and sit by me, my sweet love, said her weeping mother.—She stept towards her.
Sit down, my dear girl.
No: you beat me, remember.
Who beat you, my dear?—Sure nobody would beat my child!—Who beat you, Clementina?
I don't know—Still looking round her, as wanting somebody.
Again her mother courted her to sit down.
No, madam, you don't love me.
Indeed, my dear, I do.
So you say.
Her father held out his open arms to her. Tears ran down his cheeks. He could not speak.—Ah, my father! said she, stepping towards him.
He caught her in his arms—Don't, don't, sir, faintly struggling, with averted face—You love me not—You refused to see your child, when she wanted to claim your protection!—I was used cruelly.
By whom, my dear? by whom?
By every body. I complained to one, and to another; but all were in a tone: and so I thought I would be contented. My mamma, too!—But it is no matter. I saw it was to be so; and I did not care.
By my soul, said I, this is not the way with her, Lady Sforza. The chevalier is in the right. You see how sensible she is of harsh treatment.
Well, well, said the general, let us change our measures.
Still the dear girl looked out earnestly, as for somebody.
She loosed herself from the arms of her sorrowing father.
Let us in silence, said the count, observe her motions.
She went to him on tip-toe, and looking in his face over his shoulder, as he sat with his back towards her, passed him; then to the general; then to Signor Sebastiano; and to every one round, till she came to me; looking at each over his shoulder in the same manner: then folding her fingers, her hands open, and her arms hanging down to their full extent, she held up her face meditating, with such a significant woe, that I thought my heart would have burst.—Not a soul in the company had a dry eye.
Lady Sforza arose, took her two hands, the fingers still clasped, and would have spoken to her, but could not; and hastily retired to her seat.
Tears, at last, began to trickle down her cheeks, as she stood fixedly looking up. She started, looked about her, and hastening to her mother, threw her arms about her neck; and, hiding her face in her bosom, broke out into a flood of tears, mingled with sobs that penetrated every heart.
The first words she said, were, Love me, my mamma! Love your child! your poor child! your Clementina! Then raising her head, and again laying it in her mother's bosom—If ever you loved me, love me now, my mamma!—I have need of your love!
My father was forced to withdraw. He was led out by his two sons.
Your poor Jeronymo was unable to help himself. He wanted as much comfort as his father. What were the wounds of his body, at that time, to those of his mind?
My two brothers returned. This dear girl, said the bishop, will break all our hearts.
Her tears had seemed to relieve her. She held up her head. My mother's bosom seemed wet with her child's tears and her own. Still she looked round her.
Suppose, said I, somebody were to name the man she seems to look for? It may divert this wildness.
Did she come down, said Laurana to Camilla, with the expectation of seeing him?
She did.
Let me, said the bishop, speak to her. He arose, and, taking her hand, walked with her about the room. You look pretty, my Clementina! Your ornaments are charmingly fancied. What made you dress yourself so prettily?
She looked earnestly at him, in silence. He repeated his question—I speak, said she, all my heart; and then I suffer for it. Every body is against me.
You shall not suffer for it: every body is for you.
I confessed to Mrs. Beaumont; I confessed to you, brother: but what did I get by it?—Let go my hand. I don't love you, I believe.
I am sorry for it. I love you, Clementina, as I love my own soul!
Yet you never chide your own soul!
He turned his face from her to us. She must not be treated harshly, said he. He soothed her in a truly brotherly manner.
Tell me, added he to his soothings, Did you expect any body here, that you find not?
Did I? Yes, I did.—Camilla, come hither.—Let go my hand, brother.
He did. She took Camilla under the arm—Don't you know, Camilla, said she, what you heard said of somebody's threatening somebody?—Don't let anybody hear us; drawing her to one end of the room.—I want to take a walk with you into the garden, Camilla.
It is dark night, madam.
No matter. If you are afraid, I will go by myself.
Seem to humour her in talk, Camilla, said the count; but don't go out of the room with her.
Be pleased to tell me, madam, what we are to walk in the garden for?
Why, Camilla, I had a horrid dream last night; and I cannot be easy till I go into the garden.
What, madam, was your dream?
In the orange grove, I thought I stumbled over the body of a dead man!
And who was it, madam?
Don't you know who was threatened? And was not somebody here to night?
And was not somebody to sup here? And is he here?
The general then went to her. My dearest Clementina; my beloved sister; set your heart at rest. Somebody is safe: shall be safe.
She took first one of his hands, then the other; and looking in the palms of them, They are not bloody, said she.—What have you done with him, then? Where is he?
Where is who?
You know whom I ask after; but you want something against me.
Then stepping quick up to me: My Jeronymo!—Did I see you before? and stroked my cheek.—Now tell me, Jeronymo—Don't come near me, Camilla. Pray, sir, to the general, do you sit down. She leaned her arm upon my shoulder: I don't hurt you, Jeronymo: do I?
No, my dearest Clementina!
That's my best brother.—Cruel assassins!—But the brave man came just in time to save you.—But do you know what is become of him?
He is safe, my dear. He could not stay.
Did any body affront him?
No, my love.
Are you sure nobody did?—Very sure? Father Marescotti, said she, turning to him, (who wept from the time she entered,) you don't love him: but you are a good man, and will tell me truth. Where is he? Did nobody affront him?
No, madam.
Because, said she, he never did any thing but good to any one.
Father Marescotti, said I, admires him as much as any body.
Admire him! Father Marescotti admire him!—But he does not love him.
And I never heard him say one word against Father Marescotti in my life.
–Well, but, Jeronymo, what made him go away, then? Was he not to stay supper?
He was desired to stay; but would not.
Jeronymo, let me whisper you—Did he tell you that I wrote him a letter?
I guessed you did, whispered I.
You are a strange guesser: but you can't guess how I sent it to him—But hush, Jeronymo—Well, but, Jeronymo, Did he say nothing of me, when he went away?
He left his compliments for you with the general.
With the general! The general won't tell me!
Yes, he will.—Brother, pray tell my sister what the chevalier said to you,