THE NOMENTAN VILLA.
The Nomentan road goes from Rome eastward, and between it and the
Salarian is a deep ravine, beyond which on the side of the Nomentan way
lies a gracefully undulating ground. Amidst this is situated a
picturesque round temple, and near it a truly beautiful basilica,
dedicated to St. Agnes. Here was the villa belonging to her, situated
about a mile and a half from the city; and thither it had been arranged
that the two, now the three, newly consecrated should repair, to spend
the day in retirement and tranquil joy. Few more such days, perhaps,
would ever be granted them.
We need not describe this rural residence, except to say that everything
in it breathed contentment and happiness. It was one of those genial
days which a Roman winter supplies. The rugged Apennines were slightly
powdered with snow; the ground was barely crisp, the atmosphere
transparent, the sunshine glowing, and the heavens cloudless. A few
greyish curls of melting smoke from the cottages, and the leafless
vines, alone told that it was December. Everything living seemed to know
and love the gentle mistress of the place. The doves came and perched
upon her shoulder or her hand; the lambs in the paddock frisked, and ran
to her the moment she approached, and took the green fragrant herbs
which she brought them, with evident pleasure; but none owned her kindly
sway so much as old Molossus, the enormous watchdog. Chained beside the
gate, so fierce was he, that none but a few favorite domestics durst go
near him. But no sooner did Agnes appear than he crouched down, and
wagged his bushy tail, and whined, till he was let loose; for now a
child might approach him. He never left his mistress’s side; he followed
her like a lamb; and if she sat down he would lie at her feet, looking
into her face, delighted to receive, on his huge head, the caresses of
her slender hand.
It was indeed a peaceful day; sometimes calm and quiet, soft and tender,
as the three spoke together of the morning’s happiness, and of the
happier morning of which it was a pledge, above the liquid amber of
their present skies; sometimes cheerful and even merry, as the two took
Cæcilia to task for the trick she had played them. And she laughed
cheerily, as she always did, and told them she had a better trick in
store for them yet; which was, that she would cut them out when that
next morning came; for she intended to be the first at it, and not the
last.
Fabiola had, in the meantime, come to the villa to pay her first visit
to Agnes after her calamity, and to thank her for her sympathy. She
walked forward, but stopped suddenly on coming near the spot where this
happy group were assembled. For when she beheld the two who could see
the outward brightness of heaven, hanging over her who seemed to hold
all its splendor within her soul, she saw at once, in the scene, the
verification of her dream. Yet unwilling to intrude herself unexpectedly
upon them, and anxious to find Agnes alone, and not with her own slave
and a poor blind girl, she turned away before she was noticed, and
walked towards a distant part of the grounds. Still she could not help
asking herself, why she could not be cheerful and happy as they? Why was
there a gulf between them?
But the day was not destined to finish without its clouds; it would have
been too blissful for earth. Besides Fabiola, another person had started
from Rome, to pay a less welcome visit to Agnes. This was Fulvius, who
had never forgotten the assurances of Fabius, that his fascinating
address and brilliant ornaments had turned the weak head of Agnes. He
had waited till the first days of mourning were over, and he respected
the house in which he had once received such a rude reception, or rather
suffered such a summary ejectment. Having ascertained that, for the
first time, she had gone without her parents, or any male attendants, to
her suburban villa, he considered it a good opportunity for pressing his
suit. He rode out of the Nomentan gate, and was soon at Agnes’s. He
dismounted; said he wished to see her on important business, and, after
some importunity, was admitted by the porter. He was directed along a
walk, at the end of which she would be found. The sun was declining, and
her companions had strolled to a distance, and she was sitting alone in
a bright sunny spot, with old Molossus crouching at her feet. The
slightest approach to a growl from him, rare when he was with her, made
her look up from her work of tying together such winter flowers as the
others brought her, while she suppressed, by raising a finger, this
expression of instinctive dislike.
Fulvius came near with a respectful, but freer air than usual, as one
already assured of his request.
“I have come, Lady Agnes,” he said, “to renew to you the expression of
my sincere regard; and I could not have chosen a better day, for
brighter or fairer scarcely the summer sun could have bestowed.”
