Chapter VIII: Part IV (4)

'I do not remember having ever seen him before; as to his dress, it was very singular, much like that of an old-fashioned country schoolmaster.' And she described minutely his long frock-coat, with large buttons and side-pockets, and his antiquated boots, that did not appear to have been brushed for a very long time. 'The peculiar habit you speak of,' she added, 'was probably the manner in which he slowly shook his head, when he seemed to differ in opinion from you and your other guest; in my eyes there was something noble and striking in this movement, there was an expression of pain or sadness in his countenance, which interested me; it was particularly observable when he laid his right hand on his breast, and raised his left hand upwards, as if he were solemnly affirming something, or calling God to witness to the truth of what he said. Nevertheless, I remarked with surprise, that I scarcely saw him open his lips. It was of course impossible for me to hear what you were all talking about.'

The terrified artist became still paler--he tottered for a moment, and was obliged to lean on the back of a chair for support. Shortly after he seized his hat and hurried out of the house. The individual whom the old lady had so graphically described had been a friend of his in youth, but with whom he had been on bad terms for the last two years, and whom he had not seen lately.

The whole conversation with his amusing visitor had been about this very man. They had been engaged in a laughable and, at the same time, merciless criticism of his character, and appearance, and had been turning into ridicule every little peculiarity he had; his very voice they had mimicked, and in their facetious exaggeration, had not only made a laughing-stock of his person and manners, which were indeed odd, but had attributed to him want of heart and want of judgment, which latter sentence they based upon his somewhat peculiar taste, and a kind of dry, pedantic, schoolmaster tone in conversation, from which he was not free.

'That old maid is mad--and she has made me mad, too,' mumbled the artist, pausing a moment when he had gained the street. '_He_ certainly was not there--we do not meet any longer. She never saw him before. There is something strangely mysterious in this matter--perhaps it bodes some calamity. But, whether she is deranged--or I--or both of us, I have wronged him--shamefully wronged him--and I must see him, and tell him all.'

He stepped into a bookseller's shop, and asked to look at a Directory. After about half-an-hour's walk he entered a house in a small back street, and ascending to the third story, he rang at a door. A girl opened it, and, in answer to his inquiries, told him that the person he asked for was ill, and could not see anyone.

'But I must see him--I must speak to him,' cried the painter, almost forcing himself in.

He was then ushered into a darkened room, where he found his poor friend of bygone days looking pale and emaciated, lying perfectly still upon a sofa, in his old grey frock-coat and soiled boots. The kind anxiety with which the unexpected visitor asked about his health seemed equally to surprise and please the invalid.

'You!' he exclaimed, '_you_ here! Do you still take any interest in me? Have you any regard left for me? I did you shameful injustice two years ago, when I saw your great masterpiece; and had not an enthusiastic word for what I have though, often since, thought of with the greatest admiration. Nay, within this very last hour I have wronged you, though in quite a different manner. I was dreaming of you, and I fancied you were speaking of me with scorn and derision--pulling me to pieces in a jesting conversation with a very satirical person, who vied with you in ridiculing me, and in mimicking all my oddities.'

'Forgive me--oh, forgive me! you dreamed the truth,' cried the painter, in great agitation, while he threw himself down by the sick man's couch, and embraced his knees.

An explanation ensued between the two friends who had so long been estranged from each other--mutual confessions were made--old feelings were revived in the hearts of both--and an entire reconciliation immediately took place. The unusual emotion, and the surprise at the event related to him, did not, as might have been expected, increase the illness of the nervous and debilitated invalid; on the contrary, the meeting with his former friend appeared to have had a good effect on his health, for in the course of a few weeks he had quite recovered.

The old lady's qualifications as a seer, or rather her strange faculty of beholding, to others invisible, apparitions, had been productive of good; but it was such an extraordinary revelation, agreeing so entirely with what both the reconciled friends knew to be the truth, that they could only look upon it as a proof of the reality of what was then beginning to be so much talked of--the magnetic clairvoyance.

They continued unalterable friends from that time. From that time, also, the artist felt an involuntary horror at ridiculing the absent, or making or listening to any censorious remarks upon them; he always fancied that the injured party might be standing _as a secret witness_ by his side, with one hand on his breast, and the other raised in an appeal to that great Judge, who alone can know what is passing in every heart and every soul.

AGNETE AND THE MERMAN.

BY JENS BAGGESEN.

Agnete she was guileless.
She was beloved and true,
But solitude, it charm'd her,
And mirth she never knew--
She never knew--
She made the joy of all around
Yet never felt it too.

Over the dark blue waves,
Agnete, gazing, bends,
When lo! a merman rising there
From ocean's depths ascends;
Up he ascends.
Yet still, Agnete's bending form
With the soft billows blends.

His glossy hair, it seemed as spun
Out of the purest gold,
His beaming eye, it brightly glow'd
With warmest love untold--
With love untold!
And his scale-cover'd bosom held
A heart that was not cold.

The song he sang Agnete,
On love and sorrow rang;
His voice it was so melting soft,
So sadly sweet he sang--
Sadly he sang.
It seemed as if his beating heart
Upon his lips it sprang.

'And hearken, dear Agnete!
What I shall say to thee--
My heart, oh! it is breaking, sweet!
With longing after thee!
Still after thee!
Oh! wilt thou ease my sorrow, love,
Oh! wilt thou smile on me?'

