 | CHAPTER VIII. Monaldi |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
There is a certain region of the heart which may
well be called the sanctuary of every individual;
where even the humble and oppressed may (thank
heaven) claim a sovereignty; it is there too, where
the hopes and fears, and all that give a color to
the outward, may be said to dwell; and, though
in the pressure of crowds, where we can retire
unobserved, and feel ourselves distinct, intangible
alike — if such be our pleasure — both to friend
and foe.
Perhaps there is nothing more sedulously guarded
than this secret recess in pure woman's heart:
there indeed it is a sanctuary — insomuch that, to
keep it inviolate, it would sometimes seem as if she
had closed it to herself. Hence it is that some
women may even love long before they are aware
of it. For in that place of mystery is born, if we
mistake not, a pure woman's love; and hence too
it may be, as if partaking of the nature of its
birth-place, that it is so long shadowy to the every
nursed, nay, to grow to maturity, and still continue
a shadow, till some magic accident — a word, a
look, the merest trifle — gives it a name and substance.
In some such wise was Monaldi's image allowed
to linger, and linger, in the heart of Rosalia, until,
from an undefined shadow, it gradually took shape,
and was quickened into life. Long before they
met she had seen, and admired his productions;
and when she saw the man, his noble countenance
and unassuming manners more than answered to
what she had imagined him.
Where our expectations have been highly
wrought, it is no small gain if we are not disappointed.
It was so in this instance; and Monaldi
had scarcely left her before she found that he had
risen in her opinion even as an artist. As they
became more acquainted she found in his mind
and heart all that she had ever imagined, or asked
for. Yet still she knew not that the image he
had left in her memory was anything to her but
a harmonious picture, which it was natural to
dwell on, and to dwell on with pleasure; not that
a transient feeling would not occasionally whisper
of something more; but the hints were vague, and
always sure to be repressed by a constant fear
soon have quickened her apprehension; but she
saw the original almost daily; and there is no saying
how long her self-ignorance might have continued
had it not been for a trifling incident.
The more Monaldi dwelt on the mortifying occurrence
of the unfortunate evening, the stronger
became his conviction that Rosalia could not but
regard him with something like contempt; and so
fully did this thought possess him, that near a fortnight
elapsed before he had the courage to wish
to see her. But the wish once allowed overcame
his fears, and he hurried away to the Advocate's.
As he approached the scene of his last visit, the
recollection of his folly became too overpowering,
and he was on the point of turning back, when
the sound of Rosalia's voice again changed his
purpose. She was singing the well-remembered
air from Metastasio — and he heard again the
the same thrilling tones which had first revealed to
him the state of his heart — they now drew him
onward like a charmed thing. The touching simplicity
with which the second stanza begins,
Più chieder non potrei —
and with that look of love, which now more than
ever spoke from her eyes — it must have been felt
by the coldest heart. She had just ended the second
line as Monaldi entered the drawing-room,
and their eyes a second time met in the mirror.
Had an apparition stood before her, the sight had
hardly been more startling. She felt as if her
conscious application of the words had been actually
detected. Her voice died on her lips, and
her face became colorless as marble.
“Good Heaven! Rosalia, you are ill!” said
Monaldi, wholly forgetting himself in alarm.
It was the first time he had ever addressed her
so familiarly, and the blood now mounted like a
crimson cloud to her forehead. The quick-sighted
lover no longer thought of illness — but the
thought which followed made him almost doubt if
he were awake.
“I will let my father know that you are here,”
said Rosalia, rising; but she was unable to move.
“But one moment,” said Monaldi, taking her
hand, though hardly conscious that he did so.
“Rosalia.” She gently withdrew her hand. “I
beg pardon, Signora I should have said. But why
affect a form, the bare utterance of which seems
to chill me? The time is come when I must use
Rosalia, I will speak with that openness, which
your own ingenuous, your direct nature knows not
how to condemn — I love you.”
For one minute Rosalia felt as if she would willingly
have sunk into the earth. Her secret had
been betrayed — this confession assured her of it —
and had been betrayed by herself.
“'Tis all a dream then!” said Monaldi, turning
away. “But what a dream to awake from! Yet
how I torture her — she cannot say yes, and her
gentle nature shrinks from saying no. Rosalia,
again pardon me. I have but one word more, and
will no longer distress you; think no more of this
rash avowal — there is nothing due to it — 't was
involuntary, and one, believe me, which I could
not have made in a moment of reflection — for
without hope — no, I should never then have had
the presumption to hope — forgive it then — and,
if you can, forget that I have dared to make so ill
a return for the notice with which you have but
too much honored me.”
Rosalia attempted to speak, but her lips moved
without sound.
“I ask no answer,” continued Monaldi mournfully;
“I deserve none — but rather — and let that
be my atonement — that I leave you, and forever.”
“No, no,” said Rosalia in a voice hardly audible.
A moment of breathless silence followed,
while she caught at the back of a chair, as if it
could impart the strength which she needed to proceed;
but the sound of her own voice restored her
to herself.
“Monaldi — your frankness — ”
“Can you forgive it?”
“I will do more, Monaldi, I will return it.”
She held out her hand to him; but her strength
failed her, and he caught her on his bosom.
| CHAPTER VIII. Monaldi | |