The Monk: A Romance
sigh drawn near her. This idea brought back her former weakness. She
had already raised herself from her seat, and was on the point of
taking the Lamp from the Table. The imaginary noise stopped her: She
drew back her hand, and supported herself upon the back of a Chair. She
listened anxiously, but nothing more was heard.
“Gracious God!” She said to herself; “What could be that sound? Was I
deceived, or did I really hear it?”
Her reflections were interrupted by a noise at the door scarcely
audible: It seemed as if somebody was whispering. Antonia’s alarm
increased: Yet the Bolt She knew to be fastened, and this idea in some
degree reassured her. Presently the Latch was lifted up softly, and the
Door moved with caution backwards and forwards. Excess of terror now
supplied Antonia with that strength, of which She had till then been
deprived. She started from her place and made towards the Closet door,
whence She might soon have reached the chamber where She expected to
find Flora and Dame Jacintha. Scarcely had She reached the middle of
the room when the Latch was lifted up a second time. An involuntary
movement obliged her to turn her head. Slowly and gradually the Door
turned upon its hinges, and standing upon the Threshold She beheld a
tall thin Figure, wrapped in a white shroud which covered it from head
to foot.
This vision arrested her feet: She remained as if petrified in the
middle of the apartment. The Stranger with measured and solemn steps
drew near the Table. The dying Taper darted a blue and melancholy flame
as the Figure advanced towards it. Over the Table was fixed a small
Clock; The hand of it was upon the stroke of three. The Figure stopped
opposite to the Clock: It raised its right arm, and pointed to the
hour, at the same time looking earnestly upon Antonia, who waited for
the conclusion of this scene, motionless and silent.
The figure remained in this posture for some moments. The clock struck.
When the sound had ceased, the Stranger advanced yet a few steps nearer
Antonia.
“Yet three days,” said a voice faint, hollow, and sepulchral; “Yet
three days, and we meet again!”
Antonia shuddered at the words.
“We meet again?” She pronounced at length with difficulty: “Where shall
we meet? Whom shall I meet?”
The figure pointed to the ground with one hand, and with the other
raised the Linen which covered its face.
“Almighty God! My Mother!”
Antonia shrieked, and fell lifeless upon the floor.
Dame Jacintha who was at work in a neighbouring chamber, was alarmed by
the cry: Flora was just gone down stairs to fetch fresh oil for the
Lamp, by which they had been sitting. Jacintha therefore hastened alone
to Antonia’s assistance, and great was her amazement to find her
extended upon the floor. She raised her in her arms, conveyed her to
her apartment, and placed her upon the Bed still senseless. She then
proceeded to bathe her temples, chafe her hands, and use all possible
means of bringing her to herself. With some difficulty She succeeded.
Antonia opened her eyes, and looked round her wildly.
“Where is She?” She cried in a trembling voice; “Is She gone? Am I
safe? Speak to me! Comfort me! Oh! speak to me for God’s sake!”
“Safe from whom, my Child?” replied the astonished Jacintha; “What
alarms you? Of whom are you afraid?”
“In three days! She told me that we should meet in three days! I heard
her say it! I saw her, Jacintha, I saw her but this moment!”
She threw herself upon Jacintha’s bosom.
“You saw her? Saw whom?”
“My Mother’s Ghost!”
“Christ Jesus!” cried Jacintha, and starting from the Bed, let fall
Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in consternation out of the room.
As She hastened down stairs, She met Flora ascending them.
“Go to your Mistress, Flora,” said She; “Here are rare doings! Oh! I am
the most unfortunate Woman alive! My House is filled with Ghosts and
dead Bodies, and the Lord knows what besides; Yet I am sure, nobody
likes such company less than I do. But go your way to Donna Antonia,
Flora, and let me go mine.”
Thus saying, She continued her course to the Street door, which She
opened, and without allowing herself time to throw on her veil, She
made the best of her way to the Capuchin Abbey. In the meanwhile, Flora
hastened to her Lady’s chamber, equally surprized and alarmed at
Jacintha’s consternation. She found Antonia lying upon the bed
insensible. She used the same means for her recovery that Jacintha had
already employed; But finding that her Mistress only recovered from one
fit to fall into another, She sent in all haste for a Physician. While
expecting his arrival, She undrest Antonia, and conveyed her to Bed.
Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses, Jacintha ran
through the Streets, and stopped not till She reached the Gate of the
Abbey. She rang loudly at the bell, and as soon as the Porter appeared,
She desired permission to speak to the Superior. Ambrosio was then
conferring with Matilda upon the means of procuring access to Antonia.
The cause of Elvira’s death remaining unknown, He was convinced that
crimes were not so swiftly followed by punishment, as his Instructors
the Monks had taught him, and as till then He had himself believed.
This persuasion made him resolve upon Antonia’s ruin, for the enjoyment
of whose person dangers and difficulties only seemed to have increased
his passion. The Monk had already made one attempt to gain admission to
her presence; But Flora had refused him in such a manner as to convince
him that all future endeavours must be vain. Elvira had confided her
suspicions to that trusty Servant: She had desired her never to leave
Ambrosio alone with her Daughter, and if possible to prevent their
meeting altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had executed her
orders to the very letter. Ambrosio’s visit had been rejected that
morning, though Antonia was ignorant of it. He saw that to obtain a
sight of his Mistress by open means was out of the question; and both
Himself and Matilda had consumed the night, in endeavouring to invent
some plan, whose event might be more successful. Such was their
employment, when a Lay-Brother entered the Abbot’s Cell, and informed
him that a Woman calling herself Jacintha Zuniga requested audience for
a few minutes.
