# The Midnight Bell/Volume I/Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.
Ah me! for aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth; But either it was different in blood, Or else misgrafted in respect of years; Or else it stood upon the choice of friends; Or if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream: Brief as the lightning in the collied night, That in a spleen unfolds both heaven and earth; And, ere a man hath pow'r to say—"Behold!" The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick, bright things come to confusion.
A Midsummer's Night Dream
When the friar had given the necessary orders, and made the proper arrangements for the funeral of the baron, he thus addressed Alphonsus,—"Young man, you seem greatly interested in the fate of the baron."
Alphonsus wept bitterly. Every added pang of sorrow deeply lacerates a grief-worn heart. "I have lost my only friend!" he cried.
"Do not despair," returned the friar: "the deceased baron has recommended you to my notice:—I will find some means of providing for your future life, be assured."
These words were balm to the wounded breast of Alphonsus.
"farewell," continued the holy man: "place your confidence in the will of heaven to repair your loss, and be comforted; I will be here again to-morrow."—So saying he departed.
On the following day Alphonsus found himself more composed, and at the appointed hour father Matthias arrived.
"Good-morrow to thee, youth."
"The same to thee, good father."
"You have been much in my thoughts since we last parted. To every one the promise made to a dying man should be sacred, particularly to those of our order. I promised the late baron that I would see you provided for,—I have been revolving my mind the means, and I think I have found them: I myself act as a confessor to the convent of Saint Helena, about a league from hence; their sacristan has been dead about a fortnight, and they have not replaced him:—should you like to become his successor?"
Alphonsus readily accepted the offer; and having heaved a farewell sigh over the body of his rash master, the friar undertook to conduct him that evening to the convent, and at the appointed time they set out together.
The convent of Saint Helena was a large and ancient edifice; its ivy-grown towers indicated its antiquity, and the figures carved on its walls bespoke the superstition they enclosed.
The friar opened a small door near the chapel, of which he usually carried the key, and admitted Alphonsus into an enclosed cloister, which led immediately to his apartments; thence a door opened into the hall of the convent: it was spacious,—at the angles were passages leading to the cells of the nuns; and in front, a wide stair-case conducting to the upper range of cells. The apartment in which the lady abbess usually sat, opened into the hall; the friar entered it, and bade Alphonsus follow him: the abbess was alone; father Matthias informed her who the youth was, and she received him graciously. Some conversation then passed between her and the friar in low voices, after which she spoke to Alphonsus, telling him, that, as he was unacquainted with the duties of his office, the porteress should accompany and instruct him in them for the first three or four days and nights; she then, after some farther conversation on the same subject, and exhorting him to be peculiarly diligent in his office, rang her bell; and the porteress attending her summons, she was told that Alphonsus came to succeed the late sacristan, was ordered to show him his apartment, and to give him the necessary instructions. Alphonsus followed her out of the room.
The porteress was about fifty years of age; she was deformed, of a tart humour, and an incessant prattler. "Come, follow me," said she, as soon as the door was closed: "I'll show you your room in a minute; and a good comfortable one it is.—Oh! bow to the cross, young man, bow to the cross." Alphonsus looked up, and perceived one fastened over the arch under which they were passing; he obeyed Perilla's commands, and she continued, "Aye, you'll learn all our ways in time,—you'll have a fine, easy, happy life of it, I'll assure you:—let me see,—vespers are just over; at eight you must ring the bell, and prepare the chapel for prayers before going to bed; then again at twelve, for the midnight prayers; then at six, for matins; and at ten, for mass; and at four, for vespers; and that's all you have to do, except helping me to sweep the chapel, and keeping clean the ornaments; and all the rest of your time is your own."
They had by this time arrived at the apartment appropriated to the use of the sacristan. "There," cried she, throwing open the door, you'll live like a prince; father Matthias's rooms are on that side of you, and there is mine;"—pointing to the other side;—"and this," opening a door facing them, "is your way into the chapel; and you must take care that those tapers on the altar never go out; and when they are nearly done, come to me for some more; and now I think I have told you all, so you may come and sit with me till evening prayers if you like it." She proceeded, and he followed her into her apartment.
