----"He, like the tenant
Of some night-haunted ruin, bore an aspect
Of horror, worn to habitude."
MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.
The adventurous Vivaldi, and his servant Paulo, after passing the night
of Ellena's departure from villa Altieri in one of the subterraneous
chambers of the fort of Paluzzi, and yielding, at length, to exhausted
nature, awoke in terror and utter darkness, for the flambeau had
expired. When a recollection of the occurrences of the preceding
evening returned, they renewed their efforts for liberty with ardour.
The grated window was again examined, and being found to overlook only
a confined court of the fortress, no hope appeared of escaping.
The words of the monk returned with Vivaldi's first recollections, to
torture him with apprehension, that Ellena was no more; and Paulo,
unable either to console or to appease his master, sat down dejectedly
beside him. Paulo had no longer a hope to suggest, or a joke to throw
away; and he could not forbear seriously remarking, that to die of
hunger was one of the most horrible means of death, or lamenting the
rashness which had made them liable to so sad a probability.
He was in the midst of a very pathetic oration, of which, however, his
master did not hear a single word, so wholly was his attention engaged
by his own melancholy thoughts, when on a sudden he became silent, and
then, starting to his feet, exclaimed, "Signor, what is yonder? Do you
see nothing?"
Vivaldi looked round.
"It is certainly a ray of light," continued Paulo; "and I will soon
know where it comes from."
As he said this he sprung forward, and his surprize almost equalled his
joy when he discovered that the light issued through the door of the
vault, which stood a little open. He could scarcely believe his senses,
since the door had been strongly fastened on the preceding night, and
he had not heard its ponderous bolts undrawn. He threw it widely open,
but recollecting himself, stopped to look into the adjoining vault
before he ventured forth; when Vivaldi darted past him, and bidding
him follow instantly, ascended to the day. The courts of the fortress
were silent and vacant, and Vivaldi reached the arch-way without having
observed a single person, breathless with speed, and scarcely daring to
believe that he had regained his liberty.
Beneath the arch he stopped to recover breath, and to consider whether
he should take the road to Naples, or to the villa Altieri, for it was
yet early morning, and at an hour when it appeared improbable that
Ellena's family would be risen. The apprehension of her death had
vanished as Vivaldi's spirits revived, which the pause of hesitation
sufficiently announced: but even this was the pause only of an instant;
a strong anxiety concerning her determined him to proceed to the villa
Altieri, notwithstanding the unsuitableness of the hour, since he
could, at least, reconnoitre her residence, and await till some sign of
the family having risen should appear.
"Pray, Signor," said Paulo, while his master was deliberating, "do
not let us stop here lest the enemy should appear again; and do,
Signor, take the road which is nearest to some house where we may get
breakfast, for the fear of starving has taken such hold upon me, that
it has nearly anticipated the reality of it already."
Vivaldi immediately departed for the villa. Paulo, as he danced
joyfully along, expressed all the astonishment that filled his mind,
as to the cause of their late imprisonment and escape; but Vivaldi,
who had now leizure to consider the subject, could not assist him in
explaining it. The only certainty that appeared, was, that he had not
been confined by robbers; and what interest any person could have in
imprisoning him for the night, and suffering him to escape in the
morning, did not appear.
On entering the garden at Altieri, he was surprized to observe that
several of the lower lattices were open at this early hour, but
surprize changed to terror, when, on reaching the portico, he heard
a moaning of distress from the hall, and when, after loudly calling,
he was answered by the piteous cries of Beatrice. The hall door was
fastened, and, Beatrice being unable to open it, Vivaldi, followed by
Paulo, sprang through one of the unclosed lattices; when on reaching
the hall, he found the house-keeper bound to a pillar, and learned
that Ellena had been carried off during the night by armed men.
For a moment he was almost stupified by the shock of this intelligence,
and then asked Beatrice a thousand questions concerning the affair,
without allowing her time to answer one of them. When, however, he had
patience to listen, he learned that the ruffians were four in number;
that they were masked; that two of them had carried Ellena through
the garden, while the others, after binding Beatrice to a pillar,
threatening her with death if she made any noise, and watching over her
till their comrades had secured their prize, left her a prisoner. This
was all the information she could give respecting Ellena.
