Sad and troubled?
How brave her anger shows! How it sets off
Her natural beauty! Under what happy star
Was Virolet born, to be beloved and sought
By two incomparable women?
FLETCHER.
It was the month of December when the travellers arrived at this "piece
of heaven dropt upon earth," as the natives themselves name it. The moon
hung a glowing orb in the heavens, and lighted up the sea to beauty. A
blood-red flash shot up now and then from Vesuvius; a summer softness
was in the atmosphere, while a thousand tokens presented themselves of a
climate more friendly, more joyous, and more redundant than that of the
northern Isle from which they came. It was very late at night when they
reached their hotel, and they were heartily fatigued, so that it was not
till the next morning, that immediately after breakfast, Villiers left
Ethel, and went out to seek the abode of his cousin.
He had been gone some little time, when a waiter of the hotel, throwing
open Ethel's drawing-room door, announced "Signor Orazio." Quite new to
Italy, Ethel was ignorant of the custom in that country, of designating
people by their christian names; and that Horatio Saville, being a
resident in Naples, and married to a Neapolitan, was known everywhere by
the appellation which the servant now used. Ethel was not in the least
aware that it was Lucy's brother who presented himself to her. She saw a
gentleman, tall, very slight in person, with a face denoting habitual
thoughtfulness, and stamped by an individuality which she could not tell
whether to think plain, and yet it was certainly open and kind. An
appearance of extreme shyness, almost amounting to awkwardness, was
diffused over him, and his words came hesitatingly; he spoke English,
and was an Englishman--so much Ethel discovered by his first words,
which were, "Villiers is not at home?" and then he began to ask her
about her journey, and how she liked the view of the bay of Naples,
which she beheld from her windows. They were in this kind of trivial
conversation when Edward came bounding up-stairs, and with exclamations
of delight greeted his cousin. Ethel, infinitely surprised, examined her
guest with more care. In a few minutes she began to wonder how she came
to think him plain. His deep-set, dark-grey eyes struck her as
expressive, if not handsome. His features were delicately moulded, and
his fine forehead betokened depth of intellect; but the charm of his
face was a kind of fitful, beamy, inconstant smile, which diffused
incomparable sweetness over his physiognomy. His usual look was cold and
abstracted--his eye speculated with an inward thoughtfulness--a chilling
seriousness sat on his features, but this glancing and varying
half-smile came to dispel gloom, and to invite and please those with
whom he conversed. His voice was modulated by feeling, his language was
fluent, graceful in its turns of expression, and original in the
thoughts which it expressed. His manners were marked by high breeding,
yet they were peculiar. They were formed by his individual disposition,
and under the dominion of sensibility. Hence they were often abrupt and
reserved. He forgot the world around him, and gave token, by absence of
mind, of the absorbing nature of his contemplations. But at a touch this
vanished, and a sweet earnestness, and a beaming kindliness of spirit,
at once displaced his abstraction, rendering him attentive, cordial, and
gay.
Never had Horatio Saville appeared to so little advantage as during his
short tête-à-tête with his new relative. At all times, when
quiescent, he had a retiring manner, and an appearance, whose want of
pretension did not at first allure, and yet which afterwards formed his
greatest attraction. He was always unembarrassed, and Ethel could not
guess that towards her alone he felt as timid and shy as a girl. It was
with considerable effect that Horatio had commanded himself to appear
before the daughter of Lady Lodore. There was something incongruous and
inconceivable in the idea of the child of Cornelia a woman, married to
his cousin. He feared to see in her an image of the being who had
subdued his heart of hearts, and laid prostrate his whole soul; he
trembled to catch the sound of her voice, lest it might echo tones which
could disturb to their depths his inmost thoughts. Ethel was so unlike
her mother, that by degrees he became reassured; her eyes, her hair, her
stature, and tall slender shape, were the reverse of Lady Lodore; so
that in a little while he ventured to raise his eyes to her face, and to
listen to her, without being preoccupied by a painful sensation, which,
in its violence, resembled terror. It is true that by degrees this
dissimilarity to her mother became less; she had gestures, smiles, and
tones, that were all Lady Lodore, and which, when discerned, struck his
heart with a pang, stealing away his voice, and causing him to stand
suspended in the act he was about, like one acted upon by magic.
