The Punishment of Gina Montani by Mrs. Henry Wood

“The Punishment of Gina Montani” was first published in the December 1851 issue of The New Monthly Magazine. A few weeks later, it was reprinted in Volume 5 of The International Magazine, published February 1, 1852.

Mrs Wood later revised the story and, in 1875, it was republished under the shorter tile of “Gina Montani”. This page contain the original text, as published in The New Monthly Magazine.

Set in Italy, “The Punishment of Gina Montani” is the tale of a noblewoman who extracts a terrible revenge on her husband’s former lover, and the ghostly repercussions that follow. Rich in hypocrisy, the story could be seen as providing a social commentary about religion and the way some people are apt to bend and misconstrue the rules and values of Christian scripture to fit the needs of their personal beliefs and agendas.

About Mrs. Henry Wood

Born Ellen Price, Mr’s Henry Wood was a British novelist and short story writer. She is best remembered for her novel East Lynne, published in 1861. Although it’s not a work of speculative fiction, many of her other stories are.

Ellen and her husband, Henry, who worked in banking and shipping, spent 20 years living in the south of France. After her husband’s business failed, the Woods returned to England, where Ellen began writing to help support the family (she, Henry, and their four children). She published much of her fiction under the name Mrs. Henry Wood.

A prolific author, who penned more than 30 novels, Ellen Wood also exhibited an entrepreneurial spirit, purchasing Argosy magazine in 1887. She wrote much of the content herself.

The Punishment of Gina Montani

By Mrs. Henry Wood

(Online Text )

I

There was much bustle and commotion in the Castle of Visinara. Servitors ran hither and thither, the tire-maidens [1] stood in groups to gossip with each other, messengers were dispatched in various directions, and skilful leeches [2] and experienced nurses were brought in. Then came a long silence. Voices were hushed, and footsteps muffled; the apartments of the countess were darkened, and nought was heard save the issued whisper, or the stealthy tread of the sick chamber. The Lady Adelaide was ill. Hours elapsed—hours of intolerable suspense to the Lord of Visinara; and then were heard deep, heartfelt congratulations; but they were spoken in a whisper, for the lady was still in danger, and had suffered almost unto death. There was born an heir to Visinara. And as Giovanni, Count of Visinara, bent over his child, and embraced his young wife, he felt repaid for all he had suffered in voluntarily severing himself from Gina Montani; and from that time he forgot her, or something very like it. And for this he could not be condemned, for it was in the line of honor and of duty. Yet it was another proof, if one were wanting, of the fickle nature of man’s love. It has been well compared to words written on the sands. Many weeks elapsed ere the Lady Adelaide was convalescent; and some more before she ventured to join in the gayeties and festal meetings of the land. A two days’ fête, given at the Capella Palace, was the signal for her reappearance in the world. It was to be of great magnificence, rumor ran, and the Lady Adelaide consented to attend it early on the morning of the second day. She placed herself in front of the large mirror in her dressing-chamber while she was prepared for the visit, the same mirror before which she had sat on the evening of her wedding-day. The Signora Lucrezia and Gina were alone present. The former was arranging her rich tresses, whilst Gina handed the signora what things she required—combs, and the like. Whilst thus engaged, the count entered, dressed.

“Giovanni,” exclaimed Adelaide, “Lucrezia thinks that I should wear something in my hair—a wreath, or my diamond coronet; but I feel tired already, and wish the dressing was over. Need I be teased with ornaments?”

“My sweet wife, wear what you best like. You need no superficial adorning.”

“You hear, Lucrezia: make haste and finish my hair. Do not put it in curls to-day; braids are less trouble, and sooner done. You may put aside the diamond casket, Gina. Oh, there’s my darling!” continued the countess, hearing the baby pass the door with its nurse. “Call him in.” The count himself advanced, opened the door, and took his infant. “The precious, precious child!” exclaimed Adelaide, bending over the infant, which he placed on her knees. “Giovanni,” she added, looking up eagerly to her husband’s face, “do you think there ever was so lovely a babe sent on earth?”

He smiled at her earnestness—men are never so rapturously blind in the worship of their first-born as women. But he stooped down, and fondly pressed his lips upon her forehead, while he played with the little hand of the infant; and she yielded to the temptation of suffering her face to rest close to his.

“But it grows late,” resumed the young mother, “and I suppose we ought to be going. Take the baby to its nurse, Lucrezia,” she continued, kissing it fifty times as she resigned it.

