she eagerly escaped to the apartment allotted for ner, and to the repose from which she had so long been withheld. Vivaldi, meanwhile, had found an hospitable reception with the Benedictines, whose sequestered situation made the visit of a stranger a *pleasurable novelty to them. In the eagerness of conversation, and, yielding to the satisfaction which the mind receives from the recurrence of ideas that have long slept in dusky indolence, and to the pleasure of admitting new ones, the Abbot and a few of the brothers sat with Vivaldi to a late hour. When, at length, the traveller was suffered to retire, other subjects than those, which had interested his host, engaged his thoughts; and he revolved the means of preventing the misery that threatened him, in a serious separation from Ellena. Now that she was received into a respectable asylum, every motive for silence upon this topic was done away. He determined, therefore, that on the following morning, he would urge all his reasons and entreaties for an immediate marriage; and among the brothers of the Benedictines, he had little doubt of prevailing with one to solemnize the nuptials, which he believed would place his happiness and Ellena's peace, beyond the influence of malignant possibilities. WHILE Vivaldi and Ellena were on the way from San Stefano, the Marchese Vivaldi was suffering the utmost vexation respecting his son; and the Marchesa felt not less apprehension, that the abode of Ellena might be discovered; yet this fear did not withhold her from mingling in all the gaieties of Naples. Her assemblies were, as usual, among the most brilliant of that voluptuous city, and she patronized, as zealously as before, the strains of her favourite composer. But, notwithstanding this perpetual dissipation, her thoughts frequently withdrew themselves from the scene, and dwelt on gloomy forebodings of disappointed pride. A circumstance, which rendered her particularly susceptible to such disappointment at this time, was, that overtures of alliance had been lately made to the Marchese, by the father of a lady, who was held suitable, in every consideration, to become his daughter; and whose wealth rendered the union particularly desira ble at a time, when the expenses of such an establishment as was necessary to the vanity of the Marchesa, considerably exceeded his income, large as it was. The Marchesa's temper had been thus irri tated by the contemplation of her son's conduct in an affair which so materially affected the fortune, and, as she believed, the honour of his family, when a courier from the Abbess of San Stefano brought intelligence of the flight of Ellena with Vivaldi. She was in a disposition, which heightened disappointment into fury; and she forfeited, by the transports to which she yielded, the degree of pity, that otherwise was due to a mother, who believed her only son to have sacrificed his family and himself to an unworthy passion. She believed, that he was now married, and irrecoverably lost. Scarcely able to endure the agony of this conviction, she sent for her ancient adviser Schedoni, that she might, at least, have the relief of expressing her emotions; and of examining whether there remained a possibility of dissolving these long-dreaded nuptials. The frenzy of passion, however, did not so far overcome her circumspection as to compel her to acquaint the Marchese with the contents of the Abbess's letter, before she had consulted with her confessor. She knew that the principles of her husband were too just, upon the grand points of morality, to suffer him to adopt the measures she might judge necessary; and she avoided informing him of the marriage of his son, until the means of counteracting it should have been suggested and accomplished, however desperate such means might be. Schedoni was not to be found. Trifling circumstances increase the irritation of a mind in such a state as was hers. The delay of an opportunity for unburthening her heart to Schedoni, was hardly to be endured; another and another messenger were dispatched to her confessor. My mistress has committed some great sin, truly! said the servant, who had been twice to the convent within the last half hour. It must lie heavy on her conscience, in good truth, since she cannot support it for one half hour. Well! the rich have this comfort, however, that, let them be ever so guilty, they can buy themselves innocent again in the twinkling of a ducat. Now a poor man might be a month before he recovered his innocence, and that, too, not till after many a bout of hard flogging. In the evening Schedoni came, but it was only to confirm her worst fear. He, too, had heard of the escape of Ellena, as well as that she was on the lake of Celano, and was married to Vivaldi. How he had obtained this information he did not choose to disclose, but he mentioned so many minute circumstances in confirmation of its truth, and appeared to be so perfectly convinced of the facts he related, that the Marchesa believed them as implicitly as himself; and her passion and despair transgressed all bounds of decorum. Schedoni observed, with dark