Orphan of the Rhine 18

THE ORPHAN OF THE RHINE

PART 18

Chapter 5

 

When morn first faintly draws her silver line.

Or Eve's grey clouds descend to drink the wave;

When sea and sky in midnight darkness join.

Still, still he views the parting look she gave.

--ROGERS

Enrico had remained some days at the castle of Lunenburg before he had collected a sufficient degree of fortitude to enable him to endure the idea of quitting it; till the dutiful impulses of his nature directing his harassed thoughts towards his mother, determined him to fix an early day for his departure.

This intention being imparted to his Colonel by letter, who was still resident with his regiment, he began to reason himself into composure, and to mark the limits of his intended route. No places, he believed, were so likely to afford information as the hotels and village inns on the borders of the Rhine, which made him resolve to let none of them escape his enquiries.

Now secretly accusing himself of inattention by this transient delay, and now yielding to apprehensions he could not possibly eradicate, the mind of Enrico endured the most painful conflict; and so acute were his feelings, that it was long before he could assume serenity enough to acquaint Laurette with the day which he had appointed to leave her, and to conjure her never to forget him.

On the evening preceding the time fixed for his journey, he detained her for some hours longer in the saloon than was his custom, inflicting new torment upon himself, by reflecting upon the fleeting nature of his happiness, and the anguish of being compelled to leave her innocent and defenceless beauty exposed to the rigours of a destiny so full of danger; and the melancholy, but not improbable conjecture, that they might meet no more.

These sad presages, which Laurette found it impossible to dispel, she endeavoured to assuage, by representing the causelessness of his surmises, and the indispensible necessity of exercising the virtues of resignation and fortitude.

Enrico listened, and attempted to profit by so bright an example of meekness and patient endurance, internally suffering from disappointment and uneasy apprehensions, yet suffering with the most collected firmness; but though his mind was naturally strong, noble, and vigorous, it required an effort beyond it to bear to leave her alone to contend with the adversities of her fate, without the possibility of his being able to overlook the conduct of those in whose power she was placed, or of investing himself in that authority, which would give her a claim upon his immediate protection.

She had, however, promised to correspond with him, to remember him with the affection of a sister, which recollection, at the same time that it operated as an antidote to his present inquietude, permitted him to look forwards to the future with less regret and solicitude.

On the morning that was to separate him from her, in whose society he enjoyed all the felicity he was capable of experiencing, he arose, pale and unrefreshed by sleep, long before the sun had risen upon the hills that bounded the eastern horizon, and paced as usual, with slow and thoughtful steps, the grand terrace walk, which was under the range of apartments occupied by Laurette, the Signora, and other branches of the family.

None of the domestics being arisen except Ambrose, who had opened him the door of the portico, a deep and universal silence prevailed, disturbed only occasionally by the distant sound of a cataract, the stroke of a wood-cutter, or the distant and mellow tones of a flute, to call the sheep from their nightly folds.

At length the sun emerged gradually from the waters into a clear and cloudless sky, spreading over the whole extent of ether a meek and silvery glow. The grey mists that had dimmed the summits of the mountains, crept slowly into the interstices of the rocks, and the gentle responses of the birds were heard feebly from the neighbouring woods.

With a mind too much absorbed in its own reflections to be able to feel the full force of sylvan beauty, or to listen with pleasure to those simple and rural sounds so dear to the heart of the enthusiast, Enrico continued to walk along the terrace with perturbed and unequal steps, till he was roused from his thoughtfulness by the opening of a casement. He turned--it was Laurette; she did not instantly perceive him, and he retreated a few paces backwards to observe her motions.

She looked pale, and seemed to have been weeping, but her beauty was nothing impaired by the sorrow she appeared to have indulged. A loose robe was negligently thrown over her lovely person, without care or art; it was of the purest white, long, and open at the bosom, displaying to advantage her fine disordered hair, that wandered about her neck loose and unconfined. Her eyes, which were yet filled with tears, were directed towards the heavens, and her thoughts seemed to have ascended with them.

