CHAPTER I.

Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source:

http://www.archive.org/details/fourphaseslovet00heysgoog

2. This volume includes the following short-stories:

a. Eye-Blindness and Soul-Blindness.;

b. Marion;

c. La Rabbiata; and

d. "By the Banks of the Tiber."

FOUR PHASES OF LOVE

BY

PAUL HEYSE.

* * *

TRANSLATED

By E. H. KINGSLEY.

LONDON:

G. ROUTLEDGE & CO. FARRINGDON STREET;

NEW YORK: 18, BEEKMAN STREET.

1857.

EYE-BLINDNESS AND SOUL-BLINDNESS.

* * *

CHAPTER I.

At the open window, which looked out into the little flower-garden,

stood the blind daughter of the village sacristan, refreshing herself

in the cool breeze that swept across her hot cheeks; her delicate,

half-developed form trembled, her cold little hands lay folded in

each other upon the window-sill. The sun had already set, and the

night-flowers were beginning to scent the air.

Further within the room sat a blind boy on a stool, at the old

spinet, playing wild melodies. He might have been about fifteen years

old--only, perhaps, a year older than the girl. Whoever had heard and

seen him, now throwing up his large eyes, and now turning his head

towards the window, would never have suspected his privation--so much

energy, and even impetuosity, lay in his every movement.

Suddenly he broke off in the midst of a religious hymn, which he seemed

to have altered wildly after his own fancy.

"You sighed!" he said, turning his face towards her.

"I! No, Clement--why should I sigh? I only shrank together as the wind

blew in so strongly!"

"But you _did_ sigh. Do you think that I did not hear it as I

played?--and I feel even here how you are trembling."

"Yes; it has grown so cold."

"You cannot deceive me. If you were cold you would not stand at the

open window. But I know why you sigh and tremble!--because the doctor

is coming to-morrow, and will prick our eyes with needles--that is what

makes you so afraid; and yet he said how soon it would all be over, and

that it would only be like the prick of a pin. And _you_, who used to

be so brave and patient, that my mother always mentioned you as an

example when I was little and cried when anything hurt me, though you

were only a girl--have you now lost all your courage? Do you never

think of the happiness we have to look forward to?"

She shook her little head, and answered, "How can you think that I am

afraid of the passing pain! But I am oppressed with silly, childish

thoughts, which I cannot drive away. Ever since the day that the doctor

the baron sent for came down from the castle to your father, and mother

called us out of the garden--ever since that hour something weighs upon

me and will not go away. You were so full of joy that you did not

perceive it; but when your father began to pray, and blessed God for

this mercy, my heart was silent and did not follow his prayer. I

thought within myself, 'What have I to be thankful for?' and could not

understand."

Thus she spoke in a quiet resigned voice. The boy again struck a few

light chords. Between the sharp whizzing tones, peculiar to the

instrument on which he played, rang the distant songs of home-returning

peasants--a contrast, like that of _their_ bright active life, with the

dream-life of these blind children.

The boy seemed to feel it. He rose quickly, walked with a firm step to

the window--for he knew the room and all its furniture--and said, as he

threw back his bright fair locks, "You are incomprehensible, Mary! Our

parents and all the village congratulate us. Will it not be a gain

after all? Until it was promised me I never asked much about it. We are

blind, they say; I never understood what was wanting in us. When we sat

without there by the wood, and travellers came by, and said, 'Poor

children!' I felt angry, and thought, 'What have they to pity in us?'

But that we are different from others, I know well enough. They often

talked about things which I could not understand, yet which must be

very beautiful. And now that we are going to know them too, the longing

never leaves me day nor night."

"I was contented as I was," said Mary, sadly, "I was so happy, and

should have liked to be as happy all my life. It will all be different

now! Have you never heard people complain that the world is full of

sorrow and care--and did we know care?"

"Because we did not know the world--and I _will_ know it at all risks!

I suffered myself to be pleased with groping about in the dark with

you, and being obliged to do nothing, but not always! Often, when my

father taught us history, and told us about heroes and bold deeds, I

asked him if any of them had been blind? But whoever had done anything

great could see. And then I often plagued myself all day long with

thoughts about it. Then when I played on the spinet, or was allowed to

play on the organ, in your father's place, I forgot my uneasiness for a

time; but when it came back, I thought, 'Must you always play the

organ, and go the few hundred paces up and down the village that you

know; and must no one out of the village ever know you; and must none

ever name you after you are dead?' Look you, Mary,--since the doctor

has been at the castle, I hope that I yet may become a perfect man; and

then I will go out into the world and take the path that pleases me,

and I shall have nothing to ask any one!"

"And not me, Clement?"

She said it uncomplainingly and without reproach.

But the boy answered vehemently, "Sister Mary, do not talk such

nonsense--I cannot bear it! Do you think that I would leave you alone

at home and steal away amongst strangers? Do you not trust me?"

"I know well what happens when young men go from the village to the

town, or on their wanderings, no one goes with them, not even their own

sisters. And here too, even before they are grown up, the boys run away

from the little girls and go into the woods with each other, and mock

the girls when they meet them. Till now they have left you and me

together, and we played and learned with each other. You were blind

like me--what did you want with the other boys? But when you can see,

and want to sit in the house with me, they will laugh at you, as they

do at everyone who won't go with them. And then--then you will go quite

away for a long, long time, and I had grown so accustomed to be with

you."

She had spoken the last words with difficulty; then her sorrow overcame

her and she sobbed aloud. Clement drew her closely to him, stroked her

cheek, and said entreatingly, "You _must_ not cry! I will never go away

from you! never! never! rather than do that I will remain blind and

forget everything. I _will_ not leave you if it makes you cry. Come, be

calm, be cheerful. You should not heat yourself, the doctor said,

because it is so bad for your eyes, darling, darling Mary!"

He pressed her closer in his arms and kissed her for the first

time in his life. His mother called to him from the neighbouring

parsonage-house. He led the still weeping girl to an arm-chair by the

wall, let her sink gently into it and hastened out.

Shortly after, two dignified looking men strode down from the

castle-hill towards the village. The rector, a tall, powerful figure,

with all the strength and majesty of an apostle, and the sacristan, a

slender man with an expression of humility about him, and whose hair

was already as white as snow. They had both been invited by the baron

to spend the afternoon with himself and the doctor, who had come from

the town, at his invitation, to examine the children's eyes, and to try

the effects of an operation. He had again assured both the rejoicing

fathers of his hopes of a perfect cure, and had begged them to hold

themselves in readiness for the following day. The mothers had decided

on preparing all that was necessary in the parsonage, for they were

unwilling to separate the children on the day which was to restore them

that light of which they had been together so long deprived.

When the two fathers reached their homes, which lay just opposite to

each other, the rector pressed his old friend's hand, and said with a

moistening eye, "God be with us and them!" Then they separated. The

sacristan entered his house--all was still--the maid was without in the

garden. He entered his chamber and rejoiced in the stillness which

permitted him to be alone with his God. As he stepped over the

threshold, he started--his child had arisen from the chair and pressed

her handkerchief to her eyes; her bosom heaved painfully; her cheeks

and lips were blanched. He spoke to her and entreated her to calm

herself, and asked her earnestly, "What has happened to you?" She

answered but with tears which she herself understood not.

CHAPTER II.

They had placed the children in bed in two upper rooms of the rectory

looking towards the north. In the absence of shutters, the windows were

carefully covered with dark curtains, so that in the brightest day

scarcely a ray of light could creep in. The rector's wide orchard

overshadowed the walls, and kept at a distance the murmur of external

life.

The doctor had recommended that particular care should be taken of the

little girl; all that depended on him had succeeded; now, in quiet,

must nature do the rest; and the girl's easily excitable temperament

required the most careful attention and precaution.

At the decisive moment, Mary had been firm, when her mother burst into

tears, as she heard the doctor's footstep on the stairs, she had gone

to her and encouraged her.

The doctor began with the boy, who, excited but of good courage, sat

down and bore all; only at first he would not allow anyone to hold him

during the operation, but at Mary's entreaties he at last permitted it

to be done.

When the doctor, after some seconds had elapsed, removed his hands from

the boy's eyelids, he screamed loudly with joyous terror.

Mary recoiled. Then she bore without a murmur the passing pain. But

tears burst from her eyes, and her whole frame trembled; so that the

doctor hastily placed a bandage over her eyes, and assisted her himself

to her room; for her knees trembled under her. There, on her couch,

sleep and fainting struggled long over her, whilst the boy declared

that he was perfectly well, and only lay down at his father's earnest

entreaties.

But he did not sleep at once. Coloured forms--coloured now for the

first time--glided by him, full of mystery; forms which, as yet, were

nothing to him, and which were to become so much, if the people were

right who wished him joy. He asked his father and mother, as they sat

by his bedside, about innumerable things, which truly the most

profound science could hardly have solved. What does _it_ know of the

well-springs of life? His father entreated him to have patience, for

with God's help he would soon be able to resolve his doubts more

clearly for himself. Now, rest was necessary for him, and above all for

Mary, whom he might so easily awake with his talking. Then he was

silent, and listened through the wall. He begged them, in whispers, to

open the door, that he might hear whether she slept or was not sighing

from pain. His mother did as he wished. Then he lay motionless and

listened, and the breathing of his sleeping little friend, as it sighed

softly in and out, sang him, too, at last, to sleep.

So they lay for hours. The village without was more quiet than usual.

When a peasant had to pass the rectory with his cart, he guarded

carefully against noise. Even the children, who may have been told by

their master, did not storm out of the school as noisily as was their

wont, but went in twos and threes, whispering, and glancing shily at

the house, as they passed to more distant play-grounds. Only the song

of the birds ceased not among the branches; but when has _its_ sound

disturbed or wearied a rest-seeking child of man?

The bells of the cows returning from pasture first awakened the two

children. The boy's first question was, whether Mary had inquired for

him yet? He asked her then, in a low voice, how she was. Her heavy

sleep had hardly refreshed her, and her eyes burned under their light

covering. But she forced herself to say that she was better, and

chatted gaily with Clement, over whose lips streamed the wildest

thoughts.

Late, when the moon had already risen from behind the wood, hesitating

little hands knocked at the rector's door. It was the little village

girls, who brought a garland of their fairest garden flowers for Mary,

and a nosegay for Clement. When they brought them to the boy, his face

brightened; their scent and cool sprinkling of dew refreshed him.

"Thank them for me very much. They are good girls; I am ill now, but

when I can see I will defend them against the boys." Mary, when they

laid the garland on her bed, pressed it gently back with pale little

hands, and said, "I cannot, mother! I feel giddy when flowers are so

near me! Take them to Clement, too."

She soon sank again into her feverish half-sleep. The wholesome

approach of day tranquillized her at last, and the doctor, who came

early, found her freer from danger than he had dared to hope. Long he

sat by the boy's bedside, listened smiling to his strange questions,

warned him kindly to be patient and quiet, and left with the best

prognostications.

Much use recommending calmness and patience to one who has at last

caught a distant glimpse of a new and highly praised land! His father

was obliged, as often as his duties permitted him, to go up to his room

and talk to him. The door then was not to be shut, that Mary might hear

the beautiful stories too. Legends of pious men and women on whom God

had laid and removed heavy sufferings were repeated. The tale of poor

Henry, for whom the pious maiden was willing in her humility to

sacrifice herself, and how God brought all to a happy ending was

related, and all the edifying histories which the worthy man was able

to recollect.

When the pious rector glided gradually from tale to prayer, or the

mother with her clear voice sang a hymn of thanksgiving, Clement folded

his hands, or sang with her; but directly after he began new

questionings, which showed that he took more interest in the stories

than in the hymns. Mary asked about nothing. She was friendly with

every one, and no one suspected what deep thoughts and questions were

seething in her little breast.

They grew visibly better from day to day, and on the fourth day after

the operation the doctor permitted them to get up. He himself supported

the little girl, as she stepped, weak and trembling, across the

darkened room towards the open door, in which the boy stood, stretching

forth his hands, joyously seeking hers. Then he grasped her hand

firmly, and entreated her to lean on him, which she did confidingly.

They paced to and fro in the chamber together, and he, with that

delicate sense of locality so peculiar to the blind, guided her

carefully past the different pieces of furniture.

"How are you now? he asked her.

"I am well," was her answer, "to-day as ever."

"Come," he said, quickly, "lean on me, you are weak still, it would

refresh you to breathe a little sweet meadow air out of doors, for the

air here is thick and heavy. But it is not good for us yet, the doctor

says. Our eyes would get sore, and be blind again, if they were to look

out into the light too soon. Oh, I know already what light and darkness

mean. No flute note is so sweet as when your eyes can do that. It hurt

me, I must say, yet I could have looked for ever into the beautiful

coloured world, so blissful was the pain. You will feel it too. But it

must be many days before we are so happy. But then I will do nothing

all day long but see. I want to know so many things, Mary. They say

that each thing has a different colour. I wonder what colours your face

and mine are? Dark or bright? It would be horrible if they were not

very bright. Shall I know you with my eyes? now, touching you so, I

could pick you out with my little finger from all the other people in

the world. But in future we shall have to learn to know each other all

anew again. I know now that your hair and cheeks are soft to touch,

will they be so to my eyes? I want to know so much, and it is so long

to wait."

After this fashion he chattered incessantly, without remarking how

silently she walked beside him. Many of his words had sunk deep into

her heart. It had never occurred to her that she too was to see, and

she hardly knew what to think about it. She had heard of mirrors,

without understanding what was meant. She thought now that when a

person who saw opened his eyes, his own face appeared to him.

When she was again in her little bed, and her mother thought she slept,

the idea flashed across her mind. "It would be horrible if our faces

were not bright!" She had heard of ugly and beautiful, and she knew

that ugly people were pitied, and often less loved than others. "Oh, if

I should be ugly," she thought to herself, "and he care no more about

me. It used to be all the same when he played with my hair and called

it silken threads. That will all cease now if he sees that I am ugly;

and he--even if he _is_ ugly, I will never let him know it, because I

shall love him still. But no! I _know_ that he _cannot_ be ugly--he

_cannot_ be."

Long she lay restless with sorrow and anxiety. The air was sultry;

without, in the garden, the nightingales called complainingly to each

other, and a sobbing west wind beat against the window panes. She was

entirely alone in the chamber, for her mother's bed, which had been

placed beside hers, had been removed on account of the closeness of the

room. And besides, they no longer thought a night watcher necessary, as

her fever had entirely disappeared. And just on this very evening it

returned again, and tossed her to and fro, until, long after midnight,

a short, heavy sleep fell upon her.

Meanwhile the storm, which had circled muttering around the horizon

half the night, approached in its might, spread itself over the forest,

and then paused. The wind was still. A crash of thunder burst in upon

Mary's sleep. Half dreaming she sprang up; she knew not what she sought

or thought, a nameless anxiety forced her to rise, her pillow was so

hot. Now she stood by the side of her bed and heard the strong rain

rushing down without. But it cooled not her feverish brow. She tried to

collect herself and think, but found nothing within her soul but the

miserable thought with which she had fallen asleep. A strange

determination arose within her. She would go to Clement now he was

alone; what prevented her from putting an end to her uncertainty, and

seeing both herself and him? She thought but of this alone, and every

word of the doctor was forgotten; so she went unhesitatingly, just as

she had arisen from her couch, towards the door which stood half open,

found the end of the bed, crept on her little bare feet, to the side of

the sleeping boy, and bending over him, with bated breath, tore the

bandage hastily from her eyes.

But she started when all remained dark as before. She had forgotten

that it was night, and that she had been told that in the night all

people were blind. She had fancied that a light streamed from an eye

that saw, and lighted both itself and what it looked upon. Now she felt

the boy's breath soft upon her cheek, but she could distinguish no

form. Already terrified, and in despair, she wished to go back. There

flamed through the now uncovered window-panes a flash one second

long--then another and another--the air waved to and fro with the

intensity of light--thunder and rain-stream without increased in roar;

but she gazed for one short moment on the curly brow that lay softly

pressed on the pillow before her--then the vision vanished into the

darkness, her eyes gushed with tears, and, overcome with unspeakable

terror, she rushed to her room, replaced the bandage, and sank upon her

bed, feeling, with a sense of unalterable conviction, that she had seen

for the first and the last time.

CHAPTER III.

Weeks have passed away. For the first time, the young powers of the

eyes are to be tested by light. The doctor, who had, in the meantime,

directed the simple treatment of the children from the town, arrived at

the village on a cloudy day, in order to be present himself and to

enjoy the fruit of his cure with them.

Instead of the curtains, they had weaved garlands of boughs before the

windows, and decked both rooms gaily with green branches and flowers.

The baron himself, and all in the village who were connected with

either of the families, had arrived to wish both parents and children

happiness, and to enjoy the surprise of the healed ones.

Mary pressed herself, with a sad anxiety, amongst the boughs in the

corner, when Clement, flushed with delight, was placed opposite to her,

and seized her hand.

He had entreated to be allowed to see her first of all. At the same

moment they loosed the coverings from their eyes.

A cry of utter inexpressible joy rang from the boy's lips. He remained

fixed on the same spot,--a glorified smile upon his face,--moving his

bright eyeballs hither and thither. He had forgotten that Mary was to

stand before him, and knew not as yet what the human form might be.

