In a beautiful valley in Switzerland there lived a maiden whose name was Amina, a poor village foundling, who was as fondly loved by the woman who had adopted her as her own mother might have loved. There also lived in the valley a rich farmer whose name was Elvino. Not much wealth truly had he, but enough to make him the richest person in the parish, except the absent lord. Count Rudolpho.

At the village inn (as all villages are supposed to possess that appendage) lived Liza, its mistress, but alas! scandal said many cruel things of her; in fact, there were two or three very ugly tales about her, but they were all so dim that when any of her female acquaintances quarrelled with her, which thing frequently happened, the other one could only vaguely hint, but could never positively assert anything.

But whether or no, certain it is that young Elvino, who fell in love with Liza when he was young, but as he grew older, he shook that love off, and Liza herself declared with much warmth, that it was all owing to that chit of a child Amina; scandal did say that it was all owing to Liza herself.

Be that however, as it may, it is very certain that having abandoned Liza, Elvino soon grew madly in love with Amina, whom all the women declared to be very plain, an evident proof of the young creature’s pretty face.

Amina worked hard and well for a living, and she laughed at Liza, as well she might, having certainly the best of the position.

The village was a very happy one throughout the day but when night came, it was quite the reverse. “The phantom” weighed the village down. It was clothed all in white, was very tall, and every villager trembled as he spoke or even thought of it.

It had been the ruin of Liza’s best bed room, into which this phantom would glide in the dead of the night through the unfastened window, which opened down to the ground, and upon the flower garden; beyond which, and across a rickety, unused bridge, stood the little cot of Amina’s adopted mother, Teresa.

Sooner than sleep in Liza’s best bed room, any peasant would have slept out upon one of the mountain tops. Yes, the village was a happy village, if you took away the phantom.

Well, at last it was understood that Amina and Elvino were to be married, and the very night came when the contract of marriage was to be signed. ’Twas summer time, so the contract was signed in the broad street itself, just opposite Liza’s house, behind which stood the old mill, the unused bridge, and Amina’s cot, or, to be honest, Teresa’s cot, though for that matter, everything that belonged to Teresa was Amina’s.

Elvino endowed Amina with all his wealth. Amina said she could only endow Elvino with her love, and that youth was perfectly satisfied. Liza signed the contract, and very spitefully she signed it too.

The good-tempered fool of the village, Alesso, was rather fond of Liza, and he offered her the pen, but she took it with such a snatch, that he regretted his politeness.

“Never mind, never mind,” said Amina, patting the disconsolate fool on the back; “’tis a way she hath of shewing her love for thee.”

“Then I should like to know, Mam’selle Amina, how she would show her dislike for me.”

All having signed the contract, the bridegroom presented his bride with the ring—a plain little fillet of gold, but how great a treasure when given between a couple, whose only difference of opinion is which loves the other the best.

It need not be said that the word “wife” applied by Elvino was hardly right; for the church had to bless the couple before he could fairly use the tender term, and the church would not do that till the next day.

Well, the ring had hardly been given, when, with a great smacking of a whip, a travelling carriage drove into the village, up to the inn, and, as a consequence, right into the heart of the contract-signing party.

From this carriage alighted a fine-looking gentleman.

“How weary the road is,” said the stranger to his postillion; “how many miles to the castle?”

“So please you three, monsieur, and a dreadful road;—have a delightful inn, monsieur—my inn—if monsieur would do me the honor to walk in.”

“True,” said the handsome gentleman, smiling; “seeing your face, I recollect you and also the inn.”

Alesso heard this admission, and immediately began to puzzle his brains to find out who this new arrival was, and for that purpose he went peering amongst the boxes and portmanteaux.

“And pray, good people, do you ever think of this new lord, whom you have not seen since he was a boy?”

The villagers immediately began talking about this lord with great force; would he come? why had he not come before? pray did the good monsieur know him? &c., &c.

