Thus saying, she opened the chamber door, presented to her mother her distinguished visitor, and having placed an armed-chair by the side of the bed, withdrew into another department.
Elvira was highly gratified by this visit: her expectations had been raised high by general report, but she found them far exceeded. Ambrosio, endowed by nature with powers of pleasing, exerted them to the utmost while conversing with Antonia’s mother. With persuasive eloquence he calmed every fear, and dissipated every scruple: he bad her reflect on the infinite mercy of her judge, despoiled death of his darts and terrors, and taught her to view without shrinking the abyss of eternity, on whose brink she then stood. Elvira was absorbed in attention and delight: while she listened to his exhortations, confidence and comfort stole insensibly into her mind. She unbosomed to him without hesitation her cares and apprehensions. The latter respecting a future life he had already quieted: and he now removed the former, which she felt for the concerns of this. She trembled for Antonia. She had none to whose care she could recommend her, save to the Marquis de las Cisternas and her sister Leonella. The protection of the one was very uncertain; and as to the other, though fond of her niece, Leonella was so thoughtless and vain as to make her an improper person to have the sole direction of a girl so young and ignorant of the world. The friar no sooner learnt the cause of her alarms than he begged her to make herself easy upon that head. He doubted not being able to secure for Antonia a safe refuge in the house of one of his penitents, the Marchioness of Villa-Franca: this was a lady of acknowledged virtue, remarkable for strict principles and extensive charity. Should accident deprive her of this resource, he engaged to procure Antonia a reception in some respectable convent: that is to say, in quality of boarder; for Elvira had declared herself no friend to a monastic life, and the monk was either candid or complaisant enough to allow that her disapprobation was not unfounded.
These proofs of the interest which he felt for her completely won Elvira’s heart. In thanking him she exhausted every expression which gratitude could furnish, and protested that now she should resign herself with tranquillity to the grave. Ambrosio rose to take leave: he promised to return the next day at the same hour, but requested that his visits might be kept secret.
“I am unwilling,” said he, “that my breaking through a rule imposed by necessity should be generally known. Had I not resolved never to quit my convent, except upon circumstances as urgent as that which has conducted me to your door, I should be frequently summoned upon insignificant occasions: that time would be engrossed by the curious, the unoccupied, and the fanciful, which I now pass at the bedside of the sick, in comforting the expiring penitent, and clearing the passage to eternity from thorns.”
Elvira commended equally his prudence and compassion, promising to conceal carefully the honour of his visits. The monk then gave her his benediction, and retired from the chamber.
In the anteroom he found Antonia: he could not refuse himself the pleasure of passing a few moments in her society. He bad her take comfort, for that her mother seemed composed and tranquil, and he hoped that she might yet do well. He enquired who attended her, and engaged to send the physician of his convent to see her, one of the most skilful in Madrid. He then launched out in Elvira’s commendation, praised her purity and fortitude of mind, and declared that she had inspired him with the highest esteem and reverence. Antonia’s innocent heart swelled with gratitude: joy danced in her eyes, where a tear still sparkled. The hopes which he gave her of her mother’s recovery, the lively interest which he seemed to feel for her, and the flattering way in which she was mentioned by him, added to the report of his judgment and virtue, and to the impression made upon her by his eloquence, confirmed the favourable opinion with which his first appearance had inspired Antonia. She replied with diffidence, but without restraint: she feared not to relate to him all her little sorrows, all her little fears and anxieties; and she thanked him for his goodness with all the genuine warmth which favours kindle in a young and innocent heart. Such alone know how to estimate benefits at their full value. They who are conscious of mankind’s perfidy and selfishness, ever receive an obligation with apprehension and distrust: they suspect that some secret motive must lurk behind it: they express their thanks with restraint and caution, and fear to praise a kind action to its full extent, aware that some future day a return may be required. Not so Antonia; she thought the world was composed only of those who resembled her, and that vice existed, was to her still a secret. The monk had been of service to her; he said that he wished her well; she was grateful for his kindness, and thought that no terms were strong enough to be the vehicle of her thanks. With what delight did Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless gratitude! The natural grace of her manners, the unequalled sweetness of her voice, her modest vivacity, her unstudied elegance, her expressive countenance, and intelligent eyes united to inspire him with pleasure and admiration, while the solidity and correctness of her remarks received additional beauty from the unaffected simplicity of the language in which they were conveyed.
Ambrosio was at length obliged to tear himself from this conversation which possessed for him but too many charms. He repeated to Antonia his wishes that his visits should not be made known, which desire she promised to observe. He then quitted the house, while his enchantress hastened to her mother, ignorant of the mischief which her beauty had caused. She was