Vivaldi, when he could think coolly, believed he had discovered the
instigators and the design of the whole affair, and the cause, also,
of his late confinement. It appeared that Ellena had been carried off
by order of his family, to prevent the intended marriage, and that he
had been decoyed into the fort of Paluzzi, and kept a prisoner there,
to prevent him from intercepting the scheme, which his presence at the
villa Altieri would effectually have done. He had himself spoken of his
former adventure at Paluzzi; and it now appeared, that his family had
taken advantage of the curiosity he had expressed, to lead him into the
vaults. The event of this design was the more certain, since, as the
fort lay in the direct road to the villa Altieri, Vivaldi could not go
thither without being observed by the creatures of the Marchesa, who,
by an artful manœuvre, might make him their prisoner, without employing
violence.
As he considered these circumstances, it appeared certain, also, that
father Schedoni was in truth the monk who had so long haunted his
steps; that he was the secret adviser of his mother, and one of the
authors of the predicted misfortunes, which, it seemed, he possessed
a too certain means of fulfilling. Yet Vivaldi, while he admitted
the probability of all this, reflected with new astonishment on the
conduct of Schedoni, during his interview with him in the Marchesa's
cabinet;--the air of dignified innocence, with which he had repressed
accusation, the apparent simplicity, with which he had pointed out
circumstances respecting the stranger, that seemed to make against
himself; and Vivaldi's opinion of the confessor's duplicity began
to waver. "Yet what other person," said he, "could be so intimately
acquainted with my concerns, or have an interest sufficiently strong
for thus indefatigably thwarting me, except this confessor, who is,
no doubt, well rewarded for his perseverance? The monk can be no
other than Schedoni, yet it is strange that he should have forborn to
disguise his person, and should appear in his mysterious office in the
very habit he usually wears!"
Whatever might be the truth as to Schedoni, it was evident that Ellena
had been carried away by order of Vivaldi's family, and he immediately
returned towards Naples with an intention of demanding her at their
hands, not with any hope of their compliance, but believing that they
might accidentally afford him some lights on the subject. If, however,
he should fail to obtain any hint that might assist him in tracing the
route she had been carried, he determined to visit Schedoni, accuse
him of perfidy, urge him to a full explanation of his conduct, and, if
possible, obtain from him a knowledge of Ellena's place of confinement.
When, at length, he obtained an interview with the Marchese, and,
throwing himself at his feet, supplicated that Ellena might be restored
to her home, the unaffected surprize of his father overwhelmed him with
astonishment and despair. The look and manner of the Marchese could not
be doubted; Vivaldi was convinced that he was absolutely ignorant of
any step which had been taken against Ellena.
"However ungraciously you have conducted yourself," said the Marchese,
"my honour has never yet been sullied by duplicity; however I may
have wished to break the unworthy connection you have formed, I
should disdain to employ artifice as the means. If you really design
to marry this person, I shall make no other effort to prevent such a
measure, than by telling you the consequence you are to expect;--from
thenceforth I will disown you for my son."
The Marchese quitted the apartment when he had said this, and Vivaldi
made no attempt to detain him. His words expressed little more than
they had formerly done, yet Vivaldi was shocked by the absolute menace
now delivered. The stronger passion of his heart, however, soon
overcame their effect; and this moment, when he began to fear that he
had irrecoverably lost the object of his dearest affections, was not
the time, in which he could long feel remoter evils, or calculate the
force of misfortunes which never might arrive. The nearer interest
pressed solely upon his mind, and he was conscious only to the loss of
Ellena.
The interview, which followed with his mother, was of a different
character from that, which had occurred with the Marchese. The keen
dart of suspicion, however, sharpened as it was by love and by
despair, pierced beyond the veil of her duplicity; and Vivaldi as
quickly detected her hypocrisy as he had yielded his conviction to the
sincerity of the Marchese. But his power rested here; he possessed no
means of awakening her pity or actuating her justice, and could not
obtain even a hint, that might guide him in his search of Ellena.
Schedoni, however, yet remained to be tried; Vivaldi had no longer a
doubt as to his having caballed with the Marchesa, and that he had
been an agent in removing Ellena. Whether he was the person who
haunted the ruins of Paluzzi, still remained to be proved, for, though
several circumstances seemed to declare that he was, others, not less
plausible, asserted the contrary.
On leaving the Marchesa's apartment, Vivaldi repaired to the convent of
the Spirito Santo, and enquired for father Schedoni. The lay-brother
who opened the gate, informed him that the father was in his cell,
and Vivaldi stepped impatiently into the court requesting to be shewn
thither.
"I dare not leave the gate, Signor," said the brother, "but if you
cross the court, and ascend that stair-case which you see yonder beyond
the door-way on your right, it will lead you to a gallery, and the
third door you will come to is father Schedoni's."
