ANOTHER LOVE CHASE.
On the morning succeeding the conversation related at the close of the
last chapter, Erminie was seated at work in her own room, and singing as
she sewed, when the housemaid entered and laid a card before her.
“‘Vittorio Corsoni,’ our Italian professor! Where is he, Catherine?”
inquired Erminie, with her eyes on the bit of enameled pasteboard that
bore the name she read.
“I showed him into the drawing-room, miss; which he says he would very
much like to see you for a few minutes, if so be you can do him the
honor,” replied the girl.
“Certainly, Catherine—our ex-master! I will go at once,” said the
minister’s daughter, rising.
Always dressed with exquisite neatness, Erminie had no occasion to keep
her visitor waiting. She followed the maid down the stairs, and passed
into the drawing-room.
The young Italian professor was seated, leaning back in one of the easy
chairs. He looked haggard and careworn, but quite as handsome and
interesting as ever, with his long, curling black hair, large, luminous,
dark eyes, and slight and elegant form.
Erminie walked straight toward him. She liked the young Italian, who
was, indeed, a great favorite with all ladies. He arose to meet her.
“I am very, very glad to see you, signior,” she said, cordially holding
out her hands.
He bowed over them as he took them.
“I called to-day, Miss Rosenthal, to pay my respects to yourself and
your learned father, and also to make some inquiries after——” His voice
faltered and broke down, and then, after an inward struggle for
composure, he added, huskily—“one who is infinitely dearer to me than my
own soul!”
Erminie pitied this lover. How could she help it? She said, gently:
“After Alberta Goldsborough?”
“Yes, my dear Miss Rosenthal. I have heard no word of her since our
violent separation in the latter part of September, and this is January.
I have used every means to soften the hearts of her parents, but all in
vain! I have written them many letters, but they have been returned to
me unopened. I have besieged their house in Richmond, but have always
been denied admittance, and once I have been threatened with the police!
I, a Corsoni! But, in the pursuit of my dear love, I would suffer any
ignominy that would not touch my honor!”
“I will tell you all about her. I see no reason in the world why you
should not know. Alberta is a boarder at the Convent of the Visitation.”
“Thanks! a thousand thanks! It is much to know where she is. I can at
least walk outside the walls and gaze up to the windows in the hope of
seeing my queen love. Perhaps I may be permitted to write to her.
Perhaps I may have the divine happiness of being allowed to call on
her!” exclaimed the excitable Italian, springing up.
“Oh, no; do not hope it. I am sorry to discourage you, but I know that
she is permitted to correspond only with a few trusted friends, and that
all her letters and her correspondents’ letters pass through the hands
of the mother superior. And she is allowed to see only a certain small
number of visitors upon fixed days, and in the presence of one of the
sisters,” said Erminie.
The young professor heaved a profound sigh, and inquired:
“Have you the great happiness of being one of the blessed number who are
permitted to visit this angel?”
Erminie could not restrain a smile at the hyperbolical language of this
lover as she answered:
“Yes, I am allowed to visit her; but only in the presence of one or two
of the sisters.”
“Then, my dear Miss Rosenthal, may I entreat you to be our good genius
and convey one little, little message to my love?” said Corsoni,
clasping his hands imploringly.
“I am very sorry to refuse you, signior; but, even if it were right for
me to take your message, I should not be allowed to deliver it,”
answered Erminie, very gravely.
“Ah! what an unfortunate man I am! Miss Rosenthal, if you cannot take a
message, since you would not be permitted to deliver it, can you not
take one little, little letter? You could easily deliver a little,
little letter unknown to the sentinel sisters,” entreated the lover,
again clasping his hands and bringing his beautiful eyes to bear upon
her with all the force of which they were capable.
“I cannot, signior! I am very sorry to refuse you, but I cannot. It
would be a very great breach of faith on my part to do as you wish me. I
am trusted by Alberta’s parents, and I must be faithful to my trust,”
said Erminie, seriously.
“You draw hair breadth lines of distinction, my too good Miss
Rosenthal,” said the signior, rising, in ill-suppressed displeasure, to
take his leave.
“Have faith and hope, and the patience that springs from both, signior.
In time all will be well,” said Erminie, gently.
“I thank you, my much-too-good Miss Rosenthal! I will have faith and
hope; but I will have no patience! I will not wait for time; but all
shall be well because I will make it so! Good-morning, my
very-much-too-good young lady!”
And Vittorio Corsoni, with a deeply-injured look, bowed himself out.
Erminie, smiling at the Italian’s half-suppressed vehemence, went
upstairs to her needlework.
Corsoni, after leaving the Lutheran minister’s house, walked rapidly to
a cab stand, threw himself into a carriage, and gave the order:
“To the Convent of the Visitation.”
And the carriage started.
