At last the day arrived when Matilda expected Ferdinand’s return.
Punctual to his time, Ferdinand returned, and told Matilda that
Zastrozzi had, for the present, taken up his abode at a cottage not
far from thence, and that he there awaited her arrival.
Matilda was much surprised that Zastrozzi preferred a cottage to her
castella; but, dismissing that from her mind, hastily prepared to
attend him.
She soon arrived at the cottage. Zastrozzi met her--he quickened his
pace towards her.
“Well, Zastrozzi,” exclaimed Matilda, inquiringly.
“Oh!” said Zastrozzi, “our schemes have all, as yet, been unsuccessful.
Julia yet lives, and, surrounded by wealth and power, yet defies our
vengeance. I was planning her destruction, when, obedient to your
commands, I came here.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Matilda, “I fear it must be ever thus: but,
Zastrozzi, much I need your advice--your assistance. Long have I
languished in hopeless love: often have I expected, and as often have
my eager expectations been blighted by disappointment.”
A deep sigh of impatience burst from Matilda’s bosom, as, unable to
utter more, she ceased.
“’Tis but the image of that accursed Julia,” replied Zastrozzi,
“revelling in his breast, which prevents him from becoming instantly
yours. Could you but efface that!”
“I would I could efface it,” said Matilda: “the friendship which now
exists between us would quickly ripen into love, and I should be for
ever happy. How, Zastrozzi, can that be done? But, before we think of
happiness, we must have a care to our safety: we must destroy Julia,
who yet endeavours, by every means, to know the event of Verezzi’s
destiny. But, surrounded by wealth and power as she is, how can
that be done? No bravo in Naples dare attempt her life: no rewards,
however great, could tempt the most abandoned of men to brave instant
destruction, in destroying her; and should _we_ attempt it, the most
horrible tortures of the Inquisition, a disgraceful death, and that
without the completion of our desire, would be the consequence.”
“Think not so, Matilda,” answered Zastrozzi; “think not, because Julia
possesses wealth, that she is less assailable by the dagger of one
eager for revenge as I am; or that, because she lives in splendour at
Naples, that a poisoned chalice, prepared by your hand, the hand of a
disappointed rival, could not send her writhing and convulsed to the
grave. No, no; she _can_ die, nor shall we writhe on the rack.”
“Oh!” interrupted Matilda, “I care not, if, writhing in the prisons of
the Inquisition, I suffer the most excruciating torment; I care not if,
exposed to public view, I suffer the most ignominious and disgraceful
of deaths, if, before I die--if, before this spirit seeks another
world, I gain my purposed design, I enjoy unutterable, and, as yet,
inconceivable happiness.”
The evening meanwhile came on, and, warned by the lateness of the hour
to separate, Matilda and Zastrozzi parted.
Zastrozzi pursued his way to the cottage, and Matilda, deeply musing,
retraced her steps to the castella.
The wind was fresh, and rather tempestuous: light fleeting clouds were
driven rapidly across the dark-blue sky. The moon, in silver majesty,
hung high in eastern ether, and rendered transparent as a celestial
spirit the shadowy clouds, which at intervals crossed her orbit, and by
degrees vanished like a vision in the obscurity of distant air. On this
scene gazed Matilda--a train of confused thought took possession of her
soul--her crimes, her past life, rose in array to her terror-struck
imagination. Still burning love, unrepressed, unconquerable passion,
revelled through every vein: her senses, rendered delirious by guilty
desire, were whirled around in an inexpressible ecstasy of anticipated
delight--delight, not unmixed by confused apprehensions.
She stood thus with her arms folded, as if contemplating the spangled
concavity of heaven.
It was late--later than the usual hour of return, and Verezzi had gone
out to meet Matilda.
“What! deep in thought, Matilda?” exclaimed Verezzi, playfully.
Matilda’s cheek, as he thus spoke, was tinged with a momentary blush;
it, however, quickly passed away, and she replied, “I was enjoying the
serenity of the evening, the beauty of the setting sun, and then the
congenial twilight induced me to wander farther than usual.”
