Chapter 3

----"Art thou any thing?
Art thou some God, some Angel, or some Devil
That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to stand?
Speak to me, what thou art."

JULIUS CÆSAR.

Vivaldi, from the period of his last visit to Altieri, was admitted
a frequent visitor to Signora Bianchi, and Ellena was, at length,
prevailed upon to join the party, when the conversation was always
on indifferent topics. Bianchi, understanding the disposition of her
niece's affections, and the accomplished mind and manners of Vivaldi,
judged that he was more likely to succeed by silent attentions than by
a formal declaration of his sentiments. By such declaration, Ellena,
till her heart was more engaged in his cause, would, perhaps, have
been alarmed into an absolute rejection of his addresses, and this was
every day less likely to happen, so long as he had an opportunity of
conversing with her.

Signora Bianchi had acknowledged to Vivaldi that he had no rival
to apprehend; that Ellena had uniformly rejected every admirer who
had hitherto discovered her within the shade of her retirement, and
that her present reserve proceeded more from considerations of the
sentiments of his family than from disapprobation of himself. He
forbore, therefore, to press his suit, till he should have secured a
stronger interest in her heart, and in this hope he was encouraged by
Signora Bianchi, whose gentle remonstrances in his favour became every
day more pleasing and more convincing.

Several weeks passed away in this kind of intercourse, till Ellena,
yielding to the representations of Signora Bianchi, and to the
pleadings of her own heart, received Vivaldi as an acknowledged
admirer, and the sentiments of his family were no longer remembered,
or, if remembered, it was with a hope that they might be overcome by
considerations more powerful.

The lovers, with Signora Bianchi and a Signor Giotto, a distant
relation of the latter, frequently made excursions in the delightful
environs of Naples; for Vivaldi was no longer anxious to conceal his
attachment, but wished to contradict any report injurious to his love,
by the publicity of his conduct; while the consideration, that Ellena's
name had suffered by his late imprudence, contributed, with the
unsuspecting innocence and sweetness of her manners towards him, who
had been the occasion of her injuries, to mingle a sacred pity with his
love, which obliterated all family politics from his mind, and bound
her irrecoverably to his heart.

These excursions sometimes led them to Puzzuoli, Baia, or the woody
cliffs of Pausilippo, and as, on their return, they glided along
the moon-light bay, the melodies of Italian strains seemed to give
enchantment to the scenery of its shore. At this cool hour the voices
of the vine-dressers were frequently heard in trio, as they reposed,
after the labour of the day, on some pleasant promontory, under the
shade of poplars; or the brisk music of the dance from fishermen,
on the margin of the waves below. The boatmen rested on their oars,
while their company listened to voices modulated by sensibility to
finer eloquence, than is in the power of art alone to display; and at
others, while they observed the airy natural grace, which distinguishes
the dance of the fishermen and peasants of Naples. Frequently as they
glided round a promontory, whose shaggy masses impended far over the
sea, such magic scenes of beauty unfolded, adorned by these dancing
groups on the bay beyond, as no pencil could do justice to. The deep
clear waters reflected every image of the landscape, the cliffs,
branching into wild forms, crowned with groves, whose rough foliage
often spread down their steeps in picturesque luxuriance; the ruined
villa on some bold point, peeping through the trees; peasants' cabins
hanging on the precipices, and the dancing figures on the strand--all
touched with the silvery tint and soft shadows of moon-light. On the
other hand, the sea trembling with a long line of radiance, and shewing
in the clear distance the sails of vessels stealing in every direction
along its surface, presented a prospect as grand as the landscape was
beautiful.

One evening that Vivaldi sat with Ellena and Signora Bianchi, in
the very pavilion where he had overheard that short but interesting
soliloquy, which assured him of her regard, he pleaded with more than
his usual earnestness for a speedy marriage. Bianchi did not oppose his
arguments; she had been unwell for some time, and, believing herself to
be declining fast, was anxious to have their nuptials concluded. She
surveyed with languid eyes, the scene that spread before the pavilion.
The strong effulgence which a setting-sun threw over the sea, shewing
innumerable gaily painted ships, and fishing-boats returning from
Santa Lucia into the port of Naples, had no longer power to cheer her.
Even the Roman tower that terminated the mole below, touched as it was
with the slanting rays; and the various figures of fishermen, who lay
smoking beneath its walls, in the long shadow, or stood in the sunshine
on the beach, watching the approaching boats of their comrades,
combined a picture which was no longer interesting. "Alas!" said she,
breaking from meditative silence, "this sun so glorious, which lights
up all the various colouring of these shores, and the glow of those
majestic mountains; alas! I feel that it will not long shine for me--my
eyes must soon close upon the prospect for ever!"

