She bent forwards for a moment, but her eyes, bright and piercing, still recognized him in a moment. Back!  back!  exclaimed the stately ancestress, waving him off with her withered hand  Back!  profane not this floor with another step!  Hear me, madam, for one moment  suffer me to address you, even on my knees  I pay the homage to your rank and relationship  misunderstand it not as an acknowledgement of guilt on my part! Mrs Anns features at this action underwent a slight contraction  a short spasmodic affection. Rise, Sir  rise, she said  and say what you have to say  but utter it, Sir, at the door whose threshold you are unworthy to tread. John Sandal rose from his knees, and pointed instinctively as he rose to the portrait of Sir Roger Mortimer, to whom he bore a striking resemblance. Mrs Ann acknowledged the appeal  she advanced a few steps on the oaken floor  she stood erect for a moment, and then, pointing with a dignity of action which no pencil could embody to the portrait, seemed to consider her attitude as a valid and eloquent answer  it said  he to whose resemblance you point, and claim protection from, never like you dishonoured these walls by an act of baseness  of heartless treachery! Betrayer!  look to his portrait! Her expression had in it something of the sublime  the next moment a strong spasm contracted her features  she attempted to speak, but her lips no longer obeyed her  she seemed to speak, but was not heard even by herself. She stood for a moment before John Sandal in that rigid immoveable attitude that says, Advance not another step at your peril  insult not the portraits of your ancestors  insult not their living representative, by another step of intrusion! As she spoke thus, (for her attitude spoke), a stronger spasm contracted her features. She attempted to move  the same rigid constriction extended to her limbs; and, waving her prohibitory arm still, as it in defiance at once of the approach of death and of her rejected kinsman, she dropt at his feet. She did not long survive the interview, nor did she ever recover the use of speech. Her powerful intellect was, however, unimpaired; and to the last she expressed herself most intelligibly by action, as determined not to hear a word explanatory of Sandals conduct. This explanation was therefore made to Margaret, who, though much shocked and agitated at the first disclosure, seemed afterwards perfectly reconciled to it. Shortly after the receipt of these letters, Elinor took a sudden, but perhaps not singular resolution,  she determined to set out immediately for Mortimer Castle. It was not her weariness of the withering life, the   she lived at her Puritanic aunts  it was not the wish to enjoy again the stately and splendid ceremonial of Mortimer Castle, contrasted with the frugal fare and monastic rigour of the cottage in Yorkshire  it was not even the wish for that change of place that always flatters us with change of circumstance, as if we did not carry our own hearts with us wherever we go, and might not therefore be sure that an innate and eroding ulcer must be our companion from the Pole to the Equator  it was not this, but a whisper half unheard, yet believed, (just in proportion as it was inaudible and incredible), that murmured from the bottom of her credulous heart, Go  and perhaps  Elinor set out on her journey, and after having performed it with fewer difficulties than can be imagined, considering the state of the roads, and the modes of travelling in the year 1667 or thereabouts, she arrived in the vicinity of Mortimer Castle. It was a scene of reminiscence to her,  her heart throbbed audibly as the carriage stopped at a Gothic gate, through which there was a walk between two rows of lofty elms. She alighted, and to the request of the servant who followed her, that he might be permitted to shew her the way through a path entangled by the intersecting roots of the trees, and dim with twilight, she answered only by her tears. She waved him off, and advanced on foot and alone. She remembered, from the bottom of her soul, how she had once wandered amid that very grove with John Sandal  how his smile had shed a richer light on the landscape, than even the purple smile of the dying daylight. She thought of that smile, and lingered to catch it amid the rich and burning hues flung by the fading light on the manytinted boles of the ancient trees. The trees were there  and the light was there  but his smile, that once eclipsed the sunlight, was there no longer! She advanced alone  the lofty avenue of trees still retained its magnificent depth of shade, and gorgeous colouring of trunk and leaf. She sought among them for that which she had once felt  and God and nature alone are conscious of the agony with which we demand from them the object which we are conscious was once consecrated to our hearts, and which we now require of both in vain! God withholds,  and Nature denies them! As Elinor with trembling steps advanced towards the Castle, she saw the funeral scutcheon which Mrs Margaret, in honour of her grandaunt, had caused to be affixed over the principal tower since her decease, with the same heraldric decorum as if the last male of the Mortimer family were extinct. Elinor looked up, and many thoughts rushed on her heart.  There is one departed, she thought, whose mind was always fixed on glorious thoughts  the most exalted actions of humanity, or the sublime associations of eternity! Her noble heart had room but for two illustrious guests  the love of God, and the love of her country. They tarried with her to the last, for they found the abode worthy of them; and when they parted, the inmate found the mansion untenantable any longer  the soul fled with its glorious visitors to heaven! My treacherous heart welcomed another inmate, and how has he repaid its hospitality?  By leaving the mansion in ruins! As she spoke thus, she approached the entrance of the Castle. In the spacious hall she was received by Margaret Mortimer with the embrace of rooted affection, and by John Sandal, who advanced after the first enthusiasm of meeting was over, with that calm and brotherlike goodwill, from which there was  nothing to be hoped. There was the same heavenly smile, the same clasp of the hand, the same tender and almost feminine expression of anxiety for her safety  even Margaret herself, who must have felt, and who did feel the perils of the long journey, did not enter into them with that circumstantiality, or appear to sympathize with them so vividly, or, when the tale of toil and travel was told, appear to urge the necessity of speedy retirement, with such solicitude as did John Sandal. Elinor, faint and gasping, grasped the hands of both, and by an involuntary motion locked both together. The widow Sandal was present  she shewed much agitation at the appearance of Elinor; but when she saw this extraordinary and spontaneous movement, it was observed she smiled. Soon after, Elinor retired to the apartment she had formerly occupied. By the affectionate and delicate prevoyance of Margaret, the furniture had all been changed  there was nothing to remind her of former days, except her heart. She sat for some time reflecting on her reception, and hope died within her heart as she thought of it. The strongest expression of aversion or disdain would not have been so withering. It is certain that the fiercest passions may be exchanged for their widest extremes in a time incredibly short, and by means the most incalculable. Within the narrow circle of a day, enemies may embrace, and lovers may hate,  but, in the course of centuries, pure complacency and cordial goodwill never can be exalted into passion. The wretched Elinor felt this,  and feeling it, knew that all was lost. She had now, for many days, to undergo the torture of complacent and fraternal affection from the man she loved,  and perhaps a keener torture was never endured. To feel hands that we long to press to our burning hearts, touch ours with cool and pulseless tranquillity  to see eyes in whose light we live, throw on us a cold but smiling beam, that gives light, but not fertility, to the parched and thirsting soil of the heart  to hear the ordinary language of affectionate civility addressed to us in tones of the most delicious suavity  to seek in these expressions an ulterior meaning, and to find it not  This  this is an agony which only those who have felt can conceive! Elinor, with an effort that cost her heart many a pang, mingled in the habits of the house, which had been greatly changed since the death of Mrs Ann. The numerous suitors of the wealthy and noble heiress, now crowded to the Castle; and, according to the custom of the times, they were sumptuously entertained, and invited to prolong their stay by numerous banquets. On these occasions, John Sandal was the first to pay distinguished attention to Elinor. They danced together; and though her Puritanic education had taught her an abhorrence of those devils measures, as her family was accustomed to term them, she tried to adapt herself to the gay steps of the Canaries,58 and the stately movements of the Measures  (for the newer dances had not, even in report, reached Mortimer Castle)  and her slender and graceful form needed no other inspiration than the support of John Sandals arms, (who was himself an exquisite dancer), to assume all the graces of that delightful exercise. Even the practised courtiers applauded her. But, when it was over, Elinor felt, that had John Sandal been dancing with a being the most indifferent to him on earth, his manner would have been exactly the same. No one could point with more smiling grace to her slight deviations from the figure,  no one could attend her to her seat with more tender and anxious politeness, and wave the vast fan of those days over her with more graceful and assiduous courtesy. But Elinor felt that these attentions, however flattering, were offered not by a lover. Sandal was absent on a visit to some neighbouring nobleman, and Margaret and Elinor were one evening completely alone. Each seemed equally anxious for an explanation, which neither appeared willing to begin. Elinor had lingered till twilight at the casement, from which she had seen him ride, and lingered still when to see him was no longer possible. Her sight was strained to catch a glimpse of him through the gathering clouds, as her imagination still toiled to catch a gleam of that light of the heart, which now struggled dimly amid clouds of gloomy and unpierceable mystery. Elinor, said Margaret emphatically, look for him no longer,  he never can be yours! The sudden address, and the imperative tone of conviction, had upon Elinor the effect of being addressed by a supernatural monitor. She was unable even to ask how the terrible intelligence that burst on her so decisively, was obtained. There is a state of mind in which we listen thus to a human voice as if it were an oracle,  and instead of asking an explanation of the destiny it announces, we wait submissively for what yet remains to be told. In this mood, Elinor slowly advanced from the casement, and asked in a voice of fearful calmness, Has he explained himself perfectly to you?  Perfectly.  And there is nothing to expect?  Nothing.  And you have heard this from himself  his very self?  I have; and, dear Elinor, let us never again speak on the subject.  Never! answered Elinor,  Never! The veracity and dignity of Margarets character, were inviolable securities for the truth of what she uttered; and perhaps that was the very reason why Elinor tried to shrink most from the conviction. In a morbid state of heart, we cannot bear truth  the falsehood that intoxicates us for a moment, is worth more than the truth that would disenchant us for life.  