CHAPTER II.
"Elle étoit belle, et de plus la seule héritière!••
"Ce fut sur cela que je formai le projet de mon établissement."
Histoire de Fleur d'Epine.
Like the cards which form a child's plaything palace, our pleasures are nicely balanced one upon the other. The pleasure of change is opposed by that of habit; and if we love best that to which we are accustomed, we like best that which is new. Enjoyment is measured by the character of the individual. Lord Mandeville was sorry to leave Rome, because he had grown used to it. Lady Mandeville was delighted to leave it, because she had grown tired of it. Emily, actuated by that restlessness of hope which peculiarly belongs to hope that is solely imaginative, was rather relieved by, than pleased with, change. The map of her world was coloured by her affections, and it had but two divisions,—absence and presence. She knew that Edward Lorraine was on the Continent, and she allowed her mind to dwell on the vague, vain fancy of meeting him.
It was winter, with a promise of spring, when they arrived at Naples. A few days saw them settled in a villa on the sea-coast, at some distance from the city. Emily, who loved flowers with all the passion of the poetry that haunted them, gathered with delight the clustering roses which formed a miniature wood near the house, and wore the beauty of June in the days of February. Lord Mandeville reproached her with being run away with by novelty, and said contrast gave them a double charm in England. "The blossom is a thousand times fairer when we have seen the leaf fall and the bough bare."
Still, the situation of their villa was most lovely; it was quite secluded, in a little vale filled with orange-trees, now putting forth the soft green of their leaves, and the delicate white tracery of their coming buds. The grove was varied by a plantation of rose trees, a few pinasters, and a multitude of winding paths. It was evident that nature had been left for years to her own vagrant luxuriance. A colonnade ran completely round the villa, which on one side only was open to the sea, whose sounds were never silent, and whose waves were never still. A space, lightly shadowed by a few scattered orange-trees, sloped towards a terrace, which looked directly down upon the shore. The eye might wander over the blue expanse, broken by the skimming sails, which distance and sunshine turn to snow, like the white wings of the sea-birds, till sky and sea seem to meet, false alike in their seeming fairness and seeming union;—the sails, in reality, being but coarse and discoloured canvass, and the distance between sea and sky still immeasurable. On the left, the waters stretched far away—on the right, a slight bend in the coast was the boundary of the view. Thickly covered with pine and dwarf oaks to the very summit, the shore arose to a great height, and shut out the city of Naples. On the top shone the white walls of the convent of St. Valerie; and on a fair evening, when the wind set towards the villa, the vesper hymns came in faint music over the sea.
The time which passes pleasantly passes lightly; days are remembered by their cares more than by their content; and the few succeeding weeks wrote their events as men, says the Arabic proverb, do benefits—on water. Lord Mandeville was daily more desirous of returning to England, and resolved to be there by March at the latest. Lady Mandeville began to calculate on the effect her protégée, Miss Arundel, was to produce—and the result in her mind was a very brilliant one. To do her talents justice, Emily had improved very much since her residence under her care. Though too timid and too sensitive in her temper ever to obtain entire self-command, she had acquired more self-possession—a portion of which is indispensably necessary to gracefulness of manner. Encouraged and called forth, her natural powers began to be more evident in conversation; and her accomplishments, her exquisite dancing, and her touching voice, were no longer painful both to herself and her friends, from the excess of fear which attended their exercise. A little praise is good for a very shy temper—it teaches it to rely on the kindness of others. And last, not least, she was grown very much handsomer; the classic perfection of her profile, the symmetry of her figure, were more beautiful in their perfect development.
Some preparation for their return to England engaged Lord Mandeville for two or three days at Naples; and the day after his departure the rest took an excursion to one of the ruins in the neighbourhood. This excursion had been long talked of; it was made in the name of the children—an excuse common on such occasions. Childish gaiety is very contagious, and sunshine and open air very exhilarating; and the whole party arrived at their destination in that humour to be pleased, which is the best half of pleasure. Naturally lively, Lady Mandeville's vivacity was the most charming thing in the world. The two boys their only cavaliers, they wandered about in search of a picturesque spot for their dining-room. Much of the trouble we give ourselves is quite unnecessary—it matters very little where a good appetite finds its dinner. However, trouble is, like virtue, its own reward. At last, at the instigation of a little peasant, whose keen dark eyes belied him much if he were not a very imp of mischief, they fixed on their banqueting-place. A lovely spot it was; a hanging ground, just on the very edge of a wood, whose dark shadow seemed as if it had never been broken. Below them spread a fair and fertile country—vineyards putting forth their first shoots, and olive plantations whose light grey leaves shone like morning frost-work; while the dim blue line of the sea closed the view. The side of their hill was very varied and uneven; but the side of their rest was decided by the welling of a little spring, which bubbled up a sudden vein of silver from the earth, and wandered on like a child singing the same sweet song. The place was covered with moss, whose bright green was speckled with purple, crimson, gold, minute particles of colour, like an elfin carpet embroidered by Titania and her fairy court. The ground rose on each side like a wall, but hung with natural tapestry—the creeping plants which in the South take such graceful and wreathing forms in their foliage.
