THE INTRUDER.
Judging from the Baron's own words, it will be perceived that his
comprehension of the situation was a little different from the actual
fact. His idea was that his last letter had been received by Minnie in
England, whereupon she had been seized with such an ungovernable
longing to see him that she at once set out for Rome. She had not sent
him any message, for she wished to surprise him. She had done so
effectually. He was not merely surprised; he was overwhelmed,
overjoyed, intoxicated with joy. This was indeed kind, he thought--the
true part of a fond girl, who thus cast aside all silly scruples, and
followed the dictates of her own noble and loving heart.
Now the fact that he had made a partial failure of his first visit to
his charmer did not in the slightest degree disconcert him. He was
naturally joyous, hilarious, and sanguine. His courage never faltered,
nor could the brightness of his soul be easily dimmed. A
disappointment on one day gave him but little trouble. It was quickly
thrown off, and then his buoyant spirit looked forward for better
fortune on the next day. The little disappointment which he had did
not, therefore, prevent him from letting his reason feast and his soul
flow with Lord Hawbury; nor, when that festive season was over, did it
prevent him from indulging in the brightest anticipations for the
following day.
On the afternoon of that day, then, the Baron directed his steps
toward the hotel where his charmer resided, his heart beating high,
and the generous blood mantling his cheek, and all that sort of thing.
But the Baron was not alone. He had a companion, and this companion
was an acquaintance whom he had made that morning. This companion was
very tall, very thin, very sallow, with long, straggling locks of
rusty black hair, white neck-tie, and a suit of rather seedy black
clothes. In fact, it was the very stranger who had been arrested
almost under his eyes as a Garibaldian. His case had come under the
notice of the Baron, who had visited him, and found him not to be a
Garibaldian at all, but a fellow-countryman in distress--in short, no
less a person than the Reverend Saul Tozer, an esteemed clergyman, who
had been traveling through Europe for the benefit of his health and
the enlargement of his knowledge. This fellow-countryman in distress
had at once been released by the Baron's influence; and, not content
with giving him his liberty, he determined to take him under his
protection, and offered to introduce him to society; all of which
generous offices were fully appreciated by the grateful clergyman.
The Baron's steps were first directed toward the place above
mentioned, and the Reverend Saul accompanied him. On reaching it he
knocked, and asked for Miss Fay.
"Not at home," was the reply.
"Oh, well," said he, "I'll go in and wait till she comes home. Come
along, parson, and make yourself quite at home. Oh, never mind, young
man," he continued to the servant; "I know the way. Come along,
parson." And with these words he led the way into the reception-room,
in which he had been before.
An elderly lady was seated there whom the Baron recognized as having
seen before. It was Lady Dalrymple, whose name was, of course, unknown
to him, since he had only exchanged a few words on his former visit.
But as he was naturally chivalrous, and as he was bent on making
friends with all in the house, and as he was also in a glorious state
of good-will to the entire human race, he at once advanced to the lady
and made a low bow.
"How do you do, ma'am?"
Lady Dalrymple bowed good-naturedly, for she was good-natured to a
fault.
"I suppose you remember me, ma'am," said the Baron, in rather a loud
voice; for, as the lady was elderly, he had a vague idea that she was
deaf--which impression, I may mention, was altogether unfounded--"I
suppose you remember me, ma'am? But I haven't had the pleasure of a
regular introduction to you; so we'll waive ceremony, if you choose,
and I'll introduce myself. I'm the Baron Atramonte, and this is my
very particular friend, the Reverend Saul Tozer."
"I'm happy to make your acquaintance," said Lady Dalrymple, with a
smile, and not taking the Baron's offered hand--not, however, from
pride, but simply from laziness--for she hated the bother, and didn't
consider it good taste.
"I called here, ma'am," said the Baron, without noticing that Lady
Dalrymple had not introduced _herself_--"I called here, ma'am, to see
my young friend, Miss Minnie Fay. I'm very sorry that she ain't at
home; but since I _am_ here, I rather think I'll just set down and
wait for her. I s'pose you couldn't tell me, ma'am, about how long
it'll be before she comes in?"
Lady Dalrymple hadn't any idea.