I hate him because he tells me the truth, is the language natural to the human mind, from the slave of power to the slave of passion. Other symptoms that could not escape the notice of the most shallow, struck her every hour. That devotion of the eye and heart,  of the language and the look, that cannot be mistaken,  were all obviously directed to Margaret. Still Elinor lingered in the Castle, and said to herself, while every day she saw and felt what was passing, Perhaps. That is the last word that quits the lips of those who love. She saw with all her eyes,  she felt to the bottom of her soul,  the obviously increasing attachment of John Sandal and Margaret; yet still she dreamed of interposing obstacles,  of an explanation. When passion is deprived of its proper aliment, there is no telling the food on which it will prey,  the impossibilities to which, like a famished garrison, it will look for its wretched sustenance. Elinor had ceased to demand the heart of the being she was devoted to. She now lived on his looks. She said to herself, Let him smile, though not on me, and I am happy still  wherever the sunlight falls, the earth must be blessed. Then she sunk to lower claims. She said, Let me but be in his presence, and that is enough  let his smiles and his soul be devoted to another, one wandering ray may reach me, and that will be enough! Love is a very noble and exalting sentiment in its first germ and principle. We never love without arraying the object in all the glories of moral as well as physical perfection, and deriving a kind of dignity to ourselves from our capacity of admiring a creature so excellent and dignified; but this lavish and magnificent prodigality of the imagination often leaves the heart a bankrupt. Love in its iron age of disappointment, becomes very degraded  it submits to be satisfied with merely exterior indulgences  a look, a touch of the hand, though occurring by accident  a kind word, though uttered almost unconsciously, suffices for its humble existence. In its first state, it is like man before the fall, inhaling the odours of paradise, and enjoying the communion of the Deity; in the latter, it is like the same being toiling amid the briar and the thistle, barely to maintain a squalid existence without enjoyment, utility, or loveliness. About this time, her Puritan aunt made a strong effort to recover Elinor out of the snare of the enemy. She wrote a long letter (a great exertion for a woman far advanced in years, and never in the habits of epistolary composition) adjuring her apostate niece to return to the guide of her youth, and the covenant of her God,  to take shelter in the everlasting arms while they were still held out to her,  and to flee to the city of refuge while its gates were yet open to receive her. She urged on her the truth, power, and blessedness of the system of Calvin, which she termed the gospel.  She supported and defended it with all the metaphysical skill, and all the scriptural knowledge she possessed,  and the latter was not scanty.  And she affectingly reminded her, that the hand that traced these lines, would be unable ever to repeat the admonition, and would probably be mouldering into dust while she was employed in their perusal. Elinor wept while she read, but that was all. She wept from physical emotion, not from mental conviction; nor is there such an induration of heart caused by any other power, as by that of the passion which seems to soften it most. She answered the letter, however, and the effort scarce cost her less than it did her decrepid and dying relative. She acknowledged her dereliction of all religious feeling, and bewailed it  the more, she added with painful sincerity, because I feel my grief is not sincere. Oh, my God! she continued, you who have clothed my heart with such burning energies  you who have given to it a power of loving so intense, so devoted, so concentrated  you have not given it in vain;  no, in some happier world, or perhaps even in this, when this tyranny is overpast, you will fill my heart with an image worthier than him whom I once believed your image on earth. The stars, though their light appears so dim and distant to us, were not lit by the Almighty hand in vain. Their glorious light burns for remote and happier worlds; and the beam of religion that glows so feebly to eyes almost blind with earthly tears, may be rekindled when a broken heart has been my passport to a place of rest. Do not think me, dear aunt, deserted by all hope of religion, even though I have lost the sense of it. Was it not said by unerring lips to a sinner, that her transgressions were forgiven because she loved much? And does not this capacity of love prove that it will one day be more worthily filled, and more happily employed. Miserable wretch that I am! At this moment, a voice from the bottom of my heart asks me Whom hast thou loved so much? Was it man or God, that thou darest to compare thyself with her who knelt and wept  not before a mortal idol, but at the feet of an incarnate divinity? It may yet befall, that the ark which has floated through the waste of waters may find its restingplace, and the trembling inmate debark on the shores of an unknown but purer world. Chapter 31 There is an oak beside the frothclad pool, Where in old time, as I have often heard, A woman desperate, a wretch like me, Ended her woes!  Her woes were not like mine!      Ronan will know; When he beholds me floating on the stream, His heart will tell him why Rivine died! HOMES FATAL DISCOVERY The increasing decline of Elinors health was marked by all the family; the very servant who stood behind her chair looked sadder every day  even Margaret began to repent of the invitation she had given her to the Castle. Elinor felt this, and would have spared her what pain she could; but it was not possible for herself to be insensible of the fastfading remains of her withering youth and blighted beauty. The place  the place itself, was the principal cause of that mortal disease that was consuming her; yet from that place she felt she had less resolution to tear herself every day. So she lived, like those sufferers in eastern prisons, who are not allowed to taste food unless mixed with poison, and who must perish alike whether they eat or forbear. Once, urged by intolerable pain of heart, (tortured by living in the placid light of John Sandals sunny smile), she confessed this to Margaret. She said, It is impossible for me to support this existence  impossible! To tread the floor which those steps have trod  to listen for their approach, and when they come, feel they do not bear him we seek  to see every object around me reflect his image, but never  never to see the reality  to see the door open which once disclosed his figure, and when it opens, not to see him, and when he does appear, to see him not what he was  to feel he is the same and not the same,  the same to the eye, but not to the heart  to struggle thus between the dream of imagination and the cruel awaking of reality  Oh! Margaret  that undeception plants a dagger in the heart, whose point no human hand can extract, and whose venom no human hand can heal! Margaret wept as Elinor spoke thus, and slowly, very slowly, expressed her consent that Elinor should quit the Castle, if it was necessary for her peace. It was the very evening after this conversation, that Elinor, whose habit was to wander among the woods that surrounded the Castle unattended, met with John Sandal. It was a glorious autumnal evening, just like that on which they had first met,  the associations of nature were the same, those of the heart alone had suffered change. There is that light in an autumnal sky,  that shade in autumnal woods,  that dim and hallowed glory in the evening of the year, which is indefinably combined with recollections. Sandal, as they met, had spoken to her in the same voice of melody, and with the same heartthrilling tenderness of manner, that had never ceased to visit her ear since their first meeting, like music in dreams. She imagined there was more than usual feeling in his manner; and the spot where they were, and which memory made populous and eloquent with the imagery and speech of other days, flattered this illusion. A vague hope trembled at the bottom of her heart,  she thought of what she dared not to utter, and yet dared to believe. They walked on together,  together they watched the last light on the purple hills, the deep repose of the woods, whose summits were still like feathers of gold,  together they once more tasted the confidence of nature, and, amid the most perfect silence, there was a mutual and unutterable eloquence in their hearts. The thoughts of other days rushed on Elinor,  she ventured to raise her eyes to that countenance which she once more saw as it had been that of an angel. The glow and the smile, that made it appear like a reflexion of heaven, were there still,  but that glow was borrowed from the bright flush of the glorious west, and that smile was for nature,  not for her. She lingered till she felt it fade with the fading light,  and a last conviction striking her heart, she burst into an agony of tears. To his words of affectionate surprise, and gentle consolation, she answered only by fixing her appealing eyes on him, and agonizingly invoking his name. She had trusted to nature, and to this scene of their first meeting, to act as an interpreter between them,  and still even in despair she trusted to it. Perhaps there is not a more agonizing moment than that in which we feel the aspect of nature give a perfect vitality to the associations of our hearts, while they lie buried in those in which we try in vain to revive them. She was soon undeceived. With that benignity which, while it speaks of consolation, forbids hope  with that smile which angels may be supposed to give on the last conflict of a sufferer who is casting off the garments of mortality in pain and hope  with such an expression he whom she loved regarded her. From another world he might have cast such a glance on her,  and it sealed her doom in this for ever. As, unable to witness the agony of the wound he had inflicted but could not heal, he turned from her, the last light of day faded from the hills  the sun of both worlds set on her eye and soul  she sunk on the earth, and notes of faint music that seemed designed to echo the words  No  no  no  never  never more! trembled in her ears. They were as simple and monotonous as the words themselves, and were played accidentally by a peasant boy who was wandering in the woods. But to the unfortunate, every thing seems prophetic; and amid the shades of evening, and accompanied by the sound of his departing footsteps, the breaking heart of Elinor accepted the augury of these melancholy notes.59 A few days after this final meeting, Elinor wrote to her aunt in York to announce, that if she still lived, and was not unwilling to admit her, she would reside with her for life; and she could not help intimating, that her life would probably not outlast that of her hostess. She did not tell what the widow Sandal had whispered to her at her first arrival at the Castle, and what she now ventured to repeat with a tone that struggled between the imperative and the persuasive,  the conciliating and the intimidative. Elinor yielded,  and the indelicacy of this representation, had only the effect to make her shrink from its repetition. On her departure, Margaret wept, and Sandal shewed as much tender officiousness about her journey, as if it were to terminate in their renewed bridal. To escape from this, Elinor hastened her preparations for departure. When she arrived at a certain distance from the Castle, she dismissed the family carriage, and said she would go on foot with her female servant to the farmhouse where horses were awaiting her. She went there, but