do not say that; but she did not seem to die
naturally."

"Who has been at the villa lately?" said Vivaldi, in a tremulous voice.

"Alas! Signor, nobody has been here; she lived so privately that she
saw nobody."

"Not one person?" said Vivaldi, "consider well, Beatrice, had she no
visitor?"

"Not of a long while, Signor, no visitors but yourself and her cousin
Signor Giotto. The only other person that has been within these walls
for many weeks, to the best of my remembrance, is a sister of the
Convent, who comes for the silks my young lady embroiders."

"Embroiders! What convent?"

"The Santa Maria della Pieta, yonder, Signor; if you will step this
way to the window, I will shew it you. Yonder, among the woods on the
hill-side, just above those gardens that stretch down to the bay. There
is an olive ground close beside it, and observe, Signor, there is a red
and yellowish ridge of rocks rises over the woods higher still, and
looks as if it would fall down upon those old spires. Have you found
it, Signor?"

"How long is it since this sister came here?" said Vivaldi.

"Three weeks at least, Signor."

"And you are certain that no other person has called within that time?"

"No other, Signor, except the fisherman and the gardener, and a man who
brings maccaroni, and such sort of things; for it is such a long way
to Naples, Signor, and I have so little time."

"Three weeks, say you! You said three weeks, I think? Are you certain
as to this?"

"Three weeks, Signor! Santa della Pieta! Do you believe, Signor, that
we could fast for three weeks! Why, they call almost every day."

"I speak of the nun," said Vivaldi.

"O yes, Signor," replied Beatrice "it is that, at least, since she was
here."

"This is strange!" said Vivaldi, musing, "but I will talk with you some
other time. Meanwhile, I wish you could contrive that I should see the
face of your deceased lady, without the knowledge of Signora Ellena.
And, observe me, Beatrice, be strictly silent as to your surmises
concerning her death: do not suffer any negligence to betray your
suspicions to your young mistress. Has she any suspicions herself of
the same nature?"

Beatrice replied, that she believed Signora Ellena had none; and
promised faithfully to observe his injunctions.

He then left the villa, meditating on the circumstances he had just
learned, and on the prophetic assertion of the monk, between whom, and
the cause of Bianchi's sudden death, he could not forbear surmising
there was some connection; and it now occurred to him, and for the
first time, that this monk, this mysterious stranger, was no other
than Schedoni, whom he had observed of late going more frequently than
usual, to his mother's apartment. He almost started, in horror of the
suspicion, to which this conjecture led, and precipitately rejected it,
as a poison that would destroy his own peace for ever. But though he
instantly dismissed the suspicion, the conjecture returned to his mind,
and he endeavoured to recollect the voice and figure of the stranger,
that he might compare them with those of the confessor. The voices
were, he thought, of a different tone, and the persons of a different
height and proportion. This comparison, however, did not forbid him to
surmise that the stranger was an agent of the confessor's; that he was,
at least, a secret spy upon his actions, and the defamer of Ellena;
while both, if indeed there were two persons concerned, appeared to be
at the command of his parents. Fired with indignation of the unworthy
arts that he believed to have been employed against him, and impatient
to meet the slanderer of Ellena, he determined to attempt some decisive
step towards a discovery of the truth, and either to compel the
confessor to reveal it to him, or to search out his agent, who, he
fancied, was occasionally a resident within the ruins of Paluzzi.

The inhabitants of the convent, which Beatrice had pointed out, did
not escape his consideration, but no reason appeared for supposing
them the enemies of his Ellena, who, on the contrary, he understood
had been for some years amicably connected with them. The embroidered
silks, of which the old servant had spoken, sufficiently explained the
nature of the connection, and discovering more fully the circumstances
of Ellena's fortune, her conduct heightened the tender admiration, with
which he had hitherto regarded her.

The hints for suspicion which Beatrice had given respecting the
cause of her mistress's decease, incessantly recurred to him; and
it appeared extraordinary, and sometimes in the highest degree
improbable, that any person could be sufficiently interested in the
death of a woman apparently so blameless, as to administer poison to
her. What motive could have prompted so horrible a deed, was still
more inexplicable. It was true that she had long been in a declining
state; yet the suddenness of her departure and the singularity of
some circumstances preceding as well as some appearances that had
followed it, compelled Vivaldi to doubt as to the cause. He believed,
however, that, after having seen the corpse, his doubts must vanish;
and Beatrice had promised, that, if he could return in the evening,
when Ellena had retired to rest, he should be permitted to visit
the chamber of the deceased. There was something repugnant to his
feelings, in going thus secretly, or, indeed, at all, to the residence
of Ellena at this delicate period, yet it was necessary he should
introduce there some medical professor, on whose judgment he could
rest, respecting the occasion of Bianchi's death; and as he believed he
should so soon acquire the right of vindicating the honour of Ellena,
that consideration did not so seriously affect him as otherwise it
would have done. The enquiry which called him thither was, besides,
of a nature too solemn and important to be lightly resigned; he
had, therefore, told Beatrice he would be punctual to the hour she
appointed. His intention to search for the monk was thus again
interrupted.




CHAPTER IV.

  "Unfold th' impenetrable mystery,
  That sets your soul and you at endless discord."

  MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.


When Vivaldi returned to Naples, he enquired for the Marchesa, of whom
he wished to ask some questions concerning Schedoni, which, though he
scarcely expected they would be explicitly answered, might yet lead to
part of the truth he sought for.

The Marchesa was in her closet, and Vivaldi found the confessor with
her. "This man crosses me, like my evil genius," said he to himself as
he entered, "but I will know whether he deserves my suspicions before I
leave the room."

Schedoni was so deeply engaged in conversation, that he did not
immediately perceive Vivaldi, who stood for a moment examining his
countenance, and tracing subjects for curiosity in its deep lines. His
eyes, while he spoke, were cast downward, and his features were fixed
in an expression at once severe and crafty. The Marchesa was listening
with deep attention, her head inclined towards him, as if to catch the
lowest murmur of his voice, and her face picturing the anxiety and
vexation of her mind. This was evidently a conference, not a confession.

Vivaldi advancing, the monk raised his eyes; his countenance suffered
no change, as they met those of Vivaldi. He rose, but did not take
leave, and returned the slight and somewhat haughty salutation of
Vivaldi, with an inclination of the head, that indicated a pride
without pettishness, and a firmness bordering on contempt.

The Marchesa, on perceiving her son, was somewhat embarrassed, and
her brow, before slightly contracted by vexation, now frowned with
severity. Yet it was an involuntary emotion, for she endeavoured to
chace the expression of it with a smile. Vivaldi liked the smile still
less than the frown.

Schedoni seated himself quietly, and began, with almost the ease of
a man of the world, to converse on general topics. Vivaldi, however,
was reserved and silent; he knew not how to begin a conversation,
which might lead to the knowledge he desired, and the Marchesa did
not relieve him from the difficulty. His eye and his ear assisted him
to conjecture at least, if not to obtain the information he wished;
and, as he listened to the deep tones of Schedoni's voice, he became
almost certain, that they were not the accents of his unknown adviser,
though he considered, at the same moment, that it was not difficult
to disguise, or to feign a voice. His stature seemed to decide
the question more reasonably; for the figure of Schedoni appeared
taller than that of the stranger; and though there was something of
resemblance in their air, which Vivaldi had never observed before, he
again considered, that the habit of the same order, which each wore,
might easily occasion an artificial resemblance. Of the likeness as
to countenance, he could not judge, since the stranger's had been so
much shrouded by his cowl, that Vivaldi had never distinctly seen a
single feature. Schedoni's hood was now thrown back, so that he could
not compare even the air of their heads under similar circumstances;
but as he remembered to have seen the confessor on a former day
approaching his mother's closet with the cowl shading his face, the
same gloomy severity seemed to characterize both, and nearly the same
terrible portrait was drawn on his fancy. Yet this again might be only
an artificial effect, a character which the cowl alone gave to the
head; and any face seen imperfectly beneath its dark shade, might have
appeared equally severe. Vivaldi was still extremely perplexed in his
opinion. One circumstance, however, seemed to throw some light on his
judgment. The stranger had appeared in the habit of a monk, and, if
Vivaldi's transient observation might be trusted, he was of the very
same order with that of Schedoni. Yet if he were Schedoni, or even
his agent, it was not probable that he would have shewn himself in a
dress that might lead to a discovery of his person. That he was anxious
for concealment, his manner had strongly proved; it seemed then, that
this habit of a monk was only a disguise, assumed for the purpose
of misleading conjecture. Vivaldi, however, determined to put some
questions to Schedoni, and at the same time to observe their effect on
his countenance. He took occasion to notice some drawings of ruins,
which ornamented the cabinet of the Marchesa, and to say that the
fortress of Paluzzi was worthy of being added to her collection. "You
have seen it lately, perhaps, reverend father," added Vivaldi, with a
penetrating glance.

"It is a striking relique of antiquity," replied the confessor.

"That arch," resumed Vivaldi, his eye still fixed on Schedoni, "that
arch suspended between two rocks, the one overtopped by the towers of
the fortress, the other shadowed with pine and broad oak, has a fine
effect. But a picture of it would want human figures. Now either the
grotesque shapes of banditti lurking within the ruin, as if ready
to start out upon the traveller, or a friar rolled up in his black
garments, just stealing forth from under the shade of the arch, and
looking like some supernatural messenger of evil, would finish the
piece."

The features of Schedoni suffered no change during this speech. "Your
picture is complete," said he, "and I cannot but admire the facility
with which you have classed the monks together with banditti."

"Your pardon, holy father," said Vivaldi, "I did not draw a parallel
between them."

"O! no offence, Signor," replied Schedoni, with a smile somewhat
ghastly.

During the latter part of this conversation, if conversation it may
be called, the Marchesa had followed a servant, who had brought her a
letter, out of the apartment, and as the confessor appeared to await
her return, Vivaldi determined to press his enquiry. "It appears,
however," said he, "that Paluzzi, if not haunted by robbers, is at
least frequented by ecclesiastics; for I have seldom passed it without
seeing one of the order, and that one has appeared so suddenly, and
vanished so suddenly, that I have been almost compelled to believe he
was literally a spiritual being!"

"The convent of the Black Penitents is not far distant," observed the
confessor.

"Does the dress of this convent resemble that of your order, reverend
father? for I observed that the monk I speak of was habited like
yourself; aye, and he was about your stature, and very much resembled
you."

"That well may be, Signor," replied the confessor calmly; "there are
many brethren who, no doubt, resemble each other; but the brothers of
the Black Penitents are clothed in sackcloth; and the death's head on
the garment, the peculiar symbol of this order, would not have escaped
your observation; it could not, therefore, be a member of their society
whom you have seen."

"I am not inclined to think that it was," said Vivaldi; "but be it who
it may, I hope soon to be better acquainted with him, and to tell him
truths so strong, that he shall not be permitted even to affect the
misunderstanding of them."

"You will do right, if you have cause of complaint against him,"
observed Schedoni.

"And _only_ if I have cause of complaint, holy father? Are strong
truths to be told only when there is direct cause of complaint? Is
it only when we are injured that we are to be sincere?" He believed
that he had now detected Schedoni, who seemed to have betrayed a
consciousness that Vivaldi had reason for complaint against the
stranger.

"You will observe, reverend father, that I have not said I am injured,"
he added. "If you know that I am, this must be by other means than by
my words; I have not even expressed resentment."

"Except by your voice and eye, Signor," replied Schedoni drily. "When
a man is vehement and disordered, we usually are inclined to suppose
he feels resentment, and that he has cause of complaint, either real
or imaginary. As I have not the honour of being acquainted with the
subject you allude to, I cannot decide to which of the two your cause
belongs."

"I have never been in doubt as to that," said Vivaldi haughtily; "and
if I had, you will pardon me, holy father, but I should not have
requested your decision. My injuries are, alas! too real; and I now
think it is also too certain to whom I may attribute them. The secret
adviser, who steals into the bosom of a family only to poison its
repose, the informer--the base asperser of innocence, stand revealed in
one person before me."

Vivaldi delivered these words with a tempered energy, at once dignified
and pointed, which seemed to strike directly to the heart of Schedoni;
but, whether it was his conscience or his pride that took the alarm,
did not certainly appear. Vivaldi believed the former. A dark malignity
overspread the features of the monk, and at that moment Vivaldi thought
he beheld a man, whose passions might impel him to the perpetration of
almost any crime, how hideous soever. He recoiled from him, as if he
had suddenly seen a serpent in his path, and stood gazing on his face,
with an attention so wholly occupied as to be unconscious that he did
so.

Schedoni almost instantly recovered himself; his features relaxed from
their first expression, and that portentous darkness passed away from
his countenance; but with a look that was still stern and haughty,
he said, "Signor, however ignorant I may be of the subject of your
discontent, I can not misunderstand that your resentment is, to some
extent or other, directed against myself as the cause of it. Yet I
will not suppose, Signor; I say I will not suppose," raising his voice
significantly, "that you have dared to brand me with the ignominious
titles you have just uttered; but"--

"I have applied them to the author of my injuries," interrupted
Vivaldi; "you, father, can best inform me whether they applied to
yourself."

"I have then nothing to complain of," said Schedoni, adroitly, and
with a sudden calmness, that surprised Vivaldi. "If you directed
them against the author of your injuries, whatever they may be, I am
satisfied."

The cheerful complacency, with which he spoke this, renewed the doubts
of Vivaldi, who thought it nearly impossible that a man conscious of
guilt could assume, under the very charge of it, the tranquil and
dignified air, which the confessor now displayed. He began to accuse
himself of having condemned him with passionate rashness, and gradually
became shocked at the indecorum of his conduct towards a man of
Schedoni's age and sacred profession. Those expressions of countenance,
which had so much alarmed him, he was now inclined to think the effect
of a jealous and haughty honour, and he almost forgot the malignity,
which had mingled with Schedoni's pride, in sorrow for the offence that
had provoked it. Thus, not less precipitate in his pity than his anger,
and credulous alike to the passion of the moment, he was now as eager
to apologize for his error, as he had been hasty in committing it. The
frankness, with which he apologized and lamented the impropriety of
his conduct, would have won an easy forgiveness from a generous heart.
Schedoni listened with apparent complacency and secret contempt. He
regarded Vivaldi as a rash boy, who was swayed only by his passions;
but while he suffered deep resentment for the evil in his character, he
felt neither respect nor kindness for the good, for the sincerity, the
love of justice, the generosity, which threw a brilliancy even on his
foibles. Schedoni, indeed, saw only evil in human nature.

Had the heart of Vivaldi been less generous, he would now have
distrusted the satisfaction, which the confessor assumed, and have
discovered the contempt and malignity, that lurked behind the smile
thus imperfectly masking his countenance. The confessor perceived his
power, and the character of Vivaldi lay before him as a map. He saw,
or fancied he saw every line and feature of its plan, and the relative
proportions of every energy and weakness of its nature. He believed,
also, he could turn the very virtues of this young man against himself,
and he exulted, even while the smile of good-will was yet upon his
countenance, in anticipating the moment that should avenge him for the
past outrage, and which, while Vivaldi was ingenuously lamenting it,
he had apparently forgotten.

Schedoni was thus ruminating evil against Vivaldi, and Vivaldi
was considering how he might possibly make Schedoni atonement for
the affront he had offered him, when the Marchesa returned to the
apartment; and perceived in the honest countenance of Vivaldi some
symptoms of the agitation which had passed over it; his complexion was
flushed, and his brow slightly contracted. The face of Schedoni told
nothing but complacency, except that now and then when he looked at
Vivaldi, it was with half-shut eyes, that indicated treachery, or, at
least, cunning, trying to conceal exasperated pride.

The Marchesa, with displeasure directed against her son, enquired the
reason of his emotion; but he, stung with consciousness of his conduct
towards the monk, could neither endure to explain it, or to remain
in her presence, and saying that he would confide his honour to the
discretion of the holy father, who would speak only too favourably of
his fault, he abruptly left the room.

When he had departed, Schedoni gave, with seeming reluctance, the
explanation which the Marchesa required, but was cautious not to
speak too favourably of Vivaldi's conduct, which, on the contrary, he
represented as much more insulting than it really was; and, while he
aggravated the offensive part of it, he suppressed all mention of the
candour and self-reproach, which had followed the charge. Yet this he
managed so artfully that he appeared to extenuate Vivaldi's errors,
to lament the hastiness of his temper, and to plead for forgiveness
from his irritated mother. "He is very young," added the monk, when he
perceived that he had sufficiently exasperated the Marchesa against
her son; "he is very young, and youth is warm in its passions and
precipitate in its judgments. He was, besides, jealous, no doubt, of
the friendship, with which you are pleased to honour me; and it is
natural that a son should be jealous of the attention of such a mother."

"You are too good, father," said the Marchesa; her resentment
encreasing towards Vivaldi in proportion as Schedoni displayed his
artificial candour and meekness.

"It is true," continued the confessor, "that I perceive all the
inconveniences to which my attachment, I should say my duty to your
family exposes me; but I willingly submit to these, while it is yet
possible that my advice may be a means of preserving the honour of your
house unsullied, and of saving this inconsiderate young man from future
misery and unavailing repentance."

During the warmth of this sympathy in resentment, the Marchesa and
Schedoni mutually, and sincerely, lost their remembrance of the
unworthy motives, by which each knew the other to be influenced, as
well as that disgust which those who act together to the same bad end,
can seldom escape from feeling towards their associates. The Marchesa,
while she commended the fidelity of Schedoni, forgot his views and
her promises as to a rich benefice; while the confessor imputed her
anxiety for the splendor of her son's condition to a real interest in
his welfare, not a care of her own dignity. After mutual compliments
had been exchanged, they proceeded to a long consultation concerning
Vivaldi, and it was agreed, that their efforts for what they termed his
preservation should no longer be confined to remonstrances.




CHAPTER V.

  "What if it be a poison, which the friar
  Subtly hath ministered?"----

  SHAKESPEARE.


Vivaldi, when his first feelings of pity and compunction for having
insulted an aged man, the member of a sacred profession, were past, and
when he looked with a more deliberate eye upon some circumstances of
the confessor's conduct, perceived that suspicion was again gathering
on his mind. But, regarding this as a symptom of his own weakness,
rather than as a hint of truth, he endeavoured, with a magnanimous
disdain, to reject every surmise that boded unfavourably of Schedoni.

When evening arrived, he hastened towards the villa Altieri, and,
having met without the city, according to appointment, a physician,
upon whose honor and judgment he thought he might rely, they
proceeded on their way together. Vivaldi had forgotten, during the
confusion of his last interview with Ellena, to deliver up the key
of the garden-gate, and he now entered it as usual, though he could
not entirely overcome the reluctance, which he felt on thus visiting,
in secret and at night, the dwelling of Ellena. Under no other
circumstances, however, could the physician, whose opinion was so
necessary to his peace, be introduced without betraying a suspicion,
which must render her unhappy, probably for ever.

Beatrice, who had watched for them in the portico, led the way to the
chamber where the corpse was laid out; and Vivaldi, though considerably
affected when he entered, soon recovered composure enough to take his
station on one side of the bed, while the physician placed himself
on the other. Unwilling to expose his emotion to the observation of
a servant, and desirous also of some private conversation with the
physician, he took the lamp from Beatrice and dismissed her. As the
light glared upon the livid face of the corpse, Vivaldi gazed with
melancholy surprize, and an effort of reason was necessary to convince
him, that this was the same countenance which only one evening
preceding was animated like his own; which had looked upon him in
tears, while, with anxiety the most tender, she had committed the
happiness of her niece to his care, and had, alas! too justly predicted
her approaching dissolution. The circumstances of that scene now
appeared to him like a vision, and touched every fibre of his heart.
He was fully sensible of the importance of the trust committed to him,
and, as he now hung over the pale and deserted form of Bianchi, he
silently renewed his solemn vows to Ellena, to deserve the confidence
of her departed guardian.

Before Vivaldi had courage enough to ask the opinion of the physician,
who was still viewing the face of the deceased with very earnest
attention and disapproving countenance, his own suspicions strengthened
from some circumstances of her appearance; and particularly from the
black tint that prevailed over her complexion, it seemed to him,
that her death had been by poison. He feared to break a silence,
which prolonged his hope of the contrary, feeble though it was; and
the physician, who probably was apprehensive for the consequence of
delivering his real thought, did not speak.

"I read your opinion," said Vivaldi, at length, "it coincides with my
own."

"I know not as to that, Signor," replied the physician, "though I think
I perceive what is yours. Appearances are unfavourable, yet I will not
take upon me to decide from them, that it is as you suspect. There are
other circumstances, under which similar appearances might occur."
He gave his reasons for this assertion, which were plausible even to
Vivaldi, and concluded with requesting to speak with Beatrice, "for
I wish to understand," said he, "what was the exact situation of this
lady for some hours previous to her decease."

After a conversation of some length with Beatrice, whatever might be
the opinion resulting from his enquiries, he adhered nearly to his
formal assertions; pronouncing that so many contradictory circumstances
appeared, as rendered it impossible for him to decide, whether
Bianchi had died by poison, or otherwise. He stated more fully than
he had done before, the reasons, which must render the opinion of
any medical person, on this subject, doubtful. But, whether it was
that he feared to be responsible for a decision, which would accuse
some person of murder, or that he really was inclined to believe that
Bianchi died naturally, it is certain he seemed disposed to adopt the
latter opinion; and that he was very anxious to quiet the suspicions
of Vivaldi. He so far succeeded, indeed, as to convince him that it
would be unavailing to pursue the enquiry, and almost compelled him to
believe, that she had departed according to the common course of nature.