and silent pleasure, the turbulent excess of her feelings; and perceived, that the moment was now arrived, when he might command them to his purpose, so as to render his assistance indispensable to her repose; and probably so as to accomplish the revenge he had long meditated against Vivaldi, without hazarding the favour of the Marchesa. So far was he from attempting to soothe her sufferings, that he continued to irritate her resentment, and exasperate her pride; effecting this, at the same time, with such imperceptible art, that he appeared only to be palliating the conduct of Vivaldi, and endeavouring to console his distracted mother. This is a rash step, certainly, said the confessor; but he is young, very young, and, therefore, does not foresee the consequences to which it leads. He does not perceive how seriously it will affect the dignity of his house ;-how much it will depreciate his consequence with the court, with the nobles of his own rank, and even with the plebeians, with whom he has condescended to connect himself. Intoxicated with the passions of youth, he does not weigh the value of those blessings, which wisdom and the experience of maturer age know how to estimate. He neglects them only because he does not perceive their influence in society, and that lightly to resign them, is to degrade himself in the view of almost every mind. Unhappy young man! he is to be pitied fully as much as blamed. Your excuses, reverend father, said the tortured Marchesa, prove the goodness of your heart; but they illustrate, also, the degeneracy of his mind, and detail the full extent of the effects, which he has brought upon his family. It affords me no consolation to know, that this degradation proceeds from his head, rather than his heart; it is sufficient that he has incurred it, and that no possibility remains of throwing off the misfortune. Perhaps that is affirming too much, observed Schedoni. How, father! said the Marchesa. Perhaps a possibility does remain, said he. Point it out to me, good father! I do not perceive it. Nay, my lady, replied the subtle Schedoni, correcting himself, I am by no means assured, that such possibility does exist. My solicitude for your tranquillity, and for the honour of your house, makes me so unwilling to relinquish hope, that, perhaps, I only imagine a possibility in your favour. Let me consider.-Alas! the misfortune, severe as it is, must be endured; there remain no means of escaping from it. It was cruel of you, father, to suggest a hope which you could not justify, observed the Marchesa. You must excuse my extreme solicitude, replied the confessor. But how is it possible for me to see a family of your ancient estimation brought into such circumstances; its honours blighted by the folly of a thoughtless boy, without feeling sorrow and indignation, and looking round for even some desperate means of deliver. ing it from disgrace. He paused. Disgrace! said the Marchesa, in a low voice. father, you-you-Disgrace !-The word is strong one, but it is, alas! just. And shall we submit to this?—Is it possible we can submit to it? There is no remedy, said Schedoni, coolly. Good God! exclaimed the Marchesa, that there should be no law to prevent, or, at least, to punish such criminal marriages! It is much to be lamented, replied Schedoni. The woman who obtrudes herself upon a family, to dishonour it, continued the Marchesa, deserves a punishment nearly equal to that of a state criminal, since she injures those who best support the state. She ought to suffer Not nearly, but quite equal, interrupted the confessor; she deserves- -death! He paused, and there was a moment of profound silence, till he added-for death only can obliviate the degradation she has occasioned; her death alone can restore the original splen dour of the line she would have sullied. He paused again, but the Marchesa still remaining silent, he added, I have often marvelled that our lawgivers should have failed to perceive the justness, nay the necessity, of such punishment! It is astonishing, said the Marchesa, thoughtfully, that a regard for their own honour did not suggest it. Justice does not the less exist, because her laws are neglected, observed Schedoni. A sense of what she commands lives in our breasts; and, when we fail to obey that sense, it is to weakness, not to virtue, that we yield. Certainly, replied the Marchesa, that truth never yet was doubted. Pardon me, I am not so certain as to that, said the confessor; when justice happens to oppose prejudice, we are apt to believe it virtuous to disobey her. For instance, though the law of justice demands the death of this girl, yet, because the law of the land forbears to enforce it, you, my daughter, even you! though possessed of a man's spirit, and his clear perceptions, would think that virtue bade her live, when it was only fear. Hah! exclaimed the Marchesa, in a low voice, What is it that you mean? You shall find Í have a man's courage also. I speak without disguise, replied Schedoni; my meaning requires none. The Marchesa mused, and remained silent. I have done my duty, resumed Schedoni, at length. I have pointed out the only way that remains for you to escape dishonour. If my zeal is displeasing-but I have done. No, good father, no, said the Marchesa; you mistake the cause of my emotion. New ideas, new prospects, open!