# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 50

CHAPTER IV.
"Alas! for earthly joy, and hope, and love,
 Thus stricken down, even in their holiest hour!
What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they prove
 Who live to weep the blasted tree and flower!
O, woe, deep woe to earthly love's fond trust!"
Mrs. Embury.
"Thou wert of those whose very morn
 Gives some dark hint of night,
And in thine eye too soon was born
 A sad and soften'd light."
T. K. Hervey.
If ever Circumstance, that "unspiritual god" of Byron, took it into his head to put Wordsworth's theory of "how divine a thing a woman may be made," into practice, it was in the case of Beatrice de los Zoridos. Her early childhood had been passed among the wild mountains of her native province—whither Don Henriquez had conveyed his family: one attack had been beaten off from his luxurious home in the valley; that cost him dear enough.—another might be fatal. Besides, the security of the mountains to those he loved most would send him ​forth an unfettered warrior against his country's enemies. But what took Lorraine three weeks to learn, may be told in three minutes.
Margaretta Fortescue was the very sweetest little sylph that ever was spoiled by being a beauty and an only child. The last of one of our noblest Norman families, who, from professing the Catholic faith, lived much to themselves—a whole household seemed made but for her pleasure. The first suspicion that even a wish could exist contrary to her own, was when she fell in love with the handsome and stately Spaniard Don Henriquez de los Zoridos, who had made their house his home during his visit to England. The high birth, splendid fortune, and answering creed of her lover, overcame even the objection to his being a foreigner.
Margaretta was married; her parents accompanied her abroad; and for four years more her life was like a fairy tale. Its first sorrow was the death of her father. From her great to her small scale Fate repeats her revolutions. Families, as well as nations, would seem to have their epochs of calamity. Thus it proved with the Zoridos. The sunny cycle of their years was past, and the shadows fell the darker for their former brightness.
​ The French invaded Spain, and their path was as that of some terrible disease, sweeping to death and desolation all before it. Don Henriquez's house was attacked one night; the French were beaten off for a time, but not without much bloodshed. A chance ball laid Mrs. Fortescue a corpse at her daughter's side. Beatrice was wounded, though but slightly, in her very arms; and when daylight dawned on the anxious household, to one half of them it dawned in vain. Zoridos saw that no time must be lost: the enemy would soon be down upon them in overwhelming numbers. A summer-house near, which had been fired, served as a funeral pile—any thing rather than leave even the dead to the barbarity of the invader. Henriquez himself was obliged to force his wife from the body of her mother. A few necessaries were hastily collected—for valuables they had neither thought nor time. Zoridos placed the insensible Margaretta before him on his horse, and rode off, without daring to look back on the happy home they were deserting for ever. Beatrice's nurse followed, with her husband and the child. In better days, a daughter of the nurse had married a young mountaineer, whose remote cottage owed every comfort to their master's fair English bride. There they ​resolved to seek for shelter. A few days saw them in, at least, safety. But Zoridos was not the man to remain inactive and secure at a time when it was so imperative on every Spaniard who wore a sword to use it. His plans were soon formed—his wife's frantic entreaties were in vain—and he descended into the plain at the head of a gallant band of guerillas.
Soon after his departure, it became evident, not only to the nurse, but to every individual in the cottage, that the lady's mind had received a shock, not her health. For days together she did not know them—spoke only in English—addressed her nurse, Marcela, as her mother—and played with the little Beatrice as if she were herself a child, and were delighted with such a living plaything.
The first interval he could snatch, Don Henriquez hastened to the cottage. His wife did not know him, shrunk away in pitiable terror from the arms that he wore, and, as if all late events had passed from her memory, only seemed to know that she was spoken to when addressed as Miss Fortescue—by which name she invariably called herself. That night the dark and lonely rocks, where he wandered for hours, were the only witnesses of Zoridos' agony. The next day he was at the British camp. A ​week's intended halt permitting such an absence, he prevailed on an English surgeon to accompany him to the mountains. His opinion was only too decisive. Quiet and kindness might ameliorate, but never restore. The only chance he held out was, that when circumstances enabled them to return to their house, familiar scenes, and accustomed dress, might awaken some touch of memory—though nothing could ever recall the whole mind.
