The New Monthly Belle Assemblée/Volume 22/April 1845/Fatal Curiosity

by Johann August Apel

For other English-language translations of this work, see Die Bräutigamsvorschau.

FATAL CURIOSITY.

(From the German of Apel.)

BY M. A. Y.

Chap. I.

“My child, you have passed the night in weeping, instead of sleeping, again,” said the aged Gertrude, as she came to the bed-side of the young Countess Viola, to awaken her. “How you have dimmed those pretty eyes! Fie, fie! if you go on thus much longer, you will wash all the bloom of youth away before it has come to perfection. Come, come, cheer up. See, I have brought you a beautiful new dress for the ball at your sister’s wedding. Here’s embroidery! My little Viola will outshine all the court dames there. Now, get up, and let us see how you look in this lovely dress.”

“Ah, my dear nurse,” replied the young maiden, leaning her aching head on the bosom of her faithful attendant, “how can you talk to me of weddings and balls? Take away that costly robe. Would that I could be attired as a simple peasant girl, and be as happy as one.”

“Silly child!” said Gertrude; “a straw hat may cover as aching a head as a golden coronet. Reared in the solitude of this castle, you know little of the world, nay, even of your own heart. Believe me, sweet, many a maiden of your age, who would willingly have given half her life to obtain her lover, would in a very short time gladly surrender the other half to be quit of him again.”

“But it is not so with me, good Gertrude! Separated from Serini, nor heaven nor earth would have any happiness for me. Dear nurse, do not you be dazzled by the riches and magnificence of my sister’s lover, and scorn my poor, devoted Serini.”

Gertrude was moved by the piteous accents of her young mistress, and besides was a great admirer of the brave, gallant boy, whose devotion to that fair maiden was so earnest and sincere; she therefore sought to soothe and console her, adding, “I know for a certainty that one day you will see all your wishes fulfilled.”

“How often you have said that, nurse; tell me, how do you know this? Do, do tell me, dear nurse; now that I am sad, it will console me to hear the ground of your certain hopes.”

The old woman asked nothing better than to be coaxed and entreated, and after a while replied thus: “When little, you were a poor sickly child, and anything but pretty; therefore no one cared much about you, but abandoned you solely to my care, while all petted and caressed your lovely sister Maria. One day, as I was out walking with you, the ‘old woman of the woods’ met us. ‘Gertrude,’ she exclaimed, ‘what an angel that child is!’ and she kissed your little hands and feet, and seemed as if she would never have done admiring you. ‘Good mother,’ I said, ‘my little Viola is a gentle, amiable child; but if you want to see beauty, go and look at her sister Maria. ‘Maria is fair,’ replied the old woman, ‘but Viola is fairer; and where she appears, her sister must give place. She will be happy in love, and have the handsomest man in all the kingdom for her husband.’ With this she kissed your hand again, and hobbled away. So you see, my darling, that, as her prophecy respecting your beauty is come to pass, I hope that the rest will also be fulfilled; although, sooth to say, there seems little chance of it now.”

Viola sprang up joyfully: “Thanks, dear nurse!” she exclaimed. “My hopes revive; I may yet become Serini’s bride. It was but yesternight we vowed eternal fidelity.”

There was a sound beneath the window as if some one thrice clapped their hands; it was the lover’s signal, and hastily kissing her nurse, Viola bounded with fairy step and sparkling eyes to meet him. “But why thus equipped for travelling?” she inquired, as she gazed on his clouded brow.

“I must leave you for a few days,” was the reply; “the Count Nadasti requires my presence.”

“And must you go? Why not remain here, near your Viola?”

“How willingly would I do so; but the Count is my feudal lord, and must not be denied. He wishes to celebrate his approaching nuptials with all due pomp.”

“It is to his marriage then that you are summoned!” exclaimed Viola. “How delightful! We shall meet there. Nadasti is to marry my sister. Now I will go and wear my gay dress since you are to be there.”

Serini felt by no means so delighted. Viola would see her sister wedded to the rich and powerful Count Nadasti, whose wealth and splendour could not but dazzle so young and inexperienced a girl. Would she, after this, look on the vassal Serini, who could only offer to his bride a poor pittance, and even that dependent on the will of her sister’s husband? His melancholy and emotion did not escape the notice of the maiden, but she was too youthful and inexperienced to dream even of its cause; she only wondered why he should be sad when she felt so happy, and was half inclined to doubt the truth of his affection.