remained concealed, for the report of the approaching bridal resounded in her ears. The day arrived  Elinor rose very early  the bells rung out a merry peal  (as she had once heard them do on another occasion)  the troops of friends arrived in greater numbers, and with equal gaiety as they had once assembled to escort her  she saw their equipages gleaming along  she heard the joyous shouts of half the county  she imagined to herself the timid smile of Margaret, and the irradiated countenance of him who had been her bridegroom. Suddenly there was a pause. She felt that the ceremony was going on  was finished  that the irrevocable words were spoken  the indissoluble tie was knit! Again the shout and wild joyance burst forth as the sumptuous cavalcade returned to the Castle. The glare of the equipages,  the splendid habits of the riders,  the cheerful groupe of shouting tenantry,  she saw it all! When all was over, Elinor glanced accidentally at her dress  it was white like her bridal habit;  shuddering she exchanged it for a mourning habit, and set out, as she hoped, on her last journey. Chapter 32 Fuimus, non sumus. When Elinor arrived in Yorkshire, she found her aunt was dead. Elinor went to visit her grave. It was, in compliance with her last request, placed near the window of the independent meetinghouse, and bore for inscription her favourite text, Those whom he foreknew, he also predestinated, c. c. Elinor stood by the grave some time, but could not shed a tear. This contrast of a life so rigid, and a death so hopeful,  this silence of humanity, and eloquence of the grave,  pierced through her heart, as it will through every heart that has indulged in the inebriation of human passion, and feels that the draught has been drawn from broken cisterns. Her aunts death made Elinors life, if possible, more secluded, and her habits more monotonous than they would otherwise have been. She was very charitable to the cottagers in her neighbourhood; but except to visit their habitations, she never quitted her own. Often she contemplated a small stream that flowed at the end of her garden. As she had lost all her sensibility of nature, another motive was assigned for this mute and dark contemplation; and her servant, much attached to her, watched her closely. She was roused from this fearful state of stupefaction and despair, which those who have felt shudder at the attempt to describe, by a letter from Margaret. She had received several from her which lay unanswered, (no unusual thing in those days), but this she tore open, read with interest inconceivable, and prepared instantly to answer by action. Margarets high spirits seemed to have sunk in her hour of danger. She hinted that that hour was rapidly approaching, and that she earnestly implored the presence of her affectionate kinswoman to soothe and sustain in the moment of her approaching peril. She added, that the manly and affectionate tenderness of John Sandal at this period, had touched her heart more deeply, if possible, than all the former testimonies of his affection  but that she could not bear his resignation of all his usual habits of rural amusement, and of the neighbouring society  that she in vain had chided him from her couch, where she lingered in pain and hope, and hoped that Elinors presence might induce him to yield to her request, as he must feel, on her arrival, the dearest companion of her youth was present  and that, at such a moment, a female companion was more suitable than even the gentlest and most affectionate of the other sex. Elinor set out directly. The purity of her feelings had formed an impenetrable barrier between her heart and its object,  and she apprehended no more danger from the presence of one who was wedded, and wedded to her relative, than from that of her own brother. She arrived at the Castle  Margarets hour of danger had begun  she had been very ill during the preceding period. The natural consequences of her situation had been aggravated by a feeling of dignified responsibility on the birth of an heir to the house of Mortimer  and this feeling had not contributed to render that situation more supportable. Elinor bent over the bed of pain  pressed her cold lips to the burning lips of the sufferer  and prayed for her. The first medical assistance in the country (then very rarely employed on such occasions) had been obtained at a vast expence. The widow Sandal, declining all attendance on the sufferer, paced through the adjacent apartments in agony unutterable and unuttered. Two days and nights went on in hope and terror  the bellringers sat up in every church within ten miles round  the tenantry crowded round the Castle with honest heartfelt solicitude  the neighbouring nobility sent their messages of inquiry every hour. An accouchement in a noble family was then an event of importance. The hour came  twins were born dead  and the young mother was fated to follow them within a few hours! While life yet remained, Margaret shewed the remains of the lofty spirit of the Mortimers. She sought with her cold hand that of her wretched husband and of the weeping Elinor. She joined them in an embrace which one of them at least understood, and prayed that their union might be eternal. She then begged to see the bodies of her infant sons  they were produced; and it was said that she uttered expressions, intimating that, had they not been the heirs of the Mortimer family  had not expectation been wound so high, and supported by all the hopes that life and youth could flatter her with,  she and they might yet have existed. As she spoke, her voice grew feebler, and her eyes dim  their last light was turned on him she loved; and when sight was gone, she still felt his arms enfold her. The next moment they enfolded  nothing! In the terrible spasms of masculine agony  the more intensely felt as they are more rarely indulged  the young widower dashed himself on the bed, which shook with his convulsive grief; and Elinor, losing all sense but that of a calamity so sudden and so terrible, echoed his deep and suffocating sobs, as it she whom they deplored had not been the only obstacle to her happiness. Amid the voice of mourning that rung through the Castle from vault to tower in that day of trouble, none was loud like that of the widow Sandal  her wailings were shrieks, her grief was despair. Rushing through the rooms like one distracted, she tore her hair out by the roots, and imprecated the most fearful curses on her head. At length she approached the apartment where the corse lay. The servants, shocked at her distraction, would have withheld her from entering it, but could not. She burst into the room, cast one wild look on its inmates  the still corse and the dumb mourners  and then, flinging herself on her knees before her son, confessed the secret of her guilt, and developed to its foul base the foundation of that pile of iniquity and sorrow which had now reached its summit. Her son listened to this horrible confession with fixed eye and features unmoved; and at its conclusion, when the wretched penitent implored the assistance of her son to raise her from her knees, he repelled her outstretched hands, and with a weak wild laugh, sunk back on the bed. He never could be removed from it till the corse to which he clung was borne away, and then the mourners hardly knew which to deplore  her who was deprived of the light of life, or him in whom the light of reason was extinguished for ever! The wretched, guilty mother, (but for her fate no one can be solicitous), a few months after, on her dying bed, declared the secret of her crime to a minister of an independent congregation, who was induced, by the report of her despair, to visit her.


She confessed that, being instigated by avarice, and still more by the desire of regaining her lost consequence in the family, and knowing the wealth and dignity her son would acquire, and in which she must participate, by his marriage with Margaret, she had, after using all the means of persuasion and intreaty, been driven, in despair at her disappointment, to fabricate a tale as false as it was horrible, which she related to her deluded son on the evening before his intended nuptials with Elinor. She had assured him he was not her son, but the offspring of the illicit commerce of her husband the preacher with the Puritan mother of Elinor, who had formerly been one of his congregation, and whose wellknown and stronglyexpressed admiration of his preaching had been once supposed extended to his person,  had caused her much jealous anxiety in the early years of their marriage, and was now made the basis of this horrible fiction. She added, that Margarets obvious attachment to her cousin had, in some degree, palliated her guilt to herself; but that, when she saw him quit her house in despair on the morning of his intended marriage, and rush he knew not whither, she was half tempted to recall him, and confess the truth. Her mind again became hardened, and she reflected that her secret was safe, as she had bound him by an oath, from respect to his fathers memory, and compassion to the guilty mother of Elinor, never to disclose the truth to her daughter. The event had succeeded to her guilty wishes.  Sandal beheld Elinor with the eyes of a brother, and the image of Margaret easily found a place in his unoccupied affections. But, as often befals to the dealers in falsehood and obliquity, the apparent accomplishment of her hopes proved her ruin. In the event of the marriage of John and Margaret proving issueless, the estates and title went to the distant relative named in the will; and her son, deprived of reason by the calamities in which her arts had involved him, was by them also deprived of the wealth and rank to which they were meant to raise him, and reduced to the small pension obtained by his former services,  the poverty of the King, then himself a pensioner of Lewis XIV., forbidding the possibility of added remuneration. When the minister heard to the last the terrible confession of the dying penitent, in the awful language ascribed to Bishop Burnet when consulted by another criminal,  he bid her almost despair, and departed. Elinor has retired, with the helpless object of her unfading love and unceasing care, to her cottage in Yorkshire. There, in the language of that divine and blind old man, the fame of whose poetry has not yet reached this country, it is Her delight to see him sitting in the house, and watch, like the father of the Jewish champion, the growth of that Godgiven strength, that intellectual power, which, unlike Samsons, will never return. After an interval of two years, during which she had expended a large part of the capital of her fortune in obtaining the first medical advice for the patient, and suffered many things of many physicians, she gave up all hope,  and, reflecting that the interest of her fortune thus diminished would be but sufficient to procure the comforts of life for herself and him whom she has resolved never to forsake, she sat down in patient misery with her melancholy companion, and added one more to the many proofs of womans heart, unwearied in welldoing, without the intoxication of passion, the excitement of applause, or even the gratitude of the unconscious object. Were this a life of calm privation, and pulseless apathy, her efforts would scarce have merit, and her sufferings hardly demand compassion; but it is one of pain incessant and immitigable. The firstborn of her heart lies dead within it; but that heart is still alive with all its keenest sensibilities, its most vivid hopes, and its most exquisite sense of grief. She sits beside him all day  she watches that eye whose light was life, and sees it fixed on her in glassy and unmeaning complacency  she dreams of that smile which burst on her soul like the morning sun over a landscape in spring, and sees that smile of vacancy which tries to convey satisfaction, but cannot give it the language of expression. Averting her head, she thinks of other days. A vision passes before her.  