CHAPTER XLIII.

ROSALIA’S WANDERINGS.

“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough hew them as we will.” SHAKSPEARE.

I do not know how _you_ feel, but I am fatigued with chasing up and down the world, from Maryland to the Mediterranean, and from the Balize to the Bosphorus, my eccentric set of people, who have exploded in their passion and blown themselves to the four winds of Heaven! I feel like an admiral at sea with a squadron, in which _each_ ship is in a mutiny, and _all_ in a storm—or like a shepherdess with a very short crook, a very wild watch-dog, and a very unruly flock.

And now I must leave the ninety-and-nine in the wilderness, and go after the one that is lost—our pet-lamb, Rosalia—who, if she has escaped the wolf, has withal wandered too far from the fold in going out of sight.

Upon the evening of her arrival at Genoa, Rosalia had been shown into her chamber, had been assisted off with her travelling dress by the chambermaid, had been supplied with some warm water for bathing; and then, at her own request, had been left alone. Finding herself in solitude, she had taken a pencil and paper, and traced the lines of her farewell letter to Raymond Withers. Then like one in a dream, driven by one force, the instinct of flight from Raymond, led by one attraction, the wish for distance and sleep, she began her hasty preparations for escape. Selecting from her wardrobe a dress that Raymond had never seen her wear, and therefore would be unable to describe, one also that would attract the least possible attention, and in which she would be able to glide, spirit-like and unobserved, through the gloaming—namely, a black velvet pelisse, black beaver bonnet, and black lace veil—she arrayed herself, and taking her guitar, with a vague idea of its being serviceable to her, she opened her door and looked cautiously out. It was the hour of dinner throughout the house, and the servants were all away from this division of the establishment. She hurried cautiously down the stairs, watching her opportunity, and eluding observation now by passing vacant galleries, now by gliding through a crowd of busy and hurrying waiters, she escaped from the house and stepped out into the street—into a broad, grand, spacious street, built up on either side with princely palaces, so magnificent that any one of them might have been considered the chief ornament of any other city. Terrified, almost crushed by the stupendous magnificence around her, the timid girl hurried through the stately streets of the gorgeous city, “Genoa the Proud,” as it has been styled for its grandeur. Hurrying along under the shadows of the palaces, gliding through the crowds of lazzaroni, the poor, frightened girl approached the north-western rampart. She met many country people coming through the gates, with tall baskets of fruit upon their heads, and in the crowd that was passing _into_ the city, she passed _out_ unchallenged and unnoticed. She found herself upon the high road leading through the plains, through the forest, and lastly through a defile of the Appenines to the city of Parma. She went on.

