Leonora D'Orco: A Historical Romance

by G. P. R. James

Lorenzo rode on, with the old gentleman, who was on foot, walking by the side of his horse and talking all the time. The little inn to which he led them is, I dare say, there still. It certainly was so some twenty years ago--much changed, doubtless, from what it was then, but still with somewhat of the antique about it. There were vines over both sides of the house, and the rooms to the back looked over the gardens, and small, richly cultivated fields that surrounded the place. The leaves of the vines were turning somewhat yellow, and many a cluster had been already plucked from the bough; but Leonora pronounced it charming, and Lorenzo thought so too. Happy had they both been if Fate had never placed them in higher abodes. Oh, those pinnacles; they are dangerous resting-places.

Let us pass over an hour or two. The men had been dispersed to their quarters and the proper guard set; a light meal had been taken, and the country wine tasted; the maids had found lodging, and were amusing themselves in various ways, with which neither the writer nor the reader has aught to do; Signora Mariana, like a discreet dame, was dosing in an upper chamber, and Lorenzo and Leonora were seated together in the little saloon at the back of the house, with the foliage trailing over the window and its verandah, and a small but neat garden stretching out down a little slope. They were alone together; the dream was realised; and what if they gave way to young, passionate love as far as honour and virtue permitted. His arm was round her; the first kiss had been given and repeated; the beautiful head rested on his bosom, and heart had been poured into heart in the words which only passion can dictate and youth supply. Ah! they were very beautiful and very happy! and the attitude into which they had cast themselves was such as painters might copy, but not the most graceful fancy could imagine. It was full of love, and confidence, and nature.

As they sat, they were somewhat startled for a moment by the sound of a lute played apparently in the garden; but it was not very near, and the tones were so rich and full, the skill of the player so exquisite, that instead of alarming the timidity of young love, they only added to "the loving languor which is not repose" which before possessed them.

After listening for a moment, and gazing forth through the open window, they resumed their previous attitude, and continued their conversation.

Leonora's beautiful head again lay on Lorenzo's bosom, with her look turned upward to his face, while he gazed down into her eyes--those wells of living light--with his head bowed over her, as if the next moment his lips would stoop for a kiss: and now and then a grave earnest look would come upon their faces, while the words came sometimes thick and fast, sometimes ceased altogether, in the intensity of happiness and feeling.

What made Lorenzo look suddenly up at the end of about a quarter of an hour, he himself could not tell; but the moment he turned his eyes to the window he started and laid his hand upon his sword. But then a voice of extraordinary melody exclaimed, "Do not move! for Heaven's sake, do not move! Alas! you have lost it; you can never assume that pose again; but, thank Heaven, I can remember it, with what I have already done."

The man who spoke was a remarkably handsome man of about forty-four or five years of age, with a countenance of wonderful sweetness. He was dressed in a black velvet coat, with a small cap of the same material on his head, and a little feather in it. His seat was a large stone in the garden just before the window, and on his knee rested a curious-looking instrument, which seemed the model of a horse's head cut in silver and ivory. Upon it was stretched a small scrap of paper, on which he still went on, tracing something with a pencil.

"This, sir, is hardly right," said Lorenzo, advancing to a door leading direct into the garden, which, like the window, was wide open. "You intrude upon our privacy somewhat boldly;" but the next instant he exclaimed, in a voice of delight, as he gazed over their strange visitor's shoulder, "Good heaven! how beautiful! Leonora! Leonora! Come hither and see yourself depicted better than Venetian mirror ever reflected that loved face and form."

"And you too, Lorenzo! and you too!" exclaimed Leonora. "Oh! it is perfect!"

The artist looked up and smiled with one of those beaming smiles which seem to find their way direct to the heart, as if an angel looked into it. "It is like you both," he said; "but it was the attitude I sought, and you started up before I had completed the sketch. Yet I can remember it. My mind, from long habit, is like a note-book, in which every beautiful thing I behold is written down as soon as seen. Look how I will add in a moment all that is wanting," and he proceeded with rapid pencil to add the arm of Lorenzo cast round Leonora's waist, and her arm resting on her lap, with her hand clasped in her lover's.