Perilla had yet a little taste for the world, though she had been thirty years removed from it, and now expected to hear much news of it, from her new acquaintance; but Alphonsus was the worst subject she could have met with for gratifying her wishes: she thought it might proceed from reserve and modesty, as being with a stranger, and immediately began to set him the example of communication, by relating to him various anecdotes of the nuns; at last, interrupting herself,—"There," said she, "the sand is just out, go, and ring the chapel bell.—Oh, here! but stay, stay, put on your surplice,—it is rather too tight about the neck, but we'll get you a new one;—come."
She proceeded into the chapel, and Alphonsus, according to her directions, tolled a certain number of strokes on the bell. "Now follow me," she again cried, and Alphonsus obeyed:—they crossed the chapel. "Here at this door the nuns come in; now you must take that basin of holy water, and hold it for them to dip their fingers into, to cross their foreheads, and keep them from the influence of the devil while they are at prayers. I'll light the candles at the altar for you, but you must do all yourself another time."
The nuns entered one by one, and throwing up their veils as they approached the hallowed ground, dipped each a finger in the vase which Alphonsus held. As soon as the nuns were all come in, the porteress beckoned Alphonsus to follow her once more; they passed behind the altar, and she instructed him, that he must now assist father Matthias in putting on his sacerdotal robes. Prayers were then chanted by the friar: the nuns joined him, and having sung an evening hymn, received his benediction, and retired to their cells.
Alphonsus then, according to the directions of the porteress, put out all candles, save the two never-to-be extinguished lights; and having locked the chapel doors, again accompanied Perilla to her apartment, where they supped. In a short time, "Come," said she, "father Matthias is in bed: you must go too." So saying, she gave him a lamp, and attended him to his chamber door, saying, "Good night, remember to wake at twelve."
Alphonsus slept not; he feared being found negligent in his office on the first trial, and only threw himself on the bed. Perilla's loud suspiration, however, soon convinced him that she had done otherwise; nevertheless at a few minutes before twelve she awoke, came to his chamber door, and warned him it was time to ring the bell.
The same ceremonies were repeated as before, and Alphonsus on their conclusion ventured to enter his bed; reflection, and the novelty of his situation, however, suffered him not to sleep soundly,—and when he heard Perilla again moving about, he arose and met her at the chamber door. Matins were chanted, and the nuns departed as before. "Now," said Perilla, "we must not go to bed any more; it is our duty to sweep the chapel." She then showed him what was required of him to perform, and afterwards set about her own employments.
Alphonsus was as much pleased with his situation as any line of life could, in his present state of mind, have rendered him; it afforded him shelter from a pitiless world, and he was satisfied. Custom quickly reconciled him to the hours of rising; and he even, in a short time, found little need to consult the hour-glass with which Perilla had provided him. The abbess was pleased with his conduct. Father Matthias paid him much attention; he discovered his mind to be informed above his rank in life: he hinted his suspicions to Alphonsus, who confessed their truth, but instantly declared the silence he wished to maintain. The holy father commiserated his lot; he supplied him with books to sooth his leisure hours, and, when his avocation permitted it, gave him his own society.
In the convent of Saint Helena were twenty-six nuns and ten novices; amongst the latter there was one named Lauretta, whose beautifully pensive countenance never failed to arrest the eyes of Alphonsus, as he held the vase of consecrated water. Had he known what love was, he would have felt that she had inspired him with the soft passion: her appearance gladdened his heart, and her departure from the chapel made him only wish for the hour of her return.
About six months after Alphonsus had become an inmate of the convent, as he was one day conversing familiarly with father Matthias, he ventured to inquire of him, who the young novice was that had so forcibly attracted his regard. "Ah! poor child!" said the holy man, "the lady abbess and myself are alone entrusted with the history of her birth; but as I think, from many instances of your conduct that have fallen under my eye, I may venture to trust you with her story, you shall hear it."
Alphonsus bowed acknowledgment for the compliment paid him by the holy man, who thus began:—
"It is now full seventeen years, since, one wet and stormy evening towards the end of December, a faint knock, twice repeated in a short space of time, called the porteress to the grate of the convent; a soft voice entreated shelter from the storm, and mentioned the name of our lady abbess: the porteress opened the gate; and a slender figure, a youth as she imagined, clad in the habit of a pilgrim, entered, leaning on a staff; the porteress closed the gate, and having conducted the supposed youth into the apartment of the abbess, the stranger had scarcely uttered, 'Oh! protect a suffering woman!' ere she sunk at the feet of the lady abbess.
