The Monk - Matthew Gregory Lewis [29]
“To-morrow, Ambrosio? to-morrow? Oh! surely you cannot mean it! you cannot resolve on driving me to despair! you cannot have the cruelty———”
“You have heard my decision, and it must be obeyed: the laws of our order forbid your stay: it would be perjury to conceal that a woman is within these walls, and my vows will oblige me to declare your story to the community. You must from hence. I pity you, but can do no more.”
He pronounced these words in a faint and trembling voice; then, rising from his seat, he would have hastened towards the monastery. Uttering a loud shriek, Matilda followed, and detained him.
“Stay yet one moment, Ambrosio! hear me yet speak one word!”
“I dare not listen. Release me: you know my resolution.”
“But one word! but one last word, and I have done!”
“Leave me. Your entreaties are in vain: you must from hence to-morrow.”
“Go then, barbarian! But this resource is still left me.”
As she said this, she suddenly drew a poniard. She rent open her garment, and placed the weapon’s point against her bosom.
“Father, I will never quit these walls alive.”
“Hold! hold, Matilda! what would you do?”
“You are determined, so am I: the moment that you leave me, I plunge this steel in my heart.”
“Holy St. Francis! Matilda, have you your senses? Do you know the consequences of your action? that suicide is the greatest of crimes? that you destroy your soul? that you lose your claim to salvation? that you prepare for yourself everlasting torments?”
“I care not, I care not,” she replied passionately: “either your hand guides me to paradise, or my own dooms me to perdition. Speak to me, Ambrosio! Tell me that you will conceal my story; that I shall remain your friend and your companion, or this poniard drinks my blood.”
As she uttered these last words, she lifted her arm, and made a motion as if to stab herself. The friar’s eyes followed with dread the course of the dagger. She had torn open her habit, and her bosom was half exposed. The weapon’s point rested upon her left breast: and, oh! that was such a breast! The moon-beams darting full upon it enabled the monk to observe its dazzling whiteness: his eye dwelt with insatiable avidity upon the beauteous orb: a sensation till then unknown filled his heart with a mixture of anxiety and delight; a raging fire shot through every limb; the blood boiled in his veins, and a thousand wild wishes bewildered his imagination.
“Hold!” he cried, in an hurried, faltering voice; “I can resist no longer! Stay then, enchantress! stay for my destruction!”
He said; and, rushing from the place, hastened towards the monastery: he regained his cell, and threw himself upon his couch, distracted, irresolute and confused.
He found it impossible for some time to arrange his ideas. The scene in which he had been engaged, had excited such a variety of sentiments in his bosom, that he was incapable of deciding which was predominant. He was irresolute what conduct he ought to hold with the disturber of his repose; he was conscious that prudence, religion, and propriety, necessitated