Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 49
CHAPTER III.
"But our hero, as might be supposed, soon began to feel dissatisfied with this obscure celebrity, and to look out for opportunities of accomplishing a more extended fame."—Sydenham.
Genius has many misfortunes to encounter; but the worst that can befall it, is when it happens to be universal. When a whole world is before it from which to choose, it is rather difficult to decide. This had been the case with Giulio Castelli. His mother was a dancer at the Neapolitan Opera; his father—but truly that was an honour which, like the crown of Belgium, no one seemed very ready to accept. The first ten years of his life were passed in enacting interesting orphans or Cupids; but, alas! he grew out of the theatrical costume and the age of Love. His mamma died; his uncle adopted him, and insisted on bringing him up in an honest way—which meant, cheating his customers for macaroni as much as possible.
Young Giulio soon made macaroni as well as his uncle, and then felt he had a soul superior to his situation. He settled his accounts summarily—that is to say, he took as many ducats as he could find, and joined a company of strolling comedians. If his musical talents had equalled his others, his fortune had been made; but he had a voice and ear that might have been English. He was next valet to an English nobleman, who lived in his carriage: he was cook to a cardinal, on the profits of whose kitchen he travelled for a while at his own expense. He went to Paris as an artist, who took likenesses in rose-coloured wax; and was successful to a degree as hair-dresser in London. He soon was what seemed wealthy to an Italian. As he grew rich, he grew sentimental—thought of grapes and sunshine—his first love—and his old uncle.
He returned to Naples—found Serafina had married—grown fat, and had had seven children. His uncle was dead, and had left his property to a convent to say masses that his nephew might turn from his evil ways. Giulio felt idle and stupid—gambled and lost his last pistole—had recourse to his wits and his old opinion, that it was a person's own fault if he was poor while others were rich.
There was some philosophy in this; but, like most other doctrines when reduced to practice, it was carried too far. His principles endangered his person; and the futurity of the galleys was a disagreeable perspective.
One day Lady Mandeville and Emily drove into Naples. The gaily embroidered curtains of their vehicle blew aside, and the two ladies, muffled in fur mantles, were distinctly visible.
It is curious how little we speculate on what may be the impression we produce on others—unless, indeed, vanity comes into play, and then there is no bound to the speculation. Still, the general feeling is utter indifference. Take an example from London life. Some fair dame "In silk attire" folds her cloak round her—if very cold half buries her face in her boa—and drives the usual morning round, without one thought given to the crowd through which she passes;—and yet how many different sensations have followed the track of that carriage! admiration, envy, even hate. Some youth has loitered on his busy way to take another gaze at a being whose beauty and grace are of another order than his working world. Some young pedestrian of her own sex has cast a glance of envy at the bonnet of which a glimpse is just caught through the window; and, as envy is ever connected with repining, turns regretfully to pursue a walk rendered distasteful by comparison. Then hate—that hate with which the miserably poor look on others' enjoying, what he sees, but shares not, and pursues the toil that binds him to the soil, fiercely and bitterly saying, "Why have I no part in the good things of earth?" Still less did Lady Mandeville and Emily, as they drove through the streets of Naples, dreary as is the aspect of a southern metropolis in the winter,—still less did they think of the hopes, the enterprise, and the daring, their appearance excited in the breast of one individual.
Giulio had for some time past been connected with some gentlemen who quite differed with Solomon about the advantages of a dry morsel and quietness, rather preferring Wordsworth's view of the case—
"The good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan—
That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can."
There was an old castle by a small river, only a short distance from the Mandevilles—the haunt of some half dozen of his more immediate associates—that seemed the very place for an exploit like the one he meditated. His residence in England had taught him the language; and one or two little adventures had given him a high idea of English predilections for foreigners; he therefore came to the conclusion, that if Miss Arundel was a girl of any heart, it never could resist a picturesque banditti chieftain—Salvator Rosa and the Surrey Theatre blended in one. His plan was skilfully laid, and daringly executed. The impression he was to produce was the only erroneous part of his calculations.
