“Oh! Father! Father!” she cried in a voice almost choked with terror; “What shall I do! What shall I do! Here is a fine piece of work! Nothing but misfortunes! Nothing but dead people, and dying people! Oh! I shall go distracted! I shall go distracted!”
“Speak! Speak!” cried Flora and the monk at the same time; “What has happened? What is the matter?”
“Oh! I shall have another corse in my house! Some witch has certainly cast a spell upon it, upon me, and upon all about me! Poor Donna Antonia! There she lies in just such convulsions, as killed her mother! The ghost told her true! I am sure, the ghost has told her true!”
Flora ran, or rather flew to her lady’s chamber: Ambrosio followed her, his bosom trembling with hope and apprehension. They found Antonia as Jacintha had described, torn by racking convulsions from which they in vain endeavoured to relieve her. The monk dispatched Jacintha to the abbey in all haste, and commissioned her to bring Father Pablos back with her, without losing a moment.
“I will go for him,” replied Jacintha, “and tell him to come hither; but as to bringing him myself, I shall do no such thing. I am sure that the house is bewitched, and burn me if ever I set foot in it again.”
With this resolution she set out for the monastery, and delivered to Father Pablos the abbot’s orders. She then betook herself to the house of old Simon Gonzalez, whom she resolved never to quit, till she had made him her husband, and his dwelling her own.
Father Pablos had no sooner beheld Antonia, than he pronounced her incurable. The convulsions continued for an hour: during that time her agonies were much milder than those which her groans created in the abbot’s heart. Her every pang seemed a dagger in his bosom, and he cursed himself a thousand times for having adopted so barbarous a project. The hour being expired, by degrees the fits became less frequent, and Antonia less agitated. She felt that her dissolution was approaching, and that nothing could save her.
“Worthy Ambrosio,” she said in a feeble voice, while she pressed his hand to her lips; “I am now at liberty to express, how grateful is my heart for your attention and kindness. I am upon the bed of death; yet an hour, and I shall be no more. I may therefore acknowledge without restraint, that to relinquish your society was very painful to me: but such was the will of a parent, and I dared not disobey. I die without repugnance: there are few, who will lament my leaving them; there are few, whom I lament to leave. Among those few, I lament for none more than for yourself; but we shall meet again, Ambrosio! We shall one day meet in heaven: there shall our friendship be renewed, and my mother shall view it with pleasure!”
She paused. The abbot shuddered when she mentioned Elvira: Antonia imputed his emotion to pity and concern for her.
“You are grieved for me, father,” she continued; “Ah! sigh not for my loss. I have no crimes to repent, at least none of which I am conscious, and I restore my soul without fear to him from whom I received it. I have but few requests to make: yet let me hope that what few I have shall be granted. Let a solemn mass be said for my soul’s repose, and another for that of my beloved mother. Not that I doubt her resting in her grave: I am now convinced that my reason wandered, and the falsehood of the ghost’s prediction is sufficient to prove my error. But everyone has some failing: my mother may have had hers, though I knew them not: I therefore wish a mass to be celebrated for her repose, and the expense may be defrayed by the little wealth of which I am possessed. Whatever may then remain, I bequeath to my aunt Leonella. When I am dead, let the Marquis de las Cisternas know that his brother’s unhappy family can no longer importune him. But disappointment makes me unjust: they tell me that he is ill, and perhaps had it been in his power, he wished to have protected me. Tell him then, father, only that I am dead, and that if he had any faults to me, I forgave him from my heart. This done, I have nothing more to ask for, than your prayers: promise to remember my requests, and I shall resign my life without a pang or sorrow.”
Ambrosio engaged to comply with her desires, and proceeded to give her absolution. Every moment announced the approach of Antonia’s fate: her sight failed; her heart beat sluggishly; her fingers stiffened, and grew cold, and at two in the morning she expired without a groan. As soon as the breath had forsaken her body, Father Pablos retired, sincerely affected at the melancholy scene. On her part, Flora gave way to the most unbridled sorrow.
Far different concerns employed Ambrosio: he sought for the pulse whose throbbing, so Matilda had assured him, would prove Antonia’s death but temporal. He found it; he pressed it; it palpitated beneath his hand, and his heart was filled with ecstacy. However, he carefully concealed his satisfaction at the success of his plan. He assumed a melancholy air, and addressing himself to Flora, warned her against abandoning herself to fruitless sorrow. Her tears were too sincere to permit her listening to his counsels, and she continued to weep unceasingly.
The friar withdrew, first promising to give orders himself about the funeral, which, out of consideration for Jacintha as he pretended, should take place with all expedition. Plunged in grief for the loss of her beloved mistress, Flora scarcely attended to what he said. Ambrosio hastened to command the burial. He obtained permission from