Vivaldi passed on without seeing another human being, and not a sound
disturbed the silence of this sanctuary, till, as he ascended the
stairs, a feeble note of lamentation proceeded from the gallery, and he
concluded it was uttered by some penitent at confession.
He stopped, as he had been directed, at the third door, when, as
he gently knocked, the sound ceased, and the same profound silence
returned. Vivaldi repeated his summons, but, receiving no answer,
he ventured to open the door. In the dusky cell within no person
appeared, but he still looked round, expecting to discover some one in
the dubious gloom. The chamber contained little more than a mattress,
a chair, a table, and a crucifix; some books of devotion were upon
the table, one or two of which were written in unknown characters;
several instruments of torture lay beside them. Vivaldi shuddered as
he hastily examined these, though he did not comprehend the manner of
their application, and he left the chamber, without noticing any other
object, and returned to the court. The porter said, that since father
Schedoni was not in his cell, he was probably either in the church or
in the gardens, for that he had not passed the gates during the morning.
"Did he pass yester-evening?" said Vivaldi, eagerly.
"Yes, he returned to vespers," replied the brother with surprize.
"Are you certain as to that, my friend?" rejoined Vivaldi, "are you
certain that he slept in the convent last night?"
"Who is it that asks the question?" said the lay-brother, with
displeasure, "and what right has he to make it? You are ignorant of the
rules of our house, Signor, or you would perceive such questions to
be unnecessary; any member of our community is liable to be severely
punished if he sleep a night without these walls, and father Schedoni
would be the last among us so to trespass. He is one of the most pious
of the brotherhood; few indeed have courage to imitate his severe
example. His voluntary sufferings are sufficient for a saint. He pass
the night abroad? Go, Signor, yonder is the church, you will find him
there, perhaps."
Vivaldi did not linger to reply. "The hypocrite!" said he to himself as
he crossed to the church, which formed one side of the quadrangle; "but
I will unmask him."
The church, which he entered, was vacant and silent like the court.
"Whither can the inhabitants of this place have withdrawn themselves?"
said he; "wherever I go, I hear only the echoes of my own footsteps; it
seems as if death reigned here over all! But, perhaps, it is one of the
hours of general meditation, and the monks have only retired to their
cells."
As he paced the long aisles, he suddenly stopped to catch the startling
sound that murmured through the lofty roof; but it seemed to be only
the closing of a distant door. Yet he often looked forward into
the sacred gloom, which the painted windows threw over the remote
perspective, in the expectation of perceiving a monk. He was not long
disappointed; a person appeared, standing silently in an obscure part
of the cloister, cloathed in the habit of this society, and he advanced
towards him.
The monk did not avoid Vivaldi, or even turn to observe who was
approaching, but remained in the same attitude, fixed like a statue.
This tall and gaunt figure had, at a distance, reminded him of
Schedoni, and Vivaldi, as he now looked under the cowl, discovered the
ghastly countenance of the confessor.
"Have I found you at last?" said Vivaldi. "I would speak with you,
father, in private. This is not a proper place for such discourse as we
must hold."
Schedoni made no reply, and Vivaldi, once again looking at him,
observed that his features were fixed, and his eyes bent towards
the ground. The words of Vivaldi seemed not to have reached his
understanding, nor even to have made any impression on his senses.
He repeated them in a louder tone, but still not a single line of
Schedoni's countenance acknowledged their influence. "What means this
mummery?" said he, his patience exhausted, and his indignation aroused;
"This wretched subterfuge shall not protect you, you are detected, your
stratagems are known! Restore Ellena di Rosalba to her home, or confess
where you have concealed her."
Schedoni was still silent and unmoved. A respect for his age and
profession withheld Vivaldi from seizing and compelling him to answer;
but the agony of impatience and indignation which he suffered, formed
a striking contrast to the death-like apathy of the monk. "I now also
know you," continued Vivaldi, "for my tormentor at Paluzzi, the
prophet of evils, which you too well practised the means of fulfilling,
the predictor of the death of Signora Bianchi." Schedoni frowned.
"The forewarner of Ellena's departure; the phantom who decoyed me
into the dungeons of Paluzzi; the prophet and the artificer of all my
misfortunes."
The monk raised his eyes from the ground, and fixed them with terrible
expression upon Vivaldi, but was still silent.
"Yes, father," added Vivaldi, "I know and will proclaim you to the
world. I will strip you of the holy hypocrisy in which you shroud
yourself; announce to all your society the despicable artifices you
have employed, and the misery you have occasioned. Your character shall
be announced aloud."
While Vivaldi spoke, the monk had withdrawn his eyes, and fixed them
again on the ground. His countenance had resumed its usual expression.