Enrico was at present undistinguished, for he had placed himself behind the spreading branches of a larch, and was sensible only to the charming object of his affection. She sighed, and in the same moment he heard his own name pronounced in a soft and tremulous accent, accompanied by some words too indistinct to be heard. Unable to endure the increasing tenderness that was stealing upon his mind, he sprang forwards from the deep shade that had afforded him concealment, and requested that she would descend, and walk with him in the gardens.

Confused at being thus unexpectedly exposed to the gaze of her lover, she blushed, and drying away the tears that had fallen unrestrainedly upon her cheeks, she forced a smile upon her features, and agreed to meet him at the portal.

Having bound her beautiful locks with a turban, which she usually wore, not because it was authorized by custom, but as it was a mode of dress recommended by Madame Chamont, who imagined that it became her, which was ornamented with a wreath of roses and violets, worked by her own delicate fingers; she threw a thin shade upon her shoulders, and left her apartment.

She met Enrico at the door of the great hall, who was impatiently waiting her arrival; and, on observing with pity the extreme sadness that was depicted upon his countenance, held out her hand to him, and asked him, with a soft yet melancholy smile, if he was ill?

Transported with the tenderness of her manner beyond the powers of expression or utterance, he could only press it eagerly to his lips, and then hold it to his heart, as if he would never part with it again. At length Laurette gently disengaging herself, asked him how long he had been in the gardens, and whether he was inclined to prolong his walk, or to wait in the terrace parlour till the Signora was risen?

'Have you not promised to ramble with me,' returned Enrico, 'and would you deny me a pleasure--' here he paused, 'the last I may ever experience' he would have added, but his voice faltered; and Laurette perceiving his emotions, without attempting a reply, took his offered arm, and walked with him along the lawn.

The door of the pavilion being open, they involuntarily entered it; and proceeding to the last of the apartments that opened into the shrubbery, seated themselves upon a small sofa at the extremity. A large marble table was placed before it, which was scattered over with leaves of music; at one end of it lay a small lute, the property of the Signora, who sometimes, when alone, had resorted thither, that she might be enabled to beguile the moments of solitude with a song.

Laurette took it up, and played a little melancholy air; it was a cantata from Metestasio, but too applicable to her present feelings to bestow the charm of content. It breathed the sorrows of disastrous love; and as she played, 'she waked her own sad tale from every trembling string'.

At the conclusion of it, her lips faltered, the colour forsook her cheek, and forgetting the lesson of fortitude which she had been so lately instilling in to the mind of Enrico, and the resolution she had made to wear, at least, the appearance of it in his presence, she was compelled to lean upon the side of the sofa for support; and tears, which she could no longer suppress, fell in large drops upon the lute.

Enrico, who had been lost to every other circumstance in the harmony of her voice, now thought she had fainted, and would have caught her in his arms; but an effort of fortitude revived her, and disengaging herself from his embrace, she would have spoke to have quieted his fears, but the entrance of Anselmo prevented her. He had been for some time in quest of his master, and finding that the door of the pavilion was unfastened, had ventured to intrude. His business was to inform him that the horses were in readiness, and to know if he had any further commands.

Enrico started as if he had received a summons for death; and after walking to the other end of the apartment with hasty and agitated steps, paused for an instant to recompose his disordered spirits. In a few moments he assumed an appearance of composure, and returning again towards Laurette, who had just risen from the sofa, he fixed his fine eyes upon her's, with a look too expressive to be misunderstood, and then added--

'The moment of separation, which has been long painfully anticipated, is arrived; and nothing but the sweet consolatory hope that I shall still live in your remembrance, could reconcile me to this cruel exile.'

Laurette was unable to reply; and having led her from the pavilion, he reminded her again of her former promises, and, with an aching and oppressed heart, gazed tenderly upon her pale but lovely face, and heard her innocent farewel.

The Signora, who was but just arisen, came forwards to meet them at the outer gate, and wishing Enrico much happiness with the appearance of much sincerity and kindness, he mounted his horse; and, after lingering some time for one more look at the beautiful Laurette, till the white folds of her robe were lost in distance, he left the boundaries of the castle, and pursued his journey.