It was now a little past midnight. "My dear Emily," said Lady Mandeville, "If there were but a castle clock to toll the hour!"
"If Lord Mandeville returns home to-night, as we expected, surely he will be able to trace us."
"It is upon his efforts I rely. O Heaven! what is that?" as something fell heavily in at the window.
It was the extreme stillness that exaggerated the noise; for, when they picked up the cause, it was an arrow, evidently just cut, and a strip of narrow paper folded tightly round. It contained these words, written in pencil:—
"If you can manage to lower a string from the window your escape is certain.
"An Englishman."
Lady Mandeville sprang to the window. She had already cleared away enough ivy to enable her to see out. It was too dark to distinguish any object definitely: the shadow of the old castle lay black on the river, and the outline of the opposite bank was only marked by deeper obscurity.
"How shall we manage?"
Emily, whose distinguishing quality was not presence of mind, only looked eagerly at her companion.
"We cannot be worse off—we may be better. I am sorry, my dear girl, even to propose such a sacrifice; but give me that pretty apron we thought so picturesque and peasant like this morning, and help me to tear it into strips."
Emily took off her blue silk apron, whose red trimming was a flattering likeness of a Neapolitan costume. It was soon torn up, and knotted together.
"It is so light that the wind will blow it back. What shall we do to steady it? An arm of these huge chairs would be very convenient; but to break them is beyond my strength. But I have an idea."
So saying, Lady Mandeville turned to the toilette, and mercilessly tied up in her handkerchief the various brushes, combs, oils, pomade, and rouge, with which the table was profusely covered. Their weight was sufficient, and the string was lowered from the window.
They heard a splash in the water, and the next moment the string was apparently taken hold of: again it felt slack, and they drew it up, with some light weight attached to it. They saw a coil of rope, and another little scroll. It was a leaf from a pocket-book, written in pencil—by the feel, not by sight—and contained these words:
"To the rope is fastened a species of ladder. Can you draw it up, and secure it sufficiently to allow my ascent? If you can—by way of signal, darken your lights for a moment."
With some difficulty they deciphered the scrawl, and instantly proceeded to carry its advice into execution.
Lady Mandeville's buoyant spirits, those nurses of ready wit, suggested, as she herself said, laughingly, "as many resources as a romance." They drew up the ladder, and secured it by attaching the rope to the three heavy arm-chairs.
"Our deliverer will, at all events, not look his character if he outweighs these huge masses of architecture rather than furniture."
The signal was given by shrouding the lights. One minute's surprise, and a dark shadow appeared at the window. A strong grasp forced aside the iron stanchions—a tall slight figure sprang into the room.
"Mr. Spenser! the very hero for an adventure!" exclaimed Lady Mandeville.
"Miss Arundel!" exclaimed the cavalier, his eye naturally fixed on its chief object of interest.
"We must wait to finish our astonishment," said Lady Mandeville.
"Indeed," returned Cecil, "time is precious. Have you courage to descend a ladder of rope? I think I can guarantee your safety."
Pausing one moment to secure the chairs more firmly, Spenser again approached the casement.
"My young companion," rejoined Lady Mandeville, "shall go first—my nerves are the more serviceable of the two."
Emily trembled to such a degree that Cecil supported her with difficulty to the boat, where the ladder terminated, and was kept firm by some stranger. However, the conviction on his mind was, that nothing could be more graceful than timidity in a woman. Lady Mandeville followed; and three minutes was the utmost time that elapsed before their little boat was floating down the stream.
The strictest silence was preserved. At length the stranger said, in very patois-sounding Italian, "We can use our oars now."
"How did you come so opportunely to our rescue?"
"I will give you," returned Cecil, "no recital just at present. We must row for our lives, as they say on the Thames when they are rowing for 'the cup and the kiver.' "
The light dip of the oars alone broke on the silence. Lady Mandeville was more anxious now the danger was over; and Emily was too much exhausted to speak: besides, to tell the truth, disappointment, however unreasonable it may seem, was the uppermost feeling in her mind. When she saw a young cavalier spring into the room, she immediately made up her mind that it was Lorraine. A young lady's lover is always present to her imagination; and, of course, exaggerating in her own mind both the difficulty and honour of the adventure, she felt as if Edward had been actually defrauded. If not the most unreasonable—that would be saying too much—a girl in love is certainly the most unreasoning of human beings.