Vivaldi, having lingered awhile over the death-bed of Bianchi, and
taken a last farewel of her silent form, quitted the chamber and the
house as softly as he had approached, and unobserved, as he believed,
by Ellena or any other person. The morning dawned over the sea, when he
returned into the garden, and a few fishermen, loitering on the beach,
or putting off their little boats from the shore, were the only persons
visible at this early hour. The time, however, was passed for renewing
the enquiry he had purposed at Paluzzi, and the brightening dawn warned
him to retire. To Naples, therefore, he returned, with spirits somewhat
soothed by a hope, that Bianchi had not fallen prematurely, and by
the certainty that Ellena was well. On the way thither, he passed the
fort without interruption, and, having parted with the physician, was
admitted into his father's mansion by a confidential servant.




CHAPTER VI.

        ----"For here have been
  Some six or seven, who did hide their faces
  Even from darkness."

  SHAKESPEARE.


Ellena, on thus suddenly losing her aunt, her only relative, the friend
of her whole life, felt as if left alone in the world. But it was not
in the first moments of affliction that this feeling occurred. Her own
forlorn situation was not even observed, while affection, pity, and
irresistible grief for Bianchi, occupied her heart.

Bianchi was to be interred in the church belonging to the convent of
Santa Maria della Pieta. The body, attired according to the custom of
the country, and decorated with flowers, was carried on an open bier
to the place of interment, attended only by priests and torch-bearers.
But Ellena could not endure thus lightly to part with the reliques of
a beloved friend, and being restrained by custom from following the
corpse to the grave, she repaired first to the convent, to attend the
funeral service. Her sorrow did not allow her to join in the choral
symphonies of the nuns, but their sacred solemnity was soothing to her
spirits, and the tears she shed while she listened to the lengthening
notes, assuaged the force of grief.

When the service concluded, she withdrew to the parlour of the lady
Abbess, who mingled with her consolations many entreaties that Ellena
would make the convent her present asylum; and her affliction required
little persuasion on this subject. It was her wish to retire hither,
as to a sanctuary, which was not only suitable to her particular
circumstances, but especially adapted to the present state of her
spirits. Here she believed that she should sooner acquire resignation,
and regain tranquillity, than in a place less consecrated to religion;
and, before she took leave of the Abbess, it was agreed, that she
should be received as a boarder. To acquaint Vivaldi with her
intention was, indeed, her chief motive for returning to the villa
Altieri, after this her resolution had been taken. Her affection and
esteem had been gradual in their progress, and had now attained a
degree of strength, which promised to decide the happiness or misery
of her whole life. The sanction given by her aunt to this choice,
and particularly the very solemn manner in which, on the evening
preceding her death, she bequeathed Ellena to his care, had still
endeared him to her heart, and imparted a sacredness to the engagement,
which made her consider Vivaldi as her guardian and only surviving
protector. The more tenderly she lamented her deceased relative, the
more tenderly she thought of Vivaldi; and her love for the one was so
ultimately connected with her affection for the other, that each seemed
strengthened and exalted by the union.

When the funeral was over, they met at Altieri.

He was neither surprized or averse to her withdrawing awhile to a
convent; for there was a propriety in retiring, during the period
of her grief, from a home where she had no longer a guardian, which
delicacy seemed to demand. He only stipulated, that he might be
permitted to visit her in the parlour of the convent, and to claim,
when decorum should no longer object to it, the hand, which Bianchi had
resigned to him.

Notwithstanding that he yielded to this arrangement without
complaining, it was not entirely without repining; but being assured by
Ellena of the worthiness of the Abbess of the Santa Maria della Pieta,
he endeavoured to silence the secret murmurs of his heart with the
conviction of his judgment.

Meanwhile, the deep impression made by his unknown tormentor, the
monk, and especially by his prediction of the death of Bianchi,
remained upon his mind, and he once more determined to ascertain, if
possible, the true nature of this portentous visitant, and what were
the motives which induced him thus to haunt his footsteps and interrupt
his peace. He was awed by the circumstances which had attended the
visitations of the monk, if monk it was; by the suddenness of his
appearance, and departure; by the truth of his prophecies; and, above
all, by the solemn event which had verified his last warning; and
his imagination, thus elevated by wonder and painful curiosity, was
prepared for something above the reach of common conjecture, and beyond
the accomplishment of human agency. His understanding was sufficiently
clear and strong to teach him to detect many errors of opinion, that
prevailed around him, as well as to despise the common superstitions
of his country, and, in the usual state of his mind, he probably
would not have paused for a moment on the subject before him; but his
passions were now interested and his fancy awakened, and, though he was
unconscious of this propensity, he would, perhaps, have been somewhat
disappointed to have descended suddenly from the region of fearful
sublimity, to which he had soared--the world of terrible shadows--to
the earth, on which he daily walked, and to an explanation simply
natural.

He designed to visit again, at midnight, the fortress of Paluzzi, and
not to watch for the appearance of the stranger, but to carry torches
into every recess of the ruin, and discover, at least, whether it was
haunted by other human beings than himself. The chief difficulty,
which had hitherto delayed him, was that of finding a person, in whom
he could confide, to accompany him in the search, since his former
adventure had warned him never to renew it alone. Signor Bonarmo
persisted absolutely, and, perhaps, wisely, to refuse his request
on this subject; and, as Vivaldi had no other acquaintance, to whom
he chose to give so much explanation of the affair as might induce
compliance, he at length determined to take with him Paulo, his own
servant.

On the evening, previous to the day of Ellena's departure to the Santa
della Pieta, Vivaldi went to Altieri, to bid her adieu. During this
interview his spirits were more than usually depressed; and, though
he knew that her retirement was only for a short period, and had as
much confidence in the continuance of her affection, as is, perhaps,
possible to a lover, Vivaldi felt as if he was parting with her for
ever. A thousand vague and fearful conjectures, such as he had never
till this moment admitted, assailed him, and amongst them, it appeared
probable, that the arts of the nuns might win her from the world, and
sacrifice her to the cloister. In her present state of sorrow this
seemed to be even more than probable, and not all the assurances which
Ellena gave him, and in these parting moments she spoke with less
reserve than she had hitherto done, could entirely re-assure his mind.
"It should seem Ellena, by these boding fears," said he, imprudently,
"that I am parting with you for ever; I feel a weight upon my heart,
which I cannot throw off. Yet I consent that you shall withdraw awhile
to this convent, convinced of the propriety of the step; and I ought,
also, to know that you will soon return; that I shall soon take you
from its walls as my wife, never more to leave me, never more to
pass from my immediate care and tenderness. I ought to feel assured
of all this; yet so apt are my fears that I cannot confide in what
is probable, but rather apprehend what is possible. And is it then
possible that I yet may lose you; and is it only probable that you may
be mine for ever? How, under such circumstances, could I weakly consent
to your retirement? Why did I not urge you to bestow immediately those
indissoluble bands, which no human force can burst asunder? How could
I leave the destiny of all my peace within the reach of a possibility,
which it was once in my power to have removed! Which it _was_ in my
power!--It is, perhaps, still in my power. O Ellena! let the severities
of custom yield to the security of my happiness. If you do go to the
Santa Maria, let it be only to visit its altar!"

Vivaldi delivered this expostulation with a rapidity, that left no
pause for Ellena to interrupt him. When, at length, he concluded, she
gently reproached him for doubting the continuance of her regard, and
endeavoured to sooth his apprehensions of misfortune, but would not
listen to his request. She represented, that not only the state of her
spirits required retirement, but that respect to the memory of her aunt
demanded it; and added gravely, that if he had so little confidence
in the steadiness of her opinions, as to doubt the constancy of her
affection, and for so short a period, unless her vows were secured to
him, he had done imprudently to elect her for the companion of his
whole life.

Vivaldi, then ashamed of the weakness he had betrayed, besought her
forgiveness, and endeavoured to appease apprehensions which passion
only made plausible, and which reason reproved; notwithstanding which,
he could recover neither tranquillity nor confidence; nor could
Ellena, though her conduct was supported and encouraged by justness of
sentiment, entirely remove the oppression of spirits she had felt from
almost the first moment of this interview. They parted with many tears;
and Vivaldi, before he finally took his leave, frequently returned
to claim some promise, or to ascertain some explanation, till Ellena
remarked with a forced smile, that these resembled eternal adieus,
rather than those of only a few days; an observation which renewed all
his alarm, and furnished an excuse for again delaying his departure.
At length he tore himself away, and left the villa Altieri; but as the
time was yet too early to suit his purposed enquiry at Paluzzi, he
returned to Naples.

Ellena, meanwhile, endeavouring to dissipate melancholy recollections
by employment, continued busied in preparation for her departure on
the following day, till a late hour of the night. In the prospect of
quitting, though only for so short a period, the home where she had
passed almost every day since the dawn of her earliest remembrance,
there was something melancholy, if not solemn. In leaving these
well-known scenes, where, it might be said, the shade of her deceased
relative seemed yet to linger, she was quitting all vestige of her late
happiness, all note of former years and of present consolation; and she
felt as if going forth into a new and homeless world. Her affection for
the place encreased as the passing time diminished, and it seemed as if
the last moment of her stay would be precisely that, in which the villa
Altieri would be most valued.

In her favourite apartments she lingered for a considerable time; and
in the room where she had supped on the night immediately preceding
the death of Signora Bianchi, she indulged many tender and mournful
recollections, and probably would have continued to indulge them much
longer, had not her attention been withdrawn by a sudden rustling of
the foliage that surrounded the window, when, on raising her eyes,
she thought she perceived some person pass quickly from before it. The
lattices had, as usual, been left open to admit the fresh breeze from
the bay below, but she now rose with some alarm to close them, and had
scarcely done so when she heard a distant knocking from the portico,
and in the next instant the screams of Beatrice in the hall.

Alarmed for herself, Ellena had, however, the courage to advance to the
assistance of her old servant, when, on entering the passage leading
to the hall, three men, masked and muffled up in cloaks, appeared,
advancing from the opposite extremity. While she fled, they pursued
her to the apartment she had quitted. Her breath and her courage were
gone, yet she struggled to sustain herself, and endeavoured to ask with
calmness what was their errand. They gave no reply, but threw a veil
over her face, and, seizing her arms, led her almost unresisting, but
supplicating, towards the portico.

In the hall, Ellena perceived Beatrice bound to a pillar; and another
ruffian, who was also masked, watching over and menacing her, not by
words, but gestures. Ellena's shrieks seemed to recall the almost
lifeless Beatrice, for whom she supplicated as much as for herself; but
entreaty was alike unavailing for each, and Ellena was borne from the
house and through the garden. All consciousness had now forsaken her.
On recovering, she perceived herself in a carriage, which was driven
with great rapidity, and that her arms were within the grasp of some
persons, whom, when her recollection returned more fully, she believed
to be the men, who had carried her from the villa. The darkness
prevented her from observing their figures, and to all her questions
and entreaties a death-like silence was observed.

During the whole night the carriage proceeded rapidly, stopping only
while the horses were changed, when Ellena endeavoured to interest by
her cries the compassion of the people at the post-houses, and by
her cries only, for the blinds were closely drawn. The postilions,
no doubt, imposed on the credulity of these people, for they were
insensible to her distress, and her immediate companions soon overcame
the only means that had remained by which she could make it known.

For the first hours, a tumult of terror and amazement occupied her
mind, but, as this began to subside, and her understanding to recover
its clearness, grief and despondency mingled with her fears. She saw
herself separated from Vivaldi, probably for ever, for she apprehended
that the strong and invisible hand which governed her course, would
never relinquish its grasp till it had placed her irrecoverably beyond
the reach of her lover. A conviction that she should see him no more
came, at intervals, with such overwhelming force, that every other
consideration and emotion disappeared before it; and at these moments
she lost all anxiety as to the place of her destination, and all fear
as to her personal safety.

As the morning advanced and the heat encreased, the blinds were let
down a little to admit air, and Ellena then perceived, that only two of
the men, who had appeared at the villa Altieri, were in the carriage,
and that they were still disguised in cloaks and visors. She had no
means of judging through what part of the country she was travelling,
for above the small openings which the blinds left she could see only
the towering tops of mountains, or sometimes the veiny precipices and
tangled thickets, that closely impended over the road.

About noon, as she judged from the excessive heat, the carriage stopped
at a post-house, and ice-water was handed through the window, when,
as the blind was lowered to admit it, she perceived herself on a wild
and solitary plain, surrounded by mountains and woods. The people at
the door of the post-house seemed "unused to pity or be pitied." The
lean and sallow countenance of poverty stared over their gaunt bones,
and habitual discontent had fixed the furrows of their cheeks. They
regarded Ellena with only a feeble curiosity, though the affliction in
her looks might have interested almost any heart that was not corroded
by its own sufferings; nor did the masked faces of her companions
excite a much stronger attention.

Ellena accepted the cool refreshment offered her, the first she had
taken on the road. Her companions having emptied their glasses drew up
the blind, and, notwithstanding the almost intolerable heat of noon,
the carriage proceeded. Fainting under its oppression, Ellena entreated
that the windows might be open, when the men, in compliance with their
own necessity rather than with her request, lowered the blinds, and she
had a glimpse of the lofty region of the mountains, but of no object
that could direct her conjecture concerning where she was. She saw only
pinnacles and vast precipices of various-tinted marbles, intermingled
with scanty vegetation, such as stunted pinasters, dwarf oak and holly,
which gave dark touches to the many-coloured cliffs, and sometimes
stretched in shadowy masses to the deep vallies, that, winding into
obscurity, seemed to invite curiosity to explore the scenes beyond.
Below these bold precipices extended the gloomy region of olive-trees,
and lower still other rocky steeps sunk towards the plains, bearing
terraces crowned with vines, and where often the artificial soil was
propped by thickets of juniper, pomegranate and oleander.

Ellena, after having been so long shut in darkness, and brooding over
her own alarming circumstances, found temporary, though feeble, relief
in once more looking upon the face of nature; till, her spirits being
gradually revived and elevated by the grandeur of the images around
her, she said to herself, "If I am condemned to misery, surely I could
endure it with more fortitude in scenes like these, than amidst the
tamer landscapes of nature! Here, the objects seem to impart somewhat
of their own force, their own sublimity, to the soul. It is scarcely
possible to yield to the pressure of misfortune while we walk, as with
the Deity, amidst his most stupendous works!"

But soon after the idea of Vivaldi glancing athwart her memory, she
melted into tears; the weakness however was momentary, and during the
rest of the journey she preserved a strenuous equality of mind.

It was when the heat and the light were declining that the carriage
entered a rocky defile, which shewed, as through a telescope reversed,
distant plains, and mountains opening beyond, lighted up with all
the purple splendor of the setting sun. Along this deep and shadowy
perspective a river, which was seen descending among the cliffs of a
mountain, rolled with impetuous force, fretting and foaming amidst
the dark rocks in its descent, and then flowing in a limpid lapse to
the brink of other precipices, whence again it fell with thundering
strength to the abyss, throwing its misty clouds of spray high in
the air, and seeming to claim the sole empire of this solitary wild.
Its bed took up the whole breadth of the chasm, which some strong
convulsion of the earth seemed to have formed, not leaving space even
for a road along its margin. The road, therefore, was carried high
among the cliffs, that impended over the river, and seemed as if
suspended in air; while the gloom and vastness of the precipices, which
towered above and sunk below it, together with the amazing force and
uproar of the falling waters, combined to render the pass more terrific
than the pencil could describe, or language can express. Ellena
ascended it, not with indifference but with calmness; she experienced
somewhat of a dreadful pleasure in looking down upon the irresistible
flood; but this emotion was heightened into awe, when she perceived
that the road led to a slight bridge, which, thrown across the chasm at
an immense height, united two opposite cliffs, between which the whole
cataract of the river descended. The bridge, which was defended only by
a slender railing, appeared as if hung amidst the clouds. Ellena, while
she was crossing it, almost forgot her misfortunes. Having reached the
opposite side of the glen, the road gradually descended the precipices
for about half a mile, when it opened to extensive prospects over
plains and towards distant mountains--the sunshine landscape, which had
long appeared to bound this shadowy pass. The transition was as the
passage through the vale of death to the bliss of eternity; but the
idea of its resemblance did not long remain with Ellena. Perched high
among the cliffs of a mountain, which might be said to terminate one
of the jaws of this terrific gorge, and which was one of the loftiest
of a chain that surrounded the plains, appeared the spires and long
terraces of a monastery; and she soon understood that her journey was
to conclude there.

At the foot of this mountain her companions alighted, and obliged
her to do the same, for the ascent was too steep and irregular to
admit of a carriage. Ellena followed unresistingly, like a lamb to
the sacrifice, up a path that wound among the rocks, and was coolly
overshadowed by thickets of almond trees, figs, broad-leaved myrtle,
and ever-green rose bushes, intermingled with the strawberry tree,
beautiful in fruit and blossoms, the yellow jasmine, the delightful
_acacia mimosa_, and a variety of other fragrant plants. These bowers
frequently admitted glimpses of the glowing country below, and
sometimes opened to expansive views, bounded by the snowy mountains of
Abruzzo. At every step were objects which would have afforded pleasure
to a tranquil mind; the beautifully variegated marbles, that formed the
cliffs immediately above, their fractured masses embossed with mosses
and flowers of every vivid hue that paints the rainbow; the elegance
of the shrubs that tufted, and the majestic grace of the palms which
waved over them, would have charmed almost any other eye than Ellena's,
whose spirit was wrapt in care, or than those of her companions, whose
hearts were dead to feeling. Partial features of the vast edifice she
was approaching, appeared now and then between the trees; the tall
west window of the cathedral with the spires that overtopped it; the
narrow pointed roofs of the cloisters; angles of the insurmountable
walls, which fenced the garden from the precipices below, and the dark
portal leading into the chief court; each of these, seen at intervals
beneath the gloom of cypress and spreading cedar, seemed as if menacing
the unhappy Ellena with hints of future suffering. She passed several
shrines and images half hid among the shrubs and the cliffs; and,
when she drew near the monastery, her companions stopped at a little
chapel which stood beside the path, where, after examining some papers,
an act which she observed with surprise, they drew aside, as if to
consult respecting herself. Their conversation was delivered in voices
so low, that she could not catch a single tone distinctly, and it
is probable that if she could, this would not have assisted her in
conjecturing who they were; yet the profound silence they had hitherto
observed had much encreased her curiosity, now that they spoke.

One of them soon after quitted the chapel and proceeded alone to the
monastery, leaving Ellena in the custody of his comrade, whose pity she
now made a last, though almost hopeless, effort to interest. He replied
to all her entreaties only by a waving of the hand, and an averted
face; and she endeavoured to meet with fortitude and to endure with
patience, the evil which she could neither avoid nor subdue. The spot
where she awaited the return of the ruffian, was not of a character
to promote melancholy, except, indeed, that luxurious and solemn
kind of melancholy, which a view of stupendous objects inspires. It
overlooked the whole extent of plains, of which she had before caught
partial scenes, with the vast chain of mountains, which seemed to form
an insurmountable rampart to the rich landscape at their feet. Their
towering and fantastic summits, crowding together into dusky air, like
flames tapering to a point, exhibited images of peculiar grandeur,
while each minuter line and feature withdrawing, at this evening hour
from observation, seemed to resolve itself into the more gigantic
masses, to which the dubious tint, the solemn obscurity, that began to
prevail over them, gave force and loftier character. The silence and
deep repose of the landscape, served to impress this character more
awfully on the heart, and while Ellena sat wrapt in the thoughtfulness
it promoted, the vesper-service of the monks breathing softly from the
cathedral above, came to her ear; it was a music which might be said to
win on silence, and was in perfect unison with her feelings; solemn,
deep, and full, it swelled, in holy peels, and rolled away in murmurs,
which attention pursued to the last faint note that melted into air.
Ellena's heart owned the power of this high minstrelsy; and while she
caught for a moment the sweeter voices of the nuns mingling in the
chorus, she indulged a hope that they would not be wholly insensible
to her sufferings, and that she should receive some consolation from
sympathy as soft as these tender-breathing strains appeared to indicate.

She had rested nearly half an hour on the turfy slope before the
chapel, when she perceived through the twilight, two monks descending
from the monastery towards the spot where she sat. As they drew near,
she distinguished their dress of grey stuff, the hood, the shaven head,
where only a coronet of white hair was left, and other ensigns of their
particular order. On reaching the chapel they accosted her companion,
with whom they retired a few paces, and conversed. Ellena heard, for
the first time, the sound of her conductor's voice, and though this
was but faintly, she marked it well. The other ruffian did not yet
appear, but it seemed evident that these friars had left the convent
in consequence of his information; and sometimes, when she looked upon
the taller of the two, she fancied she saw the person of the very
man whose absence she had remarked, a conjecture which strengthened
while she more accurately noticed him. The portrait had certainly much
resemblance in height and bulk; and the same gaunt awkwardness, which
even the cloak of the ruffian had not entirely shrouded, obtruded
itself from under the folded garments of the recluse. If countenance,
too, might be trusted, this same friar had a ruffian's heart, and his
keen and cunning eye seemed habitually upon the watch for prey. His
brother of the order shewed nothing strongly characteristic either in
his face or manner.

After a private conversation of some length, the friars approached
Ellena, and told her, that she must accompany them to the convent;
when her disguised conductor, having resigned her to them, immediately
departed and descended the mountain.