To such a blow as this, death had been merciful. Similar tastes, similar pursuits, had bound Zoridos to his young English wife—his mind had been accustomed to see itself mirrored in hers, only with a softer shadow. He had been used to that greatest of mental pleasures—to have his thoughts often divined—always entered into. And now—the intelligent and accomplished woman was a weak, and even worse, a merry child. The affectionate wife looked in her husband's face as in that of a stranger, from whom she shrank with fear. The past with no memory, the future with no hope.
The bitterest cup has its one drop of honey; and the feeling of reciprocal affection was roused in Zoridos by the almost frantic delight of his ​infant girl at seeing him again; she clung to him—hid her little face in his bosom—sat still and silent, with that singular sympathy which children often show to the grief of their elders—and only when overpowered with sleep could she be removed from his knee.
Months passed on. The unfortunate Margaretta was taught to consider Zoridos as her husband, and Beatrice as her child, and gradually to feel for them the affection of habit. But her mind seemed to have gone back to her childhood: all her recollections, her amusements, her sorrows, and her joys, belonged to that period. And once when Zoridos brought home for Beatrice a large doll he had obtained from the family of an English officer, her mother seized it with a scream of delight, and made dressing it a favourite employment.
Months grew into years before they dared return to their home; and it was not till after the battle of the Pyrenees that Henriquez and his family again took possession of their mansion. No trace was left of either its beauty or luxury. His embarrassed affairs quite precluded Don Henriquez's plan of taking his wife and daughter to England. A few rooms were made habitable; and Zoridos gave his time and ​attention to the education of his child, which, from the extreme solitude in which they lived, devolved entirely upon himself.
Time passed without much to record till Beatrice reached her sixteenth year, when the system of oppression and extortion enforced in his native province called imperatively on Don Henriquez to take his place in the Cortez. A few weeks of bold remonstrance ended with the imprisonment of the most obnoxious members, and a heavy fine on their property.
At sixteen Beatrice found herself in a large desolate house, with scarce resources enough for mere subsistence, her father in an unknown prison, her mother imbecile, and herself without friend or adviser. Zoridos had always foreseen that his daughter's position must be one of difficulty, and he had endeavoured to prepare for what he could not avert. The free spirit of the mountain girl had been sedulously encouraged; she had early learnt to think, and to know the value of self-exertion. To privation and hardship she was accustomed. She had read much; and if one work was food to the natural poetry of her imagination, and the romance nursed in her solitary life,—another taught her to reflect upon her feelings, and by ​the example of others' actions to investigate her own. She was now to learn a practical lesson—lessons which, after all, if they do but fall on tolerable ground, are the only ones that bear real fruit.
One day, Minora, the daughter of the old guerilla who had served with her father, came up with the intelligence that a detachment of soldiers, galloping up, had detailed their business, while pausing for wine and directions in the village. It was to levy the fine, and search for suspected persons—in other words, to pillage the house. Beatrice looked at her mother, who was busy sorting coloured silks for her daughter's embroidery. Who could tell the consequences of another alarm, where the first had been so fatal? Her resolution was instantly taken. A few weeks since, with the view of supplying Donna Margaretta with a constant amusement, Beatrice had fixed on an open space in the thicket for a garden, and had there collected bees and flowers, and framed a little arbour. The way to it was very intricate, and the place entirely concealed. If she could but prevail on her mother to remain there, her security would be almost certain. Hastily placing a little fruit in a basket, and catching up a large ​cloak, she proposed their going to eat their grapes in Donna Margaretta's garden.
"She will never stay there," said the old man.
Beatrice started—a sudden thought flashed across her mind—she turned pale and hesitated; at that moment the foremost of the soldiers appeared on the distant hill; she rushed out of the room, and returned with a small phial and a wine-flask which she placed in the basket.
"Leave those," said she to Pedro and her nurse, who were clearing away a little remnant of plate; "to miss the objects of their search would alone provoke more scrutiny. Follow me at once."