Overcome with grief for the present, and sorrowful presages for the future, our heroine returned pensively towards the mansion; and being unable to conceal the uneasiness that preyed upon her heart, retired to her apartment, that she might weep, and indulge it in secret. The hope that Enrico would succeed in his enterprize, was too feeble to sustain her; for the length of time that had elapsed since Madame Chamont was forced from the castle, and the many ineffectual measures that had been already employed, promised nothing of success to any future ones that could be adopted. Sometimes she imagined that the Marchese was materially concerned in it; and at others, though many collected circumstances seemed to justify the opinion, she dismissed it, as uncandid and illiberal.

What the Father Benedicta had uttered, agreed but too well with the words of the mysterious Monk, though those of the latter were of more dreadful import; and she remembered and reflected upon them with increasing emotion. That he was the person whom she had seen in the chapel of the ruin, she believed nearly amounted to conviction; both from his dress, the height of his stature, and the attention with which he had regarded them; this, added to the circumstance of his following them, as if to be assured of the exact place of their residence, was sufficient to confirm the suspicion.

It appeared reasonable to suppose, from the former conduct of the Father, that he would loiter about in the evenings, in the hope of meeting with her; but whatever symptoms of curiosity she had formerly betrayed respecting her birth, and of being acquainted with the manner in which he had obtained the possession of the picture, so much of terror was mingled with it, and so little did she believe it would avail her any thing as to her future happiness, to be informed of her birth and connections, since she had no relation to claim, or to protect her, that she resolved rather to avoid than precipitate an interview, which could be productive of no real good, and might possibly augment her uneasiness.

Accustomed from earliest youth to place an unlimited confidence in the wisdom and goodness of Providence, she determined to act in every respect with caution and dignity, and to endure those temporal and unavoidable evils, which are the common lot of humanity, with patient firmness.

Had she not been so strictly enjoined to secrecy as to preclude the advantage arising from the advice and participation of disinterested friendship, she would have met him without reluctance; but thus situated, another conference, even could it have been effected with ease and safety, she was aware might lead to future inquietude and danger; and therefore resolved to take no direct measures to further his scheme, but rather to avoid any future opportunity of conversing with him, unless some succeeding event should make another interview necessary or desirable.

The violent emotions Enrico had betrayed, when he related the conversation that had passed between himself and the pious Carthusian, would have determined her, had she not already by a solemn promise bound herself to perpetual silence upon the subject, not to disclose what she had seen and heard, lest they should confirm his worst and most terrible surmises. From the words of the mysterious Monk she had every thing to fear, and nothing had happened, or was likely to happen, at present, to obviate or remove the painful impressions which they had left upon her mind.

But thus being prepared to encounter calamity, she resolved, if possible, not to yield to its influence; but, by opposing the most vigorous efforts of her fortitude, to endure what could not be remedied, and to gain at least, by her most strenuous endeavours, the applause of her own heart.

The picture which he had delivered, she wore constantly in her bosom, suspended by the small string of brilliants to which it was fastened, though she so entirely concealed it in the folds of her robe, that it could not be perceived.

That it was really the portrait of her mother, was beyond a doubt. The resemblance that it bore to herself she was perfectly aware of, for the mild pensive east of the countenance, the soft cloud upon the brow, the smile that played upon the lip, and the expression of the whole, were too striking to escape the penetration of the most transient observer.

As Laurette fixed her eyes upon the portrait, some portion of her former curiosity returned; she was anxious to be informed of the destiny of her parents, though it was probable they had been long since numbered with the dead. Her tears streamed anew when she reflected upon her hard unhappy lot, the obscurity of her birth, her family (if any of them were still in existence) unknown to her; commanded to beware of the only person whom she had been taught to revere as a protector; deprived of the guardian of her infancy and childhood; and with no human being, except Enrico and the Father Benedicta, to interest themselves in her welfare; and these, from the peculiarity of their situations, precluded from affording immediate assistance, however necessary.