Two silver buckles lay
Upon the rocky shore,
And aught more rich, or aught more bright,
No princess ever wore,
No, never wore.
'My best beloved,'--so sang he--
'Add these unto thy store!'

Then drew he from his breast
A string of pearls so rare--
None richer, no, or none more pure
Did princess ever wear--
Oh! ever wear.
'My best beloved,' so sang he,
'Accept this bracelet fair!'

Then from his finger drew he
A ring of jewels fine--
And none more brilliant, none more rich,
Midst princely gems might shine;
'Here, here from mine.
My best beloved,' so sang he,
'Oh, place this upon thine!'

Agnete, on the deep sea
Beholds the sky's soft hue,
The waves they were so crystal clear,
The ocean 'twas so blue!
Oh! so blue!
The merman smiled, and thus he sang,
As near to her he drew:--

'Ah! hearken, my Agnete,
What I to thee shall speak:
For thee my heart is burning, love,
For thee, my heart will break!
Oh! 'twill break!
Say, sweet, wilt thou be kind to me,
And grant the love I seek?'

'Dear merman! hearken thou,
Yes, I will list to thee!
If deep beneath the sparkling waves
Thou'lt downward carry me--
Take thou me!
And bear me to thine ocean bow'r
There, I will dwell with thee.'

Then stoppeth he her ears,
Her mouth then stoppeth he;
And with the lady he hath fled,
Deep, deep beneath the sea!
Beneath the sea!
There kiss'd they, and embraced they,
So fond, and safe, and free!

For full two years and more,
Agnete, she lived there,
And warm, untiring, faithful love
They to each other bear;
Such love they bear.
Within the merman's shelly bower
Are born two children fair.

Agnete--she sat tranquilly.
And to her boys she sang;
When hark! a sound of earth she hears,
How solemnly it rang!
Ding--dong--dang!
It was the church's passing bell
In Holme Vale that clang.

Agnete, from the cradle,
Springs suddenly away,
She hastes to seek her merman dear,
'Loved merman, say I may--
Say--Oh say,
That I, ere midnight's hour, may take
To Holme's church my way?'

'Thou wishest ere the midnight
To Holme church to go?
See then that thou, ere day, art back
Here, to thy boys below--
Go--go--go!
But ere the morning light return
Come to thy sons below!'

He stoppeth then her ears,
Her mouth then stoppeth he;
And upwards they together rise
Till Holme Vale they see.
'Now part we!'
They part, and he descends again
Beneath the deep blue sea.

Straight on to the churchyard,
Agnete's footsteps hie:
She meets--O God! her mother there,
And turns again to fly.
'Why--O why?'
Her mother's voice her steps arrests
Thus speaking with a sigh:--

'Oh hearken, my Agnete,
What I shall say to thee,
Where has thy distant dwelling been
So long away from me?
Away from me!
Say, where hast thou, my child, been hid
So long and secretly?'

'O mother! I have dwelt
Beneath the boundless main,
Within a merman's coral bower,
And we have children twain,
Beneath the main.
I came to pray--and then I go
Back to the deep again!'

'But hearken thou, Agnete,
What I to thee shall say--
Here thy two little daughters weep
Because thou art away;
By night, by day,
Thy little girls bemoan and grieve;
With them thou'lt surely stay?'

'Well--let my daughters small
For me both grieve and long,
My ears are closed--I cannot hear
Their cries yon waves among!
Oh! I belong
To my dear sons, and they will die
If I my stay prolong.'

'Have pity on thy babes--
Let them not pine away!
Oh! think upon thy youngest child
Who in her cradle lay!
With them oh stay!
Forget yon elves, and with thine own,
Thy lawful children stay!'

'Nay, let them bloom or fade--
The two--as Heav'n may will!
My heart is closed--their cries no more
Can now my bosom thrill--
Oh! no more thrill!
For now my merman's sons alone
All my affections fill.'

'Alas! though thou canst thus
Thy smiling babes forget;
Yet think upon their father's faith,
Thy noble lord's regret,
The fate he met!
As soon as thou wert lost to him
His sun of joy was set.

'Long--long he search'd for thee,
He went a weary way;
At last from yonder shelving rock
He cast himself one day--
One dismal day.
His corpse upon the pebbly strand
In the dim twilight lay!

'And here--'twas not long since--
His coffin they did bring;
Ha! list, my daughter, hearest thou?
The midnight bells they ring!
Ding--dong--ding!'
Away her mother hastens then
As loud the church bells ring.

Agnete, o'er the church-door
Stepp'd softly from without,
When all the little images
They seem'd to turn about;
Round about.
Within the church, the images
They seem'd to turn about.

Agnete gazes on
The altar-piece so fair;
The altar-piece it seem'd to turn,
And the altar with it there.
All where'er
Her eye it fell within the church,
Seem'd turning, turning there!

Agnete, on the ground
She gazed in thoughtful mood,
When lo! she saw her mother's name
That on a tomb-stone stood.
There it stood!
Then, sudden from her bursting heart,
Flow'd back her chill'd life's blood.

Agnete--first she stagger'd back,
She fainted, then she fell.
Now may her children long in vain
For her they loved so well.
Oh, so well!
Now, neither sons nor daughters more
To her their wants may tell.

Ay! Let them weep, and let them long,
And seek her o'er and o'er!
Dark, dark, are now her eyes so bright,
They ne'er shall open more!
Oh, never more!
And crush'd is now that death-cold heart,
So warm with love before.