"Wretch! restore to me Ellena di Rosalba!" cried Vivaldi, with the
sudden anguish of renewed despair. "Tell me at least, where she may be
found, or you shall be compelled to do so. Whither, whither have you
conveyed her?"
As he pronounced this in loud and passionate accents, several
ecclesiastics entered the cloisters, and were passing on to the body
of the church, when his voice arrested their attention. They paused,
and perceiving the singular attitude of Schedoni, and the frantic
gesticulations of Vivaldi, hastily advanced towards them. "Forbear!"
said one of the strangers, as he seized the cloak of Vivaldi, "do you
not observe!"
"I observe a hypocrite," replied Vivaldi, stepping back and disengaging
himself, "I observe a destroyer of the peace, it was his duty to
protect. I"----
"Forbear this desperate conduct," said the priest, "lest it provoke the
just vengeance of Heaven! Do you not observe the holy office in which
he is engaged?" pointing to the monk, "Leave the church while you are
permitted to do so in safety; you suspect not the punishment you may
provoke."
"I will not quit the spot till you answer my enquiries," said Vivaldi
to Schedoni, without deigning even to look upon the priest; "Where, I
repeat, is Ellena di Rosalba?"
The confessor was still silent and unmoved. "This is beyond all
patience, and all belief," continued Vivaldi. "Speak! Answer me, or
dread what I may unfold. Yet silent! Do you know the convent _del
Pianto_? Do you know the confessional of the _Black Penitents_?"
Vivaldi thought he perceived the countenance of the monk suffer some
change. "Do you remember that terrible night," he added, "when, on the
steps of that confessional, a tale was told?"----
Schedoni raised his eyes, and fixing them once more on Vivaldi, with a
look that seemed intended to strike him to the dust, "Avaunt!" cried
he in a tremendous voice; "avaunt! sacrilegious boy! Tremble for the
consequence of thy desperate impiety!"
As he concluded, he started from his position, and gliding with the
silent swiftness of a shadow along the cloister, vanished in an
instant. Vivaldi, when attempting to pursue him, was seized by the
surrounding monks. Insensible to his sufferings, and exasperated by his
assertions, they threatened, that if he did not immediately leave the
convent, he should be confined, and undergo the severe punishment to
which he had become liable, for having disturbed and even insulted one
of their holy order while performing an act of penance.
"He has need of such acts," said Vivaldi; "but when can they restore
the happiness his treachery has destroyed? Your order is disgraced by
such a member, reverend fathers; your"----
"Peace!" cried a monk, "he is the pride of our house; he is severe in
his devotion, and in self-punishment terrible beyond the reach of----
But I am throwing away my commendations, I am talking to one who is
not permitted to value or to understand the sacred mysteries of our
exercises."
"Away with him to the _Padre Abbatte_!" cried an enraged priest; "away
with him to the dungeon!"
"Away! away!" repeated his companions, and they endeavoured to force
Vivaldi through the cloisters. But with the hidden strength which
pride and indignation lent him, he burst from their united hold, and,
quitting the church by another door, escaped into the street.
Vivaldi returned home in a state of mind that would have engaged the
pity of any heart, which prejudice or self-interest had not hardened.
He avoided his father, but sought the Marchesa, who, triumphant in the
success of her plan, was still insensible to the sufferings of her son.
When the Marchesa had been informed of his approaching marriage, she
had, as usual, consulted with her confessor on the means of preventing
it, who had advised the scheme she adopted, a scheme which was the more
easily carried into effect, since the Marchesa had early in life been
acquainted with the abbess of San Stefano, and knew, therefore, enough
of her character and disposition to confide, without hesitation, the
management of this important affair to her discretion. The answer of
the abbess to her proposal, was not merely acquiescent, but zealous,
and it appeared that she too faithfully justified the confidence
reposed in her. After this plan had been so successfully prosecuted,
it was not to be hoped that the Marchesa would be prevailed upon to
relinquish it by the tears, the anguish, or all the varied sufferings
of her son. Vivaldi now reproved the easiness of his own confidence in
having hoped it, and quitted her cabinet with a despondency that almost
reached despair.
The faithful Paulo obeyed the hasty summons of his master, but he had
not succeeded in obtaining intelligence of Ellena; and Vivaldi, having
dismissed him again on the same enquiry, retired to his apartment,
where the excess of grief, and a feeble hope of devising some
successful mode of remedy, alternately agitated and detained him.
