The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1884-07-05
PERCHE .

Just little letter which mammals
maid Romilda slips into my hand as
she stands beside me, and tells me that
mamma wishes to see me in her dress
ingrocm-a little letter over which my
fingers close greedily, while the color
PUSHES hotly to my face, fer know that
it is from Bcnedetto, and that the eyes
of my brothers wife are fixed watchfully
upon me.
''You must be very nervous, Laura,
to blush SO violently because mamma
desires to see you," she says, Coldly
(she is English, like my mother, and
her nature is ice itself.)
"The signorina has cause to be nerv-
Gus, with all these balls and festas,"
interposcs Romilda, who, having nursed
us all from babyhood, feels herself priv
LEGGED to speak whenever she chooses,
and who has been my warmest friend
and defender ever since l, the youngest
of her nurslings, first laid my baby head
on her broad breast.
Confident that she will satisfy Mary's
chilly curiosity as she pleases, leave
the salon, and rush along the corridor
to my own little room, the smallest,
contest room in the palazzo, being only
a corner of the loggia walled up, with
one wide, many-paned window over
looking our beautiful, ill-kept garden,
My letter is just a scrap Of paper with
one line written on it, and neither adj
dress nor signature.
'If you love me, ANNA mia, meet
tonight without fall
If love him am a foolish little
girl, fond of costumes and festas and
dancing, but | love him-love him SO
well that | shudder sometimes to think
how terrible a thing it is to love one of
Gods creatures SO much better than
Himself and all the rest of His fair
world. l kiss the paper, and then |
tear it into tiny pieces, and let them
float away through the open window,
for | dare not keep even one little word
of my lovers letters, for Benedetto
Rucelli is as poor as he is noble, and
my parents think wealth the only attri-
butte worthy the hand of RicasoG. I
do not stay to watch the sweet, rose
scented breeze scatter the fragments of
my letter, for l must not keep mamma
waiting. She is lying on sofa in her
dressing with cup of coffee in
her hand, and when l have kissed her
she looks up into my face with those
penetrating eyes of hers, and says,
gently q never knew my mother to
speak loudly, though she can say more
cruel things than my father in his most
violent anger):
Laura, there is to be 4 musicale at
the Benvenuto's this evening, and l
have promised that you shall sing. You
would do well to practice two of your
favorite songs for an hour or two"
She looks away, and slowly finishes
her coffee, while l sit watching her
mutely, my heart sinking heavily, and
such an oppression in my throat !
Mamma, being English, takes me al
ways out in society with her, and l
know that | must go to this musicale
for even my father never rebels against
mammals decisions, and l dare not
utter desire to remain at home, for
fear that l should excite suspicion in
her who is SO easily suspicious, and
yet Oh, Benedetto, who will wait SO
eagerly under the orange-trees in the
garden, how can | sing if l know that
you are waiting there in vain?
"You need not wait, child" mamma
says presently, putting down her coffee
cup and taking up an account-book.
She is such practical, clever woman,
and has done wonders, all the five-and-
twenty years of her married life, to keep
our proud heads above the deluge of
debt in which we Ricasols have siiug-
gled for generations. "Tell Romilda
that you are to wear white"
SO | so to Romilda, not to tell her
that | am to wear white tonight, but to
fling myself down, with my head on her
knees, crying out all my trouble there,
as | have done ever since l can re-
member. When my grief is told l kneel
on, while her hard brown hand wanders
over my hair; and am not quite hope
less, for | am sure that Romilda is plot
ting, and what she plots rarely fails.
"Spoil not thy pretty eyes, carina,"
she says presently, lifting me to my feet,
and smiling her shrewd, kindly smile
''only be thou in the garden after thou
hast dressed for this fiesta, and l will
see that Pipe has not the carriage ready
| until after ten O'clock"
1t is not dark until nine this lovely
June weather, and it is past that hour
when |, gathering my white dress up
from the dew-laden grass, steal softly
across the terrace behind the palazzo,
and into the garden. 1t is very dark
here, for the moon is not vet risen, and
through the over-hanging orange trees
the stars looked very far away; but |
am glad of the darkness, and not afraid
of any thing, except that by some mis-
chance Romllda may be obliged to call
me before Benedetto comes; | am not
much afraid even of that, for this is his
hour, and he is too careful of me. too
anxious about the risk of discovery, to
keep me waiting here alone. l seat
myself on 4 stone bench, and look
+1,o, 81, I