CHAPTER LXXIX

AT break of day, Consuelo, seeing the sun shining, and feeling invited to a walk by the joyous warblings of a thousand birds, which were already making good cheer in the garden, endeavored to leave her chamber. But the embargo was not yet raised, and Dame Bridget still held her prisoners under lock and key. Consuelo at first thought that it was perhaps an ingenious idea of the canon's, who wished to secure the musical enjoyment of the day and had thought it prudent in the first place to make certain of the persons of the musicians. The young girl, rendered hardy and agile by her masculine costume, examined the window, and saw that the descent was rendered easy by a large vine supported by a massive trellis which covered the whole wall. Descending slowly and carefully, so as not to injure the magnificent grapes of the priory, she reached the ground and buried herself in the recesses of the garden, laughing inwardly at Bridget's surprise and disappointment when she should find her precautions frustrated.

Consuelo now saw the superb flowers and magnificent fruits which she had admired by moonlight under another aspect. The breath of morning and the oblique rays of the rosy and smiling sun invested these beautiful productions of the earth with a new poetry. A robe of velvet-like satin enveloped the fruits, the dew hung in pearls of crystal from every branch, and the turf, frosted with silver, exhaled that light vapor which seems the breath of earth aspiring once more to ascend to heaven, and unite itself with the blue and cloudless firmament.

But nothing could exceed the freshness and beauty of the flowers, still loaded as they were with the moisture of the night, at this mysterious and shadowy hour of dawn, when they open as if to display those treasures of purity, and to shed those sweetest perfumes, which the earliest and purest of the sun's rays are alone worthy to behold and to possess for an instant. The canon's garden was in truth a paradise for a lover of horticulture. To Consuelo's eyes, indeed, it seemed somewhat too symmetrical and too carefully tended; but the fifty species of roses which adorned its parterres, the rare and charming hibiscus, the purple sage, the geraniums varied almost to infinity, the perfumed daturas, with their deep opal cups, impregnated with nectar worthy of the gods, the graceful asclepiades, in whose subtle poison the insect finds a voluptuous death, the splendid cactuses, displaying their scarlet effulgence on their strangely rugged stems—a thousand curious and superb plants which Consuelo had never seen, and of whose names and origin she was alike ignorant, long riveted her attention.

Examining their various attitudes and the sentiments which their several peculiarities seemed to convey, she endeavored to seize and define the analogy existing between music and flowers, and sought to explain their joint influence on the temperament of her host. The harmony of sounds had long appeared to her related in some way to the harmony of colors; but the harmony of both these harmonies seemed to her perfume. Plunged at this instant in a soft and dreamy reverie, she fancied she heard a voice issue from each of these painted chalices, and tell her their poetic mysteries in a language hitherto unknown. The rose spoke of her burning loves, the lily of her chaste delight; the superb magnolia told of pure enjoyments and lofty pride, and the lovely little hepatica related all the pleasures of a simple and retired existence. Some flowers spoke with strong and powerful voices, which proclaimed in accents trumpet-tongued, "I am beautiful and I rule." Others murmured in tones scarcely audible, but exquisitely soft and sweet, "I am little and I am beloved." And they all waved gracefully together in the breath of morning, and united their voices in an aërial choir which died away gently amid the listening herbs and beneath the foliage that drank in with greedy ears its mystic meaning.

All at once amid these ideal harmonies and ecstatic reveries, Consuelo heard piercing cries proceed from behind the trees which hid the wall. To these cries, which died away in the silence of the surrounding country, succeeded the rolling of carriage wheels; then the carriage appeared to stop, and blows were heard on the iron railing which inclosed the garden on that side. But whether it was that all the household was still asleep, or that no person cared to reply, they knocked in vain, and the shrill exclamation of a female voice, joined to the oaths of a man calling for help, fell upon the walls of the priory without awaking in the senseless stones any more echo than in the hearts of those whom they sheltered. All the windows which looked out on this side of the building were so firmly closed in order to protect the canon's repose, that no noise could penetrate the oaken window-shutters garnished with leather and stuffed with hair. The servants, busied in the green behind the house, did not hear the application for admittance, and there were no dogs in the priory, as the canon had no fancy for those importunate guardians, who, under the pretext of keeping thieves at a distance, ruffle the repose of their masters. Consuelo endeavored to obtain an entrance into the house, in order to acquaint the inmates that there were travelers in distress, but every door was carefully shut; so, yielding to the impulse of the moment, she ran to the wicket whence the noise proceeded. A traveling carriage, loaded with packages and covered with dust from the journey, had drawn up at the principal entrance of the garden. The postilions had alighted and vainly tried to shake the inhospitable gate, while groans and cries issued from the carriage. "Open!" cried they to Consuelo, "if you are Christians! There is a lady dying here."

