The Monk - Matthew Gregory Lewis [13]
“I think of it, Don Christoval? How can you suspect me of such barbarity? You are conscious that she took the veil by her own desire, and that particular circumstances made her wish for a seclusion from the world. I used every means in my power to induce her to change her resolution; the endeavour was fruitless, and I lost a sister!”
“The luckier follow you: I think, Lorenzo, you were a considerable gainer by that loss; if I remember right, Donna Agnes had a portion of ten thousand pistoles, half of which reverted to your lordship. By St. Jago! I wish that I had fifty sisters in the same predicament: I should consent to losing them every soul without much heartburning.”
“How, condé?” said Lorenzo in an angry voice; “do you suppose me base enough to have influenced my sister’s retirement? do you suppose that the despicable wish to make myself master of her fortune could——”
“Admirable! Courage, Don Lorenzo! Now the man is all in a blaze. God grant that Antonia may soften that fiery temper, or we shall certainly cut each other’s throat before the month is over! However, to prevent such a tragical catastrophe for the present, I shall make a retreat, and leave you master of the field. Farewell, my knight of Mount Ætna! Moderate that inflammable disposition, and remember that, whenever it is necessary to make love to yonder harridan, you may reckon upon my services.”
He said, and darted out of the cathedral.
“How wild-brained!” said Lorenzo. “With so excellent an heart, what pity that he possesses so little solidity of judgment!”
The night was now fast advancing. The lamps were not yet lighted. The faint beams of the rising moon scarcely could pierce through the gothic obscurity of the church. Lorenzo found himself unable to quit the spot. The void left in his bosom by Antonia’s absence, and his sister’s sacrifice which Don Christoval had just recalled to his imagination, created that melancholy of mind, which accorded but too well with the religious gloom surrounding him. He was still leaning against the seventh column from the pulpit. A soft and cooling air breathed along the solitary aisles; the moon-beams darting into the church through painted windows, tinged the fretted roofs and massy pillars with a thousand various shades of light and colours. Universal silence prevailed around, only interrupted by the occasional closing of doors in the adjoining abbey.
The calm of the hour and solitude of the place contributed to nourish Lorenzo’s disposition to melancholy. He threw himself upon a seat which stood near him, and abandoned himself to the delusions of his fancy. He thought of his union with Antonia; he thought of the obstacles which might oppose his wishes; and a thousand changing visions floated before his fancy, sad ’Tis true, but not unpleasing. Sleep insensibly stole over him, and the tranquil solemnity of his mind when awake, for a while continued to influence his slumbers.
He still fancied himself to be in the church of the Capuchins; but it was no longer dark and solitary. Multitudes of silver lamps shed splendour from the vaulted roofs; accompanied by the captivating chaunt of distant choristers, the organ’s melody swelled through the church; the altar seemed decorated as for some distinguished feast; it was surrounded by a brilliant company; and near it stood Antonia arrayed in bridal white, and blushing with all the charms of virgin modesty.
Half hoping, half fearing, Lorenzo gazed upon the scene before him. Sudden the door leading to the abbey unclosed; and he saw, attended by a long train of monks, the preacher advance to whom he had just listened with so much admiration. He drew near Antonia.
“And where is the bridegroom?” said the imaginary friar.
Antonia seemed to look round the church with anxiety. Involuntarily the youth advanced a few steps from his concealment. She saw him; the blush of pleasure glowed upon her cheek; with a graceful motion of her hand she beckoned to him to advance. He disobeyed not the command; he flew towards her, and threw himself