The garden was reached before the soldiers rode up to the house. The wind blew from that direction, and brought with it the sound of their voices and laughter. The misery of such sounds was counterbalanced by the certainty that the same wind would waft their own voices, or rather Donna Margaretta's, voice away from the house. Still Beatrice, who knew the extreme restlessness of her parent's disorder, felt convinced she should never be able to prevail on her to remain quiet. To be discovered by ​the soldiers would be death and insult in their worst forms. The whole province had been filled with tales of their reckless brutality towards those suspected by the government. One course remained—it was one she trembled to pursue. She had brought a little phial with her—it contained laudanum. It had been used by her father, who frequently suffered from a wound he had received. She had often dropped it for him. But she knew it was poison—she could not foresee what its effects might be upon her mother in her state, if she were to give her too much. Her blood froze in her veins at the thought. Donna Margaretta grew every moment more restless and angry at not being allowed to return to the house. If prevented by force, the screams she sometimes uttered in her paroxysms of rage were fearful, and must inevitably be heard. Besides, there was the chance of her evading their vigilance, and she would then fly, like an arrow, to the threatened danger.
"I must try the only hope I have—God help me!"
Beatrice went to the fountain, and in the wine and water mixed a portion of laudanum: her mother seeing the glass, asked for it eagerly, ​and drained the whole contents. All her efforts were now to be exerted to keep her unfortunate parent amused. With a strong effort she mastered her agitation—she helped her to gather flowers—she made them into wreaths for her hair—she pointed out her image in the fountain, and Margaretta laughed with delight. After a while she complained of being fatigued. Beatrice thought, with an agony of apprehension, of the sleep that was quickly coming over her. In a few moments more, Donna Margaretta was in a profound slumber.
The two servants, the moment their mistress was quiet, seized the opportunity to depart: Marcelato seek a neighbouring village, whither two of the domestics had gone to attend the festival of St. Francis, and warn them against an abrupt return: Pedro to their own village, to learn, if possible, what was likely to be the stay of the soldiers. Evening was coming on fast, and not a moment was to be lost. Beatrice could hardly force herself to tell them not to return if the least peril was in the attempt. They departed with the utmost caution—scarce a rustle among the leaves told her she was alone. The next two hours passed in listening to every noise—the waving of a bough made ​her heart beat audibly—or in watching the placid sleep of her mother.
The last small red cloud mirrored in the fountain disappeared—distant objects were lost in obscurity—the shadows seemed as they do seem at nightfall, almost substantial—tree after tree disappeared—the fountain and the nearer shrubs looked like fantastic figures; she fancied she could see them move. Even these became invisible; and the darkness was so entire, that, to use the common but expressive phrase, she could not see her hand. Still, voices came from the house, in singing and shouts. It was evident they intended to pass the night there, and were consuming its earlier part in revelry. The hope she had hitherto entertained of their departure was at an end.
To spend the night in the open air was nothing to the mountain-bred girl. She crept close to her mother—the moss and heaped-up leaves were soft and dry—she leant over her, and felt her warm breath on her cheek; she then knelt beside, and prayed earnestly in the English tongue. There was superstition, perhaps, in this—but affection is superstitious.
At length the sounds from the house ceased—strange, she missed them; the utter silence ​and the darkness were so fearful in their stillness! A single star—a tone from a familiar voice—she would have blessed. How long the time seemed! As the night deepened, all her efforts against sleep were unavailing: more she dared not. Amid such utter darkness, the chances were, that if she left her mother's side, she might not again find her place. Sleep did overcome her—that feverish, broken sleep, which renews, in some fantastic manner, the fears of our waking. Even this was disturbed. Was it a sound in her dream, or some actual noise, that made her start up in all that vague gasping terror which follows when abruptly roused? All was still for a moment; and then a flash, or rather flood of lightning glared away the darkness—the fountain for an instant was like a basin of fire—every tree, ay, every bough, leaf, and flower, were as distinct as by day: one second more, and the thunder shook the very ground.
Beatrice perceived that it was one of those awful storms which gather on the lofty mountains, and but leave their mighty cradles to pour destruction on the vales below. Flash succeeded flash, peal followed peal, mixed with the ​crashing branches, and a wind which was like a hurricane in voice and might. Suddenly the thunder itself was lost in the tremendous fall of an old oak, which, struck by the lightning, reeled, like an overthrown giant, to the earth. It sank directly before the spot which sheltered the fugitives; some of its boughs swept against those of the ilex over their heads; a shower of leaves fell upon Beatrice, and with the next flash she could see nothing but the huge branches which blocked them in.
