Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 53
CHAPTER VII.
"You would say something that is sad—Speak!"
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"I'll come by Naples."
Shakespeare.
But we must again return to Spain, where a new subject of anxiety diverted Beatrice's attention—her mother's illness. She had soon not a moment she could call her own. Poor Donna Margaretta's situation was the more pitiable, as she both suffered and complained like a child. The remedies her case required it was next to impossible to induce her to take. One day she would be in the strong and angry excitement of fever, the next in the fretful despondency of ague. Now she would, even with tears, ask for the wine and food most hurtful, and then turn with loathing from her needful nourishment. With some difficulty, by appealing to his humanity, an old medical practitioner, from the nearest town, was prevailed on to visit them; thus doing for pity what he had refused to do for interest.
"My good child," said the old man, after seeing his patient, "I might have staid at home; the poor lady is far beyond all human assistance—a little care and a little kindness is all she will want on this side the grave—just let her do what she likes."
It was late, and he hurried to mount his mule, but not till—for his heart was touched by her desolate and deserted condition—not till he had told Beatrice he would always be glad to render her any service. Whether Donna Margaretta connected any vague idea with the stranger, or whether it was the mere instinct of weakness, it is impossible to tell, but from that day a strange terror of death fell upon her; she could not bear to be left for a moment—she would wake in the night and implore Beatrice piteously to save her. This impression was, however, as transitory as it was violent. As she grew weaker, she grew calmer and more affectionate. She would lean her head for hours on Beatrice's shoulder, only now and then applying to her some childish and endearing epithet. She was soon too much reduced to leave her bed; they used to raise her head with pillows, and Beatrice would sit beside, her arm round her neck; and her poor mother seemed, like a child, happy in being soothed and caressed. There is mercy in affliction; Donna Margaretta's memory could only have awakened to sorrow, and she died without a pang or a struggle, so quietly, that Beatrice, in whose embrace she lay, thought it was sleep. Wishing to wake her at her usual hour for refreshment, she kissed her—the chill of the lips made her shudder—she leant over them for a minute—the breath had passed away for ever.
Donna Margaretta's death was a blessing, but Beatrice could not think so at the time; her few objects for affection had made that affection proportionably intense. She had lost the only being she could serve—the only one to whom her care and kindness were of value—and we all know how they endear the objects on which they are bestowed—the whole business of her life was gone.
Perhaps the worst pang of death is the burial. One touch of human weakness mingled with the young Spaniard's sorrow. She was proud—very proud of her high and noble birth. A hundred chiefs of her blood slept in the chapel of San Francisco. But since the confiscation of her father's property, the house adjoining it in the town, besides being a day's journey distant, was turned into a military depot. She had no choice—her mother's tomb must be the green grass of the village burying-place. With added sorrow she had her interred there by torch-light—herself sole mourner. It was a relief to be unwitnessed. The two peasants who had assisted returned to the village—old Pedro and the negro, one of whom still retained his torch, attended Beatrice home—she followed the light mechanically. The agony with which she had watched the body laid in the earth—that fearful shudder which follows the falling of the mould on the coffin—the pressing down of the grass sods, as if the dead were conscious of their weight and soil—all this had subsided into stupor. She felt that strange disbelief in its reality that always succeeds violent grief.
Weak creatures that we are, for the body to overcome the mind as it does! Beatrice slept that night long and soundly—the bitterness of sorrow, affection, and anxiety sank beneath fatigue. The awakening after such sleep is one of the most dreadful moments in life. A consciousness of something terrible is upon even the first sensation—a vague idea of the truth comes like the remembrance of a dream; involuntarily the eyes close, as if to shut it out—the head sinks back on the pillow, as if to see whether another dream would not be a happier one. A gleam of light, a waving curtain, rouses the sleeper; the truth, the whole terrible truth, flashes out—and we start up as if we never could dream again.
In losing her mother, Beatrice lost her great employment—to provide her with small indulgences, and such amusements as she could enjoy, had been a sweet and constant study. The homely associations of life are its tenderest. No tears were more bitter than those Beatrice shed over the beautiful purple grapes which she had so carefully dried for her parent. One consolation she had—a little English Bible became the chief companion of her lonely hours.