Not a word was uttered by either of the party as they pursued the
steep tract leading to the gates of this secluded edifice, which were
opened to them by a lay-brother, and Ellena entered a spacious court.
Three sides of this were enclosed by lofty buildings, lined with ranges
of cloisters; the fourth opened to a garden, shaded with avenues of
melancholy cypress, that extended to the cathedral, whose fretted
windows and ornamented spires appeared to close the perspective. Other
large and detached buildings skirted the gardens on the left, while, on
the right, spacious olive-grounds and vineyards spread to the cliffs
that formed a barrier to all this side of the domain of the convent.

The friar, her conductor, crossed the court to the north wing, and
there ringing a bell, a door was opened by a nun, into whose hands
Ellena was given. A significant look was exchanged between the
devotees, but no words; the friar departed, and the nun, still silent,
conducted her through many solitary passages, where not even a distant
foot-fall echoed, and whose walls were roughly painted with subjects
indicatory of the severe superstitions of the place, tending to inspire
melancholy awe. Ellena's hope of pity vanished as her eyes glanced
over these symbols of the disposition of the inhabitants, and on the
countenance of the nun characterised by a gloomy malignity, which
seemed ready to inflict upon others some portion of the unhappiness she
herself suffered. As she glided forward, with soundless step, her white
drapery, floating along these solemn avenues, and her hollow features
touched with the mingled light and shadow which the partial rays of a
taper she held occasioned, she seemed like a spectre newly risen from
the grave, rather than a living being. These passages terminated in the
parlour of the Abbess, where the nun paused, and, turning to Ellena,
said, "It is the hour of vespers; you will wait here till our lady of
the convent leaves the church; she would speak with you."

"To what saint is the convent dedicated," said Ellena, "and who,
sister, presides over it?"

The nun gave no reply, and after having eyed the forlorn stranger for
a moment, with inquisitive ill-nature, quitted the room. The unhappy
Ellena had not been left long to her own reflections, when the Abbess
appeared; a stately lady, apparently occupied with opinions of her
own importance, and prepared to receive her guest with rigour and
supercilious haughtiness. This Abbess, who was herself a woman of some
distinction, believed that of all possible crimes, next to that of
sacrilege, offences against persons of rank were least pardonable. It
is not surprising, therefore, that, supposing Ellena, a young woman
of no family, to have sought clandestinely to unite herself with the
noble house of Vivaldi, she should feel for her, not only disdain, but
indignation, and that she should readily consent, not only to punish
the offender, but at the same time, to afford means of preserving the
ancient dignity of the offended.

"I understand," said the Abbess, on whose appearance the alarmed Ellena
had arisen, "I understand," said she, without making any signal for
her to be seated, "that you are the young person who is arrived from
Naples."

"My name is Ellena di Rosalba," said her auditor, recovering some
degree of courage from the manner which was designed to depress her.

"I know nothing of your name," replied the Superior; "I am informed
only that you are sent here to acquire a knowledge of yourself and of
your duties. Till the period shall be passed, for which you are given
into my charge, I shall scrupulously observe the obligations of the
troublesome office, which my regard for the honour of a noble family,
has induced me to undertake."

By these words, the author and the motives of this extraordinary
transaction were at once revealed to Ellena, who was for some moments
almost overwhelmed by the sudden horrors that gathered on her mind, and
stood silent and motionless. Fear, shame, and indignation, alternately
assailed her; and the sting of offended honour, on being suspected,
and thus accused of having voluntarily disturbed the tranquillity, and
sought the alliance of any family, and especially of one who disdained
her, struck forcibly to her heart, till the pride of conscious worth
revived her courage and fortified her patience, and she demanded by
whose will she had been torn from her home, and by whose authority she
was now detained, as it appeared, a prisoner.

The Abbess, unaccustomed to have her power opposed, or her words
questioned, was for a moment too indignant to reply; and Ellena
observed, but no longer with dismay, the brooding tempest ready to
burst over her head. "It is I only, who am injured," said she to
herself, "and shall the guilty oppressor triumph, and the innocent
sufferer sink under the shame that belongs only to guilt! Never will
I yield to a weakness so contemptible. The consciousness of deserving
well will recall my presence of mind, which, permitting me to estimate
the characters of my oppressors by their actions, will enable me also
to despise their power."

"I must remind you," said the Abbess, at length, "that the questions
you make are unbecoming in your situation; and that contrition and
humility are the best extenuations of error. You may withdraw."

"Most true," replied Ellena, bowing with dignity to the Superior; "and
I most willingly resign them to my oppressors."

Ellena forbore to make further enquiry or remonstrance, and perceiving
that reproach would not only be useless, but degrading to herself, she
immediately obeyed the mandate of the Abbess, and determined, since she
must suffer, to suffer, if possible, with firmness and dignity.

She was conducted from the parlour by the nun who had admitted her, and
as she passed through the refectory where the nuns, just returned from
vespers, were assembled, their inquisitive glances, their smiles and
busy whispers, told her, that she was not only an object of curiosity,
but of suspicion, and that little sympathy could be expected from
hearts, which even the offices of hourly devotion had not purified
from the malignant envy, that taught them to exalt themselves upon the
humiliation of others.

The little room, to which Ellena was led, and where, to her great
satisfaction, she was left alone, rather deserved the denomination of a
cell than of a chamber; since, like those of the nuns, it had only one
small lattice; and a mattress, one chair, and a table, with a crucifix
and a prayer-book were all its furniture. Ellena, as she surveyed her
melancholy habitation, suppressed a rising sigh, but she could not
remain unaffected by recollections, which, on this view of her altered
state, crowded to her mind; nor think of Vivaldi far away, perhaps for
ever, and probably, even ignorant of her destination, without bitter
tears. But she dried them, as the idea of the Marchesa obtruded on her
thoughts, for other emotions than those of grief possessed her. It was
to the Marchesa that she especially attributed her present situation;
and it now appeared, that the family of Vivaldi had not only been
reluctant, but absolutely averse to a connection with hers, contrary
to the suggestions of Signora Bianchi, who had represented, that it
might be supposed only, from their known character, that they would
disapprove of the alliance, but would of course be reconciled to an
event, which their haughtiest displeasure never could revoke. This
discovery of their absolute rejection awakened all the proper pride,
which the mistaken prudence of her aunt, and her affection for Vivaldi
had lulled to rest; and she now suffered the most acute vexation and
remorse, for having yielded her consent to enter clandestinely into any
family. The imaginary honours of so noble an alliance vanished, when
the terms of obtaining them were considered; and now, that the sound
mind of Ellena was left to its own judgment, she looked with infinitely
more pride and preference upon the industrious means, which had
hitherto rendered her independent, than on all distinction which might
be reluctantly conferred. The consciousness of innocence, which had
supported her in the presence of the Superior, began to falter. "Her
accusation was partly just!" said Ellena, "and I deserve punishment,
since I could, even for a moment, submit to the humiliation of desiring
an alliance, which I knew would be unwillingly conferred. But it is not
yet too late to retrieve my own esteem by asserting my independence,
and resigning Vivaldi for ever. By resigning him! by abandoning him
who loves me,--abandoning him to misery! Him, whom I cannot even think
of without tears,--to whom my vows have been given,--who may claim me
by the sacred remembrance of my dying friend,--him, to whom my whole
heart is devoted! O! miserable alternative!--that I can no longer act
justly, but at the expence of all my future happiness! Justly! And
would it then be just to abandon him who is willing to resign every
thing for me,--abandon him to ceaseless sorrow, that the prejudices of
his family may be gratified?"

Poor Ellena perceived that she could not obey the dictates of a
just pride, without such opposition from her heart as she had never
experienced before. Her affections were now too deeply engaged to
permit her to act with firmness, at the price of long-suffering. The
consideration of resigning Vivaldi was so very grievous, that she could
scarcely endure to pause upon it for a moment; yet, on the other
hand, when she thought of his family, it appeared that she never could
consent to make a part of it. She would have blamed the erroneous
judgment of Signora Bianchi, whose persuasions had so much assisted in
reducing her to the present alternative, had not the tenderness with
which she cherished her memory, rendered this impossible. All, that now
remained for her, was to endeavour patiently to endure present evils,
which she could not conquer; for, to forsake Vivaldi as the price of
liberty, should liberty be offered her on such terms, or to accept him
in defiance of honourable pride, should he ever effect her release,
appeared to her distracted thoughts almost equally impracticable. But,
as the probability of his never being able to discover her abode,
returned to her consideration, the anguish she suffered told how much
more she dreaded to lose than to accept Vivaldi, and that love was,
after all, the most powerful affection of her heart.




CHAPTER VII.

  "The bell then beating one!"

  SHAKESPEARE.


Vivaldi, meanwhile, ignorant of what had occurred at villa Altieri,
repaired as he had proposed, to Paluzzi, attended by his servant Paulo.
It was deep night before he left Naples, and so anxious was he to
conceal himself from observation, that though Paulo carried a torch,
he did not permit it to be lighted, till after he should have remained
some time within the arch-way, thinking it most prudent to watch a
while in secret for his unknown adviser, before he proceeded to examine
the fort.

His attendant, Paulo, was a true Neapolitan, shrewd, inquisitive,
insinuating, adroit; possessing much of the spirit of intrigue,
together with a considerable portion of humour, which displayed itself
not so much in words, as in his manner and countenance, in the
archness of his dark, penetrating eye, and in the exquisite adaptation
of his gesture to his idea. He was a distinguished favourite with
his master, who, if he had not humour himself, had a keen relish of
it in others, and who certainly did possess wit, with all its lively
accompaniments, in an eminent degree. Vivaldi had been won by the
_naïveté_ and humour of this man, to allow him an unusual degree of
familiarity in conversation; and, as they now walked together towards
Paluzzi, he unfolded to Paulo as much of his former adventure there as
he judged necessary to interest his curiosity and excite his vigilance.
The relation did both. Paulo, however, naturally courageous, was
incredulous to superstition of any kind; and, having quickly perceived
that his master was not altogether indisposed to attribute to a
supernatural cause the extraordinary occurrences at Paluzzi, he began,
in his manner, to rally him; but Vivaldi was not in temper to endure
jesting; his mood was grave, even to solemnity, and he yielded, though
reluctantly, to the awe which, at intervals, returned upon him with the
force of a magical spell, binding up all his faculties to sternness,
and fixing them in expectation. While he was nearly regardless of
defence against human agency, his servant was, however, preparing for
that alone; and very properly represented the imprudence of going to
Paluzzi in darkness. Vivaldi observed that they could not watch for the
monk otherwise than in darkness, since the torch which lighted them
would also warn him, and he had very particular reasons for watching
before he proceeded to examine. He added, that after a certain time had
elapsed, the torch might be lighted at a neighbouring cottage. Paulo
objected, that in the meanwhile, the person for whom they watched might
escape; and Vivaldi compromised the affair. The torch was lighted, but
concealed within a hollow of the cliffs, that bordered the road, and
the centinels took their station in darkness, within the deep arch,
near the spot where Vivaldi had watched with Bonarmo. As they did
this, the distant chime of a convent informed Vivaldi that midnight
was turned. The sound recalled to his mind the words of Schedoni,
concerning the vicinity of the convent of the _Black Penitents_, to
Paluzzi, and he asked Paulo whether this was the chime of that convent.
Paulo replied that it was, and that a remarkable circumstance had
taught him to remember _the Santa del Pianto_, or _Our Lady of Tears_.
"The place, Signor, would interest you," said Paulo; "for there are
some odd stories told of it; and I am inclined to think, this unknown
monk must be one of that society, his conduct is so strange."

"You believe then, that I am willing to give faith to wonderful
stories," said Vivaldi, smiling. "But what have you heard, that is
so extraordinary, respecting this convent? Speak low, or we may be
discovered."

"Why, Signor, the story is not generally known," said Paulo in a
whisper; "I half promised never to reveal it."

"If you are under any promise of secresy," interrupted Vivaldi, "I
forbid you to tell this wonderful tale, which, however, seems somewhat
too big to rest within your brain."

"The story would fain expand itself to your's, Signor," said Paulo;
"and, as I did not absolutely promise to conceal it, I am very willing
to reveal it."

"Proceed, then," said Vivaldi; "but let me once more caution you to
speak low."

"You are obeyed, Signor. You must know, then, _Maestro_, that it was on
the eve of the festival of _Santo Marco_, and about six years since"----

"Peace!" said Vivaldi. They were silent; but every thing remaining
still, Paulo, after some time, ventured to proceed, though in a yet
lower whisper. "It was on the eve of the _Santo Marco_, and when
the last bell had rung, that a person"---- He stopped again, for a
rustling sound passed near him.

"You are too late," said a sudden voice beside Vivaldi, who instantly
recognized the thrilling accents of the monk--"It is past midnight; she
departed an hour ago. Look to your steps!"

Though thrilled by this well-known voice, Vivaldi scarcely yielded to
his feelings for a moment, but, checking the question which would have
asked "who departed?" he, by a sudden spring, endeavoured to seize the
intruder, while Paulo, in the first hurry of his alarm, fired a pistol,
and then hastened for the torch. So certainly did Vivaldi believe
himself to have leaped upon the spot whence the voice proceeded, that,
on reaching it, he instantly extended his arms, and searching around,
expected every moment to find his enemy in his grasp. Darkness again
baffled his attempt.

"You are known," cried Vivaldi; "you shall see me at the _Santa del
Pianto_! What, oh! Paulo, the torch!--the torch!"

Paulo, swift as the wind, appeared with it. "He passed up those steps
in the rock, Signor; I saw the skirts of his garments ascending!"

"Follow me, then," said Vivaldi, mounting the steps. "Away, away,
_Maestro_!" said Paulo, impatiently; "but, for Heaven's sake, name no
more the convent of the _Santa del Pianto_; our lives may answer it!"

He followed to the terrace above, where Vivaldi, holding high the
torch, looked round for the monk. The place, however, as far as his
eye could penetrate, was forsaken and silent. The glare of the torch
enlightened only the rude walls of the citadel, some points of the
cliff below, and some tall pines that waved over them, leaving in
doubtful gloom many a recess of the ruin, and many a tangled thicket,
that spread among the rocks beyond.

"Do you perceive any person, Paulo?" said Vivaldi, waving the torch in
the air to rouse the flame.

"Among those arches on the left, Signor, those arches that stand
duskily beyond the citadel, I thought I saw a shadowy sort of a figure
pass. He might be a ghost, by his silence, for aught I know, _Maestro_;
but he seems to have a good mortal instinct in taking care of himself,
and to have as swift a pair of heels to assist in carrying him off, as
any Lazzaro in Naples need desire."

"Fewer words, and more caution!" said Vivaldi, lowering the torch,
and pointing it towards the quarter which Paulo had mentioned. "Be
vigilant, and tread lightly."

"You are obeyed, Signor; but their eyes will inform them, though their
ears refuse, while we hold a light to our own steps."

"Peace, with this buffoonery!" said Vivaldi, somewhat sternly; "follow
in silence, and be on your guard."

Paulo submitted, and they proceeded towards the range of arches, which
communicated with the building, whose singular structure had formerly
arrested the attention of Bonarmo, and whence Vivaldi himself had
returned with such unexpected precipitancy and consternation.

On perceiving the place he was approaching, he suddenly stopped,
and Paulo observing his agitation, and probably not relishing the
adventure, endeavoured to dissuade him from further research: "For we
know not who may inhabit this gloomy place, Signor, or their numbers,
and we are only two of us after all! Besides, Signor, it was through
that door, yonder;" and he pointed to the very spot whence Vivaldi had
so fearfully issued; "through that door, that I fancied, just now, I
saw something pass."

"Are you certain as to this?" said Vivaldi, with increased emotion.
"What was its form?"

"It was so dusky thereabout, _Maestro_, that I could not distinguish."

Vivaldi's eyes were fixed upon the building, and a violent conflict of
feelings seemed to shake his soul. A few seconds decided it. "I will go
on," said he, "and terminate, at any hazard, this state of intolerable
anxiety. Paulo, pause a moment, and consider well whether you can
depend on your courage, for it may be severely tried. If you can,
descend with me in silence, and I warn you to be wary; if you cannot, I
will go alone."

"It is too late now, Signor, to ask myself that question," replied
Paulo, with a submissive air; "and if I had not settled it long ago, I
should not have followed you thus far. My courage, Signor, you never
doubted before."

"Come on then," said Vivaldi. He drew his sword, and entering the
narrow door-way, the torch, which he had now resigned to Paulo, shewed
a stone passage, that was, however, interminable to the eye.

As they proceeded, Paulo observed, that the walls were stained in
several places with what appeared to be blood, but prudently forbore
to point this out to his master, observing the strict injunction of
silence he had received.

Vivaldi stepped cautiously, and often paused to listen, after which he
went on with a quicker pace, making signs only to Paulo to follow, and
be vigilant. The passage terminated in a stair-case, that seemed to
lead to vaults below. Vivaldi remembered the light which had formerly
appeared there, and, as recollection of the past gathered on his mind,
he faultered in his purpose.

Again he paused, looked back upon Paulo, but was going forward, when
Paulo himself seized his arm. "Stop! Signor," said he in a low voice.
"Do you not distinguish a figure standing yonder, in the gloom?"

Vivaldi looked onward, and perceived, indistinctly, something as of
human form, but motionless and silent. It stood at the dusky extremity
of the avenue, near the stair-case. Its garments, if garments they
were, were dark; but its whole figure was so faintly traced to the eye,
that it was impossible to ascertain whether this was the monk. Vivaldi
took the light, and held it forward, endeavouring to distinguish the
object before he ventured further; but the enquiry was useless, and,
resigning the torch to Paulo, he rushed on. When he reached the head
of the stair-case, however, the form, whatever it might be, was gone.
Vivaldi had heard no footstep. Paulo pointed out the exact spot where
it had stood, but no vestige of it appeared. Vivaldi called loudly upon
the monk, but he heard only the lengthening echoes of his own voice
revolving among the chambers below, and, after hesitating a while on
the head of the stairs, he descended.

Paulo had not followed down many steps, when he called out, "It is
there! Signor; I see it again! and now it flits away through the door
that opens to the vaults!"

Vivaldi pursued so swiftly, that Paulo could scarcely follow fast
enough with the light; and, as at length he rested to take breath, he
perceived himself in the same spacious chamber to which he had formerly
descended. At this moment Paulo perceived his countenance change. "You
are ill, Signor," said he. "In the name of our holy saint, let us quit
this hideous place. Its inhabitants can be nothing good, and no good
can come of our remaining here."

Vivaldi made no reply; he drew breath with difficulty, and his eyes
remained fixed on the ground, till a noise, like the creaking of a
heavy hinge, rose in a distant part of the vault. Paulo turned his
eyes, at the same instant, towards the place whence it came, and they
both perceived a door in the wall slowly opened, and immediately closed
again, as if the person within had feared to be discovered. Each
believed, from the transient view he had of it, that this was the same
figure which had appeared on the stair-case, and that it was the monk
himself. Reanimated by this belief, Vivaldi's nerves were instantly
rebraced, and he sprang to the door, which was unfastened, and yielded
immediately to his impetuous hand. "You shall not deceive me now,"
cried he, as he entered; "Paulo! keep guard at the door!"

He looked round the second vault, in which he now found himself, but
no person appeared; he examined the place, and particularly the walls,
without discovering any aperture, either of door or window, by which
the figure could have quitted the chamber; a strongly-grated casement,
placed near the roof, was all that admitted air, and probably light.
Vivaldi was astonished! "Have you seen any thing pass?" said he to
Paulo.

"Nothing, _Maestro_," replied the servant.

"This is almost incredible," exclaimed Vivaldi; "'tis certain, this
form can be nothing human!"

"If so, Signor," observed Paulo, "why should it fear us? as surely it
does; or why should it have fled?"

"That is not so certain," rejoined Vivaldi; "it may have fled only to
lead us into evil. But bring hither the torch; here is something in the
wall which I would examine."

Paulo obeyed. It was merely a ruggedness in the stones, not the
partition of a door, that had excited his curiosity. "This is
inexplicable!" exclaimed Vivaldi, after a long pause. "What motive
could any human being have for thus tormenting me."

"Or any being superhuman, either, my Signor?" said Paulo.

"I am warned of evils that await me," continued Vivaldi, musing; "of
events that are regularly fulfilled; the being who warns me, crosses
my path perpetually, yet, with the cunning of a demon, as constantly
eludes my grasp, and baffles my pursuit! It is incomprehensible, by
what means he glides thus away from my eye, and fades, as if into air,
at my approach! He is repeatedly in my presence, yet is never to be
found!"

"It is most true, Signor," said Paulo, "that he is never to be found,
and therefore let me entreat you to give up the pursuit. This place
is enough to make one believe in the horrors of purgatory! Let us go,
Signor."

"What but spirit could have quitted this vault so mysteriously,"
continued Vivaldi, not attending to Paulo; "what but spirit!"----

"I would fain prove," said the servant, "that substance can quit it as
easily; I would fain evaporate through that door myself."

He had scarcely spoken the words, when the door closed, with a
thundering clap that echoed through all the vaults; and Vivaldi and
Paulo stood for a moment aghast! and then both hastened to open it,
and to leave the place. Their consternation may be easily conceived,
when they found that all their efforts at the door were ineffectual.
The thick wood was inlaid with solid bars of iron; and was of such
unconquerable strength, that it evidently guarded what had been
designed for a prison, and appeared to be the keep or dungeon of the
ancient fort.