To Ellena's tender reproach for this melancholy suggestion Bianchi
replied only by expressing an earnest wish to witness the certainty of
her being protected; adding, that this must be soon, or she should not
live to see it. Ellena, extremely shocked both by this presage of her
aunt's fate, and by the direct reference made to her own condition in
the presence of Vivaldi, burst into tears, while he, supported by the
wishes of Signora Bianchi, urged his suit with encreased interest.

"This is not a time for fastidious scruples," said Bianchi, "now that
a solemn truth calls out to us. My dear girl, I will not disguise my
feelings; they assure me I have not long to live. Grant me then the
only request I have to make, and my last hours will be comforted."

After a pause she added, as she took the hand of her niece, "This
will, no doubt, be an awful separation to us both; and it must also be
a mournful one, Signor," turning to Vivaldi, "for she has been as a
daughter to me, and I have, I trust, fulfilled to her the duties of a
mother. Judge then, what will be her feelings when I am no more. But it
will be your care to sooth them."

Vivaldi looked at Ellena, and would have spoken; her aunt, however,
proceeded. "My own feelings would now be little less poignant, if I
did not believe that I was confiding her to a tenderness, which cannot
diminish; that I should prevail with her to accept the protection of a
husband. To you, Signor, I commit the legacy of my child. Watch over
her future moments, guard her from inquietude as vigilantly as I have
done, and, if possible, from misfortune! I have yet much to say, but my
spirits are exhausted."

While he listened to this sacred charge, and recollected the injury
Ellena had already sustained for his sake, by the cruel obliquy which
the Marchese had thrown upon her character, he suffered a degree of
generous indignation, of which he scarcely could conceal the cause,
and a succeeding tenderness that almost melted him to tears; and
he secretly vowed to defend her fame and protect her peace, at the
sacrifice of every other consideration.

Bianchi, as she concluded her exhortation, gave Ellena's hand to
Vivaldi, who received it with emotion such as his countenance, only,
could express, and with solemn fervour raising his eyes to heaven,
vowed that he never would betray the confidence thus reposed in him,
but would watch over the happiness of Ellena with a care as tender,
as anxious, and as unceasing as her own; that from this moment he
considered himself bound by ties not less sacred than those which the
church confers, to defend her as his wife, and would do so, to the
latest moment of his existence. As he said this, the truth of his
feelings appeared in the energy of his manner.

Ellena, still weeping, and agitated by various considerations, spoke
not, but withdrawing the handkerchief from her face, she looked at him
through her tears, with a smile so meek, so affectionate, so timid, yet
so confiding, as expressed all the mingled emotions of her heart, and
appealed more eloquently to his, than the most energetic language could
have done.

Before Vivaldi left the villa, he had some further conversation with
Signora Bianchi, when it was agreed that the nuptials should be
solemnized on the following week, if Ellena could be prevailed on to
confirm her consent so soon; and that when he returned the next day,
her determination would probably be made known to him.

He departed for Naples once more with the lightly-bounding steps of
joy, which, however, when he arrived there, was somewhat alloyed by a
message from the Marchese, demanding to see him in his cabinet. Vivaldi
anticipated the subject of the interview, and obeyed the summons with
reluctance.

He found his father so absorbed in thought, that he did not immediately
perceive him. On raising his eyes from the floor, where discontent
and perplexity seemed to have held them, he fixed a stern regard on
Vivaldi. "I understand," said he, "that you persist in the unworthy
pursuit against which I warned you. I have left you thus long to your
own discretion, because I was willing to afford you an opportunity of
retracting with grace the declaration, which you have dared to make me
of your principles and intentions; but your conduct has not therefore
been the less observed. I am informed that your visits have been as
frequent at the residence of the unhappy young woman, who was the
subject of our former conversation, as formerly, and that you are as
much infatuated."

