Gerald Fitzgerald: The Chevalier Part 22

'What King?'

'What other than the King of France, boy, the heir of St. Louis?'

'He befriended the cause of Charles Edward, did he not?' asked Gerald eagerly.

'Yes,' said she, smiling at the ardour with which he asked the question.

'Do you feel deep interest in the fortunes of that Prince?'

The youth clasped his hands together and pressed them to his heart, without a word.

'Your family, perhaps, supported that cause?'

'They did, lady. When I was an infant, I prayed for its success; as I grew older, I learned to sorrow for its failure.'

There was something so true and so natural in the youth's expression as he spoke, that the Marquise was touched by it, and turned away her head to conceal her emotion.

'The game is not played out yet, boy,' said she at last; 'there are great men, and wise ones too, who say that the condition of Europe, the peace of the world, requires the recognition of rights so just as those of the Stuarts. They see, too, that in the denial of these claims the Church is wounded, and the triumph of a dangerous heresy proclaimed. Who can say at what moment it may be the policy of the Continent to renew the struggle?'

'Oh, speak on, lady: tell me more of what fills my heart with highest hope,' exclaimed he rapturously. 'Do not, I beseech you, look on me as the poor stroller, the thing of tinsel and spangles, but as one in whose veins generous blood is running. I am a Geraldine, and the Geraldines are all n.o.ble.'

The sudden change in the youth's aspect, the rich, full tones of his voice, as, gaining courage with each word, he a.s.serted his claim to consideration, seemed to have produced an effect upon the Marquise, who pondered for some time without speaking.

'Mayhap, lady, I have offended you by this rash presumption,' said Gerald, as he watched her downcast eyes and steadfast expression; 'but forgive me, as one so little skilled in life, that he mistakes gentle forbearance for an interest in his fortunes.'

'But I _am_ interested in you, Gherardi; I _do_ wish to befriend you.

Let me hear about your kith. Who are these Geraldines you speak of?'

'I know not, lady,' said he, abashed; 'but from my childhood I was ever taught to believe that, wherever my name was spoken, men would acknowledge me as n.o.ble.'

'And from whom can we learn these things more accurately? have you friends or relations to whom we could write?'

Just as she spoke, the head of the cavalcade pa.s.sed beneath a deep gateway into the court of an ancient palace, and the echoing sounds of the horses' feet soon drowned the voices of the speakers. 'This is "Camerotto," an old villa of the Medici,' whispered the Marquise.

'We have come to see the frescoes; they are by Perugino, and of great repute.'

The party descended, and entering the villa, wandered away in groups through the rooms. It was one of those s.p.a.cious edifices which were types of mediaeval life, lofty, splendid, but comfortless. Dropping behind the well-dressed train as they pa.s.sed on, Gerald strayed alone and at will through the palace, and at last found himself in a small chamber, whose one window looked out on a deep and lonely valley. The hills which formed the boundaries were arid, stony, and treeless, but tinted with those gorgeous colours which, in Italian landscape, compensate in some sort for the hues of verdure, and every angle and eminence on them were marked out with that peculiar distinctness which objects a.s.sume in this pure atmosphere. The full blaze of a noonday sun lit up the scene, where not a trace of human habitation nor a track of man's culture could be seen for miles.

'My own road in life should lie along that glen,' said Gerald dreamily, as he leaned out of the window and gazed on the silent landscape, and soon dropped into a deep reverie, when past, present, and future were all blended together. The unbroken stillness of the spot, the calm tranquillity of the scene, steeped his spirit in a sort of dreamy lethargy, scarcely beyond the verge of sleep itself. To his half-waking state his restless night contributed, and hour by hour went over unconsciously: now muttering verses of his old convent hymns, now s.n.a.t.c.hes of wild peasant legends, his mind lost itself in close-woven fancies.

