Girasole now returned to the ladies.
They were in the same position in which he had left
them. Mrs. Willoughby with Minnie, and Ethel,
with the maids, attending to Lady Dalrymple.
“Miladi,” said Girasole,
“I beg your attenzion. I haf had de
honore to inform you dat dis mees is my
fiancee. Se haf give me her heart an’ her
hand; se love me, an’ I love her.
I was prevent from to see her, an’ I haf to
take her in dis mannaire. I feel sad at de
pain I haf give you, an’ assuir you dat it was
inevitabile. You sall not be troubled more.
You are free. Mees,” he continued, taking
Minnie’s hand, “you haf promis me
dis fair han’, an’ you are mine.
You come to one who loves you bettaire dan life,
an’ who you love. You owe youair life to
me. I sall make it so happy as nevair was.”
“I’m sure I don’t
want to be happy,” said Minnie. “I
don’t want to leave darling Kitty and
it’s a shame and you’ll make
me hate you if you do so.”
“Miladi,” said Girasole
to Mrs. Willoughby, “de mees says se not
want to leaf you. Eef you want to come, you may
come an’ be our sistaire.”
“Oh, Kitty darling, you won’t
leave me, will you, all alone with this horrid man?”
said Minnie.
“My darling,” moaned Mrs.
Willoughby, “how can I? I’ll go.
Oh, my sweet sister, what misery!”
“Oh, now that will be really
quite delightful if you will come, Kitty
darling. Only I’m afraid you’ll find
it awfully uncomfortable.”
Girasole turned once more to the other ladies.
“I beg you will assura de miladi
when she recovaire of my considerazion de mos
distingue, an’ convey to her de regrettas
dat I haf. Miladi,” he continued, addressing
Ethel, “you are free, an’ can go.
You will not be molest by me. You sall go safe.
You haf not ver far. You sall fin’
houses dere forward before not
far.”
With these words he turned away.
“You mus come wit
me,” he said to Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie.
“Come. Eet ees not ver far.”
He walked slowly into the woods on
the left, and the two sisters followed him. Of
the two Minnie was far the more cool and collected.
She was as composed as usual; and, as there was no
help for it, she walked on. Mrs. Willoughby,
however, was terribly agitated, and wept and shuddered
and moaned incessantly.
“Kitty darling,” said
Minnie, “I wish you wouldn’t go
on so. You really make me feel quite nervous.
I never saw you so bad in my life.”
“Poor Minnie! Poor child! Poor sweet
child!”
“Well, if I am a child, you
needn’t go and tell me about it all the time.
It’s really quite horrid.”
Mrs. Willoughby said no more, but
generously tried to repress her own feelings, so as
not to give distress to her sister.
After the Count had entered the wood
with the two sisters the drivers removed the horses
from the carriages and went away, led off by the man
who had driven the ladies. This was the man whose
stolid face had seemed likely to belong to an honest
man, but who now was shown to belong to the opposite
class. These men went down the road over which
they had come, leaving the carriages there with the
ladies and their maids.
Girasole now led the way, and Minnie
and her sister followed him. The wood was very
thick, and grew more so as they advanced, but there
was not much underbrush, and progress was not difficult.
Several times a wild thought of flight came to Mrs.
Willoughby, but was at once dispelled by a helpless
sense of its utter impossibility. How could she
persuade the impracticable Minnie, who seemed so free
from all concern? or, if she could persuade her, how
could she accomplish her desire? She would at
once be pursued and surrounded, while, even if she
did manage to escape, how could she ever find her way
to any place of refuge? Every minute, also, drew
them deeper and deeper into the woods, and the path
was a winding one, in which she soon became bewildered,
until at last all sense of her whereabouts was utterly
gone. At last even the idea of escaping ceased
to suggest itself, and there remained only a dull
despair, a sense of utter helplessness and hopelessness the
sense of one who is going to his doom.
Girasole said nothing whatever, but
led the way in silence, walking slowly enough to accommodate
the ladies, and sometimes holding an overhanging branch
to prevent it from springing back in their faces.
Minnie walked on lightly, and with an elastic step,
looking around with evident interest upon the forest.
Once a passing lizard drew from her a pretty little
shriek of alarm, thus showing that while she was so
calm in the face of real and frightful danger, she
could be alarmed by even the most innocent object
that affected her fancy. Mrs. Willoughby thought
that she understood Minnie before, but this little
shriek at a lizard, from one who smiled at the brigands,
struck her as a problem quite beyond her power to
solve.
The woods now began to grow thinner.
The trees were larger and farther apart, and rose
all around in columnar array, so that it was possible
to see between them to a greater distance. At
length there appeared before them, through the trunks
of the trees, the gleam of water. Mrs. Willoughby
noticed this, and wondered what it might be. At
first she thought it was a harbor on the coast; then
she thought it was some river; but finally, on coming
nearer, she saw that it was a lake. In a few
minutes after they first caught sight of it they had
reached its banks.