The tide of the narrow stream was with them; Cecil and his comrade rowed vigorously; and all danger of pursuit was rapidly decreasing. But that each of the party were too much occupied for external observation, the eye might have dwelt delightedly on the still beauty around. The deep river, where the oar dipped, but plashed not—the gloomy outlines of the steep banks, whose old trees seemed gigantic—the dark sky overhead, where two or three small but bright stars shone their only light, so far and so spiritual—the gleam of the tapers, which, from the stream's running in a straight line, was still visible from the casement of the old castle, though now diminished to a small bright point—the obscure which they were penetrating—for, from the increasing height of its banks, the river grew darker and darker—all made one of those exciting scenes where the imagination, like a landscape-painter, colours from nature, only idealising a little. A bend in the river shut out the castle light: the boatmen paused on their oars.
"All path by the river ends here on their side; and we are now as safe as fish in the sea when there's nobody to catch them," said the same coarse voice as before.
Cecil now commenced his narrative, which was soon told. Attracted by the extreme beauty of the wild and little-known southern part of Naples, he had been wandering there for some weeks—so he said; to which may be added, he was making up his mind whether Miss Arundel would think him a welcome visitor at the villa. We always hesitate where the feelings are concerned—and he loitered away a whole day of uncertainty when only within a couple of hours' ride from their house. This, he stated, was occasioned by the great beauty of the place and its environs.
About sunset, he was leaning on the remains of an old wall, which had once probably surrounded a Roman encampment, and now served as a line of demarcation between two villages, as jealous of each other's claims as near neighbours usually are. While he was deliberating whether he should ride over to the Mandevilles or not, a man, a stranger—though by this time he was well acquainted with most of the peasants—came up and spoke to him. This is not so impertinent in an Italian as it is in an Englishman—or it is not thought so, which amounts to the same thing. Cecil, therefore, civilly replied to his question, which was one almost as general as the weather, viz. the time. Still the man lingered, and at last said, "The Signor Inglesi does not seem a cavalier that would leave his own countrywomen in trouble without helping them."
"Why, that must very much depend on the nature of the distress."
No Englishman was ever yet so young, or so adventurous, as not to give one first thought to the imposition which he always expects—and for which he is, notwithstanding, never prepared. To make the shortest of the story, as mysteries are of no use now-a-days—from long habit, every reader always foreseeing their end—this man was one of Giulio's companions. Francisco had assisted in the abduction of Lady Mandeville and Miss Arundel, and was now on his way to fetch a priest, already gained over by the enterprising professor of curls and carbines. But
"Envy will merit, like its shade, pursue;"
and genius, though it cannot communicate itself, can communicate its example. Francisco saw his companion after he had assumed the picturesque costume which was to annihilate the young Englishwoman's peace of mind. In the fulness of his glory he folded his cloak round him, suffered the white plumes to droop over his curls, polished and perfumed with the most fragrant oils, and, turning from his mirror to his friend, said, "I think my chance is a very tolerable one: instead of running away with the lady, I might have left it to her own good taste to have run away with me."
Giulio was not the first "talented individual " whose vanity has been, primarily, an inconvenience to others, and then to himself. Called hastily away for a moment, Francisco tried on the cloak and plumed hat his comrade had left on a bench beside: he folded his arms, and walked to the glass—"I am sure I look quite as well as he does." To this conviction succeeded the doubt, why should Giulio marry the beautiful and rich English girl? But Francisco had no invention—he could devise no expedient by which he could step into the other's place. A thousand old grudges rose up in his memory—the reward lost its value in his eyes—and he arrived at the sure conclusion of the envious, that if he could not make, he could mar. The last finish was given to his displeasure by being sent for the priest while his companions sat down to supper. Off he set in one of the worst possible humours, and exaggerated to the utmost what he termed his comrade's luck.