While this mute and curious examination was going on in the minds of
Ethel and her visitant, the conversation had not tarried. Edward had
never been so far south, and the wonders of Naples were as new to him as
to Ethel. Saville was eager to show them, and proposed going that very
day to Pompeii. For, as he said, all their winter was not like the
present day, so that it was best to seize the genial weather while it
lasted. Was Mrs. Villiers too much fatigued? On the contrary, Ethel was
quite on the alert; but first she asked whether Mrs. Saville would not
accompany them.
"Clorinda," said Horatio, "promises herself much pleasure from your
acquaintance, and intends calling on you to-day at twenty-four o'clock,
that is, at the Ave Maria: how stupid I am," he continued, laughing, "I
quite forget that you are not Italianized, as I am, and do not know the
way in which the people here count their time. Clorinda will call late
in the afternoon, the usual visiting hour at Naples, but she would find
no pleasure in visiting a ruined city and fallen fragments. One house in
the Chiaja is worth fifty Pompeiis in the eyes of a Neapolitan, and
Clorinda is one, heart and soul. I hope you will be pleased with her,
for she is an admirable specimen of her countrywomen, and they are
wonderful and often sublime creatures in their way; but do not mistake
her for an English woman, or you will be disappointed--she has not one
atom of body, one particle of mind, that bears the least affinity to
England. And now, is your carriage ordered?--there it is at the door;
so, as I should say to one of my own dear sisters, put on your bonnet,
Ethel, quickly, and do not keep us waiting; for though at Naples, days
are short in December, and we have none of their light to lose."
When, after this explanation, Ethel first saw Clorinda, she was inclined
to think that Saville had scarcely done his wife justice. Certainly she
was entirely Italian, but she was very beautiful; her complexion was
delicate, though dark and without much colour. Her hair silken and
glossy as the raven's wing; her large bright black eyes resplendent; the
perfect arch of her brows, and the marmoreal and harmonious grace of her
forehead, such as is never seen in northern lands, except in sculpture
imitated from the Greeks. The lower part of her face was not so good;
her smile was deficient in sweetness, her voice wanted melody, and
sounded loud to an English ear. Her gestures were expressive, but quick
and wanting in grace. She was more agreeable when silent and could be
regarded as a picture, than when called into action. She was
complimentary in her conversation, and her manners were winning by their
frankness and ease. She gesticulated too much, and her features were too
much in motion,--too pantomimely expressive, so to speak, not to impress
disagreeably one accustomed to the composure of the English. Still she
was a beautiful creature; young, artless, desirous to please, and
endowed, moreover, with the vivacious genius, the imaginative talent of
her country. She spoke as if she were passionately attached to her
husband; but when Ethel mentioned his English home and his relations, a
cloud came over the lovely Neapolitan's countenance, and a tremor shook
her frame. "Do not think hardly of me," she said, "I do not hate
England, but I fear it. I am sure I should be disliked there--I should
be censured, perhaps taunted, for a thousand habits and feelings as
natural to me as the air I breathe. I am proud, and I should retort
impertinence, and, displeasing my husband, become miserable beyond
words. Stay with us; you I love, and should be wretched to part from.
Stay and enjoy this paradise with us. Intreat his sisters, if they wish
to see Horatio, to come over. I will be more than a sister to them; but
let us all forget that such a place as that cold, distant England
exists."
This was Clorinda's usual mode of speaking of her husband's native
country: but once, when Ethel had urged her going there with more
earnestness than usual, suddenly her countenance became disturbed; and
with a lowering and stormy expression of face, that her English friend
could never afterwards forget, she said, "Say not another word, I pray.
