There is always a certain solemnity about a departure, even when the
separation is only to be a short one. Orso and his sister were to start
very early in the morning, and he had taken his leave of Miss Lydia the
night before--for he had no hope that she would disturb her indolent
habits on his account. Their farewells had been cold and grave. Since
that conversation on the sea-shore, Miss Lydia had been afraid she had
perhaps shown too strong an interest in Orso, and on the other hand, her
jests, and more especially her careless tone, lay heavy on Orso’s heart.
At one moment he had thought the young Englishwoman’s manner betrayed
a budding feeling of affection, but now, put out of countenance by her
jests, he told himself she only looked on him as a mere acquaintance,
who would be soon forgotten. Great, therefore, was his surprise, next
morning, when, as he sat at coffee with the colonel, he saw Miss Lydia
come into the room, followed by his sister. She had risen at five
o’clock, and for an Englishwoman, and especially for Miss Nevil, the
effort was so great that it could not but give him some cause for
vanity.
“I am so sorry you should have disturbed yourself so early,” said Orso.
“No doubt my sister woke you up in spite of my injunctions, and you must
hate us heartily! Perhaps you wish I was hanged already!”
“No,” said Miss Lydia, very low and in Italian, evidently so that
her father might not hear her, “but you were somewhat sulky with me
yesterday, because of my innocent jokes, and I would not have you carry
away an unpleasant recollection of your humble servant. What terrible
people you are, you Corsicans! Well, good-bye! We shall meet soon, I
hope.”
And she held out her hand.
A sigh was the only answer Orso could find. Colomba came to his side,
led him into a window, and spoke to him for a moment in an undertone,
showing him something she held under her _mezzaro_.
“Mademoiselle,” said Orso to Miss Nevil, “my sister is anxious to give
you a very odd present, but we Corsicans have not much to offer--except
our affection--which time never wipes out. My sister tells me you have
looked with some curiosity at this dagger. It is an ancient possession
in our family. It probably hung, once upon a time, at the belt of one of
those corporals, to whom I owe the honour of your acquaintance. Colomba
thinks it so precious that she has asked my leave to give it to you, and
I hardly know if I ought to grant it, for I am afraid you’ll laugh at
us!”
“The dagger is beautiful,” said Miss Lydia. “But it is a family weapon,
I can not accept it!”
“It’s not my father’s dagger,” exclaimed Colomba eagerly; “it was given
to one of mother’s ancestors by King Theodore. If the signorina will
accept it, she will give us great pleasure.”
“Come, Miss Lydia,” said Orso, “don’t scorn a king’s dagger!”
To a collector, relics of King Theodore are infinitely more precious
than those of the most powerful of monarchs. The temptation was a
strong one, and already Miss Lydia could see the effect the weapon would
produce laid out on a lacquered table in her room at St. James’s Place.
“But,” said she, taking the dagger with the hesitating air of one
who longs to accept, and casting one of her most delightful smiles on
Colomba, “dear Signorina Colomba . . . I can not . . . I should not dare
to let you depart thus, unarmed.”
“My brother is with me,” said Colomba proudly, “and we have the good gun
your father has given us. Orso, have you put a bullet in it?”
Miss Nevil kept the dagger, and to avert the danger consequent on
_giving_ instruments that cut or pierce to a friend, Colomba insisted on
receiving a soldo in payment.
A start had to be made at last. Yet once again Orso pressed Miss Nevil’s
hand, Colomba kissed her, and then held up her rosy lips to the colonel,
who was enchanted with this Corsican politeness. From the window of
the drawing-room Miss Lydia watched the brother and sister mount their
horses. Colomba’s eyes shone with a malignant joy which she had never
remarked in them before. The sight of this tall strong creature, with
her fanatical ideas of savage honour, pride written on her forehead,
and curled in a sardonic smile upon her lips, carrying off the young
man with his weapons, as though on some death-dealing errand, recalled
Orso’s fears to her, and she fancied she beheld his evil genius dragging
him to his ruin. Orso, who was already in the saddle, raised his head
and caught sight of her. Either because he had guessed her thought, or
desired to send her a last farewell, he took the Egyptian ring, which he
had hung upon a ribbon, and carried it to his lips. Blushing, Miss Lydia
stepped back from the window, then returning to it almost at once, she
saw the two Corsicans cantering their little ponies rapidly toward the
mountains. Half an hour later the colonel showed them to her, through
his glasses, riding along the end of the bay, and she noticed that
Orso constantly turned his head toward the town. At last he disappeared
behind the marshes, the site of which is now filled by a flourishing
nursery garden.
Miss Lydia glanced at herself in the glass, and thought she looked pale.
“What must that young man think of me,” said she, “and what did I think
of him? And why did I think about him? . . . A travelling acquaintance!
. . . What have I come to Corsica for? . . . Oh! I don’t care for him!
. . . No! no! and besides the thing is impossible . . . And Colomba . . .
Fancy me sister-in-law to a _voceratrice_, who wears a big dagger!”
And she noticed she was still holding King Theodore’s dagger in her
hand. She tossed it on to her toilette table. “Colomba, in London,
dancing at Almacks! . . . Good heavens! what a lion[*] that would be, to
show off! . . . Perhaps she’d make a great sensation! . . . He loves me,
I’m certain of it! He is the hero of a novel, and I have interrupted his
adventurous career. . . . But did he really long to avenge his father
in true Corsican fashion? . . . He was something between a Conrad and a
dandy . . . I’ve turned him into nothing but a dandy! . . . And a dandy
with a Corsican tailor! . . .”
[*] At this period this name was used in England for people
who were the fashion because they had something
extraordinary about them.
She threw herself on her bed, and tried to sleep--but that proved an
impossibility, and I will not undertake to continue her soliloquy,
during which she declared, more than a hundred times over, that Signor
della Rebbia had not been, was not, and never should be, anything to
her.