ascend the Apennines on the northern side. Soon he penetrated their
fastnesses, and entered deep into the ilex woods. He journeyed on
perseveringly, and yet the obstructions he met with were many, and borne
with impatience. At length, on the afternoon of the third day, he
arrived at a little rustic inn, hid deep in a wood, which showed signs
of seldom being visited by travellers. The burning sun made it a welcome
shelter for Fabian; and he deposited his steed in the stable, which he
found already partly occupied by a handsome black horse, and then
entered the inn to seek refreshment for himself. There seemed some
difficulty in obtaining this. The landlady was the sole domestic, and it
was long before she made her appearance, and then she was full of
trouble and dismay; a sick traveller had arrived—a gentleman to all
appearance dying of a malignant fever. His horse, his well-stored purse,
and rich dress showed that he was a cavalier of consequence;—the more
the pity. There was no help, nor any means of carrying him forward; yet
half his pain seemed to arise from his regret at being detained—he was
so eager to proceed to Siena. The name of his own town excited the
interest of Count Fabian, and he went up to visit the stranger, while
the hostess prepared his repast.
Meanwhile Flora awoke with the lark, and with the assistance of Angeline
attired herself in her pilgrim’s garb. From the stir below, she was
surprised to find that Count Fabian had passed the night at the villa,
and she lingered till he should have departed, as she believed, on his
return to Siena. Then she embraced her young friend, and taking leave of
her with many blessings and thanks, alone, with Heaven, as she trusted,
for her guide, she quitted Fabian’s sheltering roof, and with a heart
that maintained its purpose in spite of her feminine timidity, began her
pilgrimage. Her journey performed on foot was slow, so that there was no
likelihood that she could overtake her lover, already many miles in
advance. Now that she had begun it, her undertaking appeared to her
gigantic, and her heart almost failed her. The burning sun scorched her;
never having before found herself alone in a highway, a thousand fears
assailed her, and she grew so weary, that soon she was unable to support
herself. By the advice of a landlady at an inn where she stopped, she
purchased a mule to help her on her long journey. Yet with this help it
was the third night before she arrived at Empoli, and then crossing the
Arno, as her lover had done before, her difficulties seemed to begin to
unfold themselves, and to grow gigantic, as she entered the dark woods
of the Apennines, and found herself amidst the solitude of its vast
forests. Her pilgrim’s garb inspired some respect, and she rested at
convents by the way. The pious sisters held up their hands in admiration
of her courage; while her heart beat faintly with the knowledge that she
possessed absolutely none. Yet, again and again, she repeated to
herself, that the Apennines once passed, the worst would be over. So she
toiled on, now weary, now frightened—very slowly, and yet very anxious
to get on with speed.
On the evening of the seventh day after quitting her home, she was still
entangled in the mazes of these savage hills. She was to sleep at a
convent on their summit that night, and the next day arrive at Bologna.
This hope had cheered her through the day; but evening approached, the
way grew more intricate, and no convent appeared. The sun had set, and
she listened anxiously for the bell of the Ave Maria, which would give
her hope that the goal she sought was nigh; but all was silent, save the
swinging boughs of the vast trees, and the timid beating of her own
heart; darkness closed around her, and despair came with the increased
obscurity, till a twinkling light, revealing itself among the trees,
afforded her some relief. She followed this beamy guide till it led her
to a little inn, where the sight of a kind-looking woman, and the
assurance of safe shelter, dispelled her terrors, and filled her with
grateful pleasure.
Seeing her so weary, the considerate hostess hastened to place food
before her, and then conducted her to a little low room where her bed
was prepared. “I am sorry, lady,” said the landlady in a whisper, “not
to be able to accommodate you better; but a sick cavalier occupies my
best room—it is next to this—and he sleeps now, and I would not disturb
him. Poor gentleman! I never thought he would rise more; and under
Heaven he owes his life to one who, whether he is related to him or not
I cannot tell, for he did not accompany him. Four days ago he stopped
here, and I told him my sorrow—how I had a dying guest, and he
charitably saw him, and has since then nursed him more like a
twin-brother than a stranger.”