The count had drawn behind the Lady Adelaide, where stood Gina. As his eyes happened to fall upon her, he was struck by the pallid sorrow which sat in her countenance. Ill-fated Gina! and he had been so absorbed these last few weeks in his new happiness! A rush of pity, mingled perhaps with self-reproach, flew to his heart. What compensation could he offer her? In that moment he remembered her last words at the interview in his wife’s embroidery-room, and gave her a look. It was not to be mistaken. Love—love, pure and tender—gleamed from his eyes, and she answered him with a smile which told of her thanks, and that he was perfectly understood. Had any one been looking on, they could scarcely fail to become aware of their existing passion, and that there was a secret understanding between them.

And one was looking on. The Lady Adelaide’s back was towards them, but in the large glass before her she had distinctly seen the reflection of all that took place. Her countenance became white as death, and her anger was terrible. “You may retire for the present,” she said, in a calm, subdued tone, to the startled Gina, upon whose mind flashed somewhat of the truth; “and tell the Signora Lucrezia not to return until I call for her.”

To describe the scene that ensued would be difficult. The shock to the young wife’s feelings had been very great. That her husband was faithless to her, not only in deed but in heart, she doubted not. It was in vain he endeavored to explain all; she listened to him not. She thought he was uttering falsehoods, which but increased his treachery. Gina had once spoken of her fierce jealousy, but what was hers compared with the Lady Adelaide’s? In the midst of her explosions of passion, Lucrezia, who had either not received, or misunderstood, her lady’s message by Gina, entered. The maiden stood aghast, till, admonished by a haughty wave of the hand from the count, she hastened from the room. Later in the day, the Lord of Visinara quitted the castle, to pay the promised visit. His wife refused to go. “Mercy! mercy!” she exclaimed, in anguish, as she sat alone in her apartments, “to be thus requited by Giovanni—whom I so loved, my husband! my own husband! Is it possible that a man can be guilty of treachery so deep? Would that I had died ere I had known his faithlessness, or ever seen him! Shame—shame upon it! to introduce his paramour into my very presence; an attendant on my person! Holy Virgin, that I should be so degraded! Sure a wife, young and beautiful, was never treated as I have been. Lowered in the eyes of my own servants; insulted by him who ought to have guarded me from insult; laughed at—ridiculed by her! Oh! terrible! terrible!”

As she spoke the last words, she rose, and unlocking the bright green cabinet, that of malachite marble already spoken of, took from thence a small bag of silver gilt. Touching the secret spring of this, she drew forth a letter, opened, and read it:

“‘To the Lady Adelaide, Countess of Visinara.

“‘You fancy yourself the beloved of Giovanni. Count of Visinara; but retire not to your rest this night, lady, in any such vain imagining. The heart of the count has long been given to another; and, you know, by your love for him, that such passion can never change its object. Had he met you in earlier life, it might have been otherwise. He marries you, for your lineage is a high one; and she, in the world’s eye and in that of his own haughty race, was no fit mate for him.”

“Ay,” she shuddered, “it is explained now. So, Gina Montani was this beloved one. I am his by sufferance—she, by love. Holy Mother, have mercy on my brain! I know they love—I see it all too plainly. And I could believe his deceitful explanation, and trust him. I told him I believed it on our wedding night. He did not know why he went to her house; habit, he supposed, or, want of occupation. Oh, shame on his false words! Shame on my own credulity!”

None of us forget the stanzas in Collins’s Ode to the Passions:

“Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed,
Sad proof of thy distressful state:
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed,
And now it courted love—now, raving, calling on hate.”

And calling, indeed, upon hate, as she strode her chamber in a frenzy near akin to madness, was the lady Adelaide, when her attendant, Lucrezia, entered.

“My dear lady,” she exclaimed, bursting into tears, as any crocodile might do—”my dear, dear young lady, I cannot know that you are thus suffering, and keep away from your presence. Pardon me for intruding upon you against orders.”

The Lady Adelaide smoothed her brow, and the lines of her face resumed their haughtiness, as she imperiously ordered Lucrezia to quit the room. The heart most awake to the miseries of life wears to the world the coldest surface; and it was not in the Lady Adelaide’s nature to betray aught of her emotions to any living being, save, perhaps, her husband.

“Nay, my lady, suffer me to remain yet a a moment: at least, while I disclose what I know of that viper.”

The Lady Adelaide started; but she suppressed all excitement, and Lucrezia began her tale—an exaggerated account of the interview she had been a witness to between the Lord of Visinara and Gina Montani. The countess listened to its conclusion, and a low moan escaped her.

“What think you now, madam, she deserves?”

“To die!” burst from the pale lips of the unhappy lady.

“To die,” acquiesced Lucrezia, calmly. “No other punishment would meet her guilt; and no other, that I am aware of, could be devised to prevent it for the future.”

“Oh! tempt me not,” cried the lady, wringing her hands. “I spoke hastily.”

“Give but the orders, madam,” resumed Lucrezia, “and they shall be put in practice.”

