Free The Monk by Matthew Lewis Page B

feelings, nor reproached her with her inability to repress them. I——! I have no friend! The whole wide world cannot furnish an heart that is willing to participate in the sorrows of mine.”
    As he uttered these words, he sobbed audibly. The friar was affected. He took Rosario’s hand, and pressed it with tenderness.
    “You have no friend, say you? What then am I? Why will you not confide in me, and what can you fear? My severity? Have I ever used it with you? The dignity of my habit? Rosario, I lay aside the monk, and bid you consider me as no other than your friend, your father. Well may I assume that title, for never did parent watch over a child more fondly than I have watched over you. From the moment in which I first beheld you, I perceived sensations in my bosom till then unknown to me; I found a delight in your society which no one’s else could afford; and when I witnessed the extent of your genius and information, I rejoiced as does a father in the perfections of his son. Then lay aside your fears; speak to me with openness: speak to me, Rosario, and say that you will confide in me. If my aid or my pity can alleviate your distress——”
    “Yours can; yours only can. Ah! father, how willingly would I unveil to you my heart! how willingly would I declare the secret which bows me down with its weight! But oh! I fear, I fear——”
    “What, my son?”
    “That you should abhor me for my weakness; that the reward of my confidence should be the loss of your esteem.”
    “How shall I reassure you? Reflect upon the whole of my past conduct, upon the paternal tenderness which I have ever shown you. Abhor you, Rosario? It is no longer in my power. To give up your society would be to deprive myself of the greatest pleasure of my life. Then reveal to me what afflicts you, and believe me while I solemnly swear——”
    “Hold!” interrupted the novice. “Swear, that whatever be my secret, you will not oblige me to quit the monastery till my noviciate shall expire.”
    “I promise it faithfully; and as I keep my vows to you, may Christ keep his to mankind! Now then explain this mystery, and rely upon my indulgence.”
    “I obey you. Know then—Oh! how I tremble to name the word! Listen to me with pity, revered Ambrosio! Call up every latent spark of human weakness that may teach you compassion for mine! Father!” continued he, throwing himself at the friar’s feet, and pressing his hand to his lips with eagerness, while agitation for a moment choaked his voice; “father!” continued he in faltering accents, “I am a woman!”
    The abbot started at this unexpected avowal. Prostrate on the ground lay the feigned Rosario, as if waiting in silence the decision of his judge. Astonishment on the one part, apprehension on the other, for some minutes chained them in the same attitudes, as they had been touched by the rod of some magician. At length recovering from his confusion, the monk quitted the grotto, and sped with precipitation towards the abbey. His action did not escape the suppliant. She sprang from the ground; she hastened to follow him, overtook him, threw herself in his passage, and embraced his knees. Ambrosio strove in vain to disengage himself from her grasp.
    “Do not fly me!” she cried. “Leave me not abandoned to the impulse of despair! Listen, while I excuse my imprudence; while I acknowledge my sister’s story to be my own! I am Matilda; you are her beloved.”
    If Ambrosio’s surprise was great at her first avowal, upon hearing her second it exceeded all bounds. Amazed, embarrassed, and irresolute, he found himself incapable of pronouncing a syllable, and remained in silence gazing upon Matilda. This gave her opportunity to continue her explanation as follows:
    “Think not, Ambrosio, that I come to rob your bride of your affections. No, believe me: Religion alone deserves you; and far is it from Matilda’s wish to draw you from the paths of virtue. What I feel for you is love, not