Her name—as if I could forget it—was Caroline; her mother called her—Carry. I wondered how it would seem for me to call her—Carry! I tried it—it sounded well. I tried it—over and over—until I came too near the lodge. There I threw a half crown to the woman who opened the gate for me. She courtesied low, and said—“God bless you, sir!”
I liked her for it; I would have given a guinea for it: and that night—whether it was the old woman’s benediction, or the waving scarf upon the terrace, I do not know—but there was a charm upon my thought, and my hope, as if an angel had been near me.
It passed away though in my dreams; for I dreamed that I saw the sweet face of Bella in an English park, and that she wore a black-velvet riding cap, with a plume; and I came up to her and murmured, very sweetly, I thought—“Carry, dear Carry!” and she started, looked sadly at me, and turned away. I ran after her, to kiss her as I did when she sat upon my mother’s lap, on the day when she came near drowning: I longed to tell her, as I did then—I do love you. But she turned her tearful face upon me, I dreamed; and then—I saw no more.
A
ROMAN
GIRL
—I remember the very words—“non parlo Francese, Signore—I do not speak French, Signor”—said the stout lady—“but my daughter, perhaps, will understand you.”
And she called out—“Enrica!—Enrica! venite, subito! c’ è un forestiere.”