“How can I?” demanded the Lady Adelaide, once more pacing the room in her anguish; “how could I ever rest afterwards, with the guilt of murder upon my soul?”

“It will be no guilt, lady.”

“Lucrezia!”

“I have made it my business to inquire much about this girl—to ascertain her history. I thought it my duty, and very soon I should have laid the whole matter before you.”

“Well?”

“You may destroy her, madam, as you would destroy that little bird there in its golden cage, without sin and without compunction.”

“Oh, Lucrezia, Lucrezia! once more I say unto thee, tempt me not. Wicked and artful as she is, she is still one of God’s creatures.”

“Scarcely, my lady,” answered Lucrezia, with a gesture which spoke of deep scorn for the culprit. “I have cause to believe—good cause,” she repeated, lowering her voice, and looking round, as if she feared the very walls might hear the fearful words she was about to utter, “that she is one of those lost creatures who are enemies to the Universal Faith, a descendant of the Saxons, and an apostate; as too many of that race have become.”

“What say you?” gasped the Lady Adelaide.

“That we have been harboring a heretic, madam,” continued Lucrezia, her passion rising; “a spy, it may be, upon our holy ceremonies. No wonder that evil has fallen upon this house.”

“Go to the cell of Father Anselmo,” shivered the Lady Adelaide, her teeth chattering with horror, “and pray his holiness to step hither: this fearful doubt shall at once be set at rest.”

II

Gina Montani, her head aching with suspense and anxiety, was shut up alone in her chamber when she received a summons to the apartments of her mistress. Obeying at once, she found the confessor, Father Anselmo, sitting there, by the side of the countess. The monk cast his eyes steadfastly upon Gina, as if examining her features. “Never, my daughter, never!” he said, at length, turning to the countess. “I can take upon myself to assert that this damsel of thine has never once appeared before me to be shriven.”

“Examine her,” was the reply of the lady.

“Daughter,” said the priest, turning to Gina, “for so I would fain call thee, until assured that thou canst have no claim to the title, what faith is it that thou professest.”

Gina raised her hand to her burning temples. She saw that all was discovered. But when she removed it, the perplexity in her face had cleared away, and her resolution was taken. “The truth, the truth,” she murmured; “for good, or for ill, I will tell it now.”

“Hearest thou not?” inquired the priest, somewhat more sternly. “Art thou a child of the True Faith?”

“I am not a Roman Catholic,” she answered, timidly, “if you call that faith the true one.”

The Lady Adelaide and the priest crossed themselves simultaneously, whilst Gina grasped the arm of the chair against which she was standing. She was endeavoring to steel her heart to bravery; but in those days, and in that country, such a scene was a terrible ordeal.

“Dost thou not worship the One True God,” continued the priest, “and acknowledge his Holiness, our Father at Rome, to be His sole representative here?”

“I worship the One True God,” replied Gina, solemnly, joining her hands in a reverent attitude; “but for the Pope at Rome, I know him not.”

The Lady Adelaide shrieked with aversion and terror, and the pale face of the monk became glowing with the crimson of indignation. “Knowest thou not,” he said, “that to the Pope it is given to mediate between earth and heaven?”

“I know,” faltered Gina, shrinking at the monk’s looks and tone, yet still courageous for the truth, “that there is One Mediator between God and man.”

“And he—?”

“Our Saviour.”

“Miserable heretic!” scowled the monk, “hast thou yet to learn that of all the living souls this world contains, not one can enter the fold of Heaven without the sanction of our Holy Father, the Pope?”

“I shall never learn it,” whispered Gina, “and to me such doctrines savor of blasphemy. Therefore, I beseech you, dilate not on them.”

“Lost, miserable wretch!” cried the priest, lifting his hands in dismay. “Need I tell thee, that in the next world there is a place of torture kept for such as thee—a gulf of burning flames, never to be extinguished.

“We are told there is such a place,” she answered, struggling with her tears, for the interview was becoming too painful. “May the infinite love and mercy of God keep both you and me from it!”

“Thou art hopeless—hopeless!” ejaculated the monk, sternly. “Yet, another question ere I send thee forth. Where hast thou imbibed these deadly doctrines?”

“My mother wedded with an Italian,” answered Gina, “but she was born on the free soil of England, and reared in its Reformed Faith.”

“A benighted land—an accursed land!” screamed the priest, vehemently; “the time will come when it shall be deluged from one end to the other with its apostates‘ blood.”

“It is an enlightened land—a free, blessed land!” retorted Gina, in agitation; “and God’s mercy will rest upon it, and keep it powerful amongst nations, so long as its sons remain true to their Reformed Faith.”

“Insanity has fallen upon them,” raved the monk, endeavoring to drown the bold words of Gina,—”nothing but insanity. But,” he added, dropping his voice, “let them beware. Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementat.” [3]

Gina understood not the tongue; but the Lady Adelaide did, and crossed herself.

