despair, whether she took Sir Peter’s threats literally, or whether his
sister’s orders were more decisive, none knew, but Rosina left the
house; a servant saw her cross the park, weeping, and wringing her hands
as she went. What became of her none could tell; her disappearance was
not disclosed to Sir Peter till the following day, and then he showed by
his anxiety to trace her steps and to find her, that his words had been
but idle threats. The truth was, that though Sir Peter went to frightful
lengths to prevent the marriage of the heir of his house with the
portionless orphan, the object of his charity, yet in his heart he loved
Rosina, and half his violence to her rose from anger at himself for
treating her so ill. Now remorse began to sting him, as messenger after
messenger came back without tidings of his victim. He dared not confess
his worst fears to himself; and when his inhuman sister, trying to
harden her conscience by angry words, cried, “The vile hussy has too
surely made away with herself out of revenge to us,” an oath the most
tremendous, and a look sufficient to make even her tremble, commanded
her silence. Her conjecture, however, appeared too true: a dark and
rushing stream that flowed at the extremity of the park had doubtless
received the lovely form, and quenched the life of this unfortunate
girl. Sir Peter, when his endeavours to find her proved fruitless,
returned to town, haunted by the image of his victim, and forced to
acknowledge in his own heart that he would willingly lay down his life,
could he see her again, even though it were as the bride of his son—his
son, before whose questioning he quailed like the veriest coward; for
when Henry was told of the death of Rosina, he suddenly returned from
abroad to ask the cause—to visit her grave, and mourn her loss in the
groves and valleys which had been the scenes of their mutual happiness.
He made a thousand inquiries, and an ominous silence alone replied.
Growing more earnest and more anxious, at length he drew from servants
and dependents, and his odious aunt herself, the whole dreadful truth.
From that moment despair struck his heart, and misery named him her own.
He fled from his father’s presence; and the recollection that one whom
he ought to revere was guilty of so dark a crime, haunted him, as of old
the Eumenides tormented the souls of men given up to their torturings.
His first, his only wish, was to visit Wales, and to learn if any new
discovery had been made, and whether it were possible to recover the
mortal remains of the lost Rosina, so to satisfy the unquiet longings of
his miserable heart. On this expedition was he bound when he made his
appearance at the village before named; and now, in the deserted tower,
his thoughts were busy with images of despair and death, and what his
beloved one had suffered before her gentle nature had been goaded to
such a deed of woe.
While immersed in gloomy reverie, to which the monotonous roaring of the
sea made fit accompaniment, hours flew on, and Vernon was at last aware
that the light of morning was creeping from out its eastern retreat, and
dawning over the wild ocean, which still broke in furious tumult on the
rocky beach. His companions now roused themselves, and prepared to
depart. The food they had brought with them was damaged by sea-water,
and their hunger, after hard labour and many hours’ fasting, had become
ravenous. It was impossible to put to sea in their shattered boat; but
there stood a fisher’s cot about two miles off, in a recess in the bay,
of which the promontory on which the tower stood formed one side; and to
this they hastened to repair. They did not spend a second thought on the
light which had saved them, nor its cause, but left the ruin in search
of a more hospitable asylum. Vernon cast his eyes round as he quitted
it, but no vestige of an inhabitant met his eye, and he began to
persuade himself that the beacon had been a creation of fancy merely.
Arriving at the cottage in question, which was inhabited by a fisherman
and his family, they made a homely breakfast, and then prepared to
return to the tower, to refit their boat, and, if possible, bring her
round. Vernon accompanied them, together with their host and his son.
Several questions were asked concerning the Invisible Girl and her
light, each agreeing that the apparition was novel, and not one being
able to give even an explanation of how the name had become affixed to
the unknown cause of this singular appearance; though both of the men of
the cottage affirmed that once or twice they had seen a female figure in
the adjacent wood, and that now and then a stranger girl made her
appearance at another cot a mile off, on the other side of the
promontory, and bought bread; they suspected both these to be the same,
but could not tell. The inhabitants of the cot, indeed, appeared too
stupid even to feel curiosity, and had never made any attempt at
discovery. The whole day was spent by the sailors in repairing the boat;
and the sound of hammers, and the voices of the men at work, resounded
along the coast, mingled with the dashing of the waves. This was no time
to explore the ruin for one who, whether human or supernatural, so
evidently withdrew herself from intercourse with every living being.
Vernon, however, went over the tower, and searched every nook in vain.
