University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

From the little metropolis of Tuscany—the birth-place
of Dante, Boccacio, and Machiavelli, let us
pass to an abiding-place of man less blessed by contiguity
to the grand and beautiful in nature, and
from among its multitudinous representatives of humanity,

seek out and note the few individuals with
whom our story is connected. The first scene
breathes not the air of the outer and common London
world. It is a richly furnished chamber; the
quiet that reigns, and every little arrangement, suggests,
at once, that it is the chamber of sickness;
but the abandoned couch and the attitudes of the
occupants, assure us that the crisis of disease has
passed, or is yet to come. Upon a rich arm-chair
reclines one whose gray hair and slightly furrowed
brow speak either of a long or laborious life—perhaps
of both;—the compressed lip and unyielding
manner in which the head accommodates itself to
its comfortable support, bespeaks a pertinacity of
will, a firmness of purpose, that even bodily weakness
has failed to subjugate. At a light and exquisitely
wrought table beside the convalescent—for
such he is—sits one of those beings which, in certain
moods, a meditative man would rather gaze
upon than aught else in the wide world. Mary
Ellmsley might not be called what is generally understood
by the term beauty; she was too small in
figure, too mild in manner, too thoughtful in expression,
to win the admiration of fashion's votary, or
attract the attention of the amateur observer of the
world's inhabitants. And yet there was something
in her very gentleness, something in her full blue
eye, fair complexion, and light tresses, `brown in
the shadow and gold in the sun,' contrasted with the
mourning habiliments in which she was clad, that
insensibly charmed. A lover of Wordsworth's poetry,
a partaker of Wordsworth's spirit, would have
felt spontaneously and irresistibly interested as he
beheld her. At a slight movement of the sick man,
indicating his revival from the half-sleeping state in
which he had remained for some time, she arose,
and stepping, fairy-like, about the room, seemed to
busy herself in some little preparations for the invalid's
comfort; but, now and then, she would steal
an anxious glance toward him; and when she saw
that his eye was following her motions, she abruptly
returned to her seat, and again bent over the book
upon which she had previously been intent. But
her gaze was fixed, and it was plain her mind was
busied inwardly; and the subject of her musing
could not have been altogether pleasing, for her fingers
mechanically thrummed upon the table, and
twice she opened her lips to speak, and then, with
an embarrassed and conscious air, checked herself.
At length, in a decisive manner, she closed the volume
and placed it away with some little care, and
breathing a half-suppressed sigh, drew her chair
nearer to the cheerful grate, and looked up to the
face of the invalid.

`You need not grieve, Mary, for the troubles of
the heroine of that tale,' said the old man; `you
know, as a matter of course, all must turn out well
at last.'

`All is well with her now,' she replied, `for the
groundless suspicions of man cannot harm him who

is favoured of God, and so ought Micol to feel, and
therein be comforted.'

`An odd name that for a heroine, Mary; but novelists
must be sadly puzzled now-a-days, both for
names and subjects.'

`The author of the volume I have been reading
depended little upon such externals. His whole
mind is given to developing his characters and plot,
and polishing the language in which both are portrayed;
at least so Mr.—I mean so I believe;—for,
in truth, I have not read enough yet to understand
perfectly.'

`Pray, what is this wonderful book? I thought
you were in the midst of the new novel Lady Emily
sent this morning.'

`I was trying to read something I began some
time ago, father, but which I was prevented from
going on with by circumstances—by your unexpected
illness, I should say; but I can't get along
with it now; I could not well understand it, and
perhaps if I did, I could not have read—'

`What could'nt you understand, child; what was
you trying to read?'

`Alfieri's Saul, father.'

`If you had comprehended it, why could you not
read?'

`My tears blinded me, father.'

`I really begin to believe, Mary, that I have been
to blame in allowing you to share so long my confinement;
you need the fresh air, child. What with

our late affliction (and here the old gentleman brushed
away a tear) and the dull duty of attending on a
sick old man's humours, you are scarcely yourself,
girl,—crying over a story you do not understand!—
Nonsense—'

`O, father, you mistake; it was'nt the story that
made me weep; but I read on a little way, and came
to a difficult part, and then I—I thought—'

`The meaning would come by your crying?'

`No, father, I thought who would tell me all
about it, and thinking of that made me weep.'

`Worse and worse; who do you mean? who
would explain?'

`Mr.'—and she looked fearfully up, `Mr. Lino,
father.'

The pale cheek of the convalescent was now sallow;
his features worked impatiently, and he sat
erect. `Did I not forbid you to breathe the name
of that accursed man?' he fiercely exclaimed. `How
can you speak of him without a shudder, when you
remember the peril into which his villanous arts
brought me? Have you no feeling for your own kin?
Can you look upon me, but just escaped from a violent
and awful death, and not feel?'