The stranger laughingly said they would ask questions till the evening was night; but this assertion Alesso doubted; for he could assure monsieur that they would not stop to question even the new lord himself when the night came.

“Indeed, why not?”

What! what! had monsieur never heard of their village spectre? Why, where had monsieur been? He, Alesso, thought it was talked of all—over—the—world!

The stranger desired to have it described.

A villager then sang—

The stranger laughed, and said he would soon find out the mystery if he lived there.

It may be presumed that the stranger had been living in Paris; but certainly he was very gallant.

He flattered Liza somewhat, but turning his eyes full upon Amina, he forgot Liza altogether, and began paying the young bride a great many compliments.

She smiled at the compliments paid her by the stranger, and answered smartly; but at last grew timid as the count grew bolder; and indeed she was not sorry when Elvino came up, and accidentally stood between them. The count requiring some explanation, Elvino gave it him by plainly telling him she was his wife; whereupon the count congratulated him on his good fortune.

Well, the contract business over, the notary departed for home; the villagers also within doors; the count in the village inn, and Liza retired, rather annoyed and angry; the two young people were in the moonlight, bidding each other good night.

At last, after a long time, Amina’s mother had the opportunity of remonstrating upon late hours, and then Amina went to bed for the last time in that little cot of her adopted mother’s.

CHAPTER II.

The stranger looked curiously about the haunted room, when shown to it by Liza. There was the white-curtained bed standing near the window; the door-windows open to admit the cool night air; and beyond, the garden, and the unused rickety bridge.

He looked out through the open window, and then returning where Liza was standing, began talking gaily to her.

Liza not feeling gratified by his former conduct, answered rather pertly, and told him that the villagers had discovered who he was—Count Rodolpho; and further intimated that they were coming to pay their respects to their young lord. The “young lord” said he cared naught for the whole village, while so pretty a woman was by his side. Whereat Liza smiling, the count—for it was the count—grew bolder, and insisted upon having one kiss, when a noise frightened Liza, and she ran quickly behind the bed. But as she ran, some portion of the bedstead caught the light scarf about her shoulders, and tore it from them. She took no notice of this mishap, but ran and hid herself behind the curtains.

Certainly she had heard a noise. ’Twas a light footfall. Nearer—then nearer still.

The count went to the closed door, light in hand, and listened.

The step was not coming that way.

Still the slight noise continued; nearer and nearer still. Then a light flashed through the open window. He ran towards it, and then started back.

It was the phantom they had told him of—a white figure moving slowly along, with a lamp steadily held in one hand.

Nothing daunted, he moved towards the figure, as it silently entered the room, and put down the light. And then he saw that it was the village girl to whom he had spoken but an hour or so before.

He drew his breath silently, as he recognized her, for he knew that she was a somnambulist, and that if woke too suddenly she might fall dead.

But he kept his eyes upon her, as she moved from the table towards his bed.

On—on; slowly—slowly, till she came to the bed; upon which she laid down, whispering Elvino’s name, and then in a minute was sleeping peacefully.

He stepped lightly to the window, saw how she had entered, closed and fastened the sashes, returned to the bed—hesitated for a moment, then turning towards the door, he retired.

The woman Liza, immediately he had left, came from behind the bed, where she had remained, gave one earnest look at the unconscious Amina, and quickly left the room.

Now was the time for revenge. Now Amina should feel what it was to have a rival; now she should suffer for alienating Elvino from her. And Elvino, too, should weep, and be sorry for having slighted her. She would tell him he had cruelly dismissed her, and she would add that in revenge she would point at the Amina he believed so good and pure.

Now, the villagers instead of soberly going to bed, got up a demonstration of delight in honor of the count’s return, and a score or so of the principal people in the place entered the inn to congratulate the count just as he left his room. The deputation grandly demanding of Liza to be shown into the count’s apartment, Mademoiselle Liza, with all the simplicity in the world, said she would head them, and so the procession entered the haunted room to congratulate the count—but to find whom? The poor girl still sleeping soundly, and little dreaming of what was coming.