"Open!" cried a woman, leaning out of the door, whose features were unknown to Consuelo, but whose Venetian accents impressed her vividly, "My mistress will die if you do not immediately grant her hospitality. Open if you are men."

Consuelo, without reflecting on the consequences of her first impulse, endeavored to open the gate; but it was closed by an enormous padlock, the key of which was probably in Dame Bridget's pocket. The bell was also fastened by a secret spring. In that quiet and honest country such precautions had not been taken against evil doers, but merely against the noise and inconvenience of unseasonable visitors. It was impossible for Consuelo to gratify her kind wishes on the poor woman's behalf, and she listened in melancholy silence to the reproaches of the maid, who, speaking Venetian to her mistress, cried with impatience, "The stupid creature! the awkward little fellow! he does not know how to open a gate." The German postilions, more patient and phlegmatic, were endeavoring to assist Consuelo, but without success, when the suffering lady, appearing in her turn at the window of the carriage, cried with a commanding voice in bad German, "Go this minute, you miserable little wretch, and find some person to open the gate!"

This energetic apostrophe reassured Consuelo respecting the imminent danger of the lady. "If she be near dying," thought she, "it is at least by a violent death;" and addressing herself in Venetian to the traveler, whose accent was as plainly marked as the maid's:

"I do not belong to this house," said she; "I was merely received as a guest here last night; I will go and try to awaken the inmates, which will be neither a quick nor an easy matter. Are you in such danger, madam, that you cannot wait here a little while without disparing?"

"I expect my confinement immediately, you stupid creature!" cried the traveler; "I have not a moment to wait; run, shout, break every thing, bring somebody and procure me admittance—you shall be well paid for your trouble."

She again commenced to utter loud cries. Consuelo felt her knees tremble—that face, that voice were not unknown to her! "What is the name of your mistress?" cried she to the maid.

"What concern is it of yours?" replied the agitated soubrette. "Run, you miserable being! If you lose any time, I warn you you will not get a farthing."

"I want nothing from you," replied Consuelo, warmly; "but I wish to know who you are. If your mistress be a musician, she will be received at once, and if I am not mistaken, she is a celebrated singer."

"Run, my little fellow," said the lady, who between her attacks regained all her coolness and energy; "you are not mistaken. Tell the inhabitants of this house that the celebrated Corilla is at the point of death, if some Christian soul do not take pity on her situation. I shall pay them—say that I shall pay them handsomely. Alas! Sophia," said she to her maid, "lay me upon the ground; I shall suffer less than in this infernal conveyance."

Consuelo hurried toward the priory, determined to rouse every one in the house, and at all hazards to reach the canon. She had already forgotten the strange concurence of circumstances which had led her rival and the cause of all her sufferings to this spot; she only thought of lending her every assistance. But she had no need to make a noise. On her way she met Bridget, who, at length aroused by the cries, had left the house escorted by the gardener and the canon's valet.

"A fine story!" she replied harshly, when Consuelo had explained the case. "Don't go a step further, André; don't stir from this spot, gardener! Don't you see that it is a scheme got up by banditti to rob and murder us? I expected no less. A surprise—a pretense—a band of robbers prowling about the house, while those to whom we have given shelter endeavor to gain them admission on some false pretext! Run for your muskets, my lads, and be ready to shoot this pretended lady who is on the point of being confined. Marry come up! a nice story! But were it even so, I wonder does she take this house for an hospital? I know nothing about such matters myself, and the canon does not like to hear such screaming sounding in his ears. How could any lady undertake a journey under such circumstances? If she have done so, who is to blame? Can we prevent her from suffering? Let her stay in her carriage; she will be just as well off as here where there is no provision for such an occurrence."

