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
