The Monk - Matthew Gregory Lewis [123]
The abbot received the talisman with silent gratitude. His ideas were too much bewildered by the adventures of the night, to permit his expressing his thanks audibly, or indeed as yet to feel the whole value of her present. Matilda took up her lamp and basket, and guided her companion from the mysterious cavern. She restored the lamp to its former place, and continued her route in darkness till she reached the foot of the stair-case. The first beams of the rising sun darting down it facilitated the ascent. Matilda and the abbot hastened out of the sepulchre, closed the door after them, and soon regained the abbey’s western cloister. No one met them, and they retired unobserved to their respective cells.
The confusion of Ambrosio’s mind now began to appease. He rejoiced in the fortunate issue of his adventure, and, reflecting upon the virtues of the myrtle, looked upon Antonia as already in his power. Imagination retraced to him those secret charms betrayed to him by the enchanted mirror, and he waited with impatience for the approach of midnight.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
VOLUME III
CHAP. VIII.
The crickets sing, and man’s o’erlaboured sense
Repairs itself by rest: our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes, ere he wakened
The chastity he wounded—Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! Fresh lily!
And whiter than the sheets!
CYMBELINE.
All the researches of the marquis de las Cisternas proved vain. Agnes was lost to him for ever. Despair produced so violent an effect upon his constitution, that the consequence was a long and severe illness. This prevented him from visiting Elvira, as he had intended; and she being ignorant of the cause of his neglect, it gave her no trifling uneasiness. His sister’s death had prevented Lorenzo from communicating to his uncle his designs respecting Antonia. The injunctions of her mother forbade his presenting himself to her without the duke’s consent; and as she heard no more of him or his proposals, Elvira conjectured that he had either met with a better match, or had been commanded to give up all thoughts of her daughter. Every day made her more uneasy respecting Antonia’s fate; yet, while she retained the abbot’s protection, she bore with fortitude the disappointment of her hopes with regard to Lorenzo and the marquis. That resource now failed her. She was convinced that Ambrosio had meditated her daughter’s ruin; and when she reflected that her death would leave Antonia friendless and unprotected in a world so base, so perfidious and depraved, her heart swelled with the bitterness of apprehension. At such times she would sit for hours gazing upon the lovely girl, and seeming to listen to her innocent prattle, while in reality her thoughts dwelt upon the sorrows into which a moment would suffice to plunge her. Then she would clasp her in her arms suddenly, lean her head upon her daughter’s bosom, and bedew it with her tears.
An event was in preparation, which, had she known it, would have relieved her from her inquietude. Lorenzo now waited only for a favourable opportunity to inform the duke of his intended marriage: however, a circumstance which occurred at this period obliged him to delay his explanation for a few days longer.
Don Raymond’s malady seemed to gain ground. Lorenzo was constantly at his bed-side, and treated him with a tenderness truly fraternal. Both the cause and effects of the disorder were highly afflicting to the brother of Agnes; yet Theodore’s grief was scarcely less sincere. That amiable boy quitted not his master for a moment, and put every means in practice to console and alleviate his sufferings. The marquis had conceived so rooted an affection for his