“In three days! She told me that we should meet in three days! I heard her say it! I saw her, Jacintha, I saw her but this moment!”
She threw herself upon Jacintha’s bosom.
“You saw her? Saw whom?”
“My mother’s ghost!”
“Christ Jesus!” cried Jacintha, and starting from the bed, let fall Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in consternation out of the room.
As she hastened downstairs, she met Flora ascending them.
“Go to your mistress, Flora,” said she; “Here are rare doings! Oh! I am the most unfortunate woman alive! My house is filled with ghosts and dead bodies, and the Lord knows what besides; yet I am sure, nobody likes such company less than I do. But go your way to Donna Antonia, Flora, and let me go mine.”
Thus saying, she continued her course to the street door, which she opened, and without allowing herself time to throw on her veil, she made the best of her way to the Capuchin abbey. In the meanwhile, Flora hastened to her lady’s chamber, equally surprised and alarmed at Jacintha’s consternation. She found Antonia lying upon the bed insensible. She used the same means for her recovery that Jacintha had already employed; but finding that her mistress only recovered from one fit to fall into another, she sent in all haste for a physician. While expecting his arrival, she undressed Antonia, and conveyed her to bed.
Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses, Jacintha ran through the streets, and stopped not till she reached the gate of the abbey. She rang loudly at the bell, and as soon as the porter appeared, she desired permission to speak to the superior. Ambrosio was then conferring with Matilda upon the means of procuring access to Antonia. The cause of Elvira’s death remaining unknown, he was convinced that crimes were not so swiftly followed by punishment, as his instructors the monks had taught him, and as till then he had himself believed. This persuasion made him resolve upon Antonia’s ruin, for the enjoyment of whose person dangers and difficulties only seemed to have increased his passion. The monk had already made one attempt to gain admission to her presence; but Flora had refused him in such a manner as to convince him that all future endeavours must be vain. Elvira had confided her suspicions to that trusty servant: she had desired her never to leave Ambrosio alone with her daughter, and if possible to prevent their meeting altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had executed her orders to the very letter. Ambrosio’s visit had been rejected that morning, though Antonia was ignorant of it. He saw that to obtain a sight of his mistress by open means was out of the question; and both himself and Matilda had consumed the night, in endeavouring to invent some plan, whose event might be more successful. Such was their employment, when a lay-brother entered the abbot’s cell, and informed him that a woman calling herself Jacintha Zuniga requested audience for a few minutes.
Ambrosio was by no means disposed to grant the petition of his visitor. He refused it positively, and bad the lay-brother tell the stranger to return the next day. Matilda interrupted him.
“See this woman,” said she in a low voice; “I have my reasons.”
The abbot obeyed her, and signified that he would go to the parlour immediately. With this answer the lay-brother withdrew. As soon as they were alone Ambrosio enquired why Matilda wished him to see this Jacintha.
“She is Antonia’s hostess,” replied Matilda; “She may possibly be of use to you: but let us examine her, and learn what brings her hither.”
They proceeded together to the parlour, where Jacintha was already waiting for the abbot. She had conceived a great opinion of his piety and virtue; and supposing him to have much influence over the devil, thought that it must be an easy matter for him to lay Elvira’s ghost in the Red Sea. Filled with this persuasion she had hastened to the abbey. As soon as she saw the monk enter the parlour, she dropped upon her knees, and began her story as follows.
“Oh! Reverend father! Such an accident! Such an adventure! I know not what course to take, and unless you can help me, I shall certainly go distracted. Well, to be sure, never was woman so unfortunate, as myself! All in my power to keep clear of such abomination have I done, and yet that all is too little. What signifies my telling my beads four times a day, and observing every fast prescribed by the calendar? What signifies my having made three pilgrimages to St. James of Compostella, and purchased as many pardons from the Pope as would buy off Cain’s punishment? Nothing prospers with me! All goes wrong, and God only knows, whether anything will ever go right again! Why now, be your holiness the judge. My lodger dies in convulsions; out of pure kindness I bury her at my own expense; (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 everything performed decently and properly, and put myself to expense 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 keyhole, and frightening the poor child out of her wits! Though she be a ghost, she might be more civil than