The Signora had indeed hitherto behaved to her with uniform kindness, and she had no reason to apprehend that it was likely to be of short continuance; for she appeared to possess a strong and well-informed mind, a correct judgment, not easily to be led into error, and much feminine grace and softness, which rendered it unlikely that she should be misled by the sophistical arguments of designing falsehood, or be induced to yield to the influence of decided wrong. The pains she had already taken to console and re-assure her, were striking proofs of her friendship; and this being one of the most substantial comforts that her lot afforded, she resolved to endeavour to conciliate her esteem by every gentle attention which her situation allowed.

To this conduct the natural sweetness of her disposition would have directed her, unbiassed by other motives; but she now saw the necessity of securing one friend, at least, in the place destined for her future residence, who might be inclined to assist her on any future emergency.

A gentle tapping at the door roused her from these deep and melancholy reflections, and arising hastily from the side of the bed, on which she had been sitting, she opened it, and beheld the Signora, who being desirous of diverting her thoughts from the subject of her grief, proposed a walk along the grounds. She could not, she added, alluding to her late accident, undertake an extensive ramble beyond the boundaries of the castle; but the day was too fine to be allowed to pass without taking advantage of it, and she hoped she would indulge her with her society, as she was anxious to have her opinion respecting some intended improvements.

Laurette instantly assented, and succeeded so well in the endeavour of tranquillizing her spirits, that she appeared little less animated than usual. The fineness of the weather assisted her efforts; and the vivacity of her companion, who exerted herself to soften the affliction of her friend, tended to comfort and re-assure her.

There was something in the manners of Laurette at once so endearing and fascinating, that no one could be acquainted with her without feeling for her the most lasting affection; she entered with so lively an interest into the joys and sorrows of others, and mingled such an amiable concern with her assiduities, so entirely divested of art or unnatural refinement, that she appeared to the Signora, who had been also schooled in adversity, and whose native levity of disposition had been checked, though not entirely annihilated, by the correcting hand of Misfortune, as one of the most perfect creatures she had ever seen. The amiable sentiment she had conceived for her fair young friend, induced her to dwell upon the affecting incidents of her past life, which she had before briefly and imperfectly related, and upon the remembrance of those sorrows, which time had softened, but not thoroughly erased; that, by convincing her that she was not singularly unfortunate, she might teach her to endure her calamities with patience, and convince her also of the possibility of finally triumphing over them.

By a long course of useful and extensive reading, united to an uncommon strength of memory, she was enabled to recollect many anecdotes in real life, and many passages from the most polished writers and historians of the age, which made her not only an entertaining, but an intelligent companion, every way formed to engage the affections of our heroine, and to deserve her confidence.

Having wandered for some time through the lawns and shrubberies, and taken a general survey of the improvements, they discontinued their walk; and music, conversation, and other innocent amusements shortened the cares and fatigues of the day. In the evening, Laurette avoided taking her accustomed stroll, lest she should see her ghostly visitor, whom she determined, for the present at least, sedulously to avoid, since so little comfort could be expected from intelligence which she was not permitted to disclose.

Chapter 6

 

Nor peace, nor ease that heart can know.

Which, like the needle true.

Turns at the touch of joy or woe.

But, turning, trembles too.

--GREVILLE

Some weeks passed before Laurette heard from Enrico, and being alarmed at this delay, she became anxious and dispirited; sometimes fearing that the warmth of his disposition had led him into some dangerous enterprize, and at others, that he was ill, or had met with some unexpected obstacle in his pursuit. She was at last, however, relieved from this painful suspense by a letter bearing his signature, which contained no other unpleasant intelligence than that he had been at present unsuccessful in his enquiries, though he was not yet without hopes of obtaining the welcome information; and concluded with desiring that she would write to him immediately, and relate every thing that had happened.