A WAKING DREAM.

He sat alone. It was not twilight, it was night, deep, dark night. He had extinguished the lamp, for he wished that all around him should be gloomy as his own sad thoughts. Even the pitiful glimmering light, which was cast by the fire in the stove on the objects near it, was disagreeable to him, for it showed him a portion, at least, of the scene of his bygone happiness. His bitter sorrow seemed to have petrified all his faculties, and entirely blasted his life; he did not appear to reflect, he only felt. The deep sighs that every now and then burst from his compressed lips were all that gave sign of existence about him. That agitated tremor, those wild lamentations, those burning tears,--the glowing look which griefs volcano casts forth, lay hidden amidst the ashes of mute and agonized suffering.

But a few years before he had been the most hopeful of lovers; and somewhat later, the happiest of husbands and of fathers. Now all--all was lost! Death had stretched forth his mighty hand and taken his treasures from him; blow after blew had fate thus inflicted on his bleeding heart. He--the strong man--the high-minded--the richly-endowed--sat there like a lifeless statue, without purpose, without motion, without energy: all had been swept away in the earthquake which had engulphed the happiness of his home, and he had not power to raise a new structure upon the ruins of the past.

While he was sitting thus, a momentary blaze in the fire showed him the portrait of his departed wife, which hung against the wall. How many recollections the sight of it awakened! Oh, how distinctly he remembered the day when that painting had been finished for him! It was a short time before his marriage; he was gazing on it in an ecstasy of delight, when the lovely original cast her beaming eyes on him and whispered, 'Do you really think it beautiful? Is it so beautiful that when I become old and grey-headed, you may look at my picture and remember your love, your feelings for me, when we were both young?' And when he assured her, that for him she would always be young, she replied so sweetly, 'Oh, I am not afraid of becoming old by your side; it will be so delightful to have lived a long life of love with you!'

Alas! he was still young, but he had to wander through perhaps a long, long life alone. How had he beheld her last? She was lying in her coffin--young and lovely, but pale and motionless. And he--who still breathed and felt--he it was who had clung in despair to that coffin--he who, with a breaking heart, had laid her dark hair smoothly on her marble-white cheek, had pressed his lips for the last time on her cold forehead, had folded her transparent hands and bedewed them with his tears, and had laid his throbbing head on that so lately beating heart, which never, never more would thrill with sorrow or with joy. But who could describe that depth of grief, that rending of the soul, that agonizing convulsion of the heart, when the last farewell look on earth--the long, eager, parting look--was taken, and the head was raised from the harrowing contemplation of these beloved features, which were soon to be snatched and hidden from his gaze! Then despair seized upon him, and his grief could find no relief in tears.

In these heart-breaking recollections his spirit was long absorbed; at length he pressed his hands on his aching temples, burst into a flood of tears, and exclaimed:

'Oh, thou whom I loved so truly! hast thou indeed forsaken me? Can it be possible that thou hast dissevered thyself from my soul! Oft have I dreamed that thou wert harkening to my lamentations, that thou wert lingering by my side, and soothing my sorrow! But it was fancy--cheating fancy! Thou who didst feel so much affection for me--thou who wert never deaf to my prayers--hast thou heard me, and yet not answered me? How often during the sad weary night have I not called upon thee! See--I stretch forth my arms and embrace only the empty air--I gaze around for thee, but am left in oppressive solitude. Oh, if thou _canst_ hear me, beloved spirit! if it be possible that thou canst hear me--come, oh come!' His voice was choked by tears.

At last, when the water mist had passed from his eyes, removing, as it were, a veil from before them, he gazed wearily on the darkness around, and perceived a faint ray of light, which gradually seemed to become clearer. At first he thought it was the moon casting its uncertain gleams through the window; but the light seemed to extend itself. The corner of the room opposite to him seemed illumined by a pale, tremulous lustre that spread down to the floor. His heart beat violently as he gazed intently at the miraculous light. By degrees it assumed something like a shape, an airy, transparent figure, clad in a shining garment that glittered like the stars of heaven; and when it turned its countenance towards him, he recognized the features of her he had lost, but radiant in celestial peace and glory. Her clear eyes, which were fixed upon him, beamed with an expression of indescribable benignity.

The deep grief that had oppressed his spirit gave place to a wonderful, a mysterious feeling of holy calmness which he had never before experienced.

'Oh, speak!' he entreated softly, as if he were afraid to disturb the beautiful apparition, and holding his clasped hands beseechingly towards it--'Oh let me hear that voice, the echo of whose dear accents still lives in my heart! Hast thou taken compassion on me?'

