the dream that shed so sweet an influence over his darkened hours. He
dedicated his whole being to this work, and he did not doubt but that he
should succeed. The house of Tolomei had for its chief a youth but a
year or two older than himself—with him, when an opportunity should
present itself, he would enter the lists. It seemed the bounty of
Providence that gave him one so nearly equal with whom to contend; and
during the interval that must elapse before they could clash, he was
busy in educating himself for the struggle. Count Fabian dei Tolomei
bore the reputation of being a youth full of promise and talent; and
Lorenzo was glad to anticipate a worthy antagonist. He occupied himself
in the practice of arms, and applied with perseverance to the study of
the few books that fell in his way. He appeared in the market-place on
public occasions modestly attired; yet his height, his dignified
carriage, and the thoughtful cast of his noble countenance, drew the
observation of the bystanders;—though, such was the prejudice against
his name, and the flattery of the triumphant party, that taunts and
maledictions followed him. His nobility of appearance was called pride;
his affability, meanness; his aspiring views, faction;—and it was
declared that it would be a happy day when he should no longer blot
their sunshine with his shadow. Lorenzo smiled,—he disdained to resent,
or even to feel, the mistaken insults of the crowd, who, if fortune
changed, would the next day throw up their caps for him. It was only
when loftier foes approached that his brow grew dark, that he drew
himself up to his full height, repaying their scorn with glances of
defiance and hate.
But although he was ready in his own person to encounter the contumely
of his townsmen, and walked on with placid mien, regardless of their
sneers, he carefully guarded his sister from such scenes. She was led by
him each morning, closely veiled, to hear mass in an obscure church. And
when, on feast-days, the public walks were crowded with cavaliers and
dames in splendid attire, and with citizens and peasants in their
holiday garb, this gentle pair might be seen in some solitary and shady
spot, Flora knew none to love except her brother—she had grown under his
eyes from infancy; and while he attended on the sick-bed of their
father, he was father, brother, tutor, guardian to her—the fondest
mother could not have been more indulgent; and yet there was mingled a
something beyond, pertaining to their difference of sex. Uniformly
observant and kind, he treated her as if she had been a high-born
damsel, nurtured in her gayest bower.
Her attire was simple—but thus, she was instructed, it befitted every
damsel to dress; her needle-works were such as a princess might have
emulated; and while she learnt under her brother’s tutelage to be
reserved, studious of obscurity, and always occupied, she was taught
that such were the virtues becoming her sex, and no idea of dependence
or penury was raised in her mind. Had he been the sole human being that
approached her, she might have believed herself to be on a level with
the highest in the land; but coming in contact with dependants in the
humble class of life, Flora became acquainted with her true position;
and learnt, at the same time, to understand and appreciate the
unequalled kindness and virtues of her brother.
Two years passed while brother and sister continued, in obscurity and
poverty, cherishing hope, honour, and mutual love. If an anxious thought
ever crossed Lorenzo, it was for the future destiny of Flora, whose
beauty as a child gave promise of perfect loveliness hereafter. For her
sake he was anxious to begin the career he had marked out for himself,
and resolved no longer to delay his endeavours to revive his party in
Siena, and to seek rather than avoid a contest with the young Count
Fabian, on whose overthrow he would rise—Count Fabian, the darling of
the citizens, vaunted as a model for a youthful cavalier, abounding in
good qualities, and so adorned by gallantry, subtle wit, and gay,
winning manners, that he stepped by right of nature, as well as birth,
on the pedestal which exalted him the idol of all around.
It was on a day of public feasting that Lorenzo first presented himself
in rivalship with Fabian. His person was unknown to the count, who, in
all the pride of rich dress and splendid accoutrements, looked with a
smile of patronage on the poorly-mounted and plainly-attired youth, who
presented himself to run a tilt with him. But before the challenge was
accepted, the name of his antagonist was whispered to Fabian; then, all
the bitterness engendered by family feuds; all the spirit of vengeance,
which had been taught as a religion, arose at once in the young noble’s
heart; he wheeled round his steed, and, riding rudely up to his
competitor, ordered him instantly to retire from the course, nor dare to
disturb the revels of the citizens by the hated presence of a Mancini.