`Father, he may be innocent,' Mary sobbed out.

`May be innocent? You saw the cunning smile
with which he proffered the treacherous gift; you
heard the Professor declare that he had detected
poison; you witnessed the convulsions, the death-like
stupor—'

`Oh, speak not of them, my father! But had
we not better ask him about it? I am sure he knew
not—'

`Mary,' he continued more calmly, `you are but
a child; I will once more explain, for your satisfaction,
the reasons of my conduct, and then I shall
expect you, as a reasonable girl, to cease henceforth
and forever, to allude to a subject which, in your
father's mind, is associated with the most painful
remembrances. I received Mr. Lino as your teacher,
with no recommendation but the impression made
upon me by his appearance. In this I was indeed
to blame; but my interest was highly excited; I
thought I befriended a noble spirit—an exile from
a depressed yet glorious country. I received the
Tuscan wines, not wishing to refuse what was
offered as a token of friendship. Happily in my
own person I first experienced the workings of the
insidious poison, and prompt medical aid has availed
where it well might have despaired. And I live—
live to punish a villain—live to make an example
of one of the thousand specious renegades from the
continent, who insinuate themselves into the homes
of Englishmen, to abuse their hospitality, to overreach,
ay, and to work their ruin!'

`What possible motive could have induced even
the thought of such an act?'

`Do you suppose I shall tax my imagination to
discover the motives of a treacherous Italian?' I
leave all such labour to the law. Let it have its

course. I have done my duty to myself and my
country.'

`But not to the exile, father!—Do but see him;
perhaps he can explain.'

`I am not equal to a visit to the Old Bailey, to-night,
Mary.'

His gentle auditor started back, and burst into
tears; she knew not of the arrest. But soon recovering,
she lifted up her face to that of her parent,
who beheld, with surprise, an expression of dignified
and wounded feeling, such as he had never witnessed
before.

`Father! my mother used often to speak to me of
one who in the agony of a cruel death, said prayerfully
of his enemies, “they know not what they
do”—and she bade me thus ever feel toward whomever
I should deem wrongful or unkind. Father,
forgive me!—you know not what you do. I feel
that the stranger is not guilty of the awful crime
with which he is charged. It cannot be,—the impression
you first received is true; he is a nobleman
in soul. Oh, suffer not such a spirit to be wounded.
But I fear not for him, for he has told me that all
great minds are renewed by trial, and gather
strength from persecution. He has told me of a
philosopher of his country who was shut up in a
dungeon because he declared that the earth went
round the sun; and about a poet whom they called
mad, and imprisoned away from the fields and
bright sunlight which he loved, and then he became

mad indeed. I weep not for him, father; but in
the pleasant home of his youth, there is one who
will shed grievous tears, when the dismal tidings
arrive; I mourn for her. Father! forget your anger,
and to know that he whom thou falsely deemest
thine enemy is free, his reputation unsullied,
and his betrothed unstricken, will prove to thee
more reviving than the bitter cup of revenge. Father!
forgive me. Vain, I see, are the words of
your Mary. May God protect the Italian, for he
is guiltless!'

A week subsequent to the conversation we have
related, toward the close of day, a young man sat
with folded arms and a rivetted gaze, in an apartment
which, in the twilight that then revealed it,
presented an aspect of stern solidity, yet not devoid
of comfort. An easel rested against the wall; a
pallet, with some painting utensils, lay confusedly
upon the floor, and a few books were scattered upon
a small table. `Yes, Anina spake well and truly'—
soliloquized the occupant.—`I did need separation.
I did require a pressure from without, or a void
around me to quicken the impulses within. I have
lamented this catastrophe, I have bitterly scorned
this disgrace, long enough. And now I will wrench
sublime consolation from the very gloom of misfortune.
I have done all that can be done. Ere this,
Ipolito must have received my letter; true, he

knows not that I am an incarcerated man;—but he
knows the suspicions under which I am placed; he
will obtain the needful testimonials; he will keep
the circumstance from Anina; the trial will at
length come on—I shall be, I must be, triumphantly
acquitted, and none will recognize in my English
appellation the name of Antonio. And, meantime,
I have succeeded in effecting my purpose (and he
looked complacently upon the materials of his art)—
here is light, and something of quiet. O that the
vision of yesternight would return! I must transfix
it—I must embody the idea. Yes, ere long the
face of my beloved shall beam upon me, even in this
prison. I feel that I shall succeed. They have
taken my liberty—but the mind is free! O for the
morning light! I yearn for day. Let me reflect.
A beautiful nun listening to the Miserere,—the attitude
that of a suppliant, the eye tearful, ay, but
enraptured by the melody, and raised in devotion,
like Raphael's St. Cecilia; the expression with a
shade of sadness—but impassioned—exalted; and
the model—ah! the model shall be Anina!'