'Didst thou not call me?' replied the apparition in a faint, subdued tone, yet so full of tenderness and affection that it seemed to inspire him with new life. 'Hast thou not often called me? I could no longer withstand thy supplication. The sorrows and sufferings of earth have lost their bitterness and their sting for those who have become heavenly spirits--those who have seen the Omnipotent face to face; but thy grief touched my heart even in the midst of blessedness. I could not be happy whilst thou wert wretched. Often have I hovered around thee, often lingered by thy side, often wafted coolness to thy burning brow; and when thy sadness would seem to be somewhat soothed, I have lain at thy feet, and contemplated thy beloved countenance. I was by thee when thou didst lean weeping over my coffin, and in an agony of woe didst cling to that body whence my soul had fled. Oh! how much I wished then that thou couldst look up at me, and know how near I was to thee! Oh! how willingly I would have embraced thee, had the Almighty permitted me! I was also with thee when our beloved infant lay in its last earthly struggle. My dying child called for me, and the heart of the mother yearned to respond to that call which had reached her, even when surrounded by the happiness of eternity, I came down to earth to answer it. Like an airy shadow, I glided through the garden paths in the still summer night, and all the plants and the flower exhaled their sweetest fragrance to salute me, for they felt that I had come from a better world. And Nature spoke to me with its spirit voice, and besought me to consecrate its soil with my ethereal step. The dark elder-tree and the blushing rosebush made signs to me, asking me if I remembered how often they had shed their perfume around us, when you and I, wrapped in our mutual happiness, used to wander in the soft evenings, arm in arm--heart answering heart--eye meeting eye--through the verdant alleys and flower-enamelled walks; but I could not linger over these sweet remembrances, I passed on to watch the death-bed of the little innocent who longed so for its mother. And when thou, my beloved! overcome by affliction, let thine aching head sink in helpless sorrow on its couch, our child lay, peaceful and joyous, in my embrace, and ascended to heaven with me to pray for thee. Oh, dearest one I how canst thou think that death has power to sever hearts that have once been united in everlasting love!'

He listened in mute and breathless ecstasy to these words, which sounded as the softest melody to his enraptured ear. When the voice ceased, he stretched forth his arms towards the beloved shade, and said beseechingly:

'Forgive me, angel of Paradise--forgive me! I feel now that the happiness of heaven is so great that nothing mortal can compare with it. Yet for my sake thou hast left awhile this inconceivable felicity, and deigned to assuage my grief, and to speak balm to my heart. Thanks, blessed spirit--thanks! My path shall no longer be gloomy--my life no longer lonesome!'

'Thou wilt sigh no more--thou wilt no longer weep?' asked the spirit, with a radiant smile.

'Thou shalt be my guardian angel, blessed spirit!' he replied, in deep emotion.

'God be thanked!' ejaculated the spirit in holy joy. It waved its shadowy hand to him, and as it seemed to turn to move away, its airy robe sparkled luminously for a moment; it then glittered more and more faintly, till it looked like the twinkling of some distant star.

Then earth-born wishes seized again upon _his_ heart.

'Alas;' he cried, as he made an involuntary movement towards the vanishing shadow, 'shall I, then, never behold thee more in this world?'

A holy light passed over the scarcely defined features of the spirit, while it replied, as if from afar--

'Yes! once more--but only once. When thy last hour approaches--when the bitterness of death is passed--then shalt thou tell those that watch by thy couch, and who, incredulous, will deem thy words the raving of delirium--then shalt thou tell them that a messenger from a glorious world is standing by thy side. That messenger will be me. I shall come to kiss the last breath from thy pale quivering lips, to gladden the last glance of thy closing eyes, and, after the heart's last pulsation, to receive thy parted soul, and be its guide to the realms of endless happiness, where I now await thee.'

He listened and bowed his head. When he raised it--all was dark and empty. He went to the window, and looked out upon the dazzling snow, and up to the brilliant star-lit heavens, and prayed in sadness, but with earnest devotion.

He lives to perform his duties, to do good to his fellow-creatures, to serve his God. He is never gay nor lively; but he is tranquil and content. He loves quiet and solitude. He loves in winter to lose himself in meditation while gazing on the calm, cold face of nature; and in summer to loiter in silence, till a late hour at night, amidst his garden's sweetly-scented walks. He is a lonely wanderer on the earth; yet not quite so lonely as he is thought to be, for he is often soothed by delightful dreams, and then he smiles happily, as if in his visions he had been consoled by the presence of a beloved being.

If his soul sometimes ventures humbly to indulge in the wish that it might soon enter into death's peaceful land, none can tell; his silent aspirations are known to none--to none but _Him_ who sees into the deepest recesses of the human heart.

THE CONFESSIONAL.

BY CHRISTIAN WINTHER.

In the Magdalene Church at Girgenti[9] preparations had been made for a grand festival. It was adorned, as usual on such occasions, with red tapestry and flowers. The hour of noon had struck, the workmen had left the church, and there reigned around that deep, solemn stillness which, in Catholic places of worship, is so appropriate and so imposing.

Two gentlemen, who conversed in a low tone of voice, were pacing up and down the long aisle that runs along the northern side of the building, and seemed to be enjoying the shade and coolness of the church, as if it had been a public promenade. The elder was a man of about thirty years of age, stout, broad-shouldered, and strongly built, with a grave countenance, in which no trace of passion was visible: this was Don Antonio Carracciolio, Marquis d'Arena. The other, who seemed a mere youth, had a slender, graceful figure, an animated, handsome face, and dark eyes, soft almost as those of a woman--which wandered from side to side with approving glances, as if he had some peculiar interest in the interior of the sacred edifice. And such he certainly had; for he was the architect who had planned the church and superintended its erection. He was called Giulio Balzetti, and had only lately returned from Rome. Suddenly they stopped.

'I shall entrust you with a secret, which I think will amuse you, Signor Marquis,' said the younger man, in the easy intimate tones in which one speaks to a friend at whose house one is a daily visitor--'a secret with which, I believe, no one is acquainted but myself. You see the effects of acoustics sometimes play us builders strange tricks where we least expect or wish them. Chance, a mere accident, has revealed to me, that when one stands here--here upon this white marble slab--one can distinctly overhear every syllable, even of the lowest whisper, uttered far from this, yonder, where you may observe the second last confessional; while, in a straight line between this point and that, you would not be sensible of any sound, were you even much nearer the place. If you will remain standing here, I will go yonder to the confessional in question, and you will be astonished at this miracle of nature.'

