F'rona.

Waikato Times, Volume X, Issue 573, 22 January 1876, Page 1 (Supplement)

F'rona.

TnrRE is a nice little inn nt Luino, kept by two brothers who were formerly waiters at one of the largo Milan hotels, They are pleasant little men, exactly alike, except that one has large, melancholy, brown eyes, and the other small, twinkling black ones. They wait, cook, and clean, and do everything in the hotel themselves. One of them cooked my lunch, and very well cooked it whs ; the other served me with it. They both came in at the finish to receive my compliments. * ITavo you had a good season ?' I asked. They shook their heads. It was their first year, indeed, and they had noexpected much ; but the result, unfortunately, had fallen far short of their very moderate expectations. Last night, however, they had had a stroke of luck. An invalid gentleman bpd occupied the whole of the first floor ' 1 But he leaves to-d*y,' said the melancholy brother, with a «igh. 1 Well, he is travelling for the benefit of his health ; wo could not expect him to stay here fur ever,' responded the other 'What is the mntter with himP' I asked, more for the sake of prolonging my conversation with the two little mm, than for nny vivid inteiest I felt in the invalid gentleman. • His mndady is old ago,' said the blackeyed brother. • And that is a malady that can never be cured.' supplemented the melancholy one. And then, in a still more melancholy voice, ho added that the vajrore had jint left Mnerneno and it was time to go down to the landing place. We started ofF down the hot, white, sun-bleached road. The two little- men nccompnnied mo. They were in hopes of fresh arrivals The invalid gentleman rode down in his carriage. It pnssed us iust as we reached the fruit-booth in the square. The invalid gentleman ! Surely that was no invalid's face, nor a gentleman's face either, that peered out of the window as the carriage passed us. No, it was n little, round, rosy face, with eyes as blue as the sky, and such a sweet, innocent, half-opened, wondering mouth. I saw it all in a turn of the wheel. ' I thought you spoke of a gentleman,' said Tto my two little men. But at that moment the steamer scraped against the sides of the little wooden pier, and a splashing and dashing of waves ensued ; a plank was flung across between the boat and the shore, and the passengers came off" and the passengers went on, in the midst of which general commotion my two little men disappeared in their characters of touters for their new hotel. * T think we may go now,' iaid a pwtty, clear, rippling voice, in soft, slow Italian ; nnd a little girlish, figure jumped out of the carriage, An old man followed — a very old man —feeble and tottering. His coat hung in folds round his poor shrunken form ; his head was bent, his face as gray as the ashes ot a fire that is burned out. He looked absolutely stepping head-foremost int-» the grave, , The girl helped him carefully 1 out of tho carnage, and then, slipping her arm in his, !ei him down to the little plank. I, following their steps, could not help watching tho pair. There was something so touching, bo tender, in the way in which he clung to her and she supported him. At the plankallwasbustleand confusion still; people were coming and going, and boxes were being carried across. 'The old man placed his trembling foot on ilna end of the plank, just when a burly German at tho othor end gave it an unconscious shovo. The board slipped suddenly, the girl's hand was jerkej out of the old man's and in another second he would have been precipitated into the water but for an intervening arm which was fortunately able to steady him and drag him back to shore. That intervening arm was mine, and I shall never forget the look of gratitude on the old man's face nor the pretty words that came rippling from the young girl's lips like a little bubbling spring in Springtime. We all went safely on board together a moment after, that iittle incident having mado us friends on the spot. The girl became very busy immediately, darting about hither and thither in search of cushions and stools, and looking out for a comfortable seat for the old man, w'uo was her father, probably, though ho might vtith equal probability havo been her grandfather as far as age went. She found one in a cosy corner, shaded from the sun and sheltered from tha wind. She sat down beside him herself and peered out under tho awning with her great, misty, blue eyes. Thoro was no room for mo, and I flattered myself the little girl looked rather sorry in consequence. It could not bo helped, however. Tho boat w<is full. I strolled away to the other end. But I found myself thinking of tho two Italians at tho other end of the boat, and by-and-by I threw away my cigar end and strolled back toward them. The old man was asleep with his chin on his chost. The girl was awake, very wide awake, with a book across her lap. 