“And this mother of thine,” sneered the monk, turning again to Gina, “where may she be?”

“She is dead,” gasped Gina, bursting into tears.

“Good!” assented the monk; “then she is meeting with her deserts.”

“God grant she may be!” aspirated the maiden, “for she died in the faith of Christ.”

“And who have been thy worthy instructors since?” proceeded the priest.

“I have had but one guide since,” answered Gina.

“Disclose the name.”

“My Bible.”

The monk uttered what seemed very like a scream of passion, and the Lady Adelaide, as she heard the words, half rose from her chair.

“Be calm, my daughter,” interrupted the monk, waving his hand towards the countess; “I will guard thee from the harm caused by contact with this heretical being. Desire her, I pray thee, to fetch this Book hither, that I may glance at it.”

“Go,” cried the Lady Adelaide, imperiously, to Gina; “bring this Bible instantly!”

Gina obeyed, and the sacred volume was placed in the hands of the monk. The Lady Adelaide shrank from touching it.

“Ha!” cried the monk, perceiving it to be printed in the English tongue, “dost thou speak this language, then?”

“It is familiar to me as my own,” replied Gina.

“I will summon thy attendants for a light, my daughter,” he remarked to the Lady Adelaide. And when one was brought, the priest advanced to a part of the room where the marble floor was uncovered by tapestry, and tearing the leaves from the Book, he set light to them, till all, both the Old and New Testament, were consumed, and the ashes scattered on the ground. “It is the most dangerous instructor that can be placed in the hands of the people,” he observed, complacently watching the black mass smouldering there. And Gina Montani pressed her hands upon her chest, which was throbbing with agitation, but she did not dare to utter a word of remonstrance.

“Oh, father, father!” cried the Lady Adelaide, sinking at his feet, after Gina had been conducted to her chamber, and giving vent involuntarily to sobs of agony, “she has dared to come between me and my husband—he has known her long, it seems. If she should have tainted him with this black heresy?”

The monk turned as white as the lady’s dress at the suggestion. It was enough to make him. That that docile and faithful servant of the Church, the powerful Chief of Visinara, who was ever ready, at only half a hint, to endow it with valuable offerings and presents—entire robes of point lace for the Virgin Mary, and flounces and tuckers for all the female saints in the calendar, not to speak of his donations in hard cash, and his frequent offerings of paintings, most of them representing the popes working miracles, particularly that very pious one, Alexander VI.—that he should have had dissent instilled into him, perhaps even been made familiar with the principles of this upstart creed! Had his reverence swooned outright, it would have only been what might be expected.

“It will not be a crime to remove her, father,” faltered the Lady Adelaide.

“Crime!” cried the ruffled priest; “canst thou connect the word—in that sense—with so degraded a being?”

“To remove her in any way,” persisted the lady, in a whisper. “Yet the world might call it murder.”

“No punishment in this world is adequate to her sin,” answered the monk. “And she must not be suffered to remain in it.”

“Thou wilt then grant me absolution beforehand, holy father,” implored the Lady Adelaide.

“And what canst thou do, my child?” resumed the monk, smiling upon the countess. “Thou hast not been used to such work, and wouldst prove a sad novice at it.”

“Too true,” she uttered; “my heart is trembling now. Indeed, I could think but of one way—the moat. And though the order seems easy enough to give, I fear I should, when the moment came, shrink from issuing it.”

“And who hast thou in this castle that will do thy bidding in secret and in silence? It were better that this deed were not known: and thou canst not stop tongues, my daughter.”

“There are many bound to my interests, who would, I believe, lay down their lives for me,” deliberated the Lady Adelaide; “yet, alas! the tongue is an unruly member, and is apt to give utterance in unguarded moments to words against the will.”

“Thou hast reason, my child. I but put the question to try thee. I will undertake this business for thee. That evil one’s sin has been committed against the Church, and it is fitting that the Church should inflict the punishment.”

“Thou wilt cause her to be flung into the moat?” shuddered the Lady Adelaide.

“The moat!” echoed the priest. “Thinkest thou, my daughter, that the Church is wont to carry out her dealings by ordinary means? Signal [4] as this woman’s sin has been, signal must be her expiation.”

“Can it be expiated?”

“Never, either in this world or the next. And every moment of delay that we voluntarily make in hurling her to her doom, must draw down wrath on our own heads from the saints on high.”

The Lady Adelaide meekly bowed her head, as if to deprecate any wrath that might just then be falling.

“Thy lady in waiting, Lucrezia, is true, I have reason to believe,” continued the monk.

“I believe her to be true,” answered the Lady Adelaide.