She, too, did nothing to put him in mind of her. She stood, motionless,

only lightly moving her eyelids, which overshadowed bright brown dead

eyes. Yet they had no suspicion of the truth. "The wondrous things,"

they thought, "which seem so strange to her at first, have paralysed

her for a time." But when the boy's delight broke loudly forth, they

told him "That is Mary:" and he stretched out his hand towards her

cheeks in his old manner, and said, "You have a bright face!" Then her

tears flowed apace, she shook her head hastily, and said, hardly

intelligibly, "It is still dark here! It is all as it used to be!"

Who can describe the misery of the next few hours! The doctor, deeply

affected, led her to a chair by the window, and examined her eyes. The

thin grey film of the cataract which he had removed had not reappeared.

Nothing distinguished the pupils from those of health but their

lifeless sorrowful fixedness.

"The nerve is paralysed," he said, "some sudden vehement light must

have destroyed it." The sacristan's wife fainted, she fell pale as

death in her husband's arms. Clement at first hardly understood what

had happened. His soul was too full of its newly-gained existence. But

Mary lay bathed in tears, and would answer none of the doctor's

questions. Even later, they could learn nothing from her. "She did not

know how it had happened. They must forgive her for having cried so

childishly. She would bear all as it had been appointed. Had she ever

known anything different?"

When they had made Clement clearly understand the misfortune, he was

beside himself, sprang towards her, and cried incessantly, "You _shall_

see too! I will have nothing more than you! Ah! now I know for the

first time what you have lost! One does not see oneself; but all around

have eyes, and look at us as if they loved us. And they shall look at

you so too, only be patient and do not cry." And then he asked for the

doctor, and rushed to him, beseeching him with tears to help Mary. The

bright drops stood in the good man's eyes--he restrained himself with

difficulty, and persuaded the boy to be tranquil; "he would see what

could be done," and gave him hopes, in order to avoid an excitement

which might be dangerous for him. He did not conceal the hopeless truth

from the parents.

But the boy's sorrow seemed to have comforted Mary. She sat still by

the window, and called him gently to her. "You must not be so sorry,"

she said, "it all comes from God. Be happy, as I am happy, that you are

cured. You know already that I never wished very much for it. And now I

should be quite contented if it did not grieve my parents so. But they

will grow used to it, and you too, and so it will be as well--if you

only love me as you used to do--that I remain as I was."

He would not be comforted, and the doctor insisted on the children

being separated. They took Clement down into the large room below,

where the people from the village pressed around him. They shook his

hand, one after another, and spoke kindly words; but the crowd

stupified him. He only said, "Do you know yet that Mary is blind

still?" and then began to weep afresh.

It was high time to replace the bandage and to take him to a cool and

quiet room. There he lay down, exhausted with joy, sorrow, and weeping.

His father spoke gently and piously to him, which did him but little

good; even in his sleep he wept, and seemed to dream painfully.

But on the following day, curiosity, desire for information, and

astonishment asserted their rights, and his sorrow for Mary only

appeared when he happened to see her. He visited her in the early

morning and asked her whether she had not altered or got better during

the night. But then the bright world that opened itself before him

claimed all his attention, and when he returned to Mary it was only to

tell her of some new wonder, often checking himself in the midst of his

rapid narration, as a glance at his poor little friend reminded him

what pain his joy must cost her. But, in truth, it did _not_ cause her

much pain; she wanted nothing for herself; to hear him talk so

enthusiastically was pleasure enough for her. But when he began to come

more rarely, fancying that he made her sad, or was silent because all

other interests vanished before the one on which he did not dare to

speak, she became uneasy; formerly she had seldom been separated from

him during the day, now she was much alone. Her mother, indeed, often

came to sit with her; but the cheerfulness of the once lively woman had

departed, since her darling hopes had been so rudely crushed; she could

say nothing to her child but mere words of comfort which her own heavy

sighs belied, and which could be but of little use to Mary. How much of

what she now suffered had she foreseen? and yet the sense of separation

gave her inexpressible pain.

Now she sat often again under the boughs in her father's garden and

span. When Clement came to her, her poor eyes gleamed strangely. He was

ever kind to her, sat down on the bench beside her, and caressed her

hair and cheeks as in the old times. She begged him once not to be so

silent. When he told her about the world and the new things he had

learned each day about it, it did not make her feel envious. But when

he did not come at all she was so lonely. She never put him in mind, by

a single word, of the promise he had given her one evening never to

leave her; she had long ago renounced it. She seemed doubly dear to

him, he had no longer to be guarded before her. His heart overflowed,

and he talked for hours about the sun and moon and stars, and the

flowers, and the trees; and, above all, how their parents and she

herself looked. She trembled with happiness in her inmost heart, when

he told her innocently, that she was prettier than all the other girls

in the village. Then he told her how graceful she was, and that she had

such a pretty head, and dark, soft eyebrows. He had seen himself, too,

in a looking-glass, but he was not nearly so pretty; he did not want to

be, and it was all the same to him, as long as he grew up to be a

clever man. Men appeared generally not to be so pretty as women. She

did not understand all of this, but this much she did understand, that

she pleased him, and what could she desire more? They never returned to

this subject; but he was indefatigable in describing the beautiful

world to her. When he came not, she thought over his words, and grew

almost jealous of this world which robbed her of him; gradually this

feeling of enmity grew stronger, and, at last, became more powerful

than her pleasure at his happiness. Above all things she hated the sun,

for she knew that he was the brightest of all, and in her obscure

notions, _bright_ and beautiful were one and the same thing. Nothing

discomposed her more than his bursts of admiration over the setting

sun, when he was with her of an evening. He had never spoken of _her_

in such words, and why did he forget her so utterly over this scene

that he never saw the tears that her strange jealous sorrow forced into

her eyes?

But still heavier grew her heart, when the rector, as soon as the

doctor permitted it, began anew the education of his son. Previous to

his cure, Clement had passed the greater part of his day in practising

music; religious instruction, history, mathematics, and a little Latin,

were all which formerly had appeared necessary or possible; and Mary

had been permitted to share his lessons, which, after all, included

only the most necessary information. Now, when the boy exhibited the

strongest inclination towards natural science, he was set seriously to

work, and prepared for one of the higher classes of the town school.

His steady will worked unceasingly onwards, and his really superior

talents enabled him in a surprisingly short time to bring himself up to

his age, and to recover lost time. He sat many hours, even then, with

his books, in the sacristan's garden. But the old way of talking was

out of the question, and Mary felt, but too well, that she was doubly

parted, both from instruction and from the friend of her childhood.

CHAPTER IV.

Autumn interrupted for a time the boy's studies. The rector determined

to take him with him for some days into the neighbouring mountains,

before the winter set in, to show him hill-side and valley, and to let

him have a wider look into that world which already seemed so beautiful

to him, even on the barren village plains. When the boy was told of it

he asked, "And we shall take Mary with us too?"

They tried to dissuade him from it, but without her he refused to

travel. "Even if she does not see anything, they say the mountain air

is so healthy, and she has been so pale and thin for a long time, and

will be quite lonely without me." So they did as he wished; the little

maiden was lifted into the carriage beside him, and a short day's

journey brought them to the foot of the mountain range.

Now began the journey on foot. Patiently the boy led his blind little

friend, more reserved than ever. Often he longed to climb this or that

isolated rock-peak which promised him a new view, but he supported her

as she went, and would not desert his post, however much his parents

begged him. Only when they had reached some eminence, and were seated

at rest in a shady nook, did he leave the maiden, and sought his

own way amongst the dangerous rocks, collecting curious stones, or

flowers that did not grow in the plains below. When he returned to the

resting-place he had ever something for Mary--berries, or a sweet-scented

flower, or the soft nest of a bird which the wind had dislodged from

its tree.

She received everything cheerfully from him, and seemed more contented

than she had been at home. And she was so, too; for she breathed the

same air with him all the day long. But even then her foolish jealousy

accompanied her, and she felt angry with the mountains, whose autumnal

beauty, she fancied, only made the world dearer to him, and widened the

separation between them. Her strange manner struck the rector's wife.

She talked with her husband now and again about the child, who was as

dear to them as their own, and both placed her obstinate melancholy to

the account of her disappointed hopes; and yet she regretted nothing

that had been promised, or that she had been told to expect--only what

she had already known and enjoyed.

At the end of the second day's journey they were to pass the night at a

lonely house celebrated for the neighbourhood of a magnificent

waterfall. They had a long day's journey, and the women were quite

tired out. When they reached the house, the rector led his wife within,

without proceeding onward to the chasm, from which the roar of the

waterfall could be plainly heard. Mary, too, was very tired, but she

insisted on following Clement, who cared not to rest so soon; so they

climbed together higher up the steps, and ever louder the sound of the

roaring water was borne towards them. Half-way up the steep path Mary's

last strength deserted her: "I will sit here," she said; "go on to the

end, and come back for me when you have seen enough." He begged her to

let him take her back to the house first, but she was already seated,

and so he left her, and advanced towards the roar, deeply affected by

the solitude and majesty of the scene.

The girl sat on a stone and awaited his return. She thought that he

lingered very long away. A cold shiver struck through her, and the

distant muttering thunder of the fall terrified her, "Why does he not

come back?" she thought to herself; "he will forget me in his joy now

as ever. I wish I could find my way back to the house, that I might get

warm."

So she sat, full of anxiety, and listening intently. Suddenly she

fancied that she distinguished his voice calling to her; trembling, she

started up. What should she do? Almost involuntarily she took a step

forward, but her foot slipped, she tottered and fell. Fortunately the

stones near the path were overgrown with moss, but still the fall

nearly stunned her, and she cried wildly for help. In vain! her voice

could not reach Clement, who stood close to the abyss, surrounded by

the roarings of the fall, and the house was far too distant. A bitter

pain shot through her heart as she lay there between the stones,

neglected and helpless. With tears of despair in her eyes, she raised

herself painfully. All that she loved best seemed to her at this moment

hateful, and the bitterness of her soul permitted no thought of the

nearness of the Omnipresent to rise before her.

So Clement found her when, for her sake, he tore himself away from the

witchery of the marvellous scene.

"I come!" he cried to her from a distance. "It is fortunate that you

did not go with me. The path above is so narrow that the smallest slip

would cost a life! How unfathomably deep it plunged, and roared and

sprang up in clouds of spray, till one's senses were lost! Feel how

sprinkled I am with the fine water-spray!--but what is the matter with

you? You are as cold as ice, and your lips tremble. Come--I was wrong

to leave you in the chilly air--God forbid that it should have made you

ill!"

She remained obstinately silent, and permitted herself to be led back

to the house. The rector's wife was alarmed. The girl's sweet, delicate

features were strangely disturbed. They hastened to give her a warm

draught and to put her in her bed, without learning more from her than

that she was not well.

And ill, indeed, she was--and so ill, that she longed for it all to be

over. She hated the life that showed itself so hostile to her. In

bitter, God-forgotten thinking she lay, and of her own will broke the

last threads which bound her to mankind. "I will go out to morrow," she

said, darkly, to herself; "he shall lead me himself to the cliff where

a false step costs a life--and my death will not cost him much! Why

should he for ever bear the burden which he has laid on himself out of

mere compassion?"

Ever stronger the unholy determination twined itself about her heart.

What had become of the old bright, loving courage in this short month

of concealed sorrow? She even thought on the consequences of her sin

without horror, and said, defyingly, to herself, "They will manage to

become reconciled to it as they have become reconciled to my remaining

blind, and he will be freed from that picture of misery that destroys

all his pleasure in that beautiful world he loves so much." That was

ever the last thought when a feeling of uncertainty rose within her.

In the room next to hers, only separated from it by a thin partition,

sat the rector and his wife. Clement was still loitering about under

the trees without, unable to tear himself from the stars, and the

mountains, and the muffled music of the waterfall.

"I feel very uneasy," said the rector's wife, "at Mary's being so sad

and reserved; the slightest occurrence agitates her. If it lasts she

will be quite worn out. I wish you would talk to her, and try to

persuade her not to take what cannot be altered so deeply to heart."

"I am afraid that I should speak in vain," said the rector. "If what

she has already been taught, and the love of her parents, and our daily

care of her, have not spoken to her heart, mere human words will be of

no avail. If she had learned humility before God, she would have

submitted to his will, which has left her so much to be thankful for,

with gratitude instead of murmuring."

"But he has taken much from her."

"Ay, indeed! but not all, or for ever! That is my hope and my prayer.

The power of loving, and of looking on all as worthless compared to the

love of God and man, seems to have gone from her; but it returns when

we return to God! As she now is she longs not for him, she hugs her

discontent and hatred too closely to her heart--but her heart is too

true to bear this miserable companionship much longer; then when it is

free from discontent, God will enter into it, and love will find its

old place again, and then she will have an inward light to guide her,

though night may still hang before her eyes."

"God grant it! And yet the thought of her future makes me very

unhappy."

"She will not be lost, if she is not determined to lose herself. Even

were all who now love her and tend her to be called away, all human

kindness would not have died. And if she marks well the hand of God,

and the way He would lead her, she will bless her blindness, which from

her childhood upwards has kept her from the false glitter of the world,

and brought her nearer to what is true."

Clement interrupted the conversation. "You cannot think," he cried,

"how beautiful the night is. I would give one of my eyes, if Mary could

have it, to see this glory of the stars! I hope the noise of the

waterfall does not keep her awake. I cannot forgive myself for letting

her sit so long in the cold."

"Speak lower, dearest son," said the mother; "she is sleeping close to

us, and the best thing you can do is to go to rest too."

Whisperingly the boy bade them "Good-night!" When his mother went into

Mary's room, she found her tranquil, and apparently sleeping. That

strange expression of her features had given place to a sweet

tranquillity. The storm had passed over, and had destroyed nothing of

the beautiful within her. Even shame and regret hardly made themselves

felt, so powerfully reigned within her the joyous peace which had been

preached to her from the neighbouring room. For the evil gains its

influence over us slowly and creepingly; the victory of the good is

soon decided.

CHAPTER V.

Her friends remarked with astonishment, the next morning, the change

which had passed over her. The rector's wife could not but believe that

Mary had overheard their conversation through the partition.

"So much the better." said the rector; "now I shall have nothing more

to say." Most moving was the lovingness of manner which Mary showed

towards Clement and his parents. She wished for nothing more than to be

permitted to belong to them. She received their love almost with

surprise, as something to which she had no claim.

She did not, indeed, speak much more than before, but what she said was

cheerful and kindly. There was a deprecating shrinking expression about

her whole being, as if she was silently entreating forgiveness. She

took Clement's arm again when they walked. She often begged that she

might be allowed to sit down and rest, not that she was tired, but in

order to leave the boy in freedom to clamber where he would. She smiled

when he returned and told her all that he had seen: her old jealousy

had disappeared since she had begun to demand nothing more for herself

than the happiness of knowing him happy.

Thus strengthened and fortified, she ended the journey. And happy for

her that she was so strengthened; for, when she arrived at home, she

found her mother lying ill of a dangerous complaint, which ended

fatally a few days after her return. And now, after the acute sorrow of

the first few weeks had become lessened, her sad and altered life

demanded duties from her which formerly she would hardly have been

equal to. Her household cares occupied her early and late. In spite of

her privation, she knew every cranny of the small house thoroughly, and

if she herself was but seldom able to help with her own hands, yet she

was clever and full of forethought in ordering all things so that her

sorrowing father should want for nothing. A wonderful power and

confidence came over her. Where in old times it had taken many a

squabble to induce man and maid to do what was right, now a single

gentle word from her sufficed. And if anything wrong happened, or work

was done with an ill will, a steady glance from those large blind eyes

quelled the most rebellious.

Since she felt that she must be cheerful for the sake of her

father--since she understood that she must work and shape her life

herself--the hours became ever rarer in which she felt the separation

from Clement so painfully; and at last, when he was obliged to go to

the high school in the town, she was able to say farewell to him, even

more composedly than the others. It is true that she went about for

weeks as in a dream--as if the best half of her being had been torn

away from her. But soon she was as cheerful as before, sang her

favourite songs to herself, and rallied her father till she won a smile

from him. When the rector's wife came across with letters from the

town? and read her news and messages from Clement, her heart beat

quickly, and she lay longer at night without sleep visiting her

eyelids. The next morning she was bright and cheerful as before.

At the vacation Clement returned to his parents, and his first walk was

to the sacristan's house. Mary distinguished his step already in the

distance, remained fixed where she was, and listened whether he would

ask for her. She smoothed her hair, which still rolled in tresses down

her slender neck, hastily with her hands, and rose from her work. As he

entered the door every trace of excitement had vanished from her

features. Cheerfully she gave him her hand, and begged him to sit near

her and to talk to her. Then he forgot how the time flew by, and had to

be called by his mother, who begrudged his long absence from her; for

he seldom remained the whole vacation at the village, but wandered into

the mountains, to which his growing affection for natural science

attracted him.

The years rolled on their accustomed way; the old people withered

slowly, and the young ones bloomed rapidly. When Clement returned once

again at Easter, and Mary arose from her spinning wheel, he was

astonished to see how tall and stately she had grown since the autumn.

"You are quite a woman," he said; "and I, too, am no longer a child;

only feel how my beard has grown over my winter studies." A blush

flitted across her cheek as he took her hand and placed it on his chin,

to let her feel the newly-sprung down. He had, too, many more things to

tell her than the first time he returned. The tutor with whom he lived

had daughters, and these daughters had lady friends. He was obliged to

describe them one and all with the greatest accuracy. "I can make

nothing out of the girls," he said; "they are silly and frivolous, and

chatter too much. There is one, Cecilia, that I can endure a little

better than the others, because she can hold her tongue, and does not

make grimaces in order to look pretty. But what do they bother me for?

