AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY.
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.
[Illustration: THE PROCESSION ACROSS THE CAMPAGNA.]
The exciting events consequent upon the Baron's appearance, and his
sudden revelation in the role 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
_aw_fully 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 _aw_fully 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.
[Illustration: "AS FOR DANGAIRE--POUF! DERE IS NONE."]