BITTER WORDS.
Horace found Jacomo the driver seated outside the door of the inn,
enjoying al fresco (in the open air) a large plateful of maccaroni. As
Horace came towards him, the man looked a thoroughly characteristic
specimen of his nation—half supporting himself on his elbow, while his
head was thrown back to enable him with more convenience to drop into
his mouth some six inches length of the white moist tube, to which he
was helping himself with his fingers!
"Jacomo, put in the horses at once: we must make good speed to reach
Staiti to-night," said Horace.
The Italian stared at the speaker with a look of surprise and
dissatisfaction. "The signor forgets that the day is advanced, the
way mountainous, the horses tired, the signora faint, and the roads
not safe after dark," said the man; "it would be no wise act to start
before morning."
"That is for me to decide, and not for you," said the young Englishman
with hauteur.
"You can have excellent accommodation here—good beds, good fare—what
more can the signori require?" said the one-eyed host, pointing towards
the inn with a peculiar and stealthy expression in his disagreeable
face, which confirmed Horace in his resolution to depart.
"Jacomo, harness the horses, and directly!" he exclaimed. "If there be
any delay, not an extra carlino (a small coin) shall you have at the
end of the Journey."
The driver, with an exclamation directed to his patron saint and
some mutterings which Horace did not understand, began making
preparations to obey, moving his lazy limbs more leisurely than suited
the impatience of his employer. The host, shrugging his shoulders,
went into the inn. As Horace was about to follow him thither, the
improvisatore, who had been standing under the shadow of a neighboring
tree unperceived by the youth, came forward and crossed over between
him and the door, not looking at Horace, nor appearing to observe him,
but as he passed close in front of him, dropping the words "Do not go,"
in a low but earnest tone.
Horace glanced in surprise after the speaker; startled by so strange a
warning from the last person whom he should have expected to give one.
He would have liked to have questioned Raphael, but the improvisatore
had already disappeared.
"I wonder if it be wise to start," thought Horace, whose resolution
for the first time began to waver; "yet I have no reason to trust this
stranger, who seems to bear an evil character, even amongst the people
of this place."
"The signor has changed his mind?" inquired Jacomo with a grin—the man
having probably detected a look of indecision upon the face of young
Cleveland.
This way of putting the question fixed the determination of Horace,
who secretly prided himself upon what he thought strength and decision
of character. "I never change my mind," he said haughtily; "I shall be
ready to start in ten minutes. Let me then find the carriage at the
door, or you shall have reason to repent of the delay."
In about a quarter of an hour the vehicle stood ready in front of the
inn. The one-eyed man, who seemed to combine in himself the offices of
landlord and ostler, was there to see his guests depart. Giuseppina
was at the door, and about half-a-dozen barefooted brown urchins,
crowded together like bees to view the strangers enter the carriage, as
they had stared a few hours before at the soldiers bearing the bandit
away. Raphael stood with folded arms near the heads of the horses. He
exchanged words with no one, nor seemed to take notice of the whispered
remarks of the children who glanced at him ever and anon.
"The soldiers had him once," said one boy, pointing to the
improvisatore; "did they tie his arms behind him? I wonder whether he
has the marks on his wrists."
"How did he get away? Did Matteo break his prison, and set him free?"
"Perhaps the soldiers let him off because he sings so fine!" suggested
one black-eyed little damsel, with uncombed hair falling in dark masses
on each side of her merry brown face.
"I like Raphael; he cured my bad leg, and he speaks so kind," said
another.
"But he's a bad man, I know he's a bad man," whispered a thin, sallow
child with a solemn look, "he does not bow to the Madonna, nor touch
the holy water."
"He does!" exclaimed the former speaker, indignant at so dark an
imputation being thrown on his benefactor.
"But he does not," persisted the sallow child; "I've watched him again
and again; he never bows to the holy image, nor crosses himself; and I
don't believe that he tells his beads, or ever goes to confess. Mother
says that he's a wicked man, and prays to none of the saints."
The faintest approach to a smile on the lips of the young Italian alone
betrayed that he heard any part of the conversation of which he was the
subject.
The attention of the children was now diverted to the travelers who
were leaving the inn. "How pale the signora is! Does she not look
anxious and frightened?" were the whispers exchanged among the group.
Uneasy and irresolute Mrs. Cleveland certainly was. Horace, who,
however faulty in other respects, never concealed anything from his
mother, had told her of the warning of Raphael; and as he led her to
the carriage, lingering and reluctant, he was warmly combating the
idea that the Italian's words should have the slightest effect in
influencing their movements.
"Doubtless he is playing into the hands of this Matteo, of whose
atrocities we have been hearing, and who will be as savage as a bear
at the capture of his son. Common sense tells us that we should put
no faith in this stranger; a low musician, a jailbird, a companion of
thieves!"
These words were uttered aloud, of course in the English language, but
as Mrs. Cleveland glanced at the improvisatore to judge by his face
whether he merited the epithets given him, she again saw a sudden flush
tinge the paleness of his cheek. Raphael stepped forward, as if to help
her into the carriage, for her foot was already on the step, and again
in low tones breathed the words "Do not go," but this time in English,
though with an accent quite Italian.
