As soon as the whole party was assembled in the Chapel of the Popes, the Cardinal began to explain the different monuments, and pointed out the graves of the four popes of the third century buried there, according to the inscriptions in Greek characters which are still distinctly to be seen and read by those who understand them.
From the Chapel of the Popes they proceeded to that of St. Cecilia, and thence to the others of less note, the Cardinal explaining the different inscriptions and paintings on the walls of the galleries and chapels.
Perhaps none of these are more interesting than the curious paintings representing the celebration of Mass in those early days of Christianity. The priest turned towards the people with his hands stretched out in blessing; the vestments almost the same as those now used, and numberless details proving the identity of the past with the present. These striking evidences of the early Christian practices had often puzzled Mr. Earnscliffe before. "If such outward ceremonials then existed," he would ask himself, "how can they be a human invention?... Human things pass away; even the greatest dynasties of earth run their course and disappear to give place to new orders of things.... Was immortality to be found here only?"... He could not comprehend it, could not explain or reconcile it to his own mind; but, as he had often done before, he turned aside this train of thought by saying to himself, "It can make no difference how far Christianity in this or that form can be dated; even should it be shown that, as a religion, it was one with that of Moses and the Patriarchs,—a progressive Divine Revelation, first by oral Tradition, then by the written Law of Moses, and now, as they call it, by the Reign of Truth, the dogmas of an Infallible Church; Christianity itself is but one of many pretenders to the governance of mankind."
In the midst of these contending thoughts his mind turned to Flora Adair, and once more he asked himself, "Can she really believe in all this?" Then flashed upon him Mary Elton's words, "She is going to be married to that rich Mr. Lyne." Was it true? He himself had heard her call him "a good-natured bore." He determined to hear more about it, and with this intention he turned to look for Mary Elton, whom he had not seen since they had entered the Catacomb.
Helena, who had candidly acknowledged that she was not going to the Catacombs solely to see them, but to have her eyes gladdened by the sight of a bright, laughing, loving face, and her ears gladdened by the sound of a voice whose tones were music to her, took care to keep in the rear of the party, and condescendingly informed Mr. Caulfield that he might talk to her if he would do so quietly, so as not to attract attention. Sad to say, these irreverent young people only thought of how "jolly" those dark narrow places were, as they found them not at all inconvenient for their pleasant little love passages and whispered conversations. The numerous chapels were certainly rather annoying interruptions, as they were of course obliged to be silent there, and, apparently at least, to attend to the Cardinal's explanations. Yet an ordinary observer could have seen that their eyes were more occupied with each other than with the paintings and monuments so carefully pointed out to them.
As they got back into those "dear" galleries, after visiting one of the chapels, Mr. Caulfield succeeded in getting hold of one of the pretty little hands, about the gloving of which their possessor had been so particular. Perhaps she expected that some such notice might be taken of them; but, be that as it may, Mr. Caulfield had got the little hand prisoner, and pressed it tightly in his own as he said, "Lena,"—he had learned the pet name by which her sister generally called her, and appeared to have a particular affection for it,—"I can't bear this uncertainty any longer; you must let me speak to your dragoness!"
"Harry, you are very impertinent," and the little hand made a feint to get itself free, but it was only a feint. "You must not call mamma my dragoness; I will not allow it, sir; nor must you speak to her unless you want to be off; if you do, rush up early to-morrow morning and request an interview with Mrs. Elton; then formally demand the hand of Miss Helena, her daughter, and be as formally refused. You will be politely begged not to repeat your visit; in other words, you will be forbidden the house; and when you have ranted a little and finally bowed yourself out, your poor victim, Helena, will be sent for to be coldly lectured on her levity and her flirting propensities, and solemnly commanded by her obedience as a child never to see or speak to you again, save as the merest acquaintance. In fine, a distinct fiat would be pronounced against Mr. Caulfield, who does not, perhaps, know how determined a person Mrs. Elton is; but her daughter does know it, and but too well. If you speak to mamma we are done for, Harry."
