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.”
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
