Gowrie; or, the King's Plot.

by G. P. R. James

On one of the spurs of the Apennines, where that large chain, which forms as it were the spine of Southern Italy, approaches most closely to the Mediterranean at its northern extremity, just about half way between the fair town of Piacenza and the frontiers of Piedmont, there stood in those days, and there stands still, an inn, to which the inhabitants of the neighbouring city frequently resort in the summer months, to enjoy the cool upland air and the beautiful scenery. It is situated a little higher up than Borgonovo, and then bore the name of La Festa Galante. The scenery round is wild and uncultivated, but full of picturesque beauty, with myrtle-covered hills sloping down gently to the wide plains of Lombardy, which lie stretching out to an immense extent till sight is lost in the blue distance. Ten days after the events which I have related in the last chapter, the Earl of Gowrie and his fair companion were seated on the slope of the hill, at about a quarter of a mile from the inn, gazing down with delight on the splendid landscape beneath them, while the setting sun poured his last rays over the mountains and the plain, and gilded the steeples and the towers of Piacenza, making the city look much nearer than it really was. The distance might be some seventeen or eighteen miles, and the period of the year had passed when the inhabitants of the town were accustomed to come thither to escape the heated streets and crowded thoroughfares. There were no other guests in the house but the earl and his party; and a more quiet and secluded spot could not well have been chosen for fugitives to rest after a long flight, or lovers to pass a few days of happy repose. The proximity of another state, too, by crossing the frontier of which security could soon be obtained, might be one reason why the earl had selected that spot as a place of temporary sojourn after the fatigues and anxieties which Julia had lately endured, for Voghera was not farther distant than Piacenza, and the actual boundary was within two miles of the inn.

All was calm and still around them. Mr. Rhind sat reading a little farther down the hill. A servant girl, who, with a sort of adventurous spirit which often characterizes the peasantry of that part of the country, had agreed to quit her home at Borgonovo, and accompany the strangers into distant lands, was plying the busy needle within call. The sleepy evening sunshine and the blue shadow crept in longer and longer lines over the short turf and the scattered myrtle bushes, and overhead, stretched out like a canopy, the broad dark branches of four or five gigantic pines, while, at a little distance along the face of the hill, was seen peeping out a Palladian villa, with large chesnut trees, serving rather to break the hard straight lines than to conceal that a house stood there. The villa indeed was uninhabited, for its owner had retired into the city for the cooler and more rainy months of winter; but still it gave to a scene unusually wild that air of habitation and society which, under most circumstances, is pleasant from the associations produced.

Their conversation was not gay, but it was cheerful--far more cheerful than it had been since last they met; for memory of the dead had darkened the horizon behind them, and frequent apprehension had spread clouds over the prospect before. At several places where they had stopped by the way, causes of alarm had occurred; and even at Piacenza they had found reason to doubt their security. A man, who had known Mr. Rhind in Padua, had met him in the streets, and told him a distorted tale of poor Manucci's death and Julia's flight, declaring boldly that the old man had been addicted to unlawful arts, and that it was suspected his granddaughter had aided him in their pursuit. He added, however--what neutralized in the mind of his hearer the effect of his tale, as far as poor Julia was concerned--that she was clearly guilty, because she had never been known to come to confession or seek absolution of the priest. Now, however, both Gowrie and her he loved felt in security, for he had taken measures to guard against surprise; and the memory of the loss she had lately sustained had been somewhat softened by time and the rapid passing of many stirring events. Gowrie strove to cheer her, to remove apprehension, to efface the traces of the first deep sorrow she had known; and though gaiety would have jarred with her feelings, yet a cheerful tone mingled with deep thought, will often find its way to a heart which would reject direct consolation and fly from painful merriment.

On the preceding day she and Gowrie had read together the papers which had been intrusted to him by Manucci, and the perusal had been sad; for there she found the tale of all that her parents had suffered, and though she could not but rejoice to feel that no disparity between her own rank and that of her husband could make his friends look cold upon her, yet the impression--at least the first impression--was melancholy.

He had marked it at the time, and would not recur to the subject now, but spoke of other things of a lighter nature, but which had more or less connexion with deeper and stronger feelings.

"It is indeed a fair spot of earth, this pleasant land of Italy," he said, as they gazed over the scene before their eyes; "and yet, my loved Julia, there is always something sad in it to my sight. The memories of the glorious past contrast so strongly with the painful realities of the present, that I can never enjoy these bright scenes without wishing that a happier lot had been assigned to those who inhabit them."

"But there are bright things here still," replied Julia; "if the glory of arms is gone, the glory of arts still survives."

"And policy has succeeded liberty," said Gowrie, with a faint smile; "but let us not, love, dwell upon regrets. How gloriously the rays of the setting sun are painting, almost with ethereal splendour, that high campanile and the old castle by its side, while the purple shadow, resting upon the village below, marks it out upon the illuminated bosom of the hill. There may be more peace, perhaps, under that obscurity, than in the sun-lighted towers above. I am resolved, dear girl, to seek no glories. See!--even now the splendour is passing away, and the gorgeous fabric is almost lost to sight. No, no! content and happiness are jewels better worth the seeking than all that ambition can offer or power can give."

"Thank Heaven you feel so," answered Julia; "but tell me, Gowrie, something of your own land--of my land too--of our land. I fear me, from the way in which you admire the scenes we pass through here, that it wants that beauty which charms you so much."

"Oh, no!" answered Gowrie; "it has beauties of its own, far different, but not less great. Its skies are often full of clouds, and its air of mists; rugged and stern are many of its features, and its winds are cold and strong. But those clouds give infinite variety to all they pass over; and if it be not a land of sunshine, it is at least a land of gleams. The shadow and the light wreath themselves in airy dance over the prospect, and the purple heath and yellow broom supply to us the myrtle and the gentia, hardly less fragrant, and in nought less beautiful. Then, the grey mists--let them not scare you--for when they rise in the morning rays from out the valleys, winding themselves round the tall hills, they look like a grey cloak trimmed with gold wrapping the limbs of the giant genius of the land. Then, though the features of the landscape are, as I have said, bold and rude, they attain in the sublime what they lose in the beautiful, and striking the imagination elevate the mind.--Yet there are many beauties too, soft and gentle and pleasant to look upon; for it is not all the deep dim lake, the rocky mountains, the roaring cataract; but there are scenes as sweet and placid as any even in this bright land; and where you find them, they seem like a smile upon a warrior's face in a moment of peace and repose."