 

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Chap. II.

That evening Viola and her nurse were sitting together in silence, and the former apparently deep in thought. “Have you never seen the ‘old woman of the woods’ since?” she suddenly inquired. “Who and what is she?”

“I can scarcely tell you,” replied Gertrude. “She has lived in the forest ever since I can remember, and tells fortunes, prophecies, and such like follies. I have never had anything to do with her, for I am not a believer in such stuff.”

“How does she obtain her living?” inquired Viola.

“As I said before; by telling fortunes, prophecying, letting people look in her magic mirror, raising the forms of the absent for those who long to see them, and other devil’s tricks.”

Viola continued to ask all sorts of questions respecting this “cunning woman,” and at length ended by entreating her nurse to take her there, just for a joke, and let her see some of these strange mysteries. “Only just for fun; it must be so delightful to hear all about the future, and know what one has to look forward to.”

But vain were all Viola’s coaxings and entreaties; Gertrude was immoveable. “No,” she said gravely; “we have no right to jest with such matters. Good spirits are too holy to be profaned by them, and it is dangerous to hold converse with the powers of evil. There are many instances in which persons have bitterly rued such jests throughout a whole life.”

Viola was silent for a while, but not diverted from her purpose; a wish to peep into futurity had arisen in her heart, and she could not understand what harm a knowledge of the future could do her or anybody, therefore she continued her importunities. “Indeed I only wish to know if Serini loves me truly; if our affection shall triumph over all the obstacles which now oppose it. Do, do let me go, dear Gertrude. What harm can come of it? My father will never know of the visit. You said the prophetess could show a girl the form of her future bridegroom, did you not? I should so like to see if Sarini will be mine. You will take me, good nurse; I know you will.”

“Child, child, do not torment me with such requests; you know how willingly I do anything which can give you pleasure, but this I dare not. You do not know what you ask. By gratifying your curiosity you might be terrified to death, or see that which would rob you of all happiness. I shall never forget the fate of poor Agnes Rosenberg, who was led to join in a spell to raise the form of her future bridegroom. Be content, dear child; the future is in the hands of a good and all-wise Being, who mercifully withholds from us that knowledge which too often would produce only misery, and embitter all the present by fearful anticipation or anxious longings.”

Viola now inquired who Agnes Rosenberg was, and Gertrude replied in the following words:—

“She was a gentle, lovely girl, of some fifteen years of age, and had two elder sisters, both handsome, although not to be compared to Agnes. These two thoughtless maidens having heard that if they went to a certain spot in a neighbouring wood, and there repeated St. Andrew’s prayer, they would see the form of the men who should become their future husbands, resolved to do so, and persuaded their innocent young sister to accompany them. Accordingly, one bright moonlight night they stole forth. I cannot tell you all the impious, foolish ceremonial made use of, but each maiden was to place something which might be touched by the spiritual form of her bridegroom that was to be. Martha, the eldest sister, laid a rose on a bush; and Lucia, the second, a lily; but Agnes, who had repented coming, refused to join them any further; and well would it have been for her had she persisted in this refusal. The eldest sister now uttered the spell, and the words had scarcely passed her lips when a fine looking man, in splendid Turkish costume, rode rapidly up, brandishing his sword fiercely. As he approached the rose, his countenance became milder; he snatched at the flower, and vanished. The maidens were not a little startled at first, but, recovering herself, the second sister stepped forward, and repeated the spell; then paused, then repeated it again, but still no bridegroom appeared; and the others joked her, and told her she would be an old maid. Lucia grew vexed, and insisted that Agnes should also try her fortune, and the gentle girl at length consented, and hung her handkerchief on a branch. Again Lucia uttered the spell, and this time a handsome young man, clad in rich uniform, and mounted on a noble horse, rode slowly forward, looked melancholy around, paused awhile, and at length approaching the lily, kissed it, and vanished. It now came the turn of Agnes, and she, urged on by her sisters, and perhaps stimulated by that fatal dower of mother Eve, curiosity, stepped forward and uttered the mystic words. The first time was fruitless, but when she had repeated them, a funeral procession came slowly and solemnly along, and as it passed the tree on which Agnes had hung her symbol, the kerchief fell fluttering into the midst of it; Agnes sank fainting to the ground, and her sisters were so terrified as scarcely to be able to render her any assistance; and for many weeks the poor girl lay in wild delirium on what all feared would prove her death-bed.”

