CHAPTER III.

The village generally condemned her; especially Liza. Not a single voice was heard in her favor but her mother’s.

Ah, yes, there was one voice in her favor--honest Alesso’s, the good-tempered fool’s. He would not believe in Amina’s guilt, which determination of his thoroughly stamped him a fool in the eyes of all. Her guilt was so palpable; doubt her guilt! you might as well doubt the light of the sun.

Liza, as before said, was especially severe, and doubted whether she ought to be allowed to remain in the village. But nobody supported such a doubt; they were not quite so virtuous themselves as to come to _that_ conclusion. Alesso, indeed, spite of his belief in Amina’s innocence, admired Liza more than ever, for her stern virtue, and sighed as he thought that man would be happy who should call Liza wife.

Alesso had long thought he should be happy to be that man, but though Liza had never given him much hope, he had never given it up in despair, therefore it may be imagined with what grief he heard only the next morning after the catastrophe, that Elvino had made up his mind, and told somebody, who had told somebody else, who had told it to Alesso, that Elvino meant to make proposals to Liza; and before three hours had elapsed this was confirmed throughout the village.

As for the poor girl Amina, she wept most piteously.

Towards the afternoon of the unhappy day which came after the catastrophe, she sought him out, helped by her stout-hearted mother, and made another effort to regain his old love for her. She was no heroine--only a simple village maid; so she did not upbraid him, she only entreated and protested.

He would not listen to her: when she again left him, he had got back the betrothal ring he had placed upon her finger--the dear ring his mother had worn.

By that night he had asked for and gained Liza’s consent to take her to wife, and poor little Amina’s remaining hopes (nursed by her mother) were all dead.

When evening came upon the village, the greater part of the villagers were in their tiny cots, and a score or so, together with Liza, Elvino, and Alesso, were seated before the inn door, behind which stood the cottage, within which was the unhappy little woman, now fallen asleep, and sobbing as she slept.

What made Elvino suddenly start--what made him run forward with his fists clenched, and his breath convulsive?

The Count, the Count Rudolpho, who had been missing since the unhappy affair, now came forward to speak out the truth, and upon whose silence the cowardly Liza had relied.

It is a comfort to know that a libertine need not necessarily be a liar though he very frequently is: and in this especial case Count Rudolpho spoke the truth. He declared the whole tale from beginning to end, and, doubtless, he would have appealed to Liza for corroboration, but that, that discreet person got out of the way.

As for the lover, who still so deeply loved, that he was actually going to marry a woman for whom he cared naught as a revenge, he would believe nothing that the count said. Indeed, how could the girl have entered the inn, if not with the count’s aid.

The noble pointed to the unused bridge, but Elvino scouted the idea; why it would fall at the least touch, how then could she have passed over it?

The count was turning away in despair, when a noise a little distance off arrested his steps; the villagers turned and saw the village phantom, and they saw at once who it was.

Again, Amina was walking in her sleep; again she was moving towards the old ruined bridge; again she carried a flickering light in her hand.

As Elvino saw her, all his old love returning, he ran forward and would have shouted to her, but that the count sped after him, laid a hand upon his mouth, and softly, yet imperatively, bade him be silent.

The lover flung himself upon his knees, stretched out his arms towards his pure wife, and with straining eyes watched her coming.

Nearer to the old bridge--which was rotten, and below which was a roaring torrent. Nearer still, then one foot was upon it.

All silent with fear they drew back a pace, as though each had stepped upon the tottering wood, or as though he could prevent her second step by the act.

Again a step forward, and she was fairly on the bridge, the angry water roaring beneath.

Suddenly there was a crackling sound, and as they heard it, they flung themselves down upon their knees, and hid their faces in their hands.

When they stood up again they expected to see her and the bridge no longer before them. But the brave old bridge had only cracked; there was a great flaw in it, and there also stood Amina as though in doubt, as though cautious of her next step. The hand which had held the light was still held out, but the lamp was gone, the rupture of the stones had shaken it from her hold.

If now she sees her way by the lighted lamp; if now she stands undecided, because she can no longer see where to make her steps, she is lost, for no one can dare step on to the rotten bridge to save her, and she will fall over the low parapet, and so be lost.

But no; again she steps on--feeling carefully with her foot; again she hesitates, as her sliding foot comes against an unaccustomed projection, caused by the fracture of the stone-work.

Then again she moves on--a step; another; yet another--and she is safe.

Then they all fell on their knees, and so gained pardon for having wrongfully accused the poor girl.

For had she been guilty, she would not have had the courage to try and cheat the villagers. Yes, she was really asleep, and had no idea of the danger she had run.

She came close to the spot upon which knelt her Elvino, whom she had now gained back to her whilst she slept; and then she went through the motion of setting down the lamp, now rolling at the bottom of the torrent.

Soon she began talking of the lost ring--the ring he had given her, and had torn from her.

And she broke up into atoms the score of roses he had also given her on that happy night, and which she now took from her bosom. Then again she wept for the ring, and felt on her hand for it.

He still had the ring, for he had not hardened his heart enough to put it on Liza’s hand; and, under the direction of the count, he quietly slipped it on the sleeping girl’s finger.

’Twas enough.

Feeling the ring once again, she awoke. But ah! to how much joy? The whole village crowding around her, sorry for their unjust suspicions, and more desirous of getting a kind look from her than ever; her Elvino, proud and happy, near her; her dear old adopted mother, proud and self-satisfied. Was it not better as it was--that that happiness should come after such deep trouble (which is ofttimes a short cut to years of joy,) than that the two young people should have dropped into wedlock after a happy, unclouded childhood and love, without having had a pang to teach them the sweetness of peace and innocence.

As for Liza, the less that is said of that lady the better. That scarf of hers told terribly against her; and though poor Alesso felt the blow terribly, he could hardly show the remains of any bruise whatever to his new love when Liza left the village.

L’ELISIR D’AMORE. (DONIZETTI.)

THE ELIXIR OF LOVE