but I scarcely think he could say so here, as he would see some which had frozen far beneath the surface, or else there never was anything to freeze over: perhaps it is so."
During the conversation with Mrs. Adair, Madame Ely named a Madame Hird, whom, as it turned out, Mrs. Adair had known very well. She now expressed a wish to see her, which request was granted, and Madame Hird came down.
She was the very opposite of Madame Ely—short in stature and of drooping carriage; she had small, delicate features, soft blue eyes with a most gentle expression, and, if she also was somewhat cold, it was merely a conventual coldness,—it could easily be seen that, in her, the ice had indeed
She remembered Mrs. Adair quite well, and they talked of former days and old acquaintances till Mrs. Adair thought it was time to say adieu, and she asked Madame Hird if they could take any commands for her to Paris, or indeed to Ireland, whither they were eventually going.
"I thank you, no," she answered; but after a momentary pause she continued, "Yet you could indeed do me a great service, if it would not be asking too much. It is to take charge of a little protégée of mine as far as Paris,—instead of protégée I should rather have said one who has been particularly recommended to my care by a dear friend, Madame de St. Severan, a countrywoman, but, as her name proclaims, married to a Frenchman, Colonel de St. Severan."
Mrs. Adair said she would be most happy to oblige her old friend Madame Hird.
"Well, then," answered the latter, "you must allow me to hand over to you a sketch of my little charge's history, which Madame de St. Severan sent to me. You can take it with you and read it at your leisure; then come again and tell me if you are still willing to take charge of Marie. She is the daughter of an Arab chief,—but all that you will see in Madame de St. Severan's account of her. I will go and fetch it."
She left the room, but returned quickly with the packet. Mrs. Adair thanked her for it, said they would call again in a few days, and then the whole party stood up to take their leave.
When they got to the door, Mrs. Adair said, "Come, Flora, we must get home as quickly as possible; it is already past five."
"Oh, Mrs. Adair," exclaimed Mina, "please not to take Flora away; let her take a drive with us and spend the evening; you know mamma is always delighted to have her, and as Miss Lecky lives in your neighbourhood, she can see her home."
"But she has not dined, child, and you have!"
Mina looked imploringly at Flora and glanced with dismay at Miss Lecky. Flora understood the mute appeal, and said—
"Really, mamma, I could not eat any dinner as I made such a very good luncheon, therefore that need not keep me from going with Mina!"
"And we shall have a 'thick tea' when we get home," added Mina; "so, Mrs. Adair, you will not be so cruel as to refuse to let her come with us;—but why will you not come also?"
"Oh! I am too rational to leave my dinner for a drive; besides, Lucy would be waiting for us. I must go home, but if my fair daughter chooses to go without her dinner she may do so."
"I thank you so much, Mrs. Adair," answered Mina: "but you will let us take you home?"
"Indeed I can allow no such thing,—it would make you far too late for the Villa Doria. I will say good-bye, now; and, Flora, pray come home in good time."
"You may depend upon my leaving her at home in good time, Mrs. Adair; I never stay out late," said Miss Lecky.
Just then one of the little open carriages passed; Mrs. Adair called it and drove home; the other three ladies then started for the Villa Doria.
But we have not yet presented Miss Lecky to the reader,—she has only been heard of as "old Lecky." It is true she was no longer young or interesting, yet a few words must be said, not of her appearance so much as of her character. She was, then, a desperate saint and a church-haunter, but, at the same time, indefatigable in running about to all the profane sights. In the galleries of painting and statuary she evinced the most rigid modesty in turning away her head and looking down when any undraped figure—of which there is no lack in Italian galleries—caught her eye, and this to the great amusement of the girls, who, whenever they went with her to any of these places, took the greatest delight in pointing out to her on the catalogue objects which were particularly to be observed, and afterwards watching the poor old lady's start of horror at such representations; being short-sighted, moreover, she did not see anything until she was quite near to it. For the rest she was a good-natured, kind-hearted old creature, yet a little wearisome withal to our young friends.
As they drove to the Villa Doria the task of entertaining her fell principally upon Mina, as her mother's friend and guest. Flora sat silently enjoying the delicious Italian evening; she might have been accused of looking a little abstracted, as, with eyes apparently fixed on vacancy, she leaned back in the carriage. Perhaps there were floating before them visions of other and yet more delicious evenings, when she lay upon a sofa near an open window and listened to a voice and words very different from old Lecky's!
They drove out of the Porta San Pancrazio, a little distance beyond which are the grounds of the Doria Pamfili Villa, one of the most extensive and park-like places to be found on the Continent, and although somewhat disfigured by avenues, terraces, and fountains, it is an enchanting spot, especially in the gorgeous Roman spring-time.
Such it was on the evening when our party entered its gates. Had they come to see the fashionable world it was rather late; already the carriages were disappearing, for the sun was declining rapidly towards its setting in the west, and the Romans are far too careful of their health to brave the dangerous half-hour which, it is said, precedes and follows sunset. Our friends, however, did not come to see the monde, and the lateness of the hour only enhanced the beauty of the grounds. As for the health question, the young ladies simply ignored it, and Miss Lecky probably did not know anything about it, or she would not have been so recklessly indifferent to it as her companions were.
One of the chief objects of interest is the Columbarium. Perhaps, for the advantage of our readers who have not been to Rome and have not studied Murray, we ought to say that Columbarium is a name given to certain sepulchral buildings from their likeness to a modern pigeon-house with its tiers of little niches; and in these were deposited in former days urns containing the ashes of the dead, whose names are inscribed on marble tablets above. In one of the Columbaria on the Appian Way there is a curious record placed by a lady over the ashes of a favourite dog; his portrait accompanies the inscription, and he is designated as the delight—"delicium"—of his mistress!...
The Columbarium in the grounds of the Villa Doria consists of one large chamber and several smaller ones; it contains a great number of urns, but few inscriptions, and none of any great interest, so the inspection of it detained our friends only for a few minutes. They then drove to the monument erected by Prince Doria to the memory of the French who fell there in the year 1849, when General Oudinot forced Garibaldi and his Republicans from the Casino and grounds, where they had taken up a strong position. It is situated at the end of one of the great avenues of evergreen oaks, and is an octagonal temple, supported by four columns of white marble, on which is placed a statue of the Blessed Virgin, and on the pedestal are the names of those who fell in defence of the Villa. This is a beautiful object seen from the other end of the avenue,—the white marble contrasting so well with the dark green of the majestic oaks.
It was now high time for them to think of returning, as the gates of the villa were about to be closed; but the evening was still so lovely that Mina declared it would be a sin to go home so soon. Miss Lecky agreed with her, and asked if there were any church which they could see on their way back. Mina answered, "Yes, Santa Sabina; we shall pass close to the Bocca della Verità, which is very near to it; one of the fathers of the Dominican convent is my cousin, so I can ask to see him."
