Though it did not seem approaching her, (but rather
moving in a slow circuit on the verge of her view), conceiving it must
be Melmoth, she rose in expectation of his advancing to her, and, at
this moment, the figure, turning and half-pausing, seemed to extend its
arm toward her, and wave it once or twice, but whether with a motion or
purpose of warning or repelling her, it was impossible to discover,--it
then renewed its dim and silent progress, and the next moment the ruins
hid it from her view. She had no time to muse on this singular
appearance, for Melmoth was now at her side urging her to proceed. There
was a chapel, he told her, attached to the ruins, but not like them in
decay, where sacred ceremonies were still performed, and where the
priest had promised to join them in a few moments. “He is there before
us,” said Isidora, adverting to the figure she had seen; “I think I saw
him.”--“Saw whom?” said Melmoth, starting, and standing immoveable till
his question was answered.--“I saw a figure,” said Isidora,
trembling--“I thought I saw a figure moving towards the ruin.”--“You are
mistaken,” said Melmoth; but a moment after he added, “We ought to have
been there before him.” And he hurried on with Isidora. Suddenly
slackening his speed, he demanded, in a choaked and indistinct voice, if
she had ever heard any music precede his visits to her,--any sounds in
the air. “Never,” was the answer.--“You are sure?”--“Perfectly sure.”

“At this moment they were ascending the fractured and rugged steps that
led to the entrance of the chapel,--now they passed under the dark and
ivied porch,--now they entered the chapel, which, even in darkness,
appeared to the eyes of Isidora ruinous and deserted. “He has not yet
arrived,” said Melmoth, in a disturbed voice; “Wait there a moment.” And
Isidora, enfeebled by terror beyond the power of resistance, or even
intreaty, saw him depart without an effort to detain him. She felt as if
the effort would be hopeless. Left thus alone, she glanced her eyes
around, and a faint and watery moon-beam breaking at that moment through
the heavy clouds, threw its light on the objects around her. There was a
window, but the stained glass of its compartments, broken and
discoloured, held rare and precarious place between the fluted shafts of
stone. Ivy and moss darkened the fragments of glass, and clung round the
clustered pillars. Beneath were the remains of an altar and crucifix,
but they seemed like the rude work of the first hands that had ever been
employed on such subjects. There was also a marble vessel, that seemed
designed to contain holy water, but it was empty,--and there was a stone
bench, on which Isidora sunk down in weariness, but without hope of
rest. Once or twice she looked up to the window, through which the
moon-beams fell, with that instinctive feeling of her former existence,
that made companions of the elements, and of the beautiful and glorious
family of heaven, under whose burning light she had once imagined the
moon was her parent, and the stars her kindred. She gazed on the window
still, like one who loved the light of nature, and drank health and
truth from its beams, till a figure passing slowly but visibly before
the pillared shafts, disclosed to her view the face of that ancient
servant, whose features she remembered well. He seemed to regard her
with a look, first of intent contemplation,--then of compassion,--the
figure then passed from before the ruined window, and a faint and
wailing cry rung in the ears of Isidora as it disappeared. “At that moment the moon, that had so faintly lit the chapel, sunk
behind a cloud, and every thing was enveloped in darkness so profound,
that Isidora did not recognize the figure of Melmoth till her hand was
clasped in his, and his voice whispered, “He is here--ready to unite
us.” The long-protracted terrors of this bridal left her not a breath to
utter a word withal, and she leaned on the arm that she felt, not in
confidence, but for support. The place, the hour, the objects, all were
hid in darkness. She heard a faint rustling as of the approach of
another person,--she tried to catch certain words, but she knew not what
they were,--she attempted also to speak, but she knew not what she said. All was mist and darkness with her,--she knew not what was
muttered,--she felt not that the hand of Melmoth grasped hers,--but she
felt that the hand that united them, and clasped their palms within his
own, was as _cold as that of death_. CHAPTER XXV. Τηλε μ’ ειργουσι ψυχαι, ειδωλα καμοντων. HOMER. “We have now to retrace a short period of our narrative to the night on
which Don Francisco di Aliaga, the father of Isidora, “fortuned,” as he
termed it, to be among the company whose conversation had produced so
extraordinary an effect on him. “He was journeying homewards, full of the contemplation of his
wealth,--the certainty of having attained complete security against the
evils that harass life,--and being able to set at defiance all external
causes of infelicity. He felt like a man “at ease in his
possessions,”--and he felt also a grave and placid satisfaction at the
thought of meeting a family who looked up to him with profound respect
as the author of their fortunes,--of walking in his own house, amid
bowing domestics and obsequious relatives, with the same slow
authoritative step with which he paced the mart among wealthy merchants,
and saw the wealthiest bow as he approached,--and when he had passed,
point out the man of whose grave salute they were proud, and whisper,
That is Aliaga the rich.--So thinking and feeling, as most prosperous
men do, with an honest pride in their worldly success,--an exaggerated
expectation of the homage of society,--(which they often find frustrated
by its contempt),--and an ultimate reliance on the respect and devotion
of their family whom they have enriched, making them ample amends for
the slights they may be exposed to where their wealth is unknown, and
their newly assumed consequence unappreciated,--or if appreciated, not
valued:--So thinking and feeling, Don Francisco journeyed homeward. “At a wretched inn where he was compelled to halt, he found the
accommodation so bad, and the heat of the weather so intolerable in the
low, narrow, and unwindowed rooms, that he preferred taking his supper
in the open air, on a stone bench at the door of the inn. We cannot say
that he there imagined himself to be feasted with trout and white bread,
like Don Quixote,--and still less that he fancied he was ministered unto
by damsels of rank;--on the contrary, Don Francisco was digesting a
sorry meal with wretched wine, with a perfect internal consciousness of
the mediocrity of both, when he beheld a person ride by, who paused, and
looked as if he was inclined to stop at the inn.