"Ah, Signor mio!" said Paulo, "if this was a spirit, 'tis plain he
knew we were not so, by his luring us hither. Would we could exchange
natures with him for a moment; for I know not how, as mere mortal men,
we can ever squeeze ourselves out of this scrape. You must allow,
_Maestro_, that this was not one of the evils he warned you of; or, if
he did, it was through my organs, for I entreated you."----

"Peace, good Signor _Buffo_!" said Vivaldi; "a truce with this
nonsense, and assist in searching for some means of escape."

Vivaldi again examined the walls, and as unsuccessfully as before; but
in one corner of the vault lay an object, which seemed to tell the
fate of one who had been confined here, and to hint his own: it was a
garment covered with blood. Vivaldi and his servant discovered it at
the same instant; and a dreadful foreboding of their own destiny fixed
them, for some moments, to the spot. Vivaldi first recovered himself,
when instead of yielding to despondency, all his faculties were aroused
to devise some means for escaping; but Paulo's hopes seemed buried
beneath the dreadful vestments upon which he still gazed. "Ah, my
Signor!" said he, at length, in a faultering accent, "who shall dare to
raise that garment? What if it should conceal the mangled body, whose
blood has stained it!"

Vivaldi, shudderingly, turned to look on it again.

"It moves!" exclaimed Paulo; "I see it move!" as he said which, he
started to the opposite side of the chamber. Vivaldi stepped a few
paces back, and as quickly returned; when, determined to know the
event at once, he raised the garment upon the point of his sword, and
perceived, beneath, other remains of dress, heaped high together, while
even the floor below was stained with gore.

Believing that fear had deceived the eyes of Paulo, Vivaldi watched
this horrible spectacle for some time, but without perceiving the least
motion; when he became convinced, that not any remains of life were
shrouded beneath it, and that it contained only articles of dress,
which had belonged to some unfortunate person, who had probably been
decoyed hither for plunder, and afterwards murdered. This belief, and
the repugnance he felt to dwell upon the spectacle, prevented him
from examining further, and he turned away to a remote part of the
vault. A conviction of his own fate, and of his servant's, filled his
mind for a while with despair. It appeared that he had been ensnared
by robbers, till, as he recollected the circumstances which had
attended his entrance, and the several peculiar occurrences connected
with the arch-way, this conjecture seemed highly improbable. It was
unreasonable, that robbers should have taken the trouble to decoy,
when they might at first have seized him; still more so, that they
would have persevered so long in the attempt; and most of all, that
when he had formerly been in their power, they should have neglected
their opportunity, and suffered him to leave the ruin unmolested. Yet,
granting that all this, improbable as it was, were, however, possible,
the solemn warnings and predictions of the monk, so frequently
delivered, and so faithfully fulfilled, could have no connection with
the schemes of banditti. It appeared, therefore, that Vivaldi was not
in the hands of robbers; or, if he were, that the monk, at least, had
no connection with them; yet it was certain that he had just heard the
voice of this monk beneath the arch; that his servant had said, he saw
the vestments of one ascending the steps of the fort; and that they had
both reason, afterward, to believe it was his shadowy figure, which
they had pursued to the very chamber where they were now confined.

As Vivaldi considered all these circumstances, his perplexity
encreased, and he was more than ever inclined to believe, that the
form, which had assumed the appearance of a monk, was something
superhuman.

"If this being had _appeared only_," said he to himself, "I should,
perhaps, have thought it the perturbed spirit of him, who doubtless has
been murdered here, and that it led me hither to discover the deed,
that his bones might be removed to holy ground; but this monk, or
whatever it is, was neither silent, nor apparently anxious concerning
himself; he spoke only of events connected with my peace, and predicted
of the future, as well as reverted to the past! If he had either hinted
of himself, or had been wholly silent, his appearance, and manner of
eluding pursuit, is so extraordinary, that I should have yielded, for
once, perhaps, to the tales of our grandfathers, and thought he was
the spectre of a murdered person."

As Vivaldi expressed his incredulity, however, he returned to examine
the garment once more, when, as he raised it, he observed, what had
before escaped his notice, black drapery mingled with the heap beneath;
and, on lifting this also on the point of his sword, he perceived part
of the habiliment of a monk! He started at the discovery, as if he had
seen the apparition, which had so long been tempting his credulity.
Here were the vest and scapulary, rent and stained with blood! Having
gazed for a moment, he let them drop upon the heap; when Paulo, who had
been silently observing him, exclaimed,

"Signor! that should be the garment of the demon who led us hither. Is
it a winding-sheet for us, _Maestro_? Or was it one for the body he
inhabited while on earth!"

"Neither, I trust," replied Vivaldi, endeavouring to command the
perturbation he suffered, and turning from the spectacle; "therefore
we will try once more to regain our liberty."

This was a design, however, beyond his accomplishment; and, having
again attacked the door, raised Paulo to the grated window, and
vociferated for release with his utmost strength, in which he was very
ably seconded by Paulo, he abandoned, for the present, all further
attempts, and, weary and desponding, threw himself on the ground of the
dungeon.

Paulo bitterly lamented his master's rashness in penetrating to this
remote spot, and bewailed the probability of their being famished.

"For, supposing, Signor, that we were not decoyed hither for plunder
and butchery, and supposing that we are not surrounded by malicious
spirits, which San Januarius forbid I should take upon me to affirm is
impossible! supposing all this, Signor, yet still there remains almost
a certainty of our being starved to death; for how is it possible that
any body can hear our cries, in a place so remote from all resort, and
buried, as one may say, under ground, as this is?"

"Thou art an excellent comforter," said Vivaldi, groaning.

"You must allow, Signor, that you are even with me," replied Paulo;
"and that you are as excellent a conductor."

Vivaldi gave no answer, but lay on the ground, abandoned to agonizing
thought. He had now leisure to consider the late words of the monk, and
to conjecture, for he was in a mood for conjecturing the worst, that
they not only alluded to Ellena, but that his saying "she had departed
an hour ago," was a figurative manner of telling that she had died
then. This was a conjecture which dispelled almost all apprehension
for himself. He started from the ground, and paced his prison with
quick and unequal steps; it was now no longer a heavy despondency that
oppressed him, but an acute anxiety that stung him, and, with the
tortures of suspense, brought also those of passionate impatience and
horror concerning the fate of Ellena. The longer he dwelt upon the
possibility of her death, the more probable it appeared. This monk had
already forewarned him of the death of Bianchi; and when he recollected
the suspicious circumstances which had attended it, his terrors for
Ellena increased. The more he yielded to his feelings, the more
violent they became, till, at length, his ungovernable impatience and
apprehensions arose almost to frenzy.

Paulo forgot, for a while, his own situation in the superior sufferings
of his master, and now, at least, endeavoured to perform the offices
of a comforter, for he tried to calm Vivaldi's mind, by selecting the
fairest circumstances for hope which the subject admitted, and he
passed without noticing, or, if noticing, only lightly touched upon,
the most prominent possibilities of evil. His master, however, was
insensible to all he said, till he mentioned again the convent del
Pianto; and this subject, as it seemed connected with the monk, who had
hinted the fate of Ellena, interested the unhappy Vivaldi, who withdrew
awhile from his own reflections, to listen to a recital which might
assist his conjectures.

Paulo complied with his command, but not without reluctance. He looked
round the empty vault, as if he feared that some person might be
lurking in the obscurity, who would overhear, and even answer him.

"We are tolerably retired here too, Signor," said he, recollecting
himself; "one may venture to talk secrets with little danger of being
discovered. However, _Maestro_, it is best to make matters quite sure;
and therefore, if you will please to take a seat on the ground, I will
stand beside you and relate all I know of the convent of _Our Lady of
Tears_, which is not much after all."

Vivaldi, having seated himself, and bidden Paulo do the same, the
servant began in a low voice----"It was on the vigil of the _Santo
Marco_, just after the last vesper-bell had tolled--You never was at
the _Santa Maria del Pianto_, Signor, or you would know what a gloomy
old church it has.--It was in a confessional in one of the side aisles
of this church, and just after the last bell had ceased, that a person,
so muffled up, that neither face nor shape could be distinguished,
came and placed himself on the steps of one of the boxes adjoining the
confessional chair; but if he had been as airily dressed as yourself,
Signor, he might have been just as well concealed, for that dusky aisle
is lighted only by one lamp, which hangs at the end next the painted
window, except when the tapers at the shrine of San Antonio happen to
be burning at the other extremity, and even then the place is almost
as gloomy, as this vault. But that is, no doubt, contrived for the
purpose, that people may not blush for the sins they confess; and, in
good faith, this is an accommodation which may bring more money to the
poor's box, for the monks have a shrewd eye that way, and"----

"You have dropt the thread of your story," said Vivaldi.

"True, signor, let me recollect where I lost it.--Oh! at the steps of
the confessional;--the stranger knelt down upon them, and for some
time poured such groans into the ear of the confessor, as were heard
all along the aisle. You are to know, Signor, that the brothers of
_Santa del Pianto_ are of the order of _Black Penitents_; and people
who have more sins than ordinary to confess, sometimes go there,
to consult with the grand penitentiary what is to be done. Now it
_happened_, that father Ansaldo, the grand penitentiary himself, was
in the chair, as is customary on the vigil of the _Santo Marco_; and
he gently reproved the penitent for bewailing so loud, and bade him
take comfort, when the other replied only by a groan deeper than
before, but it was not so loud, and then proceeded to confess. But
what he did confess, Signor, I know not; for the confessor, you know,
never must divulge, except, indeed, on very extraordinary occasions.
It was, however, something so very strange, and horrible, that the
grand penitentiary suddenly quitted the chair, and before he reached
the cloisters he fell into strong convulsions. On recovering himself,
he asked the people about him, whether the penitent, who had visited
such a confessional, naming it, was gone; adding, that if he was still
in the church, it was proper he should be detained. He described,
at the same time, as well as he could, the sort of figure he had
dimly seen approaching the confessional just before he had received
the confession, at recollecting which, he seemed ready to go off
again into his convulsions. One of the fathers, who had crossed the
aisle, on his way to the cloisters, upon the first alarm of Ansaldo's
disorder, remembered that a person, such as was described, had passed
him hastily. He had seen a tall figure, muffled up in the habit of a
white friar, gliding swiftly along the aisle, towards the door which
opened into the outer court of the convent; but he was himself too much
engaged to notice the stranger particularly. Father Ansaldo thought
this must be the person; and the porter was summoned, and asked whether
he had observed such an one pass. He affirmed that he had not seen any
person go forth from the gate within the last quarter of an hour; which
might be true enough, you know, Signor, if the rogue had been off his
post. But he further said, that no one had entered during the whole
evening, habited in white, as the stranger was described to be: so the
porter proved himself to be a vigilant watchman; for he must have been
fast sleep too, or how could this personage have entered the convent,
and left it again, without being seen by him!"

"In white, was he?" said Vivaldi; "if he had been in black, I should
have thought this must have been the monk, my tormentor."

"Why, you know, Signor, that occurred to me before," observed Paulo,
"and a man might easily change his dress, if that were all."

"Proceed," said Vivaldi.

"Hearing this account from the porter," continued Paulo, "the fathers
believed, one and all, that the stranger must be secreted within the
walls; and the convent, with every part of the precincts, was searched;
but no person was found!"

"This must certainly be the monk," said Vivaldi, "notwithstanding the
difference of his habit; there surely cannot be two beings in the
world, who would conduct themselves in this same mysterious manner!"

He was interrupted by a low sound, which seemed, to his distracted
fancy, to proceed from a dying person. Paulo also heard it; he started,
and they both listened with intense and almost intolerable expectation.

"Ah!" said Paulo, at length, "it was only the wind."

"It was no more," said Vivaldi; "proceed therefore."

"From the period of this strange confession," resumed Paulo, "Father
Ansaldo was never properly himself; he"----

"Doubtless the crime confessed related to himself," observed Vivaldi.

"Why, no, Signor, I never heard that that was the case; and some
remarkable circumstances, which followed, seemed to prove it otherwise.
About a month after the time I have mentioned, on the evening of a
sultry day, when the monks were retiring from the last service"----

"Hark!" cried Vivaldi.

"I hear whispers," said Paulo, whispering himself.

"Be still!" said Vivaldi.

They listened attentively, and heard a murmuring, as of voices; but
could not ascertain whether they came from the adjoining vault, or
arose from beneath the one in which they were. The sound returned
at intervals; and the persons who conversed, whatever they were,
seemingly restrained their voices, as if they feared to be heard.
Vivaldi considered whether it were better to discover himself, and call
for assistance, or to remain still.

"Remember, Signor," said Paulo, "what a chance we have of being
starved, unless we venture to discover ourselves to these people, or
whatever they are."

"Venture!" exclaimed Vivaldi. "What has such a wretch as I to do with
fear? O, Ellena, Ellena!"

He instantly called loudly to the person whom he believed he had heard,
and was seconded by Paulo; but their continued vociferations availed
them nothing; no answer was returned; and even the indistinct sounds,
which had awakened their attention, were heard no more.

Exhausted by their efforts, they laid down on the floor of the dungeon,
abandoning all further attempts at escape till the morning light might
assist them.

Vivaldi had no further spirits to enquire for the remainder of Paulo's
narrative. Almost despairing for himself, he could not feel an interest
concerning strangers; for he had already perceived, that it could not
afford him information connected with Ellena; and Paulo, who had roared
himself hoarse, was very willing to be silent.




CHAPTER VIII.

  Who may she be that steals through yonder cloister,
  And, as the beam of evening tints her veil,
  Unconsciously discloses saintly features,
  Inform'd with the high soul of saintly virtue?


During several days after Ellena's arrival at the monastery of San
Stefano, she was not permitted to leave the room. The door was locked
upon her, and not any person appeared except the nun, who brought her a
scanty portion of food, and who was the same, that had first admitted
her into that part of the convent appropriated to the abbess.

On the fourth day, when, probably, it was believed that her spirits
were subdued by confinement, and by her experience of the suffering she
had to expect from resistance, she was summoned to the parlour. The
abbess was alone, and the air of austerity, with which she regarded
Ellena, prepared the latter to endure.

After an exordium on the heinousness of her offence, and the necessity
there was for taking measures to protect the peace and dignity of a
noble family, which her late conduct had nearly destroyed; the abbess
informed her, that she must determine either to accept the veil, or
the person whom the Marchesa di Vivaldi had, of her great goodness,
selected for her husband.

"You never can be sufficiently grateful," added the abbess, "for the
generosity the Marchesa displays, in allowing you a choice on the
subject. After the injury you have endeavoured to inflict upon her and
her family, you could not expect that any indulgence would be shewn
you. It was natural to suppose, that the Marchesa would have punished
you with severity; instead of which, she allows you to enter into our
society; or, if you have not strength of mind sufficient to enable
you to renounce a sinful world, she permits you to return into it,
and gives you a suitable partner to support you through its cares and
toils,--a partner much more suitable to your circumstances than him, to
whom you had the temerity to lift your eye."

Ellena blushed at this coarse appeal to her pride, and persevered
in a disdainful silence. Thus to give to injustice the colouring of
mercy, and to acts most absolutely tyrannical the softening tints of
generosity, excited her honest indignation. She was not, however,
shocked by a discovery of the designs formed against her, since, from
the moment of her arrival at San Stefano, she had expected something
terribly severe, and had prepared her mind to meet it with fortitude;
for she believed, that, so supported, she should weary the malice of
her enemies, and finally triumph over misfortune. It was only when she
thought of Vivaldi that her courage failed, and that the injuries she
endured seemed too heavy to be long sustained.

"You are silent!" said the abbess, after a pause of expectation. "Is
it possible, then, that you can be ungrateful for the generosity of
the Marchesa? But, though you may at present be insensible to her
goodness, I will forbear to take advantage of your indiscretion, and
will still allow you liberty of choice. You may retire to your chamber,
to consider and to decide. But remember, that you must abide by the
determination you shall avow; and, that you will be allowed no appeal
from the alternatives, which are now placed before you.--If you reject
the veil, you must accept the husband who is offered you."

"It is unnecessary," said Ellena, with an air of dignified
tranquillity, "that I should withdraw for the purposes of considering
and deciding. My resolution is already taken, and I reject each of the
offered alternatives. I will neither condemn myself to a cloister,
or to the degradation, with which I am threatened on the other hand.
Having said this, I am prepared to meet whatever suffering you shall
inflict upon me; but be assured, that my own voice never shall sanction
the evils to which I may be subjected, and that the immortal love of
justice, which fills all my heart, will sustain my courage no less
powerfully than the sense of what is due to my own character. You are
now acquainted with my sentiments and my resolutions; I shall repeat
them no more."

The abbess, whose surprise had thus long suffered Ellena to speak,
still fixed upon her a stern regard, as she said, "Where is it that
you have learned these heroics, and acquired the rashness which
thus prompts you to avow them!--the boldness which enables you to
insult your Superior, a priestess of your holy religion, even in her
sanctuary!"

"The sanctuary is prophaned," said Ellena, mildly, but with dignity:
"it is become a prison. It is only when the Superior ceases to respect
the precepts of that holy religion, the precepts which teach her
justice and benevolence, that she herself is no longer respected. The
very sentiment which bids us revere its mild and beneficent laws, bids
us also reject the violators of them: when you command me to reverence
my religion, you urge me to condemn yourself."

"Withdraw!" said the abbess, rising impatiently from her chair; "your
admonition, so becomingly delivered, shall not be forgotten."

Ellena willingly obeyed, and was led back to her cell, where she sat
down pensively, and reviewed her conduct. Her judgment approved of
the frankness, with which she had asserted her rights, and of the
firmness, with which she had reproved a woman, who had dared to demand
respect from the very victim of her cruelty and oppression. She was the
more satisfied with herself, because she had never, for an instant,
forgotten her own dignity so far, as to degenerate into the vehemence
of passion, or to faulter with the weakness of fear. Her conviction of
the abbess's unworthy character was too clear to allow Ellena to feel
abashed in her presence; for she regarded only the censure of the good,
to which she had ever been as tremblingly alive, as she was obdurately
insensible to that of the vicious.

Ellena, having now asserted her resolutions, determined to avoid, if
possible, all repetition of scenes like the last, and to repel by
silence only, whatever indignity might be offered her. She knew that
she must suffer, and she resolved to endure. Of the three evils, which
were placed before her, that of confinement, with all its melancholy
accompaniments, appeared considerably less severe, than either the
threatened marriage, or a formal renunciation of the world; either
of which would devote her, during life, to misery, and that by her
own act. Her choice, therefore, had been easy, and the way was plain
before her. If she could endure with calmness the hardships which she
could not avoid, half their weight would be unfelt; and she now most
strenuously endeavoured to attain the strength of mind, which was
necessary to support such equanimity.

For several days after the late interview with the abbess, she was
kept a close prisoner; but on the fifth evening she was permitted to
attend vespers. As she walked through the garden to the chapel, the
ordinary freshness of the open air, and the verdure of the trees and
shrubs were luxuries to her, who had so long been restricted from the
common blessings of nature. She followed the nuns to a chapel where
they usually performed their devotions, and was there seated among the
novices. The solemnity of the service, and particularly of those parts,
which were accompanied by music, touched all her heart, and soothed and
elevated her spirit.

Among the voices of the choir, was one whose expression immediately
fixed her attention; it seemed to speak a loftier sentiment of devotion
than the others, and to be modulated by the melancholy of an heart,
that had long since taken leave of this world. Whether it swelled with
the high peal of the organ, or mingled in low and trembling accents
with the sinking chorus, Ellena felt that she understood all the
feelings of the breast from which it flowed; and she looked to the
gallery where the nuns were assembled, to discover a countenance, that
might seem to accord with the sensibility expressed in the voice. As no
strangers were admitted to the chapel, some of the sisters had thrown
back their veils, and she saw little that interested her in their
various faces; but the figure and attitude of a nun, kneeling in a
remote part of the gallery, beneath a lamp, which threw its rays aslant
her head, perfectly agreed with the idea she had formed of the singer,
and the sound seemed to approach immediately from that direction.
Her face was concealed by a black veil, whose transparency, however,
permitted the fairness of her complexion to appear; but the air of her
head, and the singularity of her attitude, for she was the only person
who remained kneeling, sufficiently indicated the superior degree of
fervency and penitence, which the voice had expressed.

When the hymn had ceased, she rose from her knees, and Ellena, soon
after, observing her throw back her veil, discovered, by the lamp,
which shed its full light upon her features, a countenance, that
instantly confirmed her conjecture. It was touched with a melancholy
kind of resignation; yet grief seemed still to occasion the paleness,
and the air of languor, that prevailed over it, and which disappeared
only when the momentary energy of devotion seemed to lift her spirit
above this world, and to impart to it somewhat of a seraphic grandeur.
At those moments her blue eyes were raised towards Heaven, with such
meek, yet fervent love, such sublime enthusiasm as the heads of Guido
sometimes display, and which renewed, with Ellena, all the enchanting
effects of the voice she had just heard.

While she regarded the nun with a degree of interest which rendered
her insensible to every other object in the chapel, she fancied she
could perceive the calmness in her countenance to be that of despair,
rather than of resignation; for, when her thoughts were not elevated
in prayer, there was frequently a fixedness in her look, too energetic
for common suffering, or for the temper of mind, which may lead to
perfect resignation. It had, however, much that attached the sympathy
of Ellena, and much that seemed to speak a similarity of feeling.
Ellena was not only soothed, but in some degree comforted, while she
gazed upon her; a selfishness which may, perhaps, be pardoned, when it
is considered, that she thus knew there was one human being, at least,
in the convent, who must be capable of feeling pity, and willing to
administer consolation. Ellena endeavoured to meet her eye, that she
might inform her of the regard she had inspired, and express her own
unhappiness; but the nun was so entirely engaged by devotion, that she
did not succeed.