In the evening, restless and anxious for change, though scarcely
knowing whither to bend his course, he left the palace, and strolled
down to the sea-beach. A few fishermen and Lazzaroni only were
loitering along the strand, waiting for boats from St. Lucia. Vivaldi,
with folded arms, and his hat drawn over his face to shade his sorrow
from observation, paced the edge of the waves, listening to their
murmur, as they broke gently at his feet, and gazing upon their
undulating beauty, while all consciousness was lost in melancholy
reverie concerning Ellena. Her late residence appeared at a distance,
rising over the shore. He remembered how often from thence they had
together viewed this lovely scene! Its features had now lost their
charm; they were colourless and uninteresting, or impressed only
mournful ideas. The sea fluctuating beneath the setting sun, the long
mole and its light-house tipped with the last rays, fishermen reposing
in the shade, little boats skimming over the smooth waters, which
their oars scarcely dimpled; these were images that brought to his
recollection the affecting evening when he had last seen this picture
from the villa Altieri, when, seated in the orangery with Ellena
and Bianchi, on the night preceding the death of the latter, Ellena
herself had so solemnly been given to his care, and had so affectingly
consented to the dying request of her relative. The recollection of
that scene came to Vivaldi with all the force of contrast, and renewed
all the anguish of despair; he paced the beach with quicker steps, and
long groans burst from his heart. He accused himself of indifference
and inactivity, for having been thus long unable to discover a single
circumstance which might direct his search; and though he knew not
whither to go, he determined to leave Naples immediately, and return no
more to his father's mansion till he should have rescued Ellena.
Of some fishermen who were conversing together upon the beach, he
enquired whether they could accommodate him with a boat, in which he
meant to coast the bay; for it appeared probable that Ellena had been
conveyed from Altieri by water, to some town or convent on the shore,
the privacy and facility of such a mode of conveyance being suitable to
the designs of her enemies.
"I have but one boat, Signor," said a fisherman, "and that is busy
enough in going to and fro between here and Santa Lucia, but my
comrade, here, perhaps can serve you. What, Carlo, can you help the
Signor to your little skiff? the other, I know, has enough to do in the
trade."
His comrade, however, was too much engaged with a party of three or
four men, who were listening in deep attention round him, to reply;
Vivaldi advancing to urge the question, was struck by the eagerness
with which he delivered his narrative, as well as the uncouthness of
his gesticulation; and he paused a moment in attention. One of the
auditors seemed to doubt of something that had been asserted. "I tell
you," replied the narrator, "I used to carry fish there, two and three
times a week, and very good sort of people they were; they have laid
out many a ducat with me in their time. But as I was saying, when I
got there, and knocked upon the door, I heard, all of a sudden, a huge
groaning, and presently I heard the voice of the old house-keeper
herself, roaring out for help; but I could give her none, for the door
was fastened; and, while I ran away for assistance to old Bartoli, you
know old Bartoli, he lives by the road side as you go to Naples; well,
while I ran to him, comes a Signor, and jumps through the window and
sets her at liberty at once. So then, I heard the whole story."----
"What story?" said Vivaldi, "and of whom do you speak?"
"All in good time, _Maestro_, you shall hear," said the fisherman, who
looking at him for a moment, added, "Why, Signor, it should be you I
saw there, you should be the very Signor that let Beatrice loose."
Vivaldi, who had scarcely doubted before, that it was Altieri of which
the man had spoken, now asked a thousand questions respecting the route
the ruffians had taken Ellena, but obtained no relief to his anxiety.
"I should not wonder," said a Lazzaro who had been listening to the
relation; "I should not wonder if the carriage that passed Bracelli
early on the same morning, with the blinds drawn up, though it was so
hot that people could scarcely breathe in the open air, should prove to
be it which carried off the lady!"
This hint was sufficient to reanimate Vivaldi, who collected all the
information the Lazzaro could give, which was, however, little more
than that a carriage, such as he described, had been seen by him,
driving furiously through Bracelli, early on the morning mentioned as
that of Signora di Rosalba's departure. Vivaldi had now no doubt as
to its being the one which conveyed her away, and he determined to
set out immediately for that place, where he hoped to obtain from the
post-master further intelligence concerning the road she had pursued.
With this intention he returned once more to his father's mansion, not
to acquaint him with his purpose, or to bid him farewel, but to await
the return of his servant Paulo, who he meant should accompany him in
the search. Vivaldi's spirits were now animated with hope, slender as
were the circumstances that supported it; and, believing his design
to be wholly unsuspected by those who would be disposed to interrupt
it, he did not guard either against the measures, which might impede
his departure from Naples, or those which might overtake him on his
journey.