Whether the solitary tract of country before him was a reality or a mere dreamland, he knew not. It needed an effort to resume consciousness, and that effort he could not make; long fasting, too, lent its influence to increase this state, and his brain balanced between fact and imagination weariedly and hopelessly. At moments he fancied himself in some palace of his ancestors, dwelling in a high but solitary state; then would he suddenly imagine that he was a prisoner, confined for some great treason--he had taken arms against his country--he had adhered to a cause, he knew not what or whose, but it was adjudged treasonable. Then, again, it was a monastery, and he was a novice, waiting and studying to a.s.sume his vows; and his heart struggled between a vague craving for active life and a strange longing for the deathlike quiet of the cloister.

From these warring fancies he started suddenly, and, pa.s.sing his hand across his forehead, tried to recall himself to reason. 'Where am I?' exclaimed he, and the very sound of his own voice, echoed by the deep-vaulted room, almost affrighted him. 'How came I here?' muttered he, hoping to extricate himself from the realm of fancy by the utterance of the words. He hastened to the door, but the handle was broken and would not turn; he tried to burst it open, but it was strong and firm as the deep wall at either side of it; he shouted aloud, he beat loudly on the oaken panels, but though the deep-arched ceiling made the noise seem like thunder, no answer was returned to his call. He next turned to the window, and saw to his dismay that it was at a great height from the ground, which was a flagged terrace beneath. He yelled and cried at the very top of his voice; he waved his cap, hoping that some one at a distance might catch the signal; but all in vain. Wearied at last by all his attempts to attract notice, he sat moodily down to think over his position and devise what was to be done. Wild thoughts flashed at times across him--that this was some deep-laid scheme to entrap him; that he had been enticed here that he might meet his death without marks of violence; that, somehow, his was a life of consequence enough to provoke a crime. The Prince that he resembled had some share in it--or Marietta had vowed a vengeance--or the Jesuit Fathers had sent an emissary to despatch him. What were not the wild and terrible fancies that filled his mind: all that he had read of cruel torturings, years' long suffering, lives pa.s.sed in dreary dungeons, floated mistily before him, till reason at last gave way, and he lost himself in these sad imaginings.

The ringing of a church bell, faint and far away as it sounded, recalled him from his dreamings, and he remembered it was the 'Angelus,' when long ago he used to fall into line, and walk along to the chapel of the college. 'That, too, was imprisonment,' thought he, but how gladly would he have welcomed it now! He leaned from the window to try and make out whence the sounds came, but he could not find the spot. He fancied he could detect something moving up the hillside, but a low olive scrub shaded the path, and it was only as the branches stirred that he conjectured some one was pa.s.sing underneath. The copse, however, extended but a short way, and Gerald gazed wistfully to see if anything should emerge from where it finished. His anxiety was intense as he waited; a feverish impatience thrilled through him, and he strained his eyes until they ached.

At last a long shadow was projected-on the road; it was broken, irregular, and straggling. It must be more than one--several--a procession, perhaps, and yet not that--there was no uniformity in it. He leaned out as far as he could venture. It was coming. Yes, there it was!

A donkey with heavy panniers at his side, driven by an old man; a woman followed, and after her a girl's figure. Yes, he knew them and her now!

It was the Babbo! and there was Marietta herself, with bent-down head, creeping sadly along, her arms crossed upon her breast, her whole air unspeakably sad and melancholy. With a wild scream Gerald called to them to turn back, that he, their companion, their comrade, was a captive. He shouted till his hoa.r.s.e throat grew raw with straining, but they heard him not.

A deep, narrow gorge lay between them, with a brawling rivulet far below, and though the boy shouted with all his might, the voice never reached them. There they walked along up the steep path, whither to, he knew not. That they meant to desert him was, however, clear enough.