That "we" and that "Harry" sounded very sweetly indeed in Mr. Caulfield's ears, yet he answered indignantly—
"But you don't mean to say that you would submit to all this, Helena?"... He could not afford to call her Lena now, it was not impressive enough. "You are mine by right of conquest, and what authority has your mother to keep you from me?"
"For shame, Harry! has a mother no voice in the disposal of her child? Not that I think a parent should refuse to allow a daughter to marry one whom she loves, unless she had good reason for so doing; nevertheless, I could scarcely marry in defiance of her express command. Harry, do not brusquer les choses, and force her to pronounce that command; have a little patience, and time may do a great deal. Mary has promised to use her influence to gain mamma's consent, and she will facilitate my seeing you as much as she can. Is she not a darling, Harry?"
"Yes," he replied, but in a much less enthusiastic tone; then he went on eagerly, "It's all very well for you, Lena, to talk about having patience, and the wonders that time may work; you have a pleasant home, and this darling Mary to pet you; but it is quite otherwise for poor me. There I am, all alone in an hotel, comfortless and miserable, and unable to get out of my head tantalizing visions of the happiness I might enjoy if I could only have my little cricket with me." And there was a very sensible pressure of the imprisoned hand.
"Oh, come now, Harry; it is too absurd to see you trying to do the romantic. You know very well that you go everywhere, and enjoy yourself thoroughly. Who would believe in your sitting at home conjuring up visions, and becoming miserable because you cannot realise them! There is nothing grandiose about us, you know. Just imagine our attempting a grande passion, and declaring that out of each other's presence the world is but a desert to us! No, no, that is not at all in cricket's line, Harry. All the same——" and her eyes drooped, "I am sure that horrid hotel is very dull and lonely."
Perhaps had there been a convenient turning in the passage to separate them for a moment from the rest of the party, that charming little speech might have been rewarded; but fate was not so propitious. The passage appeared interminably long and straight, so there could not be any warmer expression of gratitude than words could give.
After a few moments Helena said again—"Now, Harry, you are to be very good and quiet, and if you are so, I will give you a reward in the shape of an invitation to our ball on this day week; but perhaps that is too far off. A cricket who goes about chirping from hearth to hearth might, you know, forget."
"How wicked you are, Lena!"
"Wicked, am I? Then, master cricket, you shan't have an invitation from me, and if you wait till you get one from Mrs. Elton, you'll wait for ever."
"Then the cricket will appear without one."
"Will he indeed! To be handed out by the servants! But I am going to be serious now, and please to be rational for a few minutes and listen to me. The invitations are only to be sent out to-morrow; mamma was not well enough to permit us to send them before; indeed we were beginning to fear that the ball would not come off at all. It would be vain to expect that mamma would send you an invitation, but Mary shall ask you to-day, and when we return home she can say that she has done so, and mamma will not be able to help it then. How good I am to plan all this for you, considering that it is quite indifferent to me whether you are there or not. I hope you are fully sensible of my disinterested goodness towards you, Mr. Caulfield."
"If I had but the opportunity, would I not make you pay for all this, Lena!"
She looked up innocently at him, and asked in a most apparently unconscious tone, "How, Harry?"
What a temptation was that upturned smiling face! and, with a sigh for the bonne bouche which he was obliged to relinquish, he said, "I declare, Lena, it is cruelty to torment a man so; but my time will come——"
She withdrew her hand hurriedly, exclaiming, "Here is a chapel; now we must be demure," and she followed the others with the air of a little Puritan, which tried Harry's gravity sadly.
A glance from Mary told Helena that she had flirted enough for that day, and, not being at all dissatisfied with the day's adventure, she determined to obey the glance; accordingly, as they were leaving the chapel, she glided past Harry, and whispered, "Good-bye, cricket; I am going to talk to Mary."