Lorenzo answered with equal scorn; and Fabian, governed by
uncontrollable passion, called together his followers to drive the youth
with ignominy from the lists. A fearful array was mustered against the
hateful intruder; but had their number been trebled, the towering spirit
of Lorenzo had met them all. One fell—another was disabled by his weapon
before he was disarmed and made prisoner; but his bravery did not avail
to extract admiration from his prejudiced foes: they rather poured
execrations on him for its disastrous effects, as they hurried him to a
dungeon, and called loudly for his punishment and death.
Far from this scene of turmoil and bloodshed, in her poor but quiet
chamber, in a remote and obscure part of the town, sat Flora, occupied
by her embroidery, musing, as she worked, on her brother’s project, and
anticipating his success. Hours passed, and Lorenzo did not return; the
day declined, and still he tarried. Flora’s busy fancy forged a thousand
causes for the delay. Her brother’s prowess had awaked the chilly zeal
of the partisans of their family;—he was doubtless feasting among them,
and the first stone was laid for the rebuilding of their house. At last,
a rush of steps upon the staircase, and a confused clamour of female
voices calling loudly for admittance, made her rise and open the
door;—in rushed several women—dismay was painted on their faces—their
words flowed in torrents—their eager gestures helped them to a meaning,
and, though not without difficulty, amidst the confusion, Flora heard of
the disaster and imprisonment of her brother—of the blood shed by his
hand, and the fatal issue that such a deed ensured. She grew pale as
marble. Her young heart was filled with speechless terror; she could
form no image of the thing she dreaded, but its indistinct idea was full
of fear. Lorenzo was in prison—Count Fabian had placed him there—he was
to die! Overwhelmed for a moment by such tidings, yet she rose above
their benumbing power, and without proffering a word, or listening to
the questions and remonstrances of the women, she rushed past them, down
the high staircase, into the street; and then with swift pace to where
the public prison was situated. She knew the spot she wished to reach,
but she had so seldom quitted her home that she soon got entangled among
the streets, and proceeded onwards at random. Breathless, at length, she
paused before the lofty portal of a large palace—no one was near—the
fast fading twilight of an Italian evening had deepened into absolute
darkness. At this moment the glare of flambeaux was thrown upon the
street, and a party of horsemen rode up; they were talking and laughing
gaily. She heard one addressed as Count Fabian: she involuntarily drew
back with instinctive hate; and then rushed forward and threw herself at
his horse’s feet, exclaiming, “Save my brother!” The young cavalier
reined up shortly his prancing steed, angrily reproving her for her
heedlessness, and, without deigning another word, entered the courtyard.
He had not, perhaps, heard her prayer;—he could not see the suppliant,
he spoke but in the impatience of the moment;—but the poor child, deeply
wounded by what had the appearance of a personal insult, turned proudly
from the door, repressing the bitter tears that filled her eyes. Still
she walked on; but night took from her every chance of finding her way
to the prison, and she resolved to return home, to engage one of the
women of the house, of which she occupied a part, to accompany her. But
even to find her way back became matter of difficulty; and she wandered
on, discovering no clue to guide her, and far too timid to address any
one she might chance to meet. Fatigue and personal fear were added to
her other griefs, and tears streamed plentifully down her cheeks as she
continued her hopeless journey! At length, at the corner of a street,
she recognised an image of the Madonna in a niche, with a lamp burning
over it, familiar to her recollection as being near her home. With
characteristic piety she knelt before it in thankfulness, and was
offering a prayer for Lorenzo, when the sound of steps made her start
up, and her brother’s voice hailed, and her brother’s arms encircled
her; it seemed a miracle, but he was there, and all her fears were
ended.
Lorenzo anxiously asked whither she had been straying; her explanation
was soon given; and he in return related the misfortunes of the
morning—the fate that impended over him, averted by the generous
intercession of young Fabian himself; and yet—he hesitated to unfold the
bitter truth—he was not freely pardoned—he stood there a banished man,
condemned to die if the morrow’s sun found him within the walls of
Siena.
They had arrived, meanwhile, at their home; and with feminine care Flora
placed a simple repast before her brother, and then employed herself
busily in making various packages. Lorenzo paced the room, absorbed in
thought; at length he stopped, and, kissing the fair girl, said,—
“Where can I place thee in safety? how preserve thee, my flower of
beauty, while we are divided?”