The other evening, when I went into my room, I found a bunch of flowers

on my table, and let it lie, and never took the trouble to put it in

water, though I was sorry for the flowers; but it annoyed me. And the

next day there was such a giggling and whispering amongst the girls

that I could not speak to them for anger. Why cannot they leave me

alone? They know that I have no time for their nonsense!"

Not one word of all this did Mary lose, and spun an endless thread of

strange thoughts out of it. She was almost in danger of injuring

herself with fruitless dreamings, if a too well grounded cause of

anxiety and real sorrow had not saved her. Her father, who had for a

long time been able to do his duty with difficulty, had a paralytic

stroke, and lay nearly a year perfectly helpless, until a second attack

put an end to his sufferings. Not for an hour did his child leave his

side. Even when the vacations brought Clement home again, she only

permitted herself to talk to him during his short visits to the

sickroom.

She grew ever more firm, ever more self-denying. She complained to no

one, and would have required the help of none had her blindness

permitted her to do all herself. And thus her misfortune, which had

tutored her soul, accustomed her also to household duties, neglected by

many a seeing one. She kept the strictest order over all things of

which she had the care, and no amount of cleanliness could satisfy her,

as she was unable to judge by the eye when the least speck of dust was

removed. The tears sprang into Clement's eyes when he saw her busied

washing her crippled father, or combing out his thin locks. She had

grown pale in the close air of the sick-room; but her brown eyes had a

deeper light from that very cause, and in all her common household

work, the true nobility of her whole being only became the more

evident.

The old man died, his successor took possession of the cottage, and

Mary found a welcome refuge in the rectory. Clement, who in the mean

time had gone to a distant university, and who was unable to visit home

twice a-year as formerly, was informed of all these changes by letters,

which reached him but rarely, and were answered irregularly. Now and

then his letters contained a note for Mary, in which he expressed

himself condescendingly and jestingly, so unlike his old self, and

addressed her as if she were still a child, so that his mother shook

her head and said nothing of it before his father. Mary had these

strange letters carefully read to her, begged them, and preserved them.

After her father's death she received a short excited letter from him,

in which he neither endeavoured to comfort her nor said a word showing

a participation with her sorrow, only earnest entreaties to take care

of her health, and to be quiet, and to let him know exactly how she

was. This was in winter, and this letter the last to Mary. They

expected a visit from him at Easter. He remained away, and wrote that

he could not resist the opportunity of accompanying a celebrated

professor on a botanical tour. His father was satisfied, and Mary

succeeded at last in calming the mother's disappointment.

He arrived unannounced at Whitsuntide on foot, untired by a long march

since daybreak, with healthy cheeks, and he was a full-grown man. So he

entered the quiet house, in which his mother was sitting alone, for it

was the Saturday evening before the feast-day. With a cry of joy the

startled woman clasped him round the neck. "So you," she cried, as she

loosened herself from his arms, and took a step backwards to measure

the long absent one with the full gaze of love, "So you have returned

to us once again, unkind, forgetful one. You still remember the way to

your father and mother. God be praised! I thought that you had made up

your mind never to return till you were a professor, and then perhaps

my poor old eyes might never have rejoiced in the sight of you again

_here below_. But I will not scold you. You are faithful. You are the

old Clement. And you will give me such a Whitsun feast as I have not

had for many a day, to me and your father, and to us _all_.

"Mother," he said, "how happy I am to be here once again! I could not

bear at last to remain longer away. I do not know how it happened, I

made no resolution beforehand. I felt that I must get home. One bright

morning, instead of going to lecture, I walked through the town-gates,

and strode away as if I fled from sin. I accomplished such journeys as

I had never made before, good as I used to be on foot. Where is my

father? where is Mary?"

"Don't you hear him." said the mother, "your father is above in his

study." They heard the firm step of the old man as he paced to and fro

above them. "All is as it used to be," continued the mother. "That has

been his Saturday's walk for the twenty years that I have known him.

And Mary is out in the field with our people. I have sent her out

because she will not let me do anything. When she is at home she would

make me sit in the corner with my hands in my lap, if she had her own

way, and do everything herself. We have some new servants now, and I

like her to look over them until they have got used to her. How

astonished she will be to find you here! But come, I will bring you to

your father, just to let him see you, and it will soon be dinner time.

Come, he will not be angry at _your_ disturbing him."

She led her son, stepping lightly before him, but still holding his

hand in hers, up the stairs. Gently she opened the door, beckoned to

Clement, and stepping backwards herself, pushed him in. "There he is,"

she cried; "at last you have him." The old man started as out of deep

thought. "Who?" he asked, almost impatiently. Then he looked in his

son's face, brightly lighted by a gleam of sun. "Clement," he cried,

between astonishment and joy, "you here?" "I longed for home," said the

son, and pressed the proffered hand warmly. "I shall stay here for the

feast, father, if you have room for me, now that Mary is under your

roof." "How can you talk so," interrupted his mother, quickly; "if I

had seven sons I could find place for them all. But I will leave you to

your father. I must go to the kitchen and the garden, they will have

spoilt you in the town, you must be content for love's sake." She was

already gone, as the father and son stood silently opposite each other;

"I have disturbed you," said Clement, at last; "you were writing your

sermon; tell me if I shall go." "You only disturb one who has disturbed

himself. Since this morning have I paced to and fro, thinking on my

text, but grace was not with me, and the grain hath not brought forth.

I have felt strangely; a gloom is over me that I cannot shake off." He

went to the little window that looked out towards the church, the way

to which lay through the churchyard. There it glowed tranquil with its

flowers and glittering crosses in the midday sun. "Come here, Clement,"

said the old man, gently; "place yourself by me. Do you see that grave

to the left, with primroses and monthly roses? You have never seen that

one before. Do you know who sleeps there? My good, true friend, the

father of our Mary!" He left the window at which his son, deeply

struck, remained standing. He paced again to and fro through the

chamber, and in the silence they could hear the sand crackle under his

steady tread. "Aye!" said the old man, with a deep sigh, "no one knew

him as I knew him; no one gained so much from him, no one lost so much

with him as I did. What knew he of the world and its wisdom; that is

but folly before God. What he knew was all revealed to him from within,

and from the Holy Book, and from sorrow. He has become blessed, because

he _was_ blessed."

After a pause he spoke again: "Whom have I now to shame when I am proud

of heart, and save me when my faith wavers; and to decide the thoughts

that accuse and excuse me? The world grows too wise for me! What I hear

I understand not, and what I read my soul _will_ not understand, for it

is grief to it! How many rise up and think that they speak with

tongues? and, behold! it is but lip-work! And the mockers hear it and

rejoice therein. Mine old friend, would I were where thou art."

Clement turned. He had never before heard his father talk of the

sorrows of his own soul. He went to him and sought for words of

consolation. "Cease, my son," said the old man, checking him, "What can

_you_ give me, that Heaven could not have given me better? See, it was

shortly after his death, I slept above here. The night awoke me with

its storm and rain; I felt sad, even to death; then he appeared to

me--a light shone about him--he was in his garments as when he

lived--he spoke not, but stood at the foot of my bed, and looked calmly

down upon me. At first, it oppressed me sorely! I was not enough grown

in grace to look on the face of a glorified being. The next day I felt

the peace that it had left behind it. From that time it came not again

until last night. I had been reading a book in the evening, blasphemous

against God and God's word; I had gone to my bed in anger--then it was

that, after midnight, I again started suddenly from my sleep, and he

stood before me--dressed as at the first time, but with the Bible in

his hand, open, and written with letters of gold. He pointed to a

passage with his finger, but there came a gleam from out the leaves, so

that I gazed on it in vain, and for the fullness of the light could

read never a word! I drew myself nearer to him, half rising up; he

stood--pity and love in his face, which changed to grief as I strove to

read and could not. Then the tears sprang to my eyes--from the

brightness, they grew dark---and he vanished softly away, and left me

weeping."

The old man had gone again to the window, and Clement saw a strong

shudder pass over him. "Father!" he cried, and seized his nerveless

hand--it was damp and cold; "Father, you alarm me! You should send for

the physician."

"To the physician!" cried the old man, almost angrily, and stretched

himself up in every limb, "I am well. Therein it lies. My soul longs

and strives for death, and my body selfishly withstands it!"

"These dreams, father, agitate you."

"Dreams! I tell you that I was awake, as I am at this moment."

"I do not doubt, father, that you were awake; but so much the more does

this severe attack, which pursues you with visions even when you are

awake, alarm me. See! even now you are quite overcome by the mere

recollection, and your pulse rises. I know, little of a doctor as I am,

that you had fever last night and are under its influence now."

"And you think that you know as much as _that_ poor worm!" cried the

old man. "Oh, the marvellous wisdom! Oh, the gracious science! But what

right have I to complain? Do I not deserve punishment for blurting out

God's secrets, and making my full heart a mark for the scorner? Is this

the fruit of your learning? Do you expect to gather figs from this

bramble? But I know you well--you miserable ones, who make new gods for

the people, and in your hearts worship yourselves alone--your days are

numbered."

He went towards the door; his bare forehead was flushed. He did not

look towards Clement, who stood gazing on the floor; suddenly he felt

his father's hand on his shoulder.

"Tell me openly, my son, are you as far gone already as those whose

ravings I have read of with shuddering? Do you already hold, with those

sleek materialists, that the miracle is ridiculous, and the _spirit_

but a tale told from one to another, and to which man listens? Has

neither thy youth, nor the seeds of thankfulness God sowed in your

heart, been able to choke those weeds? Answer me, Clement!"

"Father," said the young man, after some consideration, "how shall I

answer you this thing? I have dedicated my whole life to the

consideration of this question. I have heard it decided in different

ways, by men whose opinions I revere. Amongst my dearest friends are

some who think what you condemn. I hear and learn and do not venture as

yet to decide."

"He who is not for me is against me, saith the Lord."

"How can I be against _Him_? How can I be against the _Spirit_? Who

ventures to ignore the spiritual, even though he binds it to the

material? Do not its miracles remain what they were, even though they

may be the result of natural causes? Is it a disgrace to a noble statue

that it is hewn out of stone?"

"You speak like them all; so they intoxicate you with dark similes, so

they deafen you with high sounding words, that you may not hear the

still small voice within you; and you have come to keep Whitsuntide

holy with _us_?"

"I came because I loved you."

There was silence between them. Several times the old man opened his

mouth as if about to speak, and then pressed his lips firmly together

again. They heard Mary's voice below in the house, and Clement stepped,

listening, back from the window, at which he had been standing

sorrowfully. "It is Mary," said the old man; "have you forgotten _her_

too? Did the recollection of your childhood's playmate never pass

before your soul, when your blasphemous companions endeavoured to

destroy your pure, godly childishness of heart with their miserable

sneers? Did _she_ never remind you of the wonders the spirit can

perform--even when it is deprived of sense--alone, out of itself. I

should say of God, in a humble heart, which is rich in faith?"

Clement repressed the answer which rose ready to his lips. They heard

the light step of the blind girl on the stairs. The door opened, and

with flushing cheek Mary stood on the threshold; "Clement," she cried,

fixing the bright brown eyes on the spot where he really stood. He

approached her and took the hand that waited for his. "Oh! what

pleasure you have given your parents! Welcome, welcome! How quiet you

are!" she added.

"Dearest Mary, yes, I am here once again. I was _obliged_ to come to

see you all. How well you look, and you have grown so tall."

"I have gained a fresh life since the spring. The winter was heavy for

me. I am so happy with your father and mother, Clement! Good day,

dearest father." she added, "we went out so early that I could not

press your hand;" she took it now. "Go below my child;" said the old

man, "Clement will go with you--you can show him your garden. There is

yet a little time before dinner. Think on my words, Clement."

The young people went. "What is the matter with the father?" asked

Mary, when they were below. "His voice sounded strangely, and yours

too. Was he angry with you?"

"I found him excited. He seems ill. Has he not complained of anything?"

"Not to me; but he has been restless, and sometimes silent for hours

together. It struck my mother, too. Has he been harsh towards you?"

"We had a discussion about serious things; he asked me, and I could not

deny my opinions."

The girl became thoughtful; not until they reached the open air did her

face brighten. "Is it not beautiful here?" she asked, spreading out her

hands.

"I really did not recognize it again," he answered. "What a wonderful

place you have made out of the little barren spot! Ever since I can

remember there were only a few fruit trees, and mallows and alders; and

now it is full of roses!"

"Yes," she said. "Your mother used not to care about the garden then,

and now she delights in it The sacristan's son, who has learned

gardening in the town, gave me the first rose bush, and planted it

himself; then we added others and now it is quite beautiful. But the

finest are not in flower yet."

"And you take care of them yourself?"

"You are astonished at it, because I cannot see," she said gaily; "but

I understand what is good for plants. I can tell by the scent when one

is fading, or going out of flower, or wants watering; they always tell

me. But, indeed, I cannot gather you a flower; for they prick my

fingers."

"I will do it for you," he said, and broke off a spray from one of the

monthly roses. She took it "You have gathered so many buds with it!"

she said. "I will keep one for myself, and place it in water. Take the

blooming one again for yourself."

They wandered along the trim paths till the mother called them to

table. Clement was reserved before his father; but Mary, usually so shy

at taking part in the conversation, had to-day a hundred things to tell

and to ask about. Even the old man gradually lost the impression of his

first conversation with his son, and the old trusting feeling soon

regained its place between them again.

But during the next day it was impossible to avoid fresh causes of

dissention. The old man wished to be enlightened on the state of

theology at the University, and the conversation soon wandered to more

general subjects. The more Clement tried to avoid disagreeable points,

the more vehemently the old man pressed him. Many an anxious

involuntary, glance from his mother sustained him, indeed, in his

determination to avoid definite explanations; but when he parried a

question, or answered with an unmeaning word, the enforced silence

wrung his very heart. Mary managed, even, to revive the old tone again

for a time; but he saw that she too suffered, and avoided her when he

met her alone, for he knew that she would have asked him, and felt that

from her he could conceal nothing. A shadow seemed to pass over him

when he came into her presence. Was it the recollection of that

childish promise to which he had been so untrue? Was it the belief that

in the difference of opinion which had estranged him from his parents,

she ranged herself silently on their side? And yet he felt a yearning

towards her which grew ever more irresistible--a longing which he could

not ignore, and which he struggled against fiercely; for he was full of

his science and of his prospects, and avoided, with the selfishness of

fancied inward strength, all that might clog his onward way.

"I will be a traveller,--a foot traveller." he often said to himself.

"I must carry a light bundle!" It made him heavy at heart when he

contemplated the possibility of his being chained to a wife, who would

demand a part of his being for herself. And a _blind_ wife! One that he

must always fear to leave for a moment! Here in the village, where all

went on its simple way, and to which she had been accustomed since her

childhood, _here_ she was protected from all the confusing accidents

which she could not fail to encounter in the town. So he persuaded

himself that he should do _her_ an injustice if he married her: whether

he grieved _her_ or not by his determination, was a point that he

avoided considering.

He expressed himself still more openly when he departed. On the last

day, when he had embraced his parents, and had been told that Mary was

in the garden, he left a farewell for her, and with beating heart went

down the village street, and then crossed, sideways, over the fields

towards the forest. The garden opened into the fields too, and his

nearest way would have been through a little wicket-gate. He made a

wide _detour_. But when he reached the fields, he was unable to follow

the narrow path through the springing corn without casting one glance

round; so he stood still in the mild sunshine, and looked back over the

huts and the houses. Behind the hedge which surrounded his father's

garden, he saw the slender figure of the blind girl. Her face was

turned towards him, but she dreamed not that he was so near her. Hot

and hasty sprang the tears to his eyes; but he repressed them with a

powerful effort. Then he sprang like a madman over the ditches and

paths back to the hedge. She started. "Farewell, Mary!" he said, with a

clear voice, "I am going away again, perhaps for a year!" He passed his

trembling hand over her forehead and temples.

"Farewell! You are going?" she said. "One thing I beg of you,--write

oftener to your parents; your mother longs for it so; and send me a

greeting, too, sometimes."

"Yes;" he answered, absently. Then he departed.

"Clement!" she cried, once again, after he had left her. He heard her,

but did not look round. "It is well that he did not hear me," she said

gently to herself. "And what had I to say to him?"

CHAPTER VI.

From that day the son never remained long at his father's house. Each

time he came he found his father harsher and more impatient--his mother

ever with the same love, but more reserved towards him--Mary, tranquil,

but silent when the men spoke; she also showed herself but seldom.