"Exhausted by fatigue, and benumbed by the keenness of the element, the stranger was with difficulty recovered from the fainting fit into which she had fallen: after some time she drank a cup of balsamic cordial, administered to her by the abbess; and a flood of tears proceeding from the joy she felt, on the assurance given her of experiencing that asylum for which she supplicated, eased her full heart. After eating sparingly of the meal that had been set before her, she begged leave to retire to rest, unable to explain that night the mystery which accompanied her arrival in a male habit.
"On the following day she was much recovered from her fatigue, and her entreaties were earnestly made to the abbess not to deliver her up to any one who might demand her.
"The abbess promised her the full protection of the church and perceiving that she was still weak and ill, forbore to put to her any inquiries.
"In a few days she was much mended; but a deep melancholy, at times approaching to frenzy, clouded her mind; voluntarily, however, she communicated to the lady abbess and myself her afflictions; she afterwards (for she delighted to dwell on her sorrows) wrote down her little history, and presented me with it: there it is, I trust to your discretion not to reveal it out of the convent; peruse it whilst I go and pray by the sick sister, Velina."
Alphonsus promised strict secrecy, and receiving the manuscript from the hand of the friar, retired with it to his own apartment.
Lauretta's Story.
"My name is Lauretta. I am the only daughter of count Arieno, resident near Venice; my mother died on the same day on which I was born; I had a fortune equal to my birth, and many were the suitors for my hand, more of whom I believe were swayed by interest than by any attachment to my person: at length, chance threw in my way count Frederic Cohenburg, a noble Saxon by birth, whom, were I to describe him to you as my burning fancy now paints him to my eyes, you would conceive to have surpassed his sex beyond the limits nature has prescribed; suffice it to say, I thought him all perfection.
"At first, I vainly imagined that the deference I paid him, proceeded only from my consciousness of his merit; and so far from being singular in my attentions to him, I should have been an exception to the females with whom I associated, not to have treated him as I did. But alas! I soon found that my regard proceeded from a softer motive, and I quickly perceived that I adored what others but approved.
"The infancy of love is too sweet to be easily shaken off:—at that delightful period, how little are we aware of the many anxious moments its maturity brings upon us!—fatal enchantment! how severe a scourge hast thou proved to me through life!
"A mutual affection glowed in our congenial breasts; I listened to his vows with rapture, and he heard my promises of constancy with equal delight.
"But an obstacle, to which the eyes of lovers are seldom open, had planted a hedge of thorns across the path which I vainly imagined was conducting me to the summit of earthly happiness.
"The only wealth which true love looks for, is an ardent return of affection: in that no one was more rich than my Frederic;—my father, who weighed merit only by wealth, had destined me for the wife of count Byroff, a nobleman of immense property, at that time on his travels; and he commanded me to check a passion grown too incorporate with my blood to hope a cure; nor did I endeavour to effect it; I would sooner have given up life, than to have lived and ceased to love my Frederic. His visits were now interdicted, on pain of my being immediately sent to a convent, if he was again seen with me.—How feelingly did I then taste that the bitters of love are more poignant than its sweets! Still had I not resolution to shake off my cause of sorrow.—If the idea for a moment entered my harassed brain, it was outweighed by the consideration that the uncertain wheel of fortune might one day turn in my favour, and give me to enjoy my Frederic's love without alloy.
"At length I contrived by stealth to meet him in the garden of my father's sister:—how did the sight of him rekindle the smothered flame!—I again vowed fidelity to him, and imprecated heavy curses on myself, if ever I swerved from the oath I had taken to be his only, and for ever.
"Not long after this, I was one day sitting alone in my chamber, ruminating on my hard fate, and bedewing with my tears a letter I had privately received from count Frederic, replete with vows, which, though often repeated, were still new and dear to me, when my father entered the apartment, and informed me that count Byroff was returned to Venice.—How shall I describe to you the pangs that at that moment rent my heart?—how relate to you the tide of grief which burst its way through my swollen eyes?—But I will leave it to be pictured in your susceptible breast.