Mrs. Cleveland started, and would have drawn back; but Horace at that
moment almost lifted her into the carriage, and sprang in after her
with a quickness which gave his nervous mother hardly time to think or
to breathe.
"Horace—I can't go—I won't go—stop the driver—we will get out!" gasped
the lady.
"Mother, it is nonsense; you will make us the laughing-stock of the
place!" exclaimed Horace, who had caught sight of a leer upon the face
of the one-eyed man, which had strengthened his suspicions as to the
character of the low little inn in the mountains.
The driver cracked his whip, and the jingle of the horses' bells was
heard as they moved forward on the white, dusty road.
The conscience of Horace smote him a little for the rudeness of his
manner and words. "You know, mother," he said, in a softer tone, "that
I must care for your comfort and safety."
"Comfort!" exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland with indignation. "Willful,
ungrateful boy that you are, you never care for anything but your own
selfish fancies!" And exhausted in strength, and wounded in feeling,
the irritated mother burst into a flood of tears.
"Mother, I can't stand this!" exclaimed Horace, in extreme vexation at
seeing her weep.
"You have planted many a thorn in my pillow," sobbed the lady; "you may
find them one day on your own!"
Horace could not answer. His heart seemed to be rising into his throat.
He pulled his cap low over his eyes, and leaned back in the corner of
the carriage, wishing, with all his soul, that he had never come on the
journey. He had been accustomed to chidings and reproaches, but not
to tears, and each drop seemed to fall upon his heart like a drop of
molten lead.
Horace had never but once before seen his parent weep upon his account,
and the occasion which drew forth those tears was one of the most
tender recollections of his childhood. Horace remembered the time when
he had lain in his little cot, parched by fever, and when awakening
again and again in the long, wretched nights, he had ever seen, by the
dim light of the shaded candle, the form of his mother, ready to offer
the cooling drink to relieve his burning thirst. He remembered how, as
long as his danger continued, her calm courage had never failed her,
faith and love supporting her through sleepless nights and miserable
days; but that when the doctor had said at last, "The crisis is over,
he will do well," her over-strained feelings had at length given way,
and she had wept tears of thankful delight over the child who lay on
her bosom!
How different from those glad tears were the drops which the wounded,
disappointed parent was shedding now! A painful sensation came over
Horace as the doubt suggested itself to his mind whether his mother
would have felt such transport at his recovery had she known all that
his petulance would cost her; nay, Horace was not certain whether, on
the whole, her only and much-loved son had not given her more pain than
pleasure. It was too true that he had thought more of his own selfish
fancies than of the wishes of his tender parent; that he had often
treated her with disrespect, and even with actual disobedience.
Horace's conscience told him that he had not honored his mother, nor
made her happy; and he was so painfully stung by its reproaches that he
was half inclined to call out to the driver to go back to the inn, as
a kind of practical way of showing his parent that he regretted having
preferred his own opinion to hers.
But the carriage was now plunging down a road so steep and narrow, that
it we have been almost impossible to stop it, and quite impossible
to turn. The utmost attention of the driver was required to keep his
horses on their legs, and every now and then a tremendous jolt made
Mrs. Cleveland grasp the side of the vehicle to prevent herself from
being jerked out of her seat. She had ceased crying, but she was
thoroughly displeased with her son, and was not disposed to address him
again, even if the roughness of the road had not rendered it difficult
to speak.
Horace knew that he ought to ask his mother's forgiveness at once,
as he had often done when a child; but pride shrank from that simple
course. As a compromise between conscience and pride, he said, with a
little hesitation:
"I am sorry that I spoke so unguardedly about that mysterious Italian;
though who could have dreamed of any one here comprehending the English
tongue?"
Mrs. Cleveland made no reply, but continued gazing out of the carriage
window in an opposite direction.
"And I am sorry," continued Horace with an effort, "that I said or did
anything to vex you."
Still silence—still the averted face. This had not been the first, no,
nor the fiftieth time that Horace had offended his mother, and such
offences, though apparently trivial,—
"Make up in number what they lack in weight."
Constant friction produces on the mind the same effect that it does
on the body—a rankling sore, more painful than the result of one
sharp blow. A few affectionate words, a filial embrace, had often
seemed sufficient reparation for an ebullition of hasty temper; love
readily forgets and forgives; but when the conduct repented of to-day
is repeated tomorrow, when hastiness becomes habitual, when pride
and self-will gain increasing strength, what wonder if a feeling of
resentment mingle even with maternal affection?
Mrs. Cleveland was in a state of nervous irritation, and not disposed
to meet the constrained advances of her son. Deeply mortified by her
silence, vexed with his mother, but far more vexed with himself, Horace
again threw himself back in the carriage. No enjoyment could he find in
surveying the exquisite landscape around him, over which the beams of
the setting sun were now throwing a golden glory.