On a bright day late in autumn, we find Clement once more in the room

in which, as a boy, he had passed the time devoted to his cure. One of

his friends and fellow-students had accompanied him; they had both

passed the usual time at the University, and they were just returned

from a long journey, in the course of which Wolf had been unwell, and

wished to recruit himself in the quiet of the village. Clement was

obliged to acquiesce, although, amongst all his friends, this was the

very one he thought most unlikely to suit his father. He managed,

however, to fall into the ways of thinking of the old people with

unexpected tact and dexterity, and particularly won the mother's heart

by the lively interest he pretended to take in all household matters;

he was also able to give her many little bits of advice, and relieved a

complaint under which she laboured by some simple remedy; for he had

prepared himself to succeed an old uncle who was an apothecary, a

profession for which his inclinations and acquirements really unfitted

him; yet he was of an easy disposition and delighted to be quiet and to

enjoy himself from time to time. He had never had much real feeling in

common with Clement, and so at his first step into the rectory he felt

himself in an utterly strange atmosphere, and would certainly have

seized the smallest excuse for leaving a circle which constrained and

wearied him, had not the blind girl struck him, at the first glance, as

a remarkable problem to be solved. It is true she avoided him as much

as she could. The first time he took her hand she withdrew it from his

with an inexpressible disquietude, and quite lost her self-command, yet

he hung about her for hours at a time, watched her way of managing

affairs, and examined with a gay recklessness, which it was impossible

to be angry with, the means by which she kept up a communication with

the outer world, and studied the way in which the senses she had

preserved, made up for the one she had lost; he could not understand

why Clement thought so little of her. _He_, however, avoided meeting

her more than ever, and particularly when he found her in Wolf's

company; then he grew pale and turned away, and the villagers often met

him in lonely forest paths, seemingly lost in gloomy reveries.

He was returning one evening from a melancholy distant wandering, and

had just passed from the wood into the corn-fields, when he met Wolf

advancing towards him. Wolf was more excited than usual. After a long

visit to Mary, who had interested him even more than ever, he had gone

to the little village inn, and had drunk so much of the country wine,

that he took a fancy to wander about the fields in the cool of the

evening to refresh himself.

"You will not get rid of me so soon!" he cried to Clement. "I must

study your little blind witch a little more first; she is cleverer than

a dozen women in the town, who only use their eyes to ogle God's man;

and now she keeps me in order; it is really marvellous!"

"So much the better for you if she tames you a little." said Clement,

sharply.

"Tame! that she will never make me! when I look at her, and her

graceful figure and beautiful face, faith, it is not to grow tamer!

Don't believe that I would do her any harm; but do you know that I

sometimes think that if she did ever love any one, it would be a

wonderful love; one like her, who sees not, only _feels_, and such

_feeling_, so delicate and strong and charming, such as one never can

find elsewhere; he will be a happy man round whose neck she throws her

arms!"

"You would do better to keep your thoughts to yourself."

"Why? whom do they harm? and whom should I injure if I were to make

her, at least, a little in love with me, just to see how the nerves

will extricate themselves out of the difficulty? so much of the inner

fire is usually cooled by the eyes--but here--

"Beware how you try experiments upon her!" Clement burst out. "I tell

you solemnly, that for the future, I will neither hear nor see aught of

this--so beware!"

Wolf cast a keen side-long glance at him, seized his arm, and said

laughing, "I really believe that you are in love with the girl and want

to keep the experiment for yourself. How long have you grown so

particular? you used to listen readily enough when I said what I

thought of women."

"I am not your teacher! What have I to do with your foul thoughts? But

I think that I _have_ a right to prevent your sullying one with them

who is so dear to me, and who is a thousand times too pure to breathe

the same air with you."

"Oho! oho!" said Wolf, carelessly. "Too good! too good! you are a fine

fellow, Clement! a very fine fellow! out of my sunshine, my dear boy."

He gave him a slight blow and turned away. Clement stood still; his

cheeks grew suddenly pale. "You shall explain what you mean by these

words," he said sternly.

"Not such a fool! ask others if you want to know. You will soon find

one who has a greater fancy to preach to deaf ears than I have."

"What do you mean? Who are the others? Who dares to speak ill of her?

Who?"

He held Wolf with a hand of iron. "Fool!" growled Wolf, angrily; "you

spoil my walk with your tedious cross-questionings. Let me go free!"

"Not from this place do you move till you have given me an

explanation;" said Clement, wild with rage.

"Indeed! Go and settle it with the sacristan's son if you happen to be

jealous; poor devil! to go on with him till he was ready to jump out of

his skin, and then to give him his marching orders. Pah! is that

honourable? He complained to me, and I consoled him. She is just like

other women, I told him, a coquette. Now she is trying it on upon me,

but we know how to manage matters, and are not going to let our mouths

be shut, and have other good fellows fall into the same snare."

"Retract your words!" shouted Clement, almost beside himself, shaking

Wolf violently by the arm.

"Why? It is true, and I can prove it. Go--you are a child!"

"And you--are a scoundrel!"

"Oho! now it is your turn to eat your words."

"I retract not a syllable!"

"Then you know the consequences. You shall hear from me as soon as I

get to town."

Therewith he turned coolly away from him and went towards the village.

Clement stood for a time rooted to the spot. "Miserable wretch!" burst

from his lips. His bosom laboured violently--a bitter agony nested

within it. He threw himself upon the ground amongst the corn, and lay

long, recalling a thousand times over each word which had so terribly

moved him.

When he returned to the house late in the evening, he found, contrary

to his expectation, that the family were still together.

Wolf was not there. The old man paced with firm steps through the

chamber; his mother and Mary sate with their work in their laps,

contrary to the custom of the house at so late an hour. When Clement

entered, his father paused in his walk, and turned his head gravely

towards him.

"What had passed between you and your friend? He departed whilst we

were in the fields, and has left but a scanty greeting behind him; when

we returned home we found a messenger removing his luggage. Have you

quarrelled? Why else should he have left this house so hastily?"

"We had a dispute. I am happy not to find him under this roof."

"And what did you quarrel about?"

"I cannot tell you, father. I would willingly have avoided it; but

there are things which an honest man cannot hear spoken. I long knew

that he was wild, and spared neither himself nor others; but I never

saw him before as he was to-day."

The father looked steadily at his son, and asked in a low voice--

"And how will it be arranged?"

"As is the custom amongst men of honour," answered Clement, firmly.

"Do you know how _Christians_ are accustomed to arrange quarrels?"

"I _do_ know, but cannot do it. If he had insulted _me_, I could have

forgiven him, and spared him his punishment; but he has slandered one

who is dearer to me than myself."

"A woman, Clement?"

"Yes, a woman!"

"And you love this woman?"

"I love her!" said the young man, in a low voice.

"I thought that it was thus." cried the old man. "The town has

destroyed you. You have become one of the children of this world,

following after strange women, and swaggering for them, and making of

them the false idols of your folly! But I tell you that, so long as I

live, I will labour to bring you back to the Lord, and will shatter

your idols! Has God wrought a miracle in you that you should deny him?

Aye, it were better that you sate still in darkness, and that the door

had for ever remained shut through which the spirit of lies has crept

into your heart!"

The young man restrained himself with difficulty. "Who has given you

the right, father," he cried at last, "who has given you the right of

accusing me of ignoble inclinations? Because I must do what must be

done in this world to restrain the insolence of the base, am _I_

therefore base? There are different ways of fighting against the spirit

of evil. Yours is the way of peace, because you have to deal with men

in the aggregate. I stand opposed to a single man, and know what I have

to do."

"_Thou_ canst not change him," the old man cried angrily: "wilt thou

tread God's ordinances under thy feet? He is no son of mine who raises

his hand against his brother. I forbid the meeting in the strength of

my priestly and paternal power. Beware how you brave it."

"So you cast me from your house," said Clement gloomily. The mother,

who had burst into tears, arose, and rushed towards her son. "Mother,"

he said sternly, "I am a man, and may not be false to myself." He

approached the door, and glanced over towards Mary, who sought him

sorrowfully with her great blind eyes. His mother followed him; her

sobs choked her voice. "Do not retain him, wife," cried the old man;

"he is no longer a child of ours if he be not a child of God. Let him

go whither he will; he is dead to us."

Mary heard the door shut, and the mother fall to the ground with a cry

from her inmost mother's heart. Then the palsied feeling which had kept

her seated went from her. She arose, went to the door, and with a

powerful effort bore the fainting woman to her bed. The old man stood

by the window and spoke not a word; his clasped hands trembled

violently.

A quarter of an hour later, some one knocked at the door of Clement's

room. He opened it, and Mary stood before him. The room was in

confusion. She struck her foot against his travelling trunk, and said

sorrowfully, "What are you going to do, Clement?" Then his rigid grief

gave way; he seized her hands, and pressed his eyes, in which the hot

tears stood, against them. "I _must_ do it," he said; "I have long felt

that I have lost his love; perhaps he will feel, when I am far away

from him, that I have never ceased to be his son."

She raised him up. "Do not weep so, or I shall never have the strength

to utter what I _must_ say. Your mother would say it, did your father

not forbid her. The sound of his voice told me how hard it was for him

to be so stern; but thus he will remain. I know him well. He believes

that his sternness is a duty to God, to make him offer up his own heart

as a sacrifice."

"And do _you_ think that it is required of him?"

"No, Clement! I know but little of the world, and know not the nature

of the laws which force men of honour to fight. But I know you well

enough to know that the mere opinion of the world would never prevent

your considering honestly what is right and what is wrong--even in this

case. You may owe it to the world, and to the woman you love;--but

still, you owe more to your parents than to either. I know not the girl

they have slandered, and may not be able quite to understand the depth

of the pain it must give you not to do all for her.--Do not interrupt

me. Do not think that I have any fear that for her sake you might

withdraw from me those last scanty remains of friendship these last

years of separation have spared me.--I give you up utterly to her, if

she but makes you happy.--But you have no right to do, even for her

sake, what you contemplate doing, even were she a thousand times dearer

to you than father or mother. You have no right to leave your father's

house in anger, and so close the door for ever on yourself. Your father

is old, and will take his opinions to the grave with him. He would have

had to sacrifice the essence and substance of his whole life if he had

given way. You sacrifice to him the passing respect that you may

possess in the eyes of strangers. For if the girl you love so can

desert you because you refuse to bring down your father's gray hairs in

sorrow to the grave, she has never, never been worthy of you"--

Her voice failed her. He had thrown himself on a chair, and groaned

bitterly. She stood ever near the door, and waited for his answer.

Across her brow lay a strange anxious expression, as if she listened

even to him with her very eyes. Suddenly he sprang up, laid his hands

upon her shoulders, and cried, "It was for _thee_ that I would have

done it, and for _thy_ sake alone will conquer my own heart!" Then he

rushed past her, and down the narrow stairs.

She remained above. His last words had quivered in her very soul, and a

stream of blissful thoughts swept through her fearful, half-incredulous

heart. She seated herself trembling on the travelling-trunk. "For thee!

For thee!" still rang in her ears. She almost feared his return. If he

should have meant differently?--and how was it possible that he should

not mean differently? What was she to him?

At last she heard him returning--her agitation gained on her; she

arose, and moved towards the door. He entered, clasped her in his arms,

and told her all!

"It is _I_ who am blind," he cried; "_you_ are the seeing one--the

prophetess! What were I now without thy light? Lost for all eternity!

driven from all the hearts I love through mine own miserable blindness!

And now--now--all again mine--aye, and more than I knew of--more than I

dared to hope for!"

She hung mute and agitated upon his neck; all her long-suppressed love

burst forth, and glowed in her kisses, despising the tepid rendering of

mere words.

The day dawned upon their happiness.

Now he learned, too, what she had so long kept silent, and what this

same room had seen, in which they now, for ever irrevocably united,

pressed each other's hands, and parted in the light of the breaking

day.

In the course of the day a letter arrived from Wolf, dated the night

before, from the next village. "Clement need not trouble himself," he

wrote. "He retracted all he had said; he knew best that it was all an

idle lie; anger and wine had put it into his head. He had really

thought, when he saw him so cold about it, that it would only have cost

him a word to win the girl; and when he saw that Clement was in

earnest, he had slandered what he felt was for ever beyond his reach.

He should not think him worse than he was, and excuse him to the girl

and his parents, and not quite give him up for ever."

When Clement read these lines to Mary, she said, with some emotion, "I

only pity him. I never felt comfortable when he was near me, and how

much he might have spared both us and himself! But I can think of him

calmly now. How much have I to thank him for!"

MARION.

* * *

When holy Saint Louis wore the crown of France, the good old town of

Arras was just six hundred years younger than it is now. That she was a

thousand times merrier she had to thank, not her youth alone, but,

before even that, the noble guild of poets who resided within her

walls, and who, by their ballads and miracle-plays, and pleasant

rhyming romances, spread her fame over all fair France.

Now it happened one early spring about the time, that in a garden in

Arras, behind the house of one of these valiant singers, a young woman

was busied tying up vines to their trellises. She was beautifully

formed, of that pleasant roundness that usually indicates a cheerful

soul within, and she had a sweet, gentle face. Her calm dark eyes swept

now and then over the garden as if they knew neither joy nor sorrow;

but her hands were active and dreamed not. After the fashion of

well-to-do townswomen, she wore her fair hair adorned with many an

artful ribbon ornament, and her gown was tucked up for work, and,

perhaps, possibly also, for the sake of her darling little feet.

As the charming vision wandered in her tranquil activity still further

into the garden, there appeared at the door of the house which opened

into it, a man, who formed both in face and manner a most remarkable

contrast to her. He was of middle size, with a keen eye, and irregular

features. His black cloak indifferently concealed his high left

shoulder, and his legs seemed to have been made after very different

patterns. But still his figure, however incongruous its parts might

seem, was brought into a striking unison by the boldness and vivacity

of his carriage; and about his mouth there played an expression that

must have made him dangerous in sarcasm, or very charming in a more

kindly humour.

He gazed for a while at the fair young gardener, and seemed to enjoy

her beauty. He shook his head irresolutely. At last he plucked the

barrel-cap with the green cock's-feather deeper over his forehead, and

strode towards her.

The fair woman looked round, her cheek coloured slightly, and her eyes

brightened. She let her hands fall by her side, and gazed silently at

him as he neared her.

"Good-day, Marion!" said the man, almost roughly. "Is there any one

beside yourself in the garden?"

"No, Adam."

"It is well--I wish to speak with you. You are a good wife, Marion, and

do your duty; but yet I must tell you that I cannot endure you any

longer!"

The bright cheeks grew pale as death; but she was silent and looked

steadily before her.

"No!" continued Adam; "longer I cannot bear it! You are very lovely,

Marion, and that I know now, four weeks after our wedding, better than

I did when I courted you, but--you are so wearisome, Marion! I will not

say that you are absolutely without sense; but the Holy Virgin only

knows whether it is asleep, or waiting in good hope of some mighty

thought, when it is to appear. I have waited long for it, and now my

patience is at an end. Have you once, only once, since we have been man

and wife chattered amusingly, or made one single joke? or have my

brightest strokes of wit ever found more favour from you than half a

smile? Have you not ever gone calmly on your way like a statue? What is

the use of my now and then making the discovery that you really are

flesh and blood, when from morning to night I am obliged to laugh at my

own jokes by myself, and so applaud my own rhymes with my own hands.

Fool that I was! I should have thought of it sooner--when I fell in

love with you! _Now_, I thought, she will begin to thaw! Confess

yourself--have we not wearied each other as thoroughly as any wedded

pair in Christendom?"

The young wife remained obstinately silent, but her eyes filled with

heavy drops. Adam broke a young twig hastily from the tree, and

continued--

"I will not say that other women are, in the long-run, better, or more

amusing--I do not say so; and I have at least to thank you for showing

me so early that I have made a great mistake in taking a wife. But, for

the third time--I can stand it no longer! Am I to mope and fritter away

my young life in this hole, merely because I had the luck to think you

pretty? And am I never to set foot in Paris, at the king's court, in

the chambers of princes, where my talent would bring me honour and

distinction?--and never set a foot in the houses of learned doctors of

the University, where there are more clever things said in one hour

than you produce in a year? and all this because you are a pretty

woman--for you are one--and, by chance, my proper wife! May the devil

bake me into a pancake if I stand it!"

He paced up and down a few times, gesticulating vehemently, glanced

sideways at his wife, and began again.

"Are you not a standing proof that I am right? Why don't you cry, as

any other ordinary woman would do, and fall upon my neck and beseech me

to remain, and say that I am your darling Adam--your only love--your

handsome Adam, though, by-the-bye, I am not handsome, and promise

everything, whether you can perform it or not? There you stand, and

don't know how to help yourself! Am I to give up my art and my young

years for the pleasure of staring at you? And supposing we should have

children, and they take after you! Do you expect that I shall be able

to compose the stupidest birthday ode, with six or seven boys and

girls, all as lovely as pictures, and as stupid, sitting round me and

staring at me? But we will not part in enmity; and so I tell you, in

all love and friendship, that you can no longer be my wife! I will away

to Paris as soon as I can raise money enough for the journey; you can

return to your parents, or, if you like, you can go to my old uncle,

who is so fond of you; he will take good care of you--you shall want

for nothing; and if you should have a child, I will keep it as my

own--but, remain with you I _cannot_, Marion! By my soul's salvation! a

poet I am, and a poet I will remain--and weariness is poison to the

merrie art! Now I am going to my uncle--be a good girl, and let us part

friends."

He stretched out his hand towards her, but she saw it not for tears. He

thought it needless on that account to wait and see whether she would

behave as he had told her other women would do under the circumstances;

he turned hastily towards the door and disappeared into the house.

An hour after the wedded pair had thus parted "in friendship," the door

of a stately house, in which lived the rich senator, Adam's uncle, was

thrown open, and Adam stepped hastily out, in high excitement. He

hurried onwards without regarding which way he took, and now and then

scraps of his internal conversation with himself burst forth, as he

clenched his fist or twisted his fingers in his long round-cut hair.

"The old shark!" he growled. "And yet he had got rags of virtuous

poverty to cover the nakedness of his avarice! What is it to him if I

and my wife choose to agree to a friendly separation? I wish he would

take her himself, if it were not a pity for her, pretty young thing!