Already in that far-away land to which they journeyed no part was a.s.signed him. And Marietta!--she to whom he had given his heart, she whom he bound up with all his future fortunes--she to leave him thus without a word of farewell, without one wish to meet again, without one prayer for his welfare! Half-maddened with grief and rage--for in his heart now each sentiment had a share--he sprang wildly to the window, and gazed downward at the terrace. Heaven knows what terrible thoughts ebbed and flowed within him as he looked! Life had little to attract him to it; his heart was well-nigh broken; a reckless indifference was momentarily gaining on him; and he crept farther and farther out upon the window-sill, till he seemed almost to hang over the depth beneath him. He wanted to remember a prayer, to recall some words of a litany he had often recited, but in his troubled brain, where confusion reigned supreme, no memory could prevail; thoughts came and went, clashing, mingling, conflicting, like the storm-tossed sea in a dark night, and already a stupid and fatalist indifference dulled his senses, and one only desire struggled with him--a wish for rest!

Once more, with an effort, he raised his eyes toward the mountain side.

The little procession was still ascending, and nigh the top. At a short distance behind, however, he could see Marietta standing and looking apparently toward Florence. Was it that she was thus taking a last farewell of him, muttering, among some broken words of affection, some blessing upon him! A sudden thrill of joy--it was hope--darted through him as he gazed; and now bending over, he perceived that the steep wall beneath the window was broken by many a projection and architrave, the ma.s.sive pediment of a large window projecting far, about six feet from where he sat. Could he gain this he might descend by the column which supported it, and reach a great belt of stonework that ran about fifteen feet from the ground, and whence he might safely venture to drop. If there was peril to life in every step of this dangerous exploit, there was, in the event of success, a meeting once more with Marietta--a meeting never to part again. Whatever the reasons for having deserted him he was determined to overbear. Some one must have calumniated him: he would meet the slander. Marietta herself would do him justice; he would soon show her that the pa.s.sing vision of ambition had no hold upon his heart, that he only cared for her, wished for nothing beyond their own wayward life. As he thus reasoned, he tore his mantle into long strips, which he twisted and knotted together, testing its strength till a.s.sured that it would bear his weight. He then fastened one end to the window-bars, and grasping the cord in both hands, he prepared to descend. Could he but gain the pediment in this wise, the rest of the descent would not be difficult.

With one fervent prayer to Her whose protection he had learned to implore from very infancy, he glided softly from the window-sill and began the descent. For a second or two did he grasp the stone ledge with both hands, as if fearing to loose his hold, but at length, freeing one hand and then the other, he gave himself up to the cord. Scarcely had his full weight straightened the rope than the frail texture began to give way; a low sound, as of the fibres tearing, met his ear, and just as his feet touched the pediment the rope snapped in two, and the shock throwing him off his balance, he swayed forward. One inch more and his fate was certain; but his body recovered its equipoise, and he came back to the wall, where he stood motionless, and almost paralysed with terror. The ledge on which he stood, something less than two feet in width, was slightly sloped from the wall, and about forty feet from the ground. To crouch down upon this now and reach the column which supported it was his next task, nor was it till after a long struggle with himself that he could once again peril life by such an attempt.

By immense caution he succeeded in so bending down that he at last gained a sitting position on the ledge, and then, with his face to the wall, he glided over the pediment and grasped one of the columns.

Slipping along this, he arrived at the window-sill, from which the drop to the ground was all that now remained. Strange was it that this latter and easier part of all the danger affrighted him more than all he had gone through. It was as if his overtasked courage was exhausted; as though the daring energy had no more supplies to draw upon; for there he sat, hopelessly gazing at the ground beneath, unable to summon resolution to attempt it.

The brief season between day and dark, the flickering moments of half-light pa.s.sed away, and a night calm and starlit spread over the scene. Except the wild and plaintive cry of an owl from an ivy-clad turret above him, not a sound broke the stillness, and there Gerald sat, stunned and scarce conscious. As darkness closed round him, and he could no longer measure the distance to the ground beneath, the peril of his position became more appalling, and he felt like one who must await the moment of an inevitable and dreadful fate. Already a sense of weariness warned him that at the slightest stir he might lose his balance, and then what a fate--mutilation perhaps, worse than any death! If he could maintain his present position till day broke, it was certain he must be rescued. Solitary as was the spot, some one would surely pa.s.s and see him, but then, if overcome by fatigue, sleep should seize him--even now a dreary la.s.situde swept over him: oftentimes his eyes would close, and fancies flit across him, that boded the approach of slumber! Tortured beyond endurance by this long conflict with his fears, he resolved, come what might, to try his fate, and, with a shrill cry for mercy upon his soul, he dropped from the ledge.

