Wanderings of a beauty

Much has been said and written by poets and philosophers on the evanescent nature of all earthly joys, and the precarious tenure on which we hold our happiness here below; but while this is indubitally true, let us be thankful that in the divine decrees of a wise Providence, sorrow is of a nature equally transient. The human heart shrinks from suffering and yearns to be blessed. Such is the unerring law of our being, and He who “tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” mercifully permits Time, that great physician, to pour balm into our deepest wounds, though ever and anon a word, a flower, a perfume, a breath, will cause them to bleed afresh, and throb with exquisite agony.

The night shadow which since the death of Reginald Melville had enveloped our little party, had gradually given place to the aurora of renewed hope.— Evelyn by degrees regained her health and cheerful spirits, though she ceased not to reproach herself as the involuntary cause of Reginald’s death. Ella had become very thoughtful, and appeared to us at times to wander in her mind. She frequently said, “Mama, I saw him last night; he bid me pray for him.”

Or she would chide us for being sad, “He is happy, dearest mama—he told me so.”

Once she said with much solemnity, raising her hand as if to impress her words upon our hearts: “Mother, Reginald bids me tell you he loves you and still watches over you, and you will meet again.”

The child frequently spoke of this suddenly, without premeditation, looking up from her book, or her work, or even while nursing her doll. We thought this death had made too deep an impression on her youthful mind, and endeavored as much as possible to divert her thoughts from so melancholy a subject, but we only partially succeeded. She would refer to it again and again, not in sadness, but as if she realized a presence unperceived by others, and was a medium of communication between the land of spirits and the world of sense.

We lived in strict seclusion, our sole distraction being to visit occasionally, in company with a few friends, the storied and romantic environs of Naples. The gulf of Salerno, the village of Amalfi, with its panorama of mountains, the ruins of Paestum, where the balmy and fragrant breeze is laden with the baleful breath of fever; and, lastly, Pompeii, with her numerous villas, where of old the enervated patricians of ancient Rome enjoyed the dolce far niente of a voluptuous climate, heedless of the fiery destruction which, at any moment, might overwhelm their fair town, and hurry those unthinking votaries of pleasure into eternity. Bulwer’s “Last Days of Pompeii” contains a description so graphic, and so true of this ill-fated city, that we cannot do better than refer our readers to that classic work. We may, however, be permitted to add, that never before or since has so beautiful a site been chosen for town or village as was that summer resort of the Romans. The vistas which opened upon us through each fluted column, and beneath each sculptured archway—of the blue Mediterranean—of Vesuvius and his attendant mountains, their vine-clad valleys all colored by the heavenly hues of Southern Italy—Oh! this was a sight which will forever remain impressed on my senses and on my heart.

The Due di Balzano—of whom mention has previously been made—was frequently our escort in these delightful excursions. During Evelyn’s illness and time of trial, he had been untiring in those attentions which spring from the natural goodness of the heart. We now considered him quite as a friend; and never has it been my lot to meet a more unselfish character. He was a man of much influence in his native land, and this he always exerted for the good of others. Nearly connected by the marriage of a cousin, with the king, his sympathies were royalist and anti-revolutionary; yet he was kindness itself to the poor and oppressed of his nation, and had frequently run the risk of compromising himself politically, in order to save those who had implored his protection, which no one ever solicited in vain.

About this time, a circumstance occurred which greatly increased our esteem for one whose nature was even more noble than his birth, though that were of the highest in the land. The Duc di Balzano lounged away much of his time at the fashionable cafés, which, like our clubs, are with the young Italians a much-frequented place of rendezvous. As he was standing in the doorway, Evelyn passed in her carriage through the Toledo.

I have stated, in a former page, that our heroine had not altogether escaped the tongue of calumny—that pale daughter of Envy, engendered by cowardice, and nurtured by hatred and deceit. Evil report had even pursued her in her solitude; and now, as she passed, and gracefully acknowledged the respectful salutation of di Balzano, a knot of young exquisites, who only knew her by sight, commenced a conversation, of which the English signora was the subject:

“E una bella donna,” said the Prince Cassero, “but they say she is the cast off mistress of the Count Syracuse.”

“Ah, yes,” said another, “and her lover killed himself in despair.”

“She is evidently,” said a third, “a donna leggiera.”

“Well,” lisped a youth of about seventeen, “she is a fine creature, and sympathetic. I think I shall make her acquaintance.”

De Balzano could bear no more; he sprang into the midst of this dastardly coterie like a tiger. He was superb in his disdainful anger.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “you are all cowards. That English lady is my friend, and you shall all answer to me for what you have said, or make a most humble apology in writing, confessing that your statements are false. I expect to hear from you at the Palazzo Balzano.”

Thus saying, he left the café and returned home. He was a crack shot, fenced beautifully, and was an adept at the sword exercise. It is, after this, useless to say that a full and ample apology was made in writing by all the offenders, and from that moment not a whisper was ever breathed against the fair fame of the English signora.

Too delicate to inform us of this circumstance himself, we heard of it by chance some days afterwards, through one who had been a spectator of the scene. Our grateful acknowledgments to our kind protector may be easily imagined; and from that time di Balzano became a constant visitor at our home.

We presented our credentials to our kind and respected minister, Sir W. Temple, who received us with true English hospitality. Once more we entered the glittering halls of pleasure—once more my heroine became apparently the gayest of the gay; but she had learned a lesson. No longer a coquette, she sought the society of ladies, rather than that of the opposite sex. Di Balzano had no reason for jealousy; poor fellow—I saw that his heart was irretrievably hers. He paid her the most respectful attention, and she appeared to feel for him sincere friendship and esteem—nothing more.

Yet such a marriage might have satisfied even one as fastidious as was Evelyn. Balzano was handsome, noble, good, independent in fortune, and deeply in love; he was manly, (a rare quality in an Italian,) honorable, brave, and unselfish almost to a fault.

But our heroine chose to imagine him uneducated, and not sufficiently spirituel. She observed that after dinner he felt inclined to take a siesta.—Her old failing of despising a devoted heart, came back in full force. Was she not beautiful?—had she not been adored by Melville and others? She might look higher—if not as to birth, at least as regards intellect. She was not content with plain common sense in a husband, united with the artistic taste innate in most of the children of beautiful Italy. She did not at that time appreciate the inestimable bliss of tranquil domestic life. She would shine, she would be somebody in the world—the wife of a Cabinet Minister, of a great general, an orator, a poet. She desired to queen it, in society; she was in truth a worldling at heart, a very slave to the pomps and vanities of life—not perhaps for their own intrinsic merit, but as a means of gratifying those ambitious desires, which as a vulture devoured every good feeling of her nature. But God, as a tender Father, who chastises but to bless, was leading her in His own way, and preparing for her unwilling feet, a path so steep and thorny, that could the future have been at that time disclosed to her, she would have shrunk back appalled from its dreariness, and have clung with the tenacious grasp of despair to this her last hope of happiness on earth.