“You did not disdain my humble offering, then!” faltered the Count; and faint as was the whisper in which the words were conveyed, they roused the pride of Teresa; who, advancing her hand to receive the trinket, replaced it hurriedly in her dress. But at that moment she was struck by the change of expression visible in the features of the Count; and both their faces became suffused with blushes.
“What is the matter, my dear child?” demanded Girardi, noticing her confusion.
“Nothing!” she replied, with emotion. Then, as if ashamed of playing the hypocrite with her parent, suddenly added, “This medallion, father, contains a lock of your hair.” Then, as she turned towards Charney—“And this flower, sir, is the one you sent me by Ludovico. I have preserved it, and shall keep it forever.”
In her words—in the sound of her voice—in the intuitive modesty which induced her to unite her father and the stranger in her explanations, there was at once so much ingenuousness and purity of feminine instinct, that Charney began for the first time to appreciate the true merits of Teresa Girardi.
The remainder of that happy day elapsed amid effusions of mutual friendship, which every moment seemed to enhance. Independent of the secret power which attracts us towards another, the progress of friendship is always rapid in proportion to the time we know to be allowed us for the cultivation of dawning partiality. This was the first day that Charney and Teresa had conversed together; but they had had occasion to think so much of each other, and so few hours were assigned them to be together, that a mutual acquaintance was speedily accomplished; so that, when Charney, impelled by good breeding and good feeling, would fain have retired, in order to afford an opportunity to the father and daughter, so long separated, to converse together alone, Girardi and Teresa alike opposed the movement of retreat.
“Are you about to leave us?” said the latter. “Do you, then, consider yourself a stranger to my father, or to me?” added the young girl in a tone of gentle reproach. And, in order to make him fully apprehend how little restraint was imposed upon her by his presence, Teresa began to detail to her father all that had befallen her from the moment of her departure from Fenestrella, and the means she had employed to bring together the two captives; addressing, at the conclusion of her narrative, a request to Charney, to relate all the little events of the citadel, and the progress of his studies connected with Picciola. After this appeal, the Count did not hesitate to confess the history of his early miseries—the tedium of his captivity—and the blessing vouchsafed him in the arrival of his plant: while Teresa, gay and naïve, stimulated his confession, by the liveliness of her inquiries and repartees.
Seated between the two, and holding a hand of each—of the daughter thus restored to him, and the friend he was about to leave—the venerable Girardi listened to their discourse with an air of mingled joy and sadness. At one moment, when, by a spontaneous movement, he was about to clasp his hands, those of Charney and Teresa were brought almost into contact, the two young people appeared startled, touched, embarrassed, and, though silent, communicated their emotion to each other by a rapid glance. But, without affectation or prudery, Teresa soon disengaged her hand from that of her father; and, placing it affectionately on his shoulder, looked smilingly towards the Count, as if inviting him to resume his narrative.
Enchanted and emboldened by so much grace and candour, Charney described the reveries produced by the emanations of his plant. How could he forbear allusion to that which constituted the great event of his captivity? He spoke of the fair being whom he had been induced to worship as the personification of Picciola; and, while tracing her portrait with warmth—or rather transport—the smiles of Teresa gradually disappeared, and her bosom swelled with agitation.
The narrator was careful to assign no name to the soft image he tried to call up before their eyes; but when, in completing the history of the disasters of his plant he reached the moment when, by order of the commandant, the dying Picciola was on the eve of being torn up before his eyes, Teresa could not refrain from a cry of sympathy.
“My poor Picciola!” cried she.