As the Cyprian gazed on the image in which he had embodied a youth of
dreams, what time the living hues flushed slowly beneath the marble,--so
gazed the young and passionate Adrian upon the form reclined before him,
re-awakening gradually to life. And, if the beauty of that face were
not of the loftiest or the most dazzling order, if its soft and quiet
character might be outshone by many, of loveliness less really perfect,
yet never was there a countenance that, to some eyes, would have seemed
more charming, and never one in which more eloquently was wrought that
ineffable and virgin expression which Italian art seeks for in its
models,--in which modesty is the outward, and tenderness the latent,
expression; the bloom of youth, both of form and heart, ere the first
frail and delicate freshness of either is brushed away: and when even
love itself, the only unquiet visitant that should be known at such an
age, is but a sentiment, and not a passion!
“Benedetta!” murmured Irene, at length opening her eyes, unconsciously,
upon him who knelt beside her,--eyes of that uncertain, that most liquid
hue, on which you might gaze for years and never learn the secret of the
colour, so changed it with the dilating pupil,--darkening in the shade,
and brightening into azure in the light:
“Benedetta,” said Irene, “where art thou? Oh, Benedetta! I have had such
a dream.”
“And I, too, such a vision!” thought Adrian.
“Where am I?” cried Irene, rising from the couch. “This room--these
hangings--Holy Virgin! do I dream still!--and you! Heavens!--it is the
Lord Adrian di Castello!”
“Is that a name thou hast been taught to fear?” said Adrian; “if so, I
will forswear it.”
If Irene now blushed deeply, it was not in that wild delight with which
her romantic heart motive foretold that she would listen to the
first words of homage from Adrian di Castello. Bewildered and
confused,--terrified at the strangeness of the place and shrinking even
from the thought of finding herself alone with one who for years had
been present to her fancies,--alarm and distress were the emotions
she felt the most, and which most were impressed upon her speaking
countenance; and as Adrian now drew nearer to her, despite the
gentleness of his voice and the respect of his looks, her fears, not the
less strong that they were vague, increased upon her: she retreated to
the further end of the room, looked wildly round her, and then, covering
her face with her hands, burst into a paroxysm of tears.
Moved himself by these tears, and divining her thoughts, Adrian forgot
for moment all the more daring wishes he had formed.
“Fear not, sweet lady,” said he, earnestly: “recollect thyself, I
beseech thee; no peril, no evil can reach thee here; it was this hand
that saved thee from the outrage of the Orsini--this roof is but the
shelter of a friend! Tell me, then, fair wonder, thy name and residence,
and I will summon my servitors, and guard thee to thy home at once.”
Perhaps the relief of tears, even more than Adrian’s words, restored
Irene to herself, and enabled her to comprehend her novel situation;
and as her senses, thus cleared, told her what she owed to him whom her
dreams had so long imaged as the ideal of all excellence, she recovered
her self-possession, and uttered her thanks with a grace not the less
winning, if it still partook of embarrassment.
“Thank me not,” answered Adrian, passionately. “I have touched thy
hand--I am repaid. Repaid! nay, all gratitude--all homage is for me to
render!”
Blushing again, but with far different emotions than before, Irene,
after a momentary pause, replied, “Yet, my Lord, I must consider it a
debt the more weighty that you speak of it so lightly. And now, complete
the obligation. I do not see my companion--suffer her to accompany me
home; it is but a short way hence.”
“Blessed, then, is the air that I have breathed so unconsciously!” said
Adrian. “But thy companion, dear lady, is not here. She fled, I imagine,
in the confusion of the conflict; and not knowing thy name, nor being
able, in thy then state, to learn it from thy lips, it was my happy
necessity to convey thee hither;--but I will be thy companion. Nay, why
that timid glance? my people, also, shall attend us.”
“My thanks, noble Lord, are of little worth; my brother, who is not
unknown to thee, will thank thee more fittingly. May I depart?” and
Irene, as she spoke, was already at the door.