Truly, whether I moulder here or not touches not his money-bags; but,

to travel and to see the world, and gain wisdom--ay! that pinches

Master Money-bags sore! Pah! because he gave me the cottage, and

arranged my household, am I to freeze in Arras, and blunder about with

those rogues of balladmakers, and hide my light under a bushel? If I am

obliged to travel like a mountebank, and train dogs and apes to get to

Paris, I'll do it! I'll show the old gold-scratcher that Adam de la

Halle is no petticoat knight, but knows how to follow his own way."

And this same way of his own carried him this time to the Three Golden

Lilies, the best tavern in the good old town of Arras. There were but

few guests in the drinking-room at this hour. Adam seated himself in a

corner, and did not look up until the host, bringing him wine, greeted

him respectfully,

"You come as if called for, Master Adam," said mine host of the Lilies.

"There is one of my guests, see you--the man sitting yonder by the

stove and looking towards you. Well, a week ago he brought a troop of

players into the town, to play the great passion-piece at Easter, in

the cathedral The reverend gentlemen there sent for them; and now it

wants fourteen days to the time, and they are all loitering about idle

and eating their pay before they get it; and their director lodges with

me, and drinks stoutly on the score. 'Sir,' I said to him just before

you came in, 'sir,' said I, 'if you could manage to scrape together a

little money by your art in the mean time, it would do both you and me

good.'--'Ay!' said he, 'if we had only a decent piece, a mystery, or a

miracle; for I have left my whole bundle of plays behind at Cambria,

all except the passion-piece.'--'Eh, sir!' said I. 'Here with us the

country is alive with gay minstrels, troubadours, and ballad-singers

and there is Master Adam de la Halle, who is worth them all put

together.'--'By St. Nicholas,' said my man, 'I would give him half the

receipts if he would write me a piece, and it succeeded'--and just at

that moment you came through the door, and so he sent me to ask you."

Adam rose up, swallowed his wine hastily, and then went straight to the

leader of the strollers, who sprang from his seat respectfully, and

bowed low. They conversed for a short time, and then shook hands. "So

be it," said Adam; "within eight days your people shall play. And the

day after I shall receive my money, and now our Lady preserve you. I

will go and set about your affair at once." So he went, and after his

fashion, he growled something between his teeth, that sounded very much

like "I'll make them remember me."

Eight days had passed away, and Marion sat in her chamber one

afternoon, with eyes red with weeping, and cheeks pale with sorrow, so

intently engaged turning over old letters which she had in her lap that

she did not hear the door open, and one of her old playmates enter.

When her friend called her by name, she sprang up startled. "Good day,

Perette," she said; "what brings you here?" "or rather, what keeps

_you_ here?" answered the girl, saucily; "you sit and you cry, and you

never think of going near the Three Lilies, where your husband's new

piece is to be acted by the strange players. What a wife you are! I

should be the first to go if I had a husband who could charm half the

town into the courtyard of an old inn. What have you got there? Have

you been studying all the old songs your Adam made on you? I should

think that you ought to have them all at your fingers' ends now like

your rosary." The poor wife began to weep bitterly. "Don't you know

then," she sobbed, "and is not the whole town of Arass talking about

it--that he is going to Paris, and intends to leave me behind, and is

never, never coming back again?" "Bah! nonsense," cried Perette, "what

has put all that into your head?" "He said it to me himself, word for

word; and since that time he has never eaten at home, and only returns

very late at night, and sleeps below in the saloon." "Well, well, he

has had his hands full of his new play, and then men are always

fanciful, Marion, and must always be doing something to plague us; but,

God be praised! all are not dead that do not laugh. Dry your eyes, be a

sensible woman, and come with me to the play. What will your husband

think of you if you don't even wish to see a play he has written

himself?"

So half comforting, half scolding, she drew the sorrowing young wife

out of her room to the Three Lilies.

There all was gay enough. A number of the townspeople were seated on

benches in the spacious courtyard. The windows of the low buildings at

the side had been chosen as boxes by the more distinguished of the

burghers. And the stage was erected in a large barn at the end of the

yard, the mighty doors having been removed for that purpose. Marion and

Perette arrived at the moment of the exit of Dame Avaritia, who had

spoken the prologue, and assured many rich burghers of the town of

her further protection. Not a place was left free for our two fair

sight-seers, either in the courtyard, or at the windows. But Perette

was not to be daunted, and knowing the house, she made her way through

a side building, and advanced with Marion up to the barn. Here they

placed themselves behind the great linen cloths with which the stage

had been fenced off, and peeped through a rent in the curtain at the

play, unhindered by the actors, who, in their fantastic dresses, sought

to pay their court to the two pretty women. Marion took not the

slightest notice of them, and stood rooted to one spot. Perette

exercised the sharpness of her little tongue on the player folk now and

then, and, in common parlance, gave them quite as good, or perhaps

better than they brought.

But Master Adam, little dreaming that his young wife was watching him,

had, in the meantime, advanced from the other side in his own character

and costume.

He began in smooth verses to bewail his sorrows. He wanted to go to

Paris, and never a _sou_ had he in his pockets, and his _millionaire_

of an uncle had, just at this moment, been attacked by the most

hopeless complaint in the world, an obstinate avarice, so that from him

there was nothing to hope. To him entered a doctor, whom Adam consulted

as to whether it was possible to cure avarice, for he could show him a

splendid specimen of it, if he wished to try his hand. Whereupon the

doctor broke forth into a learned dissertation on the different

varieties of the disease, distinguishing those curable from those

incurable; and in the case which Adam described, he had but little

doubt that he could be of service, if he was only permitted to see the

patient himself. Then a third personage advanced, so ridiculously like

Adam's venerable uncle in figure and manner and dress, that the

laughter of the spectators seemed never coming to an end. To this

worthy gentleman the doctor advanced with great politeness, felt his

pulse, and looked gravely at his tongue, asked about this and that, and

then made some more pointed inquiries about specific symptoms of the

miser fever, from which he understood he suffered. Upon which the old

gentleman burst into a great rage, upbraided his rascally nephew

soundly for accusing him of having such a scandalous complaint, and

declared the grounds upon which he refused to assist him on his journey

to Paris. The principal reason was, that Adam was only just married,

and had already grown tired of his wife, who nevertheless was, as all

Arras knew, a perfect model of beauty and virtue.

In ever-increasing irritation had poor Marion been an unsuspected

participator in all this conversation--and who could blame a virtuous

wife for feeling irritated--when all at once she saw her domestic

sorrows made a butt for a laughing public. She took no heed of the

polished verses and comical grimaces with which the conversation of the

three actors was adorned, and which so delighted the audience. With a

bitter anxiety, and forgetting all else, she now listened to the answer

her husband was to give to her uncle. When, however, Adam drily

explained to the audience that a pretty woman was not necessarily an

amusing one, and that his Marion's mouth was better adapted for kisses

than conversation, that nevertheless no one grew wiser by kissing, but,

on the contrary, by witty conversation; and that he would present any

one amongst them, who had ever heard his Marion give utterance to an

observation at all bordering on the witty, the sum of two golden

crowns; then the poor listener could no longer restrain herself. With

one bound she was on the stage, and stood with glowing eyes and angry

brow directly opposite to him who had so basely slandered her.

"Are you not ashamed, Adam?" she cried in the midst of his harangue;

"are you not ashamed to speak thus of your own wedded wife before all

the town? Oh, if you had ever loved me, only a little, a little, that

speech would never have passed your lips! And now tell me, have I

deserved it from you? Have I ever caused you one hour's grief? Have I

not done everything to please you? And now will you speak ill of me

before all Arras?"

So angry and heart-grieved, amidst tears and sobbings, scolded the poor

beauty. The audience who took it all for part of the play, laughed at

first, aye, and some amongst them were mischievous enough to enjoy

their neighbour's domestic discomfort. When, however, they began to see

that it was the veritable Marion herself, the worst of them lost their

gaiety and stared astonished at the stage. But Adam, much as he was

startled at first by this sudden apparition, quickly recovered himself,

and cried loudly and undauntedly, "My good fellow-townsmen, this does

not belong to our play; this woman fell suddenly in amongst us, and

does not belong to our company at all. Let me entreat some of you to

lead her away. You hear that she does not talk verse, like all the

actors who have the honour of performing this most remarkable farce

before your worthinesses!" Therewith, he took Marion gently by the hand,

to lead her from the stage. But she shook herself free, and encouraged

by the demand of some amount the spectators, that she should be

permitted to remain, and fight for her own cause, cried, "Aye! and I

_will_, I say too! and make you all the judges of whether I have not

been badly played upon. It is true that I am naturally silent, but is

it to be considered a fault, on my part, if I do what you men are

always throwing in the teeth of us poor women, letting alone all

useless chattering, and listening quietly to what my husband has to

say?" "Marion is right." "Long live Marion! she shall speak again!"

shouted the spectators, laughing, and waving her encouragement. "And,"

she continued, growing even more eloquent, "if I have no right to be

here because I do not speak verses, I know enough and of the very

best too! My husband, who slanders me now, wrote them on me himself

before we were married; and you shall hear them that you may know how

double-tongued he is, and what fair words he once had for my praise,

although he now has only complaints."

Therewith she stepped to the edge of the stage and sang the following

verses, with a voice that threatened to desert her--

"Cheeks as red and eyes as dancing,

Arms and necks like lilies glancing,

You may find in Arras town.

Hearts as soft and limbs as rounded,

Forms with every grace surrounded,

You may meet with, up and down!

But with wisdom no one's blest,

Like the maiden I love best!"

A shout of laughter answered this strophe; some began to sing the

_refrain_ and others joined them. But a voice from the crowd asked, "But

how can you prove, fair Marion, that this lady of whom he talks is not

another than yourself?" "Listen again," cried Marion, "there is no

doubt about it." Then she sang--

"Others may more sweetly sing,

Lighter through the dancers swing,

Never a straw I care!

Prattle half an hour free,

Marion's rosy lips to me,

That's a pleasure rare!

Prettier, wittier ne'er was known,

Than my Marion, darling one!"

This time the whole audience sang the _refrain_ with her, and then

resounded loud cheerings for the songstress, who stood with the tears

still in her eyes, frightened at her own boldness, but lovelier than

ever on the stage. Adam sprang from the back of the scene and cried,

"Silence, good burghers all! I too have a word to say." All were

silent, and curious to know how he would manage to bring himself into

grace again. He said, "There is not one amongst you who cannot perceive

that my dear wife here has blamed me terribly, and managed to get all

the laughter on her side; for that, I thank her from the very bottom of

my soul: I tell you all truly that my heart quivered with joy at each

word she spoke, and when, at last, she hit upon the charming idea of

making my own words witness against me, I said quietly to myself,

Master Adam, you are a rogue if you desert such a model of a wife,

though it rained honours and doubloons in Paris! and so I come

penitently hoping that my dear fellow-townsmen will intercede for me

with my wife, that she may take her insolent, reckless husband back to

her heart and love, and forget what his slanderous tongue has said of

her."

As he said this with ah emotion, which no one had ever seen him under

before, there was a deep silence in the court--Marion smiled at him

with an assuring kindness--fell upon his neck, and said, "You dear,

mischievous man." Then broke from all the windows and benches a

universal shout of congratulation. But Adam, freeing himself from the

arms of his wife, grasped her hand firmly, and cried, "I owe you the

third song." it runs thus--

"Let those who will to Paris wander,

And time and gold for learning squander,

For me I mean at home to rest!

All the knowledge that's worth knowing

Lies, fresh springing, ever blowing,

In a gentle woman's breast.

Wiser woman ne'er was known

Than the one----I call mine own!"

We need hardly say how gaily all joined in the _refrain_ this time.

Just, however, as they were all in full song, there arose a noise of

contention before the house; certain people had kindly let Adam's uncle

know that his nephew had introduced his honourable presentment on the

stage, and the old gentlemen came, with a company of archers, firmly

determined to make his irreverent nephew pay dearly for his

indiscretion. The people were now busied in the house explaining to him

the favourable turn things had taken, and when he heard of Adam's

recantation and the renunciation of the Paris idea, he permitted

himself to be pacified, became gracious and forgave the saucy poet, who

approached humbly with Marion on his arm; and in order to strike a

joyous blow against the accusation of avarice, he gave a grand banquet

that very evening at the Three Lilies, where Marion was obliged to

dance with all the great people of the town.

The play was quite spoilt for the good burghers of Arras; but we have,

however, so much faith in their good heartedness, as to believe that

the miracle, as performed by Marion, pleased them more than if, as was

originally intended, the angel Gabriel and half a dozen of his body

guard, had descended from heaven and kicked Dame Avaritia out of the

country with due honour. It is possible that there might have been

never a miser the less in Arras for it, and now, at least, there was

one happy pair the more.

LA RABBIATA.

* * *

CHAPTER I.

The sun had not yet risen. Over Vesuvius lay a broad grey sweep of

mist, which spread itself out towards Naples, and overshadowed the

little towns along the coast. The sea was tranquil, but on the Marina,

which is situate in a narrow inlet under the high Torrentine cliffs;

fishermen and their wives were already busied, dragging in with stout

ropes the net boats, which had been fishing at sea during the night.

Others cleaned up their boats, shook out the sails, and brought oars

and spars out of the great railed vaults, cut deep in the rock, in

which they kept their tackle at night. No one was idle. For even the

old people, who were no longer able to go to sea, ranged themselves

amongst the long rows of those who drew the nets, and here and there

there stood an old woman with her distaff on one of the flat roofs, or

took care of the children, whilst her daughter helped her husband at

his work.

"Look there, Rachella! there is our padre, Eurato," said an old woman,

to a little thing of ten years old, who swung its little spindle by her

side; "He has just stepped into the boat. Antonino is going to take him

over to Capri. Maria Santissima! how sleepy the holy man looks still!"

and therewith she waved her hand towards a kindly looking little

priest, who had seated himself cautiously in a boat below her, having

first carefully raised his black coat and spread it over the seat. The

people on the shore paused in their work to see their padre start, who

nodded and greeted them kindly right and left.

"Why must he go to Capri, grandmother?" asked the child. "Have the

people over there got no priest of their own that they are obliged to

borrow ours?"

"Do not be so silly," answered the old woman, "They have plenty of

priests, and beautiful churches, and a hermit too--which we have not.

But there is a noble signora there, who stopped once a long time here

at Lorento, and was so ill that the padre was often obliged to carry

her the Hoste, when she did not think that she should live through the

night. Well, the Holy Virgin helped her, and she got strong and well

again, and was able to bathe every day in the sea. When she went from

here to go over to Capri, she left a pretty heap of ducats behind for

the Church and the poor people, and said that she would not go until

our padre promised to visit her over there, that she might confess to

him, for it is wonderful how fond she is of him; and we may bless

ourselves that we have a padre who has gifts like an archbishop, and

who is asked after by all the great people. The Madonna be with him."

And therewith she nodded down towards the boat which was just putting

off.

"Shall we have fine weather, my son?" asked the little priest, looking

thoughtfully towards Naples.

"The sun is not up yet," answered the young man; "It will soon scatter

that bit of fog when it rises."

"So, let us start at once, and avoid the heat." Antonino was in the act

of grasping the long oar, in order to push off the boat, when he

suddenly checked himself, and looked up towards the steep path which

led from the little town of Lorento, down towards the Marina.

A slender girlish form was visible above, tripping hastily over the

rough stones, and waving a handkerchief She carried a small bundle

under her arm, and was poorly enough dressed; yet she had an almost

noble, though rather wild way of throwing her head back on her

shoulders, and the black tresses which she wore twined round her

forehead decked her like a coronet.

"What are we waiting for?" asked the little priest.

"There is some one coming down who wants to go to Capri. If you will

permit it, padre, we shall not go the slower, for it is only a young

girl, hardly eighteen."

Just as he spoke the girl appeared round the end of the wall which

bordered the winding path. "Lauretta!" cried the padre, "what can she

want in Capri?"

Antonino shrugged his shoulders. The girl approached with hasty steps,

looking straight before her.

"Good day! La Rabbiata!" cried some of the young sailors. They might

indeed have said more if the proximity of their padre had not kept them

a little in order, for the short defiant manner with which the girl

received their greetings seemed to irritate them vastly.

"Good day, Lauretta!" cried the padre, "how goes it with you? Do you

want to go over to Capri with us?"

"If you will permit me, padre."

"You must ask Antonino there. He is the patron of the boat. Every one

is master of his own, and God of us all."

"Here is a half Carolus," said Lauretta, without looking at the young

boatman, "can I go over for it?"

"You may want it more than I;" murmured Antonino, and moved some

baskets filled with oranges on one side to make room. He was going to

sell them at Capri, for the rocky islet does not produce enough for its

numerous visitors.

"I will not go with you for nothing." said the girl; and the dark

eyebrows drew together.

"Come, my child." said the padre, "he is an honest young fellow, and

does not want to get rich from your poverty; there--step in," and he

reached her his hand, "and seat yourself near me. See there! He has

spread his jacket for you that you may sit the softer. He was not half

so thoughtful of me. But young blood! young blood! It is always so!

They will take more care of one little girl, then of ten holy fathers."

"Well, well! you need not make any excuses, 'Tonino; it is God's law

that like should cling to like."

In the mean time, Lauretta had slipped into the boat, and seated

herself, first pushing the jacket on one side without saying a word.