He went accordingly, but scarcely had he moved the distance of a couple of steps, when the Marquis distinctly heard a whisper, the subject of which seemed to make a strong impression upon him. He stood as rigid and marble-white as if suddenly turned to stone by some magician's wand; while the painfully anxious attention with which he listened, and which was expressed in his otherwise stony features, gave evidence that he was hearing something of excessive importance. He did not move a muscle--he scarcely breathed--he was like one who is standing on the extreme verge of an abyss, into which he is afraid of falling, and his rolling eyes and beating heart alone gave signs of his violent agitation.

In a very few minutes the young architect came back smiling, and called out from a little distance, 'I could not manage to make the experiment, for some one was in the confessional--from the glimpse I got, a lady closely veiled--but, Heavens! what is the matter with you?'

The only answer which the Marquis gave the Italian was to place his finger on his mouth, and he continued to stand motionless. After a minute or two he drew a deep sigh. The statue passed out of its speechless magic trance, and returned again to life.

'It is nothing, dear Giulio!' said he, in a friendly tone. 'Do not think that I am superstitious; but I assure you this mysterious and wonderful natural phenomenon has taken me so much by surprise, that it has had a strange effect on me. Come, let us go! I shall recover myself in the fresh air,' he added, as he took Balzetti's arm, and led him to the promenade on the outside of the town.

The two gentlemen walked up and down there for about an hour, when the Marquis bade the young man adieu, saying, at the same time, 'Tomorrow, after the festival is over, will you come out as usual to our villa?'

At a very early hour the next morning the Marquis entered his wife's private suite of apartments. The waiting-maid, who just at that moment was coming into the anteroom by another door, started, and looked quite astounded.

'Did your lady ring?' asked the Marquis.

'No, your excellency!' replied the woman, curtseying low and colouring violently.

'Then wait till you are called,' said the Marquis, as he opened the door of the dressing-room, which separated the sleeping-room from the antechamber.

As he crossed the threshold he was met by his lovely young wife, attired in a morning-gown so light and flowing, that it looked as if it must have been the one in which she had arisen from her couch. The Marquis stopped and stood still, as if struck with his wife's extreme beauty. He did not appear to observe the uneasiness, the inward tempest of feelings that, chasing all the blood from her cheeks, had sent it to her heart, and caused its beating to be too plainly visible under the robe of slight fabric which was thrown around her.

'You are up early this morning, Antonio!' said the young Marchioness, in a scarcely audible tone of voice, with a deepening blush and a forced smile. 'What do you want here?'

'Could you be surprised, my Lauretta? Light of my eyes!' said the Marquis, in the blandest and most insinuating of accents, 'could you be surprised if I came both early and late? And yet, dearest, this morning my visit is not to you alone. You know to-day is the feast of the Holy Magdalene, and a great festival in the Church. I have taken it into my head to usher in this day by paying my tribute of admiration to the glorious Magdalene of Titian, which you had placed in your own sleeping apartment. Will you permit me?' he asked, very politely, as with slow steps, but in a determined manner, he walked towards the door.

'Everything is really in such sad disorder there,' said his young wife, with a rapid glance through the half-open door; 'but ... go, since you will. I shall begin making my toilette here in the mean time.'

And he went in.

'How charming,' he cried, in a peculiar tone of voice--'how charming is not all this disorder! This graceful robe thrown carelessly down--these fairy slippers! There is something that awakens the fancy, something delicious in the very air of this room! All this is absolutely poetry.'

His searching look fastened itself upon the snow-white couch, the silken coverlet of which was drawn up and spread out, but could not entirely conceal the outline of a human figure, lying as flat as possible, evidently in the endeavour to escape observation.

'I will sit down awhile,' said the Marquis, in the cheerful voice of a person who has no unpleasant thought in his mind, 'and contemplate this master-work.'

As he said this he took up a pillow, its white covering trimmed with wide lace, and laid it on the spot where he thought the face of the concealed person must be, and placed himself upon it with all the weight of his somewhat bulky figure, whilst he placed his right hand upon the chest of the reclining form, and pressed on it with all his force.

Without heeding the involuntary, frightful, and convulsive heavings--the death-throes of his wretched victim--the Marquis exclaimed, in a calm, firm voice,--