Viola shuddered. “Hush, dear nurse, speak no more of this; I am terrified to death.”

“Will you not hear the end?” asked Gertrude.

“No, no,” replied Viola; “speak of anything else.”

The following morning, however, she requested her to conclude the narration. “I could not have listened to it last night,” she said; “but now the bright sunshine gives me courage.”

Gertrude complied. “For many weeks Agne lay dangerously ill, but at length recovered, and was even more beautiful than before. Lovers crowded round her in troops, but one only found favour in her eyes. The elder sisters were betrothed by command of the sovereign, and the fright and events in the wood had become almost forgotten. The day was fixed for Martha’s marriage, the guests were assembled, and the priest was in the act of joining the hands of the couple, when a tumult arose, and the cry of ‘Help, help, the pirates are on us!’ Before the startled assembly could look round, a troop of Turks rushed fiercely into the chapel, who hewed down all who opposed them, and seized upon the ladies; the commander seemed struck by the beauty of the bride, and raising her in his powerful arms bore her shrieking away. When Agnes beheld the irruption of the pirates, the whole scene of that fearful night arose vividly in her memory, and again she sank overpowered with horror. Her lover defended her so gallantly that she was one of the few who escaped; this event revealed to him how dear she was, and he shortly besought her to become his bride. Unhappy girl, she shrank shudderingly from the hand she so loved, and feared that the day of her nuptials would be marked by his or her death. Had she never impiously sought to pry into futurity, she might have been the happy wife of one of the noblest of her sex, but her fatal curiosity destroyed the felicity of her life. She refused him once, twice, and thrice, and her heart was wrung with anguish as she did so, for she loved and honoured him. The youth sought distraction in foreign wars, and at length returning, saw Lucia, who somewhat resembled her youngest sister. That likeness moved him to woo her and wed her, but the union was not productive of happiness; he felt she was not Agnes, and the knowledge that he had loved her sister lighted the flame of jealousy in Lucia’s bosom. For many years they dragged on a weary existence, and at length she fell ill, and on her death-bed longed to see Agnes once more. Messengers were sent to the convent where this once lovely girl had sequestered herself; they found a mere shadow in place of the blooming beauty of bygone days; she instantly complied with the request, but only arrived in time to see the funeral of her sister pass along the street. The widower recognized her, and she waved her handkerchief in reply to his mournful salute; the wind caught it from her hand, and wafted it to him. A year afterwards, she gave her hand to her brother-in-law, deeply regretting the many years of misery her folly had entailed on them both; but she took care never to mention the appearances in the wood to him; for the saying is, that ‘if ever the man learns that he has been summoned spiritually by any female, he hates her with the deadliest hatred.’”

“Agnes was a sad coward!” exclaimed Viola, as her nurse paused. “I would have wedded Serini had a thousand deaths threatened. Why did she not watch the vision to see where her kerchief fell?”

“How inconsistent you are, my child,” replied Gertrude; “last night the bare recital of the forest vision terrified you, and now you blame Agnes for not braving the reality. Is it the bracing morning air makes you so courageous?”

“Partly, dear nurse; but the end of your tale has been so satisfactory. I trembled at the vision, and yet methinks had it appeared to me, I could have read it aright.”

“Be not so confident, my Viola! The evil one is too crafty even for the wisest and best. Shun the snares he spreads; tremble to approach them, and you will be safe. But those who seek temptation, confiding in the strength of their frail nature, will surely fall.”

 

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Chap. III.

A messenger brought to Viola a letter from her father, accompanying a casket containing rich jewels. The letter greeted her paternally, and informed her that she was to hold herself in readiness, immediately after her sister’s marriage, to come and reside with her father at his palace in the capital. The bright, gay future thus opened to the youthful maiden failed to charm her; she saw only the dark side, a separation from Serini, the loss of all her simple pleasures and habits, and the formality and state of a court, and perhaps a wealthy bridegroom forced on her. “What can I do, Gertrude?” she cried; “how escape this? I have vowed eternal fidelity to Serini, my father may compel me to break that vow. I will write to him, and ask him to advise me to save me.”