The good woman prattled on. Flora heard but little of what she said; and
overcome by weariness and sleep, paid no attention to her tale. But
having performed her orisons, and placed her head on the pillow, she was
quickly lapped in the balmy slumber she so much needed.
Early in the morning she was awoke by a murmur of voices in the next
room. She started up, and recalling her scattered thoughts, tried to
remember the account the hostess had given her the preceding evening.
The sick man spoke, but his accent was low, and the words did not reach
her;—he was answered—could Flora believe her senses? did she not know
the voice that spoke these words?—“Fear nothing, a sweet sleep has done
you infinite good; and I rejoice in the belief that you will speedily
recover. I have sent to Siena for your sister, and do indeed expect that
Flora will arrive this very day.”
More was said, but Flora heard no more; she had risen, and was hastily
dressing herself; in a few minutes she was by her brother’s, her
Lorenzo’s bedside, kissing his wan hand, and assuring him that she was
indeed Flora.
“These are indeed wonders,” he at last said; “and if you are mine own
Flora you perhaps can tell me who this noble gentleman is, who day and
night has watched beside me, as a mother may by her only child, giving
no time to repose, but exhausting himself for me.”
“How, dearest brother,” said Flora, “can I truly answer your question?
to mention the name of our benefactor were to speak of a mask and a
disguise, not a true thing. He is my protector and guardian, who has
watched over and preserved me while you wandered far; his is the most
generous heart in Italy, offering past enmity and family pride as
sacrifices at the altar of nobleness and truth. He is the restorer of
your fortunes in your native town”—
“And the lover of my sweet sister.—I have heard of these things, and was
on my way to confirm his happiness and to find my own, when sickness
laid me thus low, and would have destroyed us both for ever, but for
Fabian Tolomei”—
“Who how exerts his expiring authority to put an end to this scene,”
interrupted the young count. “Not till this day has Lorenzo been
sufficiently composed to hear any of these explanations, and we risk his
returning health by too long a conversation. The history of these things
and of his long wanderings, now so happily ended, must be reserved for a
future hour; when assembled in our beloved Siena, exiles and foes no
longer, we shall long enjoy the happiness which Providence, after so
many trials, has bounteously reserved for us.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XIII.
_THE PARVENUE._
WHY do I write my melancholy story? Is it as a lesson, to prevent any
other from wishing to rise to rank superior to that in which they are
born? No! miserable as I am, others might have been happy, I doubt not,
in my position: the chalice has been poisoned for me alone! Am I
evil-minded—am I wicked? What have been my errors, that I am now an
outcast and wretched? I will tell my story—let others judge me; my mind
is bewildered, I cannot judge myself.
My father was land steward to a wealthy nobleman. He married young, and
had several children. He then lost his wife, and remained fifteen years
a widower, when he married again a young girl, the daughter of a
clergyman, who died, leaving a numerous offspring in extreme poverty. My
maternal grandfather had been a man of sensibility and genius; my mother
inherited many of his endowments. She was an angel on earth; all her
works were charity, all her thoughts were love.
Within a year after her marriage, she gave birth to twins—I and my
sister; soon after she fell into ill-health, and from that time was
always weakly. She could endure no fatigue, and seldom moved from her
chair. I see her now;—her white, delicate hands employed in needlework,
her soft, love-lighted eyes fixed on me. I was still a child when my
father fell into trouble, and we removed from the part of the country
where we had hitherto lived, and went to a distant village, where we
rented a cottage, with a little land adjoining. We were poor, and all
the family assisted each other. My elder half-sisters were strong,
industrious, rustic young women, and submitted to a life of labour with
great cheerfulness. My father held the plough, my half-brothers worked
in the barns; all was toil, yet all seemed enjoyment.
How happy my childhood was! Hand in hand with my dear twin-sister, I
plucked the spring flowers in the hedges, turned the hay in the summer
meadows, shook the apples from the trees in the autumn, and at all
seasons, gambolled in delicious liberty beneath the free air of heaven;
or at my mother’s feet, caressed by her, I was taught the sweetest
lessons of charity and love. My elder sisters were kind; we were all
linked by strong affection. The delicate, fragile existence of my mother
gave an interest to our monotony, while her virtues and her refinement
threw a grace over our homely household.