Poor Cricket looked rather woeful at this intelligence; but there was no help for it, so, making a vain attempt to seize her little hand again, he let her glide away from him.
We left Mr. Earnscliffe looking round for Mary Elton, in order to obtain some information about "that Lyne affair;" and, a moment later, Mary heard a voice beside her saying—
"Well, Miss Elton, are you deeply interested in the Catacombs?"
As she listened to those words, she felt as if a sharp knife were cutting away the hope she had begun to cherish, that he was indifferent to Flora Adair; for she felt certain that it was from the desire to hear more of what she had said about Flora and Mr. Lyne that he came to her. There could be no doubt, she thought, that the Catacombs would otherwise have been far more attractive to him than a conversation with her; nevertheless an answer must be given, and she said, "Not particularly so. I have scarcely read or thought enough about the Catacombs to be greatly interested in them. Indeed, it was to please my sister that I came to-day."
"Your sister! does she then take greater interest in these things than you do? I should hardly have supposed it."
His tone, even more than his words, made her laugh,—the idea of Helena's being interested in the Catacombs for their own sake, was certainly very amusing; so she replied—
"Well, no; Lena is not particularly devoted to antiquarian researches, but she thought it would be a pleasant party, and begged me so earnestly to accompany her that I did not like to refuse."
"Ah! I understand."
A silence ensued, while Mary thought, "Poor man! he does not know how to get at the subject which he is so longing to talk about; he thinks it beneath him to let any one see that he could feel curiosity about a young lady's proceedings, and I have a great mind to make him pay for his dignity, and not help him over the dilemma. This I could do, but that it would defeat my own purpose of crushing any incipient fancy which he may have taken to Flora. Yet how mean it is! Were I but sure that she is really going to marry Mr. Lyne, I should not feel so false as I do now. But what is the use of all this self-reproach? If I am to do it at all there must be no looking back; yet would it not be better to give it up altogether, and let things take their natural course? Yes, it would indeed be truer, nobler, better to do so; but——"
The silence continued, and she walked on like one in a dream; yet there was not much of dreaming in the hard struggle which was going on within her between her better nature and passion. The former had almost triumphed; she felt it was too base to try to rob another—one, too, whom she liked—of a man's love; for, with the quickness of jealousy, she felt that he loved Flora, even unknown to himself. But, whilst good and evil thus hung in the balance, there occurred one of those chances which so often seem to decide a question. She was suddenly roused from her reverie by Mr. Earnscliffe's laying his hand upon her arm and saying—
"Miss Elton, do you not see the flight of steps before you? What a fall you might have had!"
She drew back with a start and looked at him—the good angel was vanquished. That touch upon her arm—that voice—that countenance, to which circumstances lent a momentary interest in her favour, were more than she could withstand. She murmured to herself, "No, I cannot give him up—I will die rather than see him another's." Then she calmly answered, "Thank you, Mr. Earnscliffe; had it not been for you I might indeed have had a bad fall, so you have saved me."
Had he done so? Did it not rather appear to be the contrary? A moment before good was in the ascendant; had she not been thus saved from a fall good might have triumphed, but that saving seemed to give the palm to evil.
When they had descended those steps Mary said, "Now, Mr. Earnscliffe, I am going to ask a favour of you; and one which, I hope, you will not refuse to grant."
He had quite resumed his cold indifferent manner as he answered—
"Let me hear the request, for I can make no guess as to what I can possibly have it in my power to grant or refuse you."
"Undoubtedly it is in your power to grant it; whether you will do so is another matter. We are to have some friends with us on Friday, this day week, and mamma would be so pleased if you will come also."
"Friday?—let me see——"
"Do not try to improvise an engagement, or say, 'Parties are not much in my way.' I know that it is so; but surely for once you might condescend to come; particularly as we are going away on the following Monday, so that—by us, at least—you could not be importuned any more. We shall have some good music, of which I know that you are fond." And now to throw out her bait without letting it appear that she thought it was one: "And—only I suppose you would not care about that—you would have an opportunity of seeing Flora Adair perfectly recovered from her sprain, for our evening is to wind up with a dance, and, as you heard at Frascati, she is a great dancer. Mr. Lyne will also be there, so we shall see how he plays the lover's part."
