"Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak, I'll go no further."
_Hamlet._
The Earl had been engaged, as we have before stated, on some business
connected with the Government that was then in power and the Neapolitan
interests; so busily was he engaged in his occupation that his mind was
thoroughly abstracted from everything else, and he neither saw nor heard
anything that was going on around him. His study was immediately beneath
the verandah on which the Countess and his daughter were then sitting.
The balcony formed a sort of roof over a tessellated pavement that led
to the lawn; up the pillars and trellised work that supported this
verandah were twined vines and other creepers: these pillars, with their
festoons, extended the whole length of the villa, and opened into a dark
avenue of poplar trees. The windows of his room led to this walk, and
being in Italian form, opened like a glass door, thus serving the part
of window and door at once. They were open at the time we speak of, and
the west wind blew lightly into the chamber, bearing on its wings the
aromatic perfume of the orange groves. We have purposely been minute in
this description, and why the reader will judge best by-and-by. The
escritoire, where the Earl pursued his avocation, was placed about a
couple of yards from the open window, and he sat with his back to the
western hills glowing in the departing beams of the setting sun; perhaps
he chose this position lest the beauties of nature should call him from
his duties, and tempt him to neglect his important studies. Several law
books in English and Italian lay round him, and these he from time to
time consulted, as he wrote. Once he thought a shadow, as of a person
crossing between him and the sun, passed over the sheet he inscribed--it
was perhaps the Countess, or Augusta, so he thought, and without even
turning round he again wrote rapidly.
Had there been a third person in the room (for there were two there) he
would have seen this intruder noiselessly enter by the inviting window;
fearful of disturbing the writer, the figure crept on past him, till it
stood exactly opposite, treading as if on velvet, so lightly fell each
footstep. The intruder, an Italian maiden thirteen years of age--though
the precocity of her climate gave her the appearance of a girl of
sixteen at least--was dressed in the picturesque costume of the
mountains. She had almost attained her full height, which was above the
average, and revelled in all the freshness of a beauty, which, if it
might prove short-lived, was radiant as the flower which fades first,
owing to its surpassing bloom. The hot sun of her native hills had
wooed, but not marred, the soft cheek; all its warmth seemed brightly
received into it, as in a mirror! large lustrous eyes, gloriously black,
fringed by long lashes, full lips of carmine hue, and a nose so slightly
arched as to seem almost, but not altogether Grecian, completed this
damsel's charms. Her dress was well calculated to set off without
detracting from a face which needed no foil, and a form which required
no art to enhance. Her long hair, dark as night, was braided in broad
plaits which fell down her back through the folds of a scarlet silk
kerchief, that confined her tresses and contrasted well with their raven
hue, throwing a warmth of colour over all. A tight boddice of black silk
velvet, laced with gold braid, developed the bold outlines of her gently
heaving breast. A dark-blue skirt descended nearly to her sandals--but
not low enough to hide her well-shaped ankles; a narrow apron of various
bright colours in thin stripes, fringed with gold lace at the hem,
completed her costume. She wore a few ornaments all of costly
workmanship, pendants of gold dropped from her tiny ears, a chain of
pearls encircled her neck; from the end of this string hung a black
cross set with diamonds of great value, and on her fingers sparkled
several rings. Folding her arms across her bosom she watched the Earl,
so occupied in his labours he knew not who watched him. The expression
of the young girl's face was peculiar, and to have seen how earnestly
and lovingly she fixed her gaze on the Earl, a stranger would have
thought she knew him and loved him (and yet though she knew him she had
never before been in his house), or would have imagined she was more to
him than she seemed--in this surmise he would perhaps be nearer the
mark.
Lord Wentworth was a true lover of nature, besides possessing a
considerable amount of scientific knowledge. Botany was one of his
favourite pursuits, and often he was accustomed to take long rides
amongst the hills to pursue his attractive study. Whenever he had bent
his course to the Val di Bovino he had been met by a young Italian girl,
who, for some unaccountable reason, seemed to have the greatest
affection for him. Whenever she heard the sound of his horse's feet, as
if by instinct she was at his side, and with the sweet manners of
southern countries used to proffer a bouquet of the most rare and
beautiful wild flowers. He used to talk to her, and often she was his
guide to secluded grots, or dark dells where modest flowers sprung.
