At last it burst forth from
the priest, who, by the necessities of his profession, was ignorant of
domestic feelings, and of the felicities and agonies which are
inseparably twined with the fibres of conjugal and parental hearts. He
knew nothing of what Walberg might feel as a husband or father,--for he
could never be either; but he felt that good news must be good news,
into whatever ears they were poured, or by whatever lips they might be
uttered. “We have the will,” he cried abruptly, “the true will of
Guzman. The other was--asking pardon of God and the saints for saying
so--no better than a forgery. The will is found, and you and your family
are heirs to all his wealth. I was coming to acquaint you, late as it
was, having with difficulty obtained the Superior’s permission to do so,
and in my way I met this old man, whom your son was conducting,--how
came he out so late?” At these words Walberg was observed to shudder
with a brief but strong spasm. “The will is found!” repeated the priest,
perceiving how little effect the words seemed to have on Walberg,--and
he raised his voice to its utmost pitch. “The will of my uncle is
found,” repeated Everhard. “Found,--found,--found!” echoed the aged
grandfather, not knowing what he said, but vaguely repeating the last
words he heard, and then looking round as if asking for an explanation
of them. “The will is found, love,” cried Ines, who appeared restored to
sudden and perfect consciousness by the sound; “Do you not hear, love? We are wealthy,--we are happy! Speak to us, love, and do not stare so
vacantly,--speak to us!” A long pause followed. At length,--“Who are
those?” said Walberg in a hollow voice, pointing to the figures before
him, whom he viewed with a fixed and ghastly look, as if he was gazing
on a band of spectres. “Your son, love,--and your father,--and the good
friendly priest. Why do you look so doubtfully on us?”--“And what do
they come for?” said Walberg. Again and again the import of their
communication was told him, in tones that, trembling with varied
emotion, scarce could express their meaning. At length he seemed faintly
conscious of what was said, and, looking round on them, uttered a long
and heavy sigh. They ceased to speak, and watched him in
silence.--“Wealth!--wealth!--it comes too late. Look there,--look
there!” and he pointed to the room where his children lay. “Ines, with a dreadful presentiment at her heart, rushed into it, and
beheld her daughters lying apparently lifeless. The shriek she uttered,
as she fell on the bodies, brought the priest and her son to her
assistance, and Walberg and the old man were left together alone,
viewing each other with looks of complete insensibility; and this apathy
of age, and stupefaction of despair, made a singular contrast with the
fierce and wild agony of those who still retained their feelings. It was
long before the daughters were recovered from their death-like swoon,
and still longer before their father could be persuaded that the arms
that clasped him, and the tears that fell on his cold cheek, were those
of his living children. “All that night his wife and family struggled with his despair. At last
recollection seemed to burst on him at once. He shed some tears;--then,
with a minuteness of reminiscence that was equally singular and
affecting, he flung himself before the old man, who, speechless and
exhausted, sat passively in his chair, and exclaiming, “Father, forgive
me!” buried his head between his father’s knees. * * * * *

“Happiness is a powerful restorative,--in a few days the spirits of all
appeared to have subsided into a calm. They wept sometimes, but their
tears were no longer painful;--they resembled those showers in a fine
spring morning, which announce the increasing warmth and beauty of the
day. The infirmities of Walberg’s father made the son resolve not to
leave Spain till his dissolution, which took place in a few months. He
died in peace, blessing and blessed. His son was his only spiritual
attendant, and a brief and partial interval of recollection enabled him
to understand and express his joy and confidence in the holy texts which
were read to him from the scriptures. The wealth of the family had now
given them importance; and, by the interest of the friendly priest, the
body was permitted to be interred in consecrated ground. The family then
set out for Germany, where they reside in prosperous felicity;--but to
this hour Walberg shudders with horror when he recals the fearful
temptations of the stranger, whom he met in his nightly wanderings in
the hour of his adversity, and the horrors of this visitation appear to
oppress his recollection more than even the images of his family
perishing with want. “There are other narratives,” continued the stranger, “relating to this
mysterious being, which I am in possession of, and which I have
collected with much difficulty; for the unhappy, who are exposed to his
temptations, consider their misfortunes as a crime, and conceal, with
the most anxious secresy, every circumstance of this horrible
visitation. Should we again meet, Senhor, I may communicate them to you,
and you will find them no less extraordinary than that I have just
related. But it is now late, and you need repose after the fatigue of
your journey.”--So saying, the stranger departed. *       *       *       *       *

“Don Francisco remained seated in his chair, musing on the singular tale
he had listened to, till the lateness of the hour, combining with his
fatigue, and the profound attention he had paid to the narrative of the
stranger, plunged him insensibly into a deep slumber. He was awoke in a
few minutes by a slight noise in the room, and looking up perceived
seated opposite to him another person, whom he never recollected to have
seen before, but who was indeed the same who had been refused admittance
under the roof of that house the preceding day. He appeared seated
perfectly at his ease, however; and to Don Francisco’s look of surprise
and inquiry, replied that he was a traveller, who had been by mistake
shown into that apartment,--that finding its occupant asleep and
undisturbed by his entrance, he had taken the liberty of remaining
there, but was willing to retire if his presence was considered
intrusive. “As he spoke, Don Francisco had leisure to observe him. There was
something remarkable in his expression, though the observer did not find
it easy to define what it was; and his manner, though not courtly or
conciliating, had an ease which appeared more the result of independence
of thought, than of the acquired habitudes of society. “Don Francisco welcomed him gravely and slowly, not without a sensation
of awe for which he could scarcely account;--and the stranger returned
the salutation in a manner that was not likely to diminish that
impression. A long silence followed.