"If it is Signora Rosalba, whom your lordship means," said Vivaldi,
"she is not unhappy; and I do not scruple to own, that I am as
sincerely attached to her as ever. Why, my dear father," continued
he, subduing the feelings which this degrading mention of Ellena had
aroused, "why will you persist in opposing the happiness of your son;
and above all, why will you continue to think unjustly of her, who
deserves your admiration, as much as my love?"

"As I am not a lover," replied the Marchese, "and that the age of
boyish credulity is past with me, I do not wilfully close my mind
against examination, but am directed by proof and yield to conviction."

"What proof is it, my Lord, that has thus easily convinced you?" said
Vivaldi; "who is it that persists in abusing your confidence, and in
destroying my peace?"

The Marchese haughtily reproved his son for such doubts and questions,
and a long conversation ensued, which seemed neither to reconcile the
interests or the opinions of either party. The Marchese persisted
in accusation and menace; and Vivaldi in defending Ellena, and in
affirming, that his affections and intentions were irrecoverable.

Not any art of persuasion could prevail with the Marchese to adduce
his proofs, or deliver up the name of his informer; nor any menace
awe Vivaldi into a renunciation of Ellena; and they parted mutually
dissatisfied. The Marchese had failed on this occasion to act with his
usual policy, for his menaces and accusations had aroused spirit and
indignation, when kindness and gentle remonstrance would certainly
have awakened filial affection, and might have occasioned a contest in
the breast of Vivaldi. Now, no struggle of opposing duties divided his
resolution. He had no hesitation on the subject of their dispute; but,
regarding his father as a haughty oppressor who would rob him of his
most sacred right; and as one who did not scruple to stain the name of
the innocent and the defenceless, when his interest required it, upon
the doubtful authority of a base informer, he suffered neither pity or
remorse to mingle with the resolution of asserting the freedom of his
nature; and was even more anxious than before, to conclude a marriage
which he believed would secure his own happiness, and the reputation of
Ellena.

He returned, therefore, on the following day to the villa Altieri, with
encreased impatience to learn the result of Signora Bianchi's further
conversation with her niece, and the day on which the nuptials might
be solemnized. On the way thither, his thoughts were wholly occupied
by Ellena, and he proceeded mechanically, and without observing where
he was, till the shade which the well-known arch threw over the road
recalled him to local circumstances, and a voice instantly arrested
his attention. It was the voice of the monk, whose figure again passed
before him. "Go not to the villa Altieri," it said solemnly, "for death
is in the house!"

Before Vivaldi could recover from the dismay into which this abrupt
assertion and sudden appearance had thrown him, the stranger was gone.
He had escaped in the gloom of the place, and seemed to have retired
into the obscurity, from which he had so suddenly emerged, for he was
not seen to depart from under the arch-way. Vivaldi pursued him with
his voice, conjuring him to appear, and demanding who was dead; but no
voice replied.

Believing that the stranger could not have escaped unseen from the arch
by any way, but that leading to the fortress above, Vivaldi began to
ascend the steps, when, considering that the more certain means of
understanding this awful assertion would be, to go immediately to the
villa Altieri, he left this portentous ruin, and hastened thither.

An indifferent person would probably have understood the words of
the monk to allude to Signora Bianchi, whose infirm state of health
rendered her death, though sudden, not improbable; but to the
affrighted fancy of Vivaldi, the dying Ellena only appeared. His
fears, however probabilities might sanction, or the event justify
them, were natural to ardent affection; but they were accompanied by
a presentiment as extraordinary as it was horrible;--it occurred to
him more than once, that Ellena was murdered. He saw her wounded, and
bleeding to death; saw her ashy countenance, and her wasting eyes,
from which the spirit of life was fast departing, turned piteously
on himself, as if imploring him to save her from the fate that was
dragging her to the grave. And, when he reached the boundary of the
garden, his whole frame trembled so, with horrible apprehension,
that he rested a while, unable to venture further towards the truth.
At length, he summoned courage to dare it, and, unlocking a private
gate, of which he had lately received the key, because it spared him a
considerable distance of the road to Naples, he approached the house.
Every place around it was silent and forsaken; many of the lattices
were closed, and, as he endeavoured to collect from every trivial
circumstance some conjecture, his spirits still sunk as he advanced,
till, having arrived within a few paces of the portico, all his fears
were confirmed. He heard from within a feeble sound of lamentation, and
then some notes of that solemn and peculiar kind of recitative, which
is in some parts of Italy the requiem of the dying. The sounds were
so low and distant that they only murmured on his ear; but, without
pausing for information, he rushed into the portico, and knocked
loudly at the folding doors, now closed against him.