Lovely and glorious things, the hues of whose colouring are not of this world, and whose web is too fine to be woven in the loom of life,  rise to her eye like the illusions of enchantment. A strain of rich remembered music floats in her hearing  she dreams of the hero, the lover, the beloved,  him in whom were united all that could dazzle the eye, inebriate the imagination, and melt the heart. She sees him as he first appeared to her,  and the mirage of the desert present not a vision more delicious and deceptive  she bends to drink of that false fountain, and the stream disappears  she starts from her reverie, and hears the weak laugh of the sufferer, as he moves a little water in a shell, and imagines he sees the ocean in a storm! She has one consolation. When a short interval of recollection returns,  when his speech becomes articulate,  he utters her name, not that of Margaret, and a beam of early hope dances on her heart as she hears it, but fades away as fast as the rare and wandering ray of intellect from the lost mind of the sufferer! Unceasingly attentive to his health and his comforts, she walked out with him every evening, but led him through the most sequestered paths, to avoid those whose mockful persecution, or whose vacant pity, might be equally torturing to her feelings, or harassing to her still gentle and smiling companion. It was at this period, said the stranger to Aliaga, I first became acquainted with  I mean  at this time a stranger, who had taken up his abode near the hamlet where Elinor resided, was seen to watch the two figures as they passed slowly on their retired walk. Evening after evening he watched them. He knew the history of these two unhappy beings, and prepared himself to take advantage of it. It was impossible, considering their secluded mode of existence, to obtain an introduction. He tried to recommend himself by his occasional attentions to the invalid  he sometimes picked up the flowers that an unconscious hand flung into the stream, and listened, with a gracious smile, to the indistinct sounds in which the sufferer, who still retained all the graciousness of his perished mind, attempted to thank him. Elinor felt grateful for these occasional attentions; but she was somewhat alarmed at the assiduity with which the stranger attended their melancholy walk every evening,  and, whether encouraged, neglected, or even repelled, still found the means of insinuating himself into companionship. Even the mournful dignity of Elinors demeanour,  her deep dejection,  her bows or brief replies,  were unavailing against the gentle but indefatigable importunity of the intruder. By degrees he ventured to speak to her of her misfortunes,  and that topic is a sure key to the confidence of the unhappy. Elinor began to listen to him;  and, though somewhat amazed at the knowledge he displayed of every circumstance of her life, she could not but feel soothed by the tone of sympathy in which he spoke, and excited by the mysterious hints of hope which he sometimes suffered to escape him as if involuntarily. It was observed soon by the inmates of the hamlet, whom idleness and the want of any object of excitement had made curious, that Elinor and the stranger were inseparable in their evening walks. It was about a fortnight after this observation was first made, that Elinor, unattended, drenched with rain, and her head uncovered, loudly and eagerly demanded admittance, at a late hour, at the house of a neighbouring clergyman. She was admitted,  and the surprise of her reverend host at this visit, equally unseasonable and unexpected, was exchanged for a deeper feeling of wonder and terror as she related the cause of it. He at first imagined (knowing her unhappy situation) that the constant presence of an insane person might have a contagious effect on the intellects of one so perseveringly exposed to that presence. As Elinor, however, proceeded to disclose the awful proposal, and the scarcely less awful name of the unholy intruder, the clergyman betrayed considerable emotion; and, after a long pause, desired permission to accompany her on their next meeting. This was to be the following evening, for the stranger was unremitting in his attendance on her lonely walks. It is necessary to mention, that this clergyman had been for some years abroad  that events had occurred to him in foreign countries, of which strange reports were spread, but on the subject of which he had been always profoundly silent  and that having but lately fixed his residence in the neighbourhood, he was equally a stranger to Elinor, and to the circumstances of her past life, and of her present situation. It was now autumn,  the evenings were growing short, and the brief twilight was rapidly succeeded by night. On the dubious verge of both, the clergyman quitted his house, and went in the direction where Elinor told him she was accustomed to meet the stranger. They were there before him; and in the shuddering and averted form of Elinor, and the stern but calm importunity of her companion, he read the terrible secret of their conference. Suddenly he advanced and stood before the stranger. They immediately recognised each other. An expression that was never before beheld there  an expression of fear  wandered over the features of the stranger! He paused for a moment, and then departed without uttering a word  nor was Elinor ever again molested by his presence. It was some days before the clergyman recovered from the shock of this singular encounter sufficiently to see Elinor, and explain to her the cause of his deep and painful agitation. He sent to announce to her when he was able to receive her, and appointed the night for the time of meeting, for he knew that during the day she never forsook the helpless object of her unalienated heart. The night arrived  imagine them seated in the antique study of the clergyman, whose shelves were filled with the ponderous volumes of ancient learning  the embers of a peat fire shed a dim and fitful light through the room, and the single candle that burned on a distant oaken stand, seemed to shed its light on that alone  not a ray fell on the figures of Elinor and her companion, as they sat in their massive chairs of carvedlike figures in the richlywrought nitches of some Catholic place of worship   That is a most profane and abominable comparison, said Aliaga, starting from the doze in which he had frequently indulged during this long narrative. But hear the result, said the pertinacious narrator. The clergyman confessed to Elinor that he had been acquainted with an Irishman of the name of Melmoth, whose various erudition, profound intellect, and intense appetency for information, had interested him so deeply as to lead to a perfect intimacy between them. At the breaking out of the troubles in England, the clergyman had been compelled, with his fathers family, to seek refuge in Holland. There again he met Melmoth, who proposed to him a journey to Poland  the offer was accepted, and to Poland they went. The clergyman here told many extraordinary tales of Dr Dee, and of Albert Alasco, the Polish adventurer, who were their companions both in England and Poland  and he added, that he felt his companion Melmoth was irrevocably attached to the study of that art which is held in just abomination by all who name the name of Christ. The power of the intellectual vessel was too great for the narrow seas where it was coasting  it longed to set out on a voyage of discovery  in other words, Melmoth attached himself to those impostors, or worse, who promised him the knowledge and the power of the future world  on conditions that are unutterable. A strange expression crossed his face as he spoke. He recovered himself, and added, From that hour our intercourse ceased. I conceived of him as of one given up to diabolical delusions  to the power of the enemy. I had not seen Melmoth for some years. I was preparing to quit Germany, when, on the eve of my departure, I received a message from a person who announced himself as my friend, and who, believing himself dying, wished for the attendance of a Protestant minister. We were then in the territories of a Catholic electoral bishop. I lost no time in attending the sick person. As I entered his room, conducted by a servant, who immediately closed the door and retired, I was astonished to see the room filled with an astrological apparatus, books and implements of a science I did not understand; in a corner there was a bed, near which there was neither priest or physician, relative or friend  on it lay extended the form of Melmoth. I approached, and attempted to address to him some words of consolation. He waved his hand to me to be silent  and I was so. The recollection of his former habits and pursuits, and the view of his present situation, had an effect that appalled more than it amazed me. Come near, said Melmoth, speaking very faintly  nearer. I am dying  how my life has been passed you know but too well. Mine was the great angelic sin  pride and intellectual glorying! It was the first mortal sin  a boundless aspiration after forbidden knowledge! I am now dying. I ask for no forms of religion  I wish not to hear words that have to me no meaning, or that I wish had none! Spare your look of horror. I sent for you to exact your solemn promise that you will conceal from every human being the fact of my death  let no man know that I died, or when, or where. He spoke with a distinctness of tone, and energy of manner, that convinced me he could not be in the state he described himself to be, and I said, But I cannot believe you are dying  your intellects are clear, your voice is strong, your language is coherent, and but for the paleness of your face, and your lying extended on that bed, I could not even imagine you were ill. He answered, Have you patience and courage to abide by the proof that what I say is true? I replied, that I doubtless had patience, and for the courage, I looked to that Being for whose name I had too much reverence to utter in his hearing. He acknowledged my forbearance by a ghastly smile which I understood too well, and pointed to a clock that stood at the foot of his bed. Observe, said he, the hourhand is on eleven, and I am now sane, clear of speech, and apparently healthful  tarry but an hour, and you yourself will behold me dead! I remained by his bedside  the eyes of both were fixed intently on the slow motion of the clock. From time to time he spoke, but his strength now appeared obviously declining. He repeatedly urged on me the necessity of profound secresy, its importance to myself, and yet he hinted at the possibility of our future meeting, I asked why he thought proper to confide to me a secret whose divulgement was so perilous, and which might have been so easily concealed? Unknowing whether he existed, or where, I must have been equally ignorant of the mode and place of his death. To this he returned no answer. As the hand of the clock approached the hour of twelve, his countenance changed  his eyes became dim  his speech inarticulate  his jaw dropped  his respiration ceased. I applied a glass to his lips  but there was not a breath to stain it. I felt his wrist but there was no pulse. I placed my hand on his heart  there was not the slightest vibration. In a few minutes the body was perfectly cold. I did not quit the room till nearly an hour after the body gave no signs of returning animation. Unhappy circumstances detained me long abroad. I was in various parts of the Continent, and every where I was haunted with the report of