On the day following two carriages
rolled out of Rome, and took the road toward Florence
by the way of Civita Castellana. One carriage
held four ladies; the other one was occupied by four
lady’s-maids and the luggage of the party.
It was early morning, and over the
wide Campagna there still hung mists, which were dissipated
gradually as the sun arose. As they went on the
day advanced, and with the departing mists there opened
up a wide view. On either side extended the desolate
Campagna, over which passed lines of ruined aqueducts
on their way from the hills to the city. Here
and there crumbling ruins arose above the plain some
ancient, others medieval, none modern. Before
them, in the distance, arose the Apennines, among
which were, here and there, visible the white outlines
of some villa or hamlet.
For mile after mile they drove on;
and the drive soon proved very monotonous. It
was nothing but one long and unvarying plain, with
this only change, that every mile brought them nearer
to the mountains. As the mountains were their
only hope, they all looked forward eagerly to the
time when they would arrive there and wind along the
road among them.
Formerly Mrs. Willoughby alone had
been the confidante of Minnie’s secret, but
the events of the past few days had disclosed most
of her troubles to the other ladies also, at least
as far as the general outlines were concerned.
The consequence was, that they all knew perfectly
well the reason why they were traveling in this way,
and Minnie knew that they all knew it. Yet this
unpleasant consciousness did not in the least interfere
with the sweetness of her temper and the gentleness
of her manner. She sat there, with a meek smile
and a resigned air, as though the only part now left
her in life was the patient endurance of her unmerited
wrongs. She blamed no one; she made no complaint;
yet there was in her attitude something so touching,
so clinging, so pathetic, so forlorn, and in her face
something so sweet, so sad, so reproachful, and so
piteous, that she enforced sympathy; and each one
began to have a half-guilty fear that Minnie had been
wronged by her. Especially did Mrs. Willoughby
feel this. She feared that she had neglected
the artless and simple-minded child; she feared that
she had not been sufficiently thoughtful about her;
and now longed to do something to make amends for
this imaginary neglect. So she sought to make
the journey as pleasant as possible by cheerful remarks
and lively observations. None of these things,
however, produced any effect upon the attitude of
Minnie. She sat there, with unalterable sweetness
and unvarying patience, just like a holy martyr, who
freely forgave all her enemies, and was praying for
those who had despitefully used her.
The exciting events consequent upon
the Baron’s appearance, and his sudden revelation
in the rôle of Minnie’s lover, had exercised
a strong and varied effect upon all; but upon one
its result was wholly beneficial, and this was Ethel.
It was so startling and so unexpected that it had
roused her from her gloom, and given her something
to think of. The Baron’s debut in their
parlor had been narrated to her over and over by each
of the three who had witnessed it, and each gave the
narrative her own coloring. Lady Dalrymple’s
account was humorous; Mrs. Willoughby’s indignant;
Minnie’s sentimental. Out of all these
Ethel gained a fourth idea, compounded of these three,
which again blended with another, and an original
one of her own, gained from a personal observation
of the Baron, whose appearance on the stairs and impatient
summons for “Min” were very vividly impressed
on her memory. In addition to this there was
the memory of that day on which they endeavored to
fight off the enemy.
That was, indeed, a memorable day,
and was now alluded to by them all as the day of the
siege. It was not without difficulty that they
had withstood Minnie’s earnest protestations,
and intrenched themselves. But Mrs. Willoughby
was obdurate, and Minnie’s tears, which flowed
freely, were unavailing.
Then there came the first knock of
the impatient and aggressive visitor, followed by
others in swift succession, and in ever-increasing
power. Every knock went to Minnie’s heart.
It excited an unlimited amount of sympathy for the
one who had saved her life, and was now excluded from
her door. But as the knocks grew violent and
imperative, and Minnie grew sad and pitiful, the other
ladies grew indignant. Lady Dalrymple was on
the point of sending off for the police, and only
Minnie’s frantic entreaties prevented this.
At last the door seemed almost beaten in, and their
feelings underwent a change. They were convinced
that he was mad, or else intoxicated. Of the
madness of love they did not think. Once convinced
that he was mad, they became terrified. The maids
all hid themselves. None of them now would venture
out even to call the police. They expected that
the concierge would interpose, but in vain. The
concierge was bribed.
After a very eventful day night came.
They heard footsteps pacing up and down, and knew
that it was their tormentor. Minnie’s heart
again melted with tender pity for the man whose love
for her had turned his head, and she begged to be
allowed to speak to him. But this was not permitted.
So she went to bed and fell asleep. So, in process
of time, did the others, and the night passed without
any trouble. Then morning came, and there was
a debate as to who should confront the enemy.
There was no noise, but they knew that he was there.
At last Lady Dalrymple summoned up her energies, and
went forth to do battle. The result has already
been described in the words of the bold Baron himself.