“Amina!” they all cried, as with one voice.

And they looked towards Elvino, who formed one of the deputation.

They made room for him, falling away on each side. He ran up to the bed side, and there she still lay asleep, breathing peacefully.

He uttered a loud cry, and with a start she awoke.

As she saw the crowd about her, she shrunk back with alarm, and covered her eyes, thinking possibly ’twas some terrible dream. Then, as they all stood silent about her, she again looked.

Too terrified now to shut out the sight, she remained for a moment or two gazing before her.

Suddenly she spoke. “Where am I? Where am I?”

Bounding from the bed, she looked from right to left, still dimly seeing the faces, and again cried, “Where am I? Where am I?”

“Ask thine own unhappy self!” said a voice she knew, and turned towards it.

“Ah, Elvino!” and she put out her arms to him.

But he flung her from him to the ground, and there she knelt gazing at him with her arms clasped upon her breast, wondering what her fault was.

Not yet comprehending either her position or his words, she looked to the nearest woman; but she turned her back upon the girl, as did the next to whom the poor girl moved her eyes.

Then, panic-struck, she ran round the room from one to the other, still not knowing what her fault was.

They all drew back from her as though she were a plague; so she moved quite naturally to Elvino again—her husband as she thought him.

But he showed the greatest repugnance to her.

Then, as she felt herself deserted, they told her her crime.

Vainly she declared her innocence; vainly she wept, flinging herself upon her knees; vainly she spoke of her past life; vainly she said she could not tell how she came there; vainly she turned to Liza, whose heart was stone, who turned from her with the rest; vainly she clung to her Elvino’s very feet: he shook her from him and strode towards the door.

As he was leaving the haunted room, Amina’s adopted mother came past the threshhold, and though they all told her what they believed of the village queen, this mother, the only one amongst all these simple, honest village folk, went up to her daughter, and put her arms about her neck.

So at last the iciness of despair gave way before this one touch of sympathy, and the poor girl with her mother’s arms about her, wept bitterly, and so gave relief to her young heart.

CHAPTER III.

The village generally condemned her; especially Liza. Not a single voice was heard in her favor but her mother’s.

Ah, yes, there was one voice in her favor—honest Alesso’s, the good-tempered fool’s. He would not believe in Amina’s guilt, which determination of his thoroughly stamped him a fool in the eyes of all. Her guilt was so palpable; doubt her guilt! you might as well doubt the light of the sun.

Liza, as before said, was especially severe, and doubted whether she ought to be allowed to remain in the village. But nobody supported such a doubt; they were not quite so virtuous themselves as to come to that conclusion. Alesso, indeed, spite of his belief in Amina’s innocence, admired Liza more than ever, for her stern virtue, and sighed as he thought that man would be happy who should call Liza wife.

Alesso had long thought he should be happy to be that man, but though Liza had never given him much hope, he had never given it up in despair, therefore it may be imagined with what grief he heard only the next morning after the catastrophe, that Elvino had made up his mind, and told somebody, who had told somebody else, who had told it to Alesso, that Elvino meant to make proposals to Liza; and before three hours had elapsed this was confirmed throughout the village.

As for the poor girl Amina, she wept most piteously.

Towards the afternoon of the unhappy day which came after the catastrophe, she sought him out, helped by her stout-hearted mother, and made another effort to regain his old love for her. She was no heroine—only a simple village maid; so she did not upbraid him, she only entreated and protested.

He would not listen to her: when she again left him, he had got back the betrothal ring he had placed upon her finger—the dear ring his mother had worn.

By that night he had asked for and gained Liza’s consent to take her to wife, and poor little Amina’s remaining hopes (nursed by her mother) were all dead.

When evening came upon the village, the greater part of the villagers were in their tiny cots, and a score or so, together with Liza, Elvino, and Alesso, were seated before the inn door, behind which stood the cottage, within which was the unhappy little woman, now fallen asleep, and sobbing as she slept.