Melmoth being still alive. To these reports I gave no credit, and returned to England in the full conviction of his being dead. Yet it was Melmoth who walked and spoke with you the last night of our meeting. My eyes never more faithfully attested the presence of living being. It was Melmoth himself, such as I beheld him many years ago, when my hairs were dark and my steps were firm. I am changed, but he is the same  time seems to have forborne to touch him from terror. By what means or power he is thus enabled to continue his posthumous and preternatural existence, it is impossible to conceive, unless the fearful report that every where followed his steps on the Continent, be indeed true. Elinor, impelled by terror and wild curiosity, inquired into that report which dreadful experience had anticipated the meaning of. Seek no farther, said the minister, you know already more than should ever have reached the human ear, or entered into the conception of the human mind. Enough that you have been enabled by Divine Power to repel the assaults of the evil one  the trial was terrible, but the result will be glorious. Should the foe persevere in his attempts, remember that he has been already repelled amid the horrors of the dungeon and of the scaffold, the screams of Bedlam and the flames of the Inquisition  he is yet to be subdued by a foe that he deemed of all others the least invincible  the withered energies of a broken heart. He has traversed the earth in search of victims, Seeking whom he might devour,  and has found no prey, even where he might seek for it with all the cupidity of infernal expectation. Let it be your glory and crown of rejoicing, that even the feeblest of his adversaries has repulsed him with a power that will always annihilate his. Who is that faded form that supports with difficulty an emaciated invalid, and seems at every step to need the support she gives?  It is still Elinor tending John. Their path is the same, but the season is changed  and that change seems to her to have passed alike on the mental and physical world. It is a dreary evening in Autumn  the stream flows dark and turbid beside their path  the blast is groaning among the trees, and the dry discoloured leaves are sounding under their feet  their walk is uncheered by human converse, for one of them no longer thinks, and seldom speaks! Suddenly he gives a sign that he wishes to be seated  it is complied with, and she sits beside him on the felled trunk of a tree. He declines his head on her bosom, and she feels with delighted amazement, a few tears streaming on it for the first time for years  a soft but conscious pressure of her hand, seems to her like the signal of reviving intelligence  with breathless hope she watches him as he slowly raises his head, and fixes his eyes  God of all consolation, there is intelligence in his glance! He thanks her with an unutterable look for all her care, her long and painful labour of love! His lips are open, but long unaccustomed to utter human sounds, the effort is made with difficulty  again that effort is repeated and fails  his strength is exhausted  his eyes close  his last gentle sigh is breathed on the bosom of faith and love  and Elinor soon after said to those who surrounded her bed, that she died happy, since he knew her once more! She gave one parting awful sign to the minister, which was understood and answered! Chapter 33 Cum mihi non tantum furesque ferque sut, Hunc vexare locum, cur sunt atque labori; Quantum carminibus qu versant atque venenis, Humanos animos. HORACE It is inconceivable to me, said Don Aliaga to himself, as he pursued his journey the next day  it is inconceivable to me how this person forces himself on my company, harasses me with tales that have no more application to me than the legend of the Cid, and may be as apocryphal as the ballad of Roncesvalles  and now he has ridden by my side all day, and, as if to make amends for his former uninvited and unwelcome communicativeness, he has never once opened his lips. Senhor, said the stranger, then speaking for the first time, as if he read Aliagas thoughts  I acknowledge myself in error for relating to you a narrative in which you must have felt there was little to interest you. Permit me to atone for it, by recounting to you a very brief one, in which I flatter myself you will be disposed to feel a very peculiar interest.  You assure me it will be brief, said Aliaga. Not only so, but the last I shall obtrude on your patience, replied the stranger. On that condition, said Aliaga, in Gods name, brother, proceed. And look you handle the matter discreetly, as you have said. There was, said the stranger, a certain Spanish merchant, who set out prosperously in business; but, after a few years, finding his affairs assume an unfavourable aspect, and being tempted by an offer of partnership with a relative who was settled in the East Indies, had embarked for those countries with his wife and son, leaving behind him an infant daughter in Spain.  That was exactly my case, said Aliaga, wholly unsuspicious of the tendency of this tale. Two years of successful occupation restored him to opulence, and to the hope of vast and future accumulation. Thus encouraged, our Spanish merchant entertained ideas of settling in the East Indies, and sent over for his young daughter with her nurse, who embarked for the East Indies with the first opportunity, which was then very rare.  This reminds me exactly of what occurred to myself, said Aliaga, whose faculties were somewhat obtuse. The nurse and infant were supposed to have perished in a storm which wrecked the vessel on an isle near the mouth of a river, and in which the crew and passengers perished. It was said that the nurse and child alone escaped; that by some extraordinary chance they arrived at this isle, where the nurse died from fatigue and want of nourishment, and the child survived, and grew up a wild and beautiful daughter of nature, feeding on fruits,  and sleeping amid roses,  and drinking the pure element,  and inhaling the harmonies of heaven,  and repeating to herself the few Christian words her nurse had taught her, in answer to the melody of the birds that sung to her, and of the stream whose waves murmured in accordance to the pure and holy music of her unearthly heart.  I never heard a word of this before, muttered Aliaga to himself. The stranger went on. It was said that some vessel in distress arrived at the isle,  that the captain had rescued this lovely lonely being from the brutality of the sailors,  and, discovering from some remains of the Spanish tongue which she still spoke, and which he supposed must have been cultivated during the visits of some other wanderer to the isle, he undertook, like a man of honour, to conduct her to her parents, whose names she could tell, though not their residence, so acute and tenacious is the memory of infancy. He fulfilled his promise, and the pure and innocent being was restored to her family, who were then residing in the city of Benares. Aliaga, at these words, stared with a look of intelligence somewhat ghastly. He could not interrupt the stranger  he drew in his breath, and closed his teeth. I have since heard, said the stranger, that the family has returned to Spain,  that the beautiful inhabitant of the foreign isle is become the idol of your cavaliers of Madrid,  your loungers of the Prado,  your sacravienses,  your  by what other name of contempt shall I call them? But listen to me,  there is an eye fixed on her, and its fascination is more deadly than that fabled of the snake!  There is an arm extended to seize her, in whose grasp humanity withers!  That arm even now relaxes for a moment,  its fibres thrill with pity and horror,  it releases the victim for a moment,  it even beckons her father to her aid!  Don Francisco, do you understand me now?  Has this tale interest or application for you? He paused, but Aliaga, chilled with horror, was unable to answer him but by a feeble exclamation. If it has, resumed the stranger, lose not a moment to save your daughter! and, clapping spurs to his mule, he disappeared through a narrow passage among the rocks, apparently never intended to be trod by earthly traveller. Aliaga was not a man susceptible of strong impressions from nature; but, if he had been, the scene amid which this mysterious warning was uttered would have powerfully ministered to its effect. The time was evening,  a grey and misty twilight hung over every object;  the way lay through a rocky road, that wound among mountains, or rather stony hills, bleak and bare as those which the weary traveller through the western isle60 sees rising amid the moors, to which they form a contrast without giving a relief. Heavy rains had made deep gullies amid the hills, and here and there a mountainstream brawled amid its stony channel, like a proud and noisy upstart, while the vast chasms that had been the beds of torrents which once swept through them in thunder, now stood gaping and ghastly like the deserted abodes of ruined nobility. Not a sound broke on the stillness, except the monotonous echo of the hoofs of the mules answered from the hollows of the hill, and the screams of the birds, which, after a few short circles in the damp and cloudy air, fled back to their retreats amid the cliffs. It is almost incredible, that after this warning, enforced as it was by the perfect acquaintance which the stranger displayed of Aliagas former life and familycircumstances, it should not have had the effect of making him hurry homewards immediately, particularly as it seems he thought it of sufficient importance to make it the subject of correspondence with his wife. So it was however. At the moment of the strangers departure, it was his resolution not to lose a moment in hastening homewards; but at the next stage he arrived at, there were letters of business awaiting him. A mercantile correspondent gave him the information of the probable failure of a house in a distant part of Spain, where his speedy presence might be of vital consequence. There were also letters from Montilla, his intended soninlaw, informing him that the state of his fathers health was so precarious, it was impossible to leave him till his fate was decided. As the decisions of fate involved equally the wealth of the son, and the life of the father, Aliaga could not help thinking there was as much prudence as affection in this resolution. After reading these letters, Aliagas mind began to flow in its usual channel. There is no breaking through the inveterate habitudes of a thoroughpaced mercantile mind, though one rose from the dead. Besides, by this time the mysterious image of the strangers presence and communications were fading fast from a mind not at all habituated to visionary impressions. He shook off the terrors of this visitation by the aid of time, and gave his courage the credit due to that aid. Thus we all deal with the illusions of the imagination,  with this difference only, that the impassioned recal them with the tear of regret, and the unimaginative with the blush of shame. Aliaga set out for the distant part of Spain where his presence was to save this tottering house in which he had an extensive concern, and wrote to Donna Clara, that it might be some months before he returned to the neighbourhood of Madrid. Chapter 34 Husband, husband, Ive the ring Thou gavest today to me; And thou to me art ever wed, As I am wed to thee! LITTLES POEMS The remainder of that dreadful night when Isidora disappeared, had been passed almost in despair by Donna Clara, who, amid all her rigour and chilling mediocrity, had still the feelings of a mother  and by Fra Jose, who, with all his selfish luxury and love of domination, had a heart where distress never knocked for admittance, that she did not find pity ready to open the door. The distress of Donna Clara was aggravated by her fear of her husband, of whom she stood in great awe, and who, she dreaded, might reproach her with unpardonable negligence of her maternal authority. In this night of distress, she was often tempted to call on her son for advice and assistance; but the recollection of his violent passions deterred her, and she sat in passive despair till day. Then, with an unaccountable impulse, she rose from her seat, and hurried to her daughters apartment, as if she imagined that the events of the preceding night were only a fearful and false illusion that would be dispersed by the approach of day. It seemed, indeed, as if they were, for on the bed lay Isidora in a profound sleep, with the same pure and placid smile as when she was lulled into slumber by the melodies of nature, and the sound was prolonged in her dream by the whispered songs of the spirits of the Indian Ocean. Donna Clara uttered a shriek of surprise, that had the singular effect of rousing Fra Jose from a deep sleep into which he had fallen at the approach of day. Starting at the sound, the goodnatured, pampered priest, tottered into the room, and saw, with incredulity that slowly yielded to frequent application to his obstinate and adhesive eyelids, the form of Isidora extended in profound slumber. Oh what an exquisite enjoyment! said the yawning priest, as he looked on the sleeping beauty without another emotion than that of the delight of an uninterrupted repose.  