The sun had set before she had emerged from the city, and now as she went up the pleasant road, bordered by beautiful herbage and fragrant flowers, by citron and orange groves, the soft and purple evening of Italy, with its clear sky and brilliant stars, was around her. The delicious coolness of the atmosphere stole all the heat from her veins as she wandered on. There seemed something in the air, or the ground, that strengthened her, for as she walked, her faintness and languor left her, and peace fell into her heart and all around her. Oh, yes! it must have been the pure air,—the fresh earth,—the hum of insects,—the hushed flutterings of birds’ wings, as they settled on their nests,—the distant murmur of the bay, and the nearer whisper of the breeze—in other words, the influence of nature, the mercy of God that was quieting her excited nerves, cooling her burning fever and composing her stormy bosom. True that she _knew_ she was a delicate, a houseless, friendless, penniless, and helpless wanderer in a strange country—she _knew_ this, but somehow she could not _feel_ it! She only felt the delicious influence of the evening air. A great deal of the anguish she had experienced at parting with Raymond had been expended in the passionate letter she had written, in the passionate tears she had shed. The gathered force of the storm had burst and was over! She was now refreshed. Instead of fainting on the road at every step she took, coolness and strength seemed to strike up from the living earth through her feet, passing into all her limbs. And it seemed to her childish fancy that in the low music of the insects, of the waters and the winds, she heard the angels whisper, “Come along! come along! be a good girl! we are with you!” and she toiled on, _led_ on, not knowing where, until the road declined and narrowed into a deep, cool, green forest dell, when, overpowered by a delicious drowsiness, she lay down to sleep. She did not feel alone or wretched—it was strange, but she did _not_. Nature seemed to embrace her in a loving, maternal, _conscious_ embrace; God seemed bending over her in blessing. She lay down in the green and growing leaves that seemed to close over her like kindred arms. She fancied in her dreamy, sleepy half-consciousness, that the leaves which kissed her cheek _knew_ what they were doing—that the large, bright, solitary star that gazed at her through the overhanging foliage, _loved_ as it watched her; only half awake, she stretched her hand up towards it, gratefully smiled, dropped her arms, and fell asleep!—into a sweet, healthful sleep, and dreamed a heavenly dream. She saw the Heath, the bay, and the river. The heath no longer a desert, but covered with fields of waving grain and pastures, that fed flocks of sheep and droves of kine. She saw the forest glittering green in morning dew, and the river flowing brightly on to the bay that flashed in the morning sun. She saw the Hall, no more a ruin, but rebuilt upon the old model—an imposing, yet beautiful villa of white freestone, with verandas running all around it; with vines twined about its pillars; with birds singing in their leaves, and children sporting under their shade. She saw Hagar in the high, bright bloom of health and happiness. She saw Raymond seated at his wife’s side, with one arm enfolding her form; she saw or _felt_ herself seated at their feet, her head reposing upon Hagar’s lap, and Raymond’s sedative, white fingers running through her ringlets; and she knew that she loved them _both_ well enough to give her life for them, nor could she distinguish any difference in the affection she bore to either. Her heart was filling and rising with a strange joy; she awoke. What was before her? The sky of Italy still bent above her—the bright star still looked down through the foliage upon her,—the flowers and herbs of Italy still bloomed around her—the high road to Parma lay before her,—but what was on that road? A group of men with torches, bending over her. She gazed in startled wonder for a moment,—she was awake and conscious again!—an unpardoned sinner—a fugitive and a wanderer far from her native country. Were these grim-looking men with torches come in pursuit of her, and would they carry her back to Genoa? or were they a band of the dreadful banditti that, inhabiting the fastnesses of the Appenines, sometimes poured down in hordes, scourging the country with fire and sword, even to the city gates? Quick as lightning all this flashed through her brain, and she fainted from terror before the tones of a very sweet voice from a carriage on the high road could reassure her, in the following question, apparently addressed to the men around her—

“What is it, Signor Guillio?”

“A woman, a young lady, I should judge, your Highness.”

“_A young lady?_”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“Is she hurt?”

“I’m afraid so, madam! I am nearly sure that the carriage wheels passed over her limb, and that she has fainted from the pain.”

“Oh, I am _very_ sorry!—but how could she have come there? and how very careless to drive over her. Signora Morchero, will you have the kindness to alight and examine into the extent of the mischief done?”

A lady now descended from the carriage, and stepping up to the recumbent form of the fainting girl, stooped and examined her—noticing the richness of her dress, the rareness of her beauty, the delicacy of her hands and feet, and the highbred expression of every lineament while trying to discover where she might have received injury.

“Will you not examine her limbs, to see if they have been fractured, Signora?” again inquired or rather commanded the voice from the carriage.

The lady bent down, and feeling her ankles, arose again and said—

“Her limbs are not fractured, madam, I think, and the obstruction that the wheels passed over may have been only her guitar; still she is in a swoon.”

“This is very extraordinary—what does she look like?”

“She has the appearance of a young person of rank.”

“Signor Guillio, give me your hand—I wish to alight,” said the lady in the carriage.

The gentleman, who held a torch, passed it to a page, and went up to the vehicle, reverently assisting the lady to descend from her carriage. Leaning on his arm, she approached the prostrate girl; bidding the page hold the torch lower and nearer her face, the lady examined her features attentively. She seemed struck,—deeply interested. Indeed, it was a strange, beautiful picture, upon which no one could look with indifference; the lovely, snowy face, with its delicate Grecian profile, half-shaded by the luxuriant tresses of bright golden hair, and both thrown out into strong relief by the black velvet dress and the dark green pillow of leaves.

“Lift her up, Signor Guillio, and place her in the hindmost carriage, with our page and tirewoman; lift her gently,” said the lady, “we cannot leave her here.”

The gentleman obeyed; but just as he raised her in his arms, Rosalia opened her eyes; she shuddered and closed them again in fear; but the lady addressed her in a soothing tone, and she looked up once more.

“You have lost your way, probably, young lady?”

Rosalia looked up into the lady’s gentle face—she understood Italian imperfectly, so she answered in the affirmative, not knowing what else to say.