But even the terror that another bolt might strike the very tree over them, was lost in a still more agonising dread. How could her mother sleep through a tumult like this? Beatrice touched her hands—they felt like marble; she bent over her mouth, but the arm prevented her touching the lips; and the attitude in which she lay equally hindered her from feeling if her heart beat; but the upper part of the face was as cold, she thought, as death. "Great God! I have killed my mother." She bent to raise her in her arms—she might thus ascertain if her heart beat. Again she paused and wrung her hands in the agony of indecision. She had heard, that those whom noise could not wake ​were easily roused by being moved. If she, to satisfy her own fears, were to wake her mother! Beatrice trembled even to touch her hand.
The storm had now spent its fury, and was succeeded by a heavy shower. Fortunately, the thick shelter of the leaves protected them: and the rain that fell through though sufficient to drench her own light garments, would do little injury to the thick cloak which enveloped her mother. It was too violent to last; but a long and dreary interval had yet to pass before daybreak,—haunted, too, by the fear of her mother's death, which had now completely taken possession of poor Beatrice. At last a faint break appeared in the sky; it widened, objects became faintly outlined on the air—shadowy, indistinct, and sometimes seeming as if about to darken again; a slight red hue suddenly shone on the trunk of the ilex, and light came rapidly through the branches. Beatrice only watched it as it fell on her mother; her face was now visible—it wore the placid look of a sleeping child; again she felt her warm breath upon her cheek. For the first time that night, Beatrice wept, and in the blessing of such tears forgot for a moment the dangers which yet surrounded them.
She now perceived that they were quite ​hemmed in by the fallen tree—she could see nothing beyond its boughs. Those boughs were soon to prove their safety. About two hours after daybreak, she heard sounds from the house, voices calling, and the note of a trumpet. She listened anxiously, when, to her dismay, the sounds approached. She distinguished steps, then voices—both alike strange. They were the two officers of the detachment, loitering away time till their men were ready.
"The inhabitants were off like pigeons," said one.
"I wonder if they had any concealed treasure—I wish we had caught them on that account," was the reply.
"Small signs of that," observed the first speaker; "besides, the war, we know, ruined Don Henriquez."
"They say his wife was beautiful: I should like to have seen her. I owe the Hidalgo an old grudge. Well, if he gets out of his dungeon—to do which he must be an angel for wings, or a saint for miracles—he won't find much at home."
Again the trumpet sounded; it seemed to be a signal, for the speakers hurried off, and Beatrice at last heard the trampling of the ​horses gradually lost in the distance. She waited yet a little while, and then, her mother still appearing to sleep soundly, she thought she might leave her for a few minutes.
With some difficulty she forced her way through the boughs. What devastation had a night effected! Flowers torn up by the roots—huge branches broken off as if they had been but leaves, and two or three trees utterly blown down—showed how the little garden had been laid open to its late unwelcome visitors. With a rapid, yet cautious step, she proceeded to the house. Not a human being was near, and she entered. What utter, what wanton destruction had been practised! The furniture lay in broken fragments—every portable article had been carried away—the walls defaced, and in one or two places burnt. There seemed to have been an intention of firing the house. What she felt most bitterly yet remained. There hung the blackened frames of her father and her mother's portraits, but the pictures had been consumed.
But Beatrice knew it was no time to indulge in lamentations. In the kitchen yet smouldered the remains of the fire, and this she soon kindled to a flame, and nourished it with wood which ​was scattered about. A step on the threshold made her start up in terror: it was only Pedro. A few words explained their mutual situation. He had been unable to return, but had watched the soldiers depart, and had come from the village with provision and offers of assistance. Both went to the arbour; and while with his axe and the assistance of a villager he opened a path through the boughs, Beatrice entered to watch the slumber she now most thankfully desired to break. She bathed the face of the sleeper with some essence, raised her in her arms, and called upon her name. As if to reward her for her last night's forbearance, Donna Margaretta stirred with the first movement, and opened her eyes. Still, she was evidently oppressed by sleep, though cold and shivering. Pedro and his companion carried her to the house—a couch was formed by the fireside—and Beatrice never left her till thoroughly warmed and awakened. It was evident that she, at least, had sustained no injury.