"All right," said the Baron; "the longer she keeps me waiting, the
more welcome she'll be when she does come. That's all I've got to
say."
So the Baron handed a chair to the Reverend Saul, and then selecting
another for himself in a convenient position, he ensconced himself in
it as snugly as possible, and sat in silence for a few minutes. Lady
Dalrymple took no notice of him whatever, but appeared to be engrossed
with some trifle of needle-work.
After about five minutes the Baron resumed the task of making himself
agreeable.
He cleared his throat.
"Long in these parts, ma'am?" he asked.
"Not very long," said Lady Dalrymple, with her usual bland
good-nature.
"A nice place this," continued the Baron.
"Yes."
"And do you keep your health, ma'am?" inquired the Baron, with some
anxiety.
"Thanks," said Lady Dalrymple; which observation set the Baron's mind
wondering what she meant by that.
"Pray, ma'am," said he, after a pause, "might you be any relation to a
young lady friend of mine that's staying here named Minnie Fay?"
"A little," said Lady Dalrymple; which remark set the Baron again
wondering. And he was about to return to the charge with another and
more direct question, when his attention was arrested by the sound of
footsteps on the stairs; so he sat bolt upright, and stared hard at
the door. There was the rustle of a dress. The Baron rose. So did the
Reverend Saul Tozer. The lady appeared. It was not Minnie. It was Mrs.
Willoughby.
Now during the Baron's visit there had been some excitement up stairs.
The ladies had told the servants that they were not at home to any
callers that day. They had found with consternation how carelessly the
Baron had brushed aside their little cobweb regulation, and had heard
his voice as he strove to keep up an easy conversation with their
aunt. Whereupon an earnest debate arose. They felt that it was not
fair to leave their aunt alone with the Baron, and that one of them
should go to the rescue. To Mrs. Willoughby's amazement, Minnie was
anxious to go. To this she utterly objected. Minnie insisted, and Mrs.
Willoughby was in despair. In vain she reproached that most whimsical
of young ladies. In vain she reminded her of the Baron's rudeness on a
former occasion. Minnie simply reminded her that the Baron had saved
her life. At last Mrs. Willoughby actually had to resort to
entreaties, and thus she persuaded Minnie not to go down. So she went
down herself, but in fear and trembling, for she did not know at what
moment her voluble and utterly unreliable sister might take it into
her head to follow her.
The Baron, who had risen, full of expectation, stood looking at her,
full of disappointment, which was very strongly marked on his face.
Then he recollected that Minnie was "not at home," and that he must
wait till she did get home. This thought, and the hope that he would
not now have long to wait, brought back his friendly glow, and his
calm and his peace and his good-will toward the whole human race,
including the ladies in the room. He therefore bowed very low, and,
advancing, he made an effort to shake hands; but Mrs. Willoughby had
already known the dread pressure which the Baron gave, and evaded him
by a polite bow. Thereupon the Baron introduced the Reverend Saul
Tozer.
The Baron took out his watch, looked at it, frowned, coughed, put it
back, and then drummed with his fingers on the arm of the chair.
"Will it be long, ma'am," asked the Baron, "before Minnie gets back?"
"She is not out," said Mrs. Willoughby.
"Not out?"
"No."
"Why, the thundering fool of a servant went and told me that she was
not at home!"
"She is at home," said Mrs. Willoughby, sweetly.
"What! at home!" cried the Baron. "And does she know _I'm_ here?"
"She does."
"Then why in thunder don't she come down?" cried the Baron,
wonderingly.
"Because she is indisposed."
"Indisposed?"
"Yes."
This was the information which Mrs. Willoughby had decided to give to
the Baron. Minnie had stipulated that his feelings should not be hurt;
and this seemed to her to be the easiest mode of dealing with him.
"Indisposed!" cried the Baron.
"Yes."
"Oh dear! Oh, I hope, ma'am--I do hope, ma'am, that she ain't very
bad. Is it any thing serious--or what?"
"Not _very_ serious; she has to keep her room, though."
"She ain't sick abed, I hope?"
"Oh no--not so bad as that!"
