The Betrothed Part 32

As if alarm had restored her exhausted strength, the unfortunate girl fell on her knees, clasped her hands on her breast, as if before a sacred image, then with her eyes fixed on the earth, exclaimed, "Here I am, murder me if you will."

"I have already told you that I will not harm you," replied the Unknown, in a more gentle tone, gazing at her agonised and altered features.

"Courage, courage," said the old woman. "He tells you himself that he will not harm you."

"And why," resumed Lucy, in a voice in which indignation and despair were mingled with alarm and dismay,--"why make me suffer the torments of h.e.l.l? What have I done to you?"

"Perhaps they have not treated you kindly? Speak!"

"Oh, kindly treated! They have brought me hither by treachery and force.

Why, why did they bring me? Why am I here? Where am I? I am a poor creature. What have I done to you? In the name of G.o.d----"

"G.o.d! G.o.d! always G.o.d!" said the Unknown. "Those who are too weak to defend themselves, always make use of the name of G.o.d, as if they knew something concerning him! What! do you mean by this word to make me----"

and he left the sentence unfinished.

"Oh, signor, what could I mean, a poor girl like me, except that you should have pity on me? G.o.d pardons so many deeds for one act of mercy!

Let me go; for pity, for charity, let me go. Do not make a poor creature suffer thus! Oh, you, who have it in your power, tell them to let me go.

They brought me hither by force. Put me again in the carriage with this woman, and let it carry me to my mother. O holy Virgin! My mother! my mother! Perhaps she is not far from here--I thought I saw my mountains!

Why do you make me suffer? Carry me to a church; I will pray for you all my life. Does it cost you so much to say one word? Oh, I see that you are touched! Say but the word, say it. G.o.d pardons so many deeds for one act of mercy."

"Oh, why is she not the daughter of one of the cowards who outlawed me?" thought the Unknown. "I should then enjoy her sufferings; but now----"

"Do not stifle so good an inspiration," pursued Lucy, on seeing hesitation in the countenance of her persecutor. "If you do not grant me mercy, the Lord will; he will send death to relieve me, and all will be over. But you--one day, perhaps, you also--but no, no--I will pray the Lord to preserve you from evil. What would it cost you to say one word?

If ever you experience these torments----"

"Well, well, take courage," said the Unknown, with a gentleness that astonished the old woman. "Have I done you any harm? Have I menaced you?"

"Oh, no. I see that you have a good heart, and that you pity a poor creature. If you chose, you could alarm me more than any of them, you could make me die with fear; and on the contrary, you have--you have given me some consolation. G.o.d reward you! Accomplish the work you have begun; save me, save me."

"To-morrow morning."

"Oh, save me now, now!"

"To-morrow morning I will see you again, I tell you. Be of good courage.

Rest yourself. You must need food; it shall be brought to you."

"No, no, I shall die if any one comes into this room, I shall die. Take me away, G.o.d will reward you."

"A servant will bring you something to eat," said the Unknown; "and you," continued he, turning to the old woman, "persuade her to eat, and to repose on the bed. If she consents to have you sleep with her, well; if not, you can sleep very well on the floor. Be kind to her, I say; and take care that she makes no complaint of you."

He hastily quitted the room, before Lucy could renew her entreaties.

"Oh, miserable that I am! Shut, shut the door!" said Lucy, returning to seat herself in her corner. "Oh, miserable that I am! Who shall I implore now? Where am I? Tell me, tell me, for charity, who is this signor? Who has been talking to me? who is he?"

"Who is he? Do you wish me to tell you? you must wait awhile first. You are proud, because he protects you; provided you are satisfied, no matter what becomes of me. Ask _him_ his name. If I should tell you, he would not speak to me so gently as he did to you. I am an old woman, I am an old woman," continued she, grumbling: but hearing the sobs of Lucy, she remembered the threat of her master; and addressing her in a less bitter tone, "Well! I have said no harm. Be cheerful. Do not ask me what I cannot tell you, but have courage. How satisfied most people would be, should he speak to them as he has spoken to you! Be cheerful!

Directly, you shall have something to eat; and from what he said, I know it will be something good. And then, you must lie down, and you will leave a little room for me," added she, with an accent of suppressed rancour.

"I cannot eat; I cannot sleep. Leave me, approach me not. You will not go away?"

"No, no," said the old woman, seating herself on a large arm-chair, and regarding her with a mingled expression of alarm and rage. She looked at the bed, and did not very well relish the idea of being banished from it for the night, as it was very cold; but she hoped at least for a good supper. Lucy felt neither cold nor hunger; she remained stupified with grief and terror; her ideas became vague and confused as in the delirium of a fever.

She shuddered at hearing a knock at the door. "Who is there?" cried she, "who is there? Don't let any one come in."

"It is only Martha, bringing something to eat."

"Shut, shut the door!" cried Lucy.

"Certainly," replied the old woman. Taking a basket from the hands of Martha, she placed it on the table, and closed the door. She invited Lucy to taste the delicious food, bestowing on it profuse praises, and on the wine too, which was such as the signor himself drank with his friends; but seeing that they were useless she said, "It is your own fault, you _must_ not forget to tell him that I asked you. I will eat, however, and leave enough for you, if you should come to your senses."