Horatio loved--he loves an Englishwoman--it is torture enough for me to
know this. I would rather be torn in quarters by wild horses, broken in
pieces on the rack, than set foot in England. My cousin, as you have
pity for me, and value the life of Horace, use your influence to prevent
his only dreaming of a return to England. Methinks I could strike him
dead, if I only knew that such a thought lived for a second in his
heart."
These words said, Clorinda resumed her smiles, and was, more than usual,
desirous of flattering and pleasing Ethel; so that she softened, though
she could not erase, the impression her vehemence had made. However,
there appeared no necessity for Ethel to exert her influence. Horace was
equally averse to going to England. He loved to talk of it; he
remembered, with yearning fondness, its verdant beauty, its pretty
villages, its meandering streams, its embowered groves; the spots he had
inhabited, the trivial incidents of his daily life, were recalled with
affection: but he did not wish to return. Villiers attributed this
somewhat to his unforgotten attachment to Lady Lodore; but it was more
strange that he negatived the idea of one of his sisters visiting
him:--"She would not like it," was all the explanation he gave.
Several months passed lightly over the heads of the new-married pair;
while they, bee-like, sipped the honey of life, and, never cloyed, fed
perpetually on sweets. Naples, its galleries, its classic and beautiful
environs, offered an endless succession of occupation and amusement. The
presence of Saville elevated their pleasures; for he added the living
spirit of poetry to their sensations, and associated the treasures of
human genius with the sublime beauty of nature. He had a tact, a
delicacy, a kind of electric sympathy in his disposition, that endeared
him to every one that approached him. His very singularities, by keeping
alive an interest in him, added to the charm. Sometimes he was so
abstracted as to do the most absent things in the world; and the quick
alternations of his gaiety and seriousness were often ludicrous from
their excess. There was one thing, indeed, to which Ethel found it
difficult to accustom herself, which was his want of punctuality, which
often caused hours to be lost, and their excursions spoiled. Nor did he
ever furnish good excuses, but seemed annoyed at being questioned on the
subject.
Clorinda never joined them in their drives and rides out of the city.
She feared to trust herself to winds and waves; the heat, the breeze,
the dust, annoyed her; and she found no pleasure in looking at
mountains, which, after all, were only mountains; or ruins, which were
only ruins--stones, fit for nothing but to be removed and thrown away.
But Clorinda had an empire of her own, to which she gladly admitted her
English relatives, and the delights of which they fully appreciated.
Music, heard in such perfection at the glory of Naples, the theatre of
San Carlo, and the heavenly strains which filled the churches with an
atmosphere of sound more entrancing than incense--all these were hers;
and her own voice, rich, full, and well-cultivated, made a temple of
melody of her own home.
There was--it could not be called a wall--but there was certainly a
paling, of separation between Ethel and Clorinda. The young English girl
could not discover in what it consisted, or why she could not pass
beyond. The more she saw of the Neapolitan, the more she believed that
she liked her--certainly her admiration increased;--still she felt that
on the first day that Clorinda had visited her, with her caressing
manners and well-turned flatteries, she was quite as intimate with her
as now, after several weeks. She had surely nothing to conceal; all was
open in her conduct; yet often Ethel thought of her as a magician
guarding a secret treasure. Something there was that she watched over
and hid. There was often a look of anxiety about her which Ethel
unconsciously dispelled by some chance word; or a cloud all at once
dimmed her face, and her magnificent and dazzling eyes flashed sudden
fire, without apparent cause. There was something in her manner that
always said, "You are English, I am Italian; and there is natural war
between my fire and your snow." But no word, no act, ever betrayed
alienation of feeling. Thus a sort of mystery pervaded their
intercourse, which, though it might excite curiosity, and was not unakin
to admiration, kept the affections in check.
Sometimes Ethel thought that Clorinda feared to compromise her
salvation, for she was a Catholic. During the revelries of the Carnival,
this difference of religion was not so apparent; but when Lent began, it
showed itself, and divided them, on various occasions, more than before.