"Had not the fullness of my heart sealed my lips, the too certain knowledge of my sentence having proceeded from a mouth whence there was no appeal, would have prevented my giving utterance to ineffectual remonstrances.
"In the evening of that day, my destined spouse waited on my father;—I was summoned to appear;—he rose and took my hand as I entered the apartment; I cast my eyes upon the ground; I could not bear to encounter those of a man whom I considered as the bane of my future peace.—I must, however, in justice to him, say, that, save only one, I never knew a man better calculated to make a woman happy; his address was easy and elegant; his manners conciliating; his person handsome, and his mind well stored with polite and useful learning. He was a man that, had he been my brother, I could have revered him; as it was, in spite of me, I respected him; but with how widely different a passion did he wish to inspire me! and in how mild, how gentle terms did he complain of that coldness with which I treated him! So far did his noble spirit win upon me, that many times I formed the determination of disclosing to him the fatal secret of my heart, and entreating his pity.—Oh, ye powers! why did ye not whisper to my labouring breast the many hours of anguish this confession would have spared me, and the horrid deed that then had never been committed?
"At length the day I long had dreaded was fixed upon; and notice was given me the preceding evening, that I was, on the morning of the following day, to accompany count Byroff to the altar.—I fell at my father's feet, and, clasping his knees, conjured him to have pity on me; I endeavoured by the arguments of reason to convince him of the impropriety and cruelty of his commands: I besought him not to harden his heart against the entreaties of an only child; I represented to him the remorse of conscience my future misery would occasion him, when he considered that he alone had brought it upon me. But his ear was deaf to every voice save that of interest, and casting me from him, he exclaimed, 'Obey my commands, or cease to be my daughter;' and, with a frown that pierced me to the heart, left the apartment.—Exhausted with weeping, I sunk into a fainting fit, which lasted some time; as soon as my strength began to return, I took my woman, and, leaning on her arm, repaired to my aunt's, where I had before met Frederic; I informed her of all that had happened—she sympathised in my distress, but being entirely dependent on my father, durst not exert herself in my behalf; I entreated her to send in search of Frederic: she did so.—After two hours passed in tedious expectation, the messenger returned and informed us that he was not in Venice; he had been absent from it some days on urgent business, but was shortly expected to return.
"My aunt promised to send early in the morning, to inquire whether he was arrived, and if he was, to let me know immediately.
"I returned home like a malefactor, who, knowing his doom to be inevitable, makes no resistance when led to the stake.
"Entering my father's house, I passed quickly to my chamber, and throwing myself upon a couch, I again gave fresh vent to my tears.—My woman was afflicted at my distress; she had been my constant companion since the death of my mother; she loved, and endeavoured to comfort me: but alas! how vain were her counsels! she could only recommend resignation, where it was no virtue, and teach me to hope for that interposition of providence, which it refused to grant me.
"When I became somewhat composed, I began to reason with myself.—'Shall I,' said I, 'quit my father's house, and fly to Frederic?—surely he will receive me with joy, with rapture!'—I reflected a moment; I had been told that men were false, inconstant, and cruel; that those they professed to love in prosperity, were disregarded by them in adversity.—'Surely,' cried I, 'Frederic is not one of those!—oh no! what promises has he not made me!—what sacred oaths of fidelity has he not taken!—I will fly to him; he will meet me with transport.'—I sprang from the couch in ecstasy, and walked wildly about the chamber; when, oh cruel reflection! I at that instant remembered somewhere to have read, I know not where, that lovers' vows are made only to be broken.—'Oh heavens! should Frederic think thus,' I exclaimed; 'for who that has ever loved, but has sighed and sworn as he has done?—And shall I then throw myself upon him, to be accounted a burden by him? perhaps upbraided for my love?—Oh credulity! bane of our sex! why have I so long been thy dupe?'—In a brain harassed as mine then was, any idea, however romantic, is easily admitted; and, half frantic, I loaded the faithful youth with every objurgation my rent heart suggested.
"I fear you will upbraid me with ingratitude, suspicion, and cowardice of nature; I confess to you, I seem to merit the reproach; but the torture of mind I then endured, may well apologise for my strange, and seemingly ungrateful, conduct.
