own expence; [not that she is any relation of mine, or that I shall be benefited a single pistole by her death: I got nothing by it, and therefore you know, reverend father, that her living or dying was just the same to me. But that is nothing to the purpose; to return to what I was saying], I took care of her funeral, had every thing performed decently and properly, and put myself to expence enough, God knows! And how do you think the lady repays me for my kindness? Why truly by refusing to sleep quietly in her comfortable deal coffin, as a peaceable well disposed spirit ought to do, and coming to plague me, who never wish to set eyes on her again. Forsooth it well becomes her to go racketing about my house at midnight, popping into her daughter’s room through the key-hole, and frightening the poor child out of her wits! Though she be a ghost, she might be more civil than to bolt into a person’s house who likes her company so little. But as for me, reverend father, the plain state of the case is this: if she walks into my house, I must walk out of it, for I cannot abide such visitors—not I. Thus you see, your sanctity, that without your assistance I am ruined and undone for ever. I shall be obliged to quit my house: nobody will take it, when ’Tis known that she haunts it, and then I shall find myself in a fine situation. Miserable woman that I am! what shall I do? what will become of me?”
Here she wept bitterly, wrung her hands, and begged to know the abbot’s opinion of her case.
“In truth, good woman,” replied he, “it will be difficult for me to relieve you, without knowing what is the matter with you. You have forgotten to tell me what has happened, and what it is you want.”
“Let me die,” cried Jacintha, “but your sanctity is in the right. This then is the fact stated briefly—A lodger of mine is lately dead; a very good sort of woman, that I must needs say for her; as far as my knowledge of her went, though that was not a great way. She kept me too much at a distance; for indeed she was given to be upon the high ropes; and whenever I ventured to speak to her, she had a look with her which always made me feel a little queerish: God forgive me for saying so! However, though she was more stately than needful, and affected to look down upon me (though, if I am well informed, I come of as good parents as she could do for her ears, for her father was a shoe-maker at Cordova, and mine was an hatter at Madrid—aye, and a very creditable hatter too, let me tell you), yet for all her pride she was a quiet well-behaved body, and I never wish to have a better lodger. This makes me wonder the more at her not sleeping quietly in her grave; but there is no trusting to people in this world. For my part, I never saw her do amiss, except on the Friday before her death. To be sure, I was then much scandalized by seeing her eat the wing of a chicken. ‘How, Madona Flora!’ quoth I (Flora, may it please your reverence, is the name of the waiting maid)—‘how, Madona Flora!’ quoth I, ‘does your mistress eat flesh upon Fridays? Well! well! see the event, and then remember that Dame Jacintha warned you of it!’ These were my very words; but, alas! I might as well have held my tongue. Nobody minded me; and Flora, who is somewhat pert and snappish (more is the pity, say I), told me, that there was no more harm in eating a chicken than the egg from which it came: nay she even declared, that if her lady added a slice of bacon, she would not be an inch nearer damnation. God protect us! a poor ignorant sinful soul! I protest to your holiness, I trembled to hear her utter such blasphemies, and expected every moment to see the ground open and swallow her up, chicken and all; for you must know, worshipful father, that while she talked thus, she held the plate in her hand on which lay the identical roast fowl: and a fine bird it was, that I must say for it—done to a turn, for I superintended the cooking of it myself. It was a little gallician of my own raising, may it please your holiness, and the flesh was as white as an egg-shell, as indeed Donna Elvira told me herself. ‘Dame Jacintha,’ said she very good-humouredly, though to say the truth she was always very polite to me——”
Here Ambrosio’s patience failed him. Eager to know Jacintha’s business in which Antonia seemed to be concerned, he was almost distracted while listening to the rambling of this prosing old woman. He interrupted her, and protested that if she did not immediately tell her story and have done with it, he should quit the parlour, and leave her to get out of her difficulties by herself. This threat had the desired effect. Jacintha related her business in as few words as she could manage: but her account was still so prolix, that Ambrosio had need of his patience to bear him to the conclusion.