I and my sister did not seem twins, we were so unlike. She was robust,
chubby, full of life and spirits; I, tall, slim, fair, and even pale. I
loved to play with her, but soon grew tired, and then I crept to my
mother’s side, and she sang me to sleep, and nursed me in her bosom, and
looked on me with her own angelic smile. She took pains to instruct me,
not in accomplishments, but in all real knowledge. She unfolded to me
the wonders of the visible creation, and to each tale of bird and beast,
of fiery mountain or vast river, was appended some moral, derived from
her warm heart and ardent imagination. Above all, she impressed upon me
the precepts of the gospel, charity to every fellow-creature, the
brotherhood of mankind, the rights that every sentient creature
possesses to our services. I was her almoner; for, poor as she was, she
was the benefactress of those who were poorer. Being delicate, I helped
her in her task of needlework, while my sister aided the rest in their
household or rustic labours.
When I was seventeen, a miserable accident happened. A hayrick caught
fire; it communicated to our outhouses, and at last to the cottage. We
were roused from our beds at midnight, and escaped barely with our
lives. My father bore out my mother in his arms, and then tried to save
a portion of his property. The roof of the cottage fell in on him. He
was dug out after an hour, scorched, maimed, crippled for life.
We were all saved, but by a miracle only was I preserved. I and my
sister were awoke by cries of fire. The cottage was already enveloped in
flames. Susan, with her accustomed intrepidity, rushed through the
flames, and escaped; I thought only of my mother, and hurried to her
room. The fire raged around me; it encircled—hemmed me in. I believed
that I must die, when suddenly I felt myself seized upon and borne away.
I looked on my preserver—it was Lord Reginald Desborough.
For many Sundays past, when, at church, I knew that Lord Reginald’s eyes
were fixed on me. He had met me and Susan in our walks; he had called at
our cottage. There was fascination in his eye, in his soft voice and
earnest gaze, and my heart throbbed with gladness, as I thought that he
surely loved me. To have been saved by him was to make the boon of life
doubly precious.
There is to me much obscurity in this part of my story. Lord Reginald
loved me, it is true; why he loved me, so far as to forget pride of rank
and ambition for my sake, he who afterwards showed no tendency to
disregard the prejudices and habits of rank and wealth, I cannot tell;
it seems strange. He had loved me before, but from the hour that he
saved my life, love grew into an overpowering passion. He offered us a
lodge on his estate to take refuge in; and while there, he sent us
presents of game, and still more kindly, fruits and flowers to my
mother, and came himself, especially, when all were out except my mother
and myself, and sat by us and conversed. Soon I learnt to expect the
soft-asking look of his eyes, and almost dared answer it. My mother once
perceived these glances, and took an opportunity to appeal to Lord
Reginald’s good feelings, not to make me miserable for life, by
implanting an attachment that could only be productive of unhappiness.
His answer was to ask me in marriage.
I need not say that my mother gratefully consented; that my father,
confined to his bed since the fire, thanked God with rapture; that my
sisters were transported by delight: I was the least surprised then,
though the most happy. Now, I wonder much, what could he see in me? So
many girls of rank and fortune were prettier. I was an untaught,
low-born, portionless girl. It was very strange.
Then I only thought of the happiness of marrying him, of being loved, of
passing my life with him. My wedding day was fixed. Lord Reginald had
neither father nor mother to interfere with his arrangements. He told no
relation; he became one of our family during the interval. He saw no
deficiencies in our mode of life—in my dress; he was satisfied with all;
he was tender, assiduous, and kind, even to my elder sisters; he seemed
to adore my mother, and became a brother to my sister Susan. She was in
love, and asked him to intercede to gain her parents’ consent for her
choice. He did so; and though before, Lawrence Cooper, the carpenter of
the place, had been disdained, supported by him, he was accepted.
Lawrence Cooper was young, well-looking, well disposed, and fondly
attached to Susan.
