CHAPTER XXIX.
Every one knows, that in the beginning of the present century the troubles of Italy were terrible. She had the most powerful enemy, the world had seen for centuries, without, and she had a discontented race within, who, by turns, opposed the enemy, or adopted his views, sensible that a great change was necessary for the country to which they were devoted, grieved that it should be effected by an enemy, yet unable to effect it themselves. Courageous, patriotic, yet vacillating, many of the noblest principles and the purest intentions, men of large possessions and ancient names, under the afflicting circumstances of the times, failed to render service to their unhappy country, but involved themselves in irremediable ruin. The proscribed and the conquered alike fled to England when ever it was possible; and England, though pressed on every side, bleeding at every pore, proved an asylum to those of every party, so they were the impoverished and the suffering.
Amongst other emigrants driven into this country at the beginning of the present century by the troubles of their own, was the Count Riccardini, whose estates, lying in the vicinity of Castello-mara, had become involved in those troubles, which drove from their throne a weak and worthless family, but did not, therefore, establish that which he desired, for foreign rule was to him as hateful as the despotism it removed. In a great measure, he stood alone, and was not less a rebel to his king, than the defender of his country against France. He was young, enthusiastic, brave, high-minded, and virtuous; he had been loved by his tenantry to enthusiasm; the pride of his neighbours and friends; but these circumstances were of little avail, when he landed, a poor emigrant, in England, without money or credit—unknown, save as a foreigner flying from the most terrible evils that can menace the already pillaged and helpless.
It soon became apparent to the count, as to many others, that he must work or starve; and when it was made known to him by a French nobleman that, at a town specified, the owner of a ladies' boarding-school would, in return for his services, offer a stipend, which at the moment appeared enormous, he declared an intention "to apply for a passport immediately"—there was none required, and the circumstance at once astonished and delighted him—"this was freedom indeed! he might travel almost two hundred miles with out answering a question." Forlorn and wretched as he had been, since he first set foot in the land, he felt it to be the land of freedom, for which he had sighed, and it might be that of wealth, which his situation called for.
Many bitter mortifications necessarily befell the emigrant, who left hearts, warm as their climate, attached to his name for ages, and to his person from infancy; for, even when kind, the strangers were cold; and, if his services were liberally rewarded, the demands made on his purse were proportionably great; and frequently did he think it would have been better that he had died in his own sunny Italy, than linger out existence among a people who knew neither his situation in the past, nor his sorrow in the present—who might pity, but could not comprehend him.
Granard Park was about ten miles from the town which received the wanderer, whose person and manners were much too distinguished not to have attracted some attention from the neighbouring gentry, though many were of opinion "that foreign papists ought not to be encouraged." The females of their families could not hold the same opinions, and the Signor Manuello's eyes and mustachios, the graceful drapery of his cloak, his melancholy step, and his broken English, occasioned many domestic differences of opinion in the neighbourhood of K, at the time when Mr. Granard, with the then beautiful Lady Anne (who had lately become a mother) and his lovely sister, took up their abode for the season at the ancestral mansion, and became the centre of attraction to the neighbourhood, all of whom hastened to the balls and dinners, given by the lady as much in the spirit of rivalry as hospitality. She had a countess on one hand, and a marchioness on the other, whose husbands were in the ministry. Moreover, the estates of the poorer of the two were treble in value to those she undertook to spend; but considering herself to be younger and handsomer than the countess, who was an established beauty, and as well born as the marchioness, she determined to cut as good a figure by spending as much money.
At one of their public dinners, a neighbouring squire, from the vicinity of K, addressing Mr. Graham, observed,
"I think you travelled a long time in Italy, sir?"