'Do you read English ?' I asked with sorao surprise, going up to her and seeing that the book in question was a Tauchnitz copy of Miss Thackeray's ' Village on the Cliff- It is not often that an Italian girl even of tho highegt class, such as I somehow judged this one to bo, becomes proficient in a lanjjuage which priests, and still more convent authorities, regard as somehow tainted with heresy. 1 1 can read it a little, signore,' she answered modestly. 'Ho likes me to learn it, you soc,' (indicating with a peculiar, lingering, sing-song accent the sloeping man by her side). 'He is so clevor himself and ho thinks I havo a little talent for ltnguages. So all last winter, in Venice, I studied English. It is a beautiful language, and this is a beautiful book. Tho signoro Inglose has read it, of course P' I shook my head. The ' signore Inglcse h*d read it, of course, and admired it greatly ; but then— she looked so pretty when she talked. •Tell mo about it,' said I. ' It is about a girl who marries a man she does not care much about at first, but who in the end she learns to love quite passionately. And yet, at one time she thought she loved some one else, you know. But one can always learn to love

what is good, and noble, attd true, one not ? That is as sure as the hills. And she lifted up her clear, blue eyeS, and looked at those solemn, darkening heights with a long, lingering, wistful gaze. ' Do you come from the hills ?' I asked, watching her. I was puzzled as to her nationality. Altogether Italian she conld not be. She spoko the language prettily enough, but somewhat hesitatingly; and besides her thoughts seemed to outrun her words, and the Italian ladies I had met hitherto bad erredintheopposite direction. Geiman she might possibly have been, but then the old man evidently had not understood a single word of all that torrent ot apologies poured upon him by the offending Teuton at the plank. No, he was unmistakably an Italian. His speech, Ins manner, his lean, high-featured face, the sudden way in which his dim, dark eyei would light up now and then, like stars flashing out through a mist, all betrayed him. But he might ha?e married a foreigner— an Austrian, perhaps, since he came from Venice. And it would be from her mother that the girl had inherited those lucid blue eyes, and that tweet, slow hesitating speech of hers. And so, when I said. 'Do you come from the lulls ?' I intended to make a discovery. Hut all the answer I got was a quick, startled, searching glance, and a low half unw lllmg murmur : ' We have come— irora Venice — last.' 1 But you are fond of the hills ?' I ur^ed. ' Fond of them ! Ah !' she said, with a little yasp. ' You see, down here in the plains, it is all very beautiful ; so warm, and sunshiny ; and the country is so rich, tlie things grow of themselves without any trouble, and the people live well, because there is plenty of corn, and oil, and wine But up there, among the mountains, it is always bleak and cold and the winter la9ts nine months of the year, and the birds die in the snow, and the people arc so brave and hardy, while down here folk* do noihing but eDj'oy life, just because they cannot help it. One seems to breathe purer air up there ; one feels at least so much nearer heaven.' I looked at her so much astonished. These vt ere most daring democratic sentiments to be delivered by such a pretty little aristocrat! ' You have a strong feeling for 'the people, 1 1 remarked ; ' so have I. But Ido not agree with you about the mountains. I have just come down from living at the top of some of them, and I did not feel half so near heaven then as Ido now.' It waa the stupidest kind of compliment to pay, but it glanced off her, as harmlessly as a poisoned arrow off a magic shield. 1 It is just as one — knows,' she replied quietly. And then she looked up at the dark mountains again ; and somehow, as she looked, it seemed to me that the light faded out of her eyes, and the glow from her cheeks, and that her lips parted with a little sigh. Only why should she sigh as sl.e looked at the hills P ' F'rona !' said aa old quavering voice, rather Bleopily. ' What are you doing, carina P htir-gazmg as usual? The Toice was not unkind, only it sounded rather' hai\-.li and jarring at that moment. And indeed how should an old man lite that ever be able to enter into the feelings of so young a girl, eve a though she happened to be his own daughter P 'It is too dark to read,' said F'rona meekly, ' besides, we are getting very near Baveno now.' And at Biveno they landed. So did I. All that night 1 seemed to be dreaming of F'rona. The name was an odd one, but I liked it somehow. There was something quaint and unnatural about it, like its owner. I dreamed of her on the mountain tops, with the light of the sky in her eyes, and the broezo lifting her hair, and blowing it all about her sweet, sunny, rosy face. I dreamed of her in the midst of a gay world all decked out in jewels and gold, and beautiful, trailing, mist- like dre9ses, but with the same innocent, bewildered, earnest