On a space a little below lay the ruins they had been seeking. Vivid must have been the imagination that could there have traced the temple which, in former days, paid homage to the beautiful goddess, by being beautiful like herself. Two columns alone remained—Ionian in their grace and lightness. A few fragments of the wail lay scattered about, but some chance wind had sown them with violets, and every trace, whether of architecture or decay, was hidden by the broad leaves, or the thousands of deep-blue flowers, whose sweetness was abroad on the atmosphere.
Francis and his brother were especially happy: they helped, or rather retarded, the spreading their dinner—every dish was to be ornamented with the wild flowers they had gathered; and they ran about, if not with all the utility, with all the celerity of goblin pages. I do not think childhood the happiest period of our life; but its sense of happiness is peculiarly keen. Other days have more means and appliances of pleasure; but then their relish is not so exquisite. It all, however, comes to the same in the long-run. The child has to learn the multiplication-table—the man has to practise it.
"I am happy," said Lady Mandeville, "to find I have not lost all taste for those pleasures called simple and natural, as all out-of-door pleasures are denominated."
"Even in England, whose climate you deprecate, in that spirit of amiable opposition which I once heard you call the key-arch of conversation," replied Emily, "I always loved being out in the open air. I have a feeling of companionship with our old trees; and my thoughts take, as it were, freer and more tangible shapes. I always used to go and think in the shrubbery."
"Dream, you mean."
At this moment their little guide began to sing one of those popular airs which the Italian peasantry execute with such singular taste. They listened as the sweet voice died away, and then was repeated by an echo from the rock. A rush of hurried steps broke upon the song—the branches crashed overhead—the party caught a glimpse of some half-dozen dark figures. In another moment, Emily felt a cloak flung over her head; and, blinded and silenced, was lifted seemingly in some one's arms, in whose grasp she was nothing. Again she felt herself raised: she was placed on a horse—her companion sprang up behind—and off they galloped, with a velocity which effectually bewildered her senses. She could only distinguish the sounds of other horses' steps besides their own.
At length, almost fainting with their speed, she was aroused by the suddenness of their halt. She was lifted from the horse, carried a short distance, the cloak partly loosened, and her hand drawn within a powerful arm, that half-guided, half-supported her up a long, steep flight of steps. A door creaked on its hinges—the grasp upon her was relaxed—a strange voice said, in tolerable, though foreign, accents, "Ladies—from the days of chivalry to the present, no woman was ever seriously angry at the homage, however rude, excited by her own charms: they pardon the offence themselves caused. Pray use your own pleasure, of which I am the slave."
The door shut heavily on hinges whose rust grated as it closed.
"Do throw that great cloak aside, and tell me what you think of our adventure," said Lady Mandeville, who seemed divided between alarm and laughter.
Emily collected her scattered faculties, and looked round with all the terror and none of the mirth of her companion. They were in a spacious room, whose days of splendour had long since passed away. The walls had once been stuccoed with perhaps beautiful paintings,—damp had effaced all, except patches where blues, reds, and greens, had mingled into one dim and discoloured stain. All trace of what the floor had been, was lost in one uniform darkness. The windows were fastened with strong iron lattices, and so completely overgrown with ivy, that not one gleam of daylight pierced through the thick leaves.
Evident preparation had, however, been made for their arrival. At one end of the room was spread a square carpet, and on it stood a table, on which were placed two most sacrilegious-looking wax-tapers: it is to be feared some poor sinner stayed longer in purgatory from the abduction of his offering. These threw their light on three large old chairs, covered with tapestry, which seemed long to have been the home of the moth—and also showed an open door, leading into another apartment. This Lady Mandeville prepared to explore. It was fitted up as a bed-room. On a dressing-table stood two more wax-tapers, but unlighted, a large looking-glass, and a most varied assortment of perfumes and fragrant oils. The two grated windows were here also covered with ivy; but the view was very confined.
Lady Mandeville approached the table, and opening one of the bottles of sweet essences, said, "I see our bandit chief is prepared for fainting and hysterics."
"How can you laugh? Hark! Did you not hear a step?"
"Yes, I heard my own. My dear Emily, do not be more frightened than is absolutely necessary. A heavy ransom is the worst that can befall us. According to the usual course of human affairs, we shall pay dearly for our amusement."
"I wish we had staid at the villa. What will Lord Mandeville say?"
"Wonder what induced us to leave England."