“Fair, indeed, and bright it has been to me,” replied Agnes, borne back
in mind to the morning’s scene; “and no sun in my life has ever given me
fairer,--it can only give me _one_ more fair.”
Fulvius was flattered, as if the compliment was to his presence, and
answered, “The day, no doubt you mean, of your espousals with one who
may have won your heart.”
“That is indeed done,” she replied, as if unconsciously; “and this is
his own precious day.”
“And was that wreathed veil upon your head, placed there in anticipation
of this happy hour?”
“Yes; it is the sign my beloved has placed upon my countenance, that I
recognize no lover but himself.”[136]
“And who is this happy being? I was not without hopes, nor will I
renounce them yet, that I have a place in your thoughts, perhaps in your
affections.”
Agnes seemed scarcely to heed his words. There was no appearance of
shyness or timidity in her looks or manner, no embarrassment even:
“Spotless without, and innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin.”
Her childlike countenance remained bright, open, and guileless; her
eyes, mildly beaming, looked straight upon Fulvius’s face with an
earnest simplicity, that made him almost quail before her. She stood up
now, with graceful dignity, as she replied:
“Milk and honey exhaled from his lips, as the blood from his stricken
cheek impressed itself on mine.”[137]
She is crazed, Fulvius was just beginning to think; when the inspired
look of her countenance, and the clear brightness of her eye, as she
gazed forwards towards some object seen by herself alone, overawed and
subdued him. She recovered in an instant; and again he took heart. He
resolved at once to pursue his demand.
“Madam,” he said, “you are trifling with one who sincerely admires and
loves you. I know from the best authority,--yes, the _best_
authority,--that of a mutual friend departed, that you have been pleased
to think favorably of me, and to express yourself not opposed to my
urging my claims to your hand. I now, therefore, seriously and earnestly
solicit it. I may seem abrupt and informal, but I am sincere and warm.”
“Begone from me, food of corruption!” she said with calm majesty; “for
already a lover has secured my heart, for whom alone I keep my troth, to
whom I intrust myself with undivided devotion; one whose love is chaste,
whose caress is pure, whose brides never put off their virginal
wreaths.”[138]
Fulvius, who had dropped on his knee as he concluded his last sentence,
and had thus drawn forth that severe rebuke, rose, filled with spite and
fury, at having been so completely deluded. “Is it not enough to be
rejected,” he said, “after having been encouraged, but must insult be
heaped on me too? and must I be told to my face that another has been
before me to-day?--Sebastian, I suppose, again----”
“Who are you?” exclaimed an indignant voice behind him, “that dare to
utter with disdain, the name of one whose honor is untarnished, and
whose virtue is as unchallenged as his courage?”
He turned round, and stood confronted with Fabiola, who, having walked
for some time about the garden, thought she would now probably find her
cousin disengaged, and by herself. She had come upon him suddenly, and
had caught his last words.
Fulvius was abashed, and remained silent.
Fabiola, with a noble indignation, continued. “And who, too, are you,
who, not content with having once thrust yourself into my kinswoman’s
house, to insult her, presume now to intrude upon the privacy of her
rural retreat?”
[Illustration: “Haughty Roman dame! thou shalt bitterly rue this day and
hour.”]
“And who are you,” retorted Fulvius, “who take upon yourself to be
imperious mistress in another’s house?”
“One,” replied the lady, “who, by allowing my cousin to meet you first
at her table, and there discovering your designs upon an innocent child,
feels herself bound in honor and duty to thwart them, and to shield her
from them.”
She took Agnes by the hand, and was leading her away; and Molossus
required what he never remembered to have received before, but what he
took delightedly, a gentle little tap, to keep him from more than
growling; when Fulvius, gnashing his teeth, muttered audibly:
“Haughty Roman dame! thou shalt bitterly rue this day and hour. Thou
shalt know and feel how Asia can revenge.”
[Illustration: A Lamb between Wolves, emblematic of the Church, from a
picture in the Cemetery of St. Prætextatus.]