tranquillity, a change occurred in the tenor of her life. The countess
suddenly resolved to pass the Easter festival at Rome. Flora’s
companions were wild with joy at the prospect of the journey, the
novelty, and the entertainment they promised themselves from this visit,
and pitied the dignity of their friend, which prevented her from making
one in their mistress’s train; for it was soon understood that Flora was
to be left behind; and she was informed that the interval of the lady’s
absence was to be passed by her in a villa belonging to the family
situated in a sequestered nook among the neighbouring Apennines.
The countess departed in pomp and pride on her so-called pilgrimage to
the sacred city, and at the same time Flora was conveyed to her rural
retreat. The villa was inhabited only by the peasant and his family, who
cultivated the farm, or podere, attached to it, and the old cassiére or
housekeeper. The cheerfulness and freedom of the country were
delightful, and the entire solitude consonant to the habits of the
meditative girl, accustomed to the confinement of the city, and the
intrusive prattle of her associates. Spring was opening with all the
beauty which that season showers upon favoured Italy. The almond and
peach trees were in blossom; and the vine-dresser sang at his work,
perched with his pruning-knife among the vines. Blossoms and flowers, in
laughing plenty, graced the soil; and the trees, swelling with buds
ready to expand into leaves, seemed to feel the life that animated their
dark old boughs. Flora was enchanted; the country labours interested
her, and the hoarded experience of old Sandra was a treasure-house of
wisdom and amusement. Her attention had hitherto been directed to giving
the most vivid hues and truest imitation to her transcript with her
needle of some picture given her as a model; but here was a novel
occupation. She learned the history of the bees, watched the habits of
the birds, and inquired into the culture of plants. Sandra was delighted
with her new companion; and, though notorious for being cross, yet could
wriggle her antique lips into smiles for Flora.
To repay the kindness of her guardian and his mother, she still devoted
much time to her needle. This occupation but engaged half her attention;
and while she pursued it, she could give herself up to endless reverie
on the subject of Lorenzo’s fortunes. Three years had flown since he had
left her; and, except a little gold cross brought to her by a pilgrim
from Milan, but one month after his departure, she had received no
tidings of him. Whether from Milan he had proceeded to France, Germany,
or the Holy Land, she did not know. By turns her fancy led him to either
of these places, and fashioned the course of events that might have
befallen him. She figured to herself his toilsome journeys—his life in
the camp—his achievements, and the honours showered on him by kings and
nobles; her cheek glowed at the praises he received, and her eye kindled
with delight as it imaged him standing with modest pride and an erect
but gentle mien before them. Then the fair enthusiast paused; it crossed
her recollection like a shadow, that if all had gone prosperously, he
had returned to share his prosperity with her, and her faltering heart
turned to sadder scenes to account for his protracted absence.
Sometimes, while thus employed, she brought her work into the trellised
arbour of the garden, or, when it was too warm for the open air, she had
a favourite shady window, which looked down a deep ravine into a
majestic wood, whence the sound of falling water met her ears. One day,
while she employed her fingers upon the spirited likeness of a hound
which made a part of the hunting-piece she was working for the countess,
a sharp, wailing cry suddenly broke on her ear, followed by trampling of
horses and the hurried steps and loud vociferations of men. They entered
the villa on the opposite side from that which her window commanded;
but, the noise continuing, she rose to ask the reason, when Sandra burst
into the room, crying, “O Madonna! he is dead! he has been thrown from
his horse, and he will never speak more.” Flora for an instant could
only think of her brother. She rushed past the old woman, down into the
great hall, in which, lying on a rude litter of boughs, she beheld the
inanimate body of Count Fabian. He was surrounded by servitors and
peasants, who were all clasping their hands and tearing their hair as,
with frightful shrieks, they pressed round their lord, not one of them
endeavouring to restore him to life. Flora’s first impulse was to
retire; but, casting a second glance on the livid brow of the young
count, she saw his eyelids move, and the blood falling in quick drops
from his hair on the pavement. She exclaimed, “He is not dead—he bleeds!
hasten some of you for a leech!” And meanwhile she hurried to get some
water, sprinkled it on his face, and, dispersing the group that hung
over him and impeded the free air, the soft breeze playing on his
forehead revived him, and he gave manifest tokens of life; so that when
the physician arrived, he found that, though he was seriously and even
dangerously hurt, every hope might be entertained of his recovery.
