A shudder passed over the frame of the Italian as he drew from his bosom a small poignard of exquisite workmanship; “Take it—take it, Melburn,” he exclaimed, “you have saved me.”
A lingering pressure of the hand was Melburn’s only answer.
It was now too late for them to think of visiting the Coliseum—besides, their minds were not in a state to do so; and after making an appointment for the morrow, they separated.
When Melburn reached his room at the hotel, he was delighted to find letters from his relatives, who had just arrived in Naples from Sicily, announcing their intention of remaining there for some weeks, and begging him to join their party immediately. Nothing could have happened more opportunely; for, for some days past, he had been thinking seriously of setting out to overtake them wherever they might be. And then the image of Alice—how often did it mingle in his dreams, and haunt his waking hours.
The next day he spent with Giovanni Rosa in wandering among the ruins of Rome; and it was with sincere regret that the enthusiastic Italian heard of the contemplated journey to Naples. “You will forget me, Melburn,” he said sorrowfully; “the remembrance of me will be but as a passing shadow, while you will live within my heart. But you will return, will you not?”
“Yes, Giovanni—perhaps soon. At all events, I shall spend some time again in Rome before I bid adieu to beautiful Italy forever.”
“I hope so,” exclaimed Rosa, as he grasped Melburn’s hand at parting; “I will remember your counsel—I will strive ‘in this to overcome.’ ”
“Ay, Rosa, for my sake, and for your future fame, struggle on, it will not be in vain.”
The Italian gazed at the receding form of the young Englishman until it disappeared; and then hurrying home, he rushed to his room and burst into tears.
It was on the evening of the second day after his departure from Rome that Arthur Melburn arrived in Naples. Travel-worn and covered with dust as he was, he sought instantly the salon where he expected to meet his relatives. No one was there but Alice; and as she rose hastily to meet him, he could scarcely believe that the beautiful being before him was the gay, romping cousin of earlier days. What the countenance had lost of ruddiness and glow, it had gained in the intellectual, I may almost say the spiritual expression that now characterized it. Eloquent thought had stamped a serene loveliness upon her brow, and feeling had robbed the cheek of its roses to impart a softer lustre to her eye. Arthur clasped her hands in his, gazed at her, hesitated, and then raised one fair hand to his lips. “Dear Alice,” he said, and as those tones fell upon her ear, a crimson blush passed over her face, and then left it paler than before. And what were the feelings of Melburn? Ah, at such moments how memories throng upon the overpowered heart, concentrating in one glowing point the beautiful rays that have illumined life, and fastening as with a diamond rivet the slender links of love’s frail chain. Frail? Ay, frail; unless the hallowed influences of years have given to it enduring strength, and then it must be a power almost super-human that can sever it.