As they left the chapel, however, the nun passed close by Ellena, who
threw back her veil, and fixed upon her a look so supplicating and
expressive, that the nun paused, and in her turn regarded the novice,
not with surprize only, but with a mixture of curiosity and compassion.
A faint blush crossed her cheek, her spirits seemed to faulter, and she
was unwilling to withdraw her eyes from Ellena: but it was necessary
that she should continue in the procession, and, bidding her farewel
by a smile of ineffable pity, she passed on to the court, while
Ellena followed with attention still fixed upon the sister, who soon
disappeared beyond the door-way of the Abbess's apartment, and Ellena
had nearly reached her own, before her thoughts were sufficiently
disengaged to permit her to enquire the name of the stranger.

"It is sister Olivia whom you mean, perhaps," said her conductress.

"She is very handsome," said Ellena.

"Many of the sisters are so," replied Margaritone, with an air of pique.

"Undoubtedly," said Ellena; "but she, whom I mean, has a most touching
countenance, frank, noble, full of sensibility; and there is a gentle
melancholy in her eye, which cannot but interest all who observe her."

Ellena was so fascinated by this interesting nun, that she forgot
she was describing her to a person, whose callous heart, rendered
her insensible to the influence of any countenance, except, perhaps,
the commanding one of the lady abbess; and to whom, therefore,
a description of the fine traits, which Ellena felt, was as
unintelligible as would have been an Arabic inscription.

"She is passed the bloom of youth," continued Ellena, still anxious to
be understood; "but she retains all its interesting graces, and adds to
them the dignity of"----

"If you mean that she is of middle age," interrupted Margaritone,
peevishly, "it is sister Olivia you mention, for we are all younger
than she is."

Ellena, raising her eyes almost unconsciously, as the nun spoke this,
fixed them upon a face sallow, meagre, seemingly near fifty years an
inhabitant of this world; and she could scarcely suppress the surprize
she felt, on perceiving such wretched vanity lingering among the
chilled passions of so repulsive a frame, and within the sequestered
shade of a cloister. Margaritone, still jealous of the praise bestowed
on Olivia, repelled all further enquiry, and, having attended Ellena to
her cell, locked her up for the night.

On the following evening Ellena was again permitted to attend vespers,
and, on the way to the chapel, the hope of seeing her interesting
favourite reanimated her spirits. In the same part of the gallery, as
on the preceding night, she again appeared, and kneeling, as before,
beneath the lamp, in private orison, for the service was not begun.

Ellena endeavoured to subdue the impatience she felt to express her
regard, and to be noticed by the holy sister, till she should have
finished. When the nun rose, and observed Ellena, she lifted her veil,
and, fixing on her the same enquiring eye, her countenance brightened
into a smile so full of compassion and intelligence, that Ellena,
forgetting the decorums of the place, left her seat to approach her;
it seemed as if the soul, which beamed forth in that smile, had long
been acquainted with hers. As she advanced, the nun dropped her veil,
a reproof which she immediately understood, and she withdrew to her
seat; but her attention remained fixed on the nun during the whole
service.

At the conclusion, when they left the chapel, and she saw Olivia pass
without noticing her, Ellena could scarcely restrain her tears; she
returned in deep dejection to her room. The regard of this nun was not
only delightful, but seemed necessary to her heart, and she dwelt, with
fond perseverance, on the smile that had expressed so much, and which
threw one gleam of comfort, even through the bars of her prison.

Her reverie was soon interrupted by a light step, that approached her
cell, and in the next moment the door was unlocked, and Olivia herself
appeared. Ellena rose with emotion to meet her; the nun held forth her
hand to receive hers.

"You are unused to confinement," said she, curtsying mournfully, and
placing on the table a little basket containing refreshment, "and our
hard fare"----

"I understand you," said Ellena, with a look expressive of her
gratitude; "you have a heart that can pity, though you inhabit these
walls;--you have suffered too, and know the delicate generosity of
softening the sorrows of others, by any attention that may tell them
your sympathy. O! if I could express how much the sense of this affects
me!"

Tears interrupted her. Olivia pressed her hand, looked steadily upon
her face, and was somewhat agitated, but she soon recovered apparent
tranquillity, and said, with a serious smile, "You judge rightly, my
sister, respecting my sentiments, however you may do concerning my
sufferings. My heart is not insensible to pity; nor to you, my child.
You were designed for happier days than you can hope to find within
these cloisters!"

She checked herself as if she had allowed too much, and then added,
"But you may, perhaps, be peaceful; and since it consoles you to know
that you have a friend near you, believe me that friend--but believe it
in silence. I will visit you when I am permitted--but do not enquire
for me; and if my visits are short, do not press me to lengthen them."

"How good this is!" said Ellena, in a faultering voice. "How sweet too
it is! you will visit me, and I am pitied by you!"

"Hush!" said the nun, expressively; "no more; I may be observed. Good
night, my sister; may your slumbers be light!"

Ellena's heart sunk. She had not spirits to say, "Good night!" but
her eyes, covered with tears, said more. The nun turned her own away
suddenly, and, pressing her hand in silence, left the cell. Ellena,
firm and tranquil under the insults of the abbess, was now melted into
tears by the kindness of a friend. These gentle tears were refreshing
to her long-oppressed spirits, and she indulged them. Of Vivaldi she
thought with more composure than she had done since she left the villa
Altieri; and something like hope began to revive in her heart, though
reflection offered nothing to support it.

On the following morning, she perceived that the door of her cell had
not been closed. She rose impatiently, and, not without a hope of
liberty, immediately passed it. The cell, opening upon a short passage,
which communicated with the main building, and which was shut up by a
door, was secluded, and almost insulated from every other chamber; and
this door being now secured, Ellena was as truly a prisoner as before.
It appeared then, that the nun had omitted to fasten the cell only
for the purpose of allowing her more space to walk in the passage,
and she was grateful for the attention. Still more she was so, when,
having traversed it, she perceived one extremity terminate in a narrow
stair-case, that appeared to lead to other chambers.

She ascended the winding steps hastily, and found they led only to a
door, opening into a small room, where nothing remarkable appeared,
till she approached the windows, and beheld thence an horizon, and a
landscape spread below, whose grandeur awakened all her heart. The
consciousness of her prison was lost, while her eyes ranged over the
wide and freely-sublime scene without. She perceived that this chamber
was within a small turret, projecting from an angle of the convent
over the walls, and suspended, as in air, above the vast precipices of
granite, that formed part of the mountain. These precipices were broken
into cliffs, which, in some places, impended far above their base,
and, in others, rose, in nearly-perpendicular lines, to the walls of
the monastery, which they supported. Ellena, with a dreadful pleasure,
looked down them, flagged as they were with larch, and frequently
darkened by lines of gigantic pine bending along the rocky ledges,
till her eye rested on the thick chesnut woods that extended over
their winding base, and which, softening to the plains, seemed to form
a gradation between the variegated cultivation there, and the awful
wildness of the rocks above. Round these extensive plains were tumbled
the mountains, of various shape and attitude, which Ellena had admired
on her approach to San Stefano; some shaded with forests of olive and
almond trees, but the greater part abandoned to the flocks, which, in
summer, feed on their aromatic herbage, and on the approach of winter,
descend to the sheltered plains of the _Tavogliere di Puglia_.

On the left opened the dreadful pass which she had traversed, and the
thunder of whose waters now murmured at a distance. The accumulation
of overtopping points, which the mountains of this dark perspective
exhibited, presented an image of grandeur superior to any thing she had
seen while within the pass itself.

To Ellena, whose mind was capable of being highly elevated, or sweetly
soothed, by scenes of nature, the discovery of this little turret
was an important circumstance. Hither she could come, and her soul,
refreshed by the views it afforded, would acquire strength to bear her,
with equanimity, thro' the persecutions that might await her. Here,
gazing upon the stupendous imagery around her, looking, as it were,
beyond the awful veil which obscures the features of the Deity, and
conceals Him from the eyes of his creatures, dwelling as with a present
God in the midst of his sublime works; with a mind thus elevated, how
insignificant would appear to her the transactions, and the sufferings
of this world! How poor the boasted power of man, when the fall of a
single cliff from these mountains would with ease destroy thousands
of his race assembled on the plains below! How would it avail them,
that they were accoutred for battle, armed with all the instruments of
destruction that human invention ever fashioned? Thus man, the giant
who now held her in captivity, would shrink to the diminutiveness of a
fairy; and she would experience, that his utmost force was unable to
enchain her soul, or compel her to fear him, while he was destitute of
virtue.

Ellena's attention was recalled from the scene without by a sound from
within the gallery, and she then heard a key turning in the door of
the passage. Fearing that it was sister Margaritone who approached,
and who, informed by her absence of the consolatory turret she had
discovered, would perhaps debar her from ever returning to it, Ellena
descended with a palpitating heart, and found that nun in the cell.
Surprize and severity were in her countenance, when she enquired by
what means Ellena had unclosed the door, and whither she had been.

Ellena answered without any prevarication, that she had found the
door unfastened, and that she had visited the turret above; but she
forbore to express a wish to return thither, judging that such an
expression would certainly exclude her in future. Margaritone, after
sharply rebuking her for prying beyond the passage, and setting down
the breakfast she had brought, left the room, the door of which she did
not forget to secure. Thus Ellena was at once deprived of so innocent a
means of consolation as her pleasant turret had afforded.

During several days, she saw only the austere nun, except when she
attended vespers; where, however, she was so vigilantly observed, that
she feared to speak with Olivia, even by her eyes. Olivia's were
often fixed upon her face, and with a kind of expression which Ellena,
when she did venture to look at her, could not perfectly interpret.
It was not only of pity, but of anxious curiosity, and of something
also like fear. A blush would sometimes wander over her cheek, which
was succeeded by an extreme paleness, and by an air of such universal
languor as precedes a fainting fit: but the exercises of devotion seemed
frequently to recal her fleeting spirits, and to elevate them with hope
and courage.

When she left the chapel, Ellena saw Olivia no more that night; but on
the following morning she came with breakfast to the cell. A character
of peculiar sadness was on her brow.

"O! how glad I am to see you!" said Ellena; "and how much I have
regretted your long absence! I was obliged to remember constantly what
you had enjoined, to forbear enquiring after you."

The nun replied with a melancholy smile, "I come in obedience to our
lady abbess," said she, as she seated herself on Ellena's mattress.

"And did you not wish to come?" said Ellena, mournfully.

"I did wish it," replied Olivia; "but"-- and she hesitated.

"Whence then this reluctance?" enquired Ellena.

Olivia was silent a moment.

"You are a messenger of evil news!" said Ellena; "you are only
reluctant to afflict me."

"It is as you say," replied Olivia; "I am only reluctant to afflict
you; and I fear you have too many attachments to the world, to allow
you to receive, without sorrow, what I have to communicate. I am
ordered to prepare you for the vows, and to say, that, since you have
rejected the husband which was proposed to you, you are to accept the
veil; that many of the customary forms are to be dispensed with; and
that the ceremony of taking the black veil, will follow without delay
that of receiving the white one."

The nun paused; and Ellena said, "You are an unwilling bearer of this
cruel message; and I reply only to the lady abbess, when I declare,
that I never will accept either; that force may send me to the altar,
but that it never shall compel me to utter vows which my heart abhors;
and if I am constrained to appear there, it shall be only to protest
against her tyranny, and against the form intended to sanction it."

To Olivia this answer was so far from being displeasing, that it
appeared to give her satisfaction.

"I dare not applaud your resolution," said she; "but I will not condemn
it. You have, no doubt, connections in the world which would render a
seclusion from it afflicting. You have relations, friends, from whom it
would be dreadful to part?"

"I have neither," said Ellena, sighing.

"No! Can that be possible? and yet you are so unwilling to retire!"

"I have only one friend," replied Ellena, "and it is of him they would
deprive me!"

"Pardon, my love, the abruptness of these enquiries," said Olivia;
"yet, while I entreat your forgiveness, I am inclined to offend again,
and to ask your name."

"That is a question I will readily answer. My name is Ellena di
Rosalba."

"How?" said Olivia, with an air of deliberation; "Ellena di"----

"Di Rosalba," repeated her companion; "and permit me to ask your motive
for the enquiry: do you know any person of my name?"

"No," relied the nun, mournfully; "but your features have some
resemblance to those of a friend I once had."

As she said this, her agitation was apparent, and she rose to go.
"I must not lengthen my visit, lest I should be forbidden to repeat
it," said she. "What answer shall I give to the abbess? If you are
determined to reject the veil, allow me to advise you to soften your
refusal as much as possible. I am, perhaps, better acquainted with her
character than you are; and O, my sister! I would not see you pining
away your existence in this solitary cell."

"How much I am obliged by the interest you express for my welfare,"
said Ellena, "and by the advice you offer! I will yield my judgment
in this instance to yours; you shall modulate my refusal as you think
proper: but remember that it must be absolute; and beware, lest the
abbess should mistake gentleness for irresolution."

"Trust me, I will be cautious in all that relates to you," said Olivia.
"Farewell! I will visit you, if possible, in the evening. In the mean
time the door shall be left open, that you may have more air and
prospect than this cell affords. That staircase leads to a pleasant
chamber."

"I have visited it already," replied Ellena, "and have to thank you for
the goodness, which permitted me to do so. To go thither will greatly
soothe my spirits; if I had some book, and my drawing-instrument, I
could almost forget my sorrows there."

"Could you so?" said the nun, with an affectionate smile. "Adieu!
I will endeavour to see you in the evening. If sister Margaritone
returns, be careful not to enquire for me; nor once ask her for the
little indulgence I give you."

Olivia withdrew, and Ellena retired to the chamber above, where she
lost for a while all sense of sorrow amidst the great scenery, which
its windows exhibited.

At noon, the step of Margaritone summoned Ellena from her retreat, and
she was surprised that no reproof followed this second discovery of her
absence. Margaritone only said, that the abbess had the goodness to
permit Ellena to dine with the novices, and that she came to conduct
her to their table.

Ellena did not rejoice in this permission, preferring to remain in
her solitary turret, to the being exposed to the examining eyes of
strangers; and she followed dejectedly, through the silent passages to
the apartment where they were assembled. She was not less surprised
than embarrassed to observe, in the manners of young people residing
in a convent, an absence of that decorum, which includes beneath its
modest shade every grace that ought to adorn the female character,
like the veil which gives dignity to their air and softness to their
features. When Ellena entered the room, the eyes of the whole company
were immediately fixed upon her; the young ladies began to whisper
and smile, and shewed, by various means, that she was the subject
of conversation, not otherwise than censorious. No one advanced to
meet and to encourage her, to welcome her to the table, or still
less display one of those nameless graces, with which a generous and
delicate mind delights to reanimate the modest and the unfortunate.

Ellena took a chair in silence; and, though she had at first felt
forlorn and embarrassed by the impertinent manners of her companions, a
consciousness of innocence gradually revived her spirits, and enabled
her to resume an air of dignity, which repressed this rude presumption.

Ellena returned to her cell, for the first time, with eagerness.
Margaritone did not fasten the door of it, but she was careful to
secure that of the passage; and even this small indulgence she seemed
to allow with a surly reluctance, as if compelled to obey the command
of a superior. The moment she was gone, Ellena withdrew to her pleasant
turret, where, after having suffered from the coarse manners of the
novices, her gratitude was the more lively, when she perceived the
delicate attention of her beloved nun. It appeared that she had
visited the chamber in Ellena's absence, and had caused to be brought
thither a chair and a table, on which were placed some books, and a
knot of fragrant flowers. Ellena did not repress the grateful tears,
which the generous feelings of Olivia excited; and she forbore, for
some moments, to examine the books, that the pleasing emotions she
experienced might not be interrupted.

On looking into these books, however, she perceived, that some of them
treated of mystical subjects, which she laid aside with disappointment;
but in others she observed a few of the best Italian poets, and a
volume or two of Guicciardini's history. She was somewhat surprised,
that the poets should have found their way to the library of a nun, but
was too much pleased with the discovery to dwell on the enquiry.

Having arranged her books, and set her little room in order, she seated
herself at a window, and, with a volume of Tasso, endeavoured to
banish every painful remembrance from her mind. She continued wandering
in the imaginary scenes of the poet, till the fading light recalled her
to those of reality. The sun was set, but the mountain-tops were still
lighted up by his beams, and a tint of glorious purple coloured all the
west, and began to change the snowy points on the horizon. The silence
and repose of the vast scene, promoted the tender melancholy that
prevailed in her heart; she thought of Vivaldi, and wept--of Vivaldi,
whom she might, perhaps, never see again, though she doubted not that
he would be indefatigable in searching for her. Every particular
of their last conversation, when he had so earnestly lamented the
approaching separation, even while he allowed of its propriety, came
to her mind; and, while she witnessed, in imagination, the grief and
distraction, which her mysterious departure and absence must have
occasioned him, the fortitude, with which she had resisted her own
sufferings, yielded to the picture of his.

The vesper-bell, at length, summoned her to prepare for mass, and
she descended to her cell to await the arrival of her conductress.
It was Margaritone, who soon appeared; but in the chapel she, as
usual, saw Olivia, who, when the service had concluded, invited her
into the garden of the convent. There, as she walked beneath the
melancholy cypresses, that, ranged on either side the long walks,
formed a majestic canopy, almost excluding the evening twilight, Olivia
conversed with her on serious, but general, topics, carefully avoiding
any mention of the abbess, and of the affairs of Ellena. The latter,
anxious to learn the effect of her repeated rejection of the veil,
ventured to make some enquiries, which the nun immediately discouraged,
and as cautiously checked the grateful effusions of her young friend
for the attentions she had received.

Olivia accompanied Ellena to her cell, and there no longer scrupled
to relieve her from uncertainty. With a mixture of frankness and
discretion, she related as much of the conversation, that had passed
between herself and the abbess, as it appeared necessary for Ellena to
know, from which it seemed that the former was as obstinate, as the
latter was firm.

"Whatever may be your resolution," added the nun, "I earnestly advise
you, my sister, to allow the Superior some hope of compliance, lest she
proceed to extremities."

"And what extremity can be more terrible," replied Ellena, "than either
of those, to which she would now urge me? Why should I descend to
practice dissimulation?"

"To save yourself from undeserved sufferings," said Olivia mournfully.

"Yes, but I should then incur deserved ones," observed Ellena; "and
forfeit such peace of mind as my oppressors never could restore to
me." As she said this, she looked at the nun with an expression of
gentle reproach and disappointment.

"I applaud the justness of your sentiment," replied Olivia, regarding
her with tenderest compassion. "Alas! that a mind so noble should be
subjected to the power of injustice and depravity!"

"Not subjected," said Ellena, "do not say subjected. I have accustomed
myself to contemplate those sufferings; I have chosen the least of such
as were given to my choice, and I will endure them with fortitude; and
can you then say that I am subjected?"

"Alas, my sister! you know not what you promise," replied Olivia; "you
do not comprehend the sufferings which may be preparing for you."

As she spoke, her eyes filled with tears, and she withdrew them from
Ellena, who, surprised at the extreme concern on her countenance,
entreated she would explain herself.

"I am not certain, myself, as to this point," said Olivia; "and if I
were, I should not dare to explain it."

"Not dare!" repeated Ellena, mournfully. "Can benevolence like yours
know fear, when courage is necessary to prevent evil?"

"Enquire no further!" said Olivia; but no blush of conscious duplicity
stained her cheek. "It is sufficient that you understand the
consequence of open resistance to be terrible, and that you consent to
avoid it."

"But how avoid it, my beloved friend, without incurring a consequence
which, in my apprehension, would be yet more dreadful? How avoid it,
without either subjecting myself to a hateful marriage, or accepting
the vows? Either of these events would be more terrible to me, than any
thing with which I may be menaced."

"Perhaps not," said the nun. "Imagination cannot draw the horrors
of---- But, my sister, let me repeat, that I would save you! O,
how willingly save you from the evils preparing! and that the only
chance of doing so is, by prevailing with you to abandon at least the
appearance of resistance."

"Your kindness deeply affects me," said Ellena; "and I am fearful
of appearing insensible of it, when I reject your advice; yet I
cannot adopt it. The very dissimulation, which I should employ in
self-defence, might be a means of involving me in destruction."

As Ellena concluded, and her eyes glanced upon the nun, unaccountable
suspicion occurred to her, that Olivia might be insincere, and that,
at this very moment, when she was advising dissimulation, she was
endeavouring to draw Ellena into some snare, which the abbess had laid.
She sickened at this dreadful supposition, and dismissed it without
suffering herself to examine its probability. That Olivia, from whom
she had received so many attentions, whose countenance and manners
announced so fair a mind, and for whom she had conceived so much
esteem and affection, should be cruel and treacherous, was a suspicion
that gave her more pain, than the actual imprisonment in which she
suffered; and when she looked again upon her face, Ellena was consoled
by a clear conviction, that she was utterly incapable of perfidy.

"If it were possible that I could consent to practise deceit," resumed
Ellena, after a long pause, "what could it avail me? I am entirely in
the power of the abbess, who would soon put my sincerity to the proof;
when a discovery of my duplicity would only provoke her vengeance, and
I should be punished even for having sought to avoid injustice."