Flora undertook the office of his nurse, and fulfilled its duties with
unwearied attention. She watched him by night and waited on him by day
with that spirit of Christian humility and benevolence which animates a
Sister of Charity as she tends the sick. For several days Fabian’s soul
seemed on the wing to quit its earthly abode; and the state of weakness
that followed his insensibility was scarcely less alarming. At length,
he recognised and acknowledged the care of Flora, but she alone
possessed any power to calm and guide him during the state of
irritability and fever that then ensued. Nothing except her presence
controlled his impatience; before her he was so lamb-like, that she
could scarcely have credited the accounts that others gave her of his
violence, but that, whenever she returned, after leaving him for any
time, she heard his voice far off in anger, and found him with flushed
cheeks and flashing eyes, all which demonstrations subsided into meek
acquiescence when she drew near.
In a few weeks he was able to quit his room; but any noise or sudden
sound drove him almost insane. So loud is an Italian’s quietest
movements, that Flora was obliged to prevent the approach of any except
herself; and her soft voice and noiseless footfall were the sweetest
medicine she could administer to her patient. It was painful to her to
be in perpetual attendance on Lorenzo’s rival and foe, but she subdued
her heart to her duty, and custom helped to reconcile her. As he grew
better, she could not help remarking the intelligence of his
countenance, and the kindness and cordiality of his manners. There was
an unobtrusive and delicate attention and care in his intercourse with
her that won her to be pleased. When he conversed, his discourse was
full of entertainment and variety. His memory was well-stored with
numerous _fabliaux_, _novelle_, and romances, which he quickly
discovered to be highly interesting to her, and so contrived to have one
always ready from the exhaustless stock he possessed. These romantic
stories reminded her of the imaginary adventures she had invented, in
solitude and silence, for her brother; and each tale of foreign
countries had a peculiar charm, which animated her face as she listened,
so that Fabian could have gone on for ever, only to mark the varying
expression of her countenance as he proceeded. Yet she acknowledged
these attractions in him as a Catholic nun may the specious virtues of a
heretic; and, while he contrived each day to increase the pleasure she
derived from his society, she satisfied her conscience with regard to
her brother by cherishing in secret a little quiet stock of family hate,
and by throwing over her manners, whenever she could recollect so to do,
a cold and ceremonious tone, which she had the pleasure of seeing vexed
him heartily.
Nearly two months had passed, and he was so well recovered that Flora
began to wonder that he did not return to Siena, and of course to fulfil
her duty by wishing that he should; and yet, while his cheek was sunk
through past sickness, and his elastic step grown slow, she, as a nurse
desirous of completing her good work, felt averse to his entering too
soon on the scene of the busy town and its noisy pleasures. At length,
two or three of his friends having come to see him, he agreed to return
with them to the city. A significant glance which they cast on his young
nurse probably determined him. He parted from her with a grave courtesy
and a profusion of thanks, unlike his usual manner, and rode off without
alluding to any probability of their meeting again.
She fancied that she was relieved from a burden when he went, and was
surprised to find the days grow tedious, and mortified to perceive that
her thoughts no longer spent themselves so spontaneously on her brother,
and to feel that the occupation of a few weeks could unhinge her mind
and dissipate her cherished reveries; thus, while she felt the absence
of Fabian, she was annoyed at him the more for having, in addition to
his other misdeeds, invaded the sanctuary of her dearest thoughts. She
was beginning to conquer this listlessness, and to return with renewed
zest to her usual occupations, when, in about a week after his
departure, Fabian suddenly returned. He came upon her as she was
gathering flowers for the shrine of the Madonna; and, on seeing him, she
blushed as rosy red as the roses she held. He looked infinitely worse in
health than when he went. His wan cheeks and sunk eyes excited her
concern; and her earnest and kind questions somewhat revived him. He
kissed her hand, and continued to stand beside her as she finished her
nosegay. Had any one seen the glad, fond look with which he regarded her
as she busied herself among the flowers, even old Sandra might have
prognosticated his entire recovery under her care.