"Oh dear! it's all _me_, I know. _I'm_ to blame. She made this
journey--the poor little pet!--just to see me; and the fatigue and the
excitement have all been too much. Oh, I might have known it! Oh, I
remember now how pale she looked yesterday! Oh dear! what'll I do if
any thing happens to her? Oh, do tell me--is she better?--did she pass
a good night?--does she suffer any pain?--can I do any thing for
her?--will you take a little message from me to her?"
"She is quite easy now, thanks," said Mrs. Willoughby; "but we have to
keep her perfectly quiet; the slightest excitement may be dangerous."
Meanwhile the Reverend Saul had become wearied with sitting dumb, and
began to look around for some suitable means of taking part in the
conversation. As the Baron had introduced him to society, he felt that
it was his duty to take some part so as to assert himself both as a
man, a scholar, and a clergyman. So, as he found the Baron was
monopolizing Mrs. Willoughby, he gradually edged over till he came
within ear-shot of Lady Dalrymple, and then began to work his way
toward a conversation.
"This, ma'am," he began, "is truly an interesting spot."
Lady Dalrymple bowed.
"Yes, ma'am. I've been for the past few days surveying the ruins of
antiquity. It is truly a soul-stirring spectacle."
"So I have heard," remarked Lady Dalrymple, cheerfully.
"Every thing around us, ma'am," continued the Reverend Saul, in a
dismal voice, "is subject to dissolution, or is actually dissolving.
How forcible air the words of the Psalmist: 'Our days air as the
grass, or like the morning flower; when blasting winds sweep o'er the
vale, they wither in an hour.' Yes, ma'am, I have this week stood in
the Roman Forum. The Coliseum, also, ma'am, is a wonderful place. It
was built by the Flavian emperors, and when completed could hold
eighty thousand spectators seated, with about twenty thousand
standing. In hot weather these spectators were protected from the rays
of the sun by means of awnings. It is a mighty fabric, ma'am!"
"I should think so," said Lady Dalrymple.
"The arch of Titus, ma'am, is a fine ruin. It was originally built by
the emperor of that name to commemorate the conquest of Jerusalem. The
arch of Septimius Severus was built by the Emperor of that name, and
the arch of Constantine was built by the emperor of _that_ name. They
are all very remarkable structures."
"I'm charmed to hear you say so."
"It's true, ma'am; but let me add, ma'am, that the ruins of this
ancient city do not offer to my eyes a spectacle half so melancholy as
the great moral ruin which is presented by the modern city. For,
ma'am, when I look around, what do I see? I behold the Babylon of the
Apocalypse! Pray, ma'am, have you ever reflected much on that?"
"Not to any great extent," said Lady Dalrymple, who now began to feel
bored, and so arose to her feet. The Reverend Saul Tozer was just
getting on a full head of conversational steam, and was just fairly
under way, when this sad and chilling occurrence took place. She rose
and bowed to the gentlemen, and began to retreat.
All this time the Baron had been pouring forth to Mrs. Willoughby his
excited interrogatories about Minnie's health, and had asked her to
take a message. This Mrs. Willoughby refused at first.
"Oh no!" said she; "it will really disturb her too much. What she
wants most is perfect quiet. Her health is really _very_ delicate, and
I am _excessively_ anxious about her."
"But does she--does she--is she--can she walk about her own room?"
stammered the Baron.
"A little," said Mrs. Willoughby. "Oh, I hope in a few weeks she may
be able to come down. But the very _greatest_ care and quiet are
needed, for she is in such a _very_ delicate state that we watch her
night and day."
"A few weeks!" echoed the Baron, in dismay. "Watch her night and day!"
"Oh, you know, it is the only chance for her recovery. She is _so_
delicate."
The Baron looked at Mrs. Willoughby with a pale face, upon which there
was real suffering and real misery.
"Can't I do something?" he gasped. "Won't you take a message to her?
It ought to do her good. Perhaps she thinks I'm neglecting her.
Perhaps she thinks I ain't here enough. Tell her I'm ready to give up
my office, and even my title of nobility, and come and live here, if
it'll be any comfort to her."