Flora looked up fearfully. “Do I not go with you?” she asked; “I was
making preparations for our journey.”
“Impossible, dearest; I go to privation and hardship.”
“And I would share them with thee.”
“It may not be, sweet sister,” replied Lorenzo, “fate divides us, and we
must submit. I go to camps—to the society of rude men; to struggle with
such fortune as cannot harm me, but which for thee would be fraught with
peril and despair. No, my Flora, I must provide safe and honourable
guardianship for thee, even in this town.” And again Lorenzo meditated
deeply on the part he should take, till suddenly a thought flashed on
his mind. “It is hazardous,” he murmured, “and yet I do him wrong to
call it so. Were our fates reversed, should I not think myself highly
honoured by such a trust?” And then he told his sister to don hastily
her best attire; to wrap her veil round her, and to come with him. She
obeyed—for obedience to her brother was the first and dearest of her
duties. But she wept bitterly while her trembling fingers braided her
long hair, and she hastily changed her dress.
At length they walked forth again, and proceeded slowly, as Lorenzo
employed the precious minutes in consoling and counselling his sister.
He promised as speedy a return as he could accomplish; but if he failed
to appear as soon as he could wish, yet he vowed solemnly that, if alive
and free, she should see him within five years from the moment of
parting. Should he not come before, he besought her earnestly to take
patience, and to hope for the best till the expiration of that period;
and made her promise not to bind herself by any vestal or matrimonial
vow in the interim. They had arrived at their destination, and entered
the courtyard of a spacious palace. They met no servants; so crossed the
court, and ascended the ample stairs. Flora had endeavoured to listen to
her brother. He had bade her be of good cheer, and he was about to leave
her; he told her to hope; and he spoke of an absence to endure five
years—an endless term to her youthful anticipations. She promised
obedience, but her voice was choked by sobs, and her tottering limbs
would not have supported her without his aid. She now perceived that
they were entering the lighted and inhabited rooms of a noble dwelling,
and tried to restrain her tears, as she drew her veil closely around
her. They passed from room to room, in which preparations for festivity
were making; the servants ushered them on, as if they had been invited
guests, and conducted them into a hall filled with all the nobility and
beauty of Siena. Each eye turned with curiosity and wonder on the pair.
Lorenzo’s tall person, and the lofty expression of his handsome
countenance, put the ladies in good-humour with him, while the cavaliers
tried to peep under Flora’s veil.
“It is a mere child,” they said, “and a sorrowing one—what can this
mean?”
The youthful master of the house, however, instantly recognised his
uninvited and unexpected guest; but before he could ask the meaning of
his coming, Lorenzo had advanced with his sister to the spot where he
stood, and addressed him.
“I never thought, Count Fabian, to stand beneath your roof, and much
less to approach you as a suitor. But that Supreme Power, to whose
decrees we must all bend, has reduced me to such adversity as, if it be
His will, may also visit you, notwithstanding the many friends that now
surround you, and the sunshine of prosperity in which you bask. I stand
here a banished man and a beggar. Nor do I repine at this my fate. Most
willing am I that my right arm alone should create my fortunes; and,
with the blessing of God, I hope so to direct my course, that we may yet
meet upon more equal terms. In this hope I turn my steps, not
unwillingly, from this city; dear as its name is to my heart—and dear
the associations which link its proud towers with the memory of my
forefathers. I leave it a soldier of fortune; how I may return is
written in the page where your unread destiny is traced as well as mine.
But my care ends not with myself. My dying father bequeathed to me this
child, my orphan sister, whom I have, until now, watched over with a
parent’s love. I should ill perform the part intrusted to me, were I to
drag this tender blossom from its native bower into the rude highways of
life. Lord Fabian, I can count no man my friend; for it would seem that
your smiles have won the hearts of my fellow-citizens from me; and death
and exile have so dealt with my house, that not one of my name exists
within the walls of Siena. To you alone can I intrust this precious
charge. Will you accept it until called upon to render it back to me,
her brother, or to the juster hands of our Creator, pure and untarnished
as I now deliver her to you? I ask you to protect her helplessness, to
guard her honour; will you—dare you accept a treasure, with the
assurance of restoring it unsoiled, unhurt?”