She had watched him narrowly while she spoke, and saw by the change of his countenance that the bait had taken, and so she was not deceived as to the motive of his accepting when he replied—
"Asked thus as a favour and a farewell, I cannot do otherwise than say in the recognised form, 'I shall be most happy to accept Mrs. Elton's kind invitation.'"
"Very well, then, it is agreed that you will come. Of course you will receive a formal invitation, but you need not answer it, as I shall tell mamma that you have already accepted. And now, Mr. Earnscliffe, as you are almost an habitué of these underground regions, perhaps you can tell me if we have nearly done them?"
"Well, I have not been paying much attention, but from the time we have been here"—looking at his watch—"I should say yes. I see we are coming to a chapel, probably that of St. Cornelius, which is generally the last."
It was the chapel of St. Cornelius, as he had said, and there it was that Helena received the glance from Mary, which she rightly understood to be an intimation that her flirting had better come to an end for that day. When they were once more in the passage, Helena succeeded in getting close to her sister and whispered, "You are an angel, Mary!"
"Don't be silly, Lena," answered Mary, almost roughly. Perhaps the being called an angel just then, when she knew how much the reverse of it she was, irritated her.
"But you are indeed an angel, and I know you will carry your angelic sisterly charity a little farther by asking Harry to our ball; then, when you tell mamma that you have asked him, it will be too late for her to object. You will ask him, Mary, will you not?"
"Yes," was the curt reply; and she added, "And now do be quiet; surely you have talked enough to-day."
"Not nearly enough, you dear dame Sagesse. I am quite ready to begin again."
"Then I beg you will not do so; and be pleased, Lena, to give up that absurd habit of calling me such names as angel and Sagesse—you ought to know how inapplicable those terms are to me, and they annoy me."
Helena began a warm denial of this, but Mary interrupted her by saying, "That's enough, Lena; do cease talking—my head aches. Thank goodness, I see the daylight, so I suppose we shall soon get into the open air again!"
No wonder that her head ached and that she longed for rest, even for the rest of lying back silently in the carriage.
A few minutes more and they were in the vineyard, enjoying the warm rays of the sun, which still shone brightly in the clear blue sky.
Mrs. Penton, having kissed the Cardinal's ring, received his blessing, and thanked him for all his kindness, bade him farewell, and turning to her own party, said—
"Will either of you three gentlemen take the vacant seat in the carriage? We are going to take a turn on the Pincio." She looked at Mr. Earnscliffe, but he answered—
"Thank you, Mrs. Penton; I think I must have a walk in this clear fresh air, after the darkness and damp of the Catacombs."
"Then Signor Lanzi, may we hope that he will escort us?"
"To escort la Signora Penton is alway de most high honour for me; but I did ride here, also la signora must have de goodness to allow me to accompany her on horse."
Mrs. Penton bowed, and smiled slightly as she said, "Well, Mr. Caulfield, I left you for the last as you are the youngest; what say you to coming with us?"
"That I shall be delighted to go with you, Mrs. Penton."
"With my company, rather, non è vero, Mr. Caulfield? And now let us start; it is late enough as it is."
Mr. Earnscliffe accompanied them to the carriage; and, as he took leave of Mary, she said, "Remember Friday night." He bowed, and, raising his hat, left them.
Mary immediately turned, and asked Mr. Caulfield and Signor Lanzi for the same night. They accepted; and Signor Lanzi having mounted his horse, the party proceeded to the Pincio, and thence to their respective homes.
Flora's mind was filled with interest in the young lady of whom Madame Hird had spoken. On the morning after their visit to the Villa Ianthe she read all the papers which Madame Hird had given them about their little protégée. They consisted, first, of a letter from Madame de St