"Oh, if we were but in England now!"
"All our misfortunes originate in my acting against my principles. What business had I with simple and innocent pleasures—your dinings on the grass—your picturesque situations—your fresh water from the fountain? Mandeville may just blame himself: he was always talking of rural enjoyment, till I thought there must be something in it."
"But what shall we do?"
"The best we can. Try this lemon perfume."
Lady Mandeville was more alarmed than she would allow: still, the excitement of the adventure kept up her spirits. Moreover, she had been so accustomed to have every event happen according to her own will, that the possibility of the reverse was one of those misfortunes which we expect to happen to every one but ourselves.
The evening closed in. At last the rusty hinges of the door announced an arrival, and an old woman appeared bearing various kinds of food. She spread the table, and presently returned with two flasks of wine. She looked good-natured, and seemed civil; but the various attempts of Lady Mandeville to engage her in conversation were fruitless, as neither understood what the other said.
The supper was laid, and for three. The old woman left the room; and a few moments after, a cavalier made his appearance. Nothing could be more picturesque than his entrance. A large cloak enveloped his tall figure—the heroes of the Cobourg might have studied its folds; a profusion of feathers waved from his slouched hat; and his black whiskers and mustaches finished the effect. He flung the cloak most melodramatically over his left arm—took off the plumed hat, whose white feathers swept the floor—shewed a pair of silver-mounted pistols, and a dark-blue doublet laced with crimson and gold, and a worked falling collar. Wallack himself could not have dressed the bandit better. He was tall—handsome, in the style of the sublime and sallow—and advanced to the table with an ease whose only fault was, that it was too elaborate.
"I cannot but regret, ladies, that your first visit to the castle of my ancestors should be less voluntary than I could wish; but, alas! beauty has much to answer for."
"The courtesy of your manner," said Lady Mandeville, cautiously suppressing some sudden emotion of surprise, "belies that of your conduct. What can your motive be, if you welcome us as guests? If we accept your hospitality, we claim your protection."
"I would die to give you pleasure—I live but in your sight."
"Again let me ask you your motive for this outrage; or rather, let me entreat you to name our ransom, and give us the means of communicating with our friends."
"Ransom! name it not to me. Love, not gold, has led me on. Beautiful mistress of my heart, behold your slave!" and he dropped on one knee before Emily, who clung, half-fainting with surprise and fear, to Lady Mandeville. "I have loved you for years; in England, when an exile from my native country, I worshipped at a distance. I returned to Naples; but my heart was away in your cold island—our Southern beauties were lovely in vain—when, one day, I saw you on the strada. Alas! even then none but a lover might have hoped. I knew the pride of the English—how little my noble name or my fervent passion would avail with the haughty islanders, your friends. Love made me desperate. I assembled my vassals; and now sue at your feet for pardon."
Emily was speechless with dismay, when her romantic lover turned to Lady Mandeville.
"May I implore your intercession? Tell her that all she waves of entreaty now, shall be repaid in adoration after our marriage."
"Surely," said Lady Mandeville, retaining her self-possession, though with difficulty, "If you have been in England, you must know that Miss Arundel, as a minor, is dependent on the will of her guardian."
"Ah, his pleasure will follow hers. I have planned every thing. To-morrow morning my confessor will be here; he will unite us: and when her guardian, Lord Mandeville, returns, I shall implore your mediation. A few days will arrange all our affairs."
"I would rather die!" exclaimed Emily, roused into momentary energy.
"Ah, you young ladies do not always die when you talk about it. To-morrow will see you Countess di Frianchettini."
"Such a marriage," said Lady Mandeville, "would be a farce. Remember the inevitable punishment."
"Which it will then be the interest of my bride to avert. What rational objection can the lady urge? I offer her rank—to be mistress of my heart and my castle."
Lady Mandeville glanced round the dilapidated and empty room. The Count saw the look.
"Yes, our noble house has lost its ancient splendour. This has been the century of revolutions; and our family have not escaped. Should Miss Arundel prefer the security of her own more fortunate island, I am willing, for her sake, to make it my country. Alas! our Italy is as unfortunate as she is beautiful;—not hers the soil in which patriotism flourishes."
"The Count Frianchettini is a patriot, then? How does the violence practised upon us accord with his ideas of liberty?"
"Love, Signora, owns no rule. But, a thousand pardons—in the lover I forget the host. Permit me to hand you to the supper-table."
Decision is easy where there is no choice. Faint and bewildered, Emily took her seat, drawing, like a child, close to Lady Mandeville, who was at once alarmed and amused.
"I can recommend this macaroni, for it is my favourite dish: I am very national. You will not take any? Ah, young ladies are, or ought to be, light eaters. Your ladyship will, I trust, set your fair companion an example."