But even this great victory did not
reassure the ladies. Dreading another visit,
they hurried away to a hotel, leaving the maids to
follow with the luggage as soon as possible. On
the following morning they had left the city.
Events so very exciting as these had
produced a very natural effect upon the mind of Ethel.
They had thrown her thoughts out of their old groove,
and fixed them in a new one. Besides, the fact
that she was actually leaving the man who had caused
her so much sorrow was already a partial relief.
She had dreaded meeting him so much that she had been
forced to keep herself a prisoner. A deep grief
still remained in her heart; but, at any rate, there
was now some pleasure to be felt, if only of a superficial
kind.
As for Mrs. Willoughby, in spite of
her self-reproach about her purely imaginary neglect
of Minnie, she felt such an extraordinary relief that
it affected all her nature. The others might feel
fatigue from the journey. Not she. She was
willing to continue the journey for an indefinite
period, so long as she had the sweet consciousness
that she was bearing Minnie farther and farther away
from the grasp of “that horrid man.”
The consequence was, that she was lively, lovely,
brilliant, cheerful, and altogether delightful.
She was as tender to Minnie as a mother could be.
She was lavish in her promises of what she would do
for her. She chatted gayly with Ethel about a
thousand things, and was delighted to find that Ethel
reciprocated. She rallied Lady Dalrymple on her
silence, and congratulated her over and over, in spite
of Minnie’s frowns, on the success of her generalship.
And so at last the weary Campagna was traversed, and
the two carriages began to ascend among the mountains.
Several other travelers were passing
over that Campagna road, and in the same direction.
They were not near enough for their faces to be discerned,
but the ladies could look back and see the signs of
their presence. First there was a carriage with
two men, and about two miles behind another carriage
with two other men; while behind these, again, there
rode a solitary horseman, who was gradually gaining
on the other travelers.
Now, if it had been possible for Mrs.
Willoughby to look back and discern the faces of the
travelers who were moving along the road behind her,
what a sudden overturn there would have been in her
feelings, and what a blight would have fallen upon
her spirits! But Mrs. Willoughby remained in
the most blissful ignorance of the persons of these
travelers, and so was able to maintain the sunshine
of her soul.
At length there came over that sunny
soul the first cloud.
The solitary horseman, who had been
riding behind, had overtaken the different carriages.
The first carriage contained Lord
Hawbury and Scone Dacres. As the horseman passed,
he recognized them with a careless nod and smile.
Scone Dacres grasped Lord Hawbury’s arm.
“Did you see him?” he
cried. “The Italian! I thought so!
What do you say now? Wasn’t I right?”
“By Jove!” cried Lord Hawbury.
Whereupon Dacres relapsed into silence,
sitting upright, glaring after the horseman, cherishing
in his gloomy soul the darkest and most vengeful thoughts.
The horseman rode on further, and
overtook the next carriage. In this there were
two men, one in the uniform of the Papal Zouaves,
the other in rusty black. He turned toward these,
and greeted them with the same nod and smile.
“Do you see that man, parson?”
said the Baron to his companion. “Do you
recognize him?”
“No.”
“Well, you saw him at Minnie’s house.
He came in.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Didn’t he? No.
By thunder, it wasn’t that time. Well, at
any rate, that man, I believe, is at the bottom of
the row. It’s my belief that he’s
trying to cut me out, and he’ll find he’s
got a hard row to hoe before he succeeds in that project.”
And with these words the Baron sat
glaring after the Italian, with something in his eye
that resembled faintly the fierce glance of Scone
Dacres.
The Italian rode on. A few miles
further were the two carriages. Minnie and her
sister were sitting on the front seats, and saw the
stranger as he advanced. He soon came near enough
to be distinguished, and Mrs. Willoughby recognized
Girasole.
Her surprise was so great that she
uttered an exclamation of terror, which startled the
other ladies, and made them all look in that direction.
“How very odd!” said Ethel, thoughtfully.
“And now I suppose you’ll
all go and say that I brought him too,”
said Minnie. “That’s always
the way you do. You never seem to think
that I may be innocent. You always blame
me for every little mite of a thing that may happen.”
No one made any remark, and there
was silence in the carriage as the stranger approached.
The ladies bowed somewhat coolly, except Minnie, who
threw upon him the most imploring look that could possibly
be sent from human eyes, and the Italian’s impressible
nature thrilled before those beseeching, pleading,
earnest, unfathomable, tender, helpless, innocent
orbs. Removing his hat, he bowed low.
“I haf not been awara,”
he said, politely, in his broken English, “that
youar ladysippa’s bin intend to travalla.
Ees eet not subito intenzion?”
Mrs. Willoughby made a polite response
of a general character, the Italian paused a moment
to drink in deep draughts from Minnie’s great
beseeching eyes that were fixed upon his, and then,
with a low bow, he passed on.