She had stepped into an anti-chamber to read the epistle, and was deeply engaged in the perusal of it, when the trampling of hoofs drew her attention towards the window, and she perceived in the gloom of the evening, for it was nearly dark, two men on horseback advancing towards the gate. In one of them she imagined she recognized the person of Paoli; but the dim grey of the twilight prevented her from being certain that she was right in her conjecture, till she heard him call loudly for Ambrose, and then saw him alight from his horse, and, attended by a stranger, whom she believed to be one of the inferior servants belonging to the Castello St Aubin, cross the second court, and enter the private door, where she had gained admittance on her arrival.

The return of Paoli, thus suddenly and unexpectedly, to the castle, indicated, she supposed, the approach of his Lord; and willing to be assured of the truth of the conjecture, she gained the top of the stairs, meaning to descend and inform herself of the whole, when an universal trembling seized her, and being unable to proceed, she leaned upon the spiral balustrade, in that state of breathless suspense which frequently precedes some new and much-dreaded event. Soon afterwards she heard a passing footstep in the hall, and saw through the iron rails, over which she bent, the Signora ascending the foot of the stairs. Knowing that she would afford her the gratification she desired, Laurette returned to the room she had quitted, and seating herself on a small settee by the fire, endeavoured to prepare herself for what might happen.

The looks of the Signora as she entered, announced some hasty intelligence, and before Laurette had power to request to be made acquainted with the nature of it, she was told that the Marchese was already within a day's journey of the castle, and meant to reach it on the following day; that he had sent his steward and one of the inferior servants to apprize them of his intention, that all things might be in readiness for his reception, and was proceeding on his way with all imaginable speed.

Though this was little more than Laurette expected, the moment she was assured it was Paoli, the certainty that the Marchese was really upon the road, and already so near the end of his journey, almost overcame her; and she turned suddenly so pale, that the Signora was compelled to throw open the casement, and to lead her towards the window. In a few minutes she revived; and after thanking her amiable companion for her attention, consented to walk into the air.

Leaning upon the arm of her friend, she descended slowly the marble stair-case, and crossing the hall, stood for a few minutes at the portico, surveying the placid face of the heavens, illuminated with innumerable stars, and then proceeded along the court. When she had passed through the great gate, she turned a fearful and enquiring eye amid the trees of the avenues, expecting every moment to see the white robes of the Monk glaring among the dark branches of the fir or the mountain-ash, and fancying she heard the deep tones of his voice in the hollow murmurs of the wind, amid the faded and almost leafless woods.

A small repast was prepared for them on their return, of which Laurette scarcely partook, and soon afterwards retired to her bed. The night was spent in broken and uneasy slumbers, the intervals of repose were short and disturbed, and the visions of her sleep were confused and terrible. Unrefreshed by this transient respite from real calamity, and unable to gain any comfortable repose, she arose by the dim light of early morning, and amused herself for some hours in her apartment, with reading that fine, melting, and descriptive kind of poetry, for which the bards of Italy are so highly and justly celebrated.

A summons for breakfast broke in upon her solitude, and descending into the breakfast-room, she was received by the Signora with more than her accustomed tenderness, who mingled the most refined compassion with her solicitude; and after a short consolatory address, which was delivered with the most attractive gentleness, besought her to rely upon her friendship, which she might rest assured would never be withdrawn from her, but should be ever exerted most sedulously for her security and happiness.

Laurette could only answer with her tears, for her heart was too full for utterance, and her gratitude far beyond the powers of expression.

The day was passed, as usual, in a variety of simple occupations, but with less tranquillity than many of the preceding ones; and towards the close of it, our heroine being in hourly expectation of the arrival of the Marchese, repaired to an anti-chamber adjoining the Signora's apartment, where she frequently passed many hours in the morning, in reading, drawing, embroidery, or other works of taste and fancy.

As she was amusing herself in the arrangement of some books that were placed in a recess in the wall, she discovered, amongst the rest, a manuscript volume bound in black, the property of the Signora, containing a number of Poems written by herself, chiefly of the elegiac kind, from which she selected the two following little pieces of poetry, apparently composed by the Signora in her affliction, after the loss of Lorenzo d'Orso and her infant son.