Gertrude said all she could to calm and bring her impetuous charge to reason. She spoke of the Count Hurras as a kind, indulgent parent; but Viola only remembered the cold, haughty noble, seen but two or three times in her life, who scarcely vouchsafed to glance at the trembling child as her sister led her to him, and strove to win some notice for her; and she persisted in sending to him who had been her adviser, defender, and lover, amid all her childish gambols, and the amusements of her girlhood’s hours. Gertrude had too long given way to have any authority now, and she saw the messenger depart with misgivings; for, although she had smiled at the attachment of her young charge to the gallant boy who seemed to live but to please her; yet she saw how great a distance intervened between the heiress of Count Harras, and the vassal of his noble son-in-law.

That evening, as they walked together in silence, and each deep in thought, Viola suddenly exclaimed—“Yonder path leads to the dwelling of the ‘old woman of the woods;’ let us go to her. Her words may guide my future conduct, and calm my present fears.”

“I fear they would only bring disquiet instead of peace. Be persuaded, my child; trust in Providence, who never forsakes the innocent and virtuous; and hope not to obtain good from the powers of evil.”

But Viola would hear nothing contradictory to her headstrong will, and flew along the narrow path, dragging her panting, reluctant nurse after her.

A pale, wasted boy sat at the door of the miserable hut, murmuring a wild song in broken accents, while his bony fingers played among the strings of a guitar, and drew forth a low wailing sound. Insanity was blazing in his haggard eyes as he raised them to the new comers. “You would see Walfrida,” he said, “the syren, the enchantress—you would listen to her spells? She will admit you. Oh, implore her to let me gaze on that vision once again—only, only once!”

Viola trembled as she tapped at the door, which was instantly opened; and a voice bade her enter. She obeyed, and the piteous tones of the maniac followed her, still petitioning for admittance once more.

“What would you with me, maiden?” said a tall woman, clad fantastically in black.

Viola was silent, between shame and fear.

“Speak boldly, and fear not. Would you know whether your lover is true or false? Do you wish to see him as he now is—or is it the bridegroom fate has in store for you that you would gaze on? Walfrida has power to show you all, any of these.”

“I would look on my future bridegroom,” murmured the trembling Viola.

The woman took her hand, and led her through a long range of chambers hewn from the solid rock, against which the house was built; and the affrighted girl almost closed her eyes to shut out the view of the skeletons, monsters, and strange forms which seemed to gibber and grin at her as she passed along. They reached a spacious chamber, and she was left alone in utter darkness for some moments. A silence like that of death prevailed; she dared not move, for fancy pictured a deep abyss at her feet, down which one step, nay a single breath, might plunge her. Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced her bosom, as if a dagger had been plunged therein, and she screamed in agony; the mocking, hollow laugh of Walfrida replied to her, as that mysterious being entered with a burning torch, which she fixed in the ground, and then loosening her hair and baring her arms, she drew a circle round Viola, chaunting meanwhile in a monotonous tone, which gradually arose or fell like the dreary sound of a stormy wind. Suddenly the maniac’s voice was heard above it—“That vision, Walfrida, once again—only once!” and as the witch grasped her magic staff, he rushed into the room and knelt before her. She touched him with it, and the wasted form dropped lifeless at her feet. The scream of horror was frozen on Viola’s lips, by the demoniac look and gesture with which Walfrida exclaimed—“Speak not—move not! The spell is wound up. Behold!”

Stunned, terrified, and half fainting, Viola gazed on a dim cloud, which gradually assumed form and substance; until it gave to view a noble, princely knight, clad in glittering armour. In his outstretched hand he held a broken minature, richly set in gold and diamonds. It was not Serini, and yet Viola gazed on him with admiration, with feelings such as her heart had never known before; it was as if his eyes were sunbeams which warmed and irradiated her whole being with a new and rapturous sensation. He knelt and lifted his hands towards her, and she saw that the one which held the picture was wounded and bleeding. The voice of Walfrida startled her from her rapt gaze—“’Tis your future bridegroom, maiden; and methinks you seem not ill pleased with him; but now dismiss him. Quick, touch the form. Dost hear me, girl? Life and death hangs on the moment. Touch him, I say, if not with your hand, with something else!”

Viola mechanically drew a diamond bodkin from her hair, and touched the hand of the form. It was gone.

“Was it then a dream,” she murmured.

“Look on the bodkin,” replied the witch.

She obeyed. The gem and setting were stained with blood.

“It is the blood of your future husband; keep it from his sight, as you value your life and his love!” were the last words she remembered, until she found herself lying on the forest turf, and Gertrude bending anxiously over her.