It was a most beautiful and sequestered
spot. All around were high wooded éminences,
beyond whose undulating summits arose the towering
forms of the Apennine heights. Among these hills
lay a little lake about a mile in length and breadth,
whose surface was as smooth as glass, and reflected
the surrounding shores. On their right, as they
descended, they saw some figures moving, and knew them
to be the brigands, while on their left they saw a
ruined house. Toward this Girasole led them.
The house stood on the shore of the
lake. It was of stone, and was two stories in
height. The roof was still good, but the windows
were gone. There was no door, but half a dozen
or so of the brigands stood there, and formed a sufficient
guard to prevent the escape of any prisoner.
These men had dark, wicked eyes and sullen faces, which
afforded fresh terror to Mrs. Willoughby. She
had thought, in her desperation, of making some effort
to escape by bribing the men, but the thorough-bred
rascality which was evinced in the faces of these ruffians
showed her that they were the very fellows who would
take her money and cheat her afterward. If she
had been able to speak Italian, she might have secured
their services by the prospect of some future reward
after escaping; but, as it was, she could not speak
a word of the language, and thus could not enter upon
even the preliminaries of an escape.
On reaching the house the ruffians
stood aside, staring hard at them. Mrs. Willoughby
shrank in terror from the baleful glances of their
eyes; but Minnie looked at them calmly and innocently,
and not without some of that curiosity which a child
shows when he first sees a Chinaman or an Arab in
the streets. Girasole then led the way up stairs
to a room on the second story.
It was an apartment of large size,
extending across the house, with a window at each
end, and two on the side. On the floor there was
a heap of straw, over which some skins were thrown.
There were no chairs, nor was there any table.
“Scusa me,” said
Girasole, “miladi, for dis accommodazion.
It gifs me pain, but I promise it sall not be long.
Only dis day an’ dis night here.
I haf to detain you dat time. Den we sall go to
where I haf a home fitter for de bride. I haf
a home wharra you sall be a happy bride, mees ”
“But I don’t want to stay
here at all in such a horrid place,” said
Minnie, looking around in disgust.
“Only dis day an’
dis night,” said Girasole, imploringly.
“Aftaire you sall have all you sall wis.”
“Well, at any rate, I think
it’s very horrid in you to shut me up here.
You might let me walk outside in the woods. I’m
so awfully fond of the woods.”
Girasole smiled faintly.
“And so you sall have plenty
of de wood but to-morrà. You wait
here now. All safe oh yes secura all
aright oh yes slip to-night,
an’ in de mornin’ early you sall be mine.
Dere sall come a priest, an’ we sall have de
ceremony.”
“Well, I think it was very unkind
in you to bring me to such a horrid place. And
how can I sit down? You might have had
a chair. And look at poor, darling Kitty.
You may be unkind to me, but you needn’t make
her sit on the floor. You never saved her
life, and you have no right to be unkind to her.”
“Unkind! Oh, mees! my
heart, my life, all arra youairs, an’ I
lay my life at youair foot.”
“I think it would be far more
kind if you would put a chair at poor Kitty’s
feet,” retorted Minnie, with some show of temper.
“But, oh, carissima,
tink de wild wood noting here no,
noting not a chair only de straw.”
“Then you had no business to
bring me here. You might have known that there
were no chairs here. I can’t sit down on
nothing. But I suppose you expect me to stand
up. And if that isn’t horrid, I don’t
know what is. I’m sure I don’t know
what poor dear papa would say if he were to see me
now.”
“Do not grieve, carissima
mia do not, charming mees, decompose
yourself. To-morrà you sall go to a
bettaire place, an’ I will carra you to my castello.
You sall haf every want, you sall enjoy every wis,
you sall be happy.”
“But I don’t see how I
can be happy without a chair,” reiterated Minnie,
in whose mind this one grievance now became pre-eminent.
“You talk as though you think I am made of stone
or iron, and you think I can stand here all day or
all night, and you want me to sleep on that horrid
straw and those horrid furry things. I suppose
this is the castle that you speak of; and I’m
sure I wonder why you ever thought of bringing
me here. I suppose it doesn’t make so much
difference about a carpet; but you will not
even let me have a chair; and I think you’re
very unkind.”
Girasole was in despair. He stood
in thought for some time. He felt that Minnie’s
rebuke was deserved. If she had reproached him
with waylaying her and carrying her off, he could
have borne it, and could have found a reply.
But such a charge as this was unanswerable. It
certainly was very hard that she should not be able
to sit down. But then how was it possible for
him to find a chair in the woods? It was an insoluble
problem. How in the world could he satisfy her?
Minnie’s expression also was
most touching. The fact that she had no chair
to sit on seemed to absolutely overwhelm her.
The look that she gave Girasole was so piteous, so
reproachful, so heart-rending, that his soul actually
quaked, and a thrill of remorse passed all through
his frame. He felt a cold chill running to the
very marrow of his bones.