The deep expressive voice of the noble youth and his earnest eloquence
enchained the ears of the whole assembly; and when he ceased, Fabian,
proud of the appeal, and nothing loath in the buoyant spirit of youth to
undertake a charge which, thus proffered before his assembled kinsmen
and friends, became an honour, answered readily, “I agree, and solemnly
before Heaven accept your offer. I declare myself the guardian and
protector of your sister; she shall dwell in safety beneath my kind
mother’s care, and if the saints permit your return, she shall be
delivered back to you as spotless as she now is.”
Lorenzo bowed his head; something choked his utterance as he thought
that he was about to part for ever from Flora; but he disdained to
betray this weakness before his enemies. He took his sister’s hand and
gazed upon her slight form with a look of earnest fondness, then
murmuring a blessing over her, and kissing her brow, he again saluted
Count Fabian, and turning away with measured steps and lofty mien, left
the hall. Flora, scarcely understanding what had passed, stood trembling
and weeping under her veil. She yielded her passive hand to Fabian, who,
leading her to his mother, said: “Madam, I ask of your goodness, and the
maternal indulgence you have ever shown, to assist me in fulfilling my
promise, by taking under your gracious charge this young orphan.”
“You command here, my son,” said the countess, “and your will shall be
obeyed.” Then making a sign to one of her attendants, Flora was
conducted from the hall, to where, in solitude and silence, she wept
over her brother’s departure, and her own strange position.
Flora thus became an inmate of the dwelling of her ancestral foes, and
the ward of the most bitter enemy of her house. Lorenzo was gone she
knew not whither, and her only pleasure consisted in reflecting that she
was obeying his behests. Her life was uniform and tranquil. Her
occupation was working tapestry, in which she displayed taste and skill.
Sometimes she had the more mortifying task imposed on her of waiting on
the Countess de’ Tolomei, who having lost two brothers in the last
contest with the Mancini, nourished a deep hatred towards the whole
race, and never smiled on the luckless orphan. Flora submitted to every
command imposed upon her. She was buoyed up by the reflection that her
sufferings wore imposed on her by Lorenzo; schooling herself in any
moment of impatience by the idea that thus she shared his adversity. No
murmur escaped her, though the pride and independence of her nature were
often cruelly offended by the taunts and supercilious airs of her
patroness or mistress, who was not a bad woman, but who thought it
virtue to ill-treat a Mancini. Often, indeed, she neither heard nor
heeded these things. Her thoughts were far away, and grief for the loss
of her brother’s society weighed too heavily on her to allow her to
spend more than a passing sigh on her personal injuries.
The countess was unkind and disdainful, but it was not thus with Flora’s
companions. They were amiable and affectionate girls, either of the
bourgeois class, or daughters of dependants of the house of Tolomei. The
length of time which had elapsed since the overthrow of the Mancini, had
erased from their young minds the bitter duty of hatred, and it was
impossible for them to live on terms of daily intercourse with the
orphan daughter of this ill-fated race, and not to become strongly
attached to her. She was wholly devoid of selfishness, and content to
perform her daily tasks in inoffensive silence. She had no envy, no wish
to shine, no desire of pleasure. She was nevertheless ever ready to
sympathize with her companions, and glad to have it in her power to
administer to their happiness. To help them in the manufacture of some
piece of finery; to assist them in their work; and, perfectly prudent
and reserved herself, to listen to all their sentimental adventures; to
give her best advice, and to aid them in any difficulty, were the simple
means she used to win their unsophisticated hearts. They called her an
angel; they looked up to her as to a saint, and in their hearts
respected her more than the countess herself.