Miss Lecky said that she would be delighted to go, as she had never seen that church. Mina whispered to Flora that she would not see much of it, unless she had cat's eyes and could see in the dark; but it was a good joke to storm the convent after the Ave Maria, and astonish the monks by the sight of three women at that hour.
Accordingly they drove to Santa Sabina, or rather, to the foot of Mount Aventine, on the summit of which it stands. The driver begged them to walk up as "the hill was so steep," and, the light fading, he was afraid that his horses might stumble and fall on their way down; so they got out and went up on foot, the carriage waiting below for them.
On reaching the convent they rang at the door, which was quickly opened by a lay-brother, who looked wonder-struck on seeing the three ladies. Mina ignored the look of surprise, and calmly asked if she could see "il Padre Osmondo." The lay-brother said he would inquire, and showed them into the parlour.
It was already so dark that they could see but indistinctly, and suddenly it appeared to dawn upon Miss Lecky that it was somewhat of an unseemly hour for a visit to a monastery. Mina and Flora could hardly suppress their laughter at the thought that the old lady should only then have arrived at the knowledge of that long evident fact.
Just then the door opened, and in came Father Osmond. He shook hands with Mina, who introduced her friends, and laughingly apologised for the lateness of their visit, saying that as they were passing at the foot of the hill, and Miss Lecky was so anxious to see the church before she left Rome, they had ventured to call at that hour, fearing they would have no other opportunity.
Father Osmond was a tall, fat, good-natured-looking Irishman, with ruddy cheeks and laughing blue eyes. He answered, in a rich brogue, "Shure inough, Miss Blake, I'd niver doubt you to be me counthry-woman—to come and see a place in the dark; but as you are here, I suppose I must bring you into the church, and thry if a candle will help you to see Sassoferrato's sweet Virgin."
"Thank you," replied Mina, as they followed him to the church door, where he begged them to wait a moment while he went to get a candle. He quickly returned, with a lighted one in his hand, and led them to the chapel where is Sassoferrato's beautiful Madonna, a picture unsurpassed, perhaps, in sweetness of expression, by any in Rome.
The scene was indeed a strange one; the large dark church, with the glimmer of a small lamp in one of the side chapels the three female figures standing there, staring up at the picture, and the Dominican in his white habit moving the candle from side to side. The girls were keenly alive to it, and the twinkle in Father Osmond's eye showed that he too was not insensible to its absurdity. At last he said—
"Well, Miss Lecky, I think you'd do as well to come some day to see the church, for shure you can't judge of anything by this miserable candlelight."
"You are right," she answered; "I must manage to come some day to see the church, and have a look at this beautiful picture. Now we had better think of getting home."
Father Osmond led the way back to the reception-room, and said he would call the lay-brother to let them out, adding, "Your carriage is at the door, I suppose."
"No," replied Miss Lecky,—the girls did not trust themselves to speak,—"the driver asked us to walk up; the hill, he said, was so very steep for the horses."
"You don't mean to say that you came up by yourselves! Shure thin I don't know how you'll iver git down again! Why this hill is so lonely and dangerous a place after nightfall that one of the lay-brothers would not go out alone, and you three ladies are going to walk down alone as late as this! No, that can't be!"
The spirit of mischief must have taken possession of the two girls, for, as they saw poor Miss Lecky grow pale with terror, and heard her exclaim, "Oh! Father Osmond, what shall we do?" they laughed outright.
Father Osmond looked at them with a half-amused, half-impatient expression, and said, "It is all very well to laugh, young ladies, but may be it's the wrong side of your mouth you'd laugh if you walked down that hill alone to-night. But that you'll not do. Shure I couldn't sleep aisy in me bed for thinking of what might happen to you. I'll go and get somebody to go down with you." So saying he left the room. Poor Miss Lecky expressed the most ardent wishes that they had never left the carriage, and that they were safe back in it again, and the young ladies tried to regain a little gravity.
In a few minutes Father Osmond came back and said that the man who took care of the garden would take a lantern and see them safe to the carriage. They thanked Father Osmond warmly for all his kindness, and as Mina shook hands with him she begged him in a low voice to excuse this wild freak of theirs, and forgive all their laughing.
"You're young, me children, you're young, and shure it's not meself that would find fault with you for being merry; long may you remain so;—and now, good-night, and may God bless you both."
They followed Miss Lecky, who was impatiently waiting for them at the door, and trying to make out something of what the man with the lantern was saying, which, as she knew very little Italian, seemed rather a hopeless task; and she looked as much afraid of him as of anything else. In truth, he was rather a formidable-looking personage, with his tall, gaunt figure wrapped up in a long dark cloak, a large slouched hat covering his brows so that nothing of his face could be seen but two fierce black eyes, and a profusion of dark hair. He did indeed look rather bandit-like.
As the girls came out he said, "Andiamo presto, Signorine," and started off at a brisk pace with the lantern. Mina could not resist the temptation of drawing out poor old Lecky's fear of their protector, and giving Flora a sign to follow the lead, she said, "Don't you think, Miss Lecky, that the man looks to be a very suspicious character? Suppose he was to be an accomplice of those dangerous people we hear of, and that, when we are half way down the hill, they should dart out from some dark corner! He might pretend that he was frightened by their number, and run away, leaving us in their hands."
"But surely you don't think the fathers would employ such a person, do you?"
"Of course not, if they knew it," said Flora, gravely; "but you know Italians are so cunning that they easily deceive poor monks, and that man certainly is like the descriptions which we read of bandits."
"Well, do you know," began Miss Lecky, in a trembling tone, "it struck me as soon as I saw him, but I did not like to say anything, fearing——"
"What's that!" interrupted Mina, as a low whistle was heard; "it is the signal perhaps!"
"My God! there they are!" exclaimed the poor old lady, as she convulsively caught hold of Flora's arm, "and he is speaking to the leader. Oh! let us run away!"
Mina laughed aloud, Flora at the same time trying to keep from following her example, and to calm poor Miss Lecky's fears by telling her that it was only a flock of goats, and the terrible leader a peaceable herdsman, with his crook, to whom their attendant spoke a few words.
Miss Lecky, as we have already learned, was a good-humoured creature, so she laughed heartily at her own mistake, and said she was so ridiculously short-sighted that she could not distinguish anything at a distance; but how she wished they were safe in the carriage!
The girls felt that it would be carrying a joke to ill-nature to teaze her any more, so they changed their tone, and began to reassure her by telling her that they were nearly at the foot of the hill, and then all cause of fear would be at an end. It was almost too much for them to keep from bursting into fits of laughter at the thought of the poor goats and their herdsman being taken for a party of bandits with their leader.
At length they reached the end of their walk, without any further adventures than passing now and then dark-looking individuals enveloped in cloaks, who stared curiously at them, but went on their way without speaking. The girls, however, did afterwards admit that it would not have been pleasant for them to have been alone.