 

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Chap. IV.

The day had arrived for Viola’s departure for the capital, and all her repugnance to go there seemed to have vanished; even the neglect of Serini, who had failed to reply to her letter, was unnoticed. The only tears she shed were those occasioned by her parting with her faithful nurse—her more than mother.

The Count Harras, who remembered his daughter but as a plain, sickly child, was astonished and delighted by the beautiful girl who called him father; and he now prepared, with redoubled splendour, for the period which was to celebrate the marriage of one child and the introduction of another.

The Count Nadasti had been absent some time in active service, and for many days had been hourly expected. Maria looked anxiously for him, and often felt somewhat vexed by such protracted delays. At length came the welcome sound of his trumpets; Viola descended with her sister to the hall, bounding with all the elasticity of health and joy; but scarcely had she entered than, with a faint cry, she sank lifeless to the ground. The Count, who was just entering at the opposite door, sprang forwards, but too late to save her from falling. Eagerly he inquired who this lovely stranger was, and most anxiously watched for returning animation; but with it came delirium and fever, and for many weeks Viola lay on the point of death. Nadasti proposed that his nuptials should be postponed until she recovered; and while the Count thanked him for this mark of regard to his feelings, Maria felt that indifference to her, if not admiration for her young sister, prompted the proposal; and bitter tears fell from the eyes of that gentle girl as she patiently watched by the couch of the unconcious Viola.

 

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Chap. V.

Maria’s fears were but too well founded; no sooner was Viola able to quiet her chamber than Nadasti became her shadow; his every thought, look, and word was too evidently hers; and the young maiden received his attentions with trembling and blushes, now smiling sweetly as in joyful bliss, now stealing a glance at her deserted sister which filled her eyes with tears.

The conversation, one day, was unusually lively; and Maria, conquering her timidity, inquired of her sometime-lover what he had done with her miniature.

A cloud passed over the lofty brow of the Count, as he replied, “It is broken.”

“Broken!” exclaimed Maria and her father.

“Yes,” replied he. “Listen, and I will tell you how it was. I drew it, one afternoon, from my bosom, to contemplate those fair and gentle features; when, suddenly, my breathing became heavy and difficult, my heart ceased to beat, I felt as if suffocated, and became unconscious; thus my servants found me, and under their care I gradually revived. In my struggles, or in the fall, the miniature was broken; and some portions of it had severely wounded my hand. But what ails the Lady Viola? You are fainting, sweet girl! lean on me. It is strange, but I always feel as if we had met before. Perchance it was in some previous existence. Smile at my wild imaginings if you will, but it is delightful to think that we have long known and loved each other—that some mystic bond unites our souls. Can you sympathize with this feeling, Viola—my sweet Viola?”

Viola was almost sinking with anguish and fear; but she rallied her spirits, and endeavoured to turn the conversation by proposing a walk. Nadasti was instantly ready to attend her, and Maria threw a veil over her sister’s head, saying—“It will blow off unless we fasten it; so take this bodkin, my lord, and play tire-woman for once.”

Nadasti turned pale, and pushed back her hand almost roughly, exclaiming—“Take it away, take it away! I cannot touch it.” The bystanders regarded his emotion with wonder; but collecting himself, he raised the offended hand to his lips respectfully, saying—“Forgive me, fair Maria. That trinket seemed to recall to mind something disagreeable, painful; the thought flashed like lightning across my brain, and is already gone, nor can I trace it out. Have you never felt a shadowy, dreamy association of ideas raised by some chance word or tone, awakening indefinite emotions which the mind in vain endeavours to grasp? Such a feeling did that bodkin raise in me; nay, so far did imagination carry me, that I seemed to feel its point in this wound in my hand.”

“This was your own, your first gift to me,” said Maria, sadly; “take it and fasten the veil.” But he still refused, and she almost impatiently exclaimed—“Then I must do it myself.”

“No, no!” murmured the shuddering Viola. “Never again will I wear such a thing.”

“Sweet, sympathizing girl!” whispered Nadasti, gazing fondly on her. “Look up, dear Viola. I am to blame for thus exciting your gentle feelings by my vague fancies. Let me see you smile again.”

