END OF BOOK V.

BOOK VI.

CHAPTER I.

In a green valley of the Apennines, close to the sea-coast between Genoa and Spezzia, is a marine villa, that once belonged to the Malaspina family, in olden time the friends and patrons of Dante.  It is rather a fantastic pile, painted in fresco, but spacious, in good repair, and convenient.  Although little more than a mile from Spezzia, a glimpse of the blue sea can only be caught from one particular spot, so completely is the land locked with hills, covered with groves of chestnut and olive orchards.  From the heights, however, you enjoy magnificent prospects of the most picturesque portion of the Italian coast; a lofty, undulating, and wooded shore, with an infinite variety of bays and jutting promontories; while the eye, wandering from Leghorn on one side towards Genoa on the other, traces an almost uninterrupted line of hamlets and casinos, gardens and orchards, terraces of vines, and groves of olive.  Beyond them, the broad and blue expanse of the midland ocean, glittering in the meridian blaze, or about to receive perhaps in its glowing waters the red orb of sunset.

It was the month of May, in Italy, at least, the merry month of May, and Marmion Herbert came forth from the villa Malaspina, and throwing himself on the turf, was soon lost in the volume of Plato which he bore with him.  He did not move until in the course of an hour he was roused by the arrival of servants, who brought seats and a table, when, looking up, he observed Lady Annabel and Venetia in the portico of the villa.  He rose to greet them, and gave his arm to his wife.

‘Spring in the Apennines, my Annabel,’ said Herbert, ’is a happy combination.  I am more in love each day with this residence.  The situation is so sheltered, the air so soft and pure, the spot so tranquil, and the season so delicious, that it realises all my romance of retirement.  As for you, I never saw you look so well; and as for Venetia, I can scarcely believe this rosy nymph could have been our pale-eyed girl, who cost us such anxiety!’

‘Our breakfast is not ready.  Let us walk to our sea view,’ said Lady Annabel.  ‘Give me your book to carry, Marmion.’

‘There let the philosopher repose,’ said Herbert, throwing the volume on the turf.  ‘Plato dreamed of what I enjoy.’

‘And of what did Plato dream, papa?’ said Venetia.

‘He dreamed of love, child.’

Venetia took her father’s disengaged arm.

They had now arrived at their sea view, a glimpse of the Mediterranean between two tall crags.

‘A sail in the offing,’ said Herbert.  ’How that solitary sail tells, Annabel!’

‘I feel the sea breeze, mother.  Does not it remind you of Weymouth?’ said Venetia.

‘Ah!  Marmion,’ said Lady Annabel, ’I would that you could see Masham once more.  He is the only friend that I regret.’