“May I beg to know whom I have the honor of receiving?” inquired he, in very excellent English, as he advanced with a look of very ceremonious and distant politeness.
I immediately explained that, presuming upon the card which his servant had presented me, I had resolved on paying my respects when a mistake had led me accidentally into his garden.
My apologies had not come to an end when he folded me in his arms and overwhelmed me with thanks, at the same time saying a few words in Portuguese to his daughter. She stooped down, and taking my hand gently within her own, touched it with her lips.
This piece of touching courtesy,—which I afterwards found meant little or nothing,—affected me deeply at the time, and I felt the blood rush to my face and forehead, half in pride, half in a sense of shame. My confusion was, however, of short duration; for taking my arm, the old gentleman led me along a few paces, and turning round a small clump of olives, entered a little summer-house. Here a considerable party were assembled, which for their picturesque effect could scarcely have been better managed on the stage.
Beneath the mild lustre of a large lamp of stained glass, half hid in the overhanging boughs, was spread a table covered with vessels of gold and silver plate of gorgeous richness; drinking cups and goblets of antique pattern shone among cups of Sèvres china or Venetian glass; delicious fruit, looking a thousand times more tempting for being contained in baskets of silver foliage, peeped from amidst a profusion of fresh flowers, whose odor was continually shed around by a slight jet d’eau that played among the leaves. Around upon the grass, seated upon cushions or reclining on Genoa carpets, were several beautiful girls in most becoming costumes, their dark locks and darker eyes speaking of “the soft South,” while their expressive gestures and animated looks betokened a race whose temperament is glowing as their clime. There were several men also, the greater number of whom appeared in uniform,—bronzed, soldier-like fellows, who had the jaunty air and easy carriage of their calling,—among whom was one Englishman, or at least so I guessed from his wearing the uniform of a heavy dragoon regiment.
“This is my daughter’s fête,” said Don Emanuel, as he ushered me into the assembly,—“her birthday; a sad day it might have been for us had it not been for your courage and forethought.” So saying, he commenced a recital of my adventure to the bystanders, who overwhelmed me with civil speeches and a shower of soft looks that completed the fascination of the fairy scene. Meanwhile the fair Inez had made room for me beside her, and I found myself at once the lion of the party, each vying with her neighbor who should show me most attention, La Senhora herself directing her conversation exclusively to me,—a circumstance which, considering the awkwardness of our first meeting, I felt no small surprise at, and which led me, somewhat maliciously I confess, to make a half allusion to it, feeling some interest in ascertaining for whom the flattering reception was really intended.
“I thought you were Charles,” said she, blushing, in answer to my question.
“And you are right,” said I; “I am Charles.”
“Nay, but I meant my Charles.”
There was something of touching softness in the tone of these few words that made me half wish I were her Charles. Whether my look evinced as much or not, I cannot tell, but she speedily added,—