"I did; and should have been there still longer, if it had not been for the troubles of the country, as it entirely restored my sister Margaret's health, which was my object. We stayed till the movements of the French army compelled us to decamp, and were twice assisted by a nobleman, in whose neighbourhood we resided, or we might have been prisoners at this moment, as so many English are. In one instance, himself and dependants rescued us; in the other, he saved us by sending a countryman to inform us of our danger, and cause us to return rapidly to the place we had left, from whence we soon after were enabled to reach the sea. We were never able to thank him, but we must ever remember Count Riccardini gratefully."
"Signor Manuello is Count Riccardini, who teaches Italian at K," said a young lady, eagerly; "can it be the same, I wonder?"
"Is he remarkably handsome, about twenty three or four, with short mustachios, and very curly dark hair, and fine teeth?"
"Oh! yes, sir, that is the exact description."
"Poor fellow! I will see him to-morrow, and must try to do him all the good I can. It is no wonder he is obliged to take refuge in England; between France and Germany, Italy would be swallowed up, were it not for the stand we are making in Calabria."
From this time the poor foreigner, generally designated "the French teacher at the boarding-school," became much too busy to be melancholy. In every house there was some one person who wanted to learn Italian, in every party his presence was a desideratum. Lady Anne considered him a first-rate lion—her husband held him as a friend. Alas! in a short time his fair sister felt him to be something far dearer!
There was much in the situation of the parties to excuse their imprudence. Miss Graham, left an orphan at an early age, found in a brother, who was ten years her senior, all the tenderness of a parent, and the companionship of a friend, possessing, like herself, a taste for the beautiful in art, and nature, and that poetry of perception, classed with the romantic, in those minds incapable of distinguishing its excellence. Save for external inconveniences, and the dangers that hovered around them, their sojourn in Italy would have been one long day of pure delight—the revel of the mind in Nature's paradise and Memory's storehouse; and so perfect was their union, so much did they appear to be the world to each other, many persons thought they were likely to continue single, notwithstanding the probability that each might marry remarkably well. Mr. Granard was a kind hearted, easy-tempered man, calculated, in the opinion of hie friends, to be very happy as a husband; moreover, they thought it a pity that he should not have heirs, and, since he could not give his estate to his sister, preserve it for progeny of his own. They also knew that he had a great taste for beauty, and a considerable regard for good blood, so they directed his views to Lady Anne Rotheles: he married, became the father of five daughters, the mourner after departed property, but the truly affectionate brother he had ever been.
For his sake Margaret Granard resided with the new-married couple, being then a minor; and, before she had attained the age of twenty-one, an unfortunate passion tied her to the house, where she could alone see him her sister-in-law chose to call the "emigrant teacher," although it is certain there were times when she extended to him the kindest looks ever granted by her to any thing beneath a royal duke. We are not called upon to trace the struggles and fears of these lovers; it is enough to say, that though they lasted a considerable time, they did not last long enough; for, at the close of the second summer, instead of returning with her brother's family to town, Miss Granard accompanied her heart's chosen to Gretna Green; after which, they stopped in Cumberland long enough to have the marriage celebrated by bans.
The marriage made all the noise in the country usually made by such affairs, and Mr. Granard was condoled with as if his sister had been guilty of a heinous crime, instead of a too natural imprudence. "When he came to H—, the signor had scarcely a second shirt to his back," said one. "I know that he sold the ring off his finger to pay Mrs. Pearson for his lodgings," said another; "and to think of his ingratitude to Mr. Granard, who has been every thing to him; what a wicked creature! he must be the frozen adder which destroyed the bosom that fostered it."
After a time these wise people began to find out "Mr. Granard might thank himself for what had happened; how could he expect any thing better to arise when he was perpetually sending for the signor? Nor could the poor man be called a vagabond, since he was wonderfully industrious for one not brought up to work; he did not owe a shilling in the world, and several poor people had reason to lament his absence. His priest approved him exceedingly, and that was praise, though it came from a papist." It was the only thing in the whole affair, however, which troubled Mr. Granard, but he trusted the count was too honourable to influence his sister on the score of religion; and he was right.