'How beautifully that picture is finished! How noble and chaste does not the lovely penitent look, all sinner as she was, with her rich golden locks waving over that neck and those shoulders whiter than alabaster, while these graceful hands are clasped, and these contrite, tearful eyes seem gazing up yonder, whence alone mercy and pardon can be obtained! One could almost become a poet in gazing on so splendid a work of art. But ah! I never had the happy talent of an improvisatore. In place, therefore, of poetizing, I will tell you something that happened yesterday. Our little friend Giulio Balzetti took me round the Magdalene Church; and, whilst we were wandering about, he pointed out a particular spot to me, and bade me stand quite still there, telling me that _there_ might be overheard what was said at another spot at some distance in the church. And he was right. At that other place stood the confessional No. 6. I had hardly placed myself on the marble flag indicated to me, than I heard a charming voice--God knows who it was speaking!--but she was confessing the sorrows of her heart and her little sins to the holy father. She had a husband, she said, whom she loved--yes, she loved him, and he loved her: he was very kind to her, and left her much at liberty; in short, she gave the husband credit for all sorts of good qualities, but, unfortunately, she had fallen in love with another man! She did not mention his name. I should like to have heard it. He must be one of our handsome young cavaliers about the town. And this other loved her, too--she could not help it, poor thing!--and so she found room for him in her heart as well as for the husband. This other one was so handsome, so pleasing, so fascinating!... Well ... if her husband did not know what was going on, he could not be vexed, and ... it would do him no harm. So she had promised to admit the lover early this morning. Do you hear? This is what the French dames call "passer ses caprices." At last, she begged the good priest to give her absolution beforehand. And he did so: he gave the absolution! What do you think of all this, my love?' said the Marquis, as he rose from the couch, where all was now still as death, 'Well,' he continued, in a jocular tone, 'our worthy priests are almost too complaisant and indulgent--at least, most of them. Our old Father Gregorio, however, would have taken _you_ to task after a different fashion, if you ...'

He broke off abruptly, while he quietly laid the pillow in its own place, and deliberately turned down the embroidered coverlet. It was the architect Giulio Balzetti whom the Marquis beheld: he had ceased to breathe!

'Have you been to confession lately, my Laura?' asked the Marquis. There was no answer.

'Is it long since you have been to confession?' he asked, in a louder and sterner voice.

'No!' replied the young woman, in the lowest possible tone.

'Apropos,' said the Marquis, as he covered the frightfully distorted and blue face of the corpse with the coverlet, 'shall we not go to the grand festival at the church to-day? The procession begins exactly at twelve o'clock. I shall order the carriage--we really must not miss it.'

He returned to the dressing-room. The Marchioness was sitting in a large cushioned lounging-chair, the thick tresses of her dark hair hanging negligently down, her lips and cheeks as pale as death, and her hands resting listlessly on her lap.

'What is the matter, my dear child?' asked the Marquis, inwardly triumphing at her distress, but with fair and friendly words upon his lips. 'You have risen too early, my little Laura; and you have also fatigued yourself in trying to dress without assistance. Where is Pipetta? I shall ring for her now.' He pulled the bell-rope--approached his wife--slightly kissed her brow--and then left her apartments.

At mid-day, when all the bells of the churches were pealing, the Marquis's splendid state carriage, with four horses adorned with gilded trappings, stood before the gate of his palace, and a crowd of richly-dressed pages, footmen, and grooms, were in waiting there. Presently the Marquis appeared in his brilliant court costume, with glittering stars on his breast, his hat in one hand, whilst with the other he led his young and beautiful but deadly-pale wife. With the utmost attention he handed her down the marble steps, and while her countenance looked as cold and stony as that of a statue, his eyes flashed with a fire that was unusual to them. The servants hurried forwards, the carriage-door was opened, the noble pair entered it, and it drove off towards the town. In the crowded streets the foot passengers turned round to gaze at it, and exclaimed to each other, 'There go a happy couple!'

The architect had disappeared. No one suspected that on the day of the grand festival he lay dead--a blue and terrible-looking corpse--amidst boots and shoes, at the bottom of a noble young dame's wardrobe; or that, the following night, without shroud or coffin, his body was secretly transported by the lady's faithful servants to a neighbouring mountain, and there thrown into a deep cave. But the lady paid a large sum to the convent of the Magdalens for the sake of his soul's repose.

The monk Gregorio--the accommodating and favourite confessor of the fashionable world--was also soon after missing. But _he_ was not dead--he lingered for some years in a subterranean prison belonging to a monastery of one of the strictest orders: a punishment to which he had been condemned through the influence of the Marquis d'Arena.

That the confessional No. 6 was removed, will be easily believed.

The Marquis never alluded to these events before his wife. When they appeared in public together, as also in society at his own home, he treated her with respect, often with attention. But he never again spoke to her in private, nor did he ever again enter those apartments which had once been the scene of so dreadful a tragedy.

THE ANCESTRESS; OR, FAMILY PRIDE.

FROM THE SWEDISH OF THE LATE BARONESS KNORRING.

I.

Adelgunda was one of the most beautiful creatures ever moulded by the great Master's hand, and one on whom He might deign to look with the same paternal complacency as Pygmalion looked on his Galathea.

Adelgunda was also as the apple of their eye to her father and mother; but not the less did they bring her up with the utmost strictness and severity, in the awful loftiness of their aristocratic principles, which made no allowance for a single error, a single imperfection, a single weakness even, among any who belonged to them. Everyone was to be super-excellent, and supremely high-bred like their ancestors; for their ancestors had only _virtues_, their failings being entombed with their bodies. The slightest infringement of the stately decorum, the formal propriety--and, to the honour of their ancestors we must add--the rectitude, the loyal and chivalric conduct of these worthies, called forth as unmerciful punishment as a heinous fault. And Adelgunda, from her earliest infancy, learned to form grand ideas about her noble, ancient, and opulent family; it was impressed on her mind that she would be very degenerate indeed if she did not resemble all those long departed, and now mouldering dames and damsels, whose portraits hung in long rows in the great picture-gallery, as a large old-fashioned apartment was called, which, in spite of accidental fires, of repairs and renovations in the old baronial castle, had preserved unaltered its antique appearance since the middle of the sixteenth century.