After repeated summonses, Beatrice, the old house-keeper, appeared.
She did not wait for Vivaldi's enquiries. "Alas! Signor," said she,
"alas-a-day! who would have thought it; who would have expected such a
change as this! It was only yester-evening that you was here,--she was
then as well as I am; who would have thought that she would be dead
to-day?"

"She _is_ dead, then!" exclaimed Vivaldi, struck to the heart; "she
_is_ dead!" staggering towards a pillar of the hall, and endeavouring
to support himself against it. Beatrice, shocked at his condition,
would have gone for assistance, but he waved her to stay. "When did she
die," said he, drawing breath with difficulty, "how and where?"

"Alas! here in the villa, Signor," replied Beatrice, weeping; "who
would have thought that I should live to see this day! I hoped to have
laid down my old bones in peace."

"What has caused her death?" interrupted Vivaldi impatiently, "and when
did she die?"

"About two of the clock this morning, Signor; about two o'clock. O
miserable day, that I should live to see it!"

"I am better," said Vivaldi, raising himself; "lead me to her
apartment,--I must see her. Do not hesitate, lead me on."

"Alas! Signor, it is a dismal sight; why should you wish to see her? Be
persuaded; do not go, Signor; it is a woeful sight!"

"Lead me on," repeated Vivaldi sternly; "or if you refuse, I will find
the way myself."

Beatrice, terrified by his look and gesture, no longer opposed him,
begging only that he would wait till she had informed her lady of
his arrival; but he followed her closely up the staircase and along
a corridor that led round the west side of the house, which brought
him to a suite of chambers darkened by the closed lattices, through
which he passed towards the one where the body lay. The requiem had
ceased, and no sound disturbed the awful stillness that prevailed in
these deserted rooms. At the door of the last apartment, where he was
compelled to stop, his agitation was such, that Beatrice, expecting
every instant to see him sink to the floor, made an effort to support
him with her feeble aid, but he gave a signal for her to retire. He
soon recovered himself and passed into the chamber of death, the
solemnity of which might have affected him in any other state of his
spirits; but these were now too severely pressed upon by real suffering
to feel the influence of local circumstances. Approaching the bed on
which the corpse was laid, he raised his eyes to the mourner who hung
weeping over it, and beheld--Ellena! who, surprized by this sudden
intrusion, and still more by the agitation of Vivaldi, repeatedly
demanded the occasion of it. But he had neither power or inclination
to explain a circumstance, which must deeply wound the heart of Ellena,
since it would have told that the same event, which excited her grief,
accidentally inspired his joy.

He did not long intrude upon the sacredness of sorrow, and the short
time he remained was employed in endeavours to command his own emotion
and to soothe her's.

When he left Ellena, he had some conciliation with Beatrice, as to
the death of Signora Bianchi, and understood that she had retired to
rest on the preceding night apparently in her usual state of health.
"It was about one in the morning, Signor," continued Beatrice, "I was
waked out of my first sleep by a noise in my lady's chamber. It is a
grievous thing to me, Signor, to be waked from my first sleep, and I,
Santa Maria forgive me! was angry at being disturbed! So I would not
get up, but laid my head upon the pillow again, and tried to sleep;
but presently I heard the noise again; nay now, says I, somebody must
be up in the house, that's certain. I had scarcely said so, Signor,
when I heard my young lady's voice calling 'Beatrice! Beatrice!' Ah!
poor young lady! she was indeed in a sad fright, as well she might. She
was at my door in an instant, and looked as pale as death, and trembled
so! 'Beatrice,' said she, 'rise this moment; my aunt is dying.' She did
not stay for my answer, but was gone directly. Santa Maria protect me!
I thought I should have swooned outright."