But Viola could not smile, Gertrude’s words—“If ever a man discovers that he has been spiritually summoned by a female, he hates her with the deadliest hatred,” were ringing in her ears; she hastily quitted the room, and, flying to her own chamber, burst into tears. Presently she opened her casket, and drew forth the fatal diamond bodkin; it was stained in different parts with deep patches of dull red, and Viola trembled as she regarded it. “He will hate me,” she murmured. “Oh, Gertrude! would that I had followed your advice. And yet it were better he should hate me; for is he not my sister’s plighted husband? Poor Maria! Nadasti loves you not; no, no, he loves Viola! He, the brave, the noble, the beautiful, loves me now; and I love him. Oh yes! I only feel as if I lived while in his presence. How different is this love from the feeling with which I once regarded Serini; that was cold, vain, childish—this is fervent, absorbing, blissful; and yet that fatal stain! how shall I obliterate it?” For hours did she patiently wash and rub the jewel, and at length retired to rest, with the hope that the traces of blood were nearly gone; but the morning’s light showed her how vain that hope had been: and distracted by a thousand fears, she enveloped herself in a hood and mantle, and seizing the tell-tale witness of her folly, hastened to a rocky mountain, into one of the deepest fissures of which she dropped the bodkin, and then hurrying back, gained her chamber unperceived.

 

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Chap. VI.

The love of Nadasti and Viola was soon suspected by Maria, and as her suspicions became certainties, she resolved to release her faithless lover from his vows, nor wait until he forsook her. Accordingly she stated to her father her wish to take the veil. The Count Harras was naturally surprised by so sudden, and to him so unaccountable a fancy, and vainly strove to argue her out of it; but finding this impossible, he broke the matter as cautiously as possible to Nadasti, and was again fated to be astonished by the coolness with which he received the information of the loss of his plighted bride. The good Count Harras had forgotten all the love passages of his youth, or had never had any, otherwise he would have been more quick-sighted. But there was one whose jealous eyes marked each event, and who was neither indifferent or deceived; this was Serini. His rank in life excluded him from the courtly circle, but did not prevent his hearing all the various rumours and gossip which emanated from it, or occasionally having it in his power unseen to watch his enamoured lord and the fair and false idol of his heart, who had once smiled as sweetly on him as she now did on her noble lover. He wrote to her; but Viola, amid the excitements and delight of her present life, threw the epistle aside, to be read at some leisure moment, and forgot it altogether. Serini waited first patiently, then impatiently for some answer; but receiving none, became exasperated by what appeared to him studied contempt, and believing Maria to be as much wronged as himself, he sought her, to breathe revenge on their betrayers. But he little knew the being he addressed; no particle of revenge lurked in that gentle bosom. Maria had become convinced that Viola and Nadasti were deeply attached to each other, and only prayed for their happiness. She used all her eloquence to dissuade Serini from attempting to disturb or injure either of them, and at length he feigned to be convinced and calmed; but not the less deadly was his hatred, not the less firm his determination to obtain vengeance.

The Count Harras, who regretted Maria’s determination chiefly on account of its robbing him of his noble son-in-law, was not a little delighted when Nadasti requested permission to transfer his addresses to Viola, and eagerly consented.

A magnificent fête was given in honour of the betrothal, and the handsome pair received the congratulations of all their friends. “My Viola! my bride!” exclaimed Nadasti, drawing her from the crowd into a quiet walk, and looking down with fond pride on the sweet face raised half bashfully, half lovingly, to meet his gaze. A sharp report of a pistol followed his words, and the ball whizzed closely past Viola. Instant search was made, and the assassin discovered and brought forward; but he disdained to reply to any questions, and stood with compressed bloodless lips, and his flashing eyes fiercely fixed on the shrinking bride. How unlike the animated, joyous Serini of old! “Away with him to a dungeon!” exclaimed the Count; “he shall not mar our festivities to-day, and to-morrow torture shall wring from him the cause of this cowardly attack.” Ere that to-morrow Serini had escaped from his cell; there was one in the fortress who pitied, though she had ceased to love him, and could not see him harmed. Vain was Nadasti’s rage, no one knew who had assisted the prisoner to escape; even Serini himself knew not the hand which unbolted his dungeon doors, and left him the means of flight. Suspicion fell on Maria, for several persons bore witness to the fact that he had had a private audience with her on the previous day, and there were not wanting voices to hint that, envious of her sister’s happiness, she had incited him to the murderous attempt; but no one ventured to breathe such a thought in Viola’s presence, for she knew too well that she had wrecked the happiness of that gentle sister, and strove by every fond token of affection to atone for her involuntary offence, and saw with remorse and regret the fading health of that so lately beautiful and happy being.