My wedding day came. My mother kissed me fondly, my father blessed me
with pride and joy, my sisters stood round, radiant with delight. There
was but one drawback to the universal happiness—that immediately on my
marriage I was to go abroad.
From the church door I stepped into the carriage. Having once and again
been folded in my dear mother’s embrace, the wheels were in motion, and
we were away. I looked out from the window; there was the dear group: my
old father, white-headed and aged, in his large chair; my mother,
smiling through her tears, with folded hands and upraised looks of
gratitude, anticipating long years of happiness for her child; Susan and
Lawrence standing side by side, unenvious of my greatness, happy in
themselves; my sisters conning over with pride and joy the presents made
to them, and the prosperity that flowed in from my husband’s generosity.
All looked happy, and it seemed as if I were the cause of all this
happiness. We had been indeed saved from dreadful evils; ruin had ensued
from the fire, and we had been sunk in adversity through that very event
from which our good fortune took its rise. I felt proud and glad. I
loved them all. I thought, I make them happy—they are prosperous through
me! And my heart warmed with gratitude towards my husband at the idea.
We spent two years abroad. It was rather lonely for me, who had always
been surrounded, as it were, by a populous world of my own, to find
myself cast upon foreigners and strangers; the habits of the different
sexes in the higher ranks so separate them from each other, that, after
a few months, I spent much of my time in solitude. I did not repine; I
had been brought up to look upon the hard visage of life, if not
unflinchingly, at least with resignation. I did not expect perfect
happiness. Marriages in humble life are attended with so much care. I
had none of this: my husband loved me; and though I often longed to see
the dear familiar faces that thronged my childhood’s home, and, above
all, pined for my mother’s caresses and her wise maternal lessons, yet
for a time I was content to think of them, and hope for a reunion.
Still many things pained me. I had, poor myself, been brought up among
the poor, and nothing, since I can remember forming an idea, so much
astonished and jarred with my feelings as the thought of how the rich
could spend so much on themselves, while any of their fellow-creatures
were in destitution. I had none of the patrician charity (though such is
praiseworthy), which consists in distributing thin soup and coarse
flannel petticoats—a sort of instinct or sentiment of justice, the
offspring of my lowly paternal hearth, and my mother’s enlightened
piety, was deeply implanted in my mind, that all had as good a right to
the comforts of life as myself, or even as my husband. My charities,
they were called—they seemed to me the payment of my debts to my
fellow-creatures—were abundant. Lord Reginald peremptorily checked them;
but as I had a large allowance for my own expenses, I denied myself a
thousand luxuries, for the sake of feeding the hungry. Nor was it only
that charity impelled me, but that I could not acquire a taste for
spending money on myself—I disliked the apparatus of wealth. My husband
called my ideas sordid, and reproved me severely, when, instead of
outshining all competitors at a fête, I appeared dowdily dressed, and
declared warmly that I could not, I would not, spend twenty guineas on a
gown, while I could dress many sad faces in smiles, and bring much joy
to many drooping hearts, by the same sum.
Was I right? I firmly believe that there is not one among the rich who
will not affirm that I did wrong; that to please my husband, and do
honour to his rank, was my first duty. Yet, shall I confess it? even
now, rendered miserable by this fault—I cannot give it that name—I can
call it a misfortune—I have wasted at the slow fire of knowing that I
lost my husband’s affections because I performed what I believed to be a
duty.
But I am not come to that yet. It was not till my return to England that
the full disaster crushed me. We had often been applied to for money by
my family, and Lord Reginald had acceded to nearly all their requests.
When we reached London, after two years’ absence, my first wish was to
see my dear mother. She was at Margate for her health. It was agreed
that I should go there alone, and pay a short visit. Before I went, Lord
Reginald told me what I did not know before, that my family had often
made exorbitant demands on him, with which he was resolved not to
comply. He told me that he had no wish to raise my relatives from their
station in society; and that, indeed, there were only two among them
whom he conceived had any claims upon me—my mother and my twin-sister:
that the former was incapable of any improper request and the latter, by
marrying Cooper, had fixed her own position, and could in no way be
raised from the rank of her chosen husband. I agreed to much that he
said. I replied that he well knew that my own taste led me to consider
mediocrity the best and happiest situation; that I had no wish, and
would never consent, to supply any extravagant demands on the part of
persons, however dear to me, whose circumstances he had rendered easy.