When her supper was finished she approached Lucy again, and renewed her solicitations.

"No, no, I wish nothing," replied she, in a faint and exhausted voice.

"Is the door shut?" she exclaimed, with momentary energy; "is it well secured?"

The old woman approached the door, and showed her that it was firmly bolted. "You see," said she, "it is well fastened. Are you satisfied now?"

"Oh! satisfied! satisfied! in this place!" said Lucy, sinking into her corner. "But G.o.d knows that I am here."

"Come to bed. What would you do there, lying like a dog? How silly to refuse comforts when you can have them!"

"No, no, leave me to myself."

"Well, remember it is your own fault; if you wish to come to bed, you can--I have left room enough for you; remember I have asked you very often." Thus saying, she drew the clothes over her, and soon all was profound silence.

Lucy remained motionless, with her face buried in her hands, which rested on her knees; she was neither awake nor asleep, but in a dreamy state of the imagination, painful, vague, and changeful. At first, she recalled with something of self-possession the minutest circ.u.mstances of this horrible day; then her reason for a moment forsook its throne, vainly struggling against the phantoms conjured by uncertainty and terror; at last, weary and exhausted, she sunk on the floor, in a state approaching to, and resembling, sleep. But suddenly she awoke, as at an internal call, and strove to recall her scattered senses, to know where she was, and why she had been brought thither. She heard a noise, and listened; it was the heavy breathing of the old woman, in a deep slumber; she opened her eyes on the objects around her, which the flickering of the lamp, now dying in its socket, rendered confused and indistinct. But soon her recent impressions returned distinctly to her mind, and the unfortunate girl recognised her prison; and with the knowledge came a.s.sociated all the terrors of this horrible day; and, overcome anew by anxiety and terror, she wished earnestly for death.

She could only pray, and as the words fell from her trembling lips, she felt her confidence revive. Suddenly a thought presented itself to her mind; that her prayer would be more acceptable if united with an offering of something dear to her; she remembered the object to which she had clung for her happiness, and resolved to sacrifice it; then clasping her hands over her chaplet, which hung upon her neck, and raising her tearful eyes to heaven, she cried, "O most holy Virgin! thou to whom I have so often prayed, and who hast so often consoled me--thou who hast suffered so much sorrow, and art now so glorious--thou who hast performed so many miracles for the afflicted--holy Virgin! succour me, take me from this peril, mother of G.o.d! return me safely to my mother, and I pledge myself to remain devoted to thy service; I renounce for ever the unfortunate youth, and from this time devote myself to thee!"

After this consecration of herself, she felt her confidence and faith increase; she remembered the "_to-morrow morning_" uttered by the Unknown, and took it as a promise of safety. Her wearied senses yielded to this new sentiment, and she slept profoundly and peacefully with the name of her protectress on her lips.

But in this same castle was one who could not sleep: after having quitted Lucy, and given orders for her supper, he had visited the posts of his fortress; but her image remained stamped on his mind, her words still resounded in his ears. He retired to his chamber, and threw himself on his bed; but in the stillness around this same image of Lucy in her desolation and anguish took possession still more absolutely of his thoughts, and rendered sleep hopeless. "What new feelings are these?" thought he. "Nibbio was right; but what is there in a woman's tears to unman me thus? Did I never see a woman weep before? Ay, and how often have I beheld their deepest agonies unmoved? But now----"

And here he recalled, without much difficulty, many an instance when neither prayers nor tears were able to make him swerve from his atrocious purposes; but instead of deriving augmented resolution, as he had hoped, from the recollection, he experienced an emotion of alarm, of consternation; so that even, as a relief from the torment of retrospection, he thought of Lucy. "She lives still," said he, "she is here; there is yet time. I have it in my power to say to her, Go in peace! I can also ask her forgiveness. Forgiveness! I ask forgiveness of a woman! Ah, if in that word existed the power to drive this demon from my soul, I would say it; yes, I feel that I would say it. To what am I reduced? I am no longer myself! Well, well! many a time have such follies pa.s.sed through my head; this will take its flight also."

And to procure the desired forgetfulness, he endeavoured to busy himself with some new project; but in vain: all appeared changed! that which at another time would have been a stimulus to action, had now lost its charm; his imagination was overwhelmed with the insupportable weight of remembered crimes. Even the idea of continuing to a.s.sociate with those whom he had employed as the instruments of his daring and licentious will was revolting to his soul; and, disgusted and weary, he found relief only in the thought that by the dawn of morning he would set at liberty the unfortunate Lucy.