The young fisherman let it be, and muttered something between his

teeth. Then he pushed stoutly against the beach, and the little bark

flew lightly out into the bay.

"What have you got in your bundle?" asked the padre, as they swept over

the sea, just beginning to be freckled with the first sunbeams.

"Thread, silk, and a little loaf, padre, I am going to sell the silk to

a woman in Capri, who makes ribbons, and the thread to another."

"Did you spin it yourself?"

"Yes, padre."

"If I remember rightly, you have learned to weave ribbons too?"

"Yes, padre, but my mother is so much worse, that I cannot leave her

for long at a time; and we are too poor to buy a loom."

"Much worse! Dear, dear, when I saw her at Easter, she was sitting up."

"The spring is always the worst time for her. Since we had the great

storm and the earthquake, she has been obliged to keep her bed from

pain."

"Don't weary of prayers and supplications to the Holy Virgin, my

child,--she alone can help her. And be good and industrious, that your

prayers may be heard."

After a pause. "As you came across the beach, they called after you,

'Good day, La Rabbiata.' Why do they call you so? It is not a pretty

name for a Christian girl, who ought to be humble and gentle."

The girl's brown face glowed, and her eyes sparkled.

"They laugh at me, because I will not dance and sing and gossip, like

the others. They might let me go my own way. I do them no harm."

"But you might be friendly with every one. Others, who lead easier

lives may dance and sing; but kindly words may be given even by a

sorrowful heart."

She looked steadily down, and drew the black eyebrows still closer

together, as if she wished to shroud the dark eyes entirely under them.

For a while they, voyaged on in silence. The sun now stood glorious

over the mountains. The peak of Vesuvius ranged high over the bank of

mist which still wrapped its flanks, and the houses on the plains of

Lorento gleamed whitely from amongst the green orange gardens.

"Have you never heard any thing more of that painter, Lauretta," asked

the padre, "that Neapolitan, who wanted to marry you?"

She shook her head.

"He wanted to paint your picture--why did you drive him away?"

"Why did he want it? There are plenty prettier than I. And then, who

knows what he might have done with it? He might have bewitched me with

it, and endangered my soul, or even have killed me, my mother says."

"Don't believe such wicked things," said the padre, gravely, "Are you

not always in the hand of God, without whose permission not a hair can

fall from your head? And do you think that a man with a poor picture

like that can be stronger than the Lord God? You might have seen that

he wished you well. Would he have wanted you to marry him if he had

not?"

She was silent.

"Then why did you send him away? They said that he was an honest

man and well to do, and could have kept you and your mother in

comfort. Much more so than you can do now with your poor spinning and

silk-weaving."

"We are poor people." she said, impetuously. "And my mother has been

ill a long time. We should only have been a burden to him; and I am not

fit to be a signora. When his friends came to see him, he would have

been ashamed of me."

"What nonsense! I tell you that he was a good man, and, moreover, he

was willing to settle in Lorento. Another like him will not come again

in a hurry; he seemed sent straight from heaven to assist you."

"I will never have a husband, never!" she said almost fiercely, and as

if to herself.

"Have you taken a vow, or do you intend to enter a cloister?"

She shook her head.

"The people are right in accusing you of obstinacy, even if the name be

not a pretty one. Do you forget that you are not alone in the world,

and that this resolution of yours makes your sick mother's life and

illness still more bitter? What possible grounds can you have for

casting aside each honest hand which stretches itself out to assist you

and her? Answer me, Lauretta?"

"I have, indeed, good grounds," she said, low and hesitatingly, "but I

cannot tell them."

"Not tell them? not even to me? not even to your old father confessor,

whom you used to trust, and who you know means so well towards you?

Will you?"

She nodded.

"So, lighten your heart, my child. If you are _in_ the right, I will be

the first to _do_ you right; but you are young, and know but little of

the world, and you might repent by-and-by at having ruined your

happiness for life for the sake of a childish fancy."

She cast a shy, rapid glance towards the young man, who sat rowing

steadily behind them in the boat, with his woollen cap plucked deeply

over his brows, gazing sideways at the sea, and seemingly lost in his

own reflections. The padre observed her glance, and bent his head

nearer to her.

"You did not know my father," she whispered, and her eyes gleamed

darkly.

"Your father! he died, if I remember rightly, when you were hardly ten

years old. What can your father, whose soul may be in Paradise, have to

do with your caprice?"

"You did not know him, padre: you did not know that he was the cause of

all my mother's illness."

"How so?"

"Because he ill-treated her, and beat her, and trampled her under his

feet! I remember the night well when he used to come home in a rage!

She never said an angry word to him--did all that he wished; but he

beat her till I thought my heart would have broken, and used to draw

the coverlid over my head, and pretend to be asleep, but cried all the

night through. And when he saw her lying on the floor, he changed

suddenly, and raised her up, and kissed her, till she cried that he was

suffocating her. My mother forbad me ever to say a word about it. But

it had such an effect upon her, that she has never been well all these

long years since he has been dead; and if she should die soon, which

the Madonna forbid, I know well who killed her."

The little priest shook his head, and seemed undecided as to what

extent he should justify his penitent. At last he said,

"Forgive him, as your mother has forgiven him. Do not fasten your

thoughts on that sad picture, Lauretta. Better times will come for you,

and you will forget all this."

"Never shall I forget it," she cried, shuddering; "and I tell you,

padre, that I will remain a maiden, and be subject to no one who may

ill-treat me one moment and caress me the next. If any one tries to

strike me or to kiss me now, I know how to defend myself; but my mother

could not defend herself, or ward off the blows or the kisses, because

she loved him; and I will love no one so much as to give him the power

of making me ill and miserable."

"Now, are you not a child, talking as a child, and knowing nothing of

what happens in the world? Are all men like your father, giving way to

every fancy and ill-humour, and beating their wives? Have you not seen

kind-hearted men enough who live in peace and unity with their wives?"

"No one knew either how my father treated my mother, for she would have

died a thousand times rather than have said any thing, or complained of

him, and all because she loved him. If that is what love does, closing

one's lips when one should cry for help, and disarming one against

worse than one's worst enemy could do, never shall my heart entrust

itself to a man's keeping."

"I tell you that you are a child, and do not know what you are talking

about. Much this heart of yours will ask you whether it is to love or

not when its time is come! All those fine fancies you have got into

that little head won't help you much _then_! And that painter, did you

also inform him that you expected him to ill-treat you?"

"His eyes looked sometimes as my father's used to do when he caressed

my mother, and wanted to take her in his arms and make friends with

her--I know those eyes! A man can give that look, too, who can think of

beating his poor wife, who has never done him ill. I shuddered when I

saw those eyes again."

Then she remained obstinately silent The padre, too, did not speak. He

ran over in his mind many pretty speeches, which he thought might suit

the girl's case; but the neighbourhood of the young fisherman, who had

become more restless towards the end of the confession, closed his

mouth.

When, after a voyage of two hours, they gained the little harbour of

Capri, Antonino bore the padre from the boat, over the last shallow

waves, and placed him respectfully upon the shore; but Lauretta would

not wait until he waded back to fetch her; she drew her clothes

together, and taking her shoes in one hand and her bundle in the other,

splashed hastily to the shore.

"I am going to stop some time at Capri to-day," said the padre, "so you

need not wait for me; possibly I may not return home till to-morrow.

And you, Lauretta, remember me to your mother; I shall see you again

this week. You are going back to-night?"

"If I have an opportunity," said the girl, arranging her dress.

"You know that I must go back," said Antonino, in what he intended as a

tone of indifference; "I will wait for you till the Ave Maria; if you

do not come then, it will be all the same to me."

"You must be in time, Lauretta," said the little priest; "you must not

leave your mother alone all night. Is it far where you are going?"

"To Anacapri."

"And I to Capri. God guard you, my child! and you, my son!"

Lauretta kissed his hand, and said a farewell, which the padre and

Antonino might have divided between them. Antonino, however, did not

claim his share of it; he took off his cap to the padre, and did not

look at Lauretta.

When, however, they had both turned their backs upon him, he permitted

his glance to follow the padre as he strode carefully up the stony

beach, but for a very short distance, and then directed it to the girl,

who was mounting the hill to the right, holding his hand over his eyes

to shade them from the bright sun. When she reached the place where the

road begins to run between the walls, she paused for a moment, as if to

take breath, and turned round. The Marina lay at her feet, above her

towered the steep cliffs, and before her spread the sea in all its

azure beauty. It was, indeed, a view well worth the pause.

Chance so willed it that her glance, sweeping past Antonino's boat,

encountered the one which he had sent after her. They both made a

movement, like persons who wish to excuse themselves--"a mere matter of

accident;" and then the girl continued her way with closely-compressed

lips.

CHAPTER II.

It was only an hour after midday, and Antonino had been sitting long on

a bench before the little fishing osteria. Something seemed to be

passing through his mind, for every five minutes he sprang up, stepped

out into the sun, and examined carefully the paths which led right and

left to the two island towns. "The weather looked suspicious," he told

the hostess; "it was clear enough now, but he knew this colour of the

sea and sky; it had looked just like this before the last great storm,

when the English family were saved with such difficulty. She must

remember it?"

"No."

"Well, she would remember what he had said, if it changed before

night."

"Have you many visitors over there?" asked the hostess, after a pause.

"They are just beginning to come. We have had hard times till now. The

bathers have not arrived yet."

"The spring was late. Have you done better here in Capri?"

"I should not have managed to get macaroni twice a week if it had

depended on the boat. Now and then a letter to take to Naples, or a

gentleman who wanted a row on the sea or to fish--that was all. But you

know that my uncle has got the great orange garden, and is a rich man.

'Tonino,' he said to me, 'as long as I live you shall not want, and

afterwards you will be cared for.' So I got through the winter with

God's help."

"Has your uncle children?"

"No; he was never married; he was long in foreign countries where he

managed to scrape many a good piaster together; now he has an idea of

setting up a large fishery, and is going to put me at the head of the

whole affair to see that he gets his rights."

"So you are a made man, Antonino." The young boatman shrugged his

shoulders. "Each one has his burden to bear," he said. Then he sprang

up and looked right and left at the weather, though he must have known

that there was but one weather-side.

"Let me bring you another flask, your uncle can pay for it," said the

hostess.

"Only one glass more, my head is warm already."

"It won't get into your head, you can drink as much as you like of it.

Here is my husband just coming, you must sit down and chat with him a

bit."

And truly the stately patron of the inn approached them just at that

moment down the hill, with his net on his shoulder, and his red cap set

jauntily sideways on his ringletted hair. He had been into the town

with fish, ordered by the great lady for our little friend the padre of

Lorento. When he caught sight of the young fisherman he waved him a

hearty greeting; then seating himself near him on the bench, began to

question and talk. His wife had just brought a fresh flask of pure

unadulterated Capri, when the shore sand to their left crackled, and

Lauretta advanced towards them from the road to Anacapri. She greeted

them with a hasty nod, and stopped irresolutely.

Antonino sprang up; "I must away," he said; "it is a girl from Lorento

who came this morning with the padre, and must go back this evening to

her sick mother."

"Well, but it is a long time before night," said the host, "she will

have time enough to drink a glass of wine. Here, wife, bring a clean

glass."

"Thank you, I do not wish to drink," said Lauretta, remaining at some

little distance.

"Pour out, wife, pour out, she wants pressing."

"Let her alone," said the young man, "she has a will of her own, when

once she has made up her mind, no one can make her alter it." And

therewith he took a hasty leave, and ran down to his boat, to set the

sail, and stood waiting for the girl. She waved a greeting back to the

hostess, and then with hesitating steps approached the boat. She

glanced on all sides, as if she hoped for the arrival of other

passengers; but the Marina was deserted; the fishermen slept, or were

away at sea with their nets and hooks. A few women and children sat in

their doorways, sleeping or spinning; and the strangers who had come

across in the morning, delayed their return until the cooler evening.

She was prevented from looking around her long, for before she could

turn round, Antonino had taken her in his arms and carried her like a

child to the boat. Then he sprang in after her, and with a few strokes

from the oars, they were in the open sea.

She seated herself in the fore-part of the boat, with her back half

turned towards him, so that he could only see her _en profil_. The

expression of her face was even more haughty than usual; the dark hair

hung low over the broad low forehead, and around her finely cut

nostrils quivered an expression of defiance; her swelling lips were

firmly compressed.

After they had sailed on in silence for some time, she felt the sun

burning her face, so she took her bread out and threw the handkerchief

over her hair; then she began to eat, to dine in fact, for she had

eaten nothing at Capri.

Antonino did not contemplate this long in silence. He took two oranges

out of the basket which he had brought over full in the morning, and

said, "Here is something to eat with your bread, Lauretta--don't think

that I kept them for you, they fell out of the basket into the boat,

and I found them when I brought the empty ones back."

"You had better eat them yourself, my bread is enough for me."

"They are so refreshing in the heat, and you have had such a long

walk."

"They gave me a glass of water above there, that refreshed me enough."

"As you please," he said, and let them fall back into the basket again.

Fresh silence. The sea was like a mirror, and hardly rustled round the

boat's keel--even the white seamews, that had their nests amongst the

rocks, pursued their prey without a cry.

"You could take the two oranges home to your mother," Antonino again

began.

"We have some at home, and when they are gone, I can go and buy more."

"But take them to her with a kind word from me.

"She does not know you."

"You can tell her who I am."

"_I_ do not know you."

It was not the first time that she had thus denied him. A year before,

when the painter had just arrived at Lorento, it chanced one summer

evening that Antonino and some other young fellows of the town were

playing boicia on an open piece of ground near the High-street--then it

was that the Neapolitan first saw Lauretta, who, bearing a water-jar on

her head, swept by without seeming to notice his presence. Struck with

her beauty, he stood gazing at her, forgetting that he was just in the

centre of the play-ground, and might have cleared it in two steps. A

ball, thrown by no friendly hand, struck him on the ancle, and reminded

him that that was not the place to lose himself in reveries. He looked

round as if he expected an apology; the young fisherman who had thrown

the ball, stood silent and defiant amongst his companions, and the

stranger thought it his best policy to avoid a discussion and go. But

people had talked about the affair at the time, and spoke anew about it

when the painter began openly to pay his court to Lauretta. "I do not

know him," she had said angrily, when the painter asked her whether she

refused him for the sake of this uncivil youth. And yet the story had

reached her ears too; and since that time, whenever she met Antonino,

she recognized him well enough.

And now they sat in the boat like the bitterest enemies, and the heart

of each beat fiercely. Antonine's usually good-tempered face was deeply

flushed. He struck his oars into the water till the foam splashed over

them, and his lips moved from time to time as if he spoke evil words.

She pretended not to observe it, put on her most indifferent

expression, bent over the side of the boat and let the water run

through her fingers; then she took off her handkerchief and arranged

her hair as if she had been alone; only her eyebrows still drew

together, and in vain she held her wet hand against her burning cheeks

to cool them.

Now they reached the centre of the bay, and far or near there was not a

sail to be seen--the island was far behind them, before them the coast

lay bathed in sun-mist; not even a seamew broke in upon the intense

solitude. Antonino glanced around him. An idea seemed to force its way

through his mind; the flush fled quickly from his cheek, and he dropped

the oars. In spite of herself, Lauretta looked around excited, but

fearless.

"I must make an end of this," burst from the fisherman's lips; "it has

lasted too long already; I wonder that it has not sent me mad before

this! You do not know me, you say? Have you not long enough seen how I

passed you like a madman, with my heart bursting to speak to you? You

saw it, for then you put on your evil look and turned your back upon

me."

"What had I to talk to you about?" she answered shortly. "I saw long

ago that you wanted to attach yourself to me; but I do not want to be

gossipped about for nothing, and less than nothing, for I will never

marry you, neither you nor any one!"

"Nor any one? You will not always say that, because you sent away the

painter. Bah! you were a child then. You will get lonesome some day,

and then, mad as you are, you will take the first that comes."

"No one knows his future. Perhaps I may change my mind; what is it to

you if I do?"

"What is it to me?" he cried, and sprang so violently from his seat

that the boat rocked again. "What is that to me! and you can ask me

that, when you know how I feel towards you? Unhappy shall it be for him

who is received better than I have been!"

"Have I engaged myself to you? Am I to blame if you let your brain

wander? What right have you over me?"

"Oh!" he cried, "truly is it not written down. No lawyer has signed it

and sealed it. But I feel that I have as much right over you as I have

to enter heaven if I die an honest man. Do you think that I will look

on calmly when you go to church with another, and the girls pass by me

and shrug their shoulders? Do you think that I will be so insulted?"

"Do what you like. I shall not trouble myself, scold as you may. I too

will do as _I_ please."

"You shall not say so long," he cried, and his whole frame quivered. "I

am man enough not to let my life be destroyed by such fancies. Do you

know that you are here in my power, and must do as _I_ will?"

She shrank together, and her eyes gleamed at him.

"Murder me if you like." she said, slowly.

"We must not do things by halves." he replied, sadly; "there is room

for both of us in the sea, I cannot save you, child," and he spoke

almost compassionately, dreamingly. "But we must dive below, both of

us--and at once--and now," he shrieked, madly seizing her by both arms.

But in an instant he drew back his right hand, the blood streamed from

it--she had bitten him to the bone.

"_Must_ I do what you will?" she cried, freeing herself from him with a

sudden turn; "let us, see whether I am in your power." And then she

sprang over the gunwale of the boat and disappeared for a moment

beneath the waves.