-they confuse, they distract me! My mind has not yet attained suf ficient strength to encounter them; some woman's weakness still lingers at my heart. Pardon my inconsiderate zeal, said Schedoni, with affected humility; I have been to blame. If yours is a weakness, it is, at least, an amiable one, and, perhaps, deserves to be encouraged, rather than conquered. How, father! if it deserves encouragement, ¤ it is not a weakness, but a virtue. Be it so, said Schedoni, coolly, the interest I have felt on this subject, has, perhaps, misled my judgment, and has made me unjust. Think no more of it, or if you do, let it be only to pardon the zeal I have testified. It does not deserve pardon, but thanks, replied the Marchesa, not thanks only, but reward. Good father, I hope it will some time be in my power to prove the sincerity of my words. The confessor bowed his head. I trust that the services you have rendered me, shall be gratefully repaid-rewarded, I dare not hope, for what benefit could possibly reward a service so vast, as it may, perhaps, be in your power to confer upon my family! What recompence could be balanced against the benefit of having rescued the honour of an ancient house! Your goodness is beyond my thanks, or my desert, said Schedoni, and he was again silent. The Marchesa wished him to lead her back to the point, from which she herself had deviated, and he seemed determined that she should lead him thither. She mused, and hesitated. Her mind was not yet familiar with atrocious guilt; and the crime which Schedoni had suggested, somewhat alarmed her. She feared to think of, and still more to name, it; yet, so acutely susceptible was her pride, so stern her indignation, and so profound her desire of vengeance, that her mind was tossed as on a tempestuous ocean, and these terrible feelings threatened to overwhelm all the residue of humanity in her heart. Schedoni observed all its progressive movements, and, like a gaunt tiger, lurked in silence, ready to spring forward at the moment of opportunity. It is your. advice, then, father, resumed the Marchesa, after a long pause,-it is your opinion-that Ellena-She hesitated, desirous that Schedoni should anticipate her meaning; but he chose to spare his own delicacy rather than that of the Marchesa. You think, then, that this insidious girl deserves-She paused again, but the confessor, still silent, seemed to wait with submission for what the Marchesa should deliver. I repeat, father, that it is your opinion this girl deserves severe punishment?— Undoubtedly, replied Schedoni. Is it not also your own? That not any punishment can be too severe ? continued the Marchesa. That justice, equally with necessity, demands her life? Is not this your opinion too? O! pardon me, said Schedoni, I may have erred; that only was my opinion; and when I formed it, I was probably too much under the influence of zeal to be just. When the heart is warm, how is it possible that the judgment can be cool? It is not, then, your opinion, holy father? said the Marchesa, with displeasure. I do not absolutely say that, replied the confessor. But I leave it to your better judgment to decide upon its justness. As he said this, he rose to depart. The Marchesa was agitated and perplexed, and requested he would stay; but he excused himself by alleging, that it was the hour when he must attend a particular mass. Well, then, holy father, I will occupy no more of your valuable moments at present; but you know how highly I estimate your advice, and will not refuse, when I shall, at some future time, request it. I cannot refuse to accept an honour, replied the confessor, with an air of meekness; but the subject you allude to is delicate And therefore I must value and require your opinion upon it, rejoined the Marchesa. I would wish you to value your own, replied Schedoni; you cannot have a better director. You flatter, father. I only reply, my daughter. On the evening of to-morrow, said the Marchesa, gravely, I shall be at vespers in the church of San Nicolo; if you should happen to be there, you will probably see me, when the service is over, and the congregation is departed, in the north transept. We can there converse on the subject nearest my heart, and without observation.