"I will save her; yes, I will save her. As soon as the day breaks, I will fly to her, and say, Go, go in peace. But my promise! Ay, who is Don Roderick that I should hold sacred a promise made to _him_?" With the perplexity of a man to whom a superior addresses unexpectedly an embarra.s.sing question, the Unknown endeavoured to reply to this his own, or, rather, that was whispered by this new principle, that had of a sudden sprung up so awfully in his soul, to pa.s.s judgment upon him. He wondered how he could have resolved to engage himself to inflict suffering, without any motive of hatred or fear, on an unfortunate being whom he did not know, only to render a service to this man. He could not find any excuse for it; he could not even imagine how he had been led to do it. The hasty determination had been the impulse of a mind obedient to its habitual feelings, the consequence of a thousand previous deeds; and from an examination of the motives which had led him to commit a single deed, he was led to the retrospection of his whole life.

In looking back from year to year, from enterprise to enterprise, from crime to crime, from blood to blood, each one of his actions appeared abstracted from the feelings which had induced their perpetration, and therefore exposed in all their horrible deformity, but which those feelings had hitherto veiled from his view. They were all his own, he was responsible for all; they comprised his life; the horror of this thought filled him with despair; he grasped his pistol, and raised it to his head--but at the moment in which he would have terminated his miserable existence, his thoughts rushed onwards to the time that must continue to flow on after his end. He thought of his disfigured corpse, without sense or motion, in the power of the vilest men; the astonishment and confusion which would take place in the castle, the conversation it would excite in the neighbourhood and afar off, and, more than all, the rejoicing of his enemies. The darkness and silence of the night inspired him with other apprehensions still; it appeared to him that he would not have hesitated to perform the deed in open day, in the presence of others. "And, after all, what was it? but a moment, and all would be over." And now another thought rose to his mind: "If that other life, of which they tell, is an invention of priests, is a mere fabrication, why should I die? Of what consequence is all that I have done? It is a trifle--but if there should be another life!"

At such a doubt, he was filled with deeper despair, a despair from which death appeared no refuge. The pistol dropped from his grasp--both hands were applied to his aching head--and he trembled in every limb. Suddenly the words he had heard a few hours before came to his memory, "G.o.d pardons so many deeds for one act of mercy." They did not come to him clothed in the humble tone of supplication, with which he had heard them p.r.o.nounced, but in one of authority which offered some gleam of hope. It was a moment of relief: he brought to mind the figure of Lucy, when she uttered them; and he regarded her, not as a suppliant, but as an angel of consolation. He waited with anxiety the approach of day, that he might hear from her mouth other words of hope and life. He imagined himself conducting her to her mother, "And then, what shall I do to-morrow? what shall I do for the rest of the day? what shall I do the day after, and the next day? and the night? the night which will so soon return? Oh, the night! let me not think of the night!" And, plunged in the frightful void of the future, he sought in vain for some employment of time, some method of living through the days and nights. Now he thought of abandoning his castle, and flying to some distant country, where he had never been heard of; but, could he fly from himself? Then he felt a confused hope of recovering his former courage and habits; and that he should regard these terrors of his soul but as a transient delirium: now, he dreaded the approach of day, which should exhibit him so miserably changed to his followers; then he longed for its light, as if it would bring light also to his troubled thoughts. As the day broke, a confused sound of merriment broke upon his ear. He listened; it was a distant chiming of bells, and he could hear the echo of the mountains repeat the harmony, and mingle itself with it. From another quarter, still nearer, and then from another, similar sounds were heard. "What means this?" said he. "For what are these rejoicings? What joyful event has taken place?" He rose from his bed of thorns, and opened the window.

The mountains were still half veiled in darkness, the heavens appeared enveloped in a heavy and vast cloud; but he distinguished, through the faint dawn of the morning, crowds pa.s.sing towards the opening on the right of the castle, villagers in their holyday garments. "What are those people doing? what has happened to cause all this joy?" And calling a bravo, who slept in the adjoining room, he asked him the cause of the commotion. The man replied that he was ignorant of it, but would go immediately and enquire. His master remained at the window, contemplating the moving spectacle, which increasing day rendered more distinct every moment. He saw crowds pa.s.sing in succession; men, women, and children, as guided by one impulse, directing their steps in one direction. They appeared animated by a common joy; and the bells, with their united sound of merriment, seemed to be an echo of the general hilarity. The Unknown looked on intently, and felt an eager curiosity to know what could have communicated such happiness to such a mult.i.tude of people.

CHAPTER XXII.

The bravo hastened back with the intelligence, that the Cardinal Frederick Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, had arrived the evening before at ***, and was expected to pa.s.s the day there. The report of his arrival being spread abroad, the people had been seized with a desire to see him; and the bells were rung in testimony of the happiness his presence conferred, and also to give wider notice of his arrival. The Unknown, left alone, continued to look down into the valley--"For a man!

all crowding, all eager to see a man! And, nevertheless, each one of them has some demon that torments him; but none, none, a demon like mine; not one has pa.s.sed such a night as I have. What is there in this man to excite such joy? Some silver which he will scatter among them.--But _all_ are not actuated by such a motive. Well, a few words--Oh! if he had a few words of consolation for me! Yes--why should I not go to him? Why not? I _will_ go. What better can I do? I will go and speak to him; speak to him alone. What shall I say to him? Why, why, that which----I will hear what he will say to me."