When the day broke he was there beneath the window, his forehead bleeding and his ankle broken. He had tried to move, but could not, and he waited calmly what fate might befall him. He was now calm and self-confident. The season of struggle was over; the period of sound thought and reflection had begun.

CHAPTER XIX. THE PLAN

When one looks back upon the story of his life, he is sure to be struck by the reflection, that its uneventful periods, its seasons of seeming repose, were precisely those which tended most to confirm his character.

It is in solitude--in the long watches of a voyage at sea--in those watches more painful still, of a sick-bed, that we make up our account with ourselves, own to our short-comings, and sorrow over our faults.

The mental culture that at such seasons we pursue, is equally certain to exercise a powerful influence on us. Out of the busy contest of life--removed, for the moment, from its struggles and ambitions--the soil of our hearts is, as it were, fresh turned, and rapidly matures the new-sown seed we throw upon it. How many date the habits of concentration, by which they have won success in after-life, to the thoughtful hours of a convalescence. It is not merely that isolation and quiet have aided their minds; there is much more in the fact that at such times the heart and the brain work together. Every appeal to reason must be confirmed by a judgment in the higher court of the affections, and out of our emotions as much as out of our convictions do we bend ourselves to believe.

How fresh and invigorated do we come forth from these intervals of peace! less confident, it may be, of ourselves, but far more trustful of others--better pleased with life, and more sanguine of our fellow-men.

And no matter how often we may be deceived or disappointed, no matter how frequently our warmest affections have met no requital, let us cherish this hopeful spirit to the last--let us guard ourselves against doubting! There is no such bankruptcy of the heart as distrust.

Gerald was for weeks long a sufferer on a sick-bed. In a small room of the villa, kindly cared for, all his wants supplied by the directions of his wealthy friends, there he lay, pondering over the wayward accident of his life, and insensibly feeding his heart with the conviction that Fate, which had never failed to befriend him in difficulty, had yet some worthy destiny in store for him. He read unceasingly, and of everything.

The Marquise constantly sent him her books, and what now interested him no less, the newspapers and pamphlets of the time. It was the first real glimpse he had obtained of the actual world about him; and with avidity he read of the ambitions and rivalries which disturbed Europe--the pretensions of this State, the fears and jealousies of that. Stored as his mind was with poetic images, imbued with a rapturous love for the glowing pictures thus presented, he yet hesitated to decide whether the life of action was not a higher and n.o.bler ambition than the wondrous dreamland of imagination.

In the convent Gerald's mind had received its first lessons of religion and morality. His sojourn at the Tana had imparted his earliest advances into the world of knowledge through books, and now his captivity at the 'Camerotto' opened to him a glance of the real world, its stirring scenes, its deep intrigues, and all the incidents of that stormy sea on which men charter the vessels of their hope. Was it that he forgot Marietta? Had pain and suffering effaced her image; had ambition obliterated it? No; she was ever in his thoughts--the most beautiful and most gifted creature he had ever seen. If he read, it was always with the thought, what would she have said of it? If he sank into a reverie, she was the centre round which his dreams revolved. Her large, mild eyes, her glowing cheek, her full lips, tremulous with feeling, were ever before him; and what would he not have given to be her companion again, wandering the world; blending all that was fascinating in poetic description with scenes wayward enough to have been conjured up by fancy! Why had they deserted him? he asked himself over and over. Had the pa.s.sing dispute with Marietta determined her to meet him no more?