TO DEATH

Hail, awful Power, no human heart denies.

Who com'st unsought for, and when ask'd, denies;

Thou, who did'st give this bosom ceaseless woe.

Repress the tears which thou hast taught to flow.

Was 't not enough, with direful hand, to wrest

A beauteous infant from a mother's breast;

But must a husband, and a father, feel

Thy arm, relentless as the murderer's steel?

When first, Oh Tyrant! thy sad work began.

How thro' my veins the thrilling horror ran;

Awhile entranc'd in speechless grief I lay.

This heart forgot to beat, each pulse to play.

Till ling'ring, near her home, the vital flame

Faintly revisited her mortal frame;

These eyes, reluctant, met the op'ning light.

And long'd for slumbers of eternal night.

Oh! thou, at once the foe and friend of man.

In pity finish what thy rage began.

Oh! come, I hail thee now a welcome guest.

And with thee bring that long-sought stranger, Rest.

I ask no strains of elegiac woe.

No pensive tear on my cold urn to flow;

But young Delight shall clap his cherub wing.

And soft-ey'd virgins Hymeneals sing.

With freshest flowers shall strew the gladsome way.

And choral music melt on every spray;

Their vestal hands my hallow'd tomb prepare.

Whilst sounds celestial float upon the air.

When loosen'd from her mean companion, clay.

The soul, exulting, wings her heavenly way;

Quicker than thought, through constellations flies.

Leaves the gross air, and anchors in the skies.

Ah! come, Lorenzo, from thy bright abode.

Smooth the rude path, and lead me to my God!

Descend in all thy blaze of heavenly charms.

New woo me now to thy celestial arms;

Prepare thy roseate seats, seraphic bowers.

Nectarious sweets, and never fading flowers.

Fancy presents thy beauteous image now.

The amaranthus blooming on thy brow.

Whose varied tints surpass the Tyrian hues.

Sweeter than perfume of Arabian dews.

When the bright God of Day retires to rest.

And softly sinks on Ocean's silver breast;

When hush'd in night the stormy winds are laid.

And gentle moon-beams tremble through the shade;

If yet thy Emma claims thy guardian care.

In slumbers soft, etherial whispers bear;

Hush the rude tumults of each rising sigh.

And wrap my soul in visionary joy.

SONNET

Ah! why, sweet Philomel, that plaintive song.

Why dost thou shun the day star's glitt'ring light.

To mourn, unseen, the woodland glades among.

And tune thy vesper to the Queen of night?

Art thou too widow'd? has relentless Fate.

From thy fond breast, thy sweet companion tore?

Does faithful Memory every charm relate.

And tell of raptures thou must know no more?

If such thy woes, sweet bird, ah! yet again

Pour through the shades of Eve the liquid strain;

Still dwell like me, on long-regretted hours.

Till Morn, bright sparkling through the murky gloom.

Sheds on the zephyrs' wing her wild perfume.

And wakes, to light and life, the op'ning flowers.

The distant rolling of a carriage at last announced the approach of the Marchese; and, in a state of mind that partook of terror, Laurette advanced towards the lattice, and in the same moment beheld a splendid chariot stop suddenly at the gate, and soon afterwards the Marchese alight. The dusk of the evening, for it was past twilight, prevented her from distinguishing his figure, any otherwise than that he was tall, and appeared stately.

He did not address any of the domestics that were crowded about to receive him, except Paoli, and then walked silently through the courts.

She now waited impatiently for the Signora, anxiously listening to every approaching footstep till near an hour had elapsed, when she ventured into the corridor to listen if she could hear her voice.

An universal stillness seemed to prevail through the castle, except in that part of it which was inhabited by the servants, from which a loud and coarse laugh occasionally proceeded. At last the long-expected step was heard ascending the spiral stair-case, and Laurette, overjoyed to be released from this state of inquietude, sprang forwards to meet her beloved friend, and to ask if any enquiries had been made relative to herself.