“And so, your reverence,” said she, after relating Elvira’s death and burial, with all their circumstances ——“and so, your reverence, upon hearing the shriek, I put away my work, and away posted I to Donna Antonia’s chamber. Finding nobody there, I passed on to the next: but I must own I was a little timorous at going in; for this was the very room where Donna Elvira used to sleep. However in I went, and sure enough there lay the young lady at full length upon the floor, as cold as a stone, and as white as a sheet. I was surprised at this, as your holiness may well suppose: but, oh me! how I shook when I saw a great tall figure at my elbow, whose head touched the ceiling! The face was Donna Elvira’s, I must confess; but out of its mouth came clouds of fire; its arms were loaded with heavy chains, which it rattled piteously; and every hair on its head was a serpent as big as my arm. At this I was frightened enough, and began to say my ave-maria: but the ghost interrupting me uttered three loud groans, and roared out in a terrible voice, ‘Oh! that chicken’s wing! my poor soul suffers for it.’ As soon as she had said this, the ground opened, the spectre sank down; I heard a clap of thunder, and the room was filled with a smell of brimstone. When I recovered from my fright, and had brought Donna Antonia to herself, who told me that she had cried out upon seeing her mother’s ghost (and well might she cry, poor soul! had I been in her place, I should have cried ten times louder), it directly came into my head, that if any one had power to quiet this spectre, it must be your reverence. So hither I came in all diligence, to beg that you will sprinkle my house with holy water, and lay the apparition in the Red Sea.”
Ambrosio stared at this strange story, which he could not credit.
“Did Donna Antonia also see the ghost?” said he.
“As plain as I see you, reverend father.”
Ambrosio paused for a moment. Here was an opportunity offered him of gaining access to Antonia, but he hesitated to employ it. The reputation which he enjoyed in Madrid was still dear to him; and since he had lost the reality of virtue, it appeared as if its semblance was become more valuable. He was conscious that publicly to break through the rule never to quit the abbey-precincts would derogate much from his supposed austerity. In visiting Elvira, he had always taken care to keep his features concealed from the domestics. Except by the lady, her daughter, and the faithful Flora, he was known in the family by no other name than that of father Jerome. Should he comply with Jacintha’s request, and accompany her to her house, he knew that the violation of his rule could not be kept a secret. However, his eagerness to see Antonia obtained the victory. He even hoped that the singularity of this adventure would justify him in the eyes of Madrid. But whatever might be the consequences, he resolved to profit by the opportunity which chance had presented to him. An expressive look from Matilda confirmed him in this resolution.
“Good woman,” said he to Jacintha, “what you tell me is so extraordinary that I can scarcely credit your assertions. However, I will comply with your request. Tomorrow, after matins, you may expect me at your house: I will then examine into what I can do for you; and if it is in my power, will free you from this unwelcome visitor. Now then go home, and peace be with you!”
“Home!” exclaimed Jacintha; “I go home? Not I, by my troth!—except under your protection, I set no foot of mine within the threshold. God help me! the ghost may meet me upon the stairs, and whisk me away with her to the devil! Oh! that I had accepted young Melchior Basco’s offer! then I would have had somebody to protect me; but now I am a lone woman, and meet with nothing but crosses and misfortunes. Thank Heaven it is not yet too late to repent. There is Simon Gonzalez will have me any day of the week; and if I live till day-break, I will marry him out of hand: an husband I will have, that is determined; for, now this ghost is once in my house, I shall be frightened out of my wits to sleep alone. But, for God’s sake, reverend father! come with me now. I shall have no rest till the house is purified, or the poor young lady either. The dear girl! she is in a piteous taking: I left her in strong convulsions, and I doubt she will not easily recover her fright.”
The friar started, and interrupted her hastily.
“In convulsions, say you? Antonia in convulsions? Lead on, good woman, I follow you this moment.”
Jacintha insisted upon his stopping to furnish himself with the vessel of holy water. With this request he complied. Thinking herself safe under his protection should a legion of ghosts attack her, the old woman returned the monk a profusion of thanks, and they departed together for the strada di San Iago.
So strong an impression had the spectre made upon Antonia, that for the first two or three hours the physician declared her life to be in danger. The fits at length becoming less frequent, induced him to alter his opinion. He said that to keep her quiet was all that was necessary; and he ordered a medicine to be prepared, which would tranquillize her nerves, and procure her that repose which at present she much wanted. The sight of Ambrosio, who now appeared with Jacintha at her bed-side, contributed essentially to compose her ruffled spirits. Elvira had not sufficiently explained herself upon the nature of his designs, to make a girl so ignorant of the world as