Pray, dont disturb her, he said, yawning himself out of the room  after such a night as we all have had, sleep must be a very refreshing and laudable exercise; and so I commend you to the protection of the holy saints!  Oh reverend Father!  Oh holy Father! cried Donna Clara clinging to him, desert me not in this extremity  this has been the work of magic  of infernal spirits. See how profoundly she sleeps, though we are speaking, and it is now daylight.  Daughter, you are much mistaken, answered the drowsy priest; people can sleep soundly even in the daytime; and for proof send me, as I am now retiring to rest, a bottle of Foncarral or Valdepenas  not that I value the richest vintage of Spain from the Chacoli of Biscay to the Mataro of Catalonia,61 but I would never have it said that I slept in the daytime, but for sufficient reason.  Holy Father! answered Donna Clara, do you not think my daughters disappearance and intense slumber are the result of preternatural causes?  Daughter, answered the priest, contracting his brows, let me have some wine to slake the intolerable thirst caused by my anxiety for the welfare of your family, and let me meditate some hours afterwards on the measures best to be adopted, and then  when I awake, I will give you my opinion.  Holy Father, you shall judge for me in every thing.  It were not amiss, daughter, said the priest retiring, if a few slices of ham, or some poignant sausages, accompanied the wine  it might, as it were, abate the deleterious effects of that abominable liquor, which I never drink but on emergencies like these.  Holy Father, they shall be ordered, said the anxious mother  but do you not think my daughters sleep is supernatural?  Follow me to mine apartment, daughter, answered the priest, exchanging his cowl for a nightcap, which one of the numerous household obsequiously presented him, and you will soon see that sleep is a natural effect of a natural cause. Your daughter has doubtless passed a very fatiguing night, and so have you, and so have I, though perhaps from very different causes; but all those causes dispose us to a profound repose.  I have no doubt of mine  fetch up the wine and sausages  I am very weary  Oh I am weak and worn with fasts and watching, and the labours of exhortation. My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth, and my jaws cling together,  perhaps a draught or two might dissolve their parching adhesion.


But I do so hate wine  why the devil dont you fetch up the bottle? The attendant domestic, terrified by the tone of wrath in which the last words were uttered, hurried on with submissive expedition, and Fra Jose sat down at length in his apartment to ruminate on the calamities and perplexities of the family, till he was actually overcome by the subject, and exclaimed in a tone of despair, Both bottles empty! Then it is useless to meditate further on this subject. He was roused at an earlier hour than he wished, by a message from Donna Clara, who, in the distress of a weak mind, accustomed always to factitious and external support, now felt as if every step she took without it, must lead to actual and instant perdition. Her fear of her husband, next to her superstitious fears, held the strongest power over her mind, and that morning she called Fra Jose to an early consultation of terror and inquietude.  Her great object was to conceal, if possible, the absence of her daughter on that eventful night; and finding that none of the domestics appeared conscious of it, and that amid the numerous household, only one aged servant was absent, of whose absence no one took notice amid the superfluous multitude of a Spanish establishment, her courage began to revive. It was raised still higher by a letter from Aliaga, announcing the necessity of his visiting a distant part of Spain, and of the marriage of his daughter with Montilla being deferred for some months  this sounded like reprieve in the ears of Donna Clara  she consulted with the priest, who answered in words of comfort, that if Donna Isidoras short absence were known, it was but a slight evil, and if it were not known, it was none at all,  and he recommended to her, to ensure the secresy of the servants by means that he swore by his habit were infallible, as he had known them operate effectively among the servants of a far more powerful and extensive establishment. Reverend Father, said Donna Clara, I know of no establishment among the grandees of Spain more splendid than ours.  But I do, daughter, said the priest, and the head of that establishment is  the Pope;  but go now, and awake your daughter, who deserves to sleep till doomsday, as she seems totally to have forgotten the hour of breakfast. It is not for myself I speak, daughter, but I cannot bear to see the regularity of a magnificent household thus interrupted; for myself, a basin of chocolate, and a cluster of grapes, will be sufficient; and to allay the crudity of the grapes, a glass of Malaga.  Your glasses, by the bye, are the shallowest I ever drank out of  could you not find some means to get from Ildefonso62 glasses of the right make, with short shanks and ample bodies? Yours resemble those of Quichotte, all limbs and no trunk. I like one that resembles his squire, a spacious body and a shank that may be measured by my little finger.  I will send to St Ildefonso this day, answered Donna Clara.  Go and awake your daughter first, said the priest. As he spoke, Isidora entered the room  the mother and the priest both stood amazed. Her countenance was as serene, her step as equal, and her mein as composed, as if she were totally unconscious of the terror and distress her disappearance the preceding night had caused. To the first short silence of amazement, succeeded a storm of interrogations from Donna Clara and Fra Jose in concert  why  where  wherefore  and what, and with whom and how  that was all they could articulate. They might as well have spared themselves the trouble, for neither that day nor many following, could the remonstrances, intreaties, or menaces of her mother, aided by the spiritual authority and more powerful anxiety of the priest, extort from her a word of explanation on the cause of her absence that awful night. When closely and sternly pressed, Isidoras mind seemed to assume something of the wild but potent spirit of independence, which her early habits and feelings might have communicated to her. She had been her own teacher and mistress for seventeen years, and though naturally gentle and tractable, when imperious mediocrity attempted to tyrannize over her, she felt a sense of disdain which she expressed only by profound silence. Fra Jose, incensed at her obstinacy, and trembling for the loss of his power over the family, threatened to exclude her from confession, unless she disclosed to him the secret of that night  Then I will confess to God! said Isidora. Her mothers importunity she found it more difficult to resist, for her feminine heart loved all that was feminine even in its most unattractive shape, and the persecution from that quarter was alike monotonous and unremitting. There was a weak but harassing tenacity about Donna Clara, that is the general adjunct to the female character when it combines intellectual mediocrity with rigid principle. When she laid siege to a secret, the garrison might as well capitulate at once.  What she wanted in vigour and ability, she supplied by a minute and gnawing assiduity. She never ventured to carry the fort by storm, but her obstinacy blockaded it till it was forced to surrender. But here even her importunity failed.  Isidora remained respectfully, but resolutely silent; finding matters thus desperate, Donna Clara, who had a fine talent for keeping as well as discovering a secret, agreed with Fra Jose not to utter a syllable of the business to her father and brother.  We will show, said Donna Clara, with a sagacious and selfapproving nod, that we can keep a secret as well as she.  Right, daughter, said Fra Jose, imitate her in the only point in which you can flatter yourself with the hope of resemblance. The secret was, however, soon disclosed. Some months had elapsed, and the visits of her husband began to give an habitual calm and confidence to the mind of Isidora. He imperceptibly was exchanging his ferocious misanthropy for a kind of pensive gloom.  It was like the dark, cold, but unterrific and comparatively soothing night, that succeeds to a day of storm and earthquake. The sufferers remember the terrors of the day, and the still darkness of the night feels to them like a shelter. Isidora gazed on her espoused with delight, when she saw no longer his withering frown, or more withering smile; and she felt the hope that the calm purity of female hearts always suggests, that its influence will one day float over the formless and the void, like the spirit that moved upon the face of the waters; and that the unbelieving husband may yet be saved by the believing wife. These thoughts were her comfort, and it was well she had thoughts to comfort her, for facts are miserable allies when imagination fights its battle with despair. On one of those nights that she expected Melmoth, he found her employed in her usual hymn to the Virgin, which she accompanied on her lute. Is it not rather late to sing your vesper hymn to the Virgin after midnight? said Melmoth with a ghastly smile. Her ear is open at all times, I have been told, answered Isidora.  If it is, then, love, said Melmoth, vaulting as usual through the casement, add a stanza to your hymn in favour of me.  Alas! said Isidora, dropping her lute, you do not believe, love, in what the Holy Church requires.  Yes, I do believe, when I listen to you.  And only then?  Sing again your hymn to the Virgin. Isidora complied, and watched the effect on the listener. He seemed affected  he motioned to her to repeat it. My love, said Isidora, is not this more like the repetition of a theatrical song called for by an audience, than a hymn which he who listens to loves his wife better for, because she loves her God.  It is a shrewd question, said Melmoth, but why am I in your imagination excluded from the love of God?  Do you ever visit the church, answered the anxious Isidora. A profound silence.  Do you ever receive the Holy Sacrament?  