In her infancy, Adelgunda had often been taken into this venerable saloon, and, counting with her five small fingers, she could repeat the names of all those haughty-looking, long-bearded cavaliers, equipped in heavy armour, or these stiff, richly-dressed nobles, most of them decorated with jewelled orders, or other tokens of a high worldly position; and these grand-looking ladies, encased in whalebone and stiff corsets, with towering powdered heads and magnificent jewellery, evincing the wealth of the family. These ladies and gentlemen hung, as has been said, in straight rows on each side of the long, narrow, dark, oak-paneled hall; and they were all half-length portraits in oval or almost square frames, the gilding of which had long since faded into a sort of a brownish-yellow cinnamon tint. But at the end of the hall, between two deep Gothic windows, with small old-fashioned panes of glass, there hung alone in state the great _ancestress_, or founder of the family--a tall, dark, stern-looking woman, whose countenance was grave, austere, and almost menacing, though the features, when narrowly examined, were regular and beautiful.

In contrast to the half-length portraits around, this picture was almost colossal in size; and the noble lady it represented, who in Roman Catholic times had ended her days as the Abbess of a convent, stood there so stately and so stiff in the close black garb, with the unbecoming white linen band across her forehead, and with one hand, in which she held a crucifix, resting on a dark-looking stand, on which a missal, a skull, and a rosary, lay near each other, the other hand hung carelessly down by her side, and almost reached the lower portion of the picture-frame, which seemed considerably darker and more time-worn than all the rest. This picture was painted on thick wood, or on canvas stretched on wood, it was not certain which, but everyone knew that it was as heavy as lead--and so it proved to be.

The likeness of the patriarch of the family--of the father of the race--painted to correspond in size and everything else to that of the high-born lady above mentioned, had in former days hung also in this saloon, but had been destroyed in a fire which had taken place between the years 1740 and 1750, so that the stern imperious-looking dame now occupied the place of honour alone.

Her parents had never omitted, when they accompanied Adelgunda into the picture gallery, to take her up first to one, then to another of the noble ladies whose lineaments adorned the walls, saying, 'How fortunate for you if you could be as good as _this_ ancestress of yours was--as clever as _that_ one--as beautiful as _she_ was--as dutiful and affectionate as _yon_ lady!' Adelgunda would fix her eyes on each by turns, and every time she looked at them her desire to resemble them increased. But the great gloomy portrait of the tall dark lady always awakened a thrill of terror in the little girl's mind. This was partly owing to the tales with which the servants frightened her about this harsh, awful-looking abbess, partly to her being obliged, whenever she was naughty, to go into the sombre apartment where the picture was, and, curtseying before it, to beg pardon of the stern, threatening figure.

With her tearful looks fixed upon it, she had often fancied that the eyes of the portrait moved; but it was a still greater trial to poor Adelgunda, when she had been guilty of some great offence, to be condemned, as a punishment, to stand for a quarter of an hour, or half-an-hour, under the dreaded portrait with her back to it.

There was a tradition in the family that many, many years back, during the lifetime of one of the more ancient lords of the castle, a little girl, a member of the race, who was undergoing a similar punishment, distinctly felt the terrible lady's hand, which hung unemployed by her side, stretch over the picture-frame and seize roughly hold of her hair. The recollection of that tradition was martyrdom to Adelgunda when this most dreaded penance was inflicted on her; and on one occasion, when her conscience was not of the clearest, and she had cried herself almost into a fever from fright, she fancied that she actually felt a grasp at her little golden tresses.

It is easy to imagine how anxious, in consequence of all this, Adelgunda was to avoid committing any faults, and with what terror the picture inspired her. And even in riper years, when she began to lay aside her childish dress and childish ideas, and when reason told her that a painted figure could have no more power or influence than any other inanimate object, she still looked with a certain degree of awe upon the portrait of her frowning ancestress, especially when her conscience told her that she had been guilty of any slight indiscretion; while, on the contrary, she felt some pleasure at gazing on the other family pictures, which all seemed to smile upon her.

But years and time wore on, and the aristocratic bones of Adelgunda's proud, high-born parents were laid in the dust to mingle with the honoured remains of the old stock. She was then still in her minority, and found a new home with a kind aunt, who had resided too short a time under the same roof with the ancestral portraits, and in the place which had been the cradle of their race, to have imbibed their exaggerated family pride.

The estate, which was entailed, with everything belonging to it, including the much-prized portrait, passed in trust, for future generations, to Adelgunda's only brother, of whom we purposely have not spoken, that we might not be obliged to give an account of all the exaggerated ideas of the consequence of his family which his father and mother had diligently and zealously laboured to imprint on the mind of their son--the only male scion of that ancient house, which was now threatened with speedy extinction--he who, after them, was alone to represent the glory of their time-honoured ancestry. What precepts and exhortations he, the only son and last hope, received under his progenitor's portrait--what deference and devotion were inculcated to the name of the haughty-looking abbess, whose severe virtue and pious deeds were held to reflect honour on her descendants--what aristocratic ideas and exclusive principles were there engrafted on his soul, we will not stop to relate--they would be incomprehensible to many, and do not require to be dwelt on in our short tale.