“We may want her co-operation,” he concluded, “for I opine that thou, my daughter, wilt not deign to aid in this; neither do I think thou art fitted for it.”

III

The castle was wrapped in silence, it being past the hour at which the household retired to repose. Gina Montani was in her nightdress, though as yet she had not touched her hair, which remained in long curls, as she had worn it in the day. Suspense and agitation caused her to linger, and she sat at her dressing-table in a musing attitude, her head resting on her hand, wondering what would be the ending to all that the day had brought forth. She had dismissed her attendant some time before. With a deep sigh she rose to continue her preparations for rest, when the door softly opened, and the Signora Lucrezia appeared.

“You need not prepare yourself for bed,” she observed, in a low, distinct whisper; “another sort of bed is preparing for you.”

“What do you mean?” demanded the startled girl.

“That you are this night to die.”

Gina shrieked.

“I may tell you,” interrupted the lady, “that screams and resistance will be wholly useless. Your doom is irrevocable, therefore it may save you trouble to be silent.”

“You are speaking falsely to me. I have done nothing to deserve death.”

“Equivocation will be alike unavailing,” repeated Lucrezia. “And if you ask what you have done—you have dared to step with your ill-placed passion between my lord and the Lady Adelaide: you have brought discredit upon the long-upheld religion of this house.”

“I have disturbed no one’s faith,” returned Gina. “I wish to disturb none. It is true that I love Giovanni, Count di Visinara, but I loved him long ere he saw the Lady Adelaide.”

“What!” cried the signora, her cheeks inflamed, and her brow darkening, “do you dare to avow your shame to my face?”

“It is no shame,” answered Gina, sadly; there is nothing of guilt in such a love as mine.”

“Follow me,” repeated Lucrezia. “You have no time to waste in lamentations.”

“By whose orders do I die?” demanded the indignant girl. “Not by his; and no one else has a right to condemn me.”

Lucrezia expected this, and was prepared. Alas, that the Lord of Visinara should that day have left his signet ring behind him!

“Do you know this ring!” demanded Lucrezia, holding out the jewel.

“Too well. It is the Count of Visinara’s.”

“You may then know who has condemned you.”

“Oh, Giovanni!” wailed Gina, as she sank prostrate on the floor in her anguish, “this from you!” All idea of resistance vanished with the thought that it was him she so loved who doomed her to destruction. “I thought he was still at the Capella Palace,” she inquired, looking up at Lucrezia, a doubt possibly finding its way to her heart. “When did he return?”

“I came not to waste the moments in idle words,” returned Lucrezia, as she prepared to utter the falsehood; “it is sufficient for you to know that he has returned, and has given the orders that you seem inclined to resist.”

“Implore him to come to me for one moment, for a last farewell.”

“I may not ask it. He is with the Lady Adelaide.”

“First, my happiness, then, my life, sacrificed to appease the Lady Adelaide! Oh, Giovanni! false, but dear Giovanni—”

“I have no orders to call those who will use violence,” interrupted the signora, “but I must do so if you delay to follow me.”

“I am about to dress myself,” returned Gina.

“The dress you have on will serve as well as another—and better, for a night-gown bears some resemblance to a shroud.”

“One moment for prayer,” was the next imploring petition.

“Prayer for you!” broke contemptuously from the signora.

“A single moment for prayer,” reiterated the victim. “If I am, indeed, about to meet my Maker, I stand awfully in need of it; for I have of late worshipped but one, but it has not been Him.”

“Prayer for you, a heretic!” repeated Lucrezia; “you may as well offer it up to blocks of wood or stone. The creed you profess forfeits all inheritance for you in heaven.”

Yet still Gina repeated it—”A few moments for prayer, in mercy!”

“Then pray away where you are going,” returned Lucrezia, impatiently. “You will have time enough, and to spare—minutes, and hours, and days, perhaps.”

The signora evidently took a savage pleasure in urging on the death of Gina Montani. What could be the reason? Women in general are not so frightfully cruel. The motive was, that she herself loved the count. As Bianca had said, when watching the bridal cavalcade, could any be brought into daily contact with one so attractive and not learn to love him? so it had proved with Lucrezia. Being the favorite attendant of her mistress, she was much with her, and consequently daily and frequently in the company of Giovanni. He had many a gay word and passing jest for her, for he was by nature a gallant, free-spoken man; and this had its effect. Whilst he never glanced a thought towards her but as one necessary to wait upon his wife, he became to her heart dangerously dear; and excessively jealous had she been of Gina ever since she had heard the conversation in the embroidery-room. Pushing the unfortunate girl on before her, Lucrezia silently passed from Gina’s bed-chamber to the secret passages, plenty of which might be found in the castle. She bore a lantern in her hand, which emitted a dim, uncertain light. At length they came to a passage, a little beyond the chapel, far removed from the habited apartments; and in the middle of this were two male forms, busily occupied at work of some description. A lantern, similar to the one Lucrezia carried, was hanging high up against the opposite wall; another stood on the ground. Gina stopped and shivered, but Lucrezia touched her arm, and she walked on. They were nearing the men, who were habited as monks, and their faces shielded beneath their cowls, when the signora halted and pressed her hand upon her brow, as if in thought. Presently she turned to Gina. A second lie was in her mouth; but how was the ill-fated young lady to know it? “He sent you a message,” she whispered. “It is his last request to you. Will you receive it?” The unhappy victim looked up eagerly.