-Farewell! Peace be with you, daughter! and wisdom counsel your thoughts! said Schedoni; I will not fail to visit San Nicolo. He folded his hands upon his breast, bowed his head, and left the apartment with the silent footstep that indicates wariness and conscious duplicity. The Marchesa remained in her closet, shaken by ever-varying passions, and ever-fluctuating opinions; meditating misery for others, and inflicting it upon herself. CHAP. XV. Along the roofs sounds the low peal of Death, THE Marchesa repaired, according to her appointment, to the church of San Nicolo, and, ordering her servants to remain with the car riage at a side-door, entered the choir, attended only by her woman. When vespers had concluded, she lingered till nearly every person had quitted the choir, and then walked in the solitary aisles. Her heart was as heavy as her step; for when is it that peace and evil passions dwell together? As she slowly paced the transept, she perceived a monk passing between the pillars, near the cloisters, who, as he approached, lifted his cowl, and she knew him to be Schedoni. He instantly observed the agitation of her spirits, and that her purpose was not yet determined, according to his hope. But, though his mind became clouded, his countenance remained unaltered; it was grave and thoughtful. The sternness of his vulture-eye was, however, somewhat softened, and its lids were contracted by subtlety. The Marchesa bade her woman walk apart, while she conferred with her confessor. This unhappy boy, said she, when the attendant was at some distance, how much suffering does his folly inflict upon his family! My good father, I have need of all your advice and consolation. My mind is perpetually haunted by a sense of my misfortune; it has no respite; awake, or in my dream, this ungrateful son alike pursues me! The only relief my heart receives is when conversing with you-my only counsellor, my only disinterested friend. The confessor bowed. The Marchese is, no doubt, equally afflicted with yourself, said he ; but he is, notwithstanding, much more competent to advise you on this delicate subject than I am. The Marchese has prejudices, father, as you well know ; he is a sensible man, but he is sometimes mistaken, and he is incorrigible in error. He has the faults of a mind that is merely well disposed; he is destitute of the discernment and the energy which would make it great. If it is necessary to adopt a conduct, that departs in the smallest degree from those common rules of morality which he has cherished, without examining them, from his infancy, he is shocked, and shrinks from action. He cannot discriminate the circumstances, that render the same action virtuous or vicious. How, then, father, are we to suppose he would approve of the bold inflictions we meditate? Most true! said the artful Schedoni, with an air of admiration. We, therefore, must not consult him, continued the Marchesa, lest he should now, as formerly, advance and maintain objections to which we cannot yield. What passes in conversation with you, father, is sacred; it goes no farther. Sacred as a confession, said Schedoni, crossing himself. I know not,-resumed the Marchesa, and hesitated; I know not-she repeated in a yet low er voice, how this girl may be disposed of; and this it is which distracts my mind. I marvel much at that, said Schedoni. With opinions so singularly just, with a mind so a curate, yet so bold as you have displayed, is possible that you can hesitate as to what is to be done! You, my daughter, will not prove your self one of those ineffectual declaimers, who at think vigorously, but cannot act so. One way. only, remains for you to pursue, in the presen instance; it is the same which your superior sigacity pointed out, and taught me to approve Is it necessary for me to persuade her, by whom I am convinced? There is only one way. And on that I have been long meditating, re plied the Marchesa, and,―shall I own my weakness?-I cannot yet decide. My daughter! can it be possible that you should want courage to soar above vulgar prejudice in action, though not in opinion? s Schedoni; who perceiving that his assistance was necessary to fix her fluctuating mind, gradual. ly began to steal forth from the prudent reserve, in which he had taken shelter. If this person was condemned by the law, he continued, you would pronounce her sentence to be just; yet you dare not-I am humbled while I repeat it-you dare not dispense justice yourself! The Marchesa, after some hesitation, said, I have not the shield of the law to protect me, father; and the boldest virtue may pause, when it reaches the utmost verge of safety. Never! replied the confessor, warmly; virtue never trembles: it is her glory and sublimest attribute to be superior to danger; to despise it. The best principle is not virtue till it reaches this elevation. A philosopher might, perhaps, have been surprised to hear two persons seriously defining the limits of virtue, at the very moment in which they meditated the most atrocious crime; a man of the world would have considered it to be mere hypocrisy ; a supposition which might have disclosed his general knowledge of manners, but would certainly have betrayed his ignorance of the human heart. The Marchesa was for some time silent and thoughtful, and then repeated deliberately, I have not the shield of the law to protect me. But you have the shield of the church, replied Schedoni; you should not only have protection, but absolution. Absolution!