AMONG THE BRIGANDS.
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 fiancée. 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 eminences, 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 _aw_fully
fond of the woods."
Girasole smiled faintly.
"And so you sall have plenty of de wood--but to-morra. 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."
[Illustration: "WHAT IS THIS FOR?"]
"Do not grieve, carissima mia--do not, charming mees, decompose
yourself. To-morra 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 _aw_fully 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.