“He requests, then, by his love for you—by the remembrance of the happy moments you once spent together, that you neither resist nor scream.”

Her heart was too full to speak; but she bowed her head in acquiescence. Lucrezia moved to go on. “How is my life to be taken? By the dagger? By blows?”

“By neither—by nothing. Not a hair of your head will be touched.”

“Ah! I might have guessed. It is by poison.”

“It will be taken by nothing, I tell you. Why do you not listen to me?”

“You speak in riddles,” said Gina, faintly. “But I will bear my fate, whatever it may be.”

“And in silence? He asks it by your mutual love.”

“All, all, for his sake,” she answered. “Tell him, as I have loved, so will I obey him to the last.”

Lucrezia walked on, and Gina followed. She saw and understood the manner of her death, but, faithful to the imagined wish of her lover, she uttered neither remonstrance nor cry. The clock was upon the stroke of one, when smothered groans of fear and anguish told that her punishment had begun; but no louder sound broke the midnight silence, or carried the appalling deed to the inhabitants of the castle. An hour passed before all was completed: they were long in doing their deed of vengeance; and, when it was over, Gina Montani had been removed from the world forever.

“Madame, she is gone!” was the salutation of Lucrezia, her teeth chattering, and her face the hue of a corpse, when she entered the chamber of her mistress.

The Lady Adelaide had not retired to rest. She was pacing her apartment in unutterable misery. The social conditions of life, its forms and objects, were to her as nothing since her terrible awaking to reality.

Morning had dawned before the return of the Lord of Visinara. He was fatigued both in body and mind, and, throwing himself upon a couch, slept for some hours. And he probably would have rested longer, had not an unusual disturbance and commotion in his household aroused him. They were telling a strange tale: one that, for the moment, drove the life-blood away from his heart. It was, that the wicked dealings of Gina Montani with Satan had been brought to light on the previous day. The holy Father Anselmo had taxed her with her guilt, and she had openly confessed all without reserve; and that the Evil One had appeared in the night, and had run away with her—a just reward.

In those times, a reputed visit of the devil in propria persona would have been likely to obtain more credence than it could in these: but it would probably be going too far to say that the Lord of Visinara participated in the belief of his horror-stricken household. Certain it is, he caused minute inquiries to be made, although at the express disapprobation of the spiritual directors of the neighboring monastery, some of whom were attached to the services of his chapel, and pointed out to him the grievous sin it was thus to be solicitous about the fate of an avowed heretic. But he could learn nothing. The maid who waited on her testified that she assisted Gina to undress on the previous night. In proof of which, the garments she had taken off were found in the chamber. The remainder of her clothes were in their places undisturbed; the only article missing being a nightdress, which the attendant in question said she saw her put on; and her bed had not been slept in. Giovanni spoke to his wife, but she observed a haughty silence, and it was useless to question her. He had the moat dragged, and the neighborhood for miles round scoured, but no tidings could be obtained. Yet, strange to say, in passing on that first morning through the remote corridors, he fancied he heard her voice pronounce his name in a tone of imploring agony. He searched in every nook and corner, but found nothing, and soon thought no more of it, except to marvel how his imagination could so have deceived him.

After a time, peace was restored between the count and the Lady Adelaide; but all bliss for her, all mutual confidence, had ceased for ever.

IV

It was midnight. In the nursery at the castle sat the head nurse, and on her lap was the dying heir of Visinara, now eight or ten months old. Until nine days previous, he had been a healthy child, but, from that time, a wasting fever had attacked him, and now he was ill unto death. The Lady Adelaide, her eyes blinded with tears, knelt beside him, gazing on his colorless face. The count himself was gently rubbing his little hands to try and excite some warmth in them.

“Do you not think he looks a little, a very little better?” demanded the lady, anxiously.

The nurse hesitated. She did not think so, but she was unwilling to say what she thought.

“His hands—are they any warmer, Giovanni?”

The count shook his head, and the nurse spoke. “There will be hope, madam, if this last medicine should take effect.”

The Lady Adelaide pressed her lips upon the infant’s forehead, and burst into tears.

