The Betrothed. Alessandro Manzoni
a joy, however, troubled by a slight shade of anxiety. The little Betsy intruded herself into the circle, managed to approach Lucy, and communicated her message. “I shall return in a moment,” said Lucy to her friends, as she hastily quitted the room. On perceiving the altered and unquiet appearance of Renzo, “What is the matter?” said she, not without a presentiment of evil.
“Lucy,” replied Renzo, “all is at a stand, and God knows whether we shall ever be man and wife!”
“How!” said Lucy, alarmed. Renzo related briefly the history of the morning; she listened with anguish: when he uttered the name of Don Roderick, “Ah!” exclaimed she, blushing and trembling, “has it then come to this?”
“Then you knew!” said Renzo.
“Too well,” replied Lucy.
“What did you know?”
“Do not make me speak now, do not make me weep! I'll call my mother and dismiss the company. We must be alone.”
As she departed, Renzo whispered, “And you have never spoken of it to me!”
“Ah, Renzo!” replied Lucy, turning for a moment to gaze at him.
He understood well what this action meant; it was as if she had said, “Can you doubt me?”
Meanwhile the good Agnes (so the mother of Lucy was called) had descended the stairs, to ascertain the cause of her daughter's disappearance. She remained with Renzo; while Lucy returned to the company, and, assuming all the composure she could, said to them, “The Signor Curate is indisposed, and the wedding cannot take place to-day.” The ladies departed, and lost no time in relating amongst the gossips of the neighbourhood all that had occurred, while they made particular enquiries respecting the reality of Don Abbondio's sickness. The truth of this cut short the conjectures which they had already begun to intimate by brief and mysterious hints.
CHAPTER III.
Lucy entered the lower room as Renzo was sorrowfully informing Agnes of that, to which she as sorrowfully listened. Both turned towards her from whom they expected an explanation which could not but be painful; the suspicions of both were, however, excited in the midst of their grief, and the displeasure they felt towards Lucy differed only according to their relative situation. Agnes, although anxious to hear her daughter speak, could not avoid reproaching her—“To say nothing to thy mother!”
“Now, I will tell you all,” said Lucy, wiping her eyes with her apron.
“Speak, speak!” cried at once her mother and her lover.
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Lucy, “that it should come to this!”—and with a voice interrupted by tears, she related that a few days previously, as she returned from weaving, and was loitering behind her companions, Don Roderick came up with her, in company with another gentleman; that the former sought to engage her in idle conversation; that she quickened her pace, without lending him an ear, and rejoined her companions; in the mean while she heard the other gentleman laugh, and Don Roderick say, “I'll lay a wager with you.” The day following, on their return, they met them again, but Lucy kept in the midst of her companions, with her head down; the other gentleman burst into laughter, and Don Roderick said, “We will see, we will see.” “Happily for me,” continued Lucy, “this day was the last of the weaving. I related the adventure immediately——”
“To whom didst thou relate it?” asked Agnes quickly, indignant at the idea of any one being preferred before her as a confidant.
“To Father Christopher, in confession, mamma,” replied Lucy, in a tone of apology. “I told him all, the last time you and I went to the church of the convent; you may perhaps recollect my contrivances for delay on that morning, until there should pass some villagers in whose company we might go into the street; because I was so afraid——”
The indignation of Agnes subsided at once, at the mention of a name so revered as Father Christopher's. “Thou didst well, my child,” said she; “but why not tell it also to thy mother?”
For this, Lucy had had two very good reasons; the one, a desire not to disturb and frighten her mother with a circumstance she could not have prevented; the other, the dread of placing a secret, which she wished to be buried in her own bosom in danger of becoming known to all the village: of these two reasons she only alleged the first.
“And could I,” said she, turning to Renzo, in a gentle and reproachful voice, “could I speak to you of this?—Alas! that you should know it now!”
“And what did the Father say to you?” asked Agnes.
“He told me to endeavour to hasten my nuptials, and in the mean while to keep myself within doors; to pray much to God; and he hoped that if Don Roderick should not see me, he would cease to think of me. And it was then,” continued she, turning again towards Renzo, without, however, raising her eyes, and blushing deeply, “it was then that I compelled myself, at the risk of appearing very forward, to request you to conclude the marriage before the appointed time. Who can tell what you must have thought of me? But I did it for the best, and from advice—and this morning I little thought——” She could articulate no longer, and burst into a flood of tears.
“Ah! the scoundrel! the villain!” exclaimed Renzo, pacing the room in a violent paroxysm of rage. He stopped suddenly before Lucy, regarded her with a countenance agitated by various passions, and said, “This is the last wicked deed this wretch will perform.”
“Ah! no, Renzo, for the love of Heaven!” cried Lucy; “no, no, for the love of Heaven! There is a God who watches over the oppressed; but do you think he will protect us if we do evil?”
“No, no, for the love of Heaven!” repeated Agnes.
“Renzo,” said Lucy, with a more resolved and tranquil air, “you have a trade, and I know how to work: let us go away into some distant place, that he may hear of us no more.”
“Ah, Lucy! but we are not yet man and wife! If we were married, then, indeed——” Lucy relapsed into tears, and all three remained silent; the deep despondency of their countenances formed a mournful contrast to the festive character of their dress.
“Hear me, my children; listen to me,” said Agnes, after a few moments; “I came into the world before you, and I know it a little better than you do. The devil is not so frightful as they paint him. To us poor people the skeins appear more entangled, because we do not know where to look for the end; but sometimes advice from a learned man——I know what I mean to say.—Do as I tell you, Renzo; go to Lecco; find the Doctor Azzecca Garbugli[2]; relate to him——But you must not call him by this name—it is a nick-name. Say to the doctor——what do they call him? Oh dear! I can't think of his real name, every one calls him Azzecca Garbugli. Well, well, find this tall, stiff, bald doctor, with a red nose, and a face as red——”
“I know the man by sight,” said Renzo.
“Well, very well,” continued Agnes, “there's a man for you! I have seen more than one troubled wretch who did not know which way to turn himself; I have known him remain an hour with the Doctor Azzecca Garbugli (be careful you don't call him so), and go away laughing at himself for his uneasiness. Take with you these fowls; I expected to have wrung their necks, poor little things! for the banquet of to-night; however, carry them to him, because one must never go empty-handed to these gentlemen. Relate to him all that has happened, and he will tell you at once that which would never enter our heads in a year.”
Renzo and Lucy approved of this advice; Agnes, proud of having given it, with great complacency took the poor fowls one by one from the coop, tied their legs together as if she were making a nosegay, and consigned them to his hands. After having exchanged words of hope, he departed, avoiding the high road and crossing the fields, so as not to