The Monk - Matthew Gregory Lewis [102]
Thus saying, she advanced towards the sepulchre, still holding her lamp in one hand, and her little basket in the other. She touched the door, it turned slowly upon its grating hinges, and a narrow winding stair-case of black marble presented itself to her eyes. She descended it; Ambrosio remained above, watching the faint beams of the lamp, as they still receded down the stairs. They disappeared, and he found himself in total darkness.
Left to himself, he could not reflect without surprise on the sudden change in Matilda’s character and sentiments. But a few days had passed, since she appeared the mildest and softest of her sex, devoted to his will, and looking up to him as to a superior being. Now she assumed a sort of courage and manliness in her manners and discourse, but ill calculated to please him. She spoke no longer to insinuate, but command: he found himself unable to cope with her in argument, and was unwillingly obliged to confess the superiority of her judgment. Every moment convinced him of the astonishing powers of her mind; but what she gained in the opinion of the man, she lost with interest in the affection of the lover. He regretted Rosario, the fond, the gentle, and submissive; he grieved that Matilda preferred the virtues of his sex to those of her own; and when he thought of her expressions respecting the devoted nun, he could not help blaming them as cruel and unfeminine. Pity is a sentiment so natural, so appropriate to the female character, that it is scarcely a merit for a woman to possess it, but to be without it is a grievous crime. Ambrosio could not easily forgive his mistress for being deficient in this amiable quality. However, though he blamed her insensibility, he felt the truth of her observations; and though he pitied sincerely the unfortunate Agnes, he resolved to drop the idea of interposing in her behalf.
Near an hour had elapsed since Matilda descended into the caverns; still she returned not. Ambrosio’s curiosity was excited. He drew near the stair-case—he listened—all was silent, except that at intervals he caught the sound of Matilda’s voice, as it wound along the subterraneous passages, and was re-echoed by the sepulchre’s vaulted roofs. She was at too great a distance for him to distinguish her words, and ere they reached him, they were deadened into a low murmur. He longed to penetrate into this mystery. He resolved to disobey her injunctions, and follow her into the cavern. He advanced to the stair-case; he had already descended some steps, when his courage failed him. He remembered Matilda’s menaces if he infringed her orders, and his bosom was filled with a secret unaccountable awe. He returned up the stairs, resumed his former station, and waited impatiently for the conclusion of this adventure.
Suddenly he was sensible of a violent shock. An earthquake rocked the ground, the columns which supported the roof under which he stood, were so strongly shaken, that every moment menaced him with its fall, and at the same moment he heard a loud and tremendous burst of thunder; it ceased, and his eyes being fixed upon the stair-case, he saw a bright column of light flash along the caverns beneath. It was seen but for an instant. No sooner did it disappear, than all was once more quiet and obscure. Profound darkness again surrounded him, and the silence of night was only broken by the whirring bat as she flitted slowly by him.
With every instant Ambrosio’s amazement increased. Another hour elapsed, after which the same light again appeared, and was lost again as suddenly. It was accompanied by a strain of sweet but solemn music, which, as it stole through the vaults below, inspired the monk with mingled delight and terror. It had not long been hushed, when he heard Matilda’s steps upon the stair-case. She ascended from the cavern; the