There was something so innocent in this affection, so charming in the
young creature who gave it, that she quite won his heart, and far
oftener than he would otherwise have done he bent his horse's course to
the Val, and experienced a sort of delight in the company of this child
of the South. It was not love--it was a nameless, but pure
affection--more of the affection of a father to his child. He had never
once missed his little mountain maiden. Unable to devise wherefore she
had so set her fancy on him, he nevertheless felt all the pleasurable
sensations of the feelings he inspired. There was another reason why he
felt a peculiar interest in her,--this was the wonderful resemblance she
bore to one with whom he had once played so sad a part; she was the
image of Juana Ferraras, as he had known her many years since. So struck
was he with this similitude that he had used every endeavour to try and
induce the little girl to come and visit him, in order that the Countess
might see her--but all his endeavours had proved vain; and though he had
prevailed on the Countess several times to accompany him to the Val in
order to show her his little Leonora--such was the name he knew her
by--yet either by a provoking mischance, or well-laid scheme, she was
never to be seen excepting when he was quite alone; and the Countess
used to twit him about her, declaring she must either be a fairy, or an
Egeria of his brain. He had given her some rings, and other slight
souvenirs, but she seemed above any pecuniary help--so he had never
offered her money; he had vainly striven to find out who she was, and
where she lived; after a period of three months' almost daily
communication with his mysterious and romantic acquaintance, he had yet
failed in every inquiry, and he began almost to fancy she was some being
unearthly, and perchance a lingering _dryad_ of old, who still haunted
her woodland dell! We have made this digression, as without it the
meeting of the Earl and this maiden, for it was she who stood before
him, would seem unaccountable at the least. A breath more deeply drawn
than her usual respirations attracted at last the attention of the Earl
to his visitor. He gazed up from his letter, and was not a little
astonished when he saw his friend there.
"Leonora, my little Egeria--you here? And how did you come, and what
brings you here?"
"My Lord, I have been here some time; you were so engrossed you did not
see nor hear me enter. I hope I do not intrude."
"Oh! no--such an intrusion does not deserve the name: and what does my
Egeria want? Is she come at last to see my lady, and little girl?"
"No, I am come on an important errand--I am a messenger with strange
tidings."
"Of good I am sure, such a pretty herald could not bear ill tidings."
"Do not be too confident, my Lord; the bright sunset heralds in black
night."
"Well, my love, you must tell me, and if I can do anything for you my
help shall not be lacking."
"It is not here, my Lord, I can tell you; it is not me they concern, but
yourself,--will you follow me?"
"Follow you--and whither? Really this is quite romantic and the hour
well chosen! And what can concern me? Well, I will come if it is not
far."
"It is far though; as far as the Val di Bovino."
"On my word, that is a long distance; and it is now getting late,--will
not to-morrow do as well?"
"No, Signore,--to-night; it is of the utmost importance; you know not
what hangs on your coming."
"But, my love, the Val is not a 'canny place,' as we say in Scotland; it
is full of robbers. Now, I fear not for myself, but my life is of value
to my family; it would not be safe nor right for me to go."
"You need not fear, Signore; no one will touch you. I have a free pass
from Luigi; see here it is (showing a card with some masonic words
written on it); you need have no fear with me."
"That alters it certainly. But let me at least tell my wife I am going."
"My Lord, time is precious; lose no more; every minute is of priceless
value. Waste no more time, Signore!"
Certainly, thought the Earl, this is a curious predicament, and still
there is something so romantic in it; I cannot help going,--and yet I
may be doing wrong. But Leonora would not betray me; I am sure of her,
safe as steel! But she may be the artless messenger of Luigi, and my
life may be in peril. I do not value it at a straw for myself; but
Ellen,--no, I ought not to go.