Melmoth did not utter a word.  Have you ever, at my earnest solicitation, enabled me to announce to my anxious family the tie that united us?  No answer.  And now  that  perhaps  I dare not utter what I feel! Oh! how shall I appear before eyes that watch me even now so closely?  what shall I say?  a wife without a husband  a mother without a father for her child, or one whom a fearful oath has bound her never to declare! Oh! Melmoth, pity me,  deliver me from this life of constraint, falsehood, and dissimulation. Claim me as your wedded wife in the face of my family, and in the face of ruin your wedded wife will follow  will cling to  will perish with you! Her arms clung round him, her cold but heartwrung tears fell fast on his cheek, and the imploring arms of woman supplicating for deliverance in her hour of shame and terror, seldom are twined round us in vain. Melmoth felt the appeal  it was but for a moment. He caught the white arms extended towards him  he fixed an eager and fearful look of inquiry on his victimconsort, as he asked  And is it so? The pale and shuddering wife shrunk from his arms at the question  her silence answered him. The agonies of nature throbbed audibly in his heart. He said to himself  it is mine  the fruit of affection  the firstborn of the heart and of nature  mine  mine,  and whatever becomes of me, there shall yet be a human being on earth who traces me in its external form, and who will be taught to pray for its father, even when its prayer falls parched and hissing on the fires that burn for ever, like a wandering drop of dew on the burning sands of the desert! From the period of this communication, Melmoths tenderness for his wife visibly increased. Heaven only knows the source of that wild fondness with which he contemplated her, and in which was still mingled something of ferocity. His warm look seemed like the glow of a sultry summer day, whose heat announces a storm, and compels us by its burning oppression, to look to the storm almost for relief. It is not impossible that he looked to some future object of his fearful experiment  and a being so perfectly in his power as his own child, might have appeared to him fatally fitted for his purpose  the quantum of misery, too, necessary to qualify the probationer, it was always in his own power to inflict. Whatever was his motive, he assumed as much tenderness as it was possible for him to assume, and spoke of the approaching event with the anxious interest of a human father. Soothed by his altered manner, Isidora bore with silent sufferance the burden of her situation, with all its painful accompaniments of indisposition and dejection, aggravated by hourly fear and mysterious secresy. She hoped he would at length reward her by an open and honourable declaration, but this hope was expressed only in her patient smiles. The hour approached fast, and fearful and indefinite apprehensions began to overshadow her mind, relative to the fate of the infant about to be born under circumstances so mysterious. At his next nightly visit, Melmoth found her in tears. Alas! said she in answer to his abrupt inquiry, and brief attempt at consolation, How many causes have I for tears  and how few have I shed? If you would have them wiped away, be assured it is only your hand can do it. I feel, she added, that this event will be fatal to me  I know I shall not live to see my child  I demand from you the only promise that can support me even under this conviction  Melmoth interrupted her by the assurance, that these apprehensions were the inseparable concomitants of her situation, and that many mothers, surrounded by a numerous offspring, smiled as they recollected their fears that the birth of each would be fatal to them. Isidora shook her head. The presages, said she, that visit me, are such as never visited mortality in vain. I have always believed, that as we approach the invisible world, its voice becomes more audible to us, and grief and pain are very eloquent interpreters between us and eternity  quite distinct from all corporeal suffering, even from all mental terror, is that deep and unutterable impression which is alike incommunicable and ineffaceable  it is as if heaven spoke to us alone, and told us to keep its secret, or divulge it on the condition of never being believed. Oh! Melmoth, do not give that fearful smile when I speak of heaven  soon I may be your only intercessor there. My dear saint, said Melmoth, laughing and kneeling to her in mockery, let me make early interest for your mediation  how many ducats will it cost me to get you canonized?  you will furnish me, I hope, with an authentic account of legitimate miracles  one is ashamed of the nonsense that is sent monthly to the Vatican. Let your conversion be the first miracle on the list, said Isidora, with an energy that made Melmoth tremble  it was dark  but she felt that he trembled  she pursued her imagined triumph  Melmoth, she exclaimed, I have a right to demand one promise from you  for you I have sacrificed every thing  never was woman more devoted  never did woman give proofs of devotion like mine. I might have been the noble, honoured wife of one who would have laid his wealth and titles at my feet. In this my hour of danger and suffering, the first families in Spain would have been waiting round my door. Alone, unaided, unsustained, unconsoled, I must undergo the terrible struggle of nature  terrible to those whose beds are smoothed by the hands of affection, whose agonies are soothed by the presence of a mother  who hears the first feeble cry of her infant echoed by the joy of exulting noble relatives. Oh Melmoth! what must be mine! I must suffer in secresy and in silence! I must see my babe torn from me before I have even kissed it,  and the chrismmantle will be one of that mysterious darkness which your fingers have woven! Yet grant me one thing  one thing! continued the suppliant, growing earnest in her prayer even to agony; swear to me that my child shall be baptised according to the forms of the Catholic church,  that it shall be a Christian as far as those forms can make it,  and I shall feel that, if all my fearful presages are fulfilled, I shall leave behind me one who will pray for his father, and whose prayer may be accepted. Promise me,  swear to me, she added, in intenser agony, that my child shall be a Christian! Alas! if my voice be not worthy to be heard in heaven, that of a cherub may! Christ himself suffered children to come unto him while on earth, and will he repel them in heaven?  Oh! no,  no! he will not repel yours! Melmoth listened to her with feelings that it is better to suppress than explain or expatiate on. Thus solemnly adjured, however, he promised that the child should be baptised; and added, with an expression which Isidoras delight at this concession did not give her time to understand, that it should be a Christian as far as the rites and ceremonies of the Catholic church could make it one. While he added many a bitter hint of the inefficacy of any external rites  and the impotentiality of any hierarchy  and of the deadly and desperate impositions of priests under every dispensation  and exposed them with a spirit at once ludicrous and Satanic,  a spirit that mingled ridicule with horror, and seemed like a Harlequin in the infernal regions, flirting with the furies, Isidora still repeated her solemn request that her child, if it survived her, should be baptised. To this he assented; and added, with a sarcastic and appalling levity,  And a Mahometan, if you should change your mind,  or any other mythology you please to adopt;  only send me word,  priests are easily obtained, and ceremonies cheaply purchased! Only let me know your future intentions,  when you know them yourself.  I shall not be here to tell you, said Isidora, replying with profound conviction to this withering levity, like a cold winter day to the glow of a capricious summer one, that blends the sunshine and the lightning;  Melmoth, I shall not be here then! And this energy of despair in a creature so young, so inexperienced, except in the vicissitudes of the heart, formed a strong contrast to the stony apathy of one who had traversed life from Dan to Beersheba, and found all barren, or  made it so. At this moment, while Isidora wept the cold tears of despair, without daring to ask the hand of him she loved to dry them, the bells of a neighbouring convent, where they were performing a mass for the soul of a departed brother, suddenly rung out. Isidora seized that moment, when the very air was eloquent with the voice of religion, to impress its power on that mysterious being whose presence inspired her equally with terror and with love. Listen,  listen! she cried. The sounds came slowly and stilly on, as if it was an involuntary expression of that profound sentiment that night always inspires,  the reverberating watchword from sentinel to sentinel, when wakeful and reflecting minds have become the watchers of the night.63 The effect of these sounds was increased, by their catching from time to time the deep and thrilling chorus of the voices,  these voices more than harmonized, they were coincident with the toll of the bell, and seemed like them set in involuntary motion,  music played by invisible hands. Listen, repeated Isidora, is there no truth in the voice that speaks to you in tones like these? Alas! if there be no truth in religion, there is none on earth! Passion itself evanishes into an illusion, unless it is hallowed by the consciousness of a God and of futurity. That sterility of the heart that forbids the growth of divine feeling, must be hostile also to every tender and generous sentiment. He who is without a God must be without a heart! Oh, my love, will you not, as you bend over my grave, wish my last slumbers to have been soothed by sounds like these,  wish that they may whisper peace to your own? Promise me, at least, that you will lead your child to my tombstone,  that you will suffer it to read the inscription that tells I died in the faith of Christ, and the hope of immortality. Its tears will be powerful pleaders to you not to deny it the consolation that faith has given me in hours of suffering, and the hopes with which it will illuminate my parting hour. Oh promise me this at least, that you will suffer your child to visit my grave  that is all. Do not interrupt or distract the impression by sophistry or levity, or by that wild and withering eloquence that flashes from your lips, not to enlighten but to blast. You will not weep, but you will be silent,  leave Heaven and nature free to their work. The voice of God will speak to its heart, and my spirit, as it witnesses the conflict, will tremble though in paradise,  and, even in heaven, will feel an added joy, when it beholds the victory won. Promise me, then,  swear to me! she added, with agonizing energy of tone and gesture. Your child shall be a Christian! said Melmoth. Chapter 35  Oh, spare me, Grimbald! I will tempt hermits for thee in their cells, And virgins in their dreams. DRYDENS KING ARTHUR It is a singular, but wellattested fact, that women who are compelled to undergo all the inconveniences and uneasiness of clandestine pregnancy, often fare better than those whose situation is watched over by tender and anxious relatives; and that concealed or illegitimate births are actually attended with less danger and suffering than those which have all the aid that skill and affection can give. So it appeared likely to fare with Isidora. The retirement in which her family lived  the temper of Donna Clara, as slow to suspect from want of penetration, as she was eager in pursuing an object once discovered, from the natural cupidity of a vacant mind  these circumstances, combined with the dress of the day, the enormous and enveloping fardingale, gave safety to her secret, at least till the arrival of its crisis. As this crisis approached, one may easily imagine the secret and trembling preparation  the important nurse, proud of the trust reposed in her  the confidential maid  the faithful and discreet medical attendant  to obtain all these Melmoth supplied her amply with money  a circumstance that would have surprised Isidora, as his appearance was always remarkably plain and private, if, at this moment of anxiety, any thought but that of the hour could have found room in her mind. On the evening supposed to be that preceding the dreaded event, Melmoth had thrown an unusual degree of tenderness into his manner  he gazed on her frequently with anxious and silent fondness  he seemed to have something to communicate which he had not courage to disclose. Isidora, well versed in the language of the countenance, which is often, more than that of words, the language of the heart, intreated him to tell her what he looked. Your father is returning, said Melmoth reluctantly. He will certainly be here in a few days, perhaps in a few hours. Isidora heard him in silent horror. My father! she cried  I have never seen my father.  