Don Henriquez had much of that indifference to religion too often termed liberality The bigotted beliefs of his native creed were the last he ever thought of impressing. Their country-house stood entirely by itself, and the few priests who passed that way belonged to mendicant orders. Beatrice, with the generosity inherent in her nature, readily filled their scrips; and the friars were not very anxious about the principles of one whose actions were so truly Catholic. But it was impossible for a girl who lived in the solitude of nature, and who had been early tried by sorrow, not to be religious.
There are some works of God which most especially seem the work of his hands, and some ills of humanity which seem most of all to ask aid from above. The mighty gathering of the storms on her native mountains—the thunder that shook the earth—and the lightning that in an hour laid bare the depths of the forest which had stood still and shadowy for years—the starry silence of the summer nights—the mystery of the large and bright planets, filled the young heart that was lifted up by their beauty with deep and solemn thoughts. Again, her desolate situation—the dangers beyond her ability to foresee or to avoid, made her at once feel her nothingness and her need of protection. The holy page, read at first for its beauty, was soon resorted to for its power. Beatrice dwelt on the gentle promises made to the afflicted, and the words of encouragement spoken to the simple, till hope rose strong within her, and grew to be that clear and steady light "which hideth not its face in the time of trouble." Beatrice was a genuine Christian, if entire trust, deep humility, and earnest conviction, could make one. True, the Bible was almost the only religious book she had ever read, but she had indeed read it with all her heart.
She was leaning over the sacred volume one night, when a dark shadow fell upon the very lines she was reading. Beatrice looked up and saw a man standing before her; the huge sombero overshadowed his face, but the light of the lamp shone on a large and glittering knife in his girdle. She started from her seat; but mastering her fear in a moment, she stood, and, calmly facing the stranger, inquired his errand. The man laughed.
"Your father need not be ashamed of you; but if you had been frightened, it would have been at nothing."
"My father!" exclaimed Beatrice; "Is he safe?"
"Safe enough, if he will but keep quiet; but I bring a note from him, and you had better read that than question me. I am not over-safe in these quarters myself. I have kept faith with him—mind that when you see your father."
Laying a soiled and crumpled letter on the table, the smuggler turned to depart.
"Is there nothing you will have—nothing I can do to show my gratitude?"
"I doubt," said the man, "whether your cellar be worth my risking a capture for its contents."
"At least," exclaimed Beatrice, "take this;" and she poured the contents of her purse into his hand.
"Four—five—six gold pieces!" replied he, hesitatingly—"I have been paid."
"Take them as a gift, and God bless you for the happiness you have brought me."
"A free gift!—many thanks to you, lady."
A slight sound—it was but the wind in the vine-branches—startled the man; he laid his hand on his knife, and darted through the casement; in less than a minute all was as silent as before. Eagerly Beatrice opened the letter—it was from her father, and ran thus:—
"My beloved child,—The iron hand of despotism has quenched the last spark of liberty; hunted down like a wild beast, I am watching an opportunity to fly my degraded and enslaved country. Some far and foreign land must henceforth be the home of the unfortunate exile. Will my Beatrice soothe and share her parent's ill-starred lot? I am hastening to Naples—you know the address on the packet. I shall be at Senhor Pachetti's—join me there, if possible, with your poor mother. I know this will require equal presence of mind and exertion—surely I may expect both in a daughter of mine? Come with all the speed you can; I doubt not to be there before you, and shall be impatient in the happiness of the father to forget the wrongs of the patriot. God keep you, my sweet child.
"Your affectionate father,
"Henriquez de los Zoridos.
"Burn this letter instantly."
Beatrice kissed the scroll, and held it over the lamp—it was too wet with her tears to burn rapidly. "Your poor mother!"—and must their first meeting be embittered by words of death? But she was too young to dwell only on the sorrow; her heart beat hurriedly and joyfully as she thought that her father and Lorraine must inevitably meet. Her first impulse was to make every effort to reach Naples, but calmer deliberation induced her to renounce this plan. Love increases a woman's timidity—the more she thought of Edward, the more did she shrink from so long and unprotected a journey. It cost her a sleepless night; but she resolved on staying in Spain till she either saw or heard from him—he and Don Henriquez, when they met, would decide on what course it might be best to pursue.