Ambrosio was by no means disposed to grant the petition of his Visitor.
He refused it positively, and bad the Lay-Brother tell the Stranger to
return the next day. Matilda interrupted him.
“See this Woman,” said She in a low voice; “I have my reasons.”
The Abbot obeyed her, and signified that He would go to the Parlour
immediately. With this answer the Lay-Brother withdrew. As soon as they
were alone Ambrosio enquired why Matilda wished him to see this
Jacintha.
“She is Antonia’s Hostess,” replied Matilda; “She may possibly be of
use to you: but let us examine her, and learn what brings her hither.”
They proceeded together to the Parlour, where Jacintha was already
waiting for the Abbot. She had conceived a great opinion of his piety
and virtue; and supposing him to have much influence over the Devil,
thought that it must be an easy matter for him to lay Elvira’s Ghost in
the Red Sea. Filled with this persuasion She had hastened to the Abbey.
As soon as She saw the Monk enter the Parlour, She dropped upon her
knees, and began her story as follows.
“Oh! Reverend Father! Such an accident! Such an adventure! I know not
what course to take, and unless you can help me, I shall certainly go
distracted. Well, to be sure, never was Woman so unfortunate, as
myself! All in my power to keep clear of such abomination have I done,
and yet that all is too little. What signifies my telling my beads four
times a day, and observing every fast prescribed by the Calendar? What
signifies my having made three Pilgrimages to St. James of Compostella,
and purchased as many pardons from the Pope as would buy off Cain’s
punishment? Nothing prospers with me! All goes wrong, and God only
knows, whether any thing will ever go right again! Why now, be your
Holiness the Judge. My Lodger dies in convulsions; Out of pure kindness
I bury her at my own expence; (Not that she is any relation of mine, or
that I shall be benefited a single pistole by her death: I got nothing
by it, and therefore you know, reverend Father, that her living or
dying was just the same to me. But that is nothing to the purpose; To
return to what I was saying,) I took care of her funeral, had every
thing performed decently and properly, and put myself to expence
enough, God knows! And how do you think the Lady repays me for my
kindness? Why truly by refusing to sleep quietly in her comfortable
deal Coffin, as a peaceable well-disposed Spirit ought to do, and
coming to plague me, who never wish to set eyes on her again. Forsooth,
it well becomes her to go racketing about my House at midnight, popping
into her Daughter’s room through the Keyhole, and frightening the poor
Child out of her wits! Though She be a Ghost, She might be more civil
than to bolt into a Person’s House, who likes her company so little.
But as for me, reverend Father, the plain state of the case is this: If
She walks into my House, I must walk out of it, for I cannot abide such
Visitors, not I! Thus you see, your Sanctity, that without your
assistance I am ruined and undone for ever. I shall be obliged to quit
my House; Nobody will take it, when ’tis known that She haunts it, and
then I shall find myself in a fine situation! Miserable Woman that I
am! What shall I do! What will become of me!”
Here She wept bitterly, wrung her hands, and begged to know the Abbot’s
opinion of her case.
“In truth, good Woman,” replied He, “It will be difficult for me to
relieve you without knowing what is the matter with you. You have
forgotten to tell me what has happened, and what it is you want.”
“Let me die” cried Jacintha, “but your Sanctity is in the right! This
then is the fact stated briefly. A lodger of mine is lately dead, a
very good sort of Woman that I must needs say for her as far as my
knowledge of her went, though that was not a great way:
She kept me too much at a distance; for indeed She was given to be upon
the high ropes, and whenever I ventured to speak to her, She had a look
with her which always made me feel a little queerish, God forgive me
for saying so. However, though She was more stately than needful, and
affected to look down upon me (Though if I am well informed, I come of
as good Parents as She could do for her ears, for her Father was a
Shoe-maker at Cordova, and Mine was an Hatter at Madrid, aye, and a
very creditable Hatter too, let me tell you,) Yet for all her pride,
She was a quiet well-behaved Body, and I never wish to have a better
Lodger. This makes me wonder the more at her not sleeping quietly in
her Grave: But there is no trusting to people in this world! For my
part, I never saw her do amiss, except on the Friday before her death.
To be sure, I was then much scandalized by seeing her eat the wing of a
Chicken! ‘How, Madona Flora!’ quoth I; (Flora, may it please your
Reverence, is the name of the waiting Maid)—‘How, Madona Flora!’ quoth
I; ‘Does your Mistress eat flesh upon Fridays? Well! Well! See the
event, and then remember that Dame Jacintha warned you of it!’ These
were my very words, but Alas! I might as well have held my tongue!
Nobody minded me; and Flora, who is somewhat pert and snappish, (More
is the pity, say I) told me that there was no more harm in eating a
Chicken than the egg from which it came. Nay, She even declared that if
her Lady added a slice of bacon, She would not be an inch nearer
Damnation, God protect us! A poor ignorant sinful soul! I protest to
your Holiness, I trembled to hear her utter such blasphemies, and