Flora was totally unaware of the feelings that were excited in Fabian’s
heart, and the struggle he made to overcome a passion too sweet and too
seductive, when awakened by so lovely a being, ever to be subdued. He
had been struck with her some time ago, and avoided her. It was through
his suggestion that she passed the period of the countess’s pilgrimage
in this secluded villa. Nor had he thought of visiting her there; but,
riding over one day to inquire concerning a foal rearing for him, his
horse had thrown him, and caused him that injury which had made him so
long the inmate of the same abode. Already prepared to admire her—her
kindness, her gentleness, and her unwearied patience during his illness,
easily conquered a heart most ready and yet most unwilling to yield. He
had returned to Siena resolved to forget her, but he came back assured
that his life and death were in her hands.
At first Count Fabian had forgot that he had any but his own feelings
and prejudices, and those of his mother and kindred, to overcome; but
when the tyranny of love vanquished these, he began to fear a more
insurmountable impediment in Flora. The first whisper of love fell like
mortal sin upon her ear; and disturbed, and even angry, she replied:—
“Methinks you wholly forget who I am, and what you are. I speak not of
ancient feuds, though these were enough to divide us for ever. Know that
I hate you as my brother’s oppressor. Restore Lorenzo to me—recall him
from banishment—erase the memory of all that he has suffered through
you—win his love and approbation;—and when all this is fulfilled, which
never can be, speak a language which now it is as the bitterness of
death for me to hear!”
And saying this, she hastily retired, to conceal the floods of tears
which this, as she termed it, insult had caused to flow; to lament yet
more deeply her brother’s absence and her own dependence.
Fabian was not so easily silenced; and Flora had no wish to renew scenes
and expressions of violence so foreign to her nature. She imposed a rule
on herself, by never swerving from which she hoped to destroy the
ill-omened love of her protector. She secluded herself as much as
possible; and when with him assumed a chilling indifference of manner,
and made apparent in her silence so absolute and cold a rejection of all
his persuasions, that had not love with its unvanquishable hopes reigned
absolutely in young Fabian’s heart, he must have despaired. He ceased to
speak of his affection, so to win back her ancient kindness. This was at
first difficult; for she was timid as a young bird, whose feet have
touched the limed twigs. But naturally credulous, and quite
inexperienced, she soon began to believe that her alarm was exaggerated,
and to resume those habits of intimacy which had heretofore subsisted
between them. By degrees Fabian contrived to insinuate the existence of
his attachment—he could not help it. He asked no return; he would wait
for Lorenzo’s arrival, which he was sure could not be far distant. Her
displeasure could not change, nor silence destroy, a sentiment which
survived in spite of both. Intrenched in her coldness and her
indifference, she hoped to weary him out by her defensive warfare, and
fancied that he would soon cease his pursuit in disgust.
The countess had been long away; she had proceeded to view the feast of
San Gennaro at Naples, and had not received tidings of her son’s
illness. Her return was now expected; and Fabian resolved to return to
Siena in time to receive her. Both he and Flora were therefore surprised
one day, when she suddenly entered the apartment where they both were.
Flora had long peremptorily insisted that he should not intrude while
she was employed on her embroidery frame; but this day he had made so
good a pretext, that for the first time he was admitted, and then
suffered to stay a few minutes—they now neither of them knew how long;
she was busy at her work; and he sitting near, gazing unreproved on her
unconscious face and graceful figure, felt himself happier than he had
ever been before.
The countess was sufficiently surprised, and not a little angry; but
before she could do more than utter one exclamation, Fabian interrupted,
by entreating her not to spoil all. He drew her away; he made his own
explanations, and urged his wishes with resistless persuasion. The
countess had been used to indulge him in every wish; it was impossible
for her to deny any strongly urged request; his pertinacity, his
agitation, his entreaties half won her; and the account of his illness,
and his assurances, seconded by those of all the family, that Flora had
saved his life, completed the conquest, and she became in her turn a
suitor for her son to the orphan daughter of Mancini.
