_A Welcome Message_
THIS strange conversation with Lord Bohun at parting, was not without
a certain wild, but not unpleasing influence over the mind of Henrietta
Ponsonby. Much as it at first had agitated her, its result, as she often
mused over it, was far from being without solace. It was consoling,
indeed, to know that one person, at least, honoured that being in whom
she had so implicitly relied: Lord Bohun, also, had before spoken of
Ferrers in a very different tone; but she felt confidence in the unusual
seriousness of his last communication; and with satisfaction contrasted
it with the heedlessness, or the levity, of his former intimations.
Here, too, was the page of Ferrers, at her side--the beautiful and
bright-eyed Spiridion. How strange it was! how very strange! Her simple
life had suddenly become like some shifting fairy-tale; but love,
indeed, is a fairy, and full of marvels and magic--it changes all
things; and the quietest domestic hearth, when shadowed by its wing,
becomes as rife with wonders and adventure as if it were the passionate
theatre of some old romance. Yes! the bright-eyed Greek page of her
mysterious and absent lover was at her side-but then he spoke only
Greek. In vain she tried to make him comprehend how much she desired to
have tidings of his master. The graceful mute could only indulge in airy
pantomime, point to the skies and ocean, or press his hand to his heart
in token of fidelity. Henrietta amused herself in teaching Spiridion
Italian, and repaid herself for all her trouble in occasionally
obtaining some slight information of her friend. In time she learned
that Ferrers was in Italy, and had seen Lord Bohun before the departure
of that nobleman. In answer to her anxious and often-repeated inquiries
whether he would soon return, Spiridion was constant to his consoling
affirmative. Never was such a sedulous mistress of languages as
Henrietta Ponsonby. She learned, also, that an Albanian scarf, which
the page wore round his waist, had been given him by his master when
Spiridion quitted him; and Henrietta instantly obtained the scarf for a
Barbary shawl of uncommon splendour.
Now, it happened one afternoon towards sunset, as the Greek page,
rambling, as was his custom, over the neighbouring heights, beheld below
the spreading fort, the neighbouring straits, and the distant sea, that
a vessel appeared in sight, and soon entered the harbour. It was an
English vessel--it was the yacht of Lord Bohun. The page started and
watched the vessel with a fixed and earnest gaze; soon he observed
the British Consul in his boat row to the side of the vessel, and also
immediately return. At that moment the yacht hoisted a signal--upon
a white ground a crimson heart--whereupon Spiridion, drawing from his
breast a letter, kissed it twice, and bounded away.
He bounded away towards the city, and scarcely slackened his pace
until he arrived at the Consul’s mansion--he rushed in, dashed up the
staircase, and entered the saloons. At the window of one, gazing on the
sunset, was Henrietta Ponsonby--her gaze was serious, but her
beautiful countenance was rather tinged by melancholy than touched
by gloom--pensive, not sorrowful. By her side lay her guitar, still
echoing, as it were, with her touch; and near it the Albanian scarf, on
which she had embroidered the name of her beloved. Of him, then, were
her gentle musings? Who can doubt it? Her gentle musings were of
him whom she had loved with such unexampled trust. Fond, beautiful,
confiding maiden! It was the strength of thy mind as much as the
simplicity of thy heart that rendered thee so faithful and so firm! Who
would not envy thy unknown adorer? Can he be false? Suspicion is for
weak minds and cold-blooded spirits. Thou never didst doubt; and thou
wast just, for, behold, he is true!
A fluttering sound roused her--she turned her head, and expected to see
her gazelle: it was Spiridion; his face was wreathed with smiles as he
held towards her a letter. She seized it--she recognised in an instant
the handwriting she had so often studied--it was his! Yes! it was his.
It was the handwriting of her beloved. Her face was pale, her hand
trembled; a cloud moved before her vision; yet at length she read, and
she read these words:--
‘If, as I hope, and as I believe, you are faithful to those vows which
since my departure have been my only consolation, you will meet me
to-morrow, two hours before noon, in our garden. I come to claim my
bride; but until my lips have expressed to you how much I adore you, let
nothing be known to our father.’