"If deceit is at any time excusable," replied Olivia, reluctantly, "it
is when we practise it in self-defence. There are some rare situations,
when it may be resorted to without our incurring ignominy, and yours
is one of those. But I will acknowledge, that all the good I expect is
from the delay which temporizing may procure you. The Superior, when
she understands there is a probability of obtaining your consent to her
wishes, may be willing to allow you the usual time of preparation for
the veil, and meanwhile something may occur to rescue you from your
present situation."

"Ah! could I but believe so!" said Ellena; "but, alas! what power can
rescue me? And I have not one relative remaining even to attempt my
deliverance. To what possibility do you allude?"

"The Marchesa may relent."

"Does, then, your possibility of good rest with her, my dear friend? If
so, I am in despair again; for such a chance of benefit, there would
certainly be little policy in forfeiting one's integrity."

"There are also other possibilities, my sister," said Olivia; "but
hark! what bell is that? It is the chime, which assembles the nuns
in the apartment of the abbess, where she dispenses her evening
benediction. My absence will be observed. Good night, my sister.
Reflect on what I have advised; and remember, I conjure you, to
consider, that the consequence of your decision must be solemn, and may
be fatal."

The nun spoke this with a look and emphasis so extraordinary, that
Ellena at once wished and dreaded to know more; but before she had
recovered from her surprize, Olivia had left the room.




CHAPTER IX.

      ----"He, like the tenant
  Of some night-haunted ruin, bore an aspect
  Of horror, worn to habitude."

  MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.


The adventurous Vivaldi, and his servant Paulo, after passing the night
of Ellena's departure from villa Altieri in one of the subterraneous
chambers of the fort of Paluzzi, and yielding, at length, to exhausted
nature, awoke in terror and utter darkness, for the flambeau had
expired. When a recollection of the occurrences of the preceding
evening returned, they renewed their efforts for liberty with ardour.
The grated window was again examined, and being found to overlook only
a confined court of the fortress, no hope appeared of escaping.

The words of the monk returned with Vivaldi's first recollections, to
torture him with apprehension, that Ellena was no more; and Paulo,
unable either to console or to appease his master, sat down dejectedly
beside him. Paulo had no longer a hope to suggest, or a joke to throw
away; and he could not forbear seriously remarking, that to die of
hunger was one of the most horrible means of death, or lamenting the
rashness which had made them liable to so sad a probability.

He was in the midst of a very pathetic oration, of which, however, his
master did not hear a single word, so wholly was his attention engaged
by his own melancholy thoughts, when on a sudden he became silent, and
then, starting to his feet, exclaimed, "Signor, what is yonder? Do you
see nothing?"

Vivaldi looked round.

"It is certainly a ray of light," continued Paulo; "and I will soon
know where it comes from."

As he said this he sprung forward, and his surprize almost equalled his
joy when he discovered that the light issued through the door of the
vault, which stood a little open. He could scarcely believe his senses,
since the door had been strongly fastened on the preceding night, and
he had not heard its ponderous bolts undrawn. He threw it widely open,
but recollecting himself, stopped to look into the adjoining vault
before he ventured forth; when Vivaldi darted past him, and bidding
him follow instantly, ascended to the day. The courts of the fortress
were silent and vacant, and Vivaldi reached the arch-way without having
observed a single person, breathless with speed, and scarcely daring to
believe that he had regained his liberty.

Beneath the arch he stopped to recover breath, and to consider whether
he should take the road to Naples, or to the villa Altieri, for it was
yet early morning, and at an hour when it appeared improbable that
Ellena's family would be risen. The apprehension of her death had
vanished as Vivaldi's spirits revived, which the pause of hesitation
sufficiently announced: but even this was the pause only of an instant;
a strong anxiety concerning her determined him to proceed to the villa
Altieri, notwithstanding the unsuitableness of the hour, since he
could, at least, reconnoitre her residence, and await till some sign of
the family having risen should appear.

"Pray, Signor," said Paulo, while his master was deliberating, "do
not let us stop here lest the enemy should appear again; and do,
Signor, take the road which is nearest to some house where we may get
breakfast, for the fear of starving has taken such hold upon me, that
it has nearly anticipated the reality of it already."

Vivaldi immediately departed for the villa. Paulo, as he danced
joyfully along, expressed all the astonishment that filled his mind,
as to the cause of their late imprisonment and escape; but Vivaldi,
who had now leizure to consider the subject, could not assist him in
explaining it. The only certainty that appeared, was, that he had not
been confined by robbers; and what interest any person could have in
imprisoning him for the night, and suffering him to escape in the
morning, did not appear.

On entering the garden at Altieri, he was surprized to observe that
several of the lower lattices were open at this early hour, but
surprize changed to terror, when, on reaching the portico, he heard
a moaning of distress from the hall, and when, after loudly calling,
he was answered by the piteous cries of Beatrice. The hall door was
fastened, and, Beatrice being unable to open it, Vivaldi, followed by
Paulo, sprang through one of the unclosed lattices; when on reaching
the hall, he found the house-keeper bound to a pillar, and learned
that Ellena had been carried off during the night by armed men.

For a moment he was almost stupified by the shock of this intelligence,
and then asked Beatrice a thousand questions concerning the affair,
without allowing her time to answer one of them. When, however, he had
patience to listen, he learned that the ruffians were four in number;
that they were masked; that two of them had carried Ellena through
the garden, while the others, after binding Beatrice to a pillar,
threatening her with death if she made any noise, and watching over her
till their comrades had secured their prize, left her a prisoner. This
was all the information she could give respecting Ellena.

Vivaldi, when he could think coolly, believed he had discovered the
instigators and the design of the whole affair, and the cause, also,
of his late confinement. It appeared that Ellena had been carried off
by order of his family, to prevent the intended marriage, and that he
had been decoyed into the fort of Paluzzi, and kept a prisoner there,
to prevent him from intercepting the scheme, which his presence at the
villa Altieri would effectually have done. He had himself spoken of his
former adventure at Paluzzi; and it now appeared, that his family had
taken advantage of the curiosity he had expressed, to lead him into the
vaults. The event of this design was the more certain, since, as the
fort lay in the direct road to the villa Altieri, Vivaldi could not go
thither without being observed by the creatures of the Marchesa, who,
by an artful manœuvre, might make him their prisoner, without employing
violence.

As he considered these circumstances, it appeared certain, also, that
father Schedoni was in truth the monk who had so long haunted his
steps; that he was the secret adviser of his mother, and one of the
authors of the predicted misfortunes, which, it seemed, he possessed
a too certain means of fulfilling. Yet Vivaldi, while he admitted
the probability of all this, reflected with new astonishment on the
conduct of Schedoni, during his interview with him in the Marchesa's
cabinet;--the air of dignified innocence, with which he had repressed
accusation, the apparent simplicity, with which he had pointed out
circumstances respecting the stranger, that seemed to make against
himself; and Vivaldi's opinion of the confessor's duplicity began
to waver. "Yet what other person," said he, "could be so intimately
acquainted with my concerns, or have an interest sufficiently strong
for thus indefatigably thwarting me, except this confessor, who is,
no doubt, well rewarded for his perseverance? The monk can be no
other than Schedoni, yet it is strange that he should have forborn to
disguise his person, and should appear in his mysterious office in the
very habit he usually wears!"

Whatever might be the truth as to Schedoni, it was evident that Ellena
had been carried away by order of Vivaldi's family, and he immediately
returned towards Naples with an intention of demanding her at their
hands, not with any hope of their compliance, but believing that they
might accidentally afford him some lights on the subject. If, however,
he should fail to obtain any hint that might assist him in tracing the
route she had been carried, he determined to visit Schedoni, accuse
him of perfidy, urge him to a full explanation of his conduct, and, if
possible, obtain from him a knowledge of Ellena's place of confinement.

When, at length, he obtained an interview with the Marchese, and,
throwing himself at his feet, supplicated that Ellena might be restored
to her home, the unaffected surprize of his father overwhelmed him with
astonishment and despair. The look and manner of the Marchese could not
be doubted; Vivaldi was convinced that he was absolutely ignorant of
any step which had been taken against Ellena.

"However ungraciously you have conducted yourself," said the Marchese,
"my honour has never yet been sullied by duplicity; however I may
have wished to break the unworthy connection you have formed, I
should disdain to employ artifice as the means. If you really design
to marry this person, I shall make no other effort to prevent such a
measure, than by telling you the consequence you are to expect;--from
thenceforth I will disown you for my son."

The Marchese quitted the apartment when he had said this, and Vivaldi
made no attempt to detain him. His words expressed little more than
they had formerly done, yet Vivaldi was shocked by the absolute menace
now delivered. The stronger passion of his heart, however, soon
overcame their effect; and this moment, when he began to fear that he
had irrecoverably lost the object of his dearest affections, was not
the time, in which he could long feel remoter evils, or calculate the
force of misfortunes which never might arrive. The nearer interest
pressed solely upon his mind, and he was conscious only to the loss of
Ellena.

The interview, which followed with his mother, was of a different
character from that, which had occurred with the Marchese. The keen
dart of suspicion, however, sharpened as it was by love and by
despair, pierced beyond the veil of her duplicity; and Vivaldi as
quickly detected her hypocrisy as he had yielded his conviction to the
sincerity of the Marchese. But his power rested here; he possessed no
means of awakening her pity or actuating her justice, and could not
obtain even a hint, that might guide him in his search of Ellena.

Schedoni, however, yet remained to be tried; Vivaldi had no longer a
doubt as to his having caballed with the Marchesa, and that he had
been an agent in removing Ellena. Whether he was the person who
haunted the ruins of Paluzzi, still remained to be proved, for, though
several circumstances seemed to declare that he was, others, not less
plausible, asserted the contrary.

On leaving the Marchesa's apartment, Vivaldi repaired to the convent of
the Spirito Santo, and enquired for father Schedoni. The lay-brother
who opened the gate, informed him that the father was in his cell,
and Vivaldi stepped impatiently into the court requesting to be shewn
thither.

"I dare not leave the gate, Signor," said the brother, "but if you
cross the court, and ascend that stair-case which you see yonder beyond
the door-way on your right, it will lead you to a gallery, and the
third door you will come to is father Schedoni's."

Vivaldi passed on without seeing another human being, and not a sound
disturbed the silence of this sanctuary, till, as he ascended the
stairs, a feeble note of lamentation proceeded from the gallery, and he
concluded it was uttered by some penitent at confession.

He stopped, as he had been directed, at the third door, when, as
he gently knocked, the sound ceased, and the same profound silence
returned. Vivaldi repeated his summons, but, receiving no answer,
he ventured to open the door. In the dusky cell within no person
appeared, but he still looked round, expecting to discover some one in
the dubious gloom. The chamber contained little more than a mattress,
a chair, a table, and a crucifix; some books of devotion were upon
the table, one or two of which were written in unknown characters;
several instruments of torture lay beside them. Vivaldi shuddered as
he hastily examined these, though he did not comprehend the manner of
their application, and he left the chamber, without noticing any other
object, and returned to the court. The porter said, that since father
Schedoni was not in his cell, he was probably either in the church or
in the gardens, for that he had not passed the gates during the morning.

"Did he pass yester-evening?" said Vivaldi, eagerly.

"Yes, he returned to vespers," replied the brother with surprize.

"Are you certain as to that, my friend?" rejoined Vivaldi, "are you
certain that he slept in the convent last night?"

"Who is it that asks the question?" said the lay-brother, with
displeasure, "and what right has he to make it? You are ignorant of the
rules of our house, Signor, or you would perceive such questions to
be unnecessary; any member of our community is liable to be severely
punished if he sleep a night without these walls, and father Schedoni
would be the last among us so to trespass. He is one of the most pious
of the brotherhood; few indeed have courage to imitate his severe
example. His voluntary sufferings are sufficient for a saint. He pass
the night abroad? Go, Signor, yonder is the church, you will find him
there, perhaps."

Vivaldi did not linger to reply. "The hypocrite!" said he to himself as
he crossed to the church, which formed one side of the quadrangle; "but
I will unmask him."

The church, which he entered, was vacant and silent like the court.
"Whither can the inhabitants of this place have withdrawn themselves?"
said he; "wherever I go, I hear only the echoes of my own footsteps; it
seems as if death reigned here over all! But, perhaps, it is one of the
hours of general meditation, and the monks have only retired to their
cells."

As he paced the long aisles, he suddenly stopped to catch the startling
sound that murmured through the lofty roof; but it seemed to be only
the closing of a distant door. Yet he often looked forward into
the sacred gloom, which the painted windows threw over the remote
perspective, in the expectation of perceiving a monk. He was not long
disappointed; a person appeared, standing silently in an obscure part
of the cloister, cloathed in the habit of this society, and he advanced
towards him.

The monk did not avoid Vivaldi, or even turn to observe who was
approaching, but remained in the same attitude, fixed like a statue.
This tall and gaunt figure had, at a distance, reminded him of
Schedoni, and Vivaldi, as he now looked under the cowl, discovered the
ghastly countenance of the confessor.

"Have I found you at last?" said Vivaldi. "I would speak with you,
father, in private. This is not a proper place for such discourse as we
must hold."

Schedoni made no reply, and Vivaldi, once again looking at him,
observed that his features were fixed, and his eyes bent towards
the ground. The words of Vivaldi seemed not to have reached his
understanding, nor even to have made any impression on his senses.

He repeated them in a louder tone, but still not a single line of
Schedoni's countenance acknowledged their influence. "What means this
mummery?" said he, his patience exhausted, and his indignation aroused;
"This wretched subterfuge shall not protect you, you are detected, your
stratagems are known! Restore Ellena di Rosalba to her home, or confess
where you have concealed her."

Schedoni was still silent and unmoved. A respect for his age and
profession withheld Vivaldi from seizing and compelling him to answer;
but the agony of impatience and indignation which he suffered, formed
a striking contrast to the death-like apathy of the monk. "I now also
know you," continued Vivaldi, "for my tormentor at Paluzzi, the
prophet of evils, which you too well practised the means of fulfilling,
the predictor of the death of Signora Bianchi." Schedoni frowned.
"The forewarner of Ellena's departure; the phantom who decoyed me
into the dungeons of Paluzzi; the prophet and the artificer of all my
misfortunes."

The monk raised his eyes from the ground, and fixed them with terrible
expression upon Vivaldi, but was still silent.

"Yes, father," added Vivaldi, "I know and will proclaim you to the
world. I will strip you of the holy hypocrisy in which you shroud
yourself; announce to all your society the despicable artifices you
have employed, and the misery you have occasioned. Your character shall
be announced aloud."

While Vivaldi spoke, the monk had withdrawn his eyes, and fixed them
again on the ground. His countenance had resumed its usual expression.

"Wretch! restore to me Ellena di Rosalba!" cried Vivaldi, with the
sudden anguish of renewed despair. "Tell me at least, where she may be
found, or you shall be compelled to do so. Whither, whither have you
conveyed her?"

As he pronounced this in loud and passionate accents, several
ecclesiastics entered the cloisters, and were passing on to the body
of the church, when his voice arrested their attention. They paused,
and perceiving the singular attitude of Schedoni, and the frantic
gesticulations of Vivaldi, hastily advanced towards them. "Forbear!"
said one of the strangers, as he seized the cloak of Vivaldi, "do you
not observe!"

"I observe a hypocrite," replied Vivaldi, stepping back and disengaging
himself, "I observe a destroyer of the peace, it was his duty to
protect. I"----

"Forbear this desperate conduct," said the priest, "lest it provoke the
just vengeance of Heaven! Do you not observe the holy office in which
he is engaged?" pointing to the monk, "Leave the church while you are
permitted to do so in safety; you suspect not the punishment you may
provoke."

"I will not quit the spot till you answer my enquiries," said Vivaldi
to Schedoni, without deigning even to look upon the priest; "Where, I
repeat, is Ellena di Rosalba?"

The confessor was still silent and unmoved. "This is beyond all
patience, and all belief," continued Vivaldi. "Speak! Answer me, or
dread what I may unfold. Yet silent! Do you know the convent _del
Pianto_? Do you know the confessional of the _Black Penitents_?"

Vivaldi thought he perceived the countenance of the monk suffer some
change. "Do you remember that terrible night," he added, "when, on the
steps of that confessional, a tale was told?"----

Schedoni raised his eyes, and fixing them once more on Vivaldi, with a
look that seemed intended to strike him to the dust, "Avaunt!" cried
he in a tremendous voice; "avaunt! sacrilegious boy! Tremble for the
consequence of thy desperate impiety!"

As he concluded, he started from his position, and gliding with the
silent swiftness of a shadow along the cloister, vanished in an
instant. Vivaldi, when attempting to pursue him, was seized by the
surrounding monks. Insensible to his sufferings, and exasperated by his
assertions, they threatened, that if he did not immediately leave the
convent, he should be confined, and undergo the severe punishment to
which he had become liable, for having disturbed and even insulted one
of their holy order while performing an act of penance.

"He has need of such acts," said Vivaldi; "but when can they restore
the happiness his treachery has destroyed? Your order is disgraced by
such a member, reverend fathers; your"----

"Peace!" cried a monk, "he is the pride of our house; he is severe in
his devotion, and in self-punishment terrible beyond the reach of----
But I am throwing away my commendations, I am talking to one who is
not permitted to value or to understand the sacred mysteries of our
exercises."

"Away with him to the _Padre Abbatte_!" cried an enraged priest; "away
with him to the dungeon!"

"Away! away!" repeated his companions, and they endeavoured to force
Vivaldi through the cloisters. But with the hidden strength which
pride and indignation lent him, he burst from their united hold, and,
quitting the church by another door, escaped into the street.

Vivaldi returned home in a state of mind that would have engaged the
pity of any heart, which prejudice or self-interest had not hardened.
He avoided his father, but sought the Marchesa, who, triumphant in the
success of her plan, was still insensible to the sufferings of her son.

When the Marchesa had been informed of his approaching marriage, she
had, as usual, consulted with her confessor on the means of preventing
it, who had advised the scheme she adopted, a scheme which was the more
easily carried into effect, since the Marchesa had early in life been
acquainted with the abbess of San Stefano, and knew, therefore, enough
of her character and disposition to confide, without hesitation, the
management of this important affair to her discretion. The answer of
the abbess to her proposal, was not merely acquiescent, but zealous,
and it appeared that she too faithfully justified the confidence
reposed in her. After this plan had been so successfully prosecuted,
it was not to be hoped that the Marchesa would be prevailed upon to
relinquish it by the tears, the anguish, or all the varied sufferings
of her son. Vivaldi now reproved the easiness of his own confidence in
having hoped it, and quitted her cabinet with a despondency that almost
reached despair.

The faithful Paulo obeyed the hasty summons of his master, but he had
not succeeded in obtaining intelligence of Ellena; and Vivaldi, having
dismissed him again on the same enquiry, retired to his apartment,
where the excess of grief, and a feeble hope of devising some
successful mode of remedy, alternately agitated and detained him.

In the evening, restless and anxious for change, though scarcely
knowing whither to bend his course, he left the palace, and strolled
down to the sea-beach. A few fishermen and Lazzaroni only were
loitering along the strand, waiting for boats from St. Lucia. Vivaldi,
with folded arms, and his hat drawn over his face to shade his sorrow
from observation, paced the edge of the waves, listening to their
murmur, as they broke gently at his feet, and gazing upon their
undulating beauty, while all consciousness was lost in melancholy
reverie concerning Ellena. Her late residence appeared at a distance,
rising over the shore. He remembered how often from thence they had
together viewed this lovely scene! Its features had now lost their
charm; they were colourless and uninteresting, or impressed only
mournful ideas. The sea fluctuating beneath the setting sun, the long
mole and its light-house tipped with the last rays, fishermen reposing
in the shade, little boats skimming over the smooth waters, which
their oars scarcely dimpled; these were images that brought to his
recollection the affecting evening when he had last seen this picture
from the villa Altieri, when, seated in the orangery with Ellena
and Bianchi, on the night preceding the death of the latter, Ellena
herself had so solemnly been given to his care, and had so affectingly
consented to the dying request of her relative. The recollection of
that scene came to Vivaldi with all the force of contrast, and renewed
all the anguish of despair; he paced the beach with quicker steps, and
long groans burst from his heart. He accused himself of indifference
and inactivity, for having been thus long unable to discover a single
circumstance which might direct his search; and though he knew not
whither to go, he determined to leave Naples immediately, and return no
more to his father's mansion till he should have rescued Ellena.

Of some fishermen who were conversing together upon the beach, he
enquired whether they could accommodate him with a boat, in which he
meant to coast the bay; for it appeared probable that Ellena had been
conveyed from Altieri by water, to some town or convent on the shore,
the privacy and facility of such a mode of conveyance being suitable to
the designs of her enemies.

"I have but one boat, Signor," said a fisherman, "and that is busy
enough in going to and fro between here and Santa Lucia, but my
comrade, here, perhaps can serve you. What, Carlo, can you help the
Signor to your little skiff? the other, I know, has enough to do in the
trade."

His comrade, however, was too much engaged with a party of three or
four men, who were listening in deep attention round him, to reply;
Vivaldi advancing to urge the question, was struck by the eagerness
with which he delivered his narrative, as well as the uncouthness of
his gesticulation; and he paused a moment in attention. One of the
auditors seemed to doubt of something that had been asserted. "I tell
you," replied the narrator, "I used to carry fish there, two and three
times a week, and very good sort of people they were; they have laid
out many a ducat with me in their time. But as I was saying, when I
got there, and knocked upon the door, I heard, all of a sudden, a huge
groaning, and presently I heard the voice of the old house-keeper
herself, roaring out for help; but I could give her none, for the door
was fastened; and, while I ran away for assistance to old Bartoli, you
know old Bartoli, he lives by the road side as you go to Naples; well,
while I ran to him, comes a Signor, and jumps through the window and
sets her at liberty at once. So then, I heard the whole story."----

"What story?" said Vivaldi, "and of whom do you speak?"

