Mae Madden

CHAPTER XI.

The Corso was all ablaze. The whole world was there. Under a balcony stood a party of peasants. Of this group, two were somewhat aside. One of these was tall, dark, a fair type of Southern Italian; the other small, agile and graceful, dressed in a fresh contadina costume, with her brown hair braided down her shoulders. She seemed excited, and as the crowd pressed nearer she would draw back half-fearfully. “Lisetta,” she whispered, “I am spoiling your good time. Talk to your friends; never mind me. I will follow by your side, and soon I shall catch the spirit of it all, too.” Saying this, she stepped from under the balcony, held out her feeble little taper and joined in the cries around her, pausing to blow at any lowered bit of wax that came in her way. It was maddening sport; her light was extinguished again and again, but she would plead to have it relit, and there was sure to be some tender-hearted, kindly knight at hand to help her.

She ran on quickly, fearlessly, gliding and creeping and sliding through the crowd, her hair flying, her eyes dancing. Even in the dense throng many turned to look at her, and one tall man started suddenly from the shadow of a side street, where he had been standing motionless, and threw himself before the girl. He put out his arm, grasped her tightly, and drew her a few feet into the shadow. “Signorina!” he said. “Hush, hush,” she whispered then in colder tones. “Let me go, Signor; you are mistaken. You, do not know me.” He smiled quietly, holding her hands clasped in his. “I do not know you, Signorina? You do not know me. Your face is the picture always before my eyes.”

“Yes, yes, forgive me,” she fluttered, “I was startled, and indeed I am no Signorina now, but one of your own country peasants. I am with Lisetta. Why, where is Lisetta?”

Where, indeed, was she? There were hundreds of contadine in the great crowd surging by, but no Lisetta. The little peasant wrung her hands quite free from the man’s grasp. “I must go home,” she said. “I don’t want any more Carnival.”

“No, no,” said the officer, quietly, reassuringly. “Get cool. Tell me how Lisetta looks and is dressed, and if we can not find her here, I will take you up to your friend’s balcony.”

“O, no, not there. Anywhere else, but not there.”

“Why not?” asked Bero.

“Because, because,—yes, I will tell you,” said Mae, remembering her wrongs, and suddenly moved by the sympathy and softness of the great eyes above her,—“because they think I am home ill, and here I am, you see,” and she laughed a little hurriedly,—“besides, I go away with Lisetta to-morrow morning,—hush, let no one hear,—to Sorrento. You must never, never tell. How do I look? Will I make a good peasant, when once the dear sun has browned my hands and forehead, and I have grown Italianized?” And she lifted her face, into which the saucy gaiety had returned, up to him temptingly.

His warm blood was kindled. “You are a little child of the sun-god now,” he exclaimed, passionately. “May I share some of your days in heaven? I am ordered to Naples tomorrow night; shall be only twelve hours behind you. May I come on the day after to see you in your new home?”

“O, how delightful! But, perhaps, my lord, our little cottage by the sea isn’t grand enough for your spurs and buttons and glory. We are simple folks you know,—peasants all,—but our hearts, Signor, they are hospitable, and such as we have we will gladly give you. What do you say to the bay of Naples, and oranges for our luncheon day after tomorrow?” And Mae laughed lightly and joyously. Her little burnt taper fell to the ground, and she clasped her hands together. “What a happy thing life will be!”

“Will you live there and be a peasant forever?” asked Bero, leaning forward. “There are villas by the sea, too, Signorina.”

Mae didn’t hear these last words. Her heart had stood still on that “forever.” Live there forever, forever, and never see her mother or Eric, or,—or any one again! “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, “I hadn’t thought of that.” She stood still with her hands clasped, thinking. The officer at her side, looking down at her, was thinking also. He was fighting a slight mental struggle, a sort of combat he was quite unused to. Should he let the child go on in this wild freak? He knew the cottage by the sea; the peasant home would be dreadful to her. He knew that by that same day after to-morrow, life in lower Italy, with the dirty, coarse people about her would be a burden. Yet he hesitated. He fought the battle in this way: Should he not stand a better chance if he let her go? He had his leave of absence for three weeks (this was true; “ordered to Naples,” he had called it to Mae). Three weeks away from his world, near this winsome, strange, magnetic little being, with the bay of Naples, and moonlight, and his own glories and her loveliness! He couldn’t give up this chance. No, no. He would surely see her in a few hours after her troubles began, and comfort her. So he only smiled quietly down at her again, as she stood troubled by his side, and said: “Lisetta will seek you near your balcony if she knows where it is. Don’t be troubled.”

“But where is my balcony?” asked Mae.

“Come here,” said Bero, leading her slightly forward. She looked up and saw the quiet side-window, where day after day the officer had flung her the sweet flowers when no one was looking. “I know this place very well,” he said meaningly. Mae smiled a little cheerfully. “You have beautiful taste,” she replied, “I have never seen such exquisite bouquets before.”

Bero stroked his moustaches complacently. “You honor me, Signorina. I hope you may receive many, many more beautiful flowers—from the same hand.” He whispered these last words, and Mae turned her head half uneasily. She looked up at the balcony. How odd it was that there, but a few feet away, were Mrs. Jerrold, Edith, and Albert. She fancied she could detect their voices, though she could not see them. The Hopkins-Rae window was vacated. “The girls” were probably down on the Corso with Eric and Norman, and Mae drew a little nearer to Bero, and looked up half appealingly. His eyes were fixed strangely on something or some one across the street. Mae followed their gaze, and saw upon the opposite balcony the beautiful veiled lady. She held in her hand a long rod tipped with a blazing taper.

“O, she is like a vestal virgin with her light, or a queen with a sceptre,” cried Mae exultingly.

“She may be the vestal virgin, but the queen is by my side,” said Bero earnestly.

Mae wished he would not talk in this way, and she tried to laugh it off. “I have no sceptre or crown; I’m but a poor queen in my common garb.”

“We’ll have the coronation day after to-morrow,” replied Bero, very earnestly still.

“Tell me about her,” and Mae nodded her head toward the strange lady. “There is little to tell,” said Bero, in a quiet tone. “Her brother is well known in Rome as an artist. He lives there with his sister and an old duenna. She wears this mysterious veil constantly, and some fanciful people see just as mysterious a cloud resting about her life. I only know she is strange and beautiful, and that her name is Lillia.”

Yet Bero had seen this woman almost daily for six months. But he only knew she was strange and beautiful, and that her name was Lillia.

Mae had never spoken to the veiled stranger, yet if Bero had turned upon her and asked, “Who is she?” she would have replied: “I do not know her name or where she lives, but I know she struggles, and despairs, and smiles over all. And I know her suffering comes from sorrow—not from sin.” But Mae did not say all this. She only looked at the veiled lady. Her vestal lamp had dropped for the moment, and she seemed to be gazing far away. A fold of her heavy veil fell over her brow quite down to her great dark eyes. They were unshaded, yet they too, seemed clouded for the moment. “Her name is Lillia,” said Mae, reassuringly to herself. “Her name is Lillia. I am sure she is like her name.” Bero smiled. Just then Lisetta appeared.