Flora, educated till the age of twelve by one who never consulted his
own pleasures and gratifications, but went right on in the path of duty,
regardless of pain or disappointment, had no idea of doing aught merely
because she or others might wish it. Since that time she had been thrown
on her own resources; and jealously cherishing her individuality, every
feeling of her heart had been strengthened by solitude and by a sense of
mental independence. She was the least likely of any one to go with the
stream, or to yield to the mere influence of circumstances. She felt,
she knew, what it became her to do, and that must be done in spite of
every argument.
The countess’s expostulations and entreaties were of no avail. The
promise she had made to her brother of engaging herself by no vow for
five years must be observed under every event; it was asked from her at
the sad and solemn hour of their parting, and was thus rendered doubly
sacred. So constituted, indeed, were her feelings, that the slightest
wish she ever remembered having been expressed by Lorenzo had more
weight with her than the most urgent prayers of another. He was a part
of her religion; reverence and love for him had been moulded into the
substance of her soul from infancy; their very separation had tended to
render these impressions irradicable. She brooded over them for years;
and when no sympathy or generous kindness was afforded her—when the
countess treated her like an inferior and a dependant, and Fabian had
forgotten her existence, she had lived from month to month, and from
year to year, cherishing the image of her brother, and only able to
tolerate the annoyances that beset her existence, by considering that
her patience, her fortitude, and her obedience were all offerings at the
shrine of her beloved Lorenzo’s desires.
It is true that the generous and kindly disposition of Fabian won her to
regard him with a feeling nearly approaching tenderness, though this
emotion was feeble, the mere ripple of the waves, compared to the mighty
tide of affection that set her will all one way, and made her deem
everything trivial except Lorenzo’s return—Lorenzo’s existence—obedience
to Lorenzo. She listened to her lover’s persuasions so unyieldingly that
the countess was provoked by her inflexibility; but she bore her
reproaches with such mildness, and smiled so sweetly, that Fabian was
the more charmed. She admitted that she owed him a certain submission as
the guardian set over her by her brother; Fabian would have gladly
exchanged this authority for the pleasure of being commanded by her; but
this was an honour he could not attain, so in playful spite he enforced
concessions from her. At his desire she appeared in society, dressed as
became her rank, and filled in his house the station a sister of his own
would have held. She preferred seclusion, but she was averse to
contention, and it was little that she yielded, while the purpose of her
soul was as fixed as ever.
The fifth year of Lorenzo’s exile was now drawing to a close, but he did
not return, nor had any intelligence been received of him. The decree of
his banishment had been repealed, the fortunes of his house restored,
and his palace, under Fabian’s generous care, rebuilt. These were acts
that demanded and excited Flora’s gratitude; yet they were performed in
an unpretending manner, as if the citizens of Siena had suddenly become
just and wise without his interference. But these things dwindled into
trifles while the continuation of Lorenzo’s absence seemed the pledge of
her eternal misery; and the tacit appeal made to her kindness, while she
had no thought but for her brother, drove her to desperation. She could
no longer tolerate the painful anomaly of her situation; she could not
endure her suspense for her brother’s fate, nor the reproachful glances
of Fabian’s mother and his friends. He himself was more generous,—he
read her heart, and, as the termination of the fifth year drew nigh,
ceased to allude to his own feelings, and appeared as wrapt as herself
in doubt concerning the fate of the noble youth, whom they could
scarcely entertain a hope of ever seeing more. This was small comfort to
Flora. She had resolved that when the completion of the fifth year
assured her that her brother was for ever lost, she would never see
Fabian again. At first she had resolved to take refuge in a convent, and
in the sanctity of religious vows. But she remembered how averse Lorenzo
had always shown himself to this vocation, and that he had preferred to
place her beneath the roof of his foe, than within the walls of a
nunnery. Besides, young as she was, and, despite of herself, full of
hope, she recoiled from shutting the gates of life upon herself for
ever. Notwithstanding her fears and sorrow, she clung to the belief that
Lorenzo lived; and this led her to another plan. When she had received
her little cross from Milan, it was accompanied by a message that he
believed he had found a good friend in the archbishop of that place.