Lady Anne raved, sneered, and descanted on the dreadful example set by their aunt to her daughters, (the eldest of whom could scarcely speak,) until she succeeded in signifying to friends and servants, that "the young woman who was formerly Mr. Granard's sister must never more be mentioned in the hearing of any person in the family." This injunction was strictly complied with, after sufficient time had passed for wonder and blame, and was perfectly agreeable to the master of the house, since he was in the first place soon engaged in looking up money for the payment of the seven thousand pounds which was his sister's portion; and the fifteen hundred pounds which he considered to be its accumulations, not choosing to accept any allowance for the board of his only sister.
When Miss Granard, or we ought to say the Countess Riccardini, had, after some months of severe suffering, once more seen her beloved brother, received the kiss of reconciliation, and the fortune which her husband nobly refused to touch, desiring the interest might be paid to his wife only, and which her brother placed in the funds, they retired to Devonshire, as being both cheap and mild, and were as happy as love and an adequate though moderate competence could make them. A year or too afterwards they contrived to take a lodging in the suburbs of London, where they had the satisfaction of not unfrequently receiving the visits of that beloved brother and friend who found with them his happiest, perhaps his only happy hours; for more girls were born to him, more embarrassments haunted him, and "the little strong embrace" which often twined around his neck, stung his heart to agony. Whether Lady Anne knew or suspected who it was that drew his steps from the purlieus of fashion he knew not, nor held himself bound to explain. To one friend who remarked the frequency of his absence in the morning at a given hour, she replied, with perfect sang froid, that "most men of fashion had their mysteries, and Mr. Granard had a right to his; all she knew of the matter was, that he did not belong to a coining concern, as in that case the money would come more freely."
Lady Anne well knew that all which could come passed through her fingers. Incapable of hearing reproach or bandying invective, her husband had sunk into the indolence of pensive resignation, and, sensible that things had gone too far for effectual retrieve, tried to find a lenitive in the love of his sister, and the often disappointed hope of a son, during whose long minority wonders were to be done in the management of his property.
The peace removed the family of Riccardini to Italy, and on his estates being restored, the fortune of his wife was happily applied to removing the dilapidations of time and circumstance. Their eldest child was a daughter, followed at a distance by two sons, with whom it appeared the climate of their father did not agree, as they successively sickened and died, after their arrival in Italy,—a circumstance which those with whom she was now associated, rendered so impressive to the mother, as arising from her own "continued heresy," that she adopted the Roman religion in the most open and ceremonious manner, and, like many other proselytes, in a short time be came a positive bigot.
The Riccardini family had been removed some time, Isabella born for several years, and still no prospect of the wished-for boy succeeding; when poor Granard, sunk into premature age by useless solicitude, found in Glentworth, (then a young man seeking independence by his own exertions as a junior partner in the house to which he had now transferred Charles Penrhyn,) the consolations offered by a patient listener and a pitying friend, with little power but sincere inclination to help him. All that could be done in the way of arranging his affairs, and so winding them up, that he might ascertain that his widow and children had any thing to secure them from abject poverty, was the effect of Glentworth's knowledge and exertion, and the trifling presents which rendered his "presence a little holiday" in the nursery, were frequently accompanied by the journals or the new publications, which might divert the father's mind from contemplating his daily increasing debility and decreasing property.
Could Mr. Granard have foreseen that Glentworth's bachelor uncle would, from the fear of making a will, have left him the heir of his estates, and their accumulations, thereby entailing upon them not a single legacy for friendship or charity, he would undoubtedly have used every argument against his going abroad, in the natural hope that his pretty Mary, or the blooming Louisa, would become the wife of one dear to him already as a son. This he did not believe, and as Glentworth was taken into the house on the express condition that he should travel, whenever the elder parties demanded this mode of exertion, Mr. Granard said not a word on the subject, though he felt at the time that to him the parting would be a certain shortening of the term, already short. He gave him letters to his sister, speaking of him in the highest terms of affection, and insured him a home at the Castella Riccardini, whenever his pleasure or his avocations called him into its vicinity.