“You will be ill, Adelaide,” said her husband. “This incessant watching is bad for you. Let me persuade you to take rest.”

She motioned in the negative.

“Indeed, madam, but you ought to do so,” interrupted Lucrezia, who was present: “these many nights you have passed without sleep; and your health so delicate!”

“Lie down—lie down, my love,” interposed her husband, “if only for a short time.”

Again she refused; but at length they induced her to comply, her husband promising to watch over the child, and to let her know if there should be the slightest change in him. He passed his arms round his wife to lead her from the chamber, for she was painfully weak; but they had scarcely gone ten steps from the door, when a prolonged, shrill scream, as of one in unutterable terror, reached their ears. They rushed back again. The nurse sat, still supporting the child, but with her eyes dilating and fixed on one corner of the room, and her face rigid with horror. It was she who had screamed.

“My child! my child!” groaned the Lady Adelaide.

“Nurse, what in the name of the Holy Virgin is the matter?” exclaimed the count, perceiving no alteration in the infant. “You look as if you had seen a spectre!”

“I have seen one,” shuddered the nurse.

“What have you been dreaming of?” he returned, angrily.

“As true as that we are all assembled here, my lord,” continued the nurse, solemnly, “I saw the spirit of Gina Montani!”

A change came over the Lord of Visinara’s countenance, but he spoke not; whilst the Lady Adelaide clung to her husband in fear, and Lucrezia darted into the midst of the group, and laid hold of the nurse’s chair.

“What absurdity!” uttered the count, recovering himself. “How could such an idea enter your head?”

“Were it the last word I had to speak, my lord,” continued the woman, “and to my dying day, I will maintain what I assert. I saw but now the ghost of Gina Montani. It was in a night-dress, and stood there, far away, where the lamp casts its shade.”

“Nonsense!” said the count abstractedly. “Pray did you see anything?” he continued, banteringly, to Lucrezia, and to another attendant who was in the room. They answered that they had not: but Lucrezia was white, and shook convulsively. A wild, frantic sob, burst from the Lady Adelaide. The child was dead!

V

Many months again slipped by, with little to distinguish them save the decreasing strength of the Lady Adelaide. She had been wasting slowly since the shock given her heart at discovering her husband’s love for Gina Montani. She loved him passionately, and she knew her love was unrequited; for affections once bestowed, as his had been, can never be recalled and given to another. The illness of the mind had its effect upon the body; she became worse and worse, and, after the birth of a second child, it was evident that she was sinking rapidly. She lay upon the stately bed in her magnificent chamber, about which were scattered many articles consecrated to her girlhood, or to her happy bridal, and, as such, precious. Seated by the bedside was her husband; one hand clasping hers, in the other he held a cambric handkerchief, with which he occasionally wiped her languid brow. “Bear with me a little longer,” my husband—but a short time.”

“Bear with you, Adelaide!” he repeated; “would to the Blessed Virgin you might be spared to me!”

“It is impossible,” she sighed, pressing his hand upon her wasted bosom.

“Adelaide”—he hesitated; after awhile—”I would ask you a question—a question which, if you can, I entreat that you will answer.”

She looked at him inquiringly, and he resumed, in a low voice: “What became of Gina Montani?”

Even amidst the pallid hue of death, a flush appeared in her cheeks at the words. She gasped once or twice with agitation before she could speak. “Bring not up that subject now; the only one that came between us to disturb our peace—the one to which I am indebted for my death. I am lying dying before you, Giovanni, and you can think but of her.”

“My love, why will you so misunderstand me?”

“These thoughts excite me dreadfully,” she continued. “Let us banish them, if you would have peace visit me in dying.”

“May your death be far away yet,” he sighed.

“Ah! I trust so—a little longer—a few days with you and my dear child!” And the count clasped his hands together as he silently echoed her prayer.

“Will you reach me my small casket?” she continued; “I put a few trinkets in it, yesterday, to leave as tokens of remembrance. I must show you how I wish them bestowed.”

He rose from his seat, and looked about the room; but he could not find the jewelcase. “The small one, Giovanni,” she said; “not my diamond casket. I thought it was in the mosaic cabinet. Or, perhaps, they may have taken it into my dressing-room.”

He went into the adjoining apartment, and had found the missing casket, when a shriek of horror from the lips of the Lady Adelaide smote his ear. He was in an instant at her bedside, supporting her in his arms; the attendants also came running in. “My dearest Adelaide, what is it that excites you thus?” But his inquiries were in vain. She lay in his arms, sobbing convulsively, and clinging to him as if in terror. Broken words came from her at length: “I looked up—when you were away—and saw—there, in that darkened recess—her. I did—I did, Giovanni!”

“Whom?” he said becoming very pale.