"Oh, really, Sir, you _quite_ mistake her," said Mrs. Willoughby. "It
has no reference to you whatever. It's a nervous affection,
accompanied with general debility and neuralgia."
"Oh no, you don't know her," said the Baron, incredulously. "I _know_
her. I know what it is. But she walks, don't she?"
"Yes, a little--just across the room; still, even that is too much.
She is _very, very_ weak, and must be _quite_ kept free from
excitement. Even the excitement of your visits is bad for her. Her
pulse is--is--always--accelerated--and--she--I--Oh, dear me!"
While Mrs. Willoughby had been making up this last sentence she was
startled by a rustling on the stairs. It was the rustle of a female's
dress. An awful thought occurred to her, which distracted her, and
confused her in the middle of her sentence, and made her scarce able
to articulate her words. And as she spoke them the rustle drew nearer,
and she heard the sound of feet descending the stairs, until at last
the footsteps approached the door, and Mrs. Willoughby, to her utter
horror, saw Minnie herself.
Now as to the Baron, in the course of his animated conversation with
Mrs. Willoughby, and in his excited entreaties to her to carry a
message up to the invalid, he had turned round with his back to the
door. It was about the time that Lady Dalrymple had begun to beat a
retreat. As she advanced the Baron saw her, and, with his usual
politeness, moved ever so far to one side, bowing low as he did so.
Lady Dalrymple passed, the Baron raised himself, and as Mrs.
Willoughby was yet speaking, and had just reached the exclamation
which concluded her last remark, he was astounded by the sudden
appearance of Minnie herself at the door.
The effect of this sudden appearance was overwhelming. Mrs. Willoughby
stood thunder-struck, and the Baron utterly bewildered. The latter
recovered his faculties first. It was just as Lady Dalrymple was
passing out. With a bound he sprang toward Minnie, and caught her in
his arms, uttering a series of inarticulate cries.
"Oh, Min! and you did come down, did you? And you couldn't stay up
there, could you? I wanted to send a message to you. Poor little Min!
you're so weak. Is it any thing serious? Oh, my darling little Min!
But sit down on this here seat. Don't stand; you're too weak. Why
didn't you send, and I'd have carried you down? But tell me now,
honest, wasn't it _me_ that brought this on? Never mind, I'll never
leave you again."
This is the style which the gallant Baron adopted to express his
sentiments concerning Minnie; and the result was that he succeeded in
giving utterance to words that were quite as incoherent as any that
Minnie herself, in her most rambling moods, had ever uttered.
The Baron now gave himself up to joy. He took no notice of any body.
He sat by Minnie's side on a sofa, and openly held her hand. The
Reverend Saul Tozer looked on with an approving smile, and surveyed
the scene like a father. Mrs. Willoughby's soul was on fire with
indignation at Minnie's folly and the Baron's impudence. She was also
indignant that her little conventional falsehoods had been suddenly
disproved by the act of Minnie herself. Yet she did not know what to
say, and so she went to a chair, and flung herself into it in fierce
anger.
As for Minnie herself, she had come down to the Baron, and appeared
rather to enjoy the situation. She talked about Rome and Naples, and
asked him all about himself, and the Baron explained his whole
situation down to the minutest detail. She was utterly indifferent to
her sister. Once or twice the Baron made a move to go, but did not
succeed. He finally settled himself down apparently for the rest of
the day; but Mrs. Willoughby at last interposed. She walked forward.
She took Minnie's hand, and spoke to her in a tone which she but
seldom used.
"You shall _not_ stay here any longer!" she cried. "Come."
And Minnie obeyed at once.
The Baron insisted on a tender adieu. Mrs. Willoughby stood by, with
flashing eyes and heaving breast.
Minnie followed her up stairs in silence.
"You silly child!" she cried. "Are you mad? What made you come down?
You broke your promise!"
"Well--well--I couldn't help it, and he is so deliciously rude; and do
you know, Kitty dearest, I really begin to feel quite fond of him."
"Now listen, child. You shall never see him again."
"I don't see why not," whimpered Minnie.
"And I'm going to telegraph to papa. I wouldn't have the
responsibility of you another week for the world."
"Now, Kitty, you're horrid."