Beatrice rushed into the next room to throw herself on her knees in thanksgiving. Fatigue, distress, loss, were all absorbed in one overpowering feeling of gratitude. But the reaction was too strong: her nurse now arrived; ​and when Beatrice threw her arms round her neck to welcome her, for the first time in her life she fainted.
The young Spaniard had now to commence a course of small daily exertions, the most trying of all to one whose habits hitherto had been those of imaginative idleness—mornings passed over a favourite volume, evenings over her lute, only interrupted by attention to her mother, of which affection made a delight. Now the common comforts, even the necessaries of life, were suddenly taken from them. Their valuables had mostly been carried off; and rent and service were quite optional with the peasantry. Long habit, and the remembrance of protection, still more that of kindness, met their reward in all possible assistance from the village. The little plate that, from its concealment, had escaped, was sold at once. The produce was sufficient for the present; and Beatrice resolved, by the smallness of the demands on the tenants of her father, to leave as little encouragement as possible to the avarice that might tempt them to seize such an opportunity for ending their Hidalgo's claim.
She dismissed all the domestics except the nurse and her husband, and an old negro, who, ​bred from infancy in their service, had not an idea beyond. She took every thing under her own direction. A small part only of the house was attempted to be made habitable—a small part only of the garden to be cultivated, and that soon became an important branch of their domestic economy. Their honey and grapes, from the care bestowed on each, found a market at the town, which was a few leagues distant. They were equally fortunate in their wine; and the lamentations of Pedro and Marcela over the downfal of their master's house, mixed with a few hints of its degradation, were lost in the silent conviction of the real comfort attendant on these new plans.
With two especial difficulties Beatrice had to contend. The first was, to induce old servants to believe that a young mistress could know better than themselves: and this was an obstacle nothing but a temper as sweet as it was firm could have overcome. The other was, to reconcile Donna Margaretta to the loss of accustomed luxuries. Like a child, she attached the idea of punishment to privation. The loss of the embroidered cover to her chair, and the beautiful cup for her chocolate, and the wearing a coarse dress, were subjects of bitter ​lamentation. This was the more painful to the daughter, from her feeling that these trifles were all the pleasures her parent was capable of enjoying.
The first great disorder of the house somewhat reduced, Beatrice devoted every leisure moment to her embroidery; and was well repaid for her trouble by the scream of delight with which her mother saw her chair covered with silk worked with the brightest coloured flowers. One improvement succeeded another: the floor, was spread with matting—the vine, sacrificing its fruit to its leaves, served for a curtain—the walls were adorned with some of her drawings—her mother's flower-garden was restored—and many months of comparative comfort elapsed. The work she had begun for her mother, by its continuance became also a source of revenue. Pedro improved as a salesman; and divers ornamental additions made Donna Margaretta very happy.
Still, the uncertainty of her father's fate kept Beatrice in a state of anxious wretchedness. One morning she had wandered farther into the wood than was now her wont—for she had but little time by day for solitary reflection—when she was startled by a figure cautiously ​stealing out from the thick brush wood: a moment more, and she was in her father's arms. But the happiness of their meeting was soon broken in upon by the precariousness of their situation. Don Henriquez was now flying from a dungeon, which he had escaped with a price set upon his head. "Surely, dearest father," exclaimed Beatrice, "you would be safe in your own house; secluded in some of the uninhabited rooms, your wants could be so easily supplied. I would be so prudent, so careful—and your old servants, you cannot doubt their fidelity?"
"But I doubt their prudence. A single suspicious circumstance—a single careless word, reaching the village, would bring inevitable ruin on us all. Your poor mother and yourself are at present unmolested—God keep you so! Besides, the lives of too many are now linked with mine for me to run any avoidable risk. I have been here since yesterday—I have lingered about our old haunts in hopes of meeting you, and depart to-morrow with daybreak."
"And you have been here for hours, and I knew it not?"
"This is no time for my little mountaineer to weep. Are you likely to be missed?"
​ The certainty that, even now, her presence was wanted at home—the impossibility of evading their notice for some hours to come—all rushed upon Beatrice's mind.