The dingy bare walls bore no token of serving as a shelter; and even a
little recess in the wall of the staircase, which he had not before
observed, was equally empty and desolate. Quitting the tower, he
wandered in the pine wood that surrounded it, and, giving up all thought
of solving the mystery, was soon engrossed by thoughts that touched his
heart more nearly, when suddenly there appeared on the ground at his
feet the vision of a slipper. Since Cinderella so tiny a slipper had
never been seen; as plain as shoe could speak, it told a tale of
elegance, loveliness, and youth. Vernon picked it up. He had often
admired Rosina’s singularly small foot, and his first thought was a
question whether this little slipper would have fitted it. It was very
strange!—it must belong to the Invisible Girl. Then there was a fairy
form that kindled that light—a form of such material substance that its
foot needed to be shod; and yet how shod?—with kid so fine, and of shape
so exquisite, that it exactly resembled such as Rosina wore! Again the
recurrence of the image of the beloved dead came forcibly across him;
and a thousand home-felt associations, childish yet sweet, and
lover-like though trifling, so filled Vernon’s heart, that he threw
himself his length on the ground, and wept more bitterly than ever the
miserable fate of the sweet orphan.
In the evening the men quitted their work, and Vernon returned with them
to the cot where they were to sleep, intending to pursue their voyage,
weather permitting, the following morning. Vernon said nothing of his
slipper, but returned with his rough associates. Often he looked back;
but the tower rose darkly over the dim waves, and no light appeared.
Preparations had been made in the cot for their accommodation, and the
only bed in it was offered Vernon; but he refused to deprive his
hostess, and, spreading his cloak on a heap of dry leaves, endeavoured
to give himself up to repose. He slept for some hours; and when he
awoke, all was still, save that the hard breathing of the sleepers in
the same room with him interrupted the silence. He rose, and, going to
the window, looked out over the now placid sea towards the mystic tower.
The light was burning there, sending its slender rays across the waves.
Congratulating himself on a circumstance he had not anticipated, Vernon
softly left the cottage, and, wrapping his cloak round him, walked with
a swift pace round the bay towards the tower. He reached it; still the
light was burning. To enter and restore the maiden her shoe, would be
but an act of courtesy; and Vernon intended to do this with such caution
as to come unaware, before its wearer could, with her accustomed arts,
withdraw herself from his eyes; but, unluckily, while yet making his way
up the narrow pathway, his foot dislodged a loose fragment, that fell
with crash and sound down the precipice. He sprung forward, on this, to
retrieve by speed the advantage he had lost by this unlucky accident. He
reached the door; he entered: all was silent, but also all was dark. He
paused in the room below; he felt sure that a slight sound met his ear.
He ascended the steps, and entered the upper chamber; but blank
obscurity met his penetrating gaze, the starless night admitted not even
a twilight glimmer through the only aperture. He closed his eyes, to
try, on opening them again, to be able to catch some faint, wandering
ray on the visual nerve; but it was in vain. He groped round the room;
he stood still, and held his breath; and then, listening intently, he
felt sure that another occupied the chamber with him, and that its
atmosphere was slightly agitated by another’s respiration. He remembered
the recess in the staircase; but before he approached it he spoke;—he
hesitated a moment what to say. “I must believe,” he said, “that
misfortune alone can cause your seclusion; and if the assistance of a
man—of a gentleman”—
An exclamation interrupted him; a voice from the grave spoke his
name—the accents of Rosina syllabled, “Henry!—is it indeed Henry whom I
hear?”
He rushed forward, directed by the sound, and clasped in his arms the
living form of his own lamented girl—his own Invisible Girl he called
her; for even yet, as he felt her heart beat near his, and as he
entwined her waist with his arm, supporting her as she almost sank to
the ground with agitation, he could not see her; and, as her sobs
prevented her speech, no sense but the instinctive one that filled his
heart with tumultuous gladness, told him that the slender, wasted form
he pressed so fondly was the living shadow of the Hebe beauty he had
adored.
The morning saw this pair thus strangely restored to each other on the
tranquil sea, sailing with a fair wind for L——, whence they were to
proceed to Sir Peter’s seat, which, three months before, Rosina had
quitted in such agony and terror. The morning light dispelled the
shadows that had veiled her, and disclosed the fair person of the
Invisible Girl. Altered indeed she was by suffering and woe, but still
the same sweet smile played on her lips, and the tender light of her
soft blue eyes were all her own. Vernon drew out the slipper, and showed
the cause that had occasioned him to resolve to discover the guardian of
the mystic beacon; even now he dared not inquire how she had existed in
that desolate spot, or wherefore she had so sedulously avoided
observation, when the right thing to have been done was to have sought
him immediately, under whose care, protected by whose love, no danger
need be feared. But Rosina shrunk from him as he spoke, and a deathlike
pallor came over her cheek, as she faintly whispered, “Your father’s
curse—your father’s dreadful threats!” It appeared, indeed, that Sir
Peter’s violence, and the cruelty of Mrs. Bainbridge, had succeeded in
impressing Rosina with wild and unvanquishable terror. She had fled from
their house without plan or forethought—driven by frantic horror and
overwhelming fear, she had left it with scarcely any money, and there
seemed to her no possibility of either returning or proceeding onward.