"Well, but your lady?" said Vivaldi, whose patience the tedious
circumlocution of old Beatrice had exhausted.

"Ah! my poor lady! Signor, I thought I never should have been able to
reach her room; and when I got there, I was scarcely more alive than
herself.--There she lay on her bed! O it was a grievous sight to see!
there she lay, looking so piteously; I saw she was dying. She could not
speak, though she tried often, but she was sensible, for she would
look so at Signora Ellena, and then try again to speak; it almost broke
one's heart to see her. Something seemed to lie upon her mind, and
she tried almost to the last to tell it; and as she grasped Signora
Ellena's hand, she would still look up in her face with such doleful
expression as no one who had not a heart of stone could bear. My poor
young mistress was quite overcome by it, and cried as if her heart
would break. Poor young lady! she has lost a friend indeed, such a one
as she must never hope to see again."

"But she shall find one as firm and affectionate as the last!"
exclaimed Vivaldi fervently.

"The good Saint grant it may prove so!" replied Beatrice, doubtingly.
"All that could be done for our dear lady," she continued, "was tried,
but with no avail. She could not swallow what the Doctor offered her.
She grew fainter and fainter, yet would often utter such deep sighs,
and then would grasp my hand so hard! At last she turned her eyes
from Signora Ellena, and they grew duller and fixed, and she seemed
not to see what was before her. Alas! I knew then she was going; her
hand did not press mine as it had done a minute or two before, and a
deadly coldness was upon it. Her face changed so too in a few minutes!
This was about two o'clock, and she died before her confessor could
administer."

Beatrice ceased to speak, and wept; Vivaldi almost wept with her, and
it was some time before he could command his voice sufficiently to
enquire, what were the symptoms of Signora Bianchi's disorder, and
whether she had ever been thus suddenly attacked before.

"Never, Signor!" replied the old house-keeper; "and though, to be sure,
she has long been very infirm, and going down, as one may say, yet,"--

"What is it you mean?" said Vivaldi.

"Why, Signor, I do not know what to think about my lady's death. To be
sure, there is nothing certain; and I may only get scoffed at, if I
speak my mind abroad, for nobody would believe me, it is so strange,
yet I must have my own thoughts, for all that."

"Do speak intelligibly," said Vivaldi, "you need not apprehend censure
from me."

"Not from you, Signor, but if the report should get abroad, and it was
known that I had set it a-going."

"That never shall be known from me," said Vivaldi, with encreased
impatience, "tell me, without fear, all that you conjecture."

"Well then, Signor, I will own, that I do not like the suddenness of my
lady's death, no, nor the manner of it, nor her appearance after death!"

"Speak explicitly, and to the point," said Vivaldi.

"Nay, Signor, there are some folks that will not understand, if you
speak ever so plain, I am sure I speak plain enough. If I might tell my
mind,--I do not believe she came fairly by her death at last!"

"How!" said Vivaldi, "your reasons?"

"Nay, Signor, I have given them already; I said I did not like the
suddenness of her death, nor her appearance after, nor"--

"Good heaven!" interrupted Vivaldi, "you mean poison!"

"Hush, Signor, hush! I do not say that; but she did not seem to die
naturally."

"Who has been at the villa lately?" said Vivaldi, in a tremulous voice.

"Alas! Signor, nobody has been here; she lived so privately that she
saw nobody."

"Not one person?" said Vivaldi, "consider well, Beatrice, had she no
visitor?"

"Not of a long while, Signor, no visitors but yourself and her cousin
Signor Giotto. The only other person that has been within these walls
for many weeks, to the best of my remembrance, is a sister of the
Convent, who comes for the silks my young lady embroiders."

"Embroiders! What convent?"

"The Santa Maria della Pieta, yonder, Signor; if you will step this
way to the window, I will shew it you. Yonder, among the woods on the
hill-side, just above those gardens that stretch down to the bay. There
is an olive ground close beside it, and observe, Signor, there is a red
and yellowish ridge of rocks rises over the woods higher still, and
looks as if it would fall down upon those old spires. Have you found
it, Signor?"