Now, the difference between good and bad intentions is this:—that good intentions are so very satisfactory in themselves, that it really seems a work of supererogation to carry them into execution; whereas evil ones have a restlessness that can only be satisfied by action—and, to the shame of fate be it said, very many facilities always offer for their being effected.
Francisco was considering Giulio's good fortune, as if it had been taken away from himself, when he caught sight of Mr. Spenser. A thousand plans floated in most various ingenuity through his brain, which finally settled into one. Without knowing who his countrywomen were, Cecil naturally entered most eagerly into any plan for their deliverance. His first proposition, to ride post to Naples, was overruled by Francisco, for the ostensible reason, that it would be too late next day before they could reach the castle: the private reason was, that though he wished to disappoint Giulio, he did not wish to betray his companions—whose futurity, if surprised, would inevitably be the galleys. There is honour among thieves, though it does admit of divers interpretations.
The very adventurousness of the plan he suggested accorded well with Cecil's temper. The only difficulty his companion considered great, was, how to establish a communication. Luckily Spenser, among the resources with which he had attempted to kill Time, had once had a whim of shooting him. His archery dress of green, and the silver arrow—which he did not win from looking at the lady, who held the prize, instead of at the mark—occurred to his memory; and we have seen how successful his scheme of sending an arrow as a messenger proved. They made free with a boat belonging to one of the peasants—formed a rude but safe ladder of rope—and dropped down the stream, which Francisco knew so well as to make the darkness of no consequence, but as an advantage.
The light in the window indicated the room. Cecil entered, and saw, to his astonishment, old acquaintances. We cannot guard against dangers we do not suspect; and the escape of his prisoners formed no part of Giulio's calculations.
In the mean time, the whole party proceeded in safety down the river. "We must land here," said Francisco, pausing. "I will fasten the boat to the roots of the old chestnut, and half an hour's walk will bring you to the villa." So saying, he struck a light, and, firing a torch made of the green pine-wood, led the way.
Shivering with the cold night-air on the water, both ladies found the good effects of exercise; and Lady Mandeville, while she followed the dark figure of their guide, bearing the pine-splinter, whose deep red glare threw a momentary brightness over the heavy boughs and dusky path, felt all that excitement of spirits natural to one who had an innate taste for adventure, but from which her whole life had been entirely removed.
Poor Emily felt only fatigue; and while she accepted Mr. Spenser's assistance with all the gratitude of utter exhaustion, said faintly, "I will rejoice over our escape to-morrow." And Cecil—though he observed that the little feet, seen distinctly as they trod in the bright circle made by the torch, took faint and uncertain steps, and that the hand placed on his arm obviously shewed it clung in sheer helplessness—somewhat forgot, in the pleasant task of assistance, his pity for her sufferings.
In the meantime, the servants, who had returned to the villa, had, of course, thrown the whole household into confusion. A messenger was immediately despatched to Lord Mandeville, whom, from his master's having left Naples, he managed to miss on the road. However, he comforted himself by giving very particular accounts of how his mistress had been barbarously murdered by banditti; and the good city talked incessantly of the murder, till set right next day by the greater marvel of the escape.
An accident to one of his carriage-wheels delayed Lord Mandeville, who did not arrive at home till just before day break. To his no small surprise, lights, voices, &c. were indicative of any thing but "tired nature's sweet restorer;" and yet, when he drove up to the door, no one seemed willing to admit him. His arrival produced one general outcry—then silence—then whispering. "Are they all gone mad?" He had an opportunity of answering his own question, for the door was at last opened; and really the scene of confusion he witnessed might have justified a reply in the affirmative.
All the servants were collected together. That there is safety in numbers, always holds good with the lower classes in cases of thieves or ghosts. They had, obviously, none of them been in bed—all looked foolish and frightened—and some two or three had been evidently having recourse to spiritual consolation. The nurse had left her own regions, and the youngest child was asleep on her knee.