gaze in her great blue eyes. And then 1 flew with her back to the mountains ; that was the right background for her, after all, and pictured her trotting in and out of the quaint little Eomansoh houses, with their balconies and small round windows and big wooden doors, and talking to the peasants and relieving their wants, and wondering over their brave hardy ways. Ah, no, not wondering ; she must understand them, I think. Sho had known them, she said. That was the strangest part of all. I did not see her at all the next day. Thej told us m the hotel that an invalid gentleman had arrived the night before, and begged us to make as little noise as possible in the passages. The invalid's name was Marchese San Giorgio. He came from Venice, and was a great man in his own country. My perspicacity was not at fault you see. Baveno is famous for its chestnut woods. They rise all around it, thick and shady, hiding away among the shadows the pretty little ' pase ' that lie nestling on the hills. There are innumerable paths winding through the woods, funny little paved stony ways, bounded by low grey walls. All day long people go up and down them on their bare brown feet, men, women and children, with long deep baskets on their backs, stuffed full of chestnuts, or apples, or grapes. They move very slowly, in a peculiar, swaying motion of their own, and they rest their baskets on the walls as you pass, and stare at you with great melancholy dark eyes. They have the greatest respect for ' the stranger English,' but they marvel at his power of locomotion. ' Did the signor walk all the way from England here ?' they ask, wondering. Nothing short of an earthquake or a thunder-storm seemi to route them to anything like activity or anxiety. There was a great storm one day, and the little town, indeed, looked ratherdamp, and there was a perfect harvest of chestnuts under all the trees. One stumbled npon them at every step. They rolled away in all directions. ' The wky§ and the woods smelt sweet,' as I went up through them to Romanico, a little tillage behind Baveno. It was a deserted village for once, No chattering or chaffering from house to house ; no children playing on the door steps ;it all seemed silent as a tomb. A. donkey stood in the principal street. His nose was stuffed into one door, his tail into another, the opposite one. It was a tight fit, but he seemed to tnjoy it ; and ejection wasapparontly impossible. Iwasjustmeditatmg a flying leap, when an old woman's head appeared over the donkey's tail, and she unceremoniously dragged the obtuse quadruped backward into ncr kitchen*

'It is my daughter's asino/ iht explained. ' She has gone to gather chest nutv They hare all gone except me. I ■hall go no more. At the end of the Tillage a pretty jumble of sights met my eyes. A pump, a ■brine with the picture of a red snint in it, a house all balconies and outside stairu and with strings of golden mdise hanging round it; a road slaating down to the cemetery; a brook trickling away in rarious directions ; a dazzle of sunshine zigzagging through th« wet interlacing leaves ; and, under the trees, a group of villagers in their many-coloured petticoat? and broad-brimmed hats raking up the chestnuts that had fallen during the night. They talked together very fast in their quaint, chopped Italian patois; but they worked very slowly in a languid, spiritless lort of way, as if such unwonted exertions wearied them greatly. One figure among them, however, seemed to be working with a will. I couldflfee it darting hither and thither in a quiet eager way, a little, childish figure in some dark kind of dress, and a quantity of soft, fair hair knotted up behind ; suddenly the knot of hair turned round, and I saw instead the •weet, flushed, flower-like face of the old Marchese's Frona. She threw down her rake when she ■aw me. A chorus of voices rose round her. •Oh do not go yet, bell' signnola— not just yet. You teach ns how to work. You work yourself like- all the angpls. j You see signore,' (this was addressed to me confidentially, by an old fellow in sbirt-Bleeles, and a velveteen waistcoat), • the bell' signuola comes from a country where chestnuts are as scarce as gold ; j ■o she knows how to value them. He was evidently chuckling to himself over the superiority of Lombardy to Venetia. But the bell' signuola left her rake lyiag on the grass. • I must go now my mends, she said in her pretty, slow, hesitating Italian. • and I may never be able to come again. But you will remember, will you not, what I have told you about the poor people who live on the mountains, and who would be glad very often for a handful of those very chestnuts which you leave rotting on the ground ?' Then she walked away by my side, juit as if I had bsen sent out to fetch her home. • I could not help doing that for once,' ■he said, half apologetically, to me. ■ But I may not be able to do it again. lie might not like it, you know.' ' Like it — the.Marchese— no ; I should think not. No man, however affable, would like to see his daughter working »way among the peasants,. getting her feet wet through, and her hands tanned by the sun.' And the Marchese San Giorgio was not an affable man, I judged. But I Mid nothing. She caught my glance at her feet, hovr•ver. • Yea they are wet,* she said, carelessly. ' It is very uncomfortable when one wears boots. Otherwise it does not matter.' •You ought to have been born a peasant,' satf I. Beally this was going too far, even for me. She looked up at me with a smile, but what a smile — frank, shy, confiding, questioning, artless, bashful, bcautitul, all at once. I Hvod on that smile for days. I think it was about a week after that adventure that I received a little note from my young lady. It was a funny little note, stiffly written, and very stiffly expressed. It was merely to the effect that the Marchese desired the honor of a visit from me at a stated time on the following afternoon. It was signed Veronica Ban Giorgio. I was a little surprised but promised attendance of course. An hour or two before the eventful interview I strolled oat into the hotel garden. Veronica San Giorgio was there. I had seen her from my bedroom window. She was sitting on the low wall that divides the garden from the lake. She was, I thick, gazing at the hills, as usual. She had a bunch of blue flowers on her lap She started up when she heard my step on the gravel, and came to meet me with her eager smile. Then something (was it ] something in my face, or her own heart P) suddenly checked her ; sbo blushed a little-, and began listlessly pulling the flowers to pieces. < ' Don't destroy your namesakes,' said I, catching some of the blue fragments between my hands ; 'it seems canniballike. 'Do you know, I was wandering what your real name could be P F'rona is a pretty pet name, but Veronica is far prettier, I think.' •Do you think so P' she said indifferently. ' He does not like it' • Why i'\d he give it to you, then P' I nsked, feeling nettled, I know not why. She turned upon me that shy, question ing smile again. 4 He did not give it me,' she said slowly, ' though he was my godfather. It seems •tfange now to think of him as ' • As your own father.' said I. hastily •applying the blank. Parents do some. times act as sponsors to their children, I believe. 'As my husband,' she said softly and musingly and letting the words die away in a sigh. Her husband — that old man ; that feeble, tottering, old grandfather P It ■eems too horrible to be true. I could Dot utter a word but I fear my face expressed my feelings. • Yes — my husband,' she repeated softly. •Did you not know P Are you very much surprised ? Shall I tell you how it happened P You see we lived on the mountains, and my father was a chamoishunter, and once saved the Marchese's life in the snow. 'After that the Marchese never forget us, but came back, year after year, generally living in our house, because there were not many hotels in Engadine then. But one year, when he cime, (it was only a year ago,) my father could not go out with him because he was ill, and things had gone bad with us and we were very poor, because there were so many little ones at home now to be fed, and Cousin Bertol besides ■ and my father said, ' The Sipnor Marched would do well to go to the Kulm Hotel He will fare better there than here ' But the Signor Marchese w.ould not go tj the Kulm Hotel ; he would stay with us. He bad something to say to my father. H< had seen me grow up and wanted to marry me ; and he promised to provide for tut littl* brothers, and give portions

to the little sisters, if I only would do so. But I must marry him with a clean heart —that is, declare honestly that I had never cared for any one else. So I made ! the deriaration easily enough, for I was I only fifteen then, and who eha could J ! have seen <,o care for »n that way ? And then my father thanked me, and said 1 had made it easy for him to die ; and the little brothers and sisters danced for joy, and everybody seemed pleased except Cousin Bertol. But the Marchese kept his word, and gave him a piece of land for a farm, and sent all the little ones to good school?. And he was very kind to me, and carried me away to a beautiful palace by the sen, and gave me pretty dresses to wear, and jewels and lacp, and everything I fancied. But, do you know, I was very wicked and ungrateful, and after a while I grew tired of all these beautiful things, and even of Marchese's kindness, too, sometimes ; and I longed— oh ! how I longed for a sight of a mountain storm, or ■ cross look from Cousin Bertol, And then, the Marchese's relations did not like me, and called me a stupid little ' contadina,' and so he took me travelling, and said I had better not tell anybody exscMy who I had been. But— but, 111 1 could not help telling you, because .' And here she stopped short suJdenly, stifl-d, as it were, by a burning blu«h. 'Because — what?