The moment when they came in sight of the carriage Miss Lecky made a rush towards it, and got in. Mina thanked their cavalier and gave him a couple of pauls, when he took off his hat, courteously wished them buon viaggio e felice notte, and returned to the convent.
They told the coachman to drive back fast to the Piazza di Venezia, and when they got home they found Mrs. Blake expecting them rather anxiously, as it was so late. As Mina had said, she appeared delighted to see Flora, and told them that tea would be ready for them in a moment.
Mina hoped that there was plenty of good substantial eatables, particularly for poor Flora, who had not dined; but Flora declared that she did not deserve to be pitied, since she had enjoyed the drive far more than she would have enjoyed dinner.
A little after nine Miss Lecky left Flora at her home. As soon as she got into the drawing-room she threw herself into an armchair, and then proceeded to give an account of their adventures.
We must now turn our attention to some of our other friends of the croquet party, and especially to one about whom, as we have already seen, Flora Adair's thoughts were not a little occupied, namely, Mr. Earnscliffe, in order to endeavour to learn something of his appearance and his mode of life.
He lived in the Piazza di Trajana, in a handsome and thoroughly Italian apartment on the second floor—or, as it is more properly called, secondo piano—of a house situated at the lower end of the Piazza, nearly opposite to the church of Santa Maria di Loretto.
He was seated in an armchair by a table covered with books and writing materials,—to all appearance he had been reading. His tall and strongly-built form seemed made for activity and energy, and in keeping therewith was the well-shaped hand, which rested upon the arm of his chair,—a hand full of vigour, one of those which show at a glance that its support could be trusted to in any trial or danger. His brown, yet almost auburn, hair was brushed off from a high forehead, but one marked with many a line,—too many for a man of six-and-thirty. Byron speaks of
and so, perhaps, was it with Mr. Earnscliffe. His large blue eyes had a strangely stern expression in them, "pour les doux yeux bleus," but at times, when moved by even a momentary feeling of enthusiasm, there beamed in them a winning softness which looked far more natural to him than that strange sternness. It may be, however, that this was
His slightly aquiline nose, and his somewhat full lips closed firmly over an unbroken and even range of strong teeth, and his firm and resolute mouth betokened an ardent, passionate nature. A beard and moustache, of nearly the same colour as his hair, covered the lower part of his face, which was naturally fair, but somewhat bronzed by southern suns.
He was dressed in a dark morning suit, without any recherche; but in a peasant's costume there would have been that same air of ease and high breeding which so strikingly distinguished him,—that distinction of nature which no outward adornment of wealth or fashion, or even birth with all its advantages, could give. "It is the soul," says the great Christian doctor and philosopher, "which is the form of the body and which gives its beauty to it."
We have heard from Mrs. Elton that Mr. Earnscliffe was rich. Why then did he live in this unfashionable quarter? Probably because it was unfashionable, and out of the way of his sight-seeing, gaiety-hunting country people, who congregate about the Corso and the Piazza di Spagna; probably also because in the Piazza di Trajana, where the houses look down upon the remains of that once magnificent Forum and the unrivalled column which still stands there, he lived in some degree in the Rome of old, "the mistress of the world, whose people were a nation of kings," as he had said on that day at Frascati, and not in the modern Rome, which to his clouded vision appeared so despicable.
If the pride of human reason, which was so strong in him, would have permitted him to endeavour to pierce that cloud, he would have seen how much more glorious is her diadem now than it then was. Then her sovereignty rested on material force alone,—she was the capital of the peoples whom she had conquered for her Cæsars by the force of arms, and her government was the lower one—the government of power; now her sovereignty is a moral sovereignty,—she is the capital of Christendom, of the nations which she has won to God by the power of persuasion, and her government is the highest of all—the government of love! But these things were hidden from Mr. Earnscliffe,—he "did not believe, and therefore he could not understand."
Upon the table beside him lay Nibbi's "Roma Antica e Moderna," "Les Catacombes de Rome," by Louis Perret, an open volume of Plato, Bulwer's "Zanoni" and "Godolphin." It was a small but somewhat miscellaneous collection, and formed a fair index to the mind of him who sat in the armchair. There were few men who had read or thought more than he had done in his own way; but the more he read and the more he thought, the more baseless everything seemed to him. At times he would sit with an open volume beside him, and, ceasing to read, bitterly ask himself what he gained by all his study and thought? It only isolated him, he would say, from the generality of people, and left him tossing without a rudder upon the unstable waters of human opinion, to which there seemed to be no attainable shore.... Yet the shore was close to him, only he would not see it.
There had just risen up before him a vision of years long past and gone, when he dreamed of love, of the unutterable delight of conferring happiness upon another; and for a moment his blue eyes regained their natural soft expression—but for a moment only; the next it had passed away; and throwing his head back impatiently, as if he would shake off
he exclaimed, "What nonsense all this is! Do I not know by experience the hollowness of love? The best of women are but the best of actresses—for they are all so more or less—and would I sigh again for aught so worthless? A thousand times, no. I made my choice long ago; I determined to be self-sufficing, true and virtuous for my own sake, and to prove what man can be of himself alone! Ay, Plato," and he drew the book towards him, "thou art my best friend, my only master! But even thou dost not teach enough! Yet come, thou canst teach me more than any other!" And, with the old stern look in his face, he began to read again.
Will his proud spirit of self-reliance, his iron will, ever be humbled? Will he ever learn to kiss the rod under which he writhes? If so, it must indeed be after a deadly struggle with his mortal enemy, himself.
He did not go much into society, and rather avoided that of ladies, although he could make himself most pleasing to them when he chose to do so, as indeed he had proved in regard to Flora Adair. His sense of justice was unusually strong, and therefore it was that he had broken through his rule of rarely visiting by going so often to the Adairs; he considered it as a sort of moral debt to render the time of Flora's imprisonment as little wearisome as possible, having been, as he said, the remote cause of her accident. As that obligation was now over, he tried to persuade himself that he was delighted at it; yet many things which had happened during their conversations were constantly recurring to him; he wished he had said this, or that,—something, in short, which he had not said. He thought, moreover, that he should like to be able to study Flora Adair more closely, but merely to find her out, as no doubt she was an actress like the rest of her sex. He was generous too, ever ready to give money to relieve others, and, notwithstanding his assumed stoicism, his tell-tale eyes would light up with a passing glow whenever he felt that he had been the means of doing good to a suffering creature, or given any pleasure to others. To his servants he was a kind master, although habitually reserved and distant, but never to them was he proud and scornful, as he often was to his equals. For the rest, his character must develop itself. We shall not now be astonished at acts of apparent inconsistency caused by that perpetual warfare between the two natures, the real and the acquired. Thus flashes of the enthusiastic spirit of his youth would every now and then dart athwart the sombre hues of the philosopher and fatalist of later years.
