University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

A group, consisting chiefly of females, in whose
attire white was the predominant colour, stood in
cheerful converse upon the broadly-paved esplanade
before the church of Santa Croce. The morning
was not far advanced, yet so warmly did the sun
beat upon the marble pavement, that the long snowy
veils in which two of the party were arrayed, were
put aside, and the breeze from the mountains played
sportively among the dark ringlets of Beatrice, and
over the more pensive countenance of her cousin.
The arrival of an additional pair seemed a signal for
their commune to cease; and joining hands, the
several couples stood in order, each bearing a
wreath of flowers; and when a lad, in the habit of
the church, raised on high the heavy curtain which
hung before the entrance, the solemn tones of a
chant were faintly heard, and the little band reverently
entered. It was evidently a marriage procession.
As they walked silently up the long avenue,
the light tread of the fair train echoed softly in

the pauses of the chant, and one might have fancied,
as he gazed from a distance, through the shadowy
expanse, that a company of spirits were passing
from their resting-place beneath, forth to some
earthly ministration. Nor were the objects around
unfavourable to the indulgence of such an idea. The
majestic figure of Dante leaning over from above
the tomb prepared in vain to receive his dust, with
his stern expression of dignified grief, the marble
personification of Italy standing in the attitude of a
mourner above the sepulchre of her great tragedian;
the dense entablatures, the heavy architecture,
breathed, in the dim light, a mystic solemnity. But
all these were still, and cold, and senseless; while
the bright eyes, the moving lips, the fresh and fragrant
roses of the bridal party, spake of life, of life
in its conscious beauty and promise. And when
the gentle forms encircled, with a statue-like quietude,
the railing of the altar, the tremulous accents
in which the responses were uttered, the low quick
breathings, the glistening tears—these spoke, indeed,
of the spiritual, but of the spiritual while yet environed
with the attributes of humanity.

A slight bustle denoted that the ceremony was
concluded; yet was there no sign of immediate
separation. The officiating priest was soon engaged
in a discourse with Beatrice, which appeared to
rivet the attention of the group. The old man had
been her confessor from infancy, and with a truly
paternal interest, he was speaking of her duties and

destiny. Anina felt herself gently drawn aside, and
obeying the signal of Ipolito, she followed him to
the opposite side of the church. Soon after, the
attention of the party was aroused by a faint cry,
but whether of surprise or fear, was not clearly indicated,
and, for a moment, their eyes were directed
to the point whence it seemed to proceed; but there
being no repetition, and the words of the priest becoming
more and more interesting, they were soon
absorbed again. Advancing footsteps now aroused
them, not the measured and scarcely audible tread
with which they had approached the altar, but the
firm, quick steps of confidence and expectancy.
Anina appeared, led on by a manly and graceful
cavalier, whom all present immediately recognized
as Antonio. Returning their eager inquiries and
salutations only with a smile and a nod, he immediately
addressed the now silent priest: `Father, if
thou art not weary, a new bridal service awaiteth
thee, after which thy blessing and exhortation may
be doubly bestowed.' Astonishment was in every
face, yet the manner of Antonio proved singularly
effective, and all yielded to its influence, none without
surprise, yet all with alacrity; and when the
campanile announced that the sun had reached his
meridian, Antonio was the reigning star of a gay
assemblage in the house of the Marchioness, and
Anina was his bride. At a moment when her guests
were all occupied, she stole away, and entered her
mother's apartment.

`Mother, I knew not that Antonio could boast
relationship with a Count, still less that he had inherited
his title.'

`Nor I, Anina. You do not mean —'

`Nay, I would question thee, mother.'

`It is a vain question, my daughter, you know it
admits but one answer,' and the old lady sighed.

`And yet the untitled Antonio is my husband;
and, unless Ipolito reversed his message with thine
approval,—'

`Anina, thou knowest what renders renowned
the much talked of picture called the “Miserere,”
purchased at such a price by Lord Ellmsley.

`They say it is the face of the nun.'

`Anina, they say, too, that face resembles thine,'
and the mother embraced her child, and then gazed
meaningly upon her.

A glow of delight thrilled to the heart of Anina.
`I see it all,' she exclaimed. `Antonio Camilini,
my Antonio, is The Florentine!'