"How long is it since this sister came here?" said Vivaldi.

"Three weeks at least, Signor."

"And you are certain that no other person has called within that time?"

"No other, Signor, except the fisherman and the gardener, and a man who
brings maccaroni, and such sort of things; for it is such a long way
to Naples, Signor, and I have so little time."

"Three weeks, say you! You said three weeks, I think? Are you certain
as to this?"

"Three weeks, Signor! Santa della Pieta! Do you believe, Signor, that
we could fast for three weeks! Why, they call almost every day."

"I speak of the nun," said Vivaldi.

"O yes, Signor," replied Beatrice "it is that, at least, since she was
here."

"This is strange!" said Vivaldi, musing, "but I will talk with you some
other time. Meanwhile, I wish you could contrive that I should see the
face of your deceased lady, without the knowledge of Signora Ellena.
And, observe me, Beatrice, be strictly silent as to your surmises
concerning her death: do not suffer any negligence to betray your
suspicions to your young mistress. Has she any suspicions herself of
the same nature?"

Beatrice replied, that she believed Signora Ellena had none; and
promised faithfully to observe his injunctions.

He then left the villa, meditating on the circumstances he had just
learned, and on the prophetic assertion of the monk, between whom, and
the cause of Bianchi's sudden death, he could not forbear surmising
there was some connection; and it now occurred to him, and for the
first time, that this monk, this mysterious stranger, was no other
than Schedoni, whom he had observed of late going more frequently than
usual, to his mother's apartment. He almost started, in horror of the
suspicion, to which this conjecture led, and precipitately rejected it,
as a poison that would destroy his own peace for ever. But though he
instantly dismissed the suspicion, the conjecture returned to his mind,
and he endeavoured to recollect the voice and figure of the stranger,
that he might compare them with those of the confessor. The voices
were, he thought, of a different tone, and the persons of a different
height and proportion. This comparison, however, did not forbid him to
surmise that the stranger was an agent of the confessor's; that he was,
at least, a secret spy upon his actions, and the defamer of Ellena;
while both, if indeed there were two persons concerned, appeared to be
at the command of his parents. Fired with indignation of the unworthy
arts that he believed to have been employed against him, and impatient
to meet the slanderer of Ellena, he determined to attempt some decisive
step towards a discovery of the truth, and either to compel the
confessor to reveal it to him, or to search out his agent, who, he
fancied, was occasionally a resident within the ruins of Paluzzi.

The inhabitants of the convent, which Beatrice had pointed out, did
not escape his consideration, but no reason appeared for supposing
them the enemies of his Ellena, who, on the contrary, he understood
had been for some years amicably connected with them. The embroidered
silks, of which the old servant had spoken, sufficiently explained the
nature of the connection, and discovering more fully the circumstances
of Ellena's fortune, her conduct heightened the tender admiration, with
which he had hitherto regarded her.

The hints for suspicion which Beatrice had given respecting the
cause of her mistress's decease, incessantly recurred to him; and
it appeared extraordinary, and sometimes in the highest degree
improbable, that any person could be sufficiently interested in the
death of a woman apparently so blameless, as to administer poison to
her. What motive could have prompted so horrible a deed, was still
more inexplicable. It was true that she had long been in a declining
state; yet the suddenness of her departure and the singularity of
some circumstances preceding as well as some appearances that had
followed it, compelled Vivaldi to doubt as to the cause. He believed,
however, that, after having seen the corpse, his doubts must vanish;
and Beatrice had promised, that, if he could return in the evening,
when Ellena had retired to rest, he should be permitted to visit
the chamber of the deceased. There was something repugnant to his
feelings, in going thus secretly, or, indeed, at all, to the residence
of Ellena at this delicate period, yet it was necessary he should
introduce there some medical professor, on whose judgment he could
rest, respecting the occasion of Bianchi's death; and as he believed he
should so soon acquire the right of vindicating the honour of Ellena,
that consideration did not so seriously affect him as otherwise it
would have done. The enquiry which called him thither was, besides,
of a nature too solemn and important to be lightly resigned; he
had, therefore, told Beatrice he would be punctual to the hour she
appointed. His intention to search for the monk was thus again
interrupted.