On this day there certainly seemed to be something very wrong with Mr. Earnscliffe, for he could not as usual, by the mere force of his will, fix his attention to the book before him. Closing it with a jerk, he said to himself, "What on earth has come over me? What has called up so many memories which I thought buried for ever—memories of days when I was not the cold lonely being I now am? Have I not found out the hollowness of all things? Have I not sought in vain for proofs even of the Creator's goodness, about which one hears so much cant? I can see only human beings endowed with sensitive powers, and thrown into the world for the greater part to be tortured, and all left without any certain guide, the sport of their own wayward minds! And then, indeed, people talk about the consolations of religion! What are those consolations? What is religion? A helpless human being in the bright morning of this deceptive life is suddenly struck down by a blow which not only strikes at him, but at his faith in all goodness and truth; he turns to religion and asks for its consolations, and religion turns out to be a collection of rules and maxims laid down by one or more men of different sects, who call themselves ministers of God, and its consolations are certain texts of Scripture interpreted by them as they please, each giving a different meaning, whilst they are united in nothing save in hating and attacking the oldest and most dominant of their creeds: and this perhaps is the best feature about them, as it proves that even they have an instinctive horror of deceit and superstition. À propos, I wonder how Flora Adair believes in it; for although she too is an actress, she is capable of thinking. However, I believe it is supposed to be right for ladies to be religious. Ah! that's it, is it? Yet she did seem to speak from conviction at Frascati. I wish I could unravel her! She would be rather a new and interesting study,—she takes a different rôle from young ladies in general. I don't know that it would be a bad plan to try to unearth her,—it would be something new to think about, at all events; so, young lady, if you come in my way I shall try to find out all the dessous les cartes. As for religions, I am surely not going to fall back to thinking about them and seeking that ignis fatuus, certainty! Reason is the only power which I can recognise, and Plato is Reason's highest, noblest disciple. How is it, then, that to-day I cannot find in him food to satisfy—nay, he never satisfies—but to stay the mind's craving? Well, it seems to be an unsolvable riddle. I only know that I cannot solve it; so, for dream-land! Bulwer is a good magician, and however unreal may be the visions which he conjures up, it is a relief to forget one's self in them even for a time."
He threw himself back into his chair and took up "Godolphin," which he opened at about the middle of the volume. His eyes grew bright, and a slight colour came into his face as he read. Was it his only goddess, Reason, which thus moved him? We will leave it to those of our readers who know "Godolphin,"—and who does not?—to answer the question for themselves.
Having discovered as much of Mr. Earnscliffe as we can now see, we will transport ourselves to a more fashionable quarter—to the Via Babuino—where the Eltons lived.
Their apartment differed essentially from Mr. Earnscliffe's; his was Italian, theirs was English in everything,—an English servant opened the door and ushered visitors into a handsome drawing-room luxuriously furnished à l'Anglaise, with a rich soft carpet, couches, and lounging chairs of various kinds. Mrs. Elton was still in her room; being an invalid, she seldom made her appearance much before one o'clock, and it had but just struck twelve.
Mary Elton was seated at a table, writing; her younger sister, Helena, lolling rather gracefully on a sofa, with a novel in her hand, from which, however, her thoughts seemed to wander not a little, and her restless eyes were fixed oftener on her sister than on the page before her. She seemed to be meditating—if such a word could ever be applied justly to one who was so thoughtless and impulsive—something in regard to Mary, and she shrugged her shoulders impatiently as she watched the incessant motion of her sister's pen and her close attention to what she was doing.
We must not pass over in silence the appearance of these two young ladies, who were said, indeed, to be very much admired. Mary's figure was tall, rather full and stately; she moved quietly and with a certain degree of dignity; while Helena was not much above the middle height, and slighter than her sister; there was a careless grace, too, in her quick, restless movements, which was very attractive. Never were there greater contrasts, in appearance as in all the rest, than these two sisters. They had both red—some called it auburn—hair, but in truth it was scarcely auburn; both had brilliantly fair complexions and hazel eyes, but there the resemblance ceased. Mary's eyes were large and round; they looked at one with a calm, steady gaze; they could burn at times, and when they did, it was with no mere flash, but a fierce steady flame. Helena's were smaller and more almond-shaped,—sparkling, dancing, laughing eyes they were indeed! Mary had a broad and rather high forehead, a straight, almost Grecian, nose and a well-cut but large mouth. Helena's forehead was low and very narrow, her nose was slightly retroussé, and her mouth small, with red pouting lips. The expression of one of these faces was constantly changing; that of the other was habitually calm and thoughtful,—a face which changed but seldom, but when it did change it was no April sunshine, or cloud, or summer storm that passed over it.
Helena could bear the monotonous scratching of Mary's pen no longer, and exclaimed, "For goodness' sake, Mary, do stop writing, and give up looking so intensely interested in that stupid letter to our saint of an aunt! I know it must bore you dreadfully!"
"Because you are bored yourself, Helena; is it not so? But mamma wishes this letter to go to-day, so I must write it, in any case."
"Yes, of course, you dear delightful child; but there is plenty of time, and I want you to talk to me now. Tell me, are you coming to the Catacombs this afternoon? You know that we have tickets, and can join a party of which Cardinal de Reisac is to be the cicerone."
"The Catacombs? No! What could have put such an idea into your head? Surely you are not thinking of going?"
"Surely I am, though!"
"And, in the name of all that is wonderful, for what? You would not tell me that such a madcap as you are can care to go poking about in those damp underground passages, listening to an old Cardinal's fabulous legends of this Roman nonsense? A little poetic association with the past is very telling for them, no doubt; but you are never going for all this, Helena?"
"No, not I! But, my precious matter-of-fact sister, can you not imagine any one going to the Catacombs for any other motive than that of seeing them and listening to tiresome old histories? 'Poking about in those damp underground passages,' as you most irreverently designate visiting the last home of the saints, the persecuted, the martyrs!"
Mary could not help smiling as Helena went on with mock gravity. "Venturing to repeat your profane mode of speaking, my dear Mary, I beg to say that 'poking about in those damp underground passages' might be made very pleasant indeed, and one might hear there something far more agreeable than the twaddling of a reverend monsignore."
"Pray be sensible, if you can, Helena. I suppose you have discovered that Mr. Caulfield is to be of the party, and that is, no doubt, your motive for going."
"With your usual wisdom you have divined it, O 'most potent, grave, and reverend' lady!"
"How silly you are! But I am sure I don't know why you have told me your motive for going, since you know it is one of which I cannot approve. It would be mistaken kindness, indeed, were I to encourage you in this wild fancy which you have taken for Mr. Caulfield. You will not be allowed to marry him, therefore all these meetings will but make you unhappy!"