* I asked, almost, fiercely. I had listened to every word she said, and it seemed hnrd to be balked of tno or three more, and those, perhaps, the most important of all. But she flew past me 'like % flash of light.' She ran along the garden oath into the hotel. A li'tle line of blue veronica petals marked her tracks. I saw no more. After all, my intorvicw with the Marchese never came off. I went to Stresa tbav same afternoon. One day in the following Spring, as I went into my club, a little packet was put into try hands. How it ever reached me was a marrel. Tt was addressed to the ' Tllustrissimo Sienore Myles, Hotel dcs lies Borromees, Stresa;' but this original direction had been crossed over by a variety of othprs. The seal had never been broken, however, till I broke it, and found within the pneket a biggish box and a liftlo letter. I opened the latter first. It ' was written in the stiff, childish hand I hnd peon once before, and was dated St. Mor'tz Christmas Day. 187 — . Ii i.mo. Mc^or: I send you, in my husband's name, a small packet containing a token of his recard for the ■ervice you rendered him that day at Luino. He had hoped to have placed it in your bands himielf ; and for that purpose solicited the honour of a visit from you »t Baveno. But you lefc before the hour of the visit, and we wondered much over your audrien abieDce. He is dead now, the good Marcheae ; and I thiak 1 scarcely knew how good he was, till he wu gone from me He left me much money, but I only kept enough to take me btck to my tnothir, and have given the rest back to bis family. What doei one want with money when one livos on the mountains, and if one hat been bora among them one cannot live anywhere elie ;at least, not well. That is what Cousin Bertol «»ye. Hi« farm has prospered He wenti me to go and live there with him some day. But I shall weary the signore Inglese with my aff iirs, and I only wanted to thank him for his kindness to me. For, from first to last, as the good signore will doubtlets remember, I could not help talking to him about myself ; becauso— because — I trust he will not be offended — he always reminded me so iuuch of Cousin Bertol ' The letter wa* simply signed, ' P'rona,' the grand old Venetian name not being added to it. The. box* contained two littlo miniatures of tho Mar'chese and his wife. The portraits were very good ; they were nicely painted, and were set in cases adorned with coronets, and joined together with a knot of blue veronica flowers. They are the prettiest ornament in my bachelor rooms, ard & frequent source of wonderment and speculation to my friends. • You did not think I had such aristocratic acquaintance ?' said I laughing, to Miss Brooke one day, when she and some other lady friends had honored my rooms with their company at a te» party. Miss Brooke looked at the miniature loDg and earnestly. ' 1 remember that face, now,' she said. ♦It is the face that looked out of the travelling cirringe and laughed at our snowballs on the Bernina Pass last summer. And I remember the story, too. The girl wai the daughter of the people at St. Moritz, who had once been in tolerable circumstances, but h%d become very poor. And then the Marquis appeared and carried her off. It was quite like a fairy story, but I wonder if she was happy, poor little thing ! 1 remember her mother used to talk about ' mv daughter the marchioness.' but I never could learn much from her. She did part of the washing at Kulrn, you know. Why Mr Myles,' with sudden animation, ' there's a chance for you. It was i home thrust, was it notP But, as it happened, I was thinking of something else just then. I went, the following summer, back to Engadine, and Miss Brook went wiih me. ', Only not as Mis« Brook any longer, but ' as Mrs Myles. We had both of us mutually agreed to forgot all about tho washerwoman's daughter. As we drove up through the winding ] pine woods to St. Moritz, a sound of. bridal bells struck upon our ears. *It is an appropriate greeting,' said I sentimentally. | 'Itis a wedding,' said Pankraz, our driver, looking back sulkily from his box seat. ' The prettiest girl in all tho country side has married the ugliest man in tho world today.' This was not flattering, if the names were what I suddenly suspected they were, and there was any reality m tho resemblance alluded to by the Marchesa in her letter. 'Is the lady's name F'rona and the man's Borlol P' I asked. Fankraz nodded. * Ay, and such a one as Bertol to protend to the hand of our F'rona, who had been married once before to a Marquis, you know. But you see a grand life weaned her, not being used to it, as she said, und so she took up with this ugly Bertol. Not but what there might have been others ' And hern the little man suddenly twisted himself round on his seat and began whipping his horses somewhat viciously. From which I infer that one or two others, b»»ide» ugly Couim Btrtol, might

possibly hava liked to possoss themssWe'J of the hand of pretty little Marchesn F'rona.— [' Temple Bar.'