"All in good time, _Maestro_, you shall hear," said the fisherman, who
looking at him for a moment, added, "Why, Signor, it should be you I
saw there, you should be the very Signor that let Beatrice loose."

Vivaldi, who had scarcely doubted before, that it was Altieri of which
the man had spoken, now asked a thousand questions respecting the route
the ruffians had taken Ellena, but obtained no relief to his anxiety.

"I should not wonder," said a Lazzaro who had been listening to the
relation; "I should not wonder if the carriage that passed Bracelli
early on the same morning, with the blinds drawn up, though it was so
hot that people could scarcely breathe in the open air, should prove to
be it which carried off the lady!"

This hint was sufficient to reanimate Vivaldi, who collected all the
information the Lazzaro could give, which was, however, little more
than that a carriage, such as he described, had been seen by him,
driving furiously through Bracelli, early on the morning mentioned as
that of Signora di Rosalba's departure. Vivaldi had now no doubt as
to its being the one which conveyed her away, and he determined to
set out immediately for that place, where he hoped to obtain from the
post-master further intelligence concerning the road she had pursued.

With this intention he returned once more to his father's mansion, not
to acquaint him with his purpose, or to bid him farewel, but to await
the return of his servant Paulo, who he meant should accompany him in
the search. Vivaldi's spirits were now animated with hope, slender as
were the circumstances that supported it; and, believing his design
to be wholly unsuspected by those who would be disposed to interrupt
it, he did not guard either against the measures, which might impede
his departure from Naples, or those which might overtake him on his
journey.




CHAPTER X.

  "What, would'st thou have a serpent sting thee twice?"

  SHAKESPEARE.


The Marchesa, alarmed at some hints dropped by Vivaldi in the late
interview between them, and by some circumstances of his latter
conduct, summoned her constant adviser, Schedoni. Still suffering
with the insult he had received in the church of the _Spirito Santo_,
he obeyed with sullen reluctance, yet not without a malicious hope
of discovering some opportunity for retaliation. That insult, which
had pointed forth his hypocrisy, and ridiculed the solemn abstraction
he assumed, had sunk deep in his heart, and, fermenting the direst
passions of his nature, he meditated a terrible revenge. It had
subjected him to mortifications of various kinds. Ambition, it has
already appeared, was one of his strongest motives of action, and he
had long since assumed a character of severe sanctity, chiefly for
the purposes of lifting him to promotion. He was not beloved in the
society of which he was a member; and many of the brotherhood, who had
laboured to disappoint his views, and to detect his errors, who hated
him for his pride, and envied him for his reputed sanctity, now gloried
in the mortification he had received, and endeavoured to turn the
circumstance to their own advantage. They had not scrupled already to
display by insinuation and pointed sneers, their triumph, and to menace
his reputation; and Schedoni, though he deserved contempt, was not of a
temper to endure it.

But above all, some hints respecting his past life, which had fallen
from Vivaldi, and which occasioned him so abruptly to leave the church,
alarmed him. So much terror, indeed, had they excited, that it is not
improbable that he would have sealed his secret in death, devoting
Vivaldi to the grave, had he not been restrained by the dreaded
vengeance of the Vivaldi family. Since that hour he had known no peace,
and had never slept; he had taken scarcely any food, and was almost
continually on his knees upon the steps of the high altar. The devotees
who beheld him, paused and admired; such of the brothers as disliked
him, sneered and passed on. Schedoni appeared alike insensible to each;
lost to this world, and preparing for a higher.

The torments of his mind and the severe penance he had observed, had
produced a surprising change in his appearance, so that he resembled
a spectre rather than a human being. His visage was wan and wasted,
his eyes were sunk and become nearly motionless, and his whole air and
attitudes exhibited the wild energy of something--not of this earth.

When he was summoned by the Marchesa, his conscience whispered this to
be the consequence of circumstances, which Vivaldi had revealed; and,
at first, he had determined not to attend her; but, considering that if
it was so, his refusal would confirm suspicion, he resolved to trust
once more to the subtilty of his address for deliverance.

With these apprehensions, tempered by this hope, he entered the
Marchesa's closet. She almost started on observing him, and could not
immediately withdraw her eyes from his altered visage, while Schedoni
was unable wholly to conceal the perturbation which such earnest
observation occasioned. "Peace rest with you, daughter!" said he, and
he seated himself, without lifting his eyes from the floor.

"I wished to speak with you, father, upon affairs of moment," said the
Marchesa gravely, "which are probably not unknown to you." She paused,
and Schedoni bowed his head, awaiting in anxious expectation what was
to follow.

"You are silent, father," resumed the Marchesa. "What am I to
understand by this?"

"That you have been misinformed," replied Schedoni, whose apt
confidence betrayed his discretion.

"Pardon me," said the Marchesa, "I am too well informed, and should not
have requested your visit if any doubt had remained upon my mind."

"Signora! be cautious of what you credit," said the confessor
imprudently; "you know not the consequence of a hasty credulity."

"Would that mine were a rash credulity!" replied the Marchesa; "but--we
are betrayed."

"_We?_" repeated the monk, beginning to revive: "What has happened?"

The Marchesa informed him of Vivaldi's absence, and inferred from its
length, for it was now several days since his departure, that he had
certainly discovered the place of Ellena's confinement, as well as the
authors of it.

Schedoni differed from her, but hinted, that the obedience of youth was
hopeless, unless severer measures were adopted.

"Severer!" exclaimed the Marchesa; "good father, is it not severe
enough to confine her for life?"

"I mean severer with respect to your son, lady," replied Schedoni.
"When a young man has so far overcome all reverence for an holy
ordinance as publicly to insult its professors, and yet more, when
that professor is in the very performance of his duties, it is time he
should be controlled with a strong hand. I am not in the practice of
advising such measures, but the conduct of Signor Vivaldi is such as
calls aloud for them. Public decency demands it. For myself, indeed, I
should have endured patiently the indignity which has been offered me,
receiving it as a salutary mortification, as one of those inflictions
that purify the soul from the pride which even the holiest men may
unconsciously cherish. But I am no longer permitted to consider myself;
the public good requires that an example should be made of the horrible
impiety of which your son, it grieves me, daughter, to disclose
it!--your son, unworthy of such a mother! has been guilty."

It is evident that in the style, at least, of this accusation, Schedoni
suffered the force of his resentment to prevail over the usual subtilty
of his address, the deep and smooth insinuation of his policy.

"To what do you allude, righteous father?" enquired the astonished
Marchesa; "what indignity, what impiety has my son to answer for? I
entreat you will speak explicitly, that I may prove I can lose the
mother in the strict severity of the judge."

"That is spoken with the grandeur of sentiment, which has always
distinguished you, my daughter! Strong minds perceive that justice is
the highest of the moral attributes, mercy is only the favourite of
weak ones."

Schedoni had a view in this commendation beyond that of confirming the
Marchesa's present resolution against Vivaldi. He wished to prepare
her for measures, which might hereafter be necessary to accomplish the
revenge he meditated, and he knew that by flattering her vanity, he
was most likely to succeed. He praised her, therefore, for qualities
he wished her to possess, encouraged her to reject general opinions by
admiring as the symptoms of a superior understanding, the convenient
morality upon which she had occasionally acted; and, calling sternness
justice, extolled that for strength of mind, which was only callous
insensibility.

He then described to her Vivaldi's late conduct in the church of the
_Spirito Santo_, exaggerated some offensive circumstances of it,
invented others, and formed of the whole an instance of monstrous
impiety and unprovoked insult.

The Marchesa listened to the relation with no less indignation than
surprize, and her readiness to adopt the confessor's advice allowed him
to depart with renovated spirits and most triumphant hopes.

Meanwhile, the Marchese remained ignorant of the subject of the
conference with Schedoni. His opinions had formerly been sounded, and
having been found decidedly against the dark policy it was thought
expedient to practise, he was never afterwards consulted respecting
Vivaldi. Parental anxiety and affection began to revive, as the
lengthened absence of his son was observed. Though jealous of his rank,
he loved Vivaldi; and, though he had never positively believed that
he designed to enter into a sacred engagement with a person, whom
the Marchese considered to be so much his inferior as Ellena, he had
suffered doubts, which gave him considerable uneasiness. The present
extraordinary absence of Vivaldi renewed his alarm. He apprehended
that if she was discovered at this moment, when the fear of losing
her for ever, and the exasperation, which such complicated opposition
occasioned, had awakened all the passions of his son, this rash
young man might be prevailed upon to secure her for his own by the
indissoluble vow. On the other hand, he dreaded the effect of Vivaldi's
despair, should he fail in the pursuit; and thus, fearing at one moment
that for which he wished in the next, the Marchese suffered a tumult of
mind inferior only to his son's.

The instructions, which he delivered to the servants whom he sent in
pursuit of Vivaldi, were given under such distraction of thought, that
scarcely any person perfectly understood his commission; and, as the
Marchesa had been careful to conceal from him her knowledge of Ellena's
abode, he gave no direction concerning the route to _San Stefano_.

While the Marchese at Naples was thus employed, and while Schedoni
was forming further plans against Ellena, Vivaldi was wandering from
village to village, and from town to town, in pursuit of her, whom all
his efforts had hitherto been unsuccessful to recover. From the people
at the post-house at Bracelli, he had obtained little information
that could direct him; they only knew that a carriage, such as had
been already described to Vivaldi, with the blinds drawn up, changed
horses there on the morning, which he remembered to be that of Ellena's
departure, and had proceeded on the road to Morgagni.

When Vivaldi arrived thither, all trace of Ellena was lost; the master
of the post could not recollect a single circumstance connected with
the travellers, and, even if he had noticed them, it would have been
insufficient for Vivaldi's purpose, unless he had also observed the
road they followed; for at this place several roads branched off into
opposite quarters of the country; Vivaldi, therefore, was reduced to
chuse one of these, as chance or fancy directed; and, as it appeared
probable that the Marchesa had conveyed Ellena to a convent, he
determined to make enquiries at every one on his way.

He had now passed over some of the wildest tracts of the Apennine,
among scenes, which seemed abandoned by civilized society to the
banditti who haunted their recesses. Yet even here amidst wilds that
were nearly inaccessible, convents, with each its small dependent
hamlet, were scattered, and, shrouded from the world by woods and
mountains, enjoyed unsuspectedly many of its luxuries, and displayed,
unnoticed, some of its elegance. Vivaldi, who had visited several of
these in search of Ellena, had been surprized at the refined courtesy
and hospitality with which he was received.

It was on the seventh day of his journey, and near sun-set, that he was
bewildered in the woods of Rugieri. He had received a direction for the
road he was to take at a village some leagues distant, and had obeyed
it confidently till now, when the path was lost in several tracts
that branched out among the trees. The day was closing, and Vivaldi's
spirits began to fail, but Paulo, light of heart and ever gay,
commended the shade and pleasant freshness of the woods, and observed,
that if his master did lose his way, and was obliged to remain here for
the night, it could not be so very unlucky, for they could climb up
among the branches of a chestnut, and find a more neat and airy lodging
than any inn had yet afforded them.

While Paulo was thus endeavouring to make the best of what might
happen, and his master was sunk in reverie, they suddenly heard the
sound of instruments and voices from a distance. The gloom, which
the trees threw around, prevented their distinguishing objects afar
off, and not a single human being was visible, nor any trace of his
art, beneath the shadowy scene. They listened to ascertain from
what direction the sounds approached, and heard a chorus of voices,
accompanied by a few instruments, performing the evening service.

"We are near a convent, Signor," said Paulo, "listen! they are at their
devotions."

"It is as you say," replied Vivaldi; "and we will make the best of our
way towards it."

"Well, Signor! I must say, if we find as good doings here as we had at
the Capuchin's, we shall have no reason to regret our beds _al-fresco_
among the chestnut branches."

"Do you perceive any walls or spires beyond the trees?" said Vivaldi,
as he led the way.

"None, Signor," replied Paulo; "yet we draw nearer the sounds. Ah,
Signor! do you hear that note? How it dies away! And those instruments
just touched in symphony! This is not the music of peasants; a convent
must be near, though we do not see it."

Still as they advanced, no walls appeared, and soon after the music
ceased; but other sounds led Vivaldi forward to a pleasant part of
the woods, where, the trees opening, he perceived a party of pilgrims
seated on the grass. They were laughing and conversing with much
gaiety, as each spread before him the supper, which he drew from his
scrip; while he, who appeared to be the _Father-director_ of the
pilgrimage, sat with a jovial countenance in the midst of the company,
dispensing jokes and merry stories, and receiving in return a tribute
from every scrip. Wines of various sorts were ranged before him, of
which he drank abundantly, and seemed not to refuse any dainty that was
offered.

Vivaldi, whose apprehensions were now quieted, stopped to observe the
group, at the evening rays, glancing along the skirts of the wood,
threw a gleam upon their various countenances, shewing, however, in
each a spirit of gaiety that might have characterized the individuals
of a party of pleasure, rather than those of a pilgrimage. The
_Father-director_ and his flock seemed perfectly to understand each
other; the Superior willingly resigned the solemn austerity of his
office, and permitted the company to make themselves as happy as
possible, in consideration of receiving plenty of the most delicate
of their viands; yet somewhat of dignity was mingled with his
condescensions, that compelled them to receive even his jokes with a
degree of deference, and perhaps they laughed at them less for their
spirit than because they were favors.

Addressing the superior, Vivaldi requested to be directed how he
might regain his way. The father examined him for a moment before he
replied, but observing the elegance of his dress, and a certain air
of distinction; and perceiving, also, that Paulo was his servant, he
promised his services, and invited him to take a seat at his right
hand, and partake of the supper.

Vivaldi, understanding that the party was going his road, accepted
the invitation, when Paulo, having fastened the horses to a tree,
soon became busy with the supper. While Vivaldi conversed with the
father, Paulo engrossed all the attention of the pilgrims near him;
they declared he was the cleverest and the merriest fellow they had
ever seen, and often expressed a wish that he was going as far with
them as to the shrine in a convent of Carmelites, which terminated
their pilgrimage. When Vivaldi understood that this shrine was in the
church of a convent, partly inhabited by nuns, and that it was little
more than a league and a half distant, he determined to accompany them,
for it was as possible that Ellena was confined there as in any other
cloister; and of her being imprisoned in some convent, he had less
doubt, the more he considered the character and views of his mother. He
set forward, therefore, with the pilgrims, and on foot, having resigned
his horse to the weary _Father-director_.

Darkness closed over them long before they reached the village where
they designed to pass the night; but they beguiled the way with songs
and stories, now and then, only, stopping at command of the Father, to
repeat some prayer or sing a hymn. But, as they drew near a village,
at the base of the mountain on which the shrine stood, they halted to
arrange themselves in procession; and the Superior having stopped
short in the midst of one of his best jokes, dismounted Vivaldi's
horse, placed himself at their head, and beginning a loud strain they
proceeded in full chorus of melancholy music.

The peasants, hearing their sonorous voices, came forth to meet and
conduct them to their cabins. The village was already crowded with
devotees, but these poor peasants, looking up to them with love and
reverence, made every possible contrivance to accommodate all who came;
notwithstanding which, when Paulo soon after turned into his bed of
straw, he had more reasons than one to regret his chestnut mattress.

Vivaldi passed an anxious night, waiting impatiently for the dawning
of that day, which might possibly restore to him Ellena. Considering
that a pilgrim's habit would not only conceal him from suspicion, but
allow him opportunities for observation, which his own dress would
not permit, he employed Paulo to provide him one. The address of the
servant, assisted by a single ducat, easily procured it, and at an
early hour he set forward on his enquiry.




CHAPTER XI.

  Bring roses, violets, and the cold snow-drop,
  Beautiful in tears, to strew the path-way
  Of our saintly sister.


A few devotees only had begun to ascend the mountain, and Vivaldi kept
aloof even from these, pursuing a lonely track, for his thoughtful mind
desired solitude. The early breeze sighing among the foliage, that
waved high over the path, and the hollow dashing of distant waters, he
listened to with complacency, for these were sounds which soothed yet
promoted his melancholy mood; and he sometimes rested to gaze upon the
scenery around him, for this too was in harmony with the temper of his
mind. Disappointment had subdued the wilder energy of the passions,
and produced a solemn and lofty state of feeling; he viewed with
pleasing sadness the dark rocks and precipices, the gloomy mountains
and vast solitudes, that spread around him; nor was the convent he was
approaching a less sacred feature of the scene, as its gray walks and
pinnacles appeared beyond the dusky groves. "Ah! if it should enclose
her!" said Vivaldi, as he caught a first glimpse of its hall. "Vain
hope! I will not invite your illusions again, I will not expose myself
to the agonies of new disappointment; I will search, but not expect.
Yet, if she should be there!"

Having reached the gates of the convent, he passed with hasty steps
into the court; where his emotion encreased as he paused a moment and
looked round its silent cloisters. The porter only appeared, when
Vivaldi, fearful lest he should perceive him not to be a pilgrim, drew
his hood over his face, and, gathering up his garments still closer in
his folded arms, passed on without speaking, though he knew not which
of the avenues before him led to the shrine. He advanced, however,
towards the church, a stately edifice, detached, and at some little
distance, from the other parts of the convent. Its highly vaulted
aisles, extending in twilight perspective, where a monk, or a pilgrim
only, now and then crossed, whose dark figures, passing without sound,
vanished like shadows; the universal stillness of the place, the gleam
of tapers from the high altar, and of lamps, which gave a gloomy pomp
to every shrine in the church:--all these circumstances conspired to
impress a sacred awe upon his heart.

He followed some devotees through a side aisle to a court, that was
overhung by a tremendous rock, in which was a cave, containing the
shrine of _our Lady of Mount Carmel_. This court was enclosed by the
rock, and by the choir of the church, except that to the south a small
opening led the eye to a glimpse of the landscape below, which, seen
beyond the dark jaws of the cliff, appeared free, and light, and gaily
coloured, melting away into the blue and distant mountains.

Vivaldi entered the cave, where, enclosed within a filigree screen of
gold, lay the image of the saint, decorated with flowers and lighted
up by innumerable lamps and tapers. The steps of the shrine were
thronged with kneeling pilgrims, and Vivaldi, to avoid singularity,
kneeled also; till a high peal of the organ, at a distance, and the
deep voices of choristers announced that the first mass was begun. He
left the cave, and, returning into the church, loitered at an extremity
of the aisles, where he listened awhile to the solemn harmony pealing
along the roofs, and softening away in distance. It was such full and
entrancing music as frequently swells in the high festivals of the
Sicilian church, and is adapted to inspire that sublime enthusiasm,
which sometimes elevates its disciples. Vivaldi, unable to endure long
the excess of feeling, which this harmony awakened, was leaving the
church, when suddenly it ceased, and the tolling of a bell sounded in
its stead. This seemed to be the knell of death, and it occurred to
him, that a dying person was approaching to receive the last sacrament;
when he heard remotely a warbling of female voices, mingling with the
deeper tones of the monks, and with the hollow note of the bell, as it
struck at intervals. So sweetly, so plaintively, did the strain grow
on the air, that those, who listened, as well as those, who sung, were
touched with sorrow, and seemed equally to mourn for a departing friend.

Vivaldi hastened to the choir, the pavement of which was strewn with
palm-branches and fresh flowers. A pall of black velvet lay upon the
steps of the altar, where several priests were silently attending.
Every where appeared the ensigns of solemn pomp and ceremony, and
in every countenance the stillness and observance of expectation.
Meanwhile the sounds drew nearer, and Vivaldi perceived a procession of
nuns approaching from a distant aisle.

As they advanced, he distinguished the lady abbess leading the train,
dressed in her pontifical robes, with the mitre on her head; and well
he marked her stately step, moving in time to the slow minstrelsy, and
the air of proud yet graceful dignity, with which she characterized
herself. Then followed the nuns, according to their several orders, and
last came the novices, carrying lighted tapers, and surrounded by other
nuns, who were distinguished by a particular habit.

Having reached a part of the church appropriated for their reception,
they arranged themselves in order. Vivaldi with a palpitating heart
enquired the occasion of this ceremony, and was told that a nun was
going to be professed.

"You are informed, no doubt, brother," added the prior who gave him
this intelligence, "that on the morning of our high festival, our
_lady_'s day, it is usual for such as devote themselves to heaven, to
receive the veil. Stand bye a while, and you will see the ceremony."

"What is the name of the novice who is now to receive it?" said
Vivaldi, in a voice whose tremulous accents betrayed his emotion.

The friar glanced an eye of scrutiny upon him, as he replied, "I know
not her name, but if you will step a little this way, I will point her
out to you."

Vivaldi, drawing his hood over his face, obeyed in silence.

"It is she on the right of the abbess," said the stranger, "who leans
on the arm of a nun, she is covered with a white veil, and is taller
than her companions."

Vivaldi observed her with a fearful eye, and though he did not
recognise the person of Ellena, yet, whether it was that his fancy was
possessed with her image, or that there was truth in his surmise, he
thought he perceived a resemblance of her. He enquired how long the
novice had resided in the convent, and many other particulars, to which
the stranger either could not or dared not reply.