She soon rose again; her clothes dung tightly around her; the water had

loosened her hair, which hung in heavy masses around her neck. She

struck out boldly with her arms, and swam, without a sound, steadily

from the boat towards the shore. Sudden terror seemed to have paralyzed

Antonino. He stood bent forward in the boat, his eyes fixed staringly

upon her, as if a miracle was being enacted before them. Then he shook

himself, sprang to the oars, and rowed with all the strength he could

command towards her, whilst the boarding of his boat grew ever redder

from his free-streaming blood.

In a moment he was by her side, rapidly as she swam. "For the sake of

the ever blessed Virgin," he cried, "come into the boat! I have been a

madman, God knows what took away my reason. It struck into my brain

like lightning from heaven, and burnt in me, till I knew not what I did

or said. I do not ask you to forgive me, only save your life, and come

into the boat again."

She swam on as if she heard not. "You can never reach the land, it is

still two miglia off. Think of your mother: if anything happened to

you, she would die of grief!"

She measured with a glance the distance from the shore. Then, without

saying a word, she swam to the boat, and seized the gunwale. He moved

across to help her; his jacket, which was lying on the seat, slid off

into the sea as the boat heeled over with the girl's weight. She swung

herself lithely up, and regained her former seat. When he saw her safe,

he seized the oars again. But she spread out her dripping garments and

wrung the water from her hair. As she did it, she glanced at the

flooring of the boat, and saw the blood; then she cast a hasty look at

his hand, which wielded the oar as unwounded. "There," she said, and

reached him her handkerchief. He shook his head and rowed onwards. At

last she rose, stepped over to him, and bound the handkerchief tightly

over the deep wound. Then, in spite of his resistance, she took one of

the oars from him, and seating herself opposite to him, though without

looking at him, her gaze fixed on oar reddened with his blood, helped

on the boat with vigorous strokes. They were both pale and silent. As

they neared the land they met the fishermen who were moving to sea to

cast their nets for the night. They greeted Antonino, and laughed at

Lauretta: neither of them answered a word.

The sun was still high over Procida when they reached the marina.

Lauretta shook her gown, now nearly dried, and sprang on shore. The old

spinning woman who had seen them start in the morning stood again on

her roof. "What is the matter with your hand, 'Tonino?" she called down

to him. "Jesus! the boat is swimming in blood!"

"'Tis nothing, Commare," answered the young man; "I tore it on a nail

that stuck out too far. It will be well by to-morrow. The blood is only

near the hand, and that makes it look worse than it is."

"I will come and put some herbs upon it, Comparello. Wait, I will be

down with you directly."

"Don't trouble yourself, Commare; it is all over now and to-morrow it

will be gone and forgotten. I have a good skin that soon grows over a

wound."

"Addio!" said Lauretta, turning towards the path that led up from the

beach.

"Good night," called the fisherman after her, without looking towards

her. Then he took his tackle out of the boat, and his baskets, and

strode up the narrow stone steps to his hut.

CHAPTER III.

There was no one but himself in the two rooms, through which he now

paced to and fro. Through the unglazed windows, only closed by wooden

shutters, the wind blew in still more refreshingly than on the calm

sea, and the solitude pleased him. He paused before the little picture

of the Virgin, and gazed thoughtfully at the silver paper star-glory

pasted around it. Yet he thought not of prayer. For what should he pray

now, when he had nothing more to hope for!

And to-day the sun seemed to stand still.

He longed for night, for he was weary, and the loss of blood had

affected him more than he would confess. He felt a violent pain in his

hand, seated himself on a stool, and loosened the bandage. The

repressed blood sprang forwards again, and his hand was much swollen

around the wound. He washed it carefully, and held it long in the cold

water. When he withdrew it he could plainly see the marks of Lauretta's

teeth. "She was right," he said to himself; "I was a brute and deserved

no better. I will send her back her handkerchief to-morrow morning by

Giuseppe, for me shall she never see again." He washed the handkerchief

carefully, and spread it out in the sun, after he had bound up his

maimed limb again as well as he could with his left hand and his teeth.

Then he threw himself upon his bed and closed his eyes.

The bright moon and the pain of his hand awoke him out of a half sleep.

He sprang up to calm the throbbing beat of the blood in cold water,

when he heard a rustling at his door. "Who is there?" he said, and

opened it. Lauretta stood before him.

Without saying much she entered. She threw aside the handkerchief she

had worn over her head, and placed a basket on the table. Then she drew

a deep sigh.

"You are come for your handkerchief," he said; "you might have spared

yourself the trouble, for tomorrow morning I should have asked Giuseppe

to take it to you."

"It is not for the handkerchief," she answered, hastily; "I have been

on the mountain gathering herbs that are good for wounds--there!" and

she raised the cover of her basket.

"Too much trouble," he said, without any harshness--"too much trouble.

It is better already--much better; and even if it were worse, I have

deserved it. What do you do here so late? If any one were to see

you--you know how they talk, though they know not what they say?"

"I do not trouble myself about them," she answered vehemently; "but

your hand I _must_ see, and put herbs upon it, for you can never do it

with your left."

"I assure you that there is no necessity for such trouble!"

"Then let me see it, that I may believe it."

She seized his hand before he could prevent her, and untied the

bandage. When she saw the angry swelling, she shrank together, and

screamed "Jesus, Maria!"

"It is a little swollen," he said; "a day and a night will put it all

right again."

She shook her head. "You will not be at sea again for a week!"

"The day after to-morrow, I hope--what does it matter?"

In the mean time she had found a basin, and washed the wound afresh,

which he suffered her to do like a child; then she laid the healing

leaves of the herbs upon it, which soon assuaged the burning pain, and

bound up the hand with strips of linen which she had brought with her.

When she had finished, he said, "I thank you--and listen--if you will

do me one kindness more--'forgive me for letting such madness get

possession of me to-day, and forget all that I have said and done. I do

not know myself how it all happened. _You_ never gave me any cause for

it--never, never! And you shall never more hear anything from me that

can annoy you."

"It is _I_ who have to pray for your pardon," she said, interrupting

him; "_I_ should have told you all, differently and better, and not

have irritated you by my rude manner; and now, even this wound----"

"It was necessary, and high time that I was brought to my senses! and,

as I said, it is of no consequence--do not talk of forgiveness. You

have done me good, and I thank you for it. And now go to rest, and

there--there is your handkerchief--you can take it with you now."

He offered it to her, but she stood still and seemed to struggle with

herself; at last, she said, "You have lost your jacket on my account,

and I know that you had the money for the oranges in your pockets. It

struck me just now--I cannot replace it at once, for I have not

sufficient, and if I had it would belong to my mother; but here I have

the silver cross that the painter laid on the table the last time he

was with us; I have never seen it since, and do not care to keep it

longer in my box. If you sell it--it is well worth a couple of

piastres, my mother said--it would help to repair your loss, and what

may be wanting I will try to gain by spinning at night, when my mother

is asleep."

"I shall not take it!" he said, shortly, pushing back the glittering

cross she had taken from her pocket.

"You _must_ take it," she cried; "who knows how long you may be laid up

with your hand? There it lies, and I will never set my eyes on it

again!"

"Then throw it into the sea!"

"It is no present that I make you--it is only what you have a right to,

and what I owe you."

"A right to! I have no right to anything from you! If you should happen

to meet me in future, do me one kindness--do not look at me, that I may

not think that you are putting me in mind of how I have offended you.

And now--good night!--and let it be the last."

He laid her handkerchief in the basket, placed the cross on the top of

it, and closed the lid. When he looked up and saw her face, he started.

Large, heavy tears rolled over her cheeks--she let them run their

course unheeded.

"Maria Santissima!" he cried. "Are you ill? You tremble from head to

foot!"

"It is nothing," she said--"I will go home:" and turned towards the

door. Then a burst of weeping overcame her; she pressed her forehead

against the doorpost, and sobbed loud and vehemently. Before he could

reach her, she turned suddenly round and cast herself upon his neck. "I

cannot, cannot bear it," she cried, and clung to him like a dying man

to life. "I cannot bear to hear you saying kind words to me, and

telling me to leave you, with all the fault on my conscience! Beat

me--trample me under your feet--curse me--or, if it be true that you

love me _still_, after all the ill that I have done you, then take me

and keep me, and make of me what you will, but send me not thus away

from you----" Fresh vehement sobs interrupted her.

He held her awhile in his arms, stricken dumb. "If I love you still!"

he cried. "Holy Madonna! do you think that all my heart's blood has run

out of that little wound? Do you not feel it beating in my breast, as

if it would spring out, and to you? If _you_ only say it to try me--or

from pity to me--there, go, and I will even forget this too! You shall

not think that you are indebted to me because you know what I suffer

for you."

"No!" she said, firmly, raising her forehead from his shoulder, and

gazing passionately in his face with her wet eyes--"I love you; and if

I only say it _now_, I have long feared and fought against it--and now

will I change, for I can no longer bear to look at you when you pass me

in the street: and now I will kiss you too," she said, "that you may

say if you doubt again, 'She has kissed me!' and, Lauretta kisses no

one but the man she takes as her husband."

She kissed him thrice, and then freed herself from his arms, and said,

"Good night, darling! Now sleep, and heal your hand; and do not come

with me, for I fear no one now--but thee!"

Therewith she glided through the doorway, and disappeared in the shadow

of the wall; but he looked long through the window, and over the sea,

over which all the stars seemed trembling.

The next time the little Padre Curato emerged from the confessional, by

which Lauretta had been a long time kneeling, he laughed quietly to

himself. "Who would have thought it," he murmured, "that God would so

soon have taken pity on this strange heart? And I was blaming myself

for not having attacked the demon of obstinacy more fiercely! But our

eyes are too short-sighted for the ways of Heaven! And now, may God

bless them both, and let me live till Lauretta's eldest boy can go to

sea in his father's place."

Ay! ay! ay! La Rabbiata!

"BY THE BANKS OF THE TIBER."

CHAPTER I.

It was late in January. The first snow hung upon the mountains, and the

sun, shrouded by mists, had only melted away a narrow band around their

feet. But the waste of the campagna bloomed like spring. Only the

sombre boughs of the olive trees, that here and there followed in rows

the gentle undulations of the plain, or surrounded some lonely cabin,

and the frosted scrubby bushes that grew about the road, still showed

the effects of winter. At this time of the year the scattered herds are

collected within hurdles, near the huts of the campagnuoli, which are

generally placed under the shelter of some hillock, and scantily enough

protected from the weather by straw piled up from the ground; whilst

those amongst the herdsmen who can sing or play the bagpipe have left,

to wander about Rome as pifferari, to serve the artists as models, or

to support their poor frozen existences by some similar industry.

The dogs are now the herds of the campagna, and sweep through the

deserted waste in packs, maddened by hunger, and no longer restrained

by the herdsmen, on whose poverty they are only a burden.

Towards evening, when the wind began to blow more strongly, a man

emerged from the Porta Pia, and wandered along the carriage-road which

runs between the country houses. His cloak hung carelessly from his

sturdy shoulders, and his broad grey hat was pushed back from his

forehead. He gazed towards the mountains till the road became more

enclosed, and only permitted him a narrowed glance of the distance

between the garden walls.

The confinement seemed to oppress him. He lost himself again dejectedly

in the thoughts to escape which he had sought the free air. A stately

cardinal tripped by with his suite without his observing or greeting

him. The carriage following its master first reminded him of his

omission. From Tivoli rolled carriages and light vehicles, full of

strangers, who had taken a fancy to see the mountains and cascades

under snow. He cast not a glance at the pretty faces of the young

Englishwomen, with whose blue veils the tramontane played. Hastily he

turned from the road, sideways to the left, along a field-path which

first ran past mills and wine-shops, and then led out into the midst of

the waste of the campagna.

And now he paused for a moment, breathing deeply, and enjoying the

freedom of the broad wintry sky. The shrouded sun gleamed redly over

all, lighted up the ruins of the aqueduct, and tinged with rose the

snow on the Sabine hills.

Behind him lay the town. Not far from him a clock began to strike, but

lightly, through the opposing wind. It made him restless; as though he

wished to prevent the least sound of life from reaching him, and he

strode onward. He soon left the narrow path, which swept up and down

the waves of the plain, swung himself over the rails which had guarded

the pasturing herds during the summer, and buried himself still deeper

and deeper in the solitary darkness.

A stillness reigned there as deep as that on a sleeping sea. One could

almost hear the rustle of the crows' wings as they floated over the

waste. No cricket chirped, no ritornella of the home-returning

market-woman reached his ear from the distant road. It pleased him. He

struck his staff against the hard earth, and rejoiced in the sound with

which she answered him. "She does not say much," he said, in the

dialect of the lower class of Romans; "but she means honestly, and

cares in silence for her babbling children who trample her under their

feet. Would I never needed to hear their voices again, these windy

rogues; my ears are sore with their smooth phrases! As if I were

nothing--as if I knew not better on what those things depend, about

which they love to chatter--because I only know how to create them!

"And yet I live on them, and must keep a good countenance when they

sniff and sneer at my work. Accidenti!" He cursed on his beard--an echo

answered him: he looked, startled around; no hut, no hillock was there

within a circle of half a mile, and he could not believe in the

neighbourhood of man. At last he stepped onward, and thought "A gust of

wind mocked thee!" Then suddenly it sounded again, nearer and clearer.

He stood and listened keenly. "Am I near a cabin, or a fold where the

cattle are lowing? It cannot be--it sounded differently--it _sounds_

differently; and now--now"--and a shudder shook his whole frame. "It

is the dogs," he said slowly.

The cry came nearer and nearer, hoarse as that of wolves; no barking or

yelping, but a snarling howl, which the voice of the wind swept

together into one uninterrupted, terrible melody. A paralyzing power

seemed to exist in it, for the traveller stood motionless, his mouth

and eyes rigidly open, his face half turned towards the side from which

the battle-cry of the raging brutes swelled towards him.

At last he shook himself with fierce determination. "It is too late!

they have long had the scent; and in this twilight I should fall before

the tenth step if I tried to fly. Well, like a dog have I lived! and

now, to be destroyed by my fellows!--there is sense in it! If I had a

knife I would make it easier for my guests; but this"--and he tried the

strong iron spike of his staff--"if there be but few of them, who knows

whether my hunger may not survive theirs?"

He threw his cloak around him, so as to have his right arm free, and to

form with its many folds a sort of protection to his left, and grasped

his staff. With cold-blooded determination he examined the ground on

which he stood. He found it free from grass, stony, and hard. "They may

come!" he said, planting himself firmly upon his feet. He saw them now,

and counted them in the gloaming. Five he counted, and then a sixth.

They rave like fiends from hell--long-limbed, skeleton brutes! "Wait!"

and he raised a heavy stone; "we must declare war according to custom."

Therewith he hurled the stone at the nearest, twenty paces from him. A

redoubled howling answered--the pack was checked for a moment. One of

them lay struggling on the ground.

"Armistice!" said the man. His lips trembled, his heart throbbed

heavily against his left arm, which grasped his cloak spasmodically;

but the lids over the keen eyes winked not. He saw his enemies break

forth again, and their eyes glared through the darkness. They came on

in couples, the largest first. A second stone rebounded from the bony

chest of one of the leaders, and the ravening brute sprang, hoarsely

snarling, against the dark form. A thrust, and he fell backwards on the

sward, and the staff, whirled quickly round, striking heavily on his

open jaws.

A horseman galloped through the grey of the winter's night, some few

hundred paces from the scene of the struggle, over the pathless

campagna. He pierced through the darkness towards the spot from whence

the howling reached him, at short intervals, and saw a man standing,

tottering, giving way, and again standing firm, as his enemies

relinquished the attack, and once more stormed on him from all sides.

The horseman shuddered; he plunged the spurs into his horse's flanks,

and flew towards them. The sound of the horse's hoofs reached the ear

of the struggling man, but it seemed as if the sudden terror of hope

deprived him of his last remaining strength; his arm sank, his brain

whirled, and he felt himself torn down from behind,--tottered, and fell

to the ground. Through the mists of approaching unconsciousness he

heard the sound of pistol-shots, and then fainted.

When he recovered, and opened his eyes, he saw the face of a young man

bending over him, on whose knee his head was resting, and whose hand

was rubbing his temples with fresh-plucked wet grass. The horse stood

steaming near them, and at his feet lay two dogs, writhing in the

agonies of death.

"Are you wounded?" he heard asked.

"I know not."

"You live in Rome?"

"Near the Tritone."

The other helped him to rise. He could not stand. His left foot was in

great pain. He was bareheaded; his cloak in rags; the coat and arm,

torn and bloody; his face pale and haggard. Without speaking, he

permitted himself to be supported by his preserver, who rather bore

than led him the few paces to the horse; at last he gained the saddle,

the other took the bridle and led him slowly towards the town.

At the first osteria outside the walls they halted. The young man

called to the hostess to bring wine: when the wounded man had drunk a

glassful his face became more animated, and he said:--

"You have done me a service, sir. Possibly the time may come when I

shall curse it, instead of thanking you for it. But I thank you for it

now. One clings to life as to other bad habits. One knows that the air

is full of fever and rottenness, and the worthless steam of mankind,

and yet thinks that each breath one draws in is a good thing."

"You are inclined to speak ill of mankind."

"I never knew one who did not take me for a fool if I spoke well of

them. Pardon me. You are not a Roman?"

"I am a German."

"Bless God for it."