One only subject ever disturbed Flora’s serene melancholy. The praise
she perpetually heard lavished on Count Fabian, her brother’s too
successful rival and oppressor, was an unendurable addition to her other
griefs. Content with her own obscurity, her ambition, her pride, her
aspiring thoughts were spent upon her brother. She hated Count Fabian as
Lorenzo’s destroyer, and the cause of his unhappy exile. His
accomplishments she despised as painted vanities; his person she
contemned as the opposite of his prototype. His blue eyes, clear and
open as day; his fair complexion and light brown hair; his slight
elegant person; his voice, whose tones in song won each listener’s heart
to tenderness and love; his wit, his perpetual flow of spirits, and
unalterable good-humour, were impertinences and frivolities to her who
cherished with such dear worship the recollection of her serious,
ardent, noble-hearted brother, whose soul was ever set on high thoughts,
and devoted to acts of virtue and self-sacrifice; whose fortitude and
affectionate courtesy seemed to her the crown and glory of manhood; how
different from the trifling flippancy of Fabian! “Name an eagle,” she
would say, “and we raise our eyes to heaven, there to behold a creature
fashioned in Nature’s bounty; but it is a degradation to waste one
thought on the insect of a day.” Some speech similar to this had been
kindly reported to the young count’s lady mother, who idolized her son
as the ornament and delight of his age and country. She severely
reprimanded the incautious Flora, who, for the first time, listened
proudly and unyieldingly. From this period her situation grew more
irksome; all she could do was to endeavour to withdraw herself entirely
from observation, and to brood over the perfections, while she lamented
yet more keenly the absence, of her brother.
Two or three years thus flew away, and Flora grew from a
childish-looking girl of twelve into the bewitching beauty of fifteen.
She unclosed like a flower, whose fairest petals are yet shut, but whose
half-veiled loveliness is yet more attractive. It was at this time that
on occasion of doing honour to a prince of France, who was passing on to
Naples, the Countess Tolomei and her son, with a bevy of friends and
followers, went out to meet and to escort the royal traveller on his
way. Assembled in the hall of the palace, and waiting for the arrival of
some of their number, Count Fabian went round his mother’s circle,
saying agreeable and merry things to all. Wherever his cheerful blue
eyes lighted, there smiles were awakened and each young heart beat with
vanity at his harmless flatteries. After a gallant speech or two, he
espied Flora, retired behind her companions.
“What flower is this,” he said, “playing at hide and seek with her
beauty?” And then, struck by the modest sweetness of her aspect, her
eyes cast down, and a rosy blush mantling over her cheek, he added,
“What fair angel makes one of your company?”
“An angel indeed, my lord,” exclaimed one of the younger girls, who
dearly loved her best friend; “she is Flora Mancini.”
“Mancini!” exclaimed Fabian, while his manner became at once respectful
and kind. “Are you the orphan daughter of Ugo—the sister of Lorenzo,
committed by him to my care?” For since then, through her careful
avoidance, Fabian had never even seen his fair ward. She bowed an assent
to his questions, while her swelling heart denied her speech; and
Fabian, going up to his mother, said, “Madam, I hope for our honour’s
sake that this has not before happened. The adverse fortune of this
young lady may render retirement and obscurity befitting; but it is not
for us to turn into a menial one sprung from the best blood in Italy.
Let me entreat you not to permit this to occur again. How shall I redeem
my pledged honour, or answer to her brother for this unworthy
degradation?”
“Would you have me make a friend and a companion of a Mancini?” asked
the countess, with raised colour.
“I ask you not, mother, to do aught displeasing to you,” replied the
young noble; “but Flora is my ward, not our servant;—permit her to
retire; she will probably prefer the privacy of home, to making one
among the festive crowd of her house’s enemies. If not, let the choice
be hers—Say, gentle one, will you go with us or retire?”
She did not speak, but raising her soft eyes, curtsied to him and to his
mother, and quitted the room; so, tacitly making her selection.
From this time Flora never quitted the more secluded apartments of the
palace, nor again saw Fabian. She was unaware that he had been profuse
in his eulogium on her beauty; but that while frequently expressing his
interest in his ward, he rather avoided the dangerous power of her
loveliness. She led rather a prison life, walking only in the palace
garden when it was else deserted, but otherwise her time was at her own
disposal, and no commands now interfered with her freedom. Her labours
were all spontaneous. The countess seldom even saw her, and she lived
among this lady’s attendants like a free boarder in a convent; who
cannot quit the walls, but who is not subservient to the rules of the
asylum. She was more busy than ever at her tapestry frame, because the
countess prized her work; and thus she could in some degree repay the
protection afforded her. She never mentioned Fabian, and always imposed
silence on her companions when they spoke of him. But she did this in no
disrespectful terms. “He is a generous enemy, I acknowledge,” she would
say, “but still he is my enemy, and while through him my brother is an
exile and a wanderer upon earth, it is painful to me to hear his name.”