He reclined back in his seat, looking grim, moody and sardonic, until,
at the end of about three-quarters of an hour, the carriage reached to
within a hundred yards of the convent wall. There he stopped it, got out
and dismissed it, and continued his way on foot, until he reached the
front of the convent. There he walked up and down before the building,
gazing up at the windows and debating with himself whether he should
boldly go up to grand entrance and ask to see Miss Goldsborough, with
the great probability of being refused and suspected and watched; or
whether he should wait to mature a plot he had formed of seeing her by
stratagem. The first plan suited him well, except in the small chance of
success it offered; and the second plan would have suited him, for his
Italian spirit delighted in stratagem, but that his impetuous nature
detested the process of waiting.
While he was thus debating with himself, he noticed the front door open,
and little girls, singly or in twos and threes, and then in larger
numbers, issue forth and hurry away in various directions.
And he easily divined that this hour was the midday recess of the
institution, and that these children were the day pupils going to their
respective homes in the neighborhood for dinner, and that in an hour or
two they would return for the afternoon session of the school.
And that “second plan” which had been vaguely forming in his mind,
immediately took distinct shape and color, and sprung to maturity.
He hastened to the nearest restaurant and ordered luncheon for himself.
And while it was being got ready he asked for writing materials and
wrote a letter. Very soon he dispatched his luncheon, and then, with his
prepared letter in his hand, he started once more for the convent. On
his way thither he stopped at a confectioner’s and bought a quantity of
French candy, with which he filled his pockets.
When he got back before the convent walls he found, as he had expected,
the day pupils returning to school for the afternoon session. They came
in as they had gone out—singly, or in twos or threes, or in larger
numbers.
Vittorio stood under a tree, apparently engaged in reading a newspaper,
but really in watching the countenances of the returning children.
Nearly all had gone in, and Vittorio began to despair of the success of
his plan. At length all seemed to have gone in, for not another one
appeared, and the door was closed, and Vittorio quite despaired of the
success of his plan. But, as he was turning away, with a most
heartbroken expression of countenance, he met a beautiful little girl of
about nine years of age, dressed in deep mourning, and carrying a
satchel of books. He knew that she must be a day pupil of the convent
school, and that she was behind time. This little girl, meeting the
handsome, melancholy and most interesting young Italian, looked up in
his face with that wistful expression of sympathy which is so often seen
in the faces of children when they are contemplating the troubled brows
of older people.
Vittorio Corsoni knew in an instant that he had met the sort of little
girl for whom he had patiently waited.
He immediately addressed her:
“My dear child, are you a pupil of that convent school?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the tiny woman, gently, while her wistful face
seemed to say, “Poor fellow! what can I do to help you?”
“Do you know a young lady who boards there by the name of—Miss Alberta
Goldsborough?” he inquired, in a low voice.
“Oh, yes, sir,” she answered, quickly, while her speaking face expressed
the thought, “Oh, this is the sweetheart she is hidden from!” For you
may be sure, my readers, that there are very few secrets in this world;
and the real reason why Miss Goldsborough had been sent to that convent
school was whispered about among the older pupils, and this little girl
had heard of it; and all her sympathies were with the lovers.
“You love Miss Goldsborough, of course, and would do anything to make
her happy, I am sure,” said the Italian, in a persuasive voice, fixing
his large, lustrous, melancholy eyes with mesmeric effect upon the
sensitive child’s face.
“No, I do not love her so very much. She is so still and proud,” began
the truthful child.
“That is because she is ill-used and unhappy, my dear,” said Vittorio,
persuasively, keeping his beautiful, sorrowful eyes fixed upon the
little girl.
“I am unhappy, too! I have lost my dear mother!” said the child.
“Have you, my darling? Then may the blessed Mother of Christ be your
mother, and comfort you,” said Vittorio, plaintively.
“But that does not make me sullen! And although Miss Goldsborough will
not let me love her much, I do think I would do anything to please her;
and I do know I would do anything in the world to please you, so you
wouldn’t look so very, very miserable!”
“Would you, my little angel? You are a little angel of goodness! Would
you take a letter from me to Miss Goldsborough?”
“Oh, yes, sir, that I would!”
“And could you give it to her—secretly?”
“Oh, yes, sir, I know I could!”
“Without any one but herself seeing you do it?”
“Oh, yes, sir!”
“Then, little darling of my eyes and heart, will you take this to her?”
said Vittorio, handing his prepared letter to the little girl.
“Yes, indeed, I will, sir! and nobody shall know anything about it but
Miss Goldsborough,” answered the child, with her countenance all radiant
with the delight of delighting, as she hid the letter in her bosom.
“I shall be here this evening, when the school is dismissed, waiting to
see you. Will you bring me the answer to that letter?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir, that I will, if she writes it and gives it to
me.”
“Thanks, little Seraph! And now look here! here are some delicious
French _bonbons_—whole boxes full of them. Take them, my dear, and share
them with your schoolmates,” said Vittorio, emptying his pockets of
their sweet contents.