Story 11--Chapter III.
Had the stranger been a son, Marco could not have tended him with greater care than he did, aided by Chiarina, who, however, never got over the mistrust she had felt of him from the first. ’Renzo came whenever he could, and never before had he been so sensible of making rapid progress in her affections. The truth is, she felt that she required some one on whom she could rely for protection and support. Her father never gave a hint as to who the stranger was, and all she knew was that he looked at her in a way she did not like, and that he spoke in a bold, self-confident tone, which grated harshly on her ears. He had now almost entirely recovered his strength, but, except when the shades of evening came on, he did not go out of doors. The only reason he gave for this was, that the light of day was disagreeable to his eyes. It was evident that Marco wished that he would take his departure. In the first place, Marco could not go to market; in the second, the stranger was making love, in a rough way, to his daughter; in the third, he was eating up his provisions; and, in the fourth place—but that reason, probably stronger than any of the others, he kept to himself. ’Renzo would gladly have volunteered to turn him out crop and heel, but that would not have suited Marco’s notions of hospitality; nor was it likely that such proceeding would have passed by unnoticed in some disagreeable manner by the stranger’s friends.
One day, at noon, as Marco was working in his fields, and had just been joined by Chiarina, who came to tell him that his dinner was ready, they saw in the distance a cloud of dust, out of which shortly emerged a troop of dragoons. Chiarina remarked her father’s agitation as he hurried towards the house. Their guest, on hearing who was approaching, instantly retired to his room, telling Marco to say, if any inquiries were made, that there was a sick man up-stairs with an infectious fever. “Invite the officer to come in and prescribe for me,” he added, laughing.
The body of cavalry halted under the house, but only an officer dismounted and came up the hill. He entered the house, and asking carelessly for a jug of wine, inquired of Marco whether he had been annoyed by the brigands.
“Ah, signore! I am, happily, too small game for them to fly at,” he answered; “yet I love them not, nor wish to have any dealings with them.”
The officer looked satisfied, and Marco hoped that he would ask no further questions.
“Have you other inmates besides yourself and daughter?” asked the officer.
“Assuredly, yes—a sick man up-stairs, who has been earnestly begging that any gentleman who has a knowledge of the healing art, passing this way, would come and see him,” answered Marco, with all the calmness he could command. “His fever, he says, may be infectious; and, at all events, I wish to have as little to do with him as possible. Perhaps, if you have a surgeon with your troop, you could send him up; or, if you have any skill, signore, you would see him.”
“I! My skill is to kill, not to cure,” said the officer, laughing at his own wit, and completely deceived.
It was with no small satisfaction that Marco saw him again moving on at the head of his men.
The stranger soon after appeared.
“I owe you a good turn, Marco Maffei,” he said, with more cordiality than he generally exhibited. “The day may come when I can repay it. I shall not much longer trouble you with my society.”
Marco did not say what he thought—that the sooner he was gone the better.
Day after day, however, passed by, the guest employing his time in making love, as before, to Chiarina, to her evident annoyance, though at this he seemed in no way disconcerted.
At length, one evening after dark, a loud knock was heard at the door, and, when Marco opened it, an unshorn countenance was thrust in.
“Come, signore, we have been watched, and shall have no little difficulty in rejoining our comrades if there is any delay,” said a gruff voice from out of the hair-covered mouth. “You have been here too long as it is.”
The stranger, without demanding any explanation of the last remark, jumped up, shook Marco warmly by the hand, and, endeavouring to bestow a kiss on Chiarina’s cheek, which she narrowly escaped, disappeared through the doorway.
“A good riddance of bad rubbish!” thought Marco, as he muttered something between a blessing and a curse between his teeth.
Chiarina was thankful that the stranger was gone, yet she was not happy; for ’Renzo had not been to the cottage for three days, and she could not tell what had become of him. She no longer concealed from herself that she loved him very dearly.