The Count at least did honour to the macaroni he recommended, contriving, nevertheless, to talk incessantly. He turned the conversation on England—named divers of their friends—asked if one was dead, and another married—and hoped Emily was as fond as ever of the Opera.
"We seem to have so many mutual acquaintances," remarked Lady Mandeville, carelessly, "I wonder we happen never to have met before."
The Count gave her a keen glance; but hers was a well-educated countenance;—even in ordinary intercourse she would have been as much ashamed of an unguarded expression of face as of language; and now it was under most careful restraint.
"Ah, your ladyship's circle was too gay for me. I was a misanthropic exile, who shrank from society. The object that might have induced me to join it I had not then beheld—I only saw Miss Arundel just before she left town. My sentence of banishment was revoked; but Naples had lost its charms when I saw the idol of my soul, and resolved she should be mine."
"Take my advice—restore us to our friends, and our gratitude"
"Signora, I have lived in the world, and prefer certainty to expectation. I will now retire;—late hours must not injure the roses I expect my bride to wear to-morrow. I go to guard your slumbers."
So saying, he folded his cloak around him, and departed—to say the truth, a little disappointed. Emily's state of breathless terror had disconcerted one of his plans. He had relied on producing something of an impression;—plumes, pistols, cloak, mustaches, passion, and an attitude, he had calculated were irresistible; but not a glance, except of fear, had been turned towards him. However, the game was in his own hands, and he cared little whether he roughed or smoothed it.
"Why, Emily!" exclaimed Lady Mandeville, unable, even under such circumstances, to suppress her laughter, do you not remember this hero of our 'Romance of the Castle?'"
Emily shook her head.
"Only dear, that Count Frianchettini, the lover and the patriot, is Signor Giulio, our old hair-dresser. I recognised him instantly. Oh, he must know enough of English people to be aware that this plan is ridiculous. What a hero for a melodrame! I will advise him to-morrow to come out at Covent Garden, and offer to patronise his benefit."
The old woman's entrance, to clear away the supper, broke off their dialogue. She pointed to their bed-room, made every offer of service by signs, and at length departed. They heard heavy bolts drawn on the outside of their door.
"What shall we do!" exclaimed Emily, bursting into tears.
"Why, I cannot advise your marriage, which absurd project I do not believe our romantic professeur will dare carry into execution. Only try to suppress all appearance of terror;—fear is his best encouragement; for fear, he clearly sees, is all he has to expect. Rely upon it he has been reading romances in England, and thought a picturesque chief of banditti would turn any young lady's head. So polite a coiffeur will surely never send one of our ears as a token for our ransom. Why. it would go to his heart to cut off a favourite curl."
"How dreary the room looks!—the dark floor—the discoloured walls—the huge shadows, which seem to move as I gaze!"
"The very place for ghosts and midnight murder. You must certainly re-furnish them—but quite in the antique style—when you are Countess di Frianchettini."
"How can you jest at the bare possibility of such a misfortune?"
"What is the use of crying? Thank God the children were left behind—they will give the alarm. I have arranged all the scene of to-morrow in my own mind. You will be dragged to the altar;—you will faint, of course; this occasions a delay—a sudden noise is heard—a party of soldiers rush in—a little fighting, and we are safe. It is so very unromantic to be rescued by one's husband: it would be such an opportunity for a lover. What do you say to Edward Lorraine—he would be a fitting hero for such an adventure?"
Emily blushed, but made no answer. Indeed, she was seized at that moment with a desire to explore their prison. The survey was soon finished. The first room contained nothing but the table and three large chairs: the other, whose only entrance was the door which led from the outer apartment, had two mattresses and the dressing-table; and the windows were only covered with a slight grating, which yielded to a touch. Lady Mandeville tore away some of the ivy, and looked out. There was water below—for the stars were reflected with the tremulous brightness which mirrors them in the wave; and a dark outline, as if of a steep and wooded bank, arose opposite.
"If the worst comes to the worst, we can but throw ourselves into the river: which would you like best—to be shot, stabbed, or drowned?"
Emily shuddered; and, to own the truth, as the cold night-air chilled them to the very heart, Lady Mandeville's spirits sank very considerably. Danger she could laugh at—for she could not force herself to believe it could menace her—but personal inconvenience made itself felt; and she trembled with cold, while Emily shook with fear. It was a pleasant prospect of passing the night, especially a night that looked to such a morning. They sat down on one of the mattresses—tired, but afraid to sleep—and very thankful that they had been half suffocated by their cloaks, which had been used to blindfold them—at least they now served to wrap them up.
Small evils make the worst part of great ones: it is so much easier to endure misfortune than to bear an inconvenience. Captain Franklin, half frozen on the Arctic shores, would not grumble one tithe so much as an elderly gentleman sitting in a draught.