In the aunt's cheerful, hospitable, pleasant, light modern villa quite another tone prevailed, and quite another mode of life from that within the solid walls of the old baronial castle or under its gloomy roof. At Adelgunda's age new impressions are soon received, new associations and new ideas are welcomed with avidity, and seldom fail to influence the mind. Adelgunda--truth obliges us to confess--soon forgot a very stringent and important paragraph in the paternal and maternal lectures--forgot the faithful portraits of the defunct females of her noble house, and even the threatening glance--the dark eye that shone from beneath the white linen fillet of the haughty abbess--forgot them all amidst new-born and overflowing happiness in the arms of an adored and adoring husband, a young naval officer, rich in all nature's brightest gifts, and standing high in the opinion of the world, but on whom the great ancestress would certainly never have permitted her hand to be bestowed, had she known of the matter; for his patent of nobility was not mouldy from age, was not even made out, and still worse, was not likely ever to be drawn up, because he did not feel the slightest wish ever to possess one.

Adelgunda, nevertheless, felt unspeakably happy, and her noble brother, to whom the family mode of thinking had descended as an heirloom in conjunction with the entailed property, winked at the plebeian match--partly because he well knew that Adelgunda's very limited portion would never tempt any among the needy and impoverished of his own class to lay their hearts at her feet--partly because it was the preservation of the family name and tree in his own person that lay nearest to his heart, not the offshoots from the female line--and partly that, though he was a proud man, and unflinching in his aristocratical notions, he had a kind heart, was fondly attached to his sister, rejoiced in her happiness, and was well aware how much superior in character his estimable brother-in-law was to the generality of the young men of the day.

But for himself, this brother and lord of the castle sought a spouse who should entwine no vulgar burgher twig around the fair branches of his genealogical tree, but one who counted as many generations as other good qualities; for ancient lineage is not apt, like wealth, to corrupt the heart, and Adelgunda's sister-in-law was truly an amiable lady.

Again the lordly halls of the ancient castle became the abode of domestic happiness; and it was admitted that it could not be otherwise, for not one alone, but many of the old servants who had passed into the service of the heir of entail, and who were not notorious for their superstition, had clearly and distinctly observed that the first time the young countess entered the picture gallery, the majestic ancestress had relaxed her stern lips almost into a smile of approbation, which had never happened but once before--in the year 1664, on a similar occasion; a remarkable event, which had been recorded by the chaplain of the castle, with many subscribing witnesses, in a document which was preserved like a holy relic amidst the family's most valued papers, parchments, and deeds.

When the young count and countess were happily wedded, and comfortably settled at the castle, which however, did not happen until about five years after Adelgunda's marriage to her delightful naval hero, the brother and sister felt a strong wish to meet once more under the paternal roof. And Adelgunda's husband promised that on his return in autumn from an expedition in which he was then engaged, he, his wife, and their little son, a boy about four years of age, should without any delay accept of the count's invitation, and make the visit so much desired by all parties--even by the young countess, Adelgunda's sister-in-law, who was by no means a stranger to her. They had been friends in childhood, indeed were distantly related to each other; for it so happens that almost all the families amongst the most ancient of the Swedish nobility are connected by ties of consanguinity.

At length the long-looked-for day arrived, and Adelgunda beheld, with tears of mingled joy and sorrow, the grey old towers of the castle where she was born, and where she had spent her earliest years--those years which, on comparing them with the subsequent epochs of our life, we denominate the gayest and the happiest. Adelgunda and her husband, who had had a long day's journey, arrived late in the evening at the castle, and were shortly after conducted to their sleeping-rooms, a suite of lofty arched apartments in one of the farthest towers, and in the olden time the principal guest-chambers, but which did not bear the best of reputations as regarded spectres, midnight noises, groans, rattling of chains, and the like horrors. Adelgunda had all her life entertained great respect for, but also no little fear of, these apartments; and those feelings were probably heightened by an old tradition which averred that some most extraordinary and mysterious events had taken place in these chambers. Some pretended to know that one of these apartments, which along with the picture-gallery had remained most unchanged during the lapse of years, had served as the bridal-chamber for the great ancestress of the family; at any rate, there was something that savoured of awe and discomfort about them.

Never in her life had Adelgunda slept in any of these gloomy apartments, and in former days nothing would have induced her to do so; but now, with her brave, bold sailor by her side, she smiled at her old childish fears,--at least when he laughed at her recital of them. She would not, however, on any account, allow her little Victor to sleep in the first antechamber with the trembling waiting-maid, but placed the child's crib close to her own bed, and often during the long, dark, and stormy autumnal night, when the wind shook the panes of glass, and howled through the adjacent forest, and she was awakened by its violence, she turned quickly, and with a beating heart, towards the child, leaned over his little bed, and felt unhappy until she had ascertained that her darling was sleeping soundly and peacefully.

'Well!' said her husband the next morning, when the sun was already pretty high in the heavens, and cast his cheerful rays through the narrow casements of these haunted chambers--'well, dearest Adelgunda, have you heard or seen any spectre last night--been visited in any way by a ghost?'

'No,' she replied laughingly, as the bright sunshine restored her courage; there was but one spirit near me last night--one dear, good spirit;' and she embraced her husband.

'And you, Annette?' cried the incredulous visitor to the poor waiting-maid, 'I hope you have not been disturbed by the ghosts either?'

But Annette, who was half-dead from fear, asserted that she had not closed her eyes the whole night; that she had distinctly heard sighs and groans, and heavy footsteps up and down the floor; and there had been many other frightful things that she could not describe.

Now, in the cheering daylight, Adelgunda laughed heartily at these _fancies_, as she called them; but the previous night she would not have done so,--at least not with a heart so much at ease.