She had no friend except Henry in the wide world; whither could she
go?—to have sought Henry would have sealed their fates to misery; for,
with an oath, Sir Peter had declared he would rather see them both in
their coffins than married. After wandering about, hiding by day, and
only venturing forth at night, she had come to this deserted tower,
which seemed a place of refuge. How she had lived since then she could
hardly tell: she had lingered in the woods by day, or slept in the vault
of the tower, an asylum none were acquainted with or had discovered: by
night she burned the pinecones of the wood, and night was her dearest
time; for it seemed to her as if security came with darkness. She was
unaware that Sir Peter had left that part of the country, and was
terrified lest her hiding-place should be revealed to him. Her only hope
was that Henry would return—that Henry would never rest till he had
found her. She confessed that the long interval and the approach of
winter had visited her with dismay; she feared that, as her strength was
failing, and her form wasting to a skeleton, that she might die, and
never see her own Henry more.
An illness, indeed, in spite of all his care, followed her restoration
to security and the comforts of civilised life; many months went by
before the bloom revisiting her cheeks, and her limbs regaining their
roundness, she resembled once more the picture drawn of her in her days
of bliss before any visitation of sorrow. It was a copy of this portrait
that decorated the tower, the scene of her suffering, in which I had
found shelter. Sir Peter, overjoyed to be relieved from the pangs of
remorse, and delighted again to see his orphan ward, whom he really
loved, was now as eager as before he had been averse to bless her union
with his son. Mrs. Bainbridge they never saw again. But each year they
spent a few months in their Welsh mansion, the scene of their early
wedded happiness, and the spot where again poor Rosina had awoke to life
and joy after her cruel persecutions. Henry’s fond care had fitted up
the tower, and decorated it as I saw; and often did he come over, with
his “Invisible Girl,” to renew, in the very scene of its occurrence, the
remembrance of all the incidents which had led to their meeting again,
during the shades of night, in that sequestered ruin.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XII.
_THE BROTHER AND SISTER._
AN ITALIAN STORY.
IT is well known that the hatred borne by one family against another,
and the strife of parties, which often led to bloodshed in the Italian
cities during the Middle Ages, so vividly described by Shakespeare in
“Romeo and Juliet,” was not confined to the Montecchi and Ciapelletti of
Verona, but existed with equal animosity in almost every other town of
that beautiful peninsula. The greatest men among them were the victims;
and crowds of exiles—families who but the day before were in the full
enjoyment of the luxuries of life and the endearing associations of
home—were every now and then seen issuing from the gates of their native
cities, deprived of every possession, and with melancholy and slow steps
dragging their wearied limbs to the nearest asylum offered them, thence
to commence a new career of dependence and poverty, to endure to the end
of their lives, or until some lucky accident should enable them to
change places with their enemies, making those the sufferers who were
late the tyrants. In that country, where each town formed an independent
State, to change one for the other was to depart from the spot cherished
as a country and a home for distant banishment—or worse; for as each
city entertained either hatred or contempt for its neighbour, it often
happened that the mourning exile was obliged to take up his abode among
a people whom he had injured or scoffed. Foreign service offered a
resource to the young and bold among the men. But lovely Italy was to be
left, the ties of young hearts severed, and all the endearing
associations of kin and country broken and scattered for ever. The
Italians were always peculiarly susceptible to these misfortunes. They
loved their native walls, the abodes of their ancestors, the familiar
scenes of youth, with all the passionate fervour characteristic of that
clime.
It was therefore no uncommon thing for any one among them, like Foscari
of Venice, to prefer destitution and danger in their own city, to a
precarious subsistence among strangers in distant lands; or, if
compelled to quit the beloved precincts of their native walls, still to
hover near, ready to avail themselves of the first occasion that should
present itself for reversing the decree that condemned them to misery.
For three days and nights there had been warfare in the streets of
Siena,—blood flowed in torrents,—yet the cries and groans of the fallen
but excited their friends to avenge them—not their foes to spare. On the
fourth morning, Ugo Mancini, with a scanty band of followers, was driven
from the town; succours from Florence had arrived for his enemies, and
he was forced to yield. Burning with rage, writhing with an impotent
thirst for vengeance, Ugo went round to the neighbouring villages to
rouse them, not against his native town, but the victorious Tolomei.
Unsuccessful in these endeavours, he next took the more equivocal step
of seeking warlike aid from the Pisans. But Florence kept Pisa in check,
and Ugo found only an inglorious refuge where he had hoped to acquire
active allies. He had been wounded in these struggles; but, animated by
a superhuman spirit, he had forgotten his pain and surmounted his
weakness; nor was it until a cold refusal was returned to his energetic
representations, that he sank beneath his physical sufferings. He was
stretched on a bed of torture when he received intelligence that an
edict of perpetual banishment and confiscation of property was passed
against him. His two children, beggars now, were sent to him. His wife
was dead, and these were all of near relations that he possessed. His
bitter feelings were still too paramount for him to receive comfort from
their presence; yet these agitated and burning emotions appeared in
after-times a remnant of happiness compared to the total loss of every
hope—the wasting inaction of sickness and of poverty.