We waste a great deal of thought. As is usual in all cases of long deliberation, she did precisely the reverse of what she intended. The following afternoon she was wandering round what had been her mother's garden—all her life's sweetest associations were there—when she saw a peasant approaching. Alvarez was the soldier who had so attracted Lorraine's attention the first evening he rode into the village, and during his stay he had found a home beneath his roof;—Alvarez, too, had served under her father: a visit from him was, therefore, nothing uncommon; but to-day there was an appearance of haste and anxiety that augured any thing but good. Yet he hesitated; and a basket of pomegranates he brought from his little Minora, was evidently the ostensible, not the real cause of his coming.
"The Senhora must find the old house very lonely."
"Lonely and sad enough, indeed, my good Alvarez."
"Is she not afraid, now that the nights are so long and dark—has nothing occurred to alarm the Senhora lately?"
"We have nothing to lose—we leave fear to the rich—besides, I am a soldier's daughter; do you allow Minora to tremble at either robbers or ghosts?"
"But, lady, have you seen no one about the house whose appearance was calculated to excite suspicion?"
"I have seen no one to excite dread," replied Beatrice, with a slight accent on the last word.
"Pardon, lady, but was there a stranger about your house last night?"
Beatrice started—had her father's messenger been seen? to-day it could be of no avail, and distrust might bring on the very danger she would fain avoid.
"There was, Alvarez; from you I need not hide that he came from my father."
"My brave captain!—is he safe?"
"Safe, but now watching for an opportunity for flight."
"Now, the saints help us, not in this neighbourhood?"
"Far away, but where, even I know not."
"I will tell you all, Senhora. Pedro rushed in last night to the cottage where they sell wine, in a fright at some dark figure he had seen hovering about. I had my own thoughts, and, by old stories of his early cowardice, raised a laugh, and hoped the dark figure was forgotten. But there were others besides ourselves—two strangers, whose business here has puzzled us all; they left this morning; and from what they said at parting, the old house will be filled with soldiers before midnight. The idea is abroad that Don Henriquez has sought shelter here."
"Thank God it is not so," gasped his daughter.
"Are there any papers of importance?"
"None—none."
"Then, lady, collect any valuables you can hastily, and prepare for a retreat with me. Your arrest was spoken of—and you know rough measures are used when a secret is in the case."
The thoughts of torture, imprisonment, separation from all she loved, made Beatrice's heart die within her—almost helplessly she clung to the old man's arm. She loved, and to her life now was valuable.
"Nay, nay, my poor girl, you must not want the courage you had as a child. I have a plan. You have heard me tell of the cave where Minora and her brother were concealed: it is a good hiding-place yet. Meet me in an hour by the three ilexes in the wood, and I will answer for your security."
"But my nurse and Pedro"
"Do not, like you, incur danger. Don Henriquez would confide in his daughter, but not in servants whose characters for gossip the whole neighbourhood can swear to—leave them in ignorance: a secret brings its own risk, and their safety is insured by their anxiety. An hour hence at the three ilexes."
Alvarez went off without waiting for an answer. It is the luxury of parting, to wander round places haunted by our childish steps and hallowed by our childish thoughts, and to loiter beneath the old trees where we have not always stood alone. But this was no luxury for Beatrice. She caught a handful of late rose-leaves, and hid them in the folds of her dress—she turned one last look on the fountain—she could not have looked again for the world.
On returning to the house, her nurse asking her the simple question of what she was to do with the pomegranates, smote on her heart with a new and bitter feeling of deception. Hastily she collected together the few articles of value left: a chain of gold, a little ruby cross, her English Bible, and the unbroken sum of pistoles she had collected for her former journey. Fortunately, she met none of its other inmates as she left the house—she must have betrayed her purpose.
It was at least three miles to the ilexes, but she proceeded with a light fleet step, and gained the appointed place. It was too late to retire unperceived, when she caught sight of the white veil of a female.
Her anxiety was but for a moment—the girl turned, and there was all the encouragement of youth, health, and good spirits, in the bright black eyes of Minora.
"My father thought my absence would be less marked than his—so, if you will, Senhora, I am to be your guide to the poor old cave. Garcia and I were very happy there."
A narrow, almost imperceptible path led them through the thickest of the wood. Two or three times they had to creep under boughs which, but for the ease with which they gave way, would seem never to have admitted a passage before. Suddenly the trees were broken by some masses of gray rock, round which dwarf myrtles grew in great profusion.
