The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals

by Ann S. Stephens

Nothing could be more lovely than the home Brown had chosen, and certainly no place could have been found more completely isolated. The coming of her teachers even became a matter of deep interest to Caroline.

One morning, when her language-master was expected, she went out early and stood upon the lower terrace, looking down the little stream which led to the Arno, as I have told you, impatient for his coming; impatient to know what sort of a person he would prove, and if his society might not break the monotonous stillness of that beautiful place. It was early yet. She had no reason to believe that her new teacher would be there for hours. She felt it very tiresome, walking up and down those terraces and watching the ripe olives drop one by one into the long grass from the branches overhead. The restlessness of youth was upon her, and she longed for some means of leaping over the next three hours, when the new teacher would come, perhaps with a disappointment.

He might be some poor old soul, whose very presence would prove an annoyance. No matter; a disappointment or an annoyance was better than utter stagnation. She wished the new man would come, she wished there was something for her to work at till he did come.

A flight of stone steps fell down to the water from the lower terrace. Fastened to an iron staple sunk deep into the granite, was a little boat swinging by a cable. Caroline's heart gave a leap at the sight.

She ran down the steps, untied the cable, and in a moment was sweeping down the little stream, pulling her oars like an Indian girl.

It was a lovely flow of water, clear as crystal. The sky was mirrored in it softly blue; the sun struck it with arrows of silver, the flowering shrubs trailed down from its banks, and rippled the waters like the lost plumage of a peacock; fruit-laden vines broke away from the olive branches, and dipped their purple clusters in the stream, where they shone out richly—amethysts gleaming through crystal. Everything was beautiful around her. Full of youth and health she gloried in the exercise of rowing; gloried in the sunshine and quivering shadows through which her pretty boat ploughed its way, breaking up pictured trees and clouds, and turning them to foam.

The current was with her, the wind swept softly down stream, bringing a scent of wall-flowers and jessamines with it. The boat shot downward like the shuttle through a web. The water deepened, the stream grew wider; she could hear the broad, free rush of the Arno, a little way off. Still she went on.

It would be glorious, finding herself in the broad river sweeping toward Florence, in her arrow-like boat. Of course she could turn at any time, but not yet.

Something stopped the boat. A wild vine, hidden in the water, had seized upon it, and swept it half around, then a current tossed it forward into a sweeping whirl of waters. She was close by a vortex near the mouth of the river, a ravenous little whirlpool that threatened to swallow her up. The oars dropped from her hands; she seized the sides of her boat and sat still, rigid as stone, white as death. Then a great arrow, or what seemed to be one, shot through the water close by her, ploughing it white with foam. Then a man leaped into her boat, pitching a pair of oars in before him, and holding the cable of another boat in his hand.

He neither spoke nor looked at her, but twisting the cable around one ankle, and setting the other foot upon it further up, seized his oars, and for a minute or two battled like a tiger with the waters.