"Most admirably reasoned! Only you seem to ignore the existence of that tender passion called love, which is not remarkable for its obedience to reason, as far as I know. I love Harry Caulfield, so the mischief—if mischief it be—is done; therefore, whether I am allowed to marry him or not, it is too late to think of saving me from unhappiness by preventing me from seeing him. Now listen to me, Mary, and I will be as serious as you like; I repeat I love him,—not perhaps in the way that Flora Adair——" (a strange expression passed over Mary's face as this name was uttered; Helena's quick eye caught it, but she continued without making any observation) "and her friend Mina Blake talk about,—a feeling into which everything is merged, concentrated into the one thought, can I make him happy? How amused I have been when listening to them; you know they say that a woman's happiness consists not in the least in doing what she likes, but in the happiness of the man she loves! Where they learnt such notions I cannot conceive!"
"Nor can I see what their ideas on the subject can have to do with your reasons for making me your confidant, which was what I wished to know."
"Nothing on earth, most lawyer-like of young ladies; but I could not help telling you en passant how Flora and her friend talk about love." Had Helena really no other motive for bringing in Flora's name?
Mary shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and said, "To the point, Helena, if you please."
"Shure now, you wouldn't be for hurrying and flusthering a poor young crature!" answered Helena, with provoking trifling; but, seeing that Mary looked really annoyed, she added in a more sober tone, "Well, I said I would be serious, and so I will; please, Mary, do have a little patience with me. My reasons, then, are threefold: first, I wanted a confidant; secondly, I chose you because I know that, after all, you are fond of your madcap sister, and can help her so much if you choose to do so; thirdly, I could repay your kindness by telling you something which you would be glad to hear."
"Helena!" interrupted Mary, whilst an angry flush spread itself over her face.
"Nay, Mary, hear me out; I did not mean to speak of this as a bribe; I know you too well to imagine that you would be induced to help me to a little enjoyment for the sake of any self-gratification; for that I depend on your affection; yet, as I said before, it is pleasant to feel that I can repay you; or, if you will not help me, you shall have my information gratis."
"I don't in the least know what you mean, Helena," rejoined Mary, in her coldest manner.
"Of course not, you never knew a young lady who was considered a model of sense, held up as a pattern to an incorrigibly wild younger sister, who was always at some mischief or other, flirting—what not? Well, this young lady did really seem to be a model one, and an immovable rock of sense; to possess those treasures, a well-regulated mind, and a heart which, like a good watch, but ticked slow or fast according to the regulator; and to have far too much dignity, self-respect, proper pride, and all the rest of it, ever to care the least for any man until he had formally proposed, and was accepted with the full approbation of her family; when—would you believe it, Mary?—all——"
"Nonsense, Helena, I shall not stay to hear any more of this." Mary stood up looking flushed and angry. "Let me go, please," she continued, as Helena held her dress; but Helena held on, saying—
"Mary, you must sit down again, and let me say what I have to say, or I shall be obliged to describe the model young lady to somebody else, and see if they can recognise the original." She put her arms round her sister's waist, and, pulling her down upon the sofa, seated herself on the ground at her feet; then she went on, "When you interrupted me, Mary, I was just going to ask you if you could believe it, that all of a sudden this compound of dignity, self-respect, and maidenly reserve fell in love with a man who didn't care a pin for her"—Mary winced—"and this was not all: she became furiously jealous of a young lady friend who did seem to interest him, a supposed woman-hater, not a little. A few glances and unheeded words betrayed it all to the giddy girl, who immediately felt a new well of love spring up in her heart for that apparently immovable sister, whom she had discovered to be something more than the well-regulated timepiece she had before seemed to be. She saw her suffer silently; she saw tears, all unbidden, start into her eyes; she longed to throw her arms round her, and win her to tell her pain, and thus lessen its sting; to help her, perhaps, and give her hope. Mary, my sister, let me comfort you as well as I can; further secresy is useless,—I have seen it all. Love makes us wondrously keen-sighted. Had I not known something of the little god's wiles myself, I might not have been so sharp. Confide in me, Mary; I am generally thoughtless, it is true, and talk at random, but I can be silent as the grave where I love, and I love my sister."
Poor Mary could bear it no longer; the slowly-gathering tears fell, at last, as Helena looked up fondly and pleadingly at her. And the sisters changed rôles: the calm reserved Mary sobbed passionately, and Helena endeavoured to soothe and comfort her.
Mary Elton was not one who—young-lady-like—"enjoyed a good cry;" tears were rather a pain than a relief to her, and seldom were they forced from her save by a sudden shock, such as her sister's discovery, and the laying bare of the secret which she believed to be hidden deep in the recesses of her own heart. After a few minutes her sobs ceased, and she became calmer; drawing back a little from Helena's arms, she said, coldly—
"You have stolen into my confidence, Helena, so I have no power to give or to refuse it!"
"Oh, Mary!" and Helena's tone told how much her sister's coldness pained her.
Mary felt it, and suddenly bending over her, she kissed her fondly, saying, "Foolish child, do not think that I am not grateful for all your affection, or that I do not return it. Ah, Helena, you don't know how I love your frank, impulsive nature, and how I envy you your light-heartedness, your power of forgetting, in the enjoyment of the hour, all pain and sorrow; but I cannot be tender now; tenderness would unnerve me, would break down the barrier of self-restraint. Child, you don't know what it is when we habitually calm people burst the bonds of the so-called principles which had before guided us; all seems to give way around us, and the passion by which we are possessed becomes fearful. Yes, you are right,—I do love this man, who cares not for me, and I hate her who, though it be for a moment, seems to interest him; and dear, surpassingly dear as he is to me, I would rather see him dead than loving and beloved by her. I would plunge into the fiercest fire that ever raged to tear her from him!"
She paused and sat with her head erect, and her teeth clenched, glaring before her as if, in imagination at least, she saw her yet unconscious rival by his side. This burst of passion so amazed Helena that she could not utter a word, and before she had recovered from her astonishment Mary continued in a calmer tone, "I trust you fully, Helena, and shall gratefully—yes, I have fallen low enough for that—gratefully accept any help you can give me. But all this time I have not answered your question as to whether I will forward your wishes as to Mr. Caulfield. First tell me clearly how the case stands, and what you wish me to do."
"The case stands thus, Mary: Mr. Caulfield has asked me over and over again to let him speak to mamma, but were he to do so I should probably only be forbidden to see him, and I love him too dearly to let him risk the refusal which I know he would get. So, as I have already told you, it is too late to think of sparing me pain by preventing my meeting him; it would but take away from me all the happiness I can now have—that of seeing him occasionally. What I want you to do, Mary, is to help me in this, and still further, to try to incline mamma more favourably towards him, and you have great influence with her. If you will do this I will promise not to marry him for a year, at all events, without her consent; but if you drive me to desperation, if you deprive me of the delight of being with him sometimes, I cannot answer for myself."