"The thought of my lover's infidelity once admitted, I became more calm; I considered that if the vows of love were disregarded by those who were not compelled to break them, how innocent should I be, whom my relentless fates conspired to force unto it!—I even became in part reconciled to my approaching marriage.—You will marvel at my words:—but put yourself in my situation; conceive but for an instant the distracting thought of being abandoned, if not cursed, by a father; perhaps disregarded by the man to whom you should fly for protection; cast friendless upon an unpitying and prejudiced world: and the idea of giving your hand to a man whom you had already begun to esteem, will not appear in so dark colours as you may perhaps have drawn it.
"I did not retire to rest that night: early in the morning, my aunt sent to inform me that Frederic was not returned. 'It is well!' I cried; 'too sure he has forgotten me. Oh cruel, cruel Frederic! are these thy vows? is this thy boasted constancy?' All the pleasing scenes of future bliss I had once vainly flattered myself I should enjoy with my Frederic, now recurred to my imagination; and, in spite of my efforts to coerce them, a flood of tears again burst from me. I continued weeping till my father entered my chamber, and summoned me to attend count Byroff to the altar. 'To be for ever parted from my Frederic!' returned my heart. All my resolution again failed me, and I should have sunk senseless at my father's feet, had not the voice of count Byroff, inquiring for me in the tenderest accents, met my ear, and roused me from my lethargy of grief. He took my hand within his—it trembled excessively—he mistook the reluctance with which I suffered him to take it, for virgin bashfulness, and encouraged me with the most soothing expressions of affection.—We entered the chapel, and I returned from it a wife.
"My doom once fixed, my heart seemed lightened of a heavy weight of anxiety, and I considered it as vain to afflict myself concerning a sentence which was now irrevocably fixed.
"The day was spent in festivity, and I constrained myself to appear cheerful; the awe in which I stood of my father caused me to wear a smile on my lips, whilst I could not forbear heaving a sigh unheard for Frederic.
"Innumerable were the gifts made me on that day by all my relations: count Byroff presented me with jewels to a vast amount, and many articles of dress not less costly in their kind: even my father's natural parsimony seemed relaxed; for he bestowed on me a valuable string of pearls, the only ornament I now possess, and which, notwithstanding his unrelenting cruelty, I still hold dear and sacred, in memory of him who gave it. Never did woman pass a less joyful bridal day than myself: when the bustle of festivity was subsided, and night again brought opportunity for reflection, I strongly felt that my love for Frederic had lost no ground in my heart.
"In the morning, my kind aunt visited me: I inquired eagerly after count Frederic;—he was not returned.
"In spite of my exertions to appear lively, I was depressed: count Byroff left no means untried to amuse, and render me cheerful. My father, who well knew the cause of my melancholy, let not the first opportunity slip of warning me to beware of raising his anger to a higher pitch than I already had done.
"About a month after my marriage, my most earnest wishes were crowned with success; my aunt informed me, that Frederic was returned, and half frantic at the intelligence she had given him. My father was luckily from home;—I immediately flew to my aunt's, where I once again beheld my only love. But oh! never was the parting of the most faithful lovers, doomed to weep away a sad and solitary life within monastic walls, more truly affecting than our meeting: my ardent lover gazed at me with a look of sorrow, that penetrated to my inmost soul; my heart shed tears of blood, and, in an agony of grief, I fainted in his arms. On recovering my senses, I entreated him to forgive the rash act into which I had been hurried by the threats of a cruel father, and the vain distrust of my own harassed mind: I besought him to pity me; nay, even more, to love me. Yes, I charged him to love me still, as I still loved him. Do not, I beseech you, misconstrue the meaning of these words, nor suppose me now a penitent for a crime which, the Supreme of all is witness, was far from my thoughts: my fates, cruel and relentless as they have been, were however satisfied with the resignation of my peace, and spared me the additional sacrifice of my virtue.
"Oh, Frederic! if some bright star thou reignest on high in yon exalted firmament, look down upon thy faithful Lauretta, faithful to thee, even in death, and witness for me the purity of a heart burnt up by love's devouring fire, yet never swerving from the rules of fairest virtue!