"What shall I—can I do? To stay with you now will inevitably occasion a search—Alas! my dearest father, you do not know what an important person your Beatrice is at home. You dare not trust even Marcela?"
"Impossible—you know her chattering habits—she could not keep a secret if she tried."
The truth of this Beatrice had not now to learn.
"To-night, then, my father—you know the old oak, which you used to call our study—I will be there by eleven o'clock—I cannot come by day without exciting wonder."
"Alone, and at night?—impossible."
"The very loneliness makes our security. There is moon light enough to shew my way—there is nothing to fear, my own dear father!"
"And, Beatrice, endeavour to bring some food—I must rely on you for supper."
A hasty farewell, whose sorrow was lost in its fear, and Beatrice ran home in time to be scolded by Marcela for keeping dinner waiting. An old servant dearly loves a little ​authority—and as for the matter of that, who does not?
The day seemed as if it never would end; and as the evening closed, her anxiety became intolerable. Donna Margaretta, always unwilling to go to bed, was even more wakeful than usual. Then Marcela fancied that her child looked pale, and began to accuse her late sitting up as the cause. At last she was alone, and every thing buried in the most profound quiet. With a beating heart, but a quiet hand, she took the little basket of wine and provision. How thankful did she feel that their stores were all in her keeping!
Once out of the house, she darted like a deer to the wood. The new moon gave just light enough to shew the way to one who knew it well; and Beatrice was with her father almost before she had thought of the dangers around them. Eagerly she displayed the contents of her basket: there was some dried meat, hard-boiled eggs, a small loaf, and a piece of honey comb; also some olives, and two or three cakes of chocolate. Beatrice felt heart-sick to see the famished voracity with which her father ate—it was the first time he had tasted food for three days.
​ Each had much to tell—the child, a tale of patient and affectionate exertion, every word of which was rewarded by a blessing or caress. The parent had to record a strict imprisonment, and a hazardous escape, aided by a party with whom he was now linked.
Don Henriquez had sought Naples in the first instance: a knot of exiles had there laid a daring plan for revolution, which, in their country's liberty, involved their own restoration. Zoridos' talents and activity pointed him out as a fit agent. He returned to Spain, and was now on his way to join and take command of an insurrection, whose success was to be the touchstone of their countrymen.
The night passed rapidly—the morning star shewed the necessity of parting—a few minutes more, and the smugglers with whom Zoridos was to travel would arrive. With the acute hearing of anxiety, each fancied they could discern in the distance the tramp of the mules: still Beatrice clung passionately to her father. "Beatrice," said he after a moment's reflection, "you have lately shewn a readiness of expedient, and a resolution which even I could not have expected from you. You may safely be trusted. This packet contains important ​intelligence to those to whose sacred cause I stand pledged. The effort about to be made may fail, and these papers be lost. If in the course of two months you hear nothing farther of me, convey them, if possible, to Naples, but by a safe channel. As an inducement, if one be needed, the man to whose care it is addressed will know my fate, if known to any one on earth."
Beatrice took the packet with a mute gesture of obedience, but words choked her while parting again with her father, and for a service so full of danger. But the sound of the mules was now close upon them. "Go—go—they must not see you. God bless you, my best beloved, my excellent child!"
A farewell, which had yet a thousand things to say, passed in a moment. Beatrice gave one long, last look—agitation lent her speed—she ran swiftly through the forest—and, unseen and unheard, gained her own room.
The next two months passed in the restlessness of feverish expectation; but day after day, week after week, and no tidings of Don Henriquez. The packet now haunted Beatrice: its own importance—the hope of learning somewhat of her father—the danger of their ​situation, whose resources every hour was lessening—the conviction that she had not a creature on whom she could rely—for, besides Pedro's natural stupidity, he was ignorant of the Italian language; and to trust him with the pass-word taught by her father, might risk the safety of many,—all tended to increase the distress which surrounded her. Her deliberations ended in resolving to be herself the bearer. She might leave her mother to Marcela's care—a pilgrimage would account for her absence in the village—and a masculine disguise seemed, indeed, her only protection against the worst difficulties of her route. Pedro's illness prevented the execution of this project; and Lorraine's appearance suggested another. An Englishman would run no risk. Could he take, or transmit the packet for her?