And if so, what influence could she have exercised over the others to induce them to take this step? There was but one of whom he could hope to gain this knowledge--Alfieri himself, whose generosity had succoured them, and in the few and brief moments of the poet's visit to the villa he had not courage to venture on the question.

The Marquise came frequently to see him, and seemed pleased to talk with him, and lighten the hours of his solitude by engaging him in conversation. Dare he ask her? Could he presume to inquire, from one so high-born and so great what had befallen his humble comrades of the road? How entreat her to trace their steps, or to learn their plans? Had she, indeed, seen Marietta, there would have been no difficulty in the inquiry. Who could have beheld her without feeling an interest in her fate? Brief, however, as had been his intercourse with great people, he had already marked the tone of indolent condescension with which they treated the lives of the very poor. The pity they gave them cost no emotion: if they sorrowed, it was with a grief that had no pang. Their very generosity had more reference to their own sensations than to the feelings of those they befriended. Already, young as he was, did he catch a glimpse of that deep gulf that divides affluence from misery, and in the bitterness of his grief for her who had left him, he exaggerated the callousness of the rich and the sufferings of the poor.

Every comfort was supplied to him, all that care could bestow, or kindness remember, was around him; and yet, why was it his grat.i.tude flowed not in a pure, unsullied stream, but came with uncertain gushes, fitfully, unequally; now sluggish, now turbid; clogged with many a foul weed, eddying with many an uncertain current!

The poison Gabriel had instilled into his heart, if insufficient to kill its n.o.bler influences, was yet enough to render them unsound. The great lesson of that tempter was to 'distrust,' never to accept a benefit in life without inquiring what subtle design had prompted it, what deep-laid scheme it might denote. 'None but a fool bestows without an object,' was a maxim he had often heard from his lips. Not all the generosity of the youth's nature--and it was a n.o.ble one--could lessen the foul venom of this teaching! To reject it seemed like decrying the wisdom of one who knew life in all its aspects. How could he, a mere boy, ignorant, untravelled, unlettered, place his knowledge of mankind in compet.i.tion with that of one so universally accomplished as Gabriel?

His precepts, too, were uttered so calmly, so dispa.s.sionately--a tone of regret even softened them at times, as though he had far rather have spoken well and kindly of the world, if truth would have suffered him.

And then he would insidiously add: 'Don't accept these opinions, but go out and test them for yourself. The laboratory is before you, experiment at your will.' As if he had not already put corruption in the crucible, and defiled the vessel wherein the ore should be a.s.sayed!

For some days Gerald had seen neither the Count nor the Marquise. A brief note, a few lines, from the latter, once came to say that they continued to take an interest in his welfare, and hoped soon to see him able to move about and leave his room; but that the arrival of a young relative from Rome would probably prevent her being able to visit the Camerotto for some time.

'They have grown weary of the pleasure of benevolence,' thought Gerald peevishly; 'they want some other and more rewarding excitement. The season of the Carnival is drawing nigh, and doubtless fetes and theatres will be more gratifying resources than the patronage of such as I.'

It was in a spirit resentful and rebellious that he arose and dressed himself. The very clothes he had to wear were given him--the stick he leaned on was an alms; and his indignation scoffed at his mendicancy, as though it were a wrong against himself.

'After all,' said he mockingly, 'if it were not that I chanced to resemble some dear prince or other, they had left me to starve. I wonder who my prototype may be: what would he say if I proposed to change coats with him? Should I have more difficulty in performing the part of prince, or he that of vagabond?'

In resentful reflections like this he showed how the seeds of Gabriel's teaching matured and ripened in his heart, darkening hope, stifling even grat.i.tude. To impute to mere caprice, a pa.s.sing whim, the benevolence of the rich was a favourite theory of Gabriel; and if, when Gerald listened first to such maxims, they made little or no impression upon him, now, in the long silent hours of his solitude, they came up to agitate and excite him. One startling ill.u.s.tration Gabriel had employed, that would occur again and again to the boy's mind, in spite of himself.