"I continued for some time constantly to meet Frederic at the house of my indulgent aunt, until some circumstances, however trivial in themselves, conspired to inform me that our meetings were discovered. I accordingly forebore to see him; and wrote to him, telling him my reason for absenting myself from my aunt's. A daily correspondence was now commenced between us, which, except that I saw not my Frederic, amounted to the same as if we had met; as, at our interviews, we had only uttered those lamentations, vows, and promises of fidelity, which were now conveyed in our letters. A faithful servant of my aunt's had the care of receiving and delivering them.
"About a fortnight after the commencement of our correspondence, I learned that my father and my husband were going a short journey, and would not return for two days. On the morning of the day on which my husband had told me they intended setting out, I dispatched a letter by our trusty messenger to Frederic, informing him of their intended absence, and that I would that evening meet him at my aunt's.
"In the afternoon my father and count Byroff bade me farewell, mounted their horses, and set out. In about two hours after their departure, I ventured to my aunt's; I informed her how things were circumstanced; she congratulated me on my pleasing prospect of seeing my Frederic, and then inquired for her servant, in order to learn whether he had found Frederic at home; but our messenger was not returned.
"Three hours were passed in anxious expectations and vain surmises: neither Frederic nor the servant appeared: the only conclusion I could draw, was, that Frederic was not in the city, and that our messenger was gone in search of him. But a short interval convinced me of the horrible reverse. Oh! picture to yourself my disappointment, my astonishment, my grief, when, hearing footsteps on the stairs, my aunt opened the door of the apartment, and my father rushed in.—I uttered a violent shriek, and fainted at my aunt's feet; when I recovered, I found myself on my own bed. 'Oh, Frederic! art thou then lost for ever?' I exclaimed; for the first idea which shot across my burning brain on my recovering my senses, was, that the sword of count Byroff had pierced the heart of my Frederic. How I got this intelligence, I am to this moment ignorant: suffice it to say, it was but too true, and I infinitely miserable. My husband was sitting by my bed-side; I upbraided him for his unjust cruelty in the most extravagant terms, suggested by my excessive grief: I laid before him all the history of my love for count Frederic; I wept, I sighed, fainted, and upbraided him by turns.
"He informed me that my father had told him, that he suspected I entertained a connexion with another man; which idea he had at first endeavoured to confute; but my father persisting in it, he had agreed to assist him in making an attempt at the discovery of the truth; that they had pretended to be going on a journey, under the expectation of my then admitting Frederic into my father's house; but that, on the morning of that very day, my father had seized our faithful messenger, and torn from him my letter to Frederic, inviting him to meet me in the evening of that day at my aunt's: that, having confined the servant, they had found means of conveying my letter to him to whom it was addressed; and having waylaid him in an obscure street through which they well knew he must unavoidably pass in his way to my aunt's, count Byroff had stabbed him. God alone knows what were my feelings during this recital; and thanks be to him, that the fullness of my heart sealed my lips, or I, in frantic rage, had cursed the author of my being.
"Count Byroff entreated me to be composed; he represented to me, that my sorrow was now ineffectual, since the deed, which he himself avowed to have been rash, was committed. He set before me the resignation I owed to the will of a father, and endeavoured to work upon me, by the shame I should incur in the opinion of the world, if my conduct became publicly known. But I heeded not what he said; I listened with disdain to words uttered by the murderer of my Frederic. At that moment, I should have scorned the words of an angel, had they been incapable of recalling my Frederic to life.
"I absolutely refused all nourishment and repose: count Byroff became alarmed for my health; he continued with great earnestness to urge me to resignation; made me the most solemn protestations of his love; besought my forgiveness, and prayed me to tell him how he could sooth my anguish.
"I was silent, and count Byroff left my apartment: he had not been long gone, ere I commanded my faithful woman, who had been the companion of my sorrows, to go and inform my father and my husband, that I had fallen into a sound slumber; and warn them against entering my apartment, lest they should disturb me. Against her return, I had thrown on a long cloak and veil; and, having bribed her to keep my secret, I left the house unobserved. It was about nine o'clock in the evening when I set out: I moved towards the suburbs of the city as quickly as I was able: arrived there, I entered a narrow lane, in which I imagined I recollected the shop of a clothier. I walked down in search of it: to my great joy, I soon found it, and entering, I perceived there to be no one in the shop but an old woman. In imperfect language, intermixed with French, I told the woman I was journeying to Loretto, and wanted the habit of a male pilgrim. She immediately produced several: I purchased one, together with a staff and leathern bottle; and, having tied up my bundle, I left the shop, inwardly rejoicing that the old woman had been too busily occupied in praising the quality of her goods, particularly to notice me. I again set forward, and in a few minutes arrived in the great road leading from the city.