"Leonora, I am not justified in going with you. To-morrow I will meet
you at the Val."
A shade of sorrow passed over the young girl's face. "Alas! Signore;
then you trust me not; you think I would lead you to peril. Farewell,
Signore. I had thought differently of you; I am sadly mistaken. You have
no confidence; farewell! You will never see your Leonora more, but you
may repent your not following her!"
As she said these words, she mournfully turned away. It was not in
mortal to resist any more.
"I wrong you, love, I do!" exclaimed the Earl. "Stay, I will come. I
will follow you anywhere. There could not be treachery in such a brow!"
"Ah, you are like yourself again! The fearless, the confiding," said the
girl, taking his hand and pressing her lips to it; "you will see you
have nought to fear, for every hair of your head is dear to me as my
life. But, Signore, make haste; we have kept away too long;--this way;
no one must see us;--beneath the verandah, down the poplar avenue, and
then away, away!" and the girl clapped her hands with delight.
"But stay, child,--my horse; I must get that; I am not going to walk!"
"Nor need you; but I have got a horse for you all ready; follow
me--_presto prestissimo!_"
The Earl had just time to fling a cloak over his shoulders, and snatch
up a hunting cap, ere she was out of sight. He then followed her
quickly,--under the portico, down the avenue, and then through a small
postern,--and he was outside his gardens, and the Apennines in front.
Still his fair guide moved on; she seemed to float rather than walk over
the ground, towards a dark myrtle grove. By this time the sunlight had
quite forsaken the west; the hills had re-assumed their dusky hue, and
the full moon rising in the east began to shed a cold lustre on the
dew-bathed landscape. Still in the full vigour of manhood, strong,
bounding in health, and with a mind ready for adventure, the Earl saw
something delightful in the mystery of his errand; the loveliness of his
guide, the hour, the place, the uncertain light of the moon, the
originality of the whole--all was charming! But yet here was he, a peer
of England, a husband of a fond wife, a father of a loving child, racing
at night after a stranger almost, a pretty Italian girl, to a well-known
haunt of robbers, to hear some wonderful story, or see some wonderful
thing. It was ludicrous as well as romantic. He almost began to laugh at
himself as he thought what the Marquis would think of him, and to be
angry with himself when he thought what anxiety his freak would give
Ellen. He had nearly forty miles to ride there and back, and supposing
they did this in four hours' hard riding, allowing a couple of hours for
delay and the time taken in revealing the secret, this would not bring
him home till eleven at night, and during those six hours his wife would
be wretched. But it was too late for regrets now; he was pledged to
follow his guide. After all, he thought, I have often been later; she
will but think I have gone to a friend's house, or the library.
Excusing himself thus, he followed Leonora still into the myrtle wood.
She at last stopped, and, taking a little ivory whistle from her bosom,
blew a signal. In less than two minutes a suspicious-looking man,
leading two horses, appeared.[E] He was dark and swarthy in appearance,
with long hair and beard untrimmed, as well as fierce moustache; wore a
pointed hat gaily decked with ribbons, a jacket of crimson velvet
embroidered with gold, breeches of dark blue velvet slashed with
crimson, buskins of leather, and long spurs on his heels; his bronzed
complexion and fierce look argued him a dangerous fellow, perhaps a
bandit; but a silken sash round his middle, stuck full of pistols,
knives, and stilettos, and a musket slung on his back, proclaimed it too
certainly. When the Earl saw this fellow, he began to think he had been
over-ready to follow a stranger; however, Leonora looked incapable of
treachery, and he still trusted her. He made friends with the man by
slipping a gold piece into his hand as he took the bridle of his horse.