What made Elvino suddenly start—what made him run forward with his fists clenched, and his breath convulsive?

The Count, the Count Rudolpho, who had been missing since the unhappy affair, now came forward to speak out the truth, and upon whose silence the cowardly Liza had relied.

It is a comfort to know that a libertine need not necessarily be a liar though he very frequently is: and in this especial case Count Rudolpho spoke the truth. He declared the whole tale from beginning to end, and, doubtless, he would have appealed to Liza for corroboration, but that, that discreet person got out of the way.

As for the lover, who still so deeply loved, that he was actually going to marry a woman for whom he cared naught as a revenge, he would believe nothing that the count said. Indeed, how could the girl have entered the inn, if not with the count’s aid.

The noble pointed to the unused bridge, but Elvino scouted the idea; why it would fall at the least touch, how then could she have passed over it?

The count was turning away in despair, when a noise a little distance off arrested his steps; the villagers turned and saw the village phantom, and they saw at once who it was.

Again, Amina was walking in her sleep; again she was moving towards the old ruined bridge; again she carried a flickering light in her hand.

As Elvino saw her, all his old love returning, he ran forward and would have shouted to her, but that the count sped after him, laid a hand upon his mouth, and softly, yet imperatively, bade him be silent.

The lover flung himself upon his knees, stretched out his arms towards his pure wife, and with straining eyes watched her coming.

Nearer to the old bridge—which was rotten, and below which was a roaring torrent. Nearer still, then one foot was upon it.

All silent with fear they drew back a pace, as though each had stepped upon the tottering wood, or as though he could prevent her second step by the act.

Again a step forward, and she was fairly on the bridge, the angry water roaring beneath.

Suddenly there was a crackling sound, and as they heard it, they flung themselves down upon their knees, and hid their faces in their hands.

When they stood up again they expected to see her and the bridge no longer before them. But the brave old bridge had only cracked; there was a great flaw in it, and there also stood Amina as though in doubt, as though cautious of her next step. The hand which had held the light was still held out, but the lamp was gone, the rupture of the stones had shaken it from her hold.

If now she sees her way by the lighted lamp; if now she stands undecided, because she can no longer see where to make her steps, she is lost, for no one can dare step on to the rotten bridge to save her, and she will fall over the low parapet, and so be lost.

But no; again she steps on—feeling carefully with her foot; again she hesitates, as her sliding foot comes against an unaccustomed projection, caused by the fracture of the stone-work.

Then again she moves on—a step; another; yet another—and she is safe.

Then they all fell on their knees, and so gained pardon for having wrongfully accused the poor girl.

For had she been guilty, she would not have had the courage to try and cheat the villagers. Yes, she was really asleep, and had no idea of the danger she had run.

She came close to the spot upon which knelt her Elvino, whom she had now gained back to her whilst she slept; and then she went through the motion of setting down the lamp, now rolling at the bottom of the torrent.

Soon she began talking of the lost ring—the ring he had given her, and had torn from her.

And she broke up into atoms the score of roses he had also given her on that happy night, and which she now took from her bosom. Then again she wept for the ring, and felt on her hand for it.

He still had the ring, for he had not hardened his heart enough to put it on Liza’s hand; and, under the direction of the count, he quietly slipped it on the sleeping girl’s finger.

’Twas enough.

Feeling the ring once again, she awoke. But ah! to how much joy? The whole village crowding around her, sorry for their unjust suspicions, and more desirous of getting a kind look from her than ever; her Elvino, proud and happy, near her; her dear old adopted mother, proud and self-satisfied. Was it not better as it was—that that happiness should come after such deep trouble (which is ofttimes a short cut to years of joy,) than that the two young people should have dropped into wedlock after a happy, unclouded childhood and love, without having had a pang to teach them the sweetness of peace and innocence.

As for Liza, the less that is said of that lady the better. That scarf of hers told terribly against her; and though poor Alesso felt the blow terribly, he could hardly show the remains of any bruise whatever to his new love when Liza left the village.