ONE OF THEM, Volume II.
CHAPTER I. THE LONE VILLA ON THE ÇAMPAGNA.
About half-way between Rome and Albano, and something more than a mile off the high-road, there stands on a little swell of the Çampagna a ruined villa, inhabited by a humble family of peasants, who aid their scanty means of support by showing to strangers the view from the house-top. It is not, save for its extent, a prospect in any way remarkable. Rome itself, in the distance, is not seen in its most imposing aspect, and the Çampagna offers little on which the eye cares to rest long.
The “Villa of the Four Winds,” however, is a place sought by tourists, and few leave Rome without a visit to it. These are, of course, the excursions of fine days in the fine season, and never occur during the dark and gloomy months of midwinter. It was now such a time. The wind tore across the bleak plain, carrying fitful showers of cold rain, driving cattle to their shelter, and sending all to seek a refuge within doors; and yet a carriage was to be seen toiling painfully through the deep clay of the by-road which led from the main line, and making for the villa. After many a rugged shake and shock, many a struggling effort of the weary beasts, and many a halt, it at length reached the little paved courtyard, and was speedily surrounded by the astonished peasants, curious to see the traveller whose zeal for the picturesque could bid defiance to such weather.
As the steps were let down, a lady got out, muffled in a large cloak, and wearing the hood over her head, and hastily passed into the little kitchen of the house. Scarcely had she entered, than, throwing off her cloak, she said, in a gay and easy voice, “I have often promised myself a visit to the villa when there would be a grand storm to look at. Don't you think that I have hit on the day to keep my pledge?” The speech was made so frankly that it pleased the hearers, nowise surprised, besides, at any eccentricity on the part of strangers; and now the family, young and old, gathered around the visitor, and talked, and questioned, and admired her dress and her appearance, and told her so, too, with a pleasant candor not displeasing. They saw she was a stranger, but knew not from where. Her accent was not Roman; they knew no more; nor did she give much time for speculating, as she contrived to make herself at home amongst them by ingratiating herself imperceptibly into the good graces of each present, from the gray-headed man to whom she discoursed of cattle and their winter food, to the little toddling infant, who would insist upon being held upon her lap.
The day went on, and yet never a lull came in the storm that permitted a visit to the roof to see the lightning that played along the distant horizon. She betrayed no impatience, however; she laughingly said she was very comfortable at the fireside, and could afford to wait. She expected her brother, it is true, to have met her there, and more than once despatched a messenger to the door to see if he could not descry a horseman on the high-road. The same answer came always back: nothing to be seen for miles round.
“Well,” said she, good-humoredly, “you must give me a share of your dinner, for my drive has given me an appetite, and I will still wait here another hour.”
It would have made a pleasing picture as she sat there,—her fair and beautiful features graced with that indescribable charm of expression imparted by the wish to please in those who have made the art to please their study; to have seen her surrounded by those bronzed and seared and careworn looks, now brightened up by the charm of a spell that had often worked its power on their superiors; to have marked how delicately she initiated herself into their little ways, and how marvellously the captivation of her gentleness spread its influence over them. In their simple piety they likened her to the image of all that embodies beauty to their eyes, and murmured to each other that she was like the Madonna. A cruel interruption to their quiet rapture was now given by the clattering sound of a horse's feet, and, immediately after, the entrance of a man drenched to the skin, and dripping from the storm. After a few hasty words of greeting, the strangers ascended the stairs, and were shown into a little room, scantily furnished, but from which the view they were supposed to come for could be obtained.
“What devotion to come out in such weather!” said she, when they were alone. “It is only an Irishman, and that Irishman the O'Shea, could be capable of this heroism.”