They reached the gate in silence, and turned into the Piazza Barberini.

The wounded man pointed to a small house in the corner of the place,

ruinous and dark. When the horse stopped before the humble door, its

rider let himself slide off before the other could assist him, but then

sank helplessly down. "It is worse than I thought." he said; "do me one

kindness more, and help me in,--here is the key." The young man

supported him, called to a boy to hold the horse, and to a loiterer to

open the door. It was quite dark within, the damp cold struck

unpleasantly upon them. He bore him as directed, to the left, into a

large bare room.

"Where is your bed?" asked the German.

"Where you will; but I would rather lie over there by the wall. This

brave old Palazzo! They are going to pull it down in the spring; I

fancy that it will not have the patience to wait for them."

"And you still remain here?"

"It is the cheapest way of getting buried," said the man, drily. "I can

play the host here gratis."

In the mean time, the boy had struck fire, and lighted the little brass

lamp that stood in the window. The young man helped the wounded one to

a coverlid spread on some straw, and covered him scantily enough with

his tattered cloak. With a deep sigh the powerful frame sank down, and

the eyes closed. The German gave the boy money and directions, and then

went out without leave-taking, sprang up on his horse, and rode hastily

away.

In about a quarter of an hour he returned, bringing with him a surgeon.

Whilst the latter examined and bound up the wounds on arm and leg,

which the wounded man permitted him to do without a murmur escaping

him, the young German looked around the room: it was bare, and the

plaster had fallen in large masses from the walls. The joists of the

ceiling stood naked and blackened, the wretched window let in the

cutting night air, there was but little furniture. Meanwhile the boy

brought in an armful of wood, and made a fire on the hearth. As it

gleamed up redly some dusty clay figures and plaster casts became

visible in the corner. A large dolphin which bore a dead boy on its

back, a Medusa in relief, colossal, the hair, not yet vivified into

serpents, curled wildly around the sorrow-laden brow. He could not

remember that he had ever seen this rendering in an antique. Casts from

the arms, bust, and feet of a young girl, amongst hasty sketches in

clay, stood and lay in confusion. On a table were the different kinds

of apparatus used by cameo-cutters, and some sticks with half-finished

works, for the most part Medusa heads, resembling the great one, but

with different degrees of passion and grandeur. Uncut shells, casts of

gems, and casts in glass and plaster, lay in a box near them.

"I think there is no danger," said the surgeon, at last. "Let them get

some ice, and make the boy sit up and keep the bandages cool during the

night. They have treated you roughly, Senor Carlo! But what on earth

induced you to wander about the campagna at this time of night, and

this time of year?"

"This obstinate rascal, the chimney," answered the artist, "he refused

to do his duty unless one stuffed his throat with faggots. I was out of

temper with my old Palazzo, Senor Vottore, and felt inclined to give

him a kick or two, to warm us both; and so I thought it better to run

away before it came to blows between us."

"You are ill looked after here," said the good-natured little man,

wiping his spectacles, which had become suddenly dimmed. "My wife shall

send you another coverlid, and I will see you again tomorrow. Sleep

will soon come, and he is the doctor who beats us all."

The young man accompanied him to the door, and spoke a few words with

him in the passage.

"I only know him by name," said the doctor. "He goes his own strange

misanthropical way. Prefers sitting in the wine-shop with the lowest

faccini, and squanders what he earns. But there is not a man in Rome

who is his equal at a cameo. He inherits it from his father, Giovanni

Bianchi, who has long been dead."

"Are his wounds really not dangerous?"

"If he only spares himself and not the ice. He has limbs of iron, or he

could not have made head so long against the brutes. Five, do you say?

The fool-hardy man! But that is just one of his tricks. Well, well, he

will sleep now. Dispel your anxiety, Senor Theodore."

He was already asleep, when Theodore returned to his room, although he

had turned his face towards the blazing fire. Theodore studied him

long. He was very handsome, though the nose was a little too thin; his

hair here and there sprinkled with grey; his beard untended; from

between the breathing, half-opened lips gleamed the white teeth. When

Theodore raised the cloak to place fresh ice on the wounds, he

perceived the great strength of his limbs.

He sent the boy away, after he had brought a fresh supply of wood and

ice, and ordered him to return in the morning. He then drew a chair to

the side of the hearth, and seated himself, wrapped in his cloak, to

watch. It was about ten o'clock, the bright night reigned without over

the deserted square, and the slender stream from the fountain plashed

lightly into the Triton's shell. From a neighbouring house he heard a

girl's voice, singing:--

"Chi sa se mai

Ti soverrai di me!"

The refrain of an old sorrowful song. Then it ceased, but hummed

wordless within him still.

He fancied himself again at the edge of the abyss at Tivoli, on the

footway opposite the cascades, which in wintry scantiness gushed down

from their many mouths. They walked, but not arm in arm, near each

other; he and that fair girl and her lively little companion, who

hastened unweariedly along the narrow, toilsome path.

"We ought to have returned with your parents, Mary," she said more than

once in English; "indeed, we ought to do so now. Look, child! there

they are up above by the cascade, and will soon be sitting comfortably

by the fire in the sibyl, and here the wind is cutting our very noses

off; yours is quite red already; dear me! how cold you look, child! The

wind blows so chilly across the water too. You said that it would, sir,

and warned us fairly; but our pet must have her fancies. Bless me, we

have seen the view in the autumn already, and in the summer too, and

then rode safely and comfortably down the path that we are half

stumbling, half sliding down now."

"It is not much farther, dear Miss Betsy," said the girl, laughing,

"and the path will improve. Our friend offered you his arm; why did you

refuse it?"

The little woman drew closer to her, and said softly, "My dear Mary,

what a question to ask! you know that I have my reasons for declining

to be helped down hills by unmarried young gentlemen! when one slips

and holds him tight to save oneself from falling, he might take each

pinch for a proof of affection; you quite shock me, child!"

Mary smiled almost imperceptibly; then she went calmly on her way. Her

dark bonnet hid all her face from the young man except the waving brown

curls.

"It was intended as no mere compliment, sir." she said, glancing

unembarrassed towards him; "when my father confessed that your absence

had caused him pain: if I remember rightly, you have only called on us

four times since my poor brother's death."

"Four times!" he cried; "and have you counted them?"

"We must often hear the number from him. 'Since I lost Edward,' he says

frequently, 'I care to talk to no one who has not known him; how can

they ever learn to know _me_?' Then he always refers to you, and

praises you, and misses you so much."

"I confess," said Theodore, "that the kindness and heartiness with

which your parents greeted me when we met here, surprised and affected

me very much; and I too have wanted companionship this winter more than

formerly. In the one before, which was my first, I drew back from

nothing which pressed itself forward and promised to be advantageous. I

see now that I have only lost. The society here is in contradiction to

the place. It feels it itself, and as it still desires to be something,

it is obliged to overstrain itself: that is discordant and neutralizes

the productive disposition of thoughtful men like myself; so now I live

only for myself, or for some few who have fared no better than I have,

and yet from my youth up I have been accustomed to find permanent

happiness in pure family existence alone."

"You have been long away from your parents?"

"I have lost them." he said gently; "they both died in the same week;

then I went over the Alps, and God knows whether I shall ever return!"

They passed beneath the light shadow of the olive plantation--the path

was perfectly dry--over them, amongst the branches, the sun glanced

from the fleeting snow, which it had thawed upon the leaves, till they

had glimmered as from a soft spring shower. The little friend was in

the best possible humour, and talked of her wanderings about Rome.

People suspected that she was writing a book about Rome. However that

might be, it was clearly proved that she had done such violence to her

well-grounded opinions, as to permit it to be reported that she had

explored the baths of Caracalla with an entirely unknown and youthful

Italian, and had not even refused his offer of protection to her own

house.

"Do you believe, Mary," she cried now, "that I could easily make up my

mind never to see my dear old England again? You know that at first we

did not intend to stop here a single month. For you must know, sir,

that I come of an old family, and my first ancestor fell at Hastings,

winning his bit of land for himself and his descendants. And so my

little bit of England is as much mine as the big one of a great

landowner; and who likes to leave his own behind him? And yet who knows

whether I might not be induced to pass the rest of my life here, if it

were not dishonourable to forget one's fatherland, even though it

forgets us and the good service our forefathers have done it?"

"I do not know." answered Theodore, laughing, "you only do old England

a service if you conquer a bit of Rome for yourself, and so tread in

the footsteps of your forefathers."

"You are pleased to be witty!" she said, and gave him a light tap with

her fan. "But even suppose that I were of an age which made your joke

more appropriate, do you seriously think--supposing that there was any

foundation for your innuendo, and any one _should_ trouble himself

about me,--do you think, I repeat, that English and Italian, or more

properly Roman character, would in the long run, be able to get on

together?"

"You know, my dear Miss Betsy, that love works wonders, fills up

valleys and pulls down mountains. As far as mere _character_ goes, I am

not afraid. If the sentiments agree, what may the heart not do? I have

seen more marriages rendered unhappy by difference of taste, than from

difference of feeling. But what Roman would not share in your taste for

everything Roman, for example?"

"You are right," she said; "at the bottom, love is a matter of taste."

Then she drew her green veil over her face, and seemed to wish to be

left to her own reflections.

The two young people went a little in advance, for they heard Miss

Betsy beginning to talk half aloud to herself, as was often her custom,

and they had no wish to overhear her dreamings. "Good creature!" said

Mary, with her gentle voice; "the journey has quite unsettled her. She

always used to have strange ideas, but in England they took an innocent

political direction; but with her first step on the continent arose

this strange fancy of inventing experiences, which has already indeed

given us much anxiety on the journey, but which has perhaps as often

afforded an excuse for a hearty laugh."

"This fantastic state of being must have suited her charmingly when she

was younger," said Theodore; "older people generally discover that they

have quite enough to do to meet adventures as they happen, and are by

no means inclined to seek them. It is to be hoped that she will soon be

as little in earnest with her new Roman friend, as he seems to have

been with her from the beginning."

"I saw them both returning home. He was a good-looking man, with rather

insolent, but still fine eyes, and much younger than she is."

"What restrained you from giving an opinion on the question which Miss

Betsy proposed?" asked Theodore, after a pause.

"Which one?"

"Whether individuals of different nations are suited to each other?"

Mary was silent for a while. "The more people want from each other,"

she said, at last, "and the more they wish to give each other, the

closer the connection between them ought to be--at least, I think so."

"And even, I once knew an Englishman who had married a creole, they

both took life easily and gaily. He was happy at having a handsome

wife, and she appeared satisfied because he could shower wealth upon

her. And yet there was always something between them, something

climatic, live where they would. They were never really happy with each

other."

"They were from different zones. But if they both had had northern

blood----"

"It may be so; and yet I can understand it by my own feelings. I was

brought up amongst the mountains, and have only accustomed myself by

slow degrees to the soft Roman air. Now it is winter; without there

lies the fair pure snow. When we are seated this evening with my father

and mother by the fire, and the kettle sings, and I see all that belong

to my life around me, I could easily be _entirely_ happy. And yet I

confess that it is just at that moment that the home-longing might

seize me for the old country-house in England, where the old oak-trees

stand before the window, and the snowy field lies behind the garden,

far less beautiful than the campagna beyond them, and the English sky

shrouded with heavy mist, so unlike this clear horizon, which should

cheer and refresh me. Yet it is foreign, and something foreign like

this might exist between people."

They had hitherto carried on the conversation in English. He now began

to talk German, which she too spoke perfectly, with the exception of a

slight accent.

"Permit me," he said, "to speak to you in my own language. You made me

share your feelings of home-longing when you talked of your winter

quietness. You put me in mind of my old German winters, which now lie

so far behind me, and can never be to me again what they were. I heard

again the light sound of the raven brushing through the bare branches,

and breaking the dry twigs, till a fine cloud of snow fell past the

window like crystal dust. My mother lay there ill on her bed for months

together. She could not, and would not, longer endure the noise and

bustle of the town. Before that time the old country-house had only

seen summer visitors, cheerful hunters, and gay promenaders. Then it

became the winter retreat where my mother recovered from her wearying

journeys to the baths."

"You were with her then?"

"For the first year or two, only for a week at a time. The last winter,

however, she would not let me leave her. I sat the whole day by her,

worked, and talked now and then, or played her favourite airs, those

simple old ballads which are now quite out of fashion. The little room

opened into the garden by several tall windows. I can see my father now

pacing up and down on the terrace before it, with his bear-skin cap and

short pipe. He could not bear the close air of the room for long at a

time. But he seldom left his post, and whoever had business with him

must seek him there. Now and then he came in to us for a quarter of an

hour at a time. I can never forget the look with which my poor mother

used to greet him then. She had beautiful bright blue eyes."

"And she died then?"

"In the spring. My father soon afterwards. He met with an accident in

riding. After my mother left us he had no rest, mounted the wildest

horses, and often remained away half the day, much as I used to entreat

him to spare himself I understood him. I could never free myself from a

secret terror. I was in the right."

They had arrived at the foot of the path, and stood still to wait for

their companion; Mary paused some steps from him, so that when he

turned and looked round over the country, he had her full face towards

him. The fair, bright features were clouded with sadness, and there was

a moist gleaming under the drooping eyelids. When she raised them, he

saw the blue eyes resting full and seriously on the landscape before

her. He knew this look already. He had avoided it hitherto, for he knew

the power that lay in it. Now he surrendered himself wholly to it for

the first time. "Mary!" he said. She moved not nor looked towards him.

Then their meditative little friend rejoined them. The conversation was

resumed as they mounted the ascent to Tivoli. But Mary took no part in

it.

When they left Tivoli in the early twilight, gayer from the cheerful

supper, and Theodore had helped the ladies into the carriage, the old

man said confidentially to him, "I will not get in until I know when we

are to meet you again, my dear sir. I have an affair to settle which

interests me and mine deeply, and on which I wish much to consult you.

It concerns our poor Edward, and I know that you will come the sooner

when you learn that we reckon on your assistance."

"Come this evening," said the mother. He promised it. When they brought

him his horse, he saw an anxious expression on Mary's face. He sprang

into the saddle, and gently humouring the spirited animal, rode beside

the carriage for some way. Then he lagged behind, rode more slowly, and

let the evening slip away without observing it. The night surprised

him. He gave his horse the spur, and rode across the waste with the

intention of making a short cut, and thus it was that he arrived so

opportunely in Bianchi's neighbourhood.

He shook himself now, threw fresh wood upon the fire, and fixed his

dark eyes thoughtfully upon it.

"What will they think," he said to himself, "at my strange absence?

What will _she_ think? It is too late now to send a messenger, and where,

indeed, could I get one? She will sit at home, and never dream of what

this day may mean! Or,

"Chi sa se mai!"

Then he attended to the sick man, walked up and down, and studied the

Medusa head, on which the firelight shone warmly--strangely like the

tints of ebbing life when the reluctant blood struggles with the

death-terror. It affected him powerfully. At last he was obliged to

turn away his eyes; and now, for the first time, observed some loose

figures, some of them of corroded Pompeian bronze, and others by a newer

hand, as life-like and reckless as they. Near them lay a torn and dusty

copy of "Ariosto." He seized it, and read it eagerly. It was the only

book he was able to discover.

So passed the hours. Long after midnight the sleeping man groaned

heavily, and struck out his arms in his dreams. As Theodore arranged

his disordered couch, and spread the coverlid over him afresh, he awoke

fully, and half arose. He felt around him, as if for a weapon, and

asked, in a determined voice,--

"Who are you?"

"A friend!--do you not recognize me?" answered Theodore.

"It is false!--I have none." shouted the wounded man, striving to raise

himself upon his feet. The pain of his wounds brought back

recollection. He sank down again, and collected himself thoroughly. He

lay still for awhile, and then said, more quietly,

"You _are_ one. Now I recollect you. What are you doing here at

this hour? Why are you not gone home? Are _you_ different from the

other sons of men, who only do good in order to sleep more soundly?

Go!--you have earned your rest. Why do you watch my dreams?"

"The doctor insists upon having your wounds kept cool during the night.

I could not trust to a stranger."

"Are _you_ not one?"

"No; not for a couple of pauls; but for your own sake I do this."

The other lay silent awhile. Then he said, with a strange excitement,

"You would do me a kindness by going. It makes me feel ill to have a

man moving about me. When it comes to thanking, I am more clumsy than

an old man courting a young girl."

"Do not trouble yourself about thanks. I stay because you want me. If

you could manage without me, you should not have to complain of my

being in your way."

"I cannot sleep when I know that you are sitting; and freezing there."

Theodore stirred the fire. "I hope that you feel, even over there, how

warm I must be here."

After a pause, during which the sick man had lain with closed eyes, he

asked--

"You are a Lutheran, sir?"----"Yes."

"I knew it," said Bianchi to himself; "he wishes to rob the church of a

soul--he does it all for that! They are no better than we are."

"The fever makes you rave." said Theodore emphatically; "say what you

will."

They were both silent for a long time. Theodore placed fresh ice upon

the wounds, as before; and Bianchi lay with his face turned towards the

wall, motionless, as though he slept. Suddenly, as Theodore was again

busied about him, he turned round, and raised himself half up. With the

wounded arm he clutched towards Theodore's hand, and grasped it with

his burning one, and said, low and slowly--"You are good! you are good!

you are a man!" His weakness overcame him; he fell back upon the straw,

and burst into a convulsive fit of weeping. As the tears ceased to

flow, he slept anew.