Helena had grown serious enough, and her voice and manner borrowed some of her sister's determination, as she continued, "And as for mamma's rich favourite, Mr. Mainwaring, nothing on earth could induce me to marry him! It is all very well for calm, quiet people to marry from respect and esteem, as they call it, but were I to do it, I know I should run away before a year had gone by. Mary, you would not like to see me wretched, and I am sure that you would do more to save me from being so than any one else, therefore have I asked you to help me now, and you will?" Helena laid her head upon her sister's knee, and her arm tightened its clasp around her waist.
Mary remained silent for a moment or two; then she said, "Yes, I will help you, poor child, as far as I can, for I see that in your bright sunny way you do love Mr. Caulfield. The cold, calculating code under which we have been schooled could never be yours. I, being of a less easily excited nature, accepted what I was told, and I was fast becoming what you described as the model young lady. I met Mr. Earnscliffe, and thought of him first as eligible, in obedience to what I knew were mamma's wishes; but suddenly I found that something, the existence of which I dreamed not of, had taken possession of me, and mastered me. What had become of all the trite rules and maxims of which I had heard so much, and which until then I had obeyed? They were all swept away by that rush of feeling which forced upon me the conviction of their emptiness and falsehood, that there was no real principle in any of them; the reaction carried all before it, and left nothing but this wild reckless passion, goaded as it is by the mortification of loving unloved.... But he shall love me, or, at least, he shall not be another's!"
Again she had become excited, and Helena seemed half frightened at her vehemence; but the next moment she added, with a complete change of manner, "Enough of myself. Thank heaven you are not like me, Helena! Did you not ask me to go somewhere with you to-day?"
"Yes, to the Catacombs; if you come, mamma will not think it necessary to send my aunt to guard me. We can go with Mrs. Penton; I half promised her that we would join her, and she said she would call for us at two o'clock if I sent her word that we wished to go; so, if you consent, I will send to her now."
"As you like!"
Helena accepted the somewhat ungracious assent, and stood up to ring for the servant; as she reseated herself on the ground by Mary, one of her old malicious little smiles played over her face. Was she thinking that perhaps she could change Mary's indifference into eagerness, equal to if not greater than her own?
The servant appeared at the door, and was told to go to Mrs. Penton's, and say that the Misses Elton would be ready for her at the appointed hour.
As soon as the door was closed Helena said, "Can you not be natural, Mary, and say that you are dying to hear the information which I said I could give you, and which you would be glad to know? I am sure you are, only you are too dignified to say so."
"Too dignified! why, child, that word and I have parted company for ever. Was it dignified, think you, to betray such a secret as mine? When and how did you guess it?"
"At Frascati, during that thunder-storm, when I was so frightened. You remember that I hid my face in your lap; suddenly I felt you tremble, and, not seeing any lightning, I looked up at you to learn the cause. Mr. Earnscliffe was gone, but his voice could be heard speaking to Flora Adair, and your eyes were fixed in the direction from which the voice came. Their expression was so strange that I kept looking at you in wonder. Then came a flash of lightning; you covered up your face with your hands, and kept them there long after the flash had passed. When you did at last take them down, your eyes were red, and I felt sure that hot tears had been standing in them, tears which only your strong will had kept from falling; you looked so inexpressibly sad and sorrowful as you turned away and leaned your head upon your hand, that it came to me at once, 'Mary loves that man!' Since then I have watched you, noticed your eyes flashing when you heard of his attention to Flora during her illness, and now, this very day, how irritable you became when I spoke of her ideas of love. How I have pitied you, sister, and wanted to be allowed to comfort you!"
"Fool that I have been! I thought myself less demonstrative."
"You are undemonstrative, surely, Mary, and I should never have guessed anything of this but for that trembling at Frascati. Had you even trembled opportunely, when there was a flash of lightning, I should have supposed it was on that account. But, Mary, is it not better so?—better to talk to me of it sometimes, than for ever to brood over it alone? And you know that you can trust me; you have even said so."
"That I can, and do, Helena; forgive me if I seem ungenerous. As I said before, it is a sort of barrier with which I am obliged to fence in my heart, in order to enable me to keep up appearances; but, believe me, I am most grateful for all your affection, even when I may the least appear to value it."
Helena caressed her hand as she said, "Listen to my news. There is somebody else going to the Catacombs, besides Mr. Caulfield."
"Of course there is; I did not suppose that Mrs. Penton, ourselves, and that redoubtable gentleman were to compose the whole party."
"Well, if you choose to be obtuse, Mary, and then a wee bit impatient, I suppose I had better speak as plainly as possible. Mr. Earnscliffe is going!"
"Mr. Earnscliffe!" Mary's indifference had vanished. "How do you know it? He hates parties of that kind; he likes going to such places alone, or merely with another man."
"All the same, he is going to-day. Harry was by when some grand personage, meaning to compliment him, introduced him to the Cardinal, who asked him if he would like to join their party to the Catacombs to-day. Harry says that Mr. Earnscliffe did not look enchanted at the good Cardinal's condescension, yet he bowed acceptance, probably because he knew that it would be a breach of etiquette to refuse a prince of the Church. Now, is not that news worth hearing? What a reward for your goodness in consenting to go for my sake! But I have other news for you, and which you will like still better, as it may be of lasting advantage to you: Harry told me that that rich Mr. Lyne is going to marry Flora Adair!"
"Ah, Helena! is it true?" exclaimed Mary, eagerly.
"If I were to answer as I think myself, I would say, no. She evidently does not care for him, so it could only be as a bon parti that she would accept him, and that is not like Flora. Harry says, however, that Mr. Lyne is quite certain of success."
"Well, you know, Helena, that it would be the height of folly for her to reject him; she has no provision whatever; everything dies with her mother, and a petted darling as she has been could never bear the life of a governess. Penniless girls cannot afford to refuse such an offer as Mr. Lyne's, merely because they do not love in the desperate way of which, you say, Flora talks. How hard we try to persuade ourselves that that which we wish to be true is true."
"I can scarcely think Flora false."
"No, not false; I am sure she thought all that she said when you heard her speak; but that was in the abstract; when it comes to a question of choosing between wealth and position, and poverty and humiliation, what girl would rather take the latter than marry a man whom she does not love intensely? If Mr. Lyne was strikingly plain, ungentlemanly, or disagreeable in any way, it might be so; but, as it is, there are numbers of girls with fortunes who would be very glad to get the chance. What signifies the probabilities, however, if Mr. Lyne is sure of her? And of course he could not be so without some reason. How does Mr. Caulfield know it?"
"From Mr. Lyne himself; he likes Harry very much, and talks to him quite confidentially, and Harry innocently told it to me as a piece of good fortune for our friend. He thinks Mr. Lyne an excellent fellow, and Flora a most lucky girl. They are of the same religion too, so that is a great point in his favour."
"Everything is in his favour," answered Mary, quickly; "but I hear mamma coming, Helena; are there any traces of tears upon my face?"