“Art thou so eager to leave me?” answered Adrian, sadly. “Alas! when
thou hast departed from my eyes, it will seem as if the moon had left
the night!--but it is happiness to obey thy wishes, even though they
tear thee from me.”
A slight smile parted Irene’s lips, and Adrian’s heart beat audibly
to himself, as he drew from that smile, and those downcast eyes, no
unfavourable omen.
Reluctantly and slowly he turned towards the door, and summoned his
attendants. “But,” said he, as they stood on the lofty staircase, “thou
sayest, sweet lady, that thy brother’s name is not unknown to me. Heaven
grant that he be, indeed, a friend of the Colonna!”
“His boast,” answered Irene, evasively; “the boast of Cola di Rienzi is,
to be a friend to the friends of Rome.”
“Holy Virgin of Ara Coeli!--is thy brother that extraordinary man?”
exclaimed Adrian, as he foresaw, at the mention of that name, a barrier
to his sudden passion. “Alas! in a Colonna, in a noble, he will see no
merit; even though thy fortunate deliverer, sweet maiden, sought to be
his early friend!”
“Thou wrongest him much, my Lord,” returned Irene, warmly; “he is a man
above all others to sympathize with thy generous valour, even had it
been exerted in defence of the humblest woman in Rome,--how much more,
then, when in protection of his sister!”
“The times are, indeed, diseased,” answered Adrian, thoughtfully, as
they now found themselves in the open street, “when men who alike mourn
for the woes of their country are yet suspicious of each other; when to
be a patrician is to be regarded as an enemy to the people; when to
be termed the friend of the people is to be considered a foe to the
patricians: but come what may, oh! let me hope, dear lady, that no
doubts, no divisions, shall banish from thy breast one gentle memory of
me!”
“Ah! little, little do you know me!” began Irene, and stopped suddenly
short.
“Speak! speak again!--of what music has this envious silence deprived my
soul! Thou wilt not, then, forget me? And,” continued Adrian, “we shall
meet again? It is to Rienzi’s house we are bound now; tomorrow I shall
visit my old companion,--tomorrow I shall see thee. Will it not be so?”
In Irene’s silence was her answer.
“And as thou hast told me thy brother’s name, make it sweet to my ear,
and add to it thine own.”
“They call me Irene.”
“Irene, Irene!--let me repeat it. It is a soft name, and dwells upon the
lips as if loath to leave them--a fitting name for one like thee.”
Thus making his welcome court to Irene, in that flowered and glowing
language which, if more peculiar to that age and to the gallantry of
the south, is also the language in which the poetry of youthful passion
would, in all times and lands, utter its rich extravagance, could heart
speak to heart, Adrian conveyed homeward his beautiful charge, taking,
however, the most circuitous and lengthened route; an artifice which
Irene either perceived not, or silently forgave. They were now within
sight of the street in which Rienzi dwelt, when a party of men bearing
torches, came unexpectedly upon them. It was the train of the Bishop of
Orvietto, returning from the palace of Martino di Porto, and in their
way (accompanied by Rienzi) to that of Adrian. They had learned at the
former, without an interview with the Orsini, from the retainers in
the court below, the fortune of the conflict, and the name of Irene’s
champion; and, despite Adrian’s general reputation for gallantry, Rienzi
knew enough of his character, and the nobleness of his temper, to feel
assured that Irene was safe in his protection. Alas! in that very safety
to the person is often the most danger to the heart. Woman never so
dangerously loves, as when he who loves her, for her sake, subdues
himself.
Clasped to her brother’s breast, Irene bade him thank her deliverer;
and Rienzi, with that fascinating frankness which sits so well on those
usually reserved, and which all who would rule the hearts of their
fellow-men must at times command, advanced to the young Colonna, and
poured forth his gratitude and praise.
“We have been severed too long,--we must know each other again,” replied
Adrian. “I shall seek thee, ere long, be assured.”
Turning to take his leave of Irene, he conveyed her hand to his lips,
and pressing it, as it dropped from his clasp, was he deceived in
thinking that those delicate fingers lightly, involuntarily, returned
the pressure?