“I think you’re very,
very unkind,” said Minnie, “and I really
don’t see how I can ever speak to you
again.”
This was too much. Girasole turned
away. He rushed down stairs. He wandered
frantically about. He looked in all directions
for a chair. There was plenty of wood certainly for
all around he saw the vast forest but of
what use was it? He could not transform a tree
into a chair. He communicated his difficulty
to some of the men. They shook their heads helplessly.
At last he saw the stump of a tree which was of such
a shape that it looked as though it might be used as
a seat. It was his only resource, and he seized
it. Calling two or three of the men, he had the
stump carried to the old house. He rushed up
stairs to acquaint Minnie with his success, and to
try to console her. She listened in coldness
to his hasty words. The men who were carrying
the stump came up with a clump and a clatter, breathing
hard, for the stump was very heavy, and finally placed
it on the landing in front of Minnie’s door.
On reaching that spot it was found that it would not
go in.
Minnie heard the noise and came out.
She looked at the stump, then at the men and then
at Girasole.
“What is this for?” she asked.
“Eet eet ees for a chair.”
“A chair!” exclaimed Minnie.
“Why, it’s nothing but a great big, horrid,
ugly old stump, and ”
Her remarks ended in a scream. She turned and
ran back into the room.
“What what is de
mattaire?” cried the Count, looking into the
room with a face pale with anxiety.
“Oh, take it away! take it away!” cried
Minnie, in terror.
“What? what?”
“Take it away! take it away!” she repeated.
“But eet ees for you eet ees a seat.”
“I don’t want it.
I won’t have it!” cried Minnie. “It’s
full of horrid ants and things. And it’s
dreadful and very, very cruel in
you to bring them up here just to tease me,
when you know I hate them so. Take it
away! take it away! oh, do please take it away!
And oh, do please go away yourself, and leave me with
dear, darling Kitty. She never teases me.
She is always kind.”
Girasole turned away once more, in
fresh trouble. He had the stump carried off,
and then he wandered away. He was quite at a loss
what to do. He was desperately in love, and it
was a very small request for Minnie to make, and he
was in that state of mind when it would be a happiness
to grant her slightest wish; but here he found himself
in a difficulty from which he could find no possible
means of escape.
“And now, Kitty darling,”
said Minnie, after Girasole had gone “now
you see how very, very wrong you were to be so opposed
to that dear, good, kind, nice Rufus K. Gunn. He
would never have treated me so. He would never
have taken me to a place like this a horrid
old house by a horrid damp pond, without doors and
windows, just like a beggar’s house and
then put me in a room without a chair to sit on when
I’m so awfully tired. He was always
kind to me, and that was the reason you hated him
so, because you couldn’t bear to have people
kind to me. And I’m so tired.”
“Come, then, poor darling.
I’ll make a nice seat for you out of these skins.”
And Mrs. Willoughby began to fold
some of them up and lay them one upon the other.
“What is that for, Kitty dear?” asked
Minnie.
“To make you a nice, soft seat, dearest.”
“But I don’t want them,
and I won’t sit on the horrid things,”
said Minnie.
“But, darling, they are as soft
as a cushion. See!” And her sister pressed
her hand on them, so as to show how soft they were.
“I don’t think they’re
soft at all,” said Minnie; “and
I wish you wouldn’t tease me so, when I’m
so tired.”
“Then come, darling; I will
sit on them, and you shall sit on my knees.”
“But I don’t want to go
near those horrid furry things. They belong to
cows and things. I think every body’s
unkind to me to-day.”
“Minnie, dearest, you really
wound me when you talk in that way. Be reasonable
now. See what pains I take. I do all I can
for you.”
“But I’m always
reasonable, and it’s you that are unreasonable,
when you want me to sit on that horrid fur. It’s
very, very disagreeable in you, Kitty dear.”
Mrs. Willoughby said nothing, but
went on folding some more skins. These she placed
on the straw so that a pile was formed about as high
as an ordinary chair. This pile was placed against
the wall so that the wall served as a support.
Then she seated herself upon this.
“Minnie, dearest,” said she.
“Well, Kitty darling.”
“It’s really quite soft
and comfortable. Do come and sit on it; do, just
to please me, only for five minutes. See!
I’ll spread my dress over it so that you need
not touch it. Come, dearest, only for five minutes.”
“Well, I’ll sit on it
just for a little mite of a time, if you promise not
to tease me.”
“Tease you, dear! Why, of course not.
Come.”
So Minnie went over and sat by her sister’s
side.
In about an hour Girasole came back.
The two sisters were seated there. Minnie’s
head was resting on her sister’s shoulder, and
she was fast asleep, while Mrs. Willoughby sat motionless,
with her face turned toward him, and such an expression
in her dark eyes that Girasole felt awed. He
turned in silence and went away.