University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

When Antonia was left alone, a tempest of furious
thoughts flew through her mind. Not that she
doubted the propriety, but the policy, of the step
she was urged to take. Many of her noble friends,
the familiar visiters of her father's house, had entered
into the marriage state from motives equally
unconnected with feeling, and were authorized by
their husbands, and in some parts of Italy, by legal marriage
settlements, to meet their lords in the fashionable
circles by accident, and almost as strangers.
Her own mother had united herself to the Marquis
Torrini without love, and for years had met him
with indifference; while a gay young duke was her
constant attendant at home and abroad.

It had been one of Antonia's dreams to gain the
love of Leslie. She had never thought of obstacles.
Visions of happiness had floated in her fancy—
travel, study, music—long and happy visits to other
lands. Her enthusiastic nature had brooded over
these till they had become powerful objects of
hope. They were to be now all blasted. She was

to resign herself to Alezzi—to be the wife of one
she loved not—to yield some vague portion of her
wealth to his grasp.

Should she dismiss his suit, what horrors spread
themselves darkly out before her! Montfort was
doomed. She knew well the unrelenting and powerful
vengeance of Alezzi. She started to hear
that Montfort was now the victim of another's hate.
Perhaps a day—perhaps a minute, might be too
late. A union with Alezzi would be a union with
Montfort. His life would be saved; his love would
be hers. Her impetuous nature could brook no
delay. With no one to advise or guide her, she
was lost in a whirl of doubt, when a gentle knock
at the door announced a new visiter, and Father
Ambrose entered.

Him of all men she regarded with the profoundest
reverence. His wisdom came from Heaven
itself. He was the controller of the elements. He
had recounted to her cures which he had effected,
and souls which he had saved. Spectres, whose
unburied bones made them restless in their graves,
had visited him to gain peace from his holy prayers.
The Virgin had replied to him in audible
words, when he knelt at her altar. Ships he had
saved at sea amid the tempest. He had guarded
the vineyards from blight. At the call of the peasants,
he had unlocked the relics of holy saints, and
by their divine efficacy, added to his pure prayers,
the earth had produced in double abundance, and
the huts of the poor had been sheltered from plague
and famine. He entered. His step was soft and
noiseless. He seated himself by the side of the
beautiful girl, took her hand, kissed it, and said,—

“Antonia, I come to save you. Alezzi is your
foe, your tyrant. With one word I can hurl him
to destruction.”

“Oh, welcome! welcome!” cried the terrified
girl, exhausted and almost abandoned to despair.

“Antonia, you are pale, you tremble, your senses
forsake you. Lean upon me, sweet girl—dearest,
fondest, loveliest! Ha! she faints.”

He received her form in his arms. He pressed
it to his bosom, again and again. He impressed
kisses upon her lips.

“What madness,” he said, “has touched my
brain? The wine, the wine has fired my veins.
Antonia! angel! seraph! beautiful, beautiful girl!”
As she lay in his arms—her white and jewelled
hand fallen heavily into his own—her long tresses
loosened from their bonds, and hanging to the floor
—her face pale, but lovely to the priest beyond his
power to contemplate, tremblingly again he sought
her half-open mouth with kisses.

“Ho-ho! she revives.”

Roused by the ardour of his embrace, she had
indeed revived, and gazed around as if in a dream.
So implicitly did she rely upon the virtue and divine
purity of the man, that even while he held her imprisoned
in his arms, she regarded him only as an
over-fond father.

“Oh, dear Father Ambrose!” she said, “what
terrible destiny is mine!”

The confiding and unresisting affection with
which the lovely and unconscious girl received his
endearments, cheated him into a momentary misconstruction
of her character.

“By Heaven!” he cried, forgetting himself entirely
in the whirl and fervour of his feelings, “I
love you so, Antonia, that my nature is changed.”

“Will you then save me, holy father?”

“Save you, Antonia!—save you!—but in these
arms.”

“Oh, I will fly to them with joy unutterable—
let us hasten away.”

Deceived by her eager attachment, he clasped
her once more to his breast, and once more approached
his lips to renew the kisses which he had
found so delicious. With eager vehemence he
pressed them to hers. The wily villain little knew
his charge. As if an adder had stung her, as if a
bolt of thunder had fallen upon her, she started
back, her eyes flaming with indignation, her cheek
reddening to crimson with shame and horror.

“It is true, then,” she said; “Montfort is right
—he marked you for a villain, and so you are.
What, ho—Alezzi!”

“Child of my age,” cried the priest, “what would
you do? would you pour out my old blood on this
floor like water? would you see me dashed a stiff
mangled corse at your feet?”

“Yes,” said Antonia, swelling with fury; “you
merit such a fate. Alezzi! come forth!”

“Antonia!” said the priest, darting towards her,
his countenance at once losing the soft and holy
humility, and blackening with deep and frightful
rage, “hear me! Would you die yourself?—Down
upon your knees! Before the Virgin Mother, swear
that what you have suspected you will never reveal,
or I will kill you as you stand.”

“God have mercy on me!” cried Antonia.

“Swear!”

“I swear,” murmured the shuddering girl.

“What I have done,” continued the priest, “has
been done at the command of the Virgin, and as a
trial to your virtue. Should you betray her minister—should
you break your oath, the Mother of
God would start from her pedestal to strike you
dead.”

He fixed upon her his fierce eyes with the dreadful

malice of a demon. The door opened, and in
a moment the fiendish fury and tempest of his
countenance were changed to the soft smile and
cloudless repose of a summer's day.