Oh, how shall I meet him now! And is my mother ignorant of this?  would she not have apprized me?  She is ignorant at present; but she will not long be so.  And from whence could you have obtained intelligence that she is ignorant of? Melmoth paused some time,  his features assumed a more contracted and gloomy character than they had done laterally  he answered with slow and stern reluctance  Never again ask me that question  the intelligence that I can give you must be of more importance to you than the means by which I obtain it  enough for you that it is true.  Pardon me, love, said Isidora; it is probable that I may never again offend you  will you not, then, forgive my last offence? Melmoth seemed too intently occupied with his own thoughts to answer even her tears. He added, after a short and sullen pause, Your betrothed bridegroom is coming with your father  Montillas father is dead  the arrangements are all concluded for your nuptials  your bridegroom is coming to wed the wife of another  with him comes your fiery, foolish brother, who has set out to meet his father and his future relative. There will be a feast prepared in the house on the occasion of your future nuptials  you may hear of a strange guest appearing at your festival  I will be there! Isidora stood stupified with horror. Festival! she repeated  a bridal festival!  and I already wedded to you, and about to become a mother! At this moment the trampling of many horsemen was heard as they approached the villa  the tumult of the domestics hurrying to admit and receive them, resounded through the apartments and Melmoth, with a gesture that seemed to Isidora rather like a menace than a farewell, instantly disappeared; and within an hour, Isidora knelt to the father she had never till then beheld  suffered herself to be saluted by Montilla  and accepted the embrace of her brother, who, in the petulance of his spirit, half rejected the chill and altered form that advanced to greet him. Every thing at the family meeting was conducted in true Spanish formality. Aliaga kissed the cold hand of his withered wife  the numerous domestics exhibited a grave joy at the return of their master  Fra Jose assumed increased importance, and called for dinner in a louder tone. Montilla, the lover, a cold and quiet character, took things as they occurred. Every thing lay hushed under a brief and treacherous calm. Isidora, who trembled at the approaching danger, felt her terrors on a sudden suspended. It was not so very near as she apprehended  and she bore with tolerable patience the daily mention of her approaching nuptials, while she was momently harassed by her confidential servants with hints of the impossibility of the event of which they were in expectation, being much longer delayed. Isidora heard, felt, endured all with courage  the grave congratulation of her father and mother  the selfcomplacent attentions of Montilla, sure of the bride and of her dower  the sullen compliance of the brother, who, unable to refuse his consent, was for ever hinting that his sister might have formed a higher connection. All these passed over her mind like a dream  the reality of her existence seemed internal, and she said to herself,  Were I at the altar, were my hand locked in that of Montilla, Melmoth would rend me from him. A wild but deeplyfixed conviction  a wandering image of preternatural power, overshadowed her mind while she thought of Melmoth;  and this image, which had caused her so much terror and inquietude in her early hours of love, now formed her only resource against the hour of inconceivable suffering; as those unfortunate females in the Eastern Tales, whose beauty has attracted the fearful passion of some evil genie, are supposed to depend, at their nuptial hour, on the presence of the seducing spirit, to tear from the arms of the agonised parent, and the distracted bridegroom, the victim whom he has reserved for himself, and whose wild devotion to him gives a dignity to the union so unhallowed and unnatural.64 Aliagas heart expanded amid the approaching completion of the felicitous plans he had formed, and with his heart, his purse, which was its depositary, opened also, and he resolved to give a splendid fete in honour of his daughters nuptials. Isidora remembered Melmoths prediction of a fatal festival; and his words, I will be there, gave her for a time a kind of trembling confidence. But as the preparations were carried on under her very eye,  as she was hourly consulted about the disposal of the ornaments, and the decorations of the apartments,  her resolution failed, and while she uttered a few incoherent words, her eye was glazed with horror. The entertainment was to be a masked ball; and Isidora, who imagined that this might suggest to Melmoth some auspicious expedient for her escape, watched in vain for some hint of hope,  some allusion to the probability of this event facilitating her extrication from those snares of death that seemed compassing her about. He never uttered a word, and her dependence on him was at one moment confirmed, at another shaken to its foundation, by this terrible silence. In one of these latter moments, the anguish of which was increased beyond expression by a conviction that her hour of danger was not far distant, she exclaimed to Melmoth  Take me  take me from this place! My existence is nothing  it is a vapour that soon must be exhaled  but my reason is threatened every moment! I cannot sustain the horrors to which I am exposed! All this day I have been dragged through rooms decorated for my impossible nuptials!  Oh, Melmoth, if you no longer love me, at least commiserate me! Save me from a situation of horror unspeakable!  have mercy on your child, if not on me! I have hung on your looks,  I have watched for a word of hope  you have not uttered a sound  you have not cast a glance of hope on me! I am wild!  I am reckless of all but the imminent and present horrors of tomorrow  you have talked of your power to approach, to enter these walls without suspicion or discovery  you boasted of that cloud of mystery in which you could envelope yourself. Oh! in this last moment of my extremity, wrap me in its tremendous folds, and let me escape in them, though they prove my shroud!  Think of the terrible night of our marriage! I followed you then in fear and confidence  your touch dissolved every earthly barrier  your steps trod an unknown path, yet I followed you!  Oh! If you really possess that mysterious and inscrutable power, which I dare not either question or believe, exert it for me in this terrible emergency  aid my escape  and though I feel I shall never live to thank you, the silent suppliant will remind you by its smiles of the tears that I now shed; and if they are shed in vain, its smile will have a bitter eloquence as it plays with the flowers on its mothers grave! Melmoth, as she spoke, was profoundly silent, and deeply attentive. He said at last, Do you then resign yourself to me?  Alas! have I not?  A question is not an answer. Will you, renouncing all other engagements, all other hopes, depend on me solely for your extrication from this fearful emergency?  I will  I do!  Will you promise, that if I render you the service you require, if I employ the power you say I have alluded to, you will be mine?  Yours!  Alas! am I not yours already?  You embrace my protection, then? You voluntarily seek the shelter of that power which I can promise? You yourself will me to employ that power in effecting your escape?  Speak  do I interpret your sentiments aright?  I am unable to exercise those powers you invest me with, unless you yourself require me to do so. I have waited  I have watched for the demand  it has been made  would that it never had! An expression of the fiercest agony corrugated his stern features as he spoke.  But it may yet be withdrawn  reflect!  And you will not then save me from shame and danger? Is this the proof of your love  is this the boast of your power? said Isidora, half frantic at this delay. If I adjure you to pause  if I myself hesitate and tremble  it is to give time for the salutary whisper of your better angel.  Oh! save me, and you shall be my angel! said Isidora, falling at his feet. Melmoth shook through his whole frame as he heard these words. He raised and soothed her, however, with promises of safety, though in a voice that seemed to announce despair  and then turning from her, burst into a passionate soliloquy. Immortal Heaven! what is man?  A being with the ignorance, but not the instinct, of the feeblest animals!  They are like birds  when thy hand, O Thou whom I dare not call Father, is on them, they scream and quiver, though the gentle pressure is intended only to convey the wanderer back to his cage  while, to shun the light fear that scares their senses, they rush into the snare that is spread in their sight, and where their captivity is hopeless! As he spoke, hastily traversing the room, his foot struck against a chair on which a gorgeous dress was spread. What is this? he exclaimed  What ideot trumpery, what Mayqueen foolery is this?  It is the habit I am to wear at the feast tonight, said Isidora  My attendants are coming  I hear them at the door  oh, with what a throbbing heart I shall put on this glittering mockery!  But you will not desert me then? she added, with wild and breathless anxiety. Fear not, said Melmoth, solemnly  You have demanded my aid, and it shall be accorded. May your heart tremble no more when you throw off that habit, than now when you are about to put it on! The hour approached, and the guests were arriving. Isidora, arrayed in a splendid and fanciful garb, and rejoicing in the shelter which her mask afforded to the expression of her pale features, mingled among the groupe. She walked one measure with Montilla, and then declined dancing on the pretence of assisting her mother in receiving and entertaining her guests. After a sumptuous banquet, dancing was renewed in the spacious hall, and Isidora followed the company thither with a beating heart. Twelve was the hour at which Melmoth had promised to meet her, and by the clock, which was placed over the door of the hall, she saw it wanted but a quarter to twelve. The hand moved on  it arrived at the hour  the clock struck! Isidora, whose eyes had been rivetted on its movements, now withdrew them in despair. At that moment she felt her arm gently touched, and one of the maskers, bending towards her, whispered, I am here! and he added the sign which Melmoth and she had agreed on as the signal of their meeting. Isidora, unable to reply, could only return the sign.