“Are you hurt?” inquired the lady.

Rosalia replied that she was not.

“Were you going on to Parma?”

Again, in her surprise and uncertainty, Rosalia replied affirmatively.

“Then we can take you there,” said the lady, and turning again to the gentleman whom she had addressed as Signor Guillio, she said—

“Put her into the carriage with the Signora Bianca, and let us proceed on our journey; it is late, and the air is chill.”

Signor Guillio assisted the girl to arise, and, lifting her guitar, led her on to a plain, dark carriage, that, standing some yards behind the foremost one, was out of sight from the spot on which she had been lying. Lifting and placing her in it, he merely said to the occupant already there—

“A traveller, Signora, whom the Grand Duchess has picked up, and intends carrying on with her to Parma,” and handing in the guitar, he closed the door, and returned to the carriage of the lady, who had already resumed her seat. The party moved on.

The carriages rolled on. Rosalia seemed to herself to be still sleeping, still dreaming. Nay, _this_ position seemed more unreal than the dream from which she had been awakened. At length she said to her silent, and sulky, or weary companion—

“Will you have the goodness to inform me, Signora, to whom I am indebted for this kindness?”

“Do you not know, then?”

“Indeed, I do not. I seem to myself to be dreaming, and have only a dim notion of how I came here; who was the benevolent lady who spoke so kindly to me?”

“You are a very new comer into this neighborhood, as well as a foreigner, if you do not recognise Her Royal Highness, Maria Louisa, Grand Duchess of Parma, who has been spending some weeks at the sea side, and is now returning to her own capital.”

The simple girl was struck into silence by astonishment and awe.

It was near midnight when the carriages entered the gates of a fortified city, and rolling through the streets, at length paused before a magnificent palace. The party entered its portals. Rosalia was provided with a lodging within its precincts, by the woman who had been her fellow-passenger.

It was about eleven o’clock the next day when she was summoned to the presence of the Grand Duchess. Maria Louisa was in her dressing-room under the hands of her ladies, who were arranging her morning toilet. Rosalia entered the sumptuous apartment and the august presence with downcast eyes and hands simply folded upon her bosom; her golden ringlets, parted above her high, pure brow, fell glittering down upon the black velvet boddice of her dress. Everything in her looks and motions repelled suspicion and disarmed prejudice as she floated gracefully on and paused meekly before the Grand Duchess.

“Who and what are you—whence come you, and whither are you going, young girl?” inquired Maria Louisa.

Rosalia raised her gentle lids to meet the noble but haughty eyes of the Grand Duchess, and, inspired by a sudden impulse, in meek accents begged permission to tell her little tale.

Maria Louisa, seeing her languid appearance, pointed to a low ottoman at her feet, bade her seat herself and proceed. But _how_ to proceed without deeply inculpating Raymond, she did not know; at last she thought—

“This great lady is so far above us, and so far away from us, that the full knowledge of the facts put in her possession cannot hurt Raymond—and at least, if I speak at all, I _must_ tell the truth,” and then Rosalia, in her imperfect Italian, “broken music,” told her story, told it truly, weeping and blushing, but not concealing her own errors, or sparing her own feelings. Maria Louisa listened with close attention and deep interest. Now, whether it was that, by reason of the narrator’s broken language, the Grand Duchess did not understand her errors, or whether because of her ingenuous confession, Maria Louisa was inclined to overlook or forgive them, is not known; but it is certain, that having fully ascertained the perfect destitution of the friendless young stranger, and her entire willingness to enter her service, the Grand Duchess, in rising to leave her dressing-room, said—

“I appoint the Signora Rozzallia second assistant to my lady of the wardrobe,” and dismissed her. Later in the day, Her Royal Highness was heard to say,—“That young maiden has a perfect cherub’s face. Truth and goodness radiate from it.” Later in the _week_, Rosalia was called to sing and play before Maria Louisa; and later in the month, she became the favorite attendant of the Grand Duchess.

A strange, vague fear and doubt kept Rosalia from writing to any of her friends at present. After the lapse of some weeks, she began writing to Sophie; but a strong dislike to expose the vice of Raymond to any of his own friends, caused her to destroy the letter on finding it to be impossible to give any true account of herself without compromising him with his family.

Thus months elapsed, while she remained in the service of Maria Louisa, Grand Duchess of Parma, where we will leave her for the present.