Here Minora stopped, and took from her basket a little lamp made of horn. Striking fire from some flints laid ready, she lighted the lamp; and giving Beatrice the basket, bade her follow her. Lifting up a heavy and luxuriant branch of the myrtle, she showed what seemed the rough bare rock beneath; and asking her companion to hold the lamp also, with both hands she raised a large slanting stone—it showed a passage, into which Beatrice entered with some difficulty, together with her companion.
Minora first carefully replaced the myrtle-branch, then the stone, and taking the basket, bade Beatrice proceed along the passage, which was too narrow to admit of more than one at a time. This soon terminated in an open space, from which branched off several small paths. Minora now took the lead. "You will observe," said she, holding the lamp to the ground, "that the passage we take has a slight redness in the sand—the others lead to nothing."
A short while brought them to the cave itself. By the lamp was dimly visible their own figures, and what seemed the immense depths of surrounding darkness. There was a sound, as if of falling water. Minora first turned to a pile of wood, and, with Beatrice's aid, a very brilliant fire soon illuminated the cavern. It looked more comfortable than picturesque: the walls and roof were blackened with smoke—the floor was of a light dry sand—at one end was a huge arch, down which water kept constantly trickling, and beneath was a deep well, by the side of which was a ledge of rock, where any person might walk—beyond it was quite dark.
"There is a passage, but it terminates in a piece of water, and the rock soon comes so low that there is no getting beyond it; and though the smugglers do come here still, this is not now their time—and you are as safe here as in the Escurial."
Minora heaped fresh fuel on the fire, and shewed where some heath and dried goat-skins formed a very respectable bed; while her companion sighed to remember that she herself had once resorted to a similar expedient. Next she lighted some half-a-dozen fir-wood splinters—excellent torches, for whose support some rude wooden stands had been inserted in the walls—and pointed out in a recess a most ample supply.
"Be sure you keep a good fire; and as I may do you more harm than good by staying, I leave you to take what food you please from the basket. There's some honey, as clear as my own amber beads. The good Madonna keep you, Senhora!" and, affectionately kissing Beatrice's hands, the kind peasant departed.
Beatrice paced up and down her dreary cave, every moment starting from her reverie, as the sound of the falling water startled her like a strange step. With a strong effort she calmed herself, and, drawing one of the wooden seats to the fire, opened the little volume, and read till all vain terrors had departed, and even her natural anxiety was soothed into patient and sweet reliance on Him who suffereth not a sparrow to fall to the ground unheeded.
She had a little French watch,—Lorraine's only gift. He had said, laughingly, to her the last evening they spent together, "You shall have this to count the hours of my absence." He did not think how sweet a companion it would be. Time, which we have no means of reckoning, is so dreadfully long. How often, that night, did Beatrice refer, with a warm feeling of society, to the little glittering face over which the hours were passing! The weariest time of all seemed the morning after she rose. It was impossible to fix her attention on any thing, while every moment expecting some intelligence from without. At last she heard footsteps, and Minora came running before her father.
"Ah, Senhora, we have been so anxious about you! If it had been possible, I would have returned and spent the night with you; for we said, to a stranger our good cave will seem a little dreary. How did you sleep? See—we have brought you some breakfast. I have some chocolate to-day."
"Many thanks for your intended breakfast; but, truly, your yesterday's supply was sufficient. If I had expected visitors, I could have feasted them in my cavern. But my nurse and Pedro?"——
"Are well, and in our cottage. As I expected, the soldiers came down, and"—here Alvarez made the usual pause of narrators who have something unpleasant to tell. It usually happens that people by breaking, as they call it, their bad news gradually, contrive to add suspense to our other miseries.
"What has happened?" said Beatrice, gasping for breath.
"The fine old house, lady, it has been burned to the ground."
Beatrice struggled for a moment; but it was in vain. She hid her face in her hands, and wept bitterly. Strange, the affection which clings to inanimate objects—objects which cannot even know our love! But it is not return that constitutes the strength of an attachment.
"They questioned your nurse," said Alvarez, "till her poor head was even more bewildered than usual; but it was soon very evident she knew nothing of the matter. Pedro knew even less; and at last the officer let them go. 'He would not have,' he said, 'the poor old creatures injured in any way.' They were sent off to the village, and then the house was fired."