The moment Lord Mandeville entered, all set up some several ejaculation, of which "Oh, my lady!"—"murdered!" &c. was the burden. The eldest boy, pale with late hours, and worked up with the horrible narratives which every one had been contributing, sprang into his father's arms, and sobbed, to the utter exclusion of all speech.
"Will nobody hold their tongue?—one of you tell me what has happened. Where is Lady Mandeville?"
"Murdered!" said a dozen voices at once.
"Not so bad as that, quite," said a voice, and in came Lady Mandeville herself, to the still greater alarm of the domestics, who took it for granted it was their mistress's ghost come to tell of their mistress's murder.
"My poor little Frank," as the child made but one spring to the ground from his father's arms, and rushed with a scream of delight to his mother.
"Dearest Ellen, what does all this mean?"
"That, thank Heaven, I am safe at home," and, catching her husband's arm, Lady Mandeville, for the first time, laughed hysterically.
A few words from Mr. Spenser did a great deal towards explaining much in a little time; and in five minutes the confusion had subsided sufficiently to allow the party to recollect they were very hungry: in half an hour they were seated round a supper-table, in all the delightful eagerness of eating and talking. Lady Mandeville narrated the scene of the bandit hair-dresser's declaration, while her auditors were divided between amusement and indignation—Lord Mandeville being most amused, and Mr. Spenser most indignant.
The next day, procuring a sufficient escort, they rode to the old castle, which at first appeared but a mass of ruin; however, they forced an entrance, but discovered only traces of its late occupiers, not themselves. In one of the lower rooms were some remains of food, and in the upper the three arm-chairs; a bottle of perfumed oil also lay broken on the floor.
"Another loss, in addition to what was bestowed on the river last night: pity there are now no water-nymphs to profit by the benefaction."
They returned home, where they found the butler in great distress. Signor Francisco had taken advantage of last night's confusion to decamp, not only with the ducats that had been liberally bestowed on him, but also with two pieces of valuable plate.
"Truly, Mr. Spenser," said Lady Mandeville, "your friends are of a questionable character."
"Now, after such an adventure," rejoined Cecil, "It is your duty to be romantic; instead of that, how worldly is your last speech! first you use my friends, then you abuse them. For my own part, I shall always feel grateful to Francisco," he looked at Emily, "though he did walk off with your silver spoons."
"Do you know," said Lord Mandeville, "I cannot help pitying the bandit coiffeur—his design was as brilliant as the mock diamonds that decorated the hand he offered. They say ladies always forgive the sins which their own charms caused; now, own the truth, Emily, are you not flattered by this homage à vos beaux yeux?"
"Nay," replied Emily, "don't you think it was rather les beaux yeux de ma cassette? I trembled for my pearl necklace, not for my heart."
"Now, out upon you, Frank, to suppose Emily could be flattered in any such way. But I have noticed in all you gentlemen the same esprit de corps. It matters not who offers it, a woman must be supposed to be gratified by your selection. Take the 'meanest of your ranks'—
"Vain, mean, and silly,
Low-born, ugly, old,"
and he will make an offer to the Venus di Medicis, could she step from her pedestal into dazzling life. And what is worse, half his fellow-men would say, 'well it was a compliment.'"
"I merely made an individual application of a general rule. All women love flattery—ergo, Miss Arundel liked it."
"Now, mercy, Heaven, upon our ill-used race!" replied Lady Mandeville; "the force of flattery is, I am convinced, very much overrated. People would far sooner suppose you silly than themselves, and take for granted the compliment they have paid must be received. For my part, how much of my vanity has been mere endurance! I confess myself much of the Macedonian's opinion,—'I would wish for the prize in the chariot race, if kings were my competitors.' You all know the anecdote of the dustman who requested permission to light his pipe at the Duchess of Devonshire's eyes. Now, I should have been more displeased with the dustman's venturing to know whether I had eyes or not, than pleased with the compliment."
"Miss Arundel, I beg your pardon," said Lord Mandeville, laughing; "I will never ask whether any abduction flatters you, unless run away with by the Sublime Porte."
It is worth while to have an adventure, were it only for the sake of talking about it afterwards.