Maria, unconscious of the secret slander uttered against her, retired to a convent on the day after her sister’s betrothal, feeling it impossible to witness the happiness and affection of the lovers without betraying the anguish of her own heart, and thereby grieving them.

 

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Chap. VII.

The wedding-day had now arrived. Throughout the whole of the previous night Viola’s rest was haunted by feverish dreams. Every scene in Walfrida’s hut recurred with all the vividness of reality; again she heard the wailing notes of that guitar, and saw the pale spectral boy die; again she gazed on the blood-stained jewel, and heard the warning—“Keep it from your husband’s sight, as you value your life and his love.” Then the air seemed peopled by thousands of diamond bodkins, each dimmed by the same crimson stain; and that sharp, agonizing pain, once felt, again pierced her bosom. Day had begun to dawn before sound sleep visited her exhausted frame, and then a shadowy, nun-like form bent over the bed, and an icy touch thrilled to her bones. Her cry of terror aroused her attendants, who, on entering the chamber, started to see a white form flit from the bed-side, and melt into the misty morning vapour which hung around. “It was Maria, my poor sister!” she exclaimed. “I have broken her heart! Send immediately to the convent to inquire after her, and entreat the Count Nadasti to postpone our nuptials until the messenger returns.” Her first command was complied with; but her impatient lover laughed at the idea of a spirit, insisted that all was a dream, and implored her not to delay his happiness. His eager, passionate entreaties, the voice of her own heart, and the commands of her father, overcame all her scruples, she plighted her faith to him; and as she received the priest’s and her father’s blessing, and her husband’s fond embrace, all the gloomy visions of the past night vanished even from memory, nor were they recalled until the return of the messenger from the convent on the following day, who brought word that Maria had died about the same hour her sister fancied that she had seen her. Viola was deeply affected, and the Count Harras much moved; even Nadasti felt that his happiness was clouded by this sad intelligence, and he spared no pains to soothe and console his weeping bride, and was strenuously aided in his endeavours by the wise and pious conversations of the good father Paul, the family priest, whose highly cultivated and religious mind enabled him to amuse, instruct, and edify his listeners.

“I have lately made a very interesting discovery,” he said to them one day. “I had frequently read, in the works of old writers, that blood will soften the diamond; the moderns laugh and deny this assertion most positively. Lately I met with a diamond at a jeweller’s which was so soft as to be capable of receiving an impression. As it had evidently been beautifully cut and highly polished, this softness could only have taken place latterly. On viewing it closely I observed a dark red stain, as if it had been dipped in blood, which had adhered to it. Being fond of natural curiosities I bought it, although the man asked a considerable sum; it was not, however, too much, considering the rarity of the thing.”

Nadasti expressed a desire to see it, and Father Paul went to his chamber to fetch it.

“It is still in what was probably its original setting,” he said, as he unclasped the case, and handed it to Count Harras, who sat next to him.

The old nobleman gazed at it with astonishment. “Why, Viola, my love, this was yours; I sent it to you as a memorial of your departed mother.”

“The jeweller bought it of a boy who said he found it among the rocks,” observed Father Paul.

“Look at it, my child,” continued the Count, offering the case to her; but with a faint scream she covered her eyes with her hands. “This is folly,” exclaimed her father; “take the jewel.”

“Why not, my own Viola?” said Nadasti, fondly taking it from her father, and approaching her; but even while he spoke his eyes fell on the bodkin—he turned pale, shuddered, and the wound in his hand burst out bleeding. Like lightning did the past flash on his mind, and his voice thundered out—“Accursed sorceress! now do I remember thee. It was thy devilish spells which tore my soul from its tenement! My blood it is which has crimsoned this stone! see how it flows afresh. Maria, gentle, innocent being! have I sacrificed thee, and to such an one!”

Viola, pallid and fainting, stretched out her arms imploringly towards him, and would have thrown herself on his bosom, but he repulsed her; and as he did so the point of the bodkin pierced her heart. “Ah, that pain!” she murmured; all is now accomplished. Forgive me, my lord, my husband! I am no sorceress; I am weak, but not wicked. Gertrude can tell you all. Forgive—forgive!” Her spirit fled with the last accents.

Nadasti shortly fell in battle, and Serini is supposed to have died in the Holy Land, whither he went as a pilgrim.