The child frequently spoke of this suddenly, without premeditation, looking up from her book, or her work, or even while nursing her doll. We thought this death had made too deep an impression on her youthful mind, and endeavored as much as possible to divert her thoughts from so melancholy a subject, but we only partially succeeded. She would refer to it again and again, not in sadness, but as if she realized a presence unperceived by others, and was a medium of communication between the land of spirits and the world of sense.
We lived in strict seclusion, our sole distraction being to visit occasionally, in company with a few friends, the storied and romantic environs of Naples. The gulf of Salerno, the village of Amalfi, with its panorama of mountains, the ruins of Paestum, where the balmy and fragrant breeze is laden with the baleful breath of fever; and, lastly, Pompeii, with her numerous villas, where of old the enervated patricians of ancient Rome enjoyed the dolce far niente of a voluptuous climate, heedless of the fiery destruction which, at any moment, might overwhelm their fair town, and hurry those unthinking votaries of pleasure into eternity. Bulwer’s “Last Days of Pompeii” contains a description so graphic, and so true of this ill-fated city, that we cannot do better than refer our readers to that classic work. We may, however, be permitted to add, that never before or since has so beautiful a site been chosen for town or village as was that summer resort of the Romans. The vistas which opened upon us through each fluted column, and beneath each sculptured archway—of the blue Mediterranean—of Vesuvius and his attendant mountains, their vine-clad valleys all colored by the heavenly hues of Southern Italy—Oh! this was a sight which will forever remain impressed on my senses and on my heart.
The Due di Balzano—of whom mention has previously been made—was frequently our escort in these delightful excursions. During Evelyn’s illness and time of trial, he had been untiring in those attentions which spring from the natural goodness of the heart. We now considered him quite as a friend; and never has it been my lot to meet a more unselfish character. He was a man of much influence in his native land, and this he always exerted for the good of others. Nearly connected by the marriage of a cousin, with the king, his sympathies were royalist and anti-revolutionary; yet he was kindness itself to the poor and oppressed of his nation, and had frequently run the risk of compromising himself politically, in order to save those who had implored his protection, which no one ever solicited in vain.
About this time, a circumstance occurred which greatly increased our esteem for one whose nature was even more noble than his birth, though that were of the highest in the land. The Duc di Balzano lounged away much of his time at the fashionable cafés, which, like our clubs, are with the young Italians a much-frequented place of rendezvous. As he was standing in the doorway, Evelyn passed in her carriage through the Toledo.
I have stated, in a former page, that our heroine had not altogether escaped the tongue of calumny—that pale daughter of Envy, engendered by cowardice, and nurtured by hatred and deceit. Evil report had even pursued her in her solitude; and now, as she passed, and gracefully acknowledged the respectful salutation of di Balzano, a knot of young exquisites, who only knew her by sight, commenced a conversation, of which the English signora was the subject:
“E una bella donna,” said the Prince Cassero, “but they say she is the cast off mistress of the Count Syracuse.”
“Ah, yes,” said another, “and her lover killed himself in despair.”
“She is evidently,” said a third, “a donna leggiera.”
“Well,” lisped a youth of about seventeen, “she is a fine creature, and sympathetic. I think I shall make her acquaintance.”
De Balzano could bear no more; he sprang into the midst of this dastardly coterie like a tiger. He was superb in his disdainful anger.