"Fortunately for me, the rising moon served to show me my way; and being arrived nearly half a league from the city, and perceiving no one near me, I ventured to exchange my garments for the pilgrim's habit; and having buried the clothes I had taken off under a sod, which I had with difficulty managed to cut up for the purpose of hiding them under it, I once more set forward, intending to journey to this convent, which I had heard my aunt mention, and where I had resolved, if you were so kind as to permit me, to pass the remainder of my days.
"Under favour of my habit, I travelled hither perfectly to my satisfaction, except the inconvenience I suffered from fatigue; but your benevolence and care soon brought me to the happy state in which I now find myself: and I trust I shall never prove ungrateful in my acknowledgments to you, and in prayers to the holy saint in whom you confide, to reward you for the humanity you have shown me."
Here was a part of the mystery, relative to the conduct of the uncle of Alphonsus, cleared up; count Frederic had loved and been beloved by the niece of his much revered friend Arieno; she thought him dead, and lived and died secluded from the world, mourning his loss. "Mistaken woman! oh that some angel," cried he, moved by the affecting narration of Lauretta's hapless lot, "had whispered to thee the falsity of that tale which drove thee forever from thy Frederic and the world!—Her loss was surely the cause of the grief which visibly preyed upon my uncle's heart!—Still this solves not the mystery in which I am concerned."—He sat a few minutes wrapped in melancholy thought; then returned to father Matthias's apartment.
"Well!" cried the holy man—"I perceive you feel what you have read;—you pity the unhappy sufferer?"
"Sincerely I do.—Her Frederic was five years since alive."
"Mysterious heaven!" exclaimed the old man: "explain to me, I beseech you, what you know concerning him."
"Indeed—I cannot now:—the time may come."—He paused.
The father looked disappointed; in a moment he regained his wonted serenity of countenance. "She died," cried he, "as she lived, lamenting the untimely fate of him she loved."
"How long have her cares been ended?"
"Grief wasted her frame to a skeleton, and she has sunk into the grave, now seven years."
"Were any inquiries ever made relative to her?"
"Never."
"But she mentions nothing of her child, nor have you spoken to me of her."
"When she delivered to us the manuscript I put into your hands, she knew not herself that she was about to become a mother.—With tears she some short time after declared her situation to the abbess; and called on heaven to witness that it was the pure offspring of her marriage with count Byroff.—Her sufferings moved the abbess, and she promised to connive at her situation, and protect her child. At the due period of time she gave birth to a female infant, which received its mother's name; this was to her great joy; for had its sex proved other, it must necessarily have been removed from her at an early age."
"And is the young Lauretta destined to a life of seclusion from the world?" asked Alphonsus.
"Her mother," answered the friar, "on her death-bed, ordained, that, should any part of her family by any means gain the knowledge of her having borne a child, and demand it of the abbess, it was to be delivered up to them; but in case of her remaining here unknown unto her eighteenth year, she was at that period to take the veil, as it was not likely that even she herself would then be remembered by them after so many years' absence; and on no account to inform her relations that a child of hers was in existence; dreading, as she said, that they should think it incumbent on them to take home the child, and either doubting the purity of its birth, or, in revenge for its mother's transgression, use it unkindly."
"Of what age is Lauretta?" asked Alphonsus.
"She has about four months attained her seventeenth year," returned the old man; "and I trust both her father, and count Arieno, are ignorant that such an angel is in existence.—She has been made acquainted with her own story by her mother: but the colours in which her parent painted to her her nearest relatives, leave her no wish to enter upon a world which she has never known, and of which she has heard so unprepossessing an account: she declares herself perfectly happy within these walls, and prepared to take the veil."
Alphonsus sighed; his eyes fell on the dropping sand, and it admonished him to ring the evening bell.