Volume Ii Part 8 (2/2)

So there is no time to be lost in execution of my plan. The Favancourts are expected here to-morrow, on their way to Naples. The very thought of their coming is misery to me. How I dread the _persiflage_ of the beauty ”_en vogue;_” the heartless raillery that is warmed by no genial trait; the spiritless levity that smacks neither of wit nor buoyant youth, but is the mere coinage of the salons! How I dread, too, lest Lucy should imitate her! she so p.r.o.ne to catch up a trait of manner, or a trick of gesture! And Lady Blanche can make herself fascinating enough to be a model. To hear once more the dull recital of that world's follies that I have left, its endless round of tiresome vice, would be a heavy infliction. Alas, that I should have gained no more by my experience than to despise it! But stay--I see Sir Howard yonder, near the lake.

Now for my project!

CHAPTER VII. _La Spezzia_

Another month, or nearly so, has elapsed since last I opened this book; and now, as I look back, I feel like a convict who has slept soundly during the night before his doom, and pa.s.sed in forgetful-ness the hours he had vowed to thought and reflection. I was reading Victor Hugo's ”Dernier Jour d'un Cond.a.m.ne” last evening, and falling asleep with it in my hand, traced out in my dreams a strange a.n.a.logy between my own fate and that of the convicted felon. The seductions and attractions of life crowding faster and faster round one as we near the gate of death--the redoubled anxieties of friends, their kinder sympathies--how delightful would these be if they did not suggest the wish to live! But, alas!

the sunbeam lights not only the road before us, but that we have been travelling also, and one is so often tempted to look back and linger! To understand this love of life, one must stand as I do now; and yet, who would deem that one so lonely and so desolate, so friendless and alone, would care to live? It is so, however: sorrow attaches us more strongly than joy; and the world becomes dearer to us in affliction as violets give out their sweetest odours when pressed.

Let me recall something of the last few weeks, and remember, if I can, why and how I am here alone. My last written sentence was dated ”Como, the 29th October,” and then comes a blank--now to fill it up.

Sir Gordon Howard was standing near the lake as I came up with him, nor was he aware of my approach till I had my hand on his arm. Whether that I had disturbed him in a moment of deep thought, or that something in my own sad and sickly face impressed him, I know not, but he did not speak, and merely drawing my arm within his own, we wandered along the waters edge. We sauntered slowly on till we came to a little moss-house, with stone benches, where, still in silence, we sat down. It belonged to the Villa d'Este, and was one of those many little ornamental buildings that were erected by that most unhappy Princess, whose broken heart would seem inscribed on every tree and rock around.

To me the aspect of the spot, lovely as it is, has ever been a.s.sociated with deep gloom. I never could tread the walks, nor sit to gaze upon the lake from chosen points of view, without my memory full of her who, in her exile, pined and suffered there. I know nothing of her history, save what all others know; I am neither defender nor apologist--too humble and too weak for either. I would but utter one cry for mercy on a memory that still is dearly cherished by the poor who dwelt around her, and by whom she is yet beloved.

Whatever were Sir Gordon's thoughts, it was clear the few efforts he made to converse were not in accordance with them. The rumours of disturbance in Switzerland--the increasing watchfulness on the Lombard frontier--the growing feeling of uncertainty where and how far this new discord might extend--these he spoke of, but rather as it seemed to mask other themes, than because they were uppermost in his mind.

”We must think of leaving this,” said he, after a brief pause. ”'Where to?' is the question. How would Genoa agree with _you?_”

”With _me!_ Let there be no question of _me_.”

”Nay, but there must,” said he, eagerly. ”Remember, first of all, that we are now independent of Climate, at least of all that this side of the Alps possesses; and, secondly, bethink you that _you_ are the pilot that weathered the storm for us.”

”Happily, then,” said I, laughing, or endeavouring to laugh, ”I may sing,--

'The waves are laid, My duties paid.'

I must seek out some harbour of refuge and be at rest.'”

”But with us, Templeton--always with us,” said the old man, affectionately.

”Upon one condition, Sir Gordon--short of that I refuse.”

I fear me, that in my anxiety to subdue a rising emotion I threw into these words an accent of almost stern and obstinate resolution; for as he replied, ”Name your condition,” his own voice a.s.sumed a tone of cold reserve.

It was full a minute before I could resume; not only was the subject one that I dreaded to approach from fear of failure, but I felt that I had already endangered my chance of success by the inopportune moment of its introduction. Retreat was out of the question, and I went on. As much to give myself time for a little forethought, as to provide myself with a certain impulse for the coming effort, as leapers take a run before they spring, I threw out a hasty sketch of the late events of my life before leaving England, and the reasons that induced me to come abroad. ”I knew well,” said I, ”better far than all the skill of physicians could teach, that no chance of recovery remained for me; Science had done its utmost: the machine had, however, been wound up for the last time--its wheels and springs would bear no more. Nothing remained, then, but to economise the hours, and let them glide by with as little restriction as might be.

There was but one alloy to this plan--its selfishness; but when may a man practise egotism so pardonably as when about to part with what comprises it?

”I came away from England, then, with that same sentiment that made the condemned captain beg he might be bled to death rather than fall beneath the axe. I would, if possible, have my last days and hours calm and unruffled, even by fear--little dreaming how vain are all such devices to cheat one's destiny, and that death is never so terrible as when life becomes dear. Yes, my friend, such has been my fate; in the calm happiness of home here--the first time I ever knew the word's true meaning--I learned to wish for life, for days of that peaceful happiness where the present is tempered by the past, and hope has fewer checks, because it comes more chastened by experience. You little thought, that in making my days thus blissful my sorrow to part with them would be a heavy recompense.... Nay, hear me out; words of encouragement only increase my misery--they give not hope, they only awaken fresh feelings of affection, so soon to be cold for ever.”

How I approached the subject on which my heart was set I cannot now remember--abruptly, I fear; imperfectly and dubiously I know: because Sir Gordon, one of the most patient and forbearing of men, suddenly interrupted me by a violent exclamation, ”Hold! stay! not a word more!

Templeton, this cannot be; once for all, never recur to this again!”

Shocked, almost terrified by the agitation in his looks, I was unable to speak for some seconds; and while I saw that some misconception of my meaning had occurred, yet, in the face of his prohibition, I could scarcely dare an attempt to rectify it. While I remained thus in painful uncertainty, he seemed, by a strong effort, to have subdued his emotion, and at length said, ”Not even to you, my dear friend--to you, to whom I owe the hope that has sustained me for many a day past, can I reveal the secret source of this sorrow, nor say why what you propose is impossible. I dreaded something like this--I foresaw how it might be; nay, my selfishness was such that I rejoiced at it, for her sake.

There--there, I will not trust myself with more. Leave me, Templeton; whatever your griefs, they are as nothing compared to mine.”

I left him, and, hastening towards the lake side, soon lost myself in the dark groves of chestnut and olive, the last words still ringing in my ears--”Whatever your griefs, they are as nothing compared to mine.”

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