Satisfied with my reply, we parted most affectionately, and I went on my
way to Margate with a light and glad heart; and the cordial reception I
received from my whole family collected together to receive me, was
calculated to add to my satisfaction. The only drawback to my content
was my mother’s state; she was wasted to a shadow. They all talked and
laughed around her, but it was evident to me that she had not long to
live.
There was no room for me in the small furnished house in which they were
all crowded, so I remained at the hotel. Early in the morning, before I
was up, my father visited me. He begged me to intercede with my husband;
that on the strength of his support he had embarked in a speculation
which required a large capital; that many families would be ruined, and
himself dishonoured, if a few hundreds were not advanced. I promised to
do what I could, resolving to ask my mother’s advice, and make her my
guide. My father kissed me with an effusion of gratitude, and left me.
I cannot enter into the whole of these sad details; all my half-brothers
and sisters had married, and trusted to their success in life to Lord
Reginald’s assistance. Each evidently thought that they asked little in
not demanding an equal share of my luxuries and fortune; but they were
all in difficulty—all needed large assistance—all depended on me.
Lastly, my own sister Susan appealed to me—but hers was the most
moderate request of all—she only wished for twenty pounds. I gave it her
at once from my own purse.
As soon as I saw my mother I explained to her my difficulties. She told
me that she expected this, and that it broke her heart: I must summon
courage and resist these demands. That my father’s imprudence had ruined
him, and that he must encounter the evil he had brought on himself; that
my numerous relatives were absolutely mad with the notion of what I
ought to do for them. I listened with grief—I saw the torments in store
for me—I felt my own weakness, and knew that I could not meet the
rapacity of those about me with any courage or firmness. That same night
my mother fell into convulsions; her life was saved with difficulty.
From Susan I learned the cause of her attack. She had had a violent
altercation with my father: she insisted that I should not be appealed
to; while he reproached her for rendering me undutiful, and bringing
ruin and disgrace on his grey hairs. When I saw my pale mother
trembling, fainting, dying—when I was again and again assured that she
must be my father’s victim unless I yielded, what wonder that, in the
agony of my distress, I wrote to my husband to implore his assistance.
Oh, what thick clouds now obscured my destiny! how do I remember, with a
sort of thrilling horror, the boundless sea, white cliffs, and wide
sands of Margate! The summer day that had welcomed my arrival changed to
bleak wintry weather during this interval—while I waited with anguish
for my husband’s answer. Well do I remember the evening on which it
came: the waves of the sea showed their white crests, no vessel ventured
to meet the gale with any canvas except a topsail, the sky was bared
clear by the wind, the sun was going down fiery red. I looked upon the
troubled waters—I longed to be borne away upon them, away from care and
misery. At this moment a servant followed me to the sands with my
husband’s answer—it contained a refusal. I dared not communicate it. The
menaces of bankruptcy; the knowledge that he had instilled false hopes
into so many; the fears of disgrace, rendered my father, always rough,
absolutely ferocious. Life flickered in my dear mother’s frame, it
seemed on the point of expiring when she heard my father’s step; if he
came in with a smooth brow, her pale lips wreathed into her own sweet
smile, and a delicate pink tinged her fallen cheeks; if he scowled, and
his voice was high, every limb shivered, she turned her face to her
pillow, while convulsive tears shook her frame, and threatened instant
dissolution. My father sought me alone one day, as I was walking in
melancholy guise upon the sands; he swore that he would not survive his
disgrace. “And do you think, Fanny,” he added “that your mother will
survive the knowledge of my miserable end?” I saw the resolution of
despair in his face as he spoke.—I asked the sum needed, the time when
it must be given.—A thousand pounds in two days was all that was asked.
I set off to London to implore my husband to give this sum.