'My Lord,' returned the Signora, 'being fatigued and indisposed, means to retire early to his room. He has mentioned you, but has not intimated a desire of being introduced to you this evening; you may therefore compose yourself, my dear friend, and be assured you have nothing to fear. In the morning I shall be enabled to give you some further information upon the subject, and in the mean time I request you will endeavour to fortify your mind, and not allow yourself to yield to imaginary distresses.'

The Signora was in fact unacquainted with the principal cause of her uneasiness, and consequently was not capable of forming a judgment upon the matter; but her valuable advice was not lost upon Laurette, who always endeavoured to profit by the virtuous precepts and examples of others, which she always received with gratitude, and beheld with admiration.

Thankful for this temporary release, and re-assured by the words of the Signora, the night passed with less agitation than the preceding one; and having yielded to the sweet influence of undisturbed repose, she awoke more refreshed and tranquillized than before, and after offering up her meek and plaintive devotions, waited patiently for the Signora, who promised to visit her in the morning, and to breakfast with her at the accustomed hour.

She entered at the appointed time, and observed, with pleasure, that Laurette appeared less dejected than when she saw her last; and that she was able to converse with ease, though not with vivacity, upon indifferent subjects.

A summons for the casiera to attend upon the Marchese in the saloon, put an end to all farther discourse; and Laurette requesting that she would return to her as soon as she was again at leisure, remained in her room, occasionally amusing herself with reading, drawing, or in taking a survey of the rich and glowing landscape from one of the balconies.

The Signora found the Marchese busily employed in looking over some papers, which had been delivered to him by his steward, which he laid aside as soon as she entered, and politely offered her a chair. After some general conversation, concerning the furniture and recent improvements at the castle, he asked carelessly about Laurette, if she seemed satisfied with her new situation, or lamented being removed from the Castle of Elfinbach; and then, without waiting for an answer, reverted to the former subject, and enquired how she had disposed of the paintings and other ornamental effects; and then proposed taking a view of the whole range of apartments, that he might give some directions concerning them.

The greater part of the day was passed by the Signora in attending upon her Lord, who was apparently highly gratified with her judgment and taste; though she seized every interval of leisure, and dedicated it to the society of her lovely friend, who now determined to confine herself to her chamber, till the Marchese should intimate a desire to see her; secretly wishing that moment might never arrive, which had been so long anticipated with terror. Thus devoted to solitude and silence, she employed her time in writing to Enrico, frequently destroying what she had written, lest it should increase his uneasiness; and then beginning other letters, and throwing them aside, because as little to her satisfaction as the former ones.

Towards the evening she entered again into the balcony, and saw, at the farthest extent of the terrace, the Marchese in conversation with Paoli. They were a considerable distance from her apartment, but being unwilling to be seen by them, she retired; and closing the casement, stood for some minutes leaning pensively over the back of a chair, which was placed directly under the windows, contemplating the fine features of nature, and the beautiful variety of objects it commanded, till she saw them descend from the terrace, (which, after extending the whole length of the edifice, wound round the western turret, and then terminated in a gentle slope); then ascending a winding path, hewn in the rock below, which was shaded from her view by thick groves of fir, acacia, and pomegranate, they glided into obscurity.

The Marchese, from this transient survey, seemed to be listening to the discourse of his steward with much deference and attention, whilst Paoli talked much; though, from distance, she could only distinguish a faint murmur, which was accompanied with much eagerness of gesticulation.

As soon as they were gone, she retired from the window, and, stirring up the almost decayed embers, sat down by the fire, and endeavoured to finish her epistle; but it was nearly dark, and being compelled to defer it for the present, she resolved to conclude it on the following day.

In about an hour the Signora returned to her room, with a message from the Marchese, who desired to see her immediately, as he was waiting to receive her in one of the lower apartments.

Knowing the necessity of obeying him, and having been in continual expectation of a similar address, she summoned all her spirits to her aid, and prepared to comply with the command.