At last, Lent also was drawing to a close; and as Villiers and Ethel
were anxious to see the ceremonies of Passion Week at Rome, it was
arranged that they, and Mr. and Mrs. Saville, should visit the Eternal
City together. Horatio manifested a distaste even to the short residence
that it was agreed they should make together during the month they were
to spend at Rome; but Clorinda showed herself particularly anxious for
the fulfilment of this plan, and, the majority prevailing, the whole
party left Naples together.
Full soon was the veil of mystery then withdrawn, and Villiers and his
wife let into the arcana of their cousin's life. Horatio had yielded
unwillingly to Clorinda's intreaties, and extracted many promises from
her before he gave his consent; but all would not do--the natural, the
uncontrollable violence of her disposition broke down every barrier; and
in spite of his caution, and her struggles with herself, the reality
opened fearfully upon the English pair. The lava torrent of Neapolitan
blood flowed in her veins; and restraining it for some time, it at last
poured itself forth with volcanic violence. It was at the inn at
Terracina, on their way to Rome, that a scene took place, such as an
English person must cross Alps and Apennines to behold. Ethel had seen
that something was wrong. She saw the beauty of Clorinda vanished,
changed, melted away and awfully transformed into actual ugliness: she
saw tiger like glances from her eyes, and her lips pale and quivering.
Poor Saville strove, with gentle words, to allay the storm to which some
jealous freak gave rise: perceiving that his endeavours were vain, he
rose to quit the room. They were at dinner: she sprung on him with a
knife in her hand: Edward seized her arm; and she sunk on the floor in
convulsions. Ethel was scarcely less moved. Seeing her terrified beyond
all expression, Horatio led her from the room. He was pale--his voice
failed him. He left her; and sending Edward to her, returned to his
wife.
The same evening he said to Villiers,--"Do not ask me to stay;--let me
go without another word. You see how it is. With what Herculean labour I
have concealed this sad truth so long, is scarcely conceivable. When
Ethel's sweet smile has sometimes reproached my tardiness, I have
escaped, but half alive, from a scene like the one you witnessed.
"In a few hours, it is true, Clorinda will be shocked--full of
remorse--at my feet;--that is worse still. Her repentance is as violent
as her rage; and both transform her from a woman into something too
painful to dwell upon. She is generous, virtuous, full of power and
talent; but this fatal vehemence more than neutralizes her good
qualities. I can do nothing; I am chained to the oar. I have but one
hope: time, reason, and steadiness of conduct on my part, may subdue
her; and as she will at no distant period become a mother, softer
feelings may develop themselves. Sometimes I am violently impelled to
fly from her for ever. But she loves me, and I will not desert her. If
she will permit me, I will do my duty to the end. Let us go back now.
You will return to Naples next winter; and with this separation, which
will gall her proud spirit to its core, as a lesson, I hope by that time
that she will prove more worthy of Ethel's society."
Nothing could be said to this. Saville, though he asked, "Let us go
back," had decreed, irrevocably, in his own mind, not to advance another
step with his companions. The parting was melancholy and ominous. He
would not permit Clorinda to appear again; for, as he said, he feared
her repentance more than her violence, and would not expose Ethel as the
witness of a scene of humiliation and shame. A thousand times over, his
friends promised to return immediately to Naples, not deferring their
visit till the following winter. He was to take a house for them, for
the summer, at Castel à Mare, or Sorrento; and immediately after Easter
they were to return. These kind promises were a balm to his disturbed
mind. He watched their carriage from the inn at Terracina, as it skimmed
along the level road of the Pontine Marshes, and could not despair while
he expected its quick return. Turning his eyes away, he resumed his yoke
again; and, melancholy beyond his wont, joined his remorseful wife. They
were soon on their way back to Naples:--she less demonstrative in her
repentance, because more internally and deeply touched, than she had
ever been before.