The bandit grinned as he saw it glitter on his palm, showing a white and
regular set of teeth. The Earl then lifted his fair guide into her
_selle_, which was covered with velvet richly embroidered with gold,
gave the silken reins into her hand, and then prepared to mount his own
steed. The horse he was to ride was a large and powerful Arab, coal
black excepting a star of white on its forehead. The saddle and reins
were of the finest leather, stamped with elegant designs. His guide's
was a pretty jennet of the Andalusian breed, snow-white, with flowing
mane and tail. She managed the skittish little animal with great
address, and as the Earl followed slowly on his own noble charger, he
thought he had never seen a prettier pair than guided him,--a more
perfect horsewoman than his guide, a better bred animal than she rode
on. The young girl gently walked her steed till beyond the confines of
the wood, when she put out its powers more freely along a bye-path. It
was not long ere they reached the main road, and then, waving her hand,
she set off at a breathless speed and soon reached the grassy plains of
the open country. The Earl, an experienced horseman, easily kept up with
his guide, and he thought he had seldom pressed a nobler horse than the
one that bore him.
When they reached the plain, leaving the road, she dashed forward across
the sandy ground; the Earl followed. Their horses drove the numerous
herds of cattle that fed on the immense pasturage right and left before
them. Lord Wentworth was in high spirits then, and enjoyed the gallop
over the great common as every rider must, especially by moonlight. Then
there was the romance of the ride, following a beautiful girl to an
unknown place, and as his courser's hoofs spurned the sandy soil, he
almost shouted the "Tallyho!" of old England in his glee. It was not
long ere they reached the hills, that advanced like great barriers; it
seemed as if they were inaccessible and not to be pierced; but as they
drew nearer the Earl saw the gap of a river through the mountains, and
dense woods of acacia, arbor vitae, and nut-trees became visible, as well
as the road they had left.
Entering again on the resumed route, Leonora drew the reins to breathe
her panting horse; he followed her example, and side by side they began
to walk their horses up the road, gradually becoming steeper as it
crossed the chain of hills. The moon was now getting high in the
heavens, and shone with silver rays on the brown mountains and woods
above and below them. It was dead silence all, save the flow of the
river beneath chafing against its rocky sides, or the shrill cry of the
_cicalas_, the rustle of the dried leaves stirred by the passing wind,
the tramp of the iron hoof, or the snort of the fiery animals they
scarce compelled into a reluctant walk. Neither spoke a word; he was too
busy with his own thoughts, the girl too modest to begin a conversation.
Slowly they paced upwards; the woods grew denser on either side; the
mountains rose darker; the roar of the waters grew louder; but in
silence they still rode on.
They had now reached the middle of the pass, and arrived at the scene of
the morning's tragedy, of which the Earl as yet knew nothing. The first
thing that caught his eye, was the carriage, which stood in lonely
desertion in the middle of the road; some fifty paces ahead a little
beyond it his eye caught a glimpse of two poles, one on either side of
the road, bearing aloft their dread tokens of guilt and murder. The moon
shone on the haggard features, and rendered them disgusting and horrid.
He shuddered as he saw them; on the road too he perceived numbers of
bodies stretched in various groups. It was like a field of battle. As
they approached, two or three dark animals rushed away into the
woods,--they were wolves come down on their prey.
"What in God's name has occurred here?" said the Earl, as he now passed
directly beneath the poles, and with difficulty guided his horse amongst
the numerous corpses.
"Some poor travellers whom the Vardarelli robbed and murdered to-day,"
answered the girl, with a _sang froid_ that seemed totally unlike her.
"My God!" exclaimed the Earl, "it is even so; these are my unhappy
guests! It is Mr. Lennox and his wretched son--I know those ghastly
heads! Leonora, I can go no further; those death-pale faces will long
haunt me!"
"What, Signore, are you come so far, and afraid to go on? True, this is
a sad sight--the marks of plunder, rapine, and murder,--but with me you
need not fear."
"You understand me not: these are my friends--they have been cruelly
butchered."
"I am sorry they were Signore's friends; but by following me you may
gain much--even by finding out about them."
"Wretched girl!" exclaimed Lord Wentworth; "is it possible you belong to
this fierce gang?--so young, so innocent-looking! Ha!" he continued,
looking on her with changed expression, "I see it now. I have been
decoyed--duped!--fool that I was to come alone, and unarmed. I shall be
set on, and murdered, and my head stuck by those! I will at least give
them a chase for it," and he turned his horse's head.