-Does virtue-justice, require absolution, father? When I mentioned absolution for the action, which you perceive to be so just and necessary, replied Schedoni, I accommodated my speech to vulgar prejudice, and to vulgar weakness. And, forgive me, that since you, my daughter, descended from the loftiness of your spirit to regret the shield of the law, I endeavoured to console you, by offering a shield to conscience. But enough of this; let us return to argument. This girl is put out of the way of committing more mischief, of injuring the peace and dignity of a noble family; she is sent to an eternal sleep, before her time.-Where is the crime, where is the evil of this? On the contrary, you perceive, and you have convinced me, that it is only strict justice, only self-defence. The Marchesa was attentive, and the confessor added, She is not immortal; and the few years more, that might have been allotted her, she deserves to forfeit, since she would have employed them in cankering the honour of an illustrious house. Speak low, father, said the Marchesa, though he spoke almost in a whisper; the aisles appear solitary, yet some person may lurk behind those pillars. Advise me how this business may be managed; I am ignorant of the particular means. There is some hazard in the accomplishment of it, I grant, replied Schedoni; I know not whom you may confide in.-The men who make a trade of blood Hush! said the Marchesa, looking round through the twilight-a step! It is the chanting-priest, yonder, crossing to the tomb of Bishop Ugo; this is his hour of service, replied Schedoni. They were watchful for a few moments, and then he resumed the subject. Mercenaries ought not to be trusted. Yet who but mercenaries, interrupted the Marchesa, and instantly checked herself. But the question thus implied, did not escape the confessor. Pardon my astonishment,-said he, at the inconsistency, or, what shall I venture to call it? of your opinions! After the acuteness you have displayed on some points, is it possible you can doubt, that principle may both prompt and perform the deed? Why should we hesitate to do what we judge to be right? Ah! reverend father, said the Marchesa, with emotion, but where shall we find another like yourself-another, who not only can perceive with justness, but will act with energy? Schedoni was silent. Such a friend is above all estimation; but where shall we seek him? Daughter! said the monk, emphatically, my zeal for your family is also above all calcula tion. Good father, replied the Marchesa, comprehending his full meaning, I know not how to thank you. Silence is sometimes eloquence, said Schedoni, significantly. The Marchesa mused; for her conscience also was eloquent. She tried to overcome its voice, but it would be heard; and sometimes such VOL. X. starts of horrible conviction came over her mind, that she felt as one who, awaking from a dream, opens his eyes only to measure the depth of the precipice, on which he totters. In such moments she was astonished, that she had paused for an instant upon a subject so terrible as that of murder. The sophistry of the confessor, together with the inconsistencies which he had betrayed, and which had not escaped the notice of the Marchesa, even at the time they were uttered, though she had been unconscious of her own, then became more strongly apparent, and she almost determined to suffer the poor Ellena to live. But, returning passion, like a wave that has recoiled from the shore, afterwards came with recollected energy, and swept from her feeble mind the barriers which reason and conscience had begun to rear. This confidence with which you have thought proper to honour me, said Schedoni, at length, and paused; this affair, so momentous Ay, this affair, interrupted the Marchesa, in a hurried manner, but when, and where, good father? Being once convinced, I am anxious to have it settled. That must be as occasion offers, replied the monk, thoughtfully. On the shore of the Adriatic, in the province of Apulia, not far from Manfredonia, is a house that might suit the purpose. It is a lone dwelling on the beach, and concealed from travellers, among the forests, which spread for many miles along the coast. And the people? said the Marchesa. Ay, daughter, or why travel so far as Apulia? It is inhabited by one poor man, who sustains a miserable existence by fishing. I know him, and could unfold the reasons of his solitary life;-but no matter, it is sufficient that I know him. And would trust him, father? Ay, lady, with the life of this girl-though scarcely with my own. How! If he is such a villain he may not be trusted! think farther. But now, you objected to a mercenary, yet this man is one! Daughter, he may be trusted, when it is in such a case; he is safe and sure. I have reasons to know him. Name your reasons, father. The confessor was silent, and his countenance assumed a very peculiar character; it was more terrible than usual, and overspread with a dark, cadaverous hue of mingled anger and guilt. The Marchesa started involuntarily, as, passing beneath a window, the evening gleam that fell there, discovered it; and for the first time she wished that she had not committed herself so wholly to his power. But the die was now cast; it was too late to be prudent; and she again demanded his reasons. No matter, said Schedoni, in a stifled voiceshe dies! 2 Q |