"I am glad," sighed Beatrice, "my father did not see it."
"And now, Senhora, what is to be done about yourself? I have seen enough of you to know it is far best to tell you the truth. In about a week this cavern will be no refuge for you: its old occupants will be here. You will not be safe an hour in my cottage."
"If," exclaimed Beatrice, "I could but get to the sea-shore, and embark for Naples!"
"Have you friends you could trust there? You are very young, and"—
"I should find my father there."
"Very well—very good indeed. We may get to the coast; but to cross the wide sea, we know not whither, is a dreary look-out. Now, Senhora, you and Minora are of a height; her clothes will suit you, and you must pass as my daughter for two days. I will go and see you on board myself. The neighbours trouble their heads very little about my outward journeyings. We will be off to-morrow."
"The kindness you have shown me will, I hope, never be needed by your own child. Nothing can be better than your plan. I will not speak to you of trouble: I take your assistance as frankly as it is offered."
"You will have but a rough journey."
"Oh, never fear me! I am mountain-bred."
"We will return home as fast as we can, Minora; you must come back with what the Donna Beatrice can best wear on her journey—no fine colours—the dark-feathered bird flies safest. The saints keep you, Senhora! Will you be ready to start by daybreak to-morrow?"
"One word, good Alvarez. You see"— producing her purse—"I am well provided for a journey."
"A good companion on travel; and, to tell you the truth, Senhora, the one we most wanted."
Again Beatrice was left to her loneliness, broken, however, by Minora's afternoon visit. It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. The young peasant left the cave, happy in the possession of a rosary of cut coral beads, which, after much blushing, smiling, and refusing, she had at length been forced to accept. She was also depositary of the golden chain, the produce of whose sale was to be devoted to the nurse's support.
That night was even longer than its predecessor. Anticipation is a bad sleeping draught. Moreover, the fear of being too late made Beatrice continually start from her anxious slumber. Long before the time she was up and dressed. Her new apparel consisted of a dark blue boddice and skirt, trimmed with a narrow red braid; a white linen veil, and large cloak of black serge, with a capacious hood; stockings of dark blue cloth—hempen sandals. A string of large black oaken beads completed her dress. Minora, with a true fellow-feeling, had placed her own little mirror at the bottom of the basket; and, it must be owned, Beatrice did take a rather satisfactory glance. Even in the very worst of situations, no woman is quite insensible to her personal attractions, or would willingly look worse than she can help. Small attentions, too, are essentially womanly.
Beatrice hurried her own breakfast, that there might be no delay on her part, but prepared some of the chocolate for Alvarez, who was punctual to his time. "Why, I could almost take you for Minora," said the old man, on his entrance. "What! breakfast—and the chocolate made? Well, you know the old proverb, 'Meat and drink never hindered journey.' Very good it is too—though I had breakfasted—for, with your leave, Senhora, we did not give you credit for being half so ready."
A soft gray tinge, half mist, half light, pale as it was, dazzled Beatrice's eyes when she emerged from the cave. Two mules were in waiting: she sprang lightly upon the one intended for her. At first cautiously—from the broken path—and afterwards at a brisk pace, they commenced their journey. Beatrice's own embarrassment was its only difficulty. Accustomed to live in such unbroken solitude, the sight of the many strangers they met almost bewildered her. The light conversation in which Alvarez at times joined was like the language of another world. She fancied every person looked especially at her. How odd it is, that any secret or anxiety of which we are ourselves aware, we immediately think every one else suspects!
They arrived about noon at the sea-port, and alighted at a small inn, where Alvarez left her, with a rough charge, not to be staring about, under the care of a good-humoured but most talkative landlady. He had, at every place where they stopped, been as cross to his supposed daughter as a crabbed old gentleman could be, which served to account for her shyness, and for which he always begged pardon as soon as they were out of hearing. She waited a half hour of intolerable anxiety, when Alvarez returned. "Come, girl—I have found out your aunt—there, don't be looking behind—and draw your veil over your face. How slow you are!"
"Well, well," said the landlady, "he ought to take care of his daughter—she is pretty enough; but no good will come of his being so cross."
"We are very fortunate, Senhora," said Alvarez, as soon as they were in the street; "there is a felucca on the point of sailing to Naples— I have secured a passage, but we must not lose a minute."