For five years Ugo Mancini lay stretched on his couch, alternating
between states of intense pain and overpowering weakness; and then he
died. During this interval, the wreck of his fortunes, consisting of the
rent of a small farm, and the use of some money lent, scantily supported
him. His few relatives and followers were obliged to seek their
subsistence elsewhere, and he remained alone to his pain, and to his two
children, who yet clung to the paternal side.
Hatred to his foes, and love for his native town, were the sentiments
that possessed his soul, and which he imparted in their full force to
the plastic mind of his son, which received like molten metal the stamp
he desired to impress. Lorenzo was scarcely twelve years old at the
period of his father’s exile, and he naturally turned with fondness
towards the spot where he had enjoyed every happiness, where each hour
had been spent in light-hearted hilarity, and the kindness and
observance of many attended on his steps. Now, how sad the contrast!—dim
penury—a solitude cheered by no encouraging smiles or sunny
flatteries—perpetual attendance on his father, and untimely cares, cast
their dark shadows over his altered lot.
Lorenzo was a few years older than his sister. Friendless and destitute
as was the exile’s family, it was he who overlooked its moderate
disbursements, who was at once his father’s nurse and his sister’s
guardian, and acted as the head of the family during the incapacity of
his parent. But instead of being narrowed or broken in spirit by these
burdens, his ardent soul rose to meet them, and grew enlarged and lofty
from the very calls made upon it. His look was serious, not careworn;
his manner calm, not humble; his voice had all the tenderness of a
woman—his eye all the pride and fire of a hero.
Still his unhappy father wasted away, and Lorenzo’s hours were entirely
spent beside his bed. He was indefatigable in his attentions—weariness
never seemed to overcome him. His limbs were always alert—his speech
inspiriting and kind. His only pastime was during any interval in his
parent’s sufferings, to listen to his eulogiums on his native town, and
to the history of the wrongs which, from time immemorial, the Mancini
had endured from the Tolomei. Lorenzo, though replete with noble
qualities, was still an Italian; and fervent love for his birthplace,
and violent hatred towards the foes of his house, were the darling
passions of his heart. Nursed in loneliness, they acquired vigour; and
the nights he spent in watching his father were varied by musing on the
career he should hereafter follow—his return to his beloved Siena, and
the vengeance he would take on his enemies.
Ugo often said, I die because I am an exile:—at length these words were
fulfilled, and the unhappy man sank beneath the ills of fortune. Lorenzo
saw his beloved father expire—his father, whom he loved. He seemed to
deposit in his obscure grave all that best deserved reverence and honour
in the world; and turning away his steps, he lamented the loss of the
sad occupation of so many years, and regretted the exchange he made from
his father’s sick bed to a lonely and unprized freedom.
The first use he made of the liberty he had thus acquired was to return
to Siena with his sister. He entered his native town as if it were a
paradise, and he found it a desert in all save the hues of beauty and
delight with which his imagination loved to invest it. There was no one
to whom he could draw near in friendship within the whole circuit of its
walls. According to the barbarous usage of the times, his father’s
palace had been razed, and the mournful ruins stood as a tomb to
commemorate the fall of his fortunes. Not as such did Lorenzo view them;
he often stole out at nightfall, when the stars alone beheld his
enthusiasm, and, clambering to the highest part of the massy fragments,
spent long hours in mentally rebuilding the desolate walls, and in
consecrating once again the weed-grown hearth to family love and
hospitable festivity. It seemed to him that the air was more balmy and
light, breathed amidst these memorials of the past; and his heart warmed
with rapture over the tale they told of what his progenitors had
been—what he again would be.
Yet, had he viewed his position sanely, he would have found it full of
mortification and pain; and he would have become aware that his native
town was perhaps the only place in the world where his ambition would
fail in the attainment of its aim. The Tolomei reigned over it. They had
led its citizens to conquest, and enriched them with spoils. They were
adored; and to flatter them, the populace were prone to revile and scoff
at the name of Mancini. Lorenzo did not possess one friend within its
walls: he heard the murmur of hatred as he passed along, and beheld his
enemies raised to the pinnacle of power and honour; and yet, so
strangely framed is the human heart, that he continued to love Siena,
and would not have exchanged his obscure and penurious abode within its
walls to become the favoured follower of the German Emperor. Such a
place, through education and the natural prejudices of man, did Siena
hold in his imagination, that a lowly condition there seemed a nobler
destiny than to be great in any other spot.