The unsuspicious Verezzi observed nothing peculiar in the manner of
Matilda; but, observing that the night air was chill, conducted her
back to the castella. No art was left untried, no blandishment omitted,
on the part of Matilda, to secure her victim. Everything which he
liked, she affected to admire: every sentiment uttered by Verezzi
was always anticipated by the observing Matilda; but long was all in
vain--long was every effort to obtain his love useless.
Often, when she touched the harp, and drew sounds of enchanting melody
from its strings, whilst her almost celestial form bent over it, did
Verezzi gaze enraptured, and, forgetful of everything else, yielding
himself to a tumultuous oblivion of pleasure, listened entranced.
But all her art could not draw Julia from his memory; he was much
softened towards Matilda; he felt esteem, tenderest esteem--but he yet
loved not.
Thus passed the time. Often would desperation, and an idea that Verezzi
would never love her, agitate Matilda with most violent agony. The
beauties of nature which surrounded the castella had no longer power
to interest; borne away on swelling thought, often in the solitude of
her own apartment, her spirit was waited on the wings of anticipating
fancy. Sometimes imagination portrayed the most horrible images
for futurity; Verezzi’s hate, perhaps his total dereliction of her,
his union with Julia, pressed upon her brain, and almost drove her
to distraction, for Verezzi alone filled every thought; nourished
by restless reveries, the most horrible anticipations blasted the
blooming Matilda. Sometimes, however, a gleam of sense shot across her
soul, deceived by visions of unreal bliss, she acquired new courage,
and fresh anticipations of delight, from a beam which soon withdrew
its ray; for, usually sunk in gloom, her dejected eyes were fixed on
the ground; though sometimes an ardent expression, kindled by the
anticipation of gratified desire, flashed from their fiery orbits.
Often, whilst thus agitated by contending emotions, her soul was shook,
and, unconscious of its intentions, knew not the most preferable plan
to pursue: would she seek Zastrozzi: on him, unconscious why, she
relied much--his words were those of calm reflection and experience;
and his sophistry, whilst it convinced her that a superior being exists
not, who can control our actions, brought peace to her mind--peace to
be succeeded by horrible and resistless conviction of the falsehood of
her coadjutor’s arguments; still, however, they calmed her; and, by
addressing her reason and passions at the same time, deprived her of
the power of being benefited by either.
The health of Verezzi, meanwhile, slowly mended: his mind, however,
shook by so violent a trial as it had undergone, recovered not its
vigour, but, mellowed by time, his grief, violent and irresistible
as it had been at first, now became a fixed melancholy, which spread
itself over his features, was apparent in every action, and, by
resistance, inflamed Matilda’s passion to tenfold fury.
The touching tenderness of Verezzi’s voice, the dejected softened
expression of his eye, touched her soul with tumultuous yet milder
emotions. In his presence she felt calmed; and those passions which,
in solitude, were almost too fierce for endurance, when with him were
softened into a tender though confused delight.
It was one evening, when no previous appointment existed between
Matilda and Zastrozzi, that, overcome by disappointed passion, Matilda
sought the forest.
The sky was unusually obscured, the sun had sunk beneath the western
mountain, and its departing ray tinged the heavy clouds with a red
glare. The rising blast sighed through the towering pines, which rose
loftily above Matilda’s head: the distant thunder, hoarse as the
murmurs of the grove, in indistinct echoes mingled with the hollow
breeze; the scintillating lightning flashed incessantly across her
path, as Matilda, heeding not the storm, advanced along the trackless
forest.
The crashing thunder now rattled madly above, the lightnings flashed a
larger curve, and at intervals, through the surrounding gloom, showed a
scathed larch, which, blasted by frequent storms, reared its bare head
on a height above.
Matilda sat upon a fragment of jutting granite, and contemplated the
storm which raged around her. The portentous calm, which at intervals
occurred amid the reverberating thunder, portentous of a more violent
tempest, resembled the serenity which spread itself over Matilda’s
mind--a serenity only to be succeeded by a fiercer paroxysm of passion.