"Hear me," cried the girl, "you wrong me, Signore--you wrong me! I have
not deserved this! Follow me still--judge not by appearances, they may
be against me: you will live to prove my truth; only have faith in one
who would not for worlds injure you."
"By my soul, you take me for a fool! No, no, fair maiden, prevention is
better than cure--you shan't get my head without a run for it."
"Once more, listen, my Lord. To return alone, even on that fleet horse,
is certain death;--these woods are full of those who never missed their
aim; and to go on with me is your only chance; and I vow by the great
God--by the blessed Virgin--not a hair of your head shall be injured! Do
you believe me?--look at my face and see if truth is not written there.
Oh! for your own--my sake--follow on. I am not what I appear!"
The Earl looked at her; the moon shone full on her face--it was the face
of a Madonna--no shade of falsehood there.
"I will follow--I will trust you; only remember, Signorina, if you
deceive me you break your word, your oath, your honour,--lead on."
The mysterious guide[F] then reining her horse to the left, descended
through the woods towards the river. He followed. The descent was
difficult, and very steep; the moonlight hardly pierced the trees above.
"This girl," he thought, "is either the strangest and most faithful I
ever met, or the worst arch-deceiver I ever was duped by."
After a toilsome descent, in which their horses often stumbled, they
approached the river with its limestone cliffs, and emerged on an open
green. Here Leonora dismounted, and motioned to the Earl to do the same.
She again blew the ivory whistle, a similarly-costumed bandit appeared,
received the horses, and decamped as mysteriously as he came.
"Signore," said the girl, "you have promised to trust me; will you
submit to be blindfolded, for you must no longer see the path you go?"
"Upon my soul, you are determined to give me cause to place my
confidence in you: I suppose you will ask me next if I have any
objection to be thrown in yonder river? However, have your way,
I submit myself entirely to your honour."
Untying a gay scarf that bound her waist, she bandaged the Earl's eyes;
then taking his hand led him forward.
The path down which she led him was rough, stony, and seemed extremely
steep. By-and-by he was aware he was crossing a bridge, and heard the
river swirl and roar beneath him; it seemed far below, as near as he
could judge by his ear. His route then lay upward, and ere long he was
aware he had bade adieu to the moonlight and open air. An involuntary
shudder ran through him as he perceived he must now be in a cave, from
the hollow sound, and the echoes of his clanking strides. His guide felt
the thrill, at least he fancied she must have perceived it, from her
almost immediately afterwards bidding him not to fear. For more than a
hundred yards, as he judged, she led him on through this vault; then he
began to distinguish sounds, which soon resolved themselves into voices
and laughter: they grew more and more distinct, till he could almost
catch the individual words; then a sudden turn in the passage seemed to
lead him away from them, and they grew more and more distant, till he
lost the power of catching them any more.
He heard a footstep next, approaching, nearer and nearer, till it seemed
beside him. His guide stopped, and spoke to the man in a language he did
not understand. A gruff voice answered her. Another shudder ran through
him as he thought he must now be in a den of robbers, and his life
depended on the frail thread of a woman's word. Still he did not fear
for himself; and he was determined that if, after all, he had been
duped, he would try and sell his life dearly.
The thought of Ellen, too, oppressed him, and he bitterly cursed his
folly in trusting himself to such chances. Another turn in the passage,
and suddenly, a red glare told him he was again in light. There was
something at least reinspiriting in being in light;--the thought of an
assassin's dagger in the dark is horrible!
Almost immediately after, he felt his guide's fingers untying the scarf
that bound his eyes. She slowly unknotted it, and then, as she left her
hold, it dropped on the ground.
The lights dazzled his eyes, long accustomed to the dark, so much, that
for an instant he could see nothing. When he recovered his sight, the
first thing he looked for was his guide. She was gone!--the scarf lay at
his feet, but she was gone! Had she been only a wraith to lead him so
far, and then forsake him?
"Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air?
He saw not--he knew not--but nothing was there!"