With what anxious solicitude did Vivaldi endeavour to look through
the veils of the several nuns in search of Ellena, whom he believed
the barbarous policy of his mother might already have devoted to the
cloister! With a solicitude still stronger, he tried to catch a glimpse
of the features of the novices, but their faces were shaded by hoods,
and their white veils, though thrown half back, were disposed in such
artful folds that they concealed them from observation, as effectually
as did the pendant lawn the features of the nuns.

The ceremony began with the exhortation of the _Father-Abbot_,
delivered with solemn energy; then the novice kneeling before him, made
her profession, for which Vivaldi listened with intense attention, but
it was delivered in such low and trembling accents, that he could not
ascertain even the tone. But during the anthem that mingled with the
ensuing part of the service, he thought he distinguished the voice of
Ellena, that touching and well-known voice, which in the church of San
Lorenzo had first attracted his attention. He listened, scarcely daring
to draw breath, lest he should lose a note; and again he fancied her
voice spoke in a part of the plaintive response delivered by the nuns.

Vivaldi endeavoured to command his emotion, and to await with patience
some further unfolding of the truth; but when the priest prepared to
withdraw the white veil from the face of the novice, and throw the
black one over her, a dreadful expectation that she was Ellena seized
him, and he with difficulty forbore stepping forward and discovering
himself on the instant.

The veil was at length withdrawn, and a very lovely face appeared,
but not Ellena's. Vivaldi breathed again, and waited with tolerable
composure for the conclusion of the ceremony; till, in the solemn
strain that followed the putting on of the black veil, he heard again
the voice, which he was now convinced was her's. Its accents were low,
and mournful, and tremulous, yet his heart acknowledged instantaneously
their magic influence.

When this ceremony had concluded, another began; and he was told it was
that of a noviciation. A young woman, supported by two nuns, advanced
to the altar, and Vivaldi thought he beheld Ellena. The priest was
beginning the customary exhortation, when she lifted her half-veil,
and, shewing a countenance where meek sorrow was mingled with heavenly
sweetness, raised her blue eyes, all bathed in tears, and waved her
hand as if she would have spoken.--It was Ellena herself.

The priest attempted to proceed.

"I protest in the presence of this congregation," said she solemnly,
"that I am brought hither to pronounce vows which my heart disclaims. I
protest"----

A confusion of voices interrupted her, and at the same instant she
perceived Vivaldi rushing towards the altar. Ellena gazed for a moment,
and then, stretching forth her supplicating hands towards him, closed
her eyes, and sunk into the arms of some persons round her, who vainly
endeavoured to prevent him from approaching and assisting her. The
anguish, with which he bent over her lifeless form, and called upon her
name, excited the commiseration even of the nuns, and especially of
Olivia, who was most assiduous in efforts to revive her young friend.

When Ellena unclosed her eyes, and looking up, once more beheld
Vivaldi, the expression, with which she regarded him, told that her
heart was unchanged, and that she was unconscious of the miseries
of imprisonment while he was with her. She desired to withdraw, and,
assisted by Vivaldi and Olivia, was leaving the church, when the abbess
ordered that she should be attended by the nuns only; and, retiring
from the altar, she gave directions that the young stranger should be
conducted to the parlour of the convent.

Vivaldi, though he refused to obey an imperious command, yielded to
the entreaties of Ellena, and to the gentle remonstrances of Olivia;
and, bidding Ellena farewell for a while, he repaired to the parlour
of the abbess. He was not without some hope of awakening her to a
sense of justice, or of pity; but he found that her notions of right
were inexorably against him, and that pride and resentment usurped
the influence of every other feeling. She began her lecture with
expressing the warm friendship she had so long cherished for the
Marchesa, proceeded to lament that the son of a friend, whom she so
highly esteemed, should have forgotten his duty to his parents, and
the observance due to the dignity of his house, so far as to seek
connection with a person of Ellena di Rosalba's inferior station; and
concluded with a severe reprimand for having disturbed the tranquillity
of her convent and the decorum of the church by his intrusion.

Vivaldi listened with submitting patience to this mention of morals and
decorum from a person, who, with the most perfect self-applause, was
violating some of the plainest obligations of humanity and justice;
who had conspired to tear an orphan from her home, and who designed to
deprive her for life of liberty, with all the blessings it inherits.
But, when she proceeded to speak of Ellena with the caustic of severe
reprobation, and to hint at the punishment, which her public rejection
of the vows had incurred, the patience of Vivaldi submitted no longer;
indignation and contempt rose high against the Superior, and he
exhibited a portrait of herself in the strong colours of truth. But
the mind, which compassion could not persuade, reason could not appal;
selfishness had hardened it alike to the influence of each; her pride
only was affected, and she retaliated the mortification she suffered by
menace and denunciation.

Vivaldi, on quitting her apartment, had no other resource than an
application to the _Abate_, whose influence, at least, if not his
authority, might assuage the severity of her power. In this Abate,
a mildness of temper, and a gentleness of manner were qualities of
less value than is usually and deservedly imputed to them; for, being
connected with feebleness of mind, they were but the pleasing merits of
easy times, which in an hour of difficulty never assumed the character
of virtues, by inducing him to serve those, for whom he might feel. And
thus, with a temper and disposition directly opposite to those of the
severe and violent abbess, he was equally selfish, and almost equally
culpable, since by permitting evil, he was nearly as injurious in his
conduct as those who planned it. Indolence and timidity, a timidity
the consequence of want of clear perception, deprived him of all energy
of character; he was prudent rather than wise, and so fearful of being
thought to do wrong that he seldom did right.

To Vivaldi's temperate representations and earnest entreaties that he
would exert some authority towards liberating Ellena, he listened with
patience; acknowledged the hardships of her situation; lamented the
unhappy divisions between Vivaldi and his family, and then declined
advancing a single step in so delicate an affair. Signora di Rosalba,
he said, was in the care of the abbess, over whom he had no right of
control in matters relative to her domestic concerns. Vivaldi then
supplicated, that, though he possessed no authority, he would, at
least, intercede or remonstrate against so unjust a procedure as that
of detaining Ellena a prisoner, and assist in restoring her to the
home, from which she had been forcibly carried.

"And this, again," replied the Abate, "does not come within my
jurisdiction; and I make it a rule never to encroach upon that of
another person."

"And can you endure, holy father," said Vivaldi, "to witness a flagrant
act of injustice and not endeavour to counteract it? not even step
forward to rescue the victim when you perceive the preparation for the
sacrifice?"

"I repeat, that I never interfere with the authority of others,"
replied the Superior; "having asserted my own, I yield to them in their
sphere, the obedience which I require in mine."

"Is power then," said Vivaldi, "the infallible test of justice? Is it
morality to obey where the command is criminal? The whole world have a
claim upon the fortitude, the active fortitude of those who are placed
as you are, between the alternative of confirming a wrong by your
consent, or preventing it by your resistance. Would that your heart
expanded towards that world, reverend father!"

"Would that the whole world were wrong that you might have the glory
of setting it right!" said the Abate, smiling. "Young man! you are an
enthusiast, and I pardon you. You are a knight of chivalry, who would
go about the earth fighting with every body by way of proving your
right to do good; it is unfortunate that you are born somewhat too
late."

"Enthusiasm in the cause of humanity"-- said Vivaldi, but he checked
himself; and despairing of touching a heart so hardened by selfish
prudence, and indignant at beholding an apathy so vicious in its
consequence, he left the Abate without other effort. He perceived that
he must now have recourse to further stratagem, a recourse which
his frank and noble mind detested, but he had already tried, without
success, every other possibility of rescuing the innocent victim of the
Marchesa's prejudice and pride.

Ellena meanwhile had retired to her cell, agitated by a variety of
considerations, and contrary emotions, of which, however, those of joy
and tenderness were long predominant. Then came anxiety, apprehension,
pride, and doubt, to divide and torture her heart. It was true that
Vivaldi had discovered her prison, but, if it were possible, that he
could release her, she must consent to quit it with him; a step from
which a mind so tremblingly jealous of propriety as hers, recoiled
with alarm, though it would deliver her from captivity. And how, when
she considered the haughty character of the Marchese di Vivaldi, the
imperious and vindictive nature of the Marchesa, and, still more, their
united repugnance to a connection with her, how could she endure to
think, even for a moment, of intruding herself into such a family!
Pride, delicacy, good sense seemed to warn her against a conduct so
humiliating and vexatious in its consequences, and to exhort her
to preserve her own dignity by independence; but the esteem, the
friendship, the tender affection, which she had cherished for Vivaldi,
made her pause, and shrink with emotions, of little less than horror,
from the eternal renunciation, which so dignified a choice required.
Though the encouragement, which her deceased relative had given to
this attachment, seemed to impart to it a sacred character, that
considerably soothed the alarmed delicacy of Ellena, the approbation
thus implied, had no power to silence her own objections, and she would
have regretted the mistaken zeal, which had contributed to lead her
into the present distressing situation, had she revered the memory
of her aunt, or loved Vivaldi, less. Still, however, the joy, which
his presence had occasioned, and which the consciousness that he was
still near her had prolonged, was not subdued, though it was frequently
obscured, by such anxious considerations. With jealous and indiscreet
solicitude, she now recollected every look, and the accent of every
word, which had told that his affection was undiminished, thus seeking,
with inconsistent zeal, for a conviction of the very tenderness, which
but a moment before she had thought it would be prudent to lament, and
almost necessary to renounce.

She awaited with extreme anxiety the appearance of Olivia, who might
probably know the result of Vivaldi's conference with the abbess, and
whether he was yet in the convent.

In the evening Olivia came, a messenger of evil; and Ellena, informed
of the conduct of the abbess, and the consequent departure of Vivaldi,
perceived all her courage, and all the half-formed resolutions, which
a consideration of his family had suggested, faulter and expire.
Sensible only of grief and despondency, she ascertained, for the first
time, the extent of her affection and the severity of her situation.
She perceived, also, that the injustice, which his family had exercised
towards her, absolved her from all consideration of their displeasure,
otherwise than as it might affect herself; but this was a conviction,
which it were now probably useless to admit.

Olivia not only expressed the tenderest interest in her welfare, but
seemed deeply affected with her situation; and, whether it was that the
nun's misfortunes bore some resemblance to Ellena's, or from whatever
cause, it is remarkable that her eyes were often filled with tears,
while she regarded her young friend, and she betrayed so much emotion
that Ellena noticed it with surprise. She was, however, too delicate
to hint any curiosity on the subject; and too much engaged by a nearer
interest, to dwell long upon the circumstance.

When Olivia withdrew, Ellena retired to her turret, to soothe her
spirits with a view of serene and majestic nature, a recourse which
seldom failed to elevate her mind and soften the asperities of
affliction. It was to her like sweet and solemn music, breathing peace
over the soul--like the oaten stop of Milton's Spirit,

  "Who with his soft pipe, and smooth-dittied song,
  Well knew to still the wild winds when they roar
  And hush the waving woods."

While she sat before a window, observing the evening light beaming up
the valley, and touching all the distant mountains with misty purple,
a reed as sweet, though not as fanciful, sounded from among the rocks
below. The instrument and the character of the strain were such as she
had been unaccustomed to hear within the walls of San Stefano, and the
tone diffused over her spirits a pleasing melancholy, that rapt all her
attention. The liquid cadence, as it trembled and sunk away, seemed to
tell the dejection of no vulgar feelings, and the exquisite taste,
with which the complaining notes were again swelled, almost convinced
her, that the musician was Vivaldi.

On looking from the lattice, she perceived a person perched on a point
of the cliff below, whither it appeared almost impracticable for any
human step to have climbed, and preserved from the precipice only by
some dwarf shrubs that fringed the brow. The twilight did not permit
her immediately to ascertain whether it was Vivaldi, and the situation
was so dangerous that she hoped it was not he. Her doubts were removed,
when, looking up, he perceived Ellena, and she heard his voice.

Vivaldi had learned from a lay-brother of the convent, whom Paulo had
bribed, and who, when he worked in the garden, had sometimes seen
Ellena at the window, that she frequented this remote turret; and, at
the hazard of his life, he had now ventured thither, with a hope of
conversing with her.

Ellena, alarmed at his tremendous situation, refused to listen to
him, but he would not leave the spot till he had communicated a plan
concerted for her escape, and, entreating that she would confide
herself to his care, assured her she would be conducted wherever she
judged proper. It appeared that the brother had consented to assist his
views, in consideration of an ample reward, and to admit him within
the walls on this evening, when, in his pilgrim's habit, he might have
an opportunity of again seeing Ellena. He conjured her to attend, if
possible, in the convent parlour during supper, explaining, in a few
words, the motive for this request, and the substance of the following
particulars:

The Lady-abbess, in observance of the custom upon high festivals,
gave a collation to the _Padre-abate_, and such of the priests as
had assisted at the vesper service. A few strangers of distinction
and pilgrims were also to partake of the entertainments of this
night, among which was included a concert to be performed by the
nuns. At the collation was to be displayed a profusion of delicacies,
arranged by the sisters, who had been busy in preparing the pastry and
confectionary during several days, and who excelled in these articles
no less than in embroidery and other ingenious arts. This supper was
to be given in the abbess's outer parlour, while she herself, attended
by some nuns of high rank, and a few favourites, was to have a table
in the inner apartment, where, separated only by the grate, she could
partake of the conversation of the holy fathers. The tables were to be
ornamented with artificial flowers, and a variety of other fanciful
devices upon which the ingenuity of the sisters had been long employed,
who prepared for these festivals with as much vanity, and expected them
to dissipate the gloomy monotony of their usual life, with as much
eagerness of delight, as a young beauty anticipated a first ball.

On this evening, therefore, every member of the convent would be
engaged either by amusement or business, and to Vivaldi, who had been
careful to inform himself of these circumstances, it would be easy,
with the assistance of the brother, to obtain admittance, and mingle
himself among the spectators, disguised in his pilgrim's habit. He
entreated, therefore, that Ellena would contrive to be in the abbess's
apartment this evening, when he would endeavour to convey to her
some further particulars of the plan of escape, and would have mules
in waiting at the foot of the mountain, to conduct her to the villa
Altieri, or to the neighbouring convent of the Santa della Pieta.
Vivaldi secretly hoped that she might be prevailed with to give him her
hand on quitting San Stefano, but he forbore to mention this hope, lest
it should be mistaken for a condition, and that Ellena might be either
reluctant to accept his assistance, or, accepting it, might consider
herself bound to grant a hasty consent.

To his mention of escape she listened with varying emotion; at one
moment attending to it with hope and joy, as promising her only chance
of liberation from an imprisonment, which was probably intended to
last for her life, and of restoring her to Vivaldi; and at another,
recoiling from the thought of departing with him, while his family was
so decidedly averse to their marriage. Thus, unable to form any instant
resolution on the subject, and entreating that he would leave his
dangerous station before the thickening twilight should encrease the
hazard of his descent, Ellena added, that she would endeavour to obtain
admittance to the apartment of the abbess, and to acquaint him with
her final determination. Vivaldi understood all the delicacy of her
scruples, and though they afflicted him, he honoured the good sense
and just pride that suggested them.

He lingered on the rock till the last moments of departing light,
and then, with a heart fluttering with hopes and fears, bade Ellena
farewel, and descended; while she watched his progress through the
silent gloom, faintly distinguishing him gliding along ledges of the
precipice, and making his adventurous way from cliff to cliff, till
the winding thickets concealed him from her view. Still anxious, she
remained at the lattice, but he appeared no more; no voice announced
disaster; and, at length, she returned to her cell, to deliberate on
the subject of her departure.

Her considerations were interrupted by Olivia, whose manner indicated
something extraordinary; the usual tranquillity of her countenance was
gone, and an air of grief mingled with apprehension appeared there.
Before she spoke, she examined the passage and looked round the cell.
"It is as I feared," said she abruptly; "my suspicions are justified,
and you, my child, are sacrificed, unless it were possible for you to
quit the convent this night."

"What is it that you mean?" said the alarmed Ellena.

"I have just learned," resumed the nun, "that your conduct this
morning, which is understood to have thrown a premeditated insult upon
the abbess, is to be punished with what they _call_ imprisonment; alas!
why should I soften the truth,--with what I believe is death itself,
for who ever returned alive from that hideous chamber!"

"With death!" said Ellena, aghast; "Oh, heavens! how have I deserved
death?"

"That is not the question, my daughter, but how you may avoid it.
Within the deepest recesses of our convent, is a stone chamber, secured
by doors of iron, to which such of the sisterhood as have been guilty
of any heinous offence have, from time to time, been consigned.
This condemnation admits of no reprieve; the unfortunate captive is
left to languish in chains and darkness, receiving only an allowance
of bread and water just sufficient to prolong her sufferings, till
nature, at length, sinking under their intolerable pressure, obtains
refuge in death. Our records relate several instances of such horrible
punishment, which has generally been inflicted upon nuns, who, weary
of the life which they have chosen under the first delusions of the
imagination, or which they have been compelled to accept by the rigour
or avarice of parents, have been detected in escaping from the convent."

The nun paused, but Ellena remaining wrapt in silent thought, she
resumed: "One miserable instance of this severity has occurred within
my memory. I saw the wretched victim enter that apartment--never more
to quit it alive! I saw, also, her poor remains laid at rest in the
convent garden! During nearly two years she languished upon a bed of
straw, denied even the poor consolation of conversing through the grate
with such of the sisters as pitied her; and who of us was there that
did not pity her! A severe punishment was threatened to those, who
should approach with any compassionate intention; thank God! I incurred
it, and I endured it, also, with secret triumph."

A gleam of satisfaction passed over Olivia's countenance as she spoke
this; it was the sweetest that Ellena had ever observed there. With a
sympathetic emotion, she threw herself on the bosom of the nun, and
wept; for some moments they were both silent. Olivia, at length said,
"Do you not believe, my child, that the officious and offended abbess
will readily seize upon the circumstance of your disobedience, as a
pretence for confining you in that fatal chamber? The wishes of the
Marchesa will thus surely be accomplished, without the difficulty of
exacting your obedience to the vows. Alas! I have received proof too
absolute of her intention, and that to-morrow is assigned as the day
of your sacrifice; you may, perhaps, be thankful that the business of
the festival has obliged her to defer executing the sentence even till
to-morrow."

Ellena replied only with a groan, as her head still drooped upon the
shoulder of the nun; she was not now hesitating whether to accept the
assistance of Vivaldi, but desponding lest his utmost efforts for her
deliverance should be vain.

Olivia, who mistook the cause of her silence, added, "Other hints I
could give, which are strong as they are dreadful, but I will forbear.
Tell me how it is possible I may assist you; I am willing to incur a
second punishment, in endeavouring to relieve a second sufferer."

Ellena's tears flowed fast at this new instance of the nun's
generosity. "But if they should discover you in assisting me to leave
the convent," she said, in a voice convulsed by her gratitude,--"O! if
they should discover you!"----

"I can ascertain the punishment," Olivia replied with firmness, "and do
not fear to meet it."

"How nobly generous this is!" said the weeping Ellena; "I ought not to
suffer you to be thus careless of yourself!"

"My conduct is not wholly disinterested," the nun modestly replied;
"for I think I could endure any punishment with more fortitude than the
sickening anguish of beholding such suffering as I have witnessed. What
are bodily pains in comparison with the subtle, the exquisite tortures
of the mind! Heaven knows I can support my own afflictions, but not
the view of those of others when they are excessive. The instruments
of torture I believe I could endure, if my spirit was invigorated with
the consciousness of a generous purpose; but pity touches upon a nerve
that vibrates instantly to the heart, and subdues resistance. Yes,
my child, the agony of pity is keener than any other, except that of
remorse, and even in remorse, it is, perhaps, the mingling unavailing
pity, that points the sting. But, while I am indulging this egotism, I
am, perhaps, increasing your danger of the suffering I deprecate."

Ellena, thus encouraged by the generous sympathy of Olivia, mentioned
Vivaldi's purposed visit of this evening; and consulted with her on
the probability of procuring admittance for herself to the abbess's
parlour. Reanimated by this intelligence, Olivia advised her to repair
not only to the supper-room, but to attend the previous concert, to
which several strangers would be admitted, among whom might probably
be Vivaldi. When to this, Ellena objected her dread of the abbess's
observation, and of the immediate seclusion that would follow, Olivia
soothed her fears of discovery, by offering her the disguise of a
nun's veil, and promising not only to conduct her to the apartment, but
to afford her every possible assistance towards her escape.

"Among the crowd of nuns, who will attend in that spacious apartment,"
Olivia added, "it is improbable you would be distinguished, even if the
sisters were less occupied by amusement, and the abbess were at leisure
to scrutinize. As it is, you will hazard little danger of discovery;
the Superior, if she thinks of you at all, will believe that you are
still a prisoner in your cell, but this is an evening of too much
importance to her vanity, for any consideration, distinct from that
emotion, to divide her attention. Let hope, therefore, support you, my
child, and do you prepare a few lines to acquaint Vivaldi with your
consent to his proposal, and with the urgency of your circumstances;
you may, perhaps, find an opportunity of conveying them through the
grate."

They were still conversing on this subject, when a particular chime
sounded, which Olivia said summoned the nuns to the concert-room; and
she immediately hastened for a black veil, while Ellena wrote the few
lines that were necessary for Vivaldi.


  END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE


Period spelling has been generally retained; however, where the text
contained a word spelt in two different ways, the more familiar variant
has been preferred. Hyphenation is inconsistent throughout.





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