They found him in one of the saloons, lounging carelessly upon a sofa, with a book in his hand, which he appeared to be reading so attentively that he either did not, or affected not, instantly to observe them. The Signora's voice, however, roused him from his abstraction, and fixing his eyes upon Laurette, with a look expressive of surprise, he arose involuntarily as they advanced, and led her to a seat. A silence of some moments ensued, which none seemed disposed to interrupt, proceeding rather from embarrassment than any other cause, till the Marchese, with many symptoms of confusion, began to make an enquiry concerning the old castle she had quitted; at the same time avoiding making any mention of Madame Chamont, and then suddenly changing the discourse, as if fearful it might lead to a subject that would be entered upon with reluctance.

If he was charmed with the beautiful form of Laurette, which, though pale with apprehension and terror, was infinitely more charming than any thing his imagination could have portrayed, he was not less so with her manners; and the silent admiration with which he regarded her, though it tended to heighten her distress, increased the natural loveliness of her person.

Susceptible even to weakness, the mind of the Marchese became entirely absorbed in the contemplation of so much delicacy and sweetness, which no recent hint had prepared him to expect; and as he continued to observe her with an earnestness that evinced the power of her attractions, he soon became insensible to every other object.

Anxious to put an end to an interview, rendered painful by embarrassment, Laurette arose soon afterwards, and would have withdrawn; but this the Marchese so ardently opposed, that she was compelled to relinquish the design, and to return, though reluctantly, to her seat. There was something in her appearance and demeanour so different from what his imagination had suggested, that he continued to gaze upon her with augmenting surprise. But what was his astonishment when that timid reserve, that retiring delicacy, which had hitherto veiled many natural perfections, being now in some degree conquered, she discovered what had only been transiently obscured, a highly cultivated and accomplished mind, whose strength, softness, and elegance gave power and energy to beauty. How much unlike the poor, unpatronized, neglected orphan, which his fancy had delineated; nurtured in solitude, and consigned early to grief and misfortune, with a mind unstored with virtuous principles, and features marked with no other expression than that of dissatisfaction and regret, perhaps with rustic coarseness and vulgarity.

Nor was the interesting person of the Signora d'Orfo, or the polished ease of her manners, unobserved or beheld with indifference, so little expected in the humble capacity in which she had engaged; and, as conversation awakened the powers of her mind, her superiority over the greater part of her sex was so striking, that he resolved almost instantaneously to make a companion of her, as well as of Laurette, whom he now began to reflect upon with increasing partiality.

When the supper hour drew near, the casiera, not forgetting the humility of her station, arose to depart; but the Marchese prevented her design, by desiring that she would continue with him the evening, which request he concluded by ordering a repast to be immediately prepared in an adjoining room.

This was a proposal which contained too flattering a proof of her Lord's esteem and condescension to be received without pleasure; and had she been disposed to have rejected it, the expressive look conveyed by her lovely young friend, would have counteracted the intention. Being again seated, she joined in the conversation, which now became general, with more than her accustomed vivacity; and Laurette, though somewhat chagrined at not being permitted to retire when she ventured to make the attempt, being considerably re-assured by the Signora's continuance in the party, insensibly lost much of her reserve, and though her lovely countenance retained the same pensiveness of expression, it was occasionally enlivened with smiles, and lighted up with intelligence.

As an Italian and a woman of birth, the Signora was acquainted with several families of consequence in Italy, which were personally known to the Marchese. This circumstance led to much unreserved communication, and the frankness and ease with which she delivered her sentiments, entirely divested of that servile kind of fear which frequently accompanies conscious inferiority, so exalted her in his estimation, that his behaviour was at once attentive and respectful.

After having partaken of a slight but elegant repast, with the addition of some dried Italian fruits, by way of dessert, the ladies were allowed to retire, but not without first promising to breakfast with the Marchese on the following day.

As soon as they had quitted the room, the Signora could not forbear speaking of her Lord in the highest and most respectful terms, and awaited impatiently Laurette's opinion upon the subject, who confessed he was more agreeable and condescending than she expected to have found him; but it was easy to discover that her former prejudices were not entirely removed, and, though she acquiesced in the sentiments of her friend, her apprehensions relative to his future conduct were not dissipated.

To be continued

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