"None to speak of, none that will be observed if you sit with your back to the light; the place where you were sitting before will do perfectly."
Mary quickly changed her place to the writing-table, and Mrs. Elton's entrance put a stop to all further conversation on the subject about which the young ladies had been discussing so eagerly.
Mrs. Elton was handsomely and appropriately dressed, for a person of her age, although, perhaps, a little too much in the extreme of fashion. Her hair, or, at least, that part of it which her coiffure of ribbon and lace allowed to be seen, was of a lightish brown colour, and braided over a high, broad forehead, like Mary's. She had bright—but coldly bright—brown eyes, a straight nose, and thin drawn lips; her habitual expression was placid and determined, and it must be acknowledged that, for a lady of fifty-five, she was remarkably bien conservée, although she had altered a good deal of late, and at times looked much worn. As to character, she was a strange mixture. We have heard what her ideas on marriage were, yet she herself married a comparatively poor barrister, against the consent of all her family. Every worldly thing prospered with them; he succeeded in his profession, and she was left large sums of money by her relations, so that eventually they became very rich. She was a devoted wife; and when, after they had been married about fifteen years, her husband died, her grief was deep but undemonstrative. Thus she became a widow at seven or eight and thirty, and being wealthy, good-looking, and elegant, she did not want for suitors, but none of them could tempt her to be faithless to her husband's memory, although, after the usual time for mourning, she wore colours again, dressed richly, and seemed to study the becoming. She never—widow-fashion—made any professions of not marrying again; but she did it not. She would speak of her husband calmly, but her cold, bright eyes would fill with tears as she named "William;" and in speaking of her daughters, of her dread of their falling a prey to fortune-hunters, she would betray deep emotion; and yet, notwithstanding all this, she was, as we have seen, a determined enemy to love-marriages, and was sternly immovable towards Helena's predilection for Mr. Caulfield, merely because he had not a large fortune. Nevertheless Mrs. Elton's life proved that her only object on earth was her children's happiness, however enigmatical it may appear to be.
"You don't look well to-day, mamma," said Mary, as Mrs. Elton seated herself close to the fire, although one would have thought that fire in the room even was quite unnecessary.
"Nor do I feel very well," replied Mrs. Elton; "but luncheon and a drive afterwards will, I dare say, do me good. Your aunt is coming at two."
"I'm glad of that, as you will, perhaps, spare Helena and me to go to the Catacombs with Mrs. Penton. She asked Helena several days ago, but that giddy child forgot to tell of it until to-day; and now she wants me to go with her, as she says you do not always like her to go alone with Mrs. Penton."
"Helena is quite right; Mrs. Penton is too young and too handsome for a chaperone, particularly to one so thoughtless as Helena. You are far steadier than either of them, and I can very well spare you to-day;—indeed, if you did not go, I would ask your Aunt Alicia to accompany Helena. But of course it is pleasanter for her to have you."
"R-a-t-h-e-r, I should say," observed that young lady.
"Well, then, it is just one," said Mary, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece; "we lunch at half-past one, and Mrs. Penton is to call for us at two, so I will go and get ready."
Perhaps Mary was very glad of an excuse to get away, but Helena exclaimed, "Mary, you don't mean to say that you count upon taking half an hour to get ready, half an hour for luncheon, so as to be prepared to stand on the step of the door at two waiting for Mrs. Penton. How awfully punctual you are to be sure; if you had not me as a counterpoise it would be quite dreadful; you would be the terror of all your acquaintance!"
"On the contrary, Helena, it would be well if you would follow your sister's example in that as in everything else."
"Indeed!" and Helena gave a sly glance at Mary as the latter left the room. Mary blushed slightly, and closing the door quickly, went into her own room; but instead of getting ready, she threw herself into an armchair before the dressing-table, speaking to herself in an undertone—"Follow her sister's example; indeed, God forbid! I do wish that mamma would let her marry Mr. Caulfield and be happy; it is enough that one of us should be miserable! Mamma, doubtless, has nothing to do with my unhappiness, save in having tried to make me what Helena calls a well-regulated timepiece, and in having taught me to look upon every rich man as a possible husband. But she must never know my secret; it would drive me mad to hear her talk and reason calmly on this wild love which is consuming me. Lena has discovered it, but no one else ever shall; none other must know that I have loved him, until he is mine. Flora Adair, would that you had not crossed my path! I liked—I like you still, but stand in my way you shall not. I do not think that he really cares for you yet, but he certainly likes you better than any other woman; therefore you must be lowered in his estimation, and I have the means now in my hands."
An expression of disgust settled upon her face as she spoke these words. Having heretofore been true and honourable, she hated herself for thus acting towards one whom she liked, and whom she had called her friend; but the master-passion must be gratified at any cost. "Yes," she continued, "I have the means in my own hands, although it is base and mean to resort to it. I hardly believe that what I have heard is true, but it has been told to me, and it shall serve my purpose now. Mr. Earnscliffe shall hear from me to-day that Flora Adair is going to sell herself to Mr. Lyne, and, thinking as he does about women, he will seize upon it at once, and so will be dispelled that sort of latent unacknowledged idea, which I felt he had, that she is something different from and superior to the generality of women. I will try to induce him to come to our ball on Friday. He will see them there together, and will probably inquire no further. I shall have gained one victory, I shall have got her out of his way; for the rest, God knows how it will end! Why, why am I not what I was taught to be, a well-dressed automaton, a stone, anything but what I am? What bitter mortification it is to feel that I love this man so much that I can stoop to do what my nature abhors, and even plan and scheme in order to gain his love!..."
She lay back in the chair with closed eyes, and so remained for a few minutes, then, starting up, she exclaimed, "This will not do, I must be calm and ready before luncheon or Lena will give me no peace." Again she looked at her watch and found that it wanted but five minutes to the time. Then she set about dressing as quickly as possible, first bathing her face with cold water to remove any traces of emotion which might still remain.
The luncheon bell rang a moment or two afterwards; she descended to the dining-room, where she found her mother and sister already seated at table. As she entered Helena expressed a hope that Mary was "got up" to her own satisfaction, as she certainly had been long enough about it!
As soon as luncheon was over Helena went to dress, and Mrs. Elton and Mary returned to the drawing-room; the latter seated herself in the window, and gazed out abstractedly, until Mrs. Elton said, "What has bewitched Helena, that she should want to go to the Catacombs? They are not much in her line."
Mary answered as near to the truth as she could do without betraying confidence: "Not the least in the world; but if she likes the people who form the party, it does as well as anything else."
"Then it is for the people that she is going, and not for the Catacombs? I thought there must be some such motive. Mr. Caulfield will not be there, I hope. Helena flirts far too much with him. I do not know how far it has gone, but I have told her that there must be an end of it. I would never allow her to accept him! He is not rich enough to marry a girl of her position and fortune, yet she goes on encouraging him and preventing that most eligible Mr. Mainwaring from coming forward, although he evidently likes her."