This prelate, therefore, would know whither Lorenzo had first bent his
steps, and to him she resolved to apply. Her scheme was easily formed.
She possessed herself of the garb of a pilgrim, and resolved on the day
following the completion of the fifth year to depart from Siena, and
bend her steps towards Lombardy, buoyed up by the hope that she should
gain some tidings of her brother.
Meanwhile Fabian had formed a similar resolve. He had learnt the fact
from Flora, of Lorenzo having first resorted to Milan, and he determined
to visit that city, and not to return without certain information. He
acquainted his mother with his plan, but begged her not to inform Flora,
that she might not be tortured by double doubt during his absence.
The anniversary of the fifth year was come, and with it the eve of these
several and separate journeys. Flora had retired to spend the day at the
villa before mentioned. She had chosen to retire thither for various
reasons. Her escape was more practicable thence than in the town; and
she was anxious to avoid seeing both Fabian and his mother, now that she
was on the point of inflicting severe pain on them. She spent the day at
the villa and in its gardens, musing on her plans, regretting the quiet
of her past life—saddened on Fabian’s account—grieving bitterly for
Lorenzo. She was not alone, for she had been obliged to confide in one
of her former companions, and to obtain her assistance. Poor little
Angeline was dreadfully frightened with the trust reposed in her, but
did not dare expostulate with or betray her friend; and she continued
near her during this last day, by turns trying to console and weeping
with her. Towards evening they wandered together into the wood
contiguous to the villa. Flora had taken her harp with her, but her
trembling fingers refused to strike its chords; she left it, she left
her companion, and strayed on alone to take leave of a spot consecrated
by many a former visit. Here the umbrageous trees gathered about her,
and shaded her with their thick and drooping foliage;—a torrent dashed
down from neighbouring rock, and fell from a height into a rustic basin,
hollowed to receive it; then, overflowing the margin at one spot, it
continued falling over successive declivities, till it reached the
bottom of a little ravine, when it stole on in a placid and silent
course. This had ever been a favourite resort of Flora. The twilight of
the wood and the perpetual flow, the thunder, the hurry, and the turmoil
of the waters, the varied sameness of the eternal elements, accorded
with the melancholy of her ideas, and the endless succession of her
reveries. She came to it now; she gazed on the limpid cascade—for the
last time; a soft sadness glistened in her eyes, and her attitude
denoted the tender regret that filled her bosom; her long bright tresses
streaming in elegant disorder, her light veil and simple, yet rich,
attire, were fitfully mirrored in the smooth face of the rushing waters.
At this moment the sound of steps more firm and manly than those of
Angeline struck her ear, and Fabian himself stood before her; he was
unable to bring himself to depart on his journey without seeing her once
again. He had ridden to the villa, and, finding that she had quitted it,
sought and found her in the lone recess where they had often spent hours
together which had been full of bliss to him. Flora was sorry to see
him, for her secret was on her lips, and yet she resolved not to give it
utterance. He was ruled by the same feeling. Their interview was
therefore short, and neither alluded to what sat nearest the heart of
each. They parted with a simple “Good-night,” as if certain of meeting
the following morning; each deceived the other, and each was in turn
deceived. There was more of tenderness in Flora’s manner than there had
ever been; it cheered his faltering soul, about to quit her, while the
anticipation of the blow he was about to receive from her made her
regard as venial this momentary softening towards her brother’s enemy.
Fabian passed the night at the villa, and early the next morning he
departed for Milan. He was impatient to arrive at the end of his
journey, and often he thrust his spurs into his horse’s sides, and put
him to his speed, which even then appeared slow. Yet he was aware that
his arrival at Milan might advance him not a jot towards the ultimate
object of his journey; and he called Flora cruel and unkind, until the
recollection of her kind farewell consoled and cheered him.