This tirade, commenced for Consuelo's edification, and growled out along the whole length of the alley, was finished at the gate for the benefit of Corilla's maid. While the travelers, having pleaded in vain, exchanged reproaches, exclamations, and even abuse, with the intractable housekeeper, Consuelo, hoping something from the canon's good nature and passionate love of art, had regained the house. In vain she sought his suite of apartments—she only lost herself in the intricacies of the vast dwelling. At last she met Haydn, who was in search of her, and who told her he had just seen the canon enter his conservatory. They repaired there together, and met their worthy host advancing to meet them under an arch of jessamine, with a countenance fresh and smiling as the morning, which was one of the sweetest and loveliest of autumn. Looking at the good man, as, folded in his soft quilted dressing-gown, he daintily picked his steps along the freshly raked and sanded paths, where not the smallest pebble appeared to hurt his delicate foot, Consuelo never doubted but that a being so happy, so serene, and agreeable, would be delighted to do a good action. She was commencing to prefer a plea for the poor suffering Corilla, when Bridget, suddenly appearing, cut her short in the following words:

"There is a stroller yonder at your gate, a singer of the theater, who says she is a celebrated performer, and who has the voice and manner of a profligate! She says she is momentarily expecting her confinement, screams and swears like thirty demons, and requests permission to await her recovery here. Would that suit your convenience?"

The canon made a gesture expressive of refusal and disgust.

"Reverend sir," said Consuelo, "whatever this woman may be, she is suffering. Her life, as well as that of the innocent creature whom God calls into existence, and whom religion requires you to foster, is endangered. You will not abandon this unhappy being—you will not suffer her to groan and languish at your doors?"

"Is she married?" inquired the canon coldly, after a moment's reflection.

"I am not aware; probably she is. But what matters it? Has not God granted her the happiness of being a mother? He alone has the right to judge her."

"She mentioned her name," interrupted Bridget, violently, "and you must be acquainted with it as you know all the play-actors of Vienna. She is called Corilla."

"Corilla!" exclaimed the canon. "She has already been in Vienna once before—I have heard much of her. It is said she has a fine voice."

"For the sake of her sweet voice, then, open your doors to her," said Consuelo; "she lies stretched on the dusty road."

"But she is an ill-conducted person," replied the canon. "She scandalized all Vienna some two years ago."

"There are many who are jealous of your benefice, reverend sir—you understand me"—screamed Dame Bridget. "A woman of irregular life awaiting her confinement in your house—that would scarcely seem a matter of chance, and still less a work of charity. You know that the canon Herbert has pretensions to your succession, and that he has already unseated a brother, under pretext that he neglected his duty and led an irregular life. A benefice like yours is more easily lost than gained."

These words made a sudden and decisive impression upon the canon. He prudently noted them in his secret thoughts, though he did not appear even to have heard them.

"There is an inn some two hundred paces from this," said he, "let the lady be conducted there; she will receive the needful attentions, and be more fitly accommodated than with me. Go and tell her so, Bridget; but civilly—mark me—civilly! Point out the inn to the postilions. Come, my children," said he Consuelo and Joseph, "let us try a fugue of Bach's while breakfast is being served up."

"Reverend canon," said Consuelo, agitated, "will you abandon——"

"Ah!" said the canon with a terrified air, "there is my most beautiful volkameria withered! I often told the gardener that he did not water it! A plant the rarest and most wonderful of all my garden! But it was fated, Bridget, you see! Call the gardener till I scold him soundly."

"I must first chase the celebrated Corilla from your gate," replied Bridget, moving off.

"And you consent? you order it, sir?" exclaimed the indignant Consuelo.

"It is impossible to do otherwise," replied he, in a calm but inflexible tone of voice. "I request that I may not be spoken to further on the subject. Come, begin; I await you."

"There is no more music for us here," exclaimed Consuelo with energy. "You would not be capable of understanding Bach, you who are without pity or compassion! Ah, perish your fruits and flowers! May frost destroy the bloom of your jasamines and blight the promise of your most precious trees! May this fruitful soil, which yields its bounties in such profusion, produce only thorns and thistles! For you have no heart. You rob Heaven of its gifts, in refusing to share them with your suffering neighbor."

So saying, Consuelo left the astounded canon, who gazed vacantly around him, as if he feared this withering malediction had already fallen on his precious volkamerias and cherished anemones. She ran to the wicket, which was still closed, and promptly climbed it, in order to follow Corilla's conveyance toward the wretched wayside cabaret which the canon had dignified with the title of an inn.