Glentworth's home, as the representative of his house, was Marseilles, and his first journeys were taken in France and a part of Spain, so that at least a year had passed before he made his appearance at a place where he had been long expected, and was received as an especial friend. He was astonished to find Margarita, of whom her uncle had spoken as a mere child, and who in fact was three years younger than Mary, much more womanly than that northern flower had been when he left England, and much handsomer, to his conception, than all the combined beauties of her cousins could have made her; yet even then he observed to himself, "if Isabella lives, she will be very like her beautiful cousin some time."
Glentworth, an orphan, brought up in a desultory, unhappy manner, and nobly self-consigned at an early age to the drudgery of a counting-house, had hitherto seen little of the world of women, save in the house of Mr. Granard; but, had he dwelt with the noble and the gay from his birth, it is hardly likely he would have found any one so singularly interesting and fascinating as Margarita Riccardini; for the striking and animated beauty of her father was softened and relieved by that peculiar something, half modesty, and half pride, which is the characteristic of English loveliness, and which every Englishman requires as a sine qua non ere he resigns himself to a bondage it is the habit of his nature, or the result of his privileges, to admit reluctantly. He feels this emotion more especially as regards the Spanish or Italian beauty, because of the difference in their religious creeds; he is not equally apprehensive on the account of a Frenchwoman, who is probably only too liberal in her views on the subject.
Poor Glentworth had not the usual fears of his country on this point, for Mr. Granard had not been informed that his sister had renounced the church he loved. Margarita spoke the sweetest English as a mother tongue, and her complexion was (at this time a rare one) of the olive and the rose united; the impression she gave was that of being half English at least, and more entirely, more enchantingly charming, than either England or Italy had ever produced before, from the time when Julius Cæsar took the liberty of introducing them to each other.
Poor Glentworth was gone whole ages in love, and the Signora Margarita by no means behind him in the acquisition of the sentiment, before either was aware that no earthly power could induce the English mother to give her daughter to an English husband professing the religion of his country. She believed, firmly, conscientiously believed, that her own darkness and obstinacy, in being for five or six years the wife of a man professing the true faith and never embracing it, had rendered her amenable to the especial judgments of God, who had seen fit to deprive her of two promising boys, the heirs of her husband's ancient and honourable house, as a punishment. What can we say in such a case? She acted in all sincerity, agreeable to the light which she believed to be "light from Heaven." Who shall blame her?
The count, on the other hand, loved England and all that belonged to it—even the washerwoman who had trusted him had a share of his gratitude; what then did he hold due to the wife of his bosom, the high born, and the rich and beautiful one, who had pitied his misfortunes, loved his person, and bestowed on him alike the wealth of the heart and the purse, finally abandoning the land of her fathers and the religion of her family for his sake. He never for a moment recalled his own history, without bestowing on her the warmest eulogium which gratitude could dictate, and declaring "that whatever she said and did must be subscribed to by himself and her daughter."
Nevertheless, his reason rebelled, and his sense of religion by no means allowed the justice of refusing the amiable, handsome, and wealthy Englishman, whom his sweet child preferred, and who was perfectly willing that the signora should enjoy all the liberty required by her conscience and her church, together with such sums as should, from time to time, purchase the prayers of the faithful, and all other immunities, so far as his fortune furnished the means.
"No!" said the countess to every thing save the open renunciation, the positive reconciliation of the lover to the church of Rome; "no daughter of mine," said she, "shall wed a heretic—she had far better die."
Lady Anne could calmly contemplate the death of a daughter, provided she died a marchioness: we trust our readers see the difference between the worldly and the religious mother—the cold-hearted and the enthusiastic, but virtuous and upright, woman, although both were wrong, and both inflicted misery on their respective victims, alike unjustifiable in the eye of reason, or the contemplation of Christianity.