“Her—Gina Montani. She was in white—a long dress it seemed. Oh! Giovanni, leave me not again.”

“I will never leave you, Adelaide. But this—it must have been a fancy—an illusion of the imagination. We had just been speaking of her.”

“You remember,” she sobbed, “the night our child died—nurse saw the same spectre. It may—”

The lady’s voice failed her, and her husband started, for a rapid change was taking place in her countenance.

“I am dying, Giovanni,” she said, clinging to him, and trembling with nervous terror. “Oh, support me! A doctor—a priest—Father Anselmo—where are they? He gave me absolution, he said. Then why does the remembrance of the deed come back again now? They would not have done it without my sanction. Giovanni, my husband—protect and love our child—desert him never. Giovanni, I say, can they indeed forgive—or does it rest above? If so, oh! why did I have her killed? Giovanni, who is it—Father Anselmo?—God?—who is to forgive me? It was murder! Giovanni, where are you? My sight is going—Giovanni—” Her voice died away, and the count bowed his head in his anguish, whilst the attendants pressed forwards to look at her countenance. The Lady Adelaide had passed to another world!

VI

It was years after the death of Lady Adelaide, that workmen were making some alterations in the Castle of Visinara, preparatory to the second marriage of its lord, who was about to espouse the lovely Elena di Capella. They were taking down the walls of a secret passage, or corridor, leading out of the chapel to the neighboring monastery. Standing, looking on, was the count, still, to all appearance, youthful, though he was, in reality, some years past thirty, but his features were of a cast that do not quickly take the signs of age. By his side stood a fair boy of seven years old—his heir—open-hearted, engaging, with a smiling countenance, on which might be traced his father’s features, whilst he had inherited his mother’s soft blue eyes and her sunny hair.

“What a while you are!” exclaimed the child, looking on, with impatience, to see the walls come down. “You should hit harder.”

“The walls are very thick, Alberto,” observed his father. “All these niches, which have been blocked up, and in the olden time contained statues, have to come down also.”

“They are taking down a niche now, are they not, papa?”

“Not yet. They are removing the wall which has been built before it. It appears fresher, too, than the rest; of more recent date.”

“It seems extraordinarily fresh, my lord,” observed one of the workmen. “The materials are old, but it has certainly been rebuilt within a few years—within ten, I should say.”

“Not it,” laughed the count. “These corridors have not been touched during my lifetime.”

“This portion of them has, my lord, you may rely upon it.”

As he spoke, the remainder came down with a tremendous crash, leaving the niches exposed, There was no statue there—but the corpse of the unfortunate Gina Montani, standing upright in her night-dress, was revealed to their sight—nearly as fresh as if she had died but yesterday, having been excluded from the air. The features, it is true, were scarcely to be recognized, but the hair—the long brown curls falling on her neck—was the same as ever. This was her horrible death then—to be walled up alive! The count grew sick and faint as he gazed. Before he had time to collect his startled thoughts, the child pulled at and clung to his arm. “Take me away. What is that dreadful thing? You look white and cold too, not as you always do. Oh, what is it? Dear papa, take me from here!”

The workmen were affrighted—perhaps more so, though less shocked, than the count. But one of them, partially recovering himself, touched the corpse with an implement he had been using, and it came down a heap of dust. The Lord of Visinara turned, and with steps that tottered under him, bore his child back to the castle.

VII

You may hear in Italy unto this day, various versions of this tradition. One will tell you that the Lord of Visinara offered moneys and treasures, to the half of his possessions, to the monks, if they would lay the troubled spirit of Gina Montani, but that, although they tried hard, they could not do it. According to another version, the friars would not try, for that no heretic’s soul may be prayed for in the Roman Church. But, however the monks may have settled it amongst themselves, all versions of the history agree in one particular, that the ghost was not laid; that it never would be, and never could be, but still wanders on the earth. And you were wise to profess faith in it too, if you go amongst the Italians, unless you would be looked on as an unbeliever, not a degree better than the poor Protestant maiden Montani.

Several descendants of Giovanni and Adelaide of Visinara, are still scattered about Italy, though greatly reduced in station. And the accredited belief is, that whenever death is going to remove one of these, the spirit of the ill-fated Gina appears and shows itself to them in the moments of their last and most terrible agonies.

Ellen Wood (1814 – 1887)

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1. Tire-maidens is an old term that’s no longer in use. The context of the story suggests a tire-maiden may have been a female servant who helped her mistress to get in and out of her attire (clothes).

2. The term skilful leeches probably indicates skilled medical professionals. At the time the story was written, the use of leeches and bloodletting was still relatively common.

3. Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementat: A Latin saying that translates to “Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad”.

4. In the context of the story, the word signal indicates Gina Montani was accused of a “signal” or “notable” crime. The word signal is no longer used in this way.