“You declaration has so much astonished me,” said he, “that I am at present incapable of answering you. Do not insist upon a reply, Matilda; leave me to myself; I have need to be alone.”
“I obey you—but before I go, promise not to insist upon my quitting the abbey immediately.”
“Matilda, reflect upon your situation; reflect upon the consequences of your stay. Our separation is indispensable, and we must part.”
“But not today, Father! Oh! in pity not today!”
“You press me too hard, but I cannot resist that tone of supplication. Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer: I consent to your remaining here a sufficient time to prepare in some measure the brethren for your departure. Stay yet two days; but on the third,” … (He sighed involuntarily)—“Remember, that on the third we must part forever!”
She caught his hand eagerly, and pressed it to her lips.
“On the third?” she exclaimed with an air of wild solemnity; “You are right, Father! You are right! On the third we must part forever!”
There was a dreadful expression in her eye as she uttered these words, which penetrated the friar’s soul with horror: again she kissed his hand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.
Anxious to authorise the presence of his dangerous guest, yet conscious that her stay was infringing the laws of his order, Ambrosio’s bosom became the theatre of a thousand contending passions. At length his attachment to the feigned Rosario, aided by the natural warmth of his temperament, seemed likely to obtain the victory: the success was assured, when that presumption which formed the groundwork of his character came to Matilda’s assistance. The monk reflected that to vanquish temptation was an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it: he thought that he ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity given him of proving the firmness of his virtue. St. Anthony had withstood all seductions to lust; then why should not he? Besides, St. Anthony was tempted by the devil, who put every art into practice to excite his passions: whereas, Ambrosio’s danger proceeded from a mere mortal woman, fearful and modest, whose apprehensions of his yielding were not less violent than his own.
“Yes,” said he; “The unfortunate shall stay; I have nothing to fear from her presence. Even should my own prove too weak to resist the temptation, I am secured from danger by the innocence of Matilda.”
Ambrosio was yet to learn, that to an heart unacquainted with her, vice is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the mask of virtue.
He found himself so perfectly recovered, that when Father Pablos visited him again at night, he entreated permission to quit his chamber on the day following. His request was granted. Matilda appeared no more that evening, except in company with the monks when they came in a body to enquire after the abbot’s health. She seemed fearful of conversing with him in private, and stayed but a few minutes in his room. The friar slept well; but the dreams of the former night were repeated, and his sensations of voluptuousness were yet more keen and exquisite. The same lust-exciting visions floated before his eyes: Matilda, in all the pomp of beauty, warm, tender, and luxurious, clasped him to her bosom, and lavished upon him the most ardent caresses. He returned them as eagerly, and already was on the point of satisfying his desires, when the faithless form disappeared, and left him to all the horrors of shame and disappointment.
The morning dawned. Fatigued, harassed, and exhausted by his provoking dreams, he was not disposed to quit his bed. He excused himself from appearing at matins: it was the first morning in his life that he had ever missed them. He rose late. During the whole of the day he had no opportunity of speaking to Matilda without witnesses. His cell was thronged by the monks, anxious to express their concern at his illness; and he was still occupied in receiving their compliments on his recovery, when the bell summoned them to the refectory.
After dinner the monks separated, and dispersed themselves in various parts of the garden, where the shade of trees or retirement of some grotto presented the most agreeable means of enjoying the siesta. The abbot bent his steps towards the hermitage: a glance of his eye invited Matilda to accompany him.
She obeyed, and followed him thither in silence. They entered the grotto, and seated themselves. Both seemed unwilling to begin the conversation, and to labour under the influence of mutual embarrassment. At length the abbot spoke: he conversed only on indifferent topics, and Matilda answered him in the same tone. She seemed anxious to make him forget that the person who sat by him was any other than Rosario. Neither of them dared, or indeed wished to make an allusion, to the subject which was most at the hearts of both.
Matilda’s efforts to appear gay were evidently forced: her spirits were oppressed by the weight of anxiety, and when she spoke her voice was low and feeble. She seemed desirous of finishing a conversation which embarrassed her; and complaining that she was unwell, she requested Ambrosio’s permission to return to the abbey. He accompanied her to the door of her cell; and when arrived there, he stopped her to declare his consent to her continuing the partner of his solitude so long as should be agreeable to herself.
She discovered no marks of pleasure at receiving this intelligence, though on the preceding day she had been so anxious to obtain the permission.
“Alas! Father,” she said, waving her head mournfully; “Your kindness comes too late! My doom is fixed. We must separate forever. Yet believe, that I am grateful for your generosity, for your compassion of an unfortunate who is but too little deserving of it!”
She put her handkerchief to her eyes. Her cowl was only half drawn over her face. Ambrosio observed that she was pale, and her eyes sunk and heavy.
“Good