They had scarcely time to get on board. Dizzy with the motion of the water, confused with the noise, terrified to think she would be alone in a few minutes,—much as she wished to spare his anxiety, Beatrice could hardly force out her fare well thanks to Alvarez. Mechanically she watched him as he descended to the boat—heavily the sound of the oars smote upon her ear—she looked eagerly round, but every face was strange and careless: how bitterly did she feel that she was alone!
"I guess how it is," said the captain of the ship, whose kind and even sweet voice contrasted strongly with his rough appearance; "you are not the first who has found a canvass sail safer than a silken bed. Poor child! you look very young for care or hardship. Well, you are secure enough here: if we cannot make you comfortable, at least we will try. In half an hour you will have a snug little cabin to yourself."
Beatrice had early learnt the useful lesson of conforming to circumstances: she thanked the captain cheerfully, and readily took a seat on some piled baskets. "Give me the child to hold," exclaimed our young Spaniard to a poor woman, whose increasing faintness made her terribly conscious of her in ability and her charge. The poor creature murmured a few words, gave up the infant, and let her head sink on a coil of ropes. When the captain came to say that her cabin was ready, her first request was that her unfortunate companion might be conveyed thither also; and for some hours she most kindly and soothingly enacted the part of nurse to the child. Luckily for her, it was a good little sleepy thing. Over-fatigue and exhaustion were evidently the mother's causes of illness. Alvarez, even in the brief space of time he had been absent, had stocked a sea-chest with many little comforts and necessaries. She took some wine and a piece of biscuit, and with some difficulty induced the invalid to swallow them, who, after slumbering for about an hour, awoke much revived. With a degree of gratitude almost painful to receive, she soon joined Beatrice in doing due honour to some eggs and coffee, which the latter, who had already made friends with a boy, who, too young for much work, was yet proud of shewing his usefulness, had boiled.
A good action always meets its reward—so says the copy book: in this instance it said the truth—for Beatrice found her companion invaluable. She was the widow of a sailor, returning home to her friends at Naples. Active, and well known to the sailors, she enabled the young and timid voyager to remain almost entirely secluded in her cabin, which she never left save for a little air in the evening.
It would have done those good who talk of common feelings as evil and coarse to mark the little attentions, the delicate kindliness, with which the sailors cleared a path for her steps, or made a seat of planks and sails for the young Spanish exile. Alvarez had told her history truly. He judged rightly, because he judged others by the better part of his own nature. Yet it was a weary and sad voyage. Beatrice had never lived in luxury, but she had in refinement—the refinement of nature, solitude, and intellectual pursuits. She had dwelt in stately rooms, whose torn tapestries and shattered furniture were associated with noble and stirring memories; her lute, a few books, and gentle cares for her mother, had filled up her time. Her eyes had dwelt on the stately forest and the dark mountain; her step was accustomed to the silver dew and the fragrant heath. She had been used to familiar faces, and had hitherto reckoned time but by the falling leaf or the opening flower. Now her room was a wretched cabin the size of a closet, and that, too, rudely formed of boards. The incessant noise, the loud voices, the savour of the pitch, which seemed to be part of every thing she touched—the strange faces, the faint sick feeling that perpetually stole over her, made her indeed pine for the wings of the dove that nestled in the trees of her native woods.
If it were not for romance, reality would be unbearable: nevertheless, they are very different things. Beatrice had often thought, with a passionate longing, of the eternal ocean, the mighty mirror of the stars and the sunshine of heaven—she had listened to the autumn wind sweeping the depths of the dark woods, and marvelled if its sound resembled the stormy murmur of the waves: but, now that she was at sea, most devoutly did she pray to be on shore, and wept with very delight when they saw land.
I doubt whether any minor on his travels, sleeping in his carriage on deck, secure of being awakened by his valet at the proper moment for being in ecstasies with the lovely bay of Naples, ever approached its shore with greater indifference as to the prospect than Beatrice. She was much too agitated to observe it, and watched the crowd on the quay with mingled terror and anxiety. The idea that Lorraine might be among them was uppermost in her mind. A vague hope of her lover's presence is always floating in a woman's mind; and though Beatrice said she hoped to meet her father, she thought she might perhaps meet Edward too.
Her companion had promised to be her guide to Signor Pachetti's, who, she was somewhat surprised to learn, was a gold-beater on the Strada. Still, with the natural feeling of one who has lived in seclusion, it seemed impossible but that a crowd so immense must contain those she sought. With brief but earnest thanks she quitted the felucca, and her last few coins were left with the sailors of the boat. Clinging to, rather than leaning on, the arm of the woman with her, Beatrice's head swam with the confusion of meeting so many eyes. With what envy did she see her companion rush into the arms of an old man!—"il mio padre," exclaimed she, and gave him the child. Some hasty words passed between them, and in a few moments they were traversing a narrow street which led to the Strada, and soon stopped at a small, mean-looking shop.
Taking leave of her kind companions, who seemed very reluctant to go in, Beatrice entered alone. A harsh voice, in an unfamiliar language, demanded her business. How strange does another tongue sound in our ears! Though perfectly acquainted with Italian, the question was thrice repeated before she comprehended its meaning. Glancing hurriedly around, to ascertain if they were alone, she approached the thin, miserable-looking being whose figure began to emerge from the surrounding darkness; she leant forward, and, in a whisper, pronounced the pass-word taught by her father. The old man hastily pulled down his spectacles from their sinecure office on his forehead, and looked at her with an expression of most angry amazement. "Now, the good St. Januarius help me! but it is my opinion that all the world are gone mad. Women and mischief, women and mischief—when were they ever separate?"
"I shall trouble you but little," said Beatrice, her pride and her presence of mind rising together: "I am the daughter of Don Henriquez de los Zoridos: my father is here, I believe, and it is at his bidding that I have come."
"Don Henriquez here!—no, indeed: evil was the hour that ever I listened to any of his wild schemes! Why, the insurrection he went to head, and which was to change the whole face of affairs in Spain, was blown away like a swarm of musquitos. Zoridos has, I dare say, been killed—I have heard nothing of him—I know nothing about him."
"A fortnight," said Beatrice, "has not elapsed since I heard from my father: he appointed to meet me here, as at the house of one who knew his secrets and held his property."
"Property!" said the man hastily, and with a more civil manner—"I never denied it—I am a safe person to trust. So the Don has escaped? I hope he's by this time sick of conspiracies. One wax taper, two wax tapers, to the good Saint Januarius, to set me free of these luckless Carbonari! No good comes of change. How has the world gone on so long, if every thing needs altering now? But you, Senhora, what do you want with me?"
"Protection in a strange city till my father's arrival—or till I can hear from my friends. Fear not that Don Henriquez will spare his reward."
"Well, if this is not too bad!"
But what the new speaker, a woman, thought too bad, was not destined to be expressed at this moment; for, Signer Pachetti hastily dragging his most unwilling companion into some room behind, their words were quite inaudible. In a few minutes they reappeared. Signer Pachetti introduced the female as his wife, who desired the Donna to walk in—in a tone which sounded as if she had said, walk out.
The evening had now closed in, and a little earthenware lamp dimly lighted a small close room, where a table was laid, apparently for supper. Her hostess pushed forwards a chair, and, after examining the contents of a closet, sat down also. The husband, who had employed the interval in closing the shop, re-entered, and likewise drew a chair to the table. A hungry-looking hag brought in a dish of fried fish; and supper began in the most profound silence, only broken by Signor Pachetti's occasionally offering to help his guest, which he did in a hesitating voice, and every word accompanied by a deprecating glance at his wife, who returned it with one of those dark frowns which are the black clouds that foretell a domestic tempest.
Beatrice now found herself in that most painful situation—an unwelcome visitor—knowing that she was an intruder, yet utterly unable to help herself. Supper was scarcely over, when her hostess rose—"I suppose the stranger sleeps here—you can come this way." So saying, she lighted another lamp, and showed her unfortunate guest to a room, the dirt and misery of whose appearance was as new to her as it was wretched. Without a word, she set down the lamp, and slammed the door—the very eloquence of anger to the vulgar.
Disappointment too great to bear—vexation at the timidity which had prevented her asking about Lorraine—anger at her reception—dismay at her situation, overcame all her resolution, and it was long before she even struggled with her passion of tears. The absurdity would have lightened the insult, could she have suspected that her hostess was jealous, not inhospitable. Jealousy ought to be tragic, to save it from being ridiculous.