"But, mamma, are Lena's feelings not to be taken into any account? Perhaps she does not like Mr. Mainwaring, and does like Mr. Caulfield."
"She should check that liking then, when I tell her that I disapprove of it."
"Surely, mamma, the liking may be a stronger one than can be checked so easily, merely because you do not think him rich enough; that is hardly a sufficient reason to induce us to give up one whom we love."
"Love, Mary? I am amazed at you! Have I not always impressed on your mind that a girl properly brought up should never allow herself to love any man until she is regularly engaged to him; and that, too, with the consent of her friends?"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mary; then, blushing at her own vehemence and rudeness, she added quietly, "I beg your pardon, mamma, for speaking so hastily. You know that I am not romantic, but one cannot love or be indifferent at word of command. At first you only laughed at Lena and Mr. Caulfield; now you tell her to give him up all at once, merely because he has not a very large rent-roll: if you can give her a good reason, I am sure she will try to obey you!"
"I really can scarcely believe that it is you who are speaking, Mary—you who, as I thought, understood how completely a girl should have all her feelings under control"—Mary smiled bitterly—"and that the happiest marriages are those formed upon equality of position and fortune, accompanied by mutual respect and calm esteem! I should be very sorry indeed to advocate that a girl should marry a person whom she disliked; but she ought not to take unreasonable dislikes. If a man be good, gentlemanly, and in every way suited to her, is she to dislike and refuse to marry him because, forsooth, she has taken a passing fancy to some ineligible person? And you, Mary, defend this! What has come over you? I suppose that you, too, imagine yourself to be in love with some poor esquire, who, in reality, loves your fortune rather than any other thing?"
Mary looked her mother full in the face as she answered, with heightened colour, "I do not love any poor esquire, nor does any poor esquire love me. Lena is more fortunate, if she loves and is beloved: you need not fear for me, I shall never seek to obtain your consent to marry a poor man." She said this in an odd, determined tone, and then continued pleadingly, "But if Lena really cares for Mr. Caulfield, let her be happy in her own way, mamma. He is not rich, it is true, but he has quite enough for a gentleman's condition, and for happiness; and with her fortune there is no reason why she should marry for money."
"I can't say how much you amaze me, Mary; though you do possess a remnant of sense for yourself."
"Sense!" replied Mary immediately. "Yes, indeed; but——here is Mrs. Penton! I must call Lena."
"And pray, Mary, if Mr. Caulfield should be one of the party, do not let her be much with him."
Mary left the room without answering; but as she closed the door she murmured to herself, "No, I cannot be a kill-joy!" Then she called out, "Come, Lena, here is the carriage"—a loud ringing of the bell having announced that Mrs. Penton was waiting.
Lena came out of her room busily occupied in getting on a pair of the palest lavender kid gloves: the young lady had small hands, and liked to do them justice.
Mrs. Penton was alone. "Her husband," she said, "had so often seen those places that he did not care to go again;" so away they drove to the Catacomb of St. Calixtus, on the Appian Way.
In the Vigna Ammendola—at the entrance to the Catacomb—our friends loitered for some time waiting for the Cardinal, who, although it was somewhat past the appointed time, had not yet arrived. They found many there before them, but all were strangers except Mr. Caulfield and a Signor Lanzi, both of whom they met near the gate on entering.
Signor Lanzi—as his name denotes—was an Italian, but he had been in England, spoke English with a certain ease, and was particularly fond of showing it off. He was one of Mrs. Penton's most devoted admirers; and, through her, had become rather intimate with Mr. Caulfield and the Eltons.
It must not be supposed that there was anything reprehensible in Mrs. Penton's conduct because we speak of her having admirers. She was what is called a beauty, and was accustomed to be admired and followed. Her husband and herself were on the best of terms, and never seemed to pull in different directions; on the contrary, they appeared fond of one another in a calm sort of way, yet it could not be said that there was anything very ideal in their happiness. It is true, they were not quite a type of union in thought and feeling; perhaps neither of them was capable of such love; nevertheless, theirs was not a lot to be despised, and they were quite content with it, and with each other.
As soon as Mrs. Penton and the Elton girls appeared at the gate the two young men joined them, and they took a few turns up and down the walk leading to the Catacomb. Mary then proposed sitting on the wall near the gate, "as," she said, "they would have walking enough underground, and they had better not tire themselves beforehand;" and there they waited for the Cardinal's arrival.
In a few minutes the sound of carriages was heard; the gate was opened, and in came Cardinal Reisac, and with him three or four priests. Mrs. Penton at once went forward and spoke to his Eminence, being personally acquainted with him. During this interval the gate opened again, and at last Mary's watching was rewarded—Mr. Earnscliffe entered. Mary was nearest to the gate, so he could not avoid speaking to her, and even walking with her, as the Cardinal quickly moved on, and all followed him.
Mary felt that she must not lose this opportunity of saying something to excite Mr. Earnscliffe's curiosity about Flora; he would, she thought, naturally try to hear more, if he were not indifferent to her—and it would be a good test;—so, as they were lighting the tapers, she said, "I hope we shall not have any falls or spraining of ankles to-day. Do you remember Miss Adair's accident at Frascati?"
"Surely I should be the last to forget it, having induced you both to go upon the wet, slippery moss; but she is quite well now, I believe?"
"Quite well; and, report says, going to be married to that rich Mr. Lyne."
"Mr. Lyne!"
"Yes; you know him, don't you? He is very rich, very good, quite a saint, indeed; rather slow, they say; but then poor Flora has no fortune, so it would be an excellent thing for her. But we must not stand here talking about her, or we shall be left behind;" and Mary suddenly became most anxious to follow close to the Cardinal.
A flight of steps leads down from the vineyard into a sort of vestibule, in the walls of which are numerous graves, and in the spaces between rude inscriptions, supposed to have been made by pilgrims who came to visit the last resting-places of the saints and martyrs. The guide went first with a large torch, then the Cardinal, the ecclesiastics, and the lay visitors, each carrying a light. There were about fifteen in all; so they formed rather a long procession in the narrow galleries or passages, where two can hardly walk abreast—not two ladies, certainly, in those days of crinoline.
From the vestibule a long gallery leads to the Chapel of the Popes, and passes by one of the sepulchral chapels which occur at intervals in nearly all these passages. In many of the larger of the crypts or chapels there are altars upon which the Divine Sacrifice was offered during the persecutions of the first centuries, when armed force vainly strove to put down the religion of the Cross inaugurated on Calvary. Long afterwards, when that Cross had established its time-enduring reign in Rome's high places, these crypts were resorted to by the faithful for purposes of devotion, as hallowed places consecrated by the sanctity and martyrdom of those who lay entombed in them.