“I believe I’m losing my senses,”
said Mrs. Willoughby.
“Why, Kitty darling?” asked Minnie.
“I don’t know how it is,
but I actually trembled when that man came up, and
I haven’t got over it yet.”
“I’m sure I don’t
see why,” said Minnie. “You’re
always imagining things, though. Now isn’t
she, Ethel dearest?”
“Well, really, I don’t
see much in the Count to make one tremble. I
suppose poor dear Kitty has been too much agitated
lately, and it’s her poor nerves.”
“I have my lavender, Kitty dear,”
said Lady Dalrymple. “Won’t you take
it? Or would you prefer valerian?”
“Thanks, much, but I do not
need it,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “I
suppose it will pass off.”
“I’m sure the poor Count
never did any body any harm,” said Minnie, plaintively;
“so you needn’t all abuse him so unless
you’re all angry at him for saving my life.
I remember a time when you all thought very differently,
and all praised him up, no end.”
“Really, Minnie darling, I have
nothing against the Count, only once he was a little
too intrusive; but he seems to have got over that;
and if he’ll only be nice and quiet and proper,
I’m sure I’ve nothing to say against him.”
They drove on for some time, and at
length reached Civita Castellana. Here they
drove up to the hotel, and the ladies got out and went
up to their apartments. They had three rooms
up stairs, two of which looked out into the street,
while the third was in the rear. At the front
windows was a balcony.
The ladies now disrobed themselves,
and their maids assisted them to perform the duties
of a very simple toilet. Mrs. Willoughby’s
was first finished. So she walked over to the
window, and looked out into the street.
It was not a very interesting place,
nor was there much to be seen; but she took a lazy,
languid interest in the sight which met her eyes.
There were the two carriages. The horses were
being led to water. Around the carriages was
a motley crowd, composed of the poor, the maimed,
the halt, the blind, forming that realm of beggars
which from immemorial ages has flourished in Italy.
With these was intermingled a crowd of ducks, geese,
goats, pigs, and ill-looking, mangy, snarling curs.
Upon these Mrs. Willoughby looked
for some time, when at length her ears were arrested
by the roll of wheels down the street. A carriage
was approaching, in which there were two travelers.
One hasty glance sufficed, and she turned her attention
once more to the ducks, geese, goats, dogs, and beggars.
In a few minutes the crowd was scattered by the newly-arrived
carriage. It stopped. A man jumped out.
For a moment he looked up, staring hard at the windows.
That moment was enough. Mrs. Willoughby had recognized
him.
She rushed away from the windows.
Lady Dalrymple and Ethel were in this room, and Minnie
in the one beyond. All were startled by Mrs.
Willoughby’s exclamation, and still more by her
looks.
“Oh!” she cried.
“What?” cried they. “What is
it?”
“He’s there! He’s
there!”
“Who? who?” they cried, in alarm.
“That horrid man!”
Lady Dalrymple and Ethel looked at one another in
utter horror.
As for Minnie, she burst into the
room, peeped out of the windows, saw “that horrid
man,” then ran back, then sat down, then jumped
up, and then burst into a peal of the merriest laughter
that ever was heard from her.
“Oh, I’m so glad!
I’m so glad!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, it’s so awfully funny.
Oh, I’m so glad! Oh, Kitty darling,
don’t, please don’t, look so cross.
Oh, ple-e-e-e-e-e-e-ase don’t, Kitty darling.
You make me laugh worse. It’s so awfully
funny!”
But while Minnie laughed thus, the
others looked at each other in still greater consternation,
and for some time there was not one of them who knew
what to say.
But Lady Dalrymple again threw herself in the gap.
“You need not feel at all nervous,
my dears,” said she, gravely. “I do
not think that this person can give us any trouble.
He certainly can not intrude upon us in these apartments,
and on the highway, you know, it will be quite as
difficult for him to hold any communication with us.
So I really don’t see any cause for alarm on
your part, nor do I see why dear Minnie should exhibit
such delight.”
These words brought comfort to Ethel
and Mrs. Willoughby. They at once perceived their
truth. To force himself into their presence in
a public hotel was, of course, impossible, even for
one so reckless as he seemed to be; and on the road
he could not trouble them in any way, since he would
have to drive before them or behind them.
At Lady Dalrymple’s reference
to herself, Minnie looked up with a bright smile.
“You’re awfully cross
with me, aunty darling,” she said; “but
I forgive you. Only I can’t help laughing,
you know, to see how frightened you all are at poor
Rufus K. Gunn. And, Kitty dearest, oh how you
did run away from the window! It was awfully
funny, you know.”
Not long after the arrival of the
Baron and his friends another carriage drove up.
None of the ladies were at the window, and so they
did not see the easy nonchalance of Hawbury as he lounged
into the house, or the stern face of Scone Dacres
as he strode before him.