The Midnight Bell/Volume I/Chapter V

CHAPTER V.

The thoughts of Alphonsus were continually fixed on Lauretta; he every day felt a stronger prepossession in her favour; he began to conceive the nature of his regard for her, and wished to snatch her from the eternal gloom of a monastic life:—he longed to impart to her the sentiments with which she had inspired him: all intercourse with the females of the convent, save the lady abbess, and old Perilla, was denied him:—what means could he pursue to communicate to her his affection, or how did he know she would not disregard, nay perhaps despise him for the confession?

He resolved steadfastly to fix his eyes on hers as she entered the chapel: he was practically ignorant that love has a language of the eyes; but he conceived that the eyes might be made to express what passes in the heart.

He fixed on her countenance his black penetrating eyes: the blush of modesty o'ershadowed her cheeks; she cast her eyes on the ground, and proceeded swiftly along.

He was unacquainted with the sex, and knew not yet to distinguish between diffidence and displeasure.

He repeated his experiment frequently: sometimes it was returned in the same manner as on his first trial: mostly she raised not her eyes higher than the vase, and immediately dropped them again.

"No!"—cried he—"Lauretta feels no sentiment congenial with mine; she even meets my looks of love with indifference.—Unhappy Alphonsus!"

The next time she entered the chapel, he resolved not to raise his eyes to hers: a broken sigh burst from his heart. Lauretta sighed also. Alphonsus heard the sound,—it tingled on his heart.

He ventured once more to meet her blue eyes: he imagined a faint blush tinged her cheeks, and a soft smile stole over her countenance.

It was a confirmation of Alphonsus's most exalted hope. "She sees, and is not insensible to my fondest wishes!" he exclaimed. "Oh ecstasy incomparable!"

How light a breath turns the wavering balance of a lover's hopes and fears!

Fearless, he now met her eyes: her diffidence gradually wore off, and she encountered his fond glances with delight.

A method of conversing with her now entered his mind: he wrote to her the fondest declaration of his love, that the desire of its return could dictate:—he held his letter by the side of the vase; and as she extended her finger to touch the water, he slid the paper unobserved into her hand.

Three days elapsed ere he was released from the torture of suspense; on the third, at evening prayers, she put a note into his hand, containing these words,—"Oh, Alphonsus, what a conviction of the state of my own heart has the declaration of yours proved to me!—Oh, let it remain a secret to all besides ourselves!—Be cautious how you write to me again,—we shall be suspected!"

Alphonsus was truly happy for the first time; but ecstasy will cool, and bring time for reflection. It told him that he might never be more closely connected with Lauretta than at that moment.

About five months after this time, the lady abbess was seized with a violent illness. The friar, who was also the administerer of physic in the convent, was an unremitting attendant at her bed-side: in a few days she died, lamented by all the convent, and particularly by Lauretta, to whom she had been a second mother.

Her corpse was placed in its coffin, before the altar of the church; masses were performed three times each day for nine days successively, for the benefit of her soul; and three nuns and a novice alternately watched over her body for the same space of time.

Alphonsus thinking an opportunity might now be given him for presenting Lauretta with a letter, wrote one, informing her that he was the nephew of her deceased mother's beloved Frederic, and entreating her to agree to leave the convent with him on the first opportunity that should offer,—calling on heaven to witness the sanctity of his intentions.

On the evening of the fourth day, Lauretta was returning from her duty of watching the body, as Alphonsus was entering the chapel: she followed the nuns;—they had turned the angle of the chapel door, and Lauretta was in the door-way when Alphonsus met her. He cast a hasty look round,—saw no observing eye,—snatched her hand,—imprinted on it a fervent kiss, and put into it the letter.—The whole was the transaction of a moment.

The funeral obsequies of the abbess were performed at the stated time, with all the pomp of religion and superstition; requiems were chanted the whole night by the friar, and all the nuns and novices. It was morning ere they left the chapel; they were fatigued by their nocturnal worship; they rejoiced when it was ended, and retired hastily from the chapel. Lauretta contrived to be the last; she dropped a piece of paper; Alphonsus flew and hid it in his bosom.

"Explain to me, whither thou wouldst fly."

He read it,—kissed it,—read it again, and tore it.

After much deliberation how to act, whether again to write to his beloved Lauretta, and inform her of the particulars of his unfortunate story, or only urge her to fly with him from the convent, he resolved to impart the whole of his history to father Matthias.

Accordingly he waited with impatience an hour when the old man was alone; and having entered his apartment, he hesitatingly informed him that he had a tale of confidence to impart to him,—which the holy man sacredly promised to bury in his own breast. Alphonsus then related to him every event that had occurred to him since his entrance into life. Having ended the narration,—"Now, good father," he cried, "canst thou solve the mystery that preys upon my breast?"

The holy man sat some minutes wrapped in thought; then, raising his eyes to Alphonsus, and marking his breast with the sign of the cross, he said, "Heaven forbid I should accuse any one unjustly! what I am about to say, is solely conjecture. Thy mother was frantic with grief, and had resolved on suicide."

Alphonsus shuddered at the idea: after a pause, he said, "But, father, her hand was bloody!"

The father paused an instant; then said, "She had grasped, in a moment of frenzy, the instrument she had destined for her destruction."

"Why did she send me from her?"

"Doubtless," returned the friar, "she forcibly felt the shame that would follow the act she was about to commit, and feared it would descend on her innocent son."

"Do you then impute to the same cause her accusation of my uncle, which she afterwards recalled?"

"I do."

"But, father, why has my uncle left the castle of Cohenburg?"

"His mind is open to sensibility; and the remembrance of those who had so lately inhabited it, rendered it unpleasant, and he doubtless retired to his own mansion."

"But why has he never inquired after me?"

"His inquiries may have escaped you."

"Your suppositions," cried Alphonsus, "are good: you consider circumstances; you know the nature of mankind: they may be just; but a heart, harassed as mine has been, pants for certainty."

"It will be difficult to attain it."

"Within these walls, I grant it."

"You do not wish to leave them?"

The hesitating silence of Alphonsus spoke for him in the affirmative.

"Your uncle, and the castle of Cohenburg," continued the friar, "are interdicted to you by your mother."

"But surely," interrupted Alphonsus, "it is not disobedience to act in opposition to the commands of a frantic parent?"

"You just now alleged, Alphonsus, and with reason, that my words could only proceed from conjecture."

Alphonsus felt the force of the friar's remark. The tears started in his eyes, and he exclaimed, "Oh! father! I cannot taste peace of mind till I gain some light on this mystery.—I am an unfit subject for the offices of religion,—my thoughts are too much centred in the world."

"How can you gain information but by visiting the castle?—and then how know you that your pains might not prove futile?"

"No! I would only mix with the world; the possibility of hearing what I so earnestly desire would keep hope alive: here it lies buried, and I have no pleasing thought to cheer me."

"Whither would you go?"

"I have resolved to become a fisher on the banks of the Inn."

"The solitude in which you will there live, will soon cause you to regret the happy station you wish to relinquish."

"I feel I was born for society; not to live with men alone, but to enjoy the soothings of the softer sex."

"Beware of your choice."

"I would have you approve it."

"I am secluded from the world."

"But you intimately know her on whom I dote."

"Oh, shame! shame! Nurtured within our convent walls, art thou the man to wish to break their sacred laws?"

"Lauretta Byroff is not bound by them."

"Have you ever conversed with her?"

"Never."

"How then can you tell her feelings are congenial with yours?"

"Be assured they are."

"I have promised her dying mother, that to no one, but her near relations, I will deliver her."

"And should you then hesitate to deliver her to me?"

"You are not allied to her in blood."

"It is in your power to set all consanguinity a degree below me."

"Explain thyself."

"Make me her nearest relative;—your promise is fulfilled, and I am blessed."

Father Matthias paused awhile; he then said, "What would the world say, should it ever be known that the descendants of your two noble families were living in the obscure and humiliating situation you have mentioned?"

"Oh, father! what have those whom the world has so hardly dealt with, to do with its censure?—I am well convinced that happiness is not confined to an elevated situation in life."

"Nor," returned the old man, "is it always to be found in an humble state, answerable to the expectations of a warm lover." Father Matthias again paused, then added, "Have you explained your fortunes to Lauretta?"

"No."

"Declare them to her."

"But how, good father?—teach me the means."

"This night I will conduct her to my apartment, there thou shalt meet her.—If she consents to share them (and I will pray that heaven guide her tongue for her true felicity), I will not be the means to sunder those whom it has joined.—But mark me, if she refuses thy suit, instantly she takes the veil.—I am hasty in this affair.—I feel an interest in your fates; and what is done must be concluded ere the arrival of our newly-chosen abbess."

Alphonsus kissed the friar's hand, and he made a sign to him to leave him.

When evening prayers were ended, and Perilla was retired to bed, father Matthias stole softly to the cell of Lauretta, and told her to follow him to his apartment. She was reading; but having laid down her book, and taken up her lamp, she drew down her veil and followed him. He stopped at the door of Alphonsus's apartment, and pointed to Lauretta to enter his; she did so, and in a few minutes Alphonsus was at her feet.

Joy and surprise made her hesitate to determine whether what she saw was a vision, or him she really wished it to be.

The first moments, on the part of Alphonsus, were given up to ecstasy; but he considered that the time allotted to him was short, and that he had much to communicate; he accordingly began by imparting to her the indulgence of the good confessor, proceeded to the narration of his own life, and, lastly, recounted the plan he had formed for their mutual happiness, if she deigned to share it with him.

Her eyes spoke the consent that virgin bashfulness prevented her tongue from uttering;—she blushed:—he urged the friar's words—the shortness of the time allowed her for the consideration—the possibility of their being separated for ever.—Her tender heart melted at the idea;—her lips expressed the words her voice scarcely sounded.—the enraptured Alphonsus sealed the sacred bond with an ecstatic kiss.

Quickly after the friar entered, to warn them that the hour of twelve was near at hand; and he read in the eyes of Alphonsus the result of his conversation.

Lauretta returned to her cell, promising to visit the father on the following morning; and Alphonsus entered the chapel to prepare for midnight prayers.

Alphonsus and Lauretta passed the night in sleepless dreams of happiness to come.

At the appointed hour, Lauretta repaired to the apartment of father Matthias; he asked her confession—her heart was spotless, except a chaste and hidden love long entertained for Alphonsus, could be charged on the score of blame: he then represented to her the wayward fortunes that befall alike the good and evil in the world, upon which she was about to enter; he set before her the trials that all who live in it must sustain; he charged her well to consult her heart, that she might not, when too late, blame herself for an act which could not be recalled.

She did consult her heart, and found it firm.

The father had already conversed with Alphonsus to the same purpose; he was steadfastly fixed on again braving those vicissitudes of life to which he had already been exposed.

The old man now rose, and called Alphonsus into his apartment.

Alphonsus quivered with ecstasy.—Lauretta trembled, she knew not why.—She wept.

Father Matthias again exhorted them to reflection ere it was too late.

Their eyes met each other's; Lauretta's tears were dried, and Alphonsus ventured to answer for them both, "that they were resolved."

The indissoluble knot was tied.

"The grace of God shine upon you, my children!" cried the old man.—Alphonsus embraced his bride, while tears of joy sparkled in his eyes.

"To-morrow morning, with the dawn of day, you must leave these walls," said the holy man; "now retire to your respective apartments, and each collect together what little articles you may possess of value."

They followed his directions.

During the course of the day, the friar informed such of the nuns as were acquainted with Lauretta's story, that she had been summoned to leave the convent by her nearest relation; and they bade her tenderly farewell:—"She will depart early in the morning," said the old man; "and we shall, I fear, experience a double loss; for our young sacristan, wishing again to mix with the world, will leave us at the same period."

Perilla expressed much astonishment at his being dissatisfied with his present station,—told him, "he would find it difficult to meet with such another;" gave him "some lessons for his good," as she was pleased to term them, and comforted herself with the hope that his successor would prove more communicative, and thus a companion suited better to her garrulous taste.

On the following morning, after matins had been chanted, and the nuns had again returned to their private devotions in their respective cells, and Perilla was busied in sweeping the chapel, father Matthias went to the cell of Lauretta, and, having directed her to habit herself in the pilgrim's dress in which her mother had arrived at the convent, and which was now in Lauretta's possession, he led her down into the hall. Here she was met by the anxious Alphonsus;—"Accept that small purse of gold," said the good old man: "it may benefit you, my children; with me it lies useless."—They kissed his extended hand:—he gave them his last benediction, and unbarred the heavy gate.—Lauretta dropped a parting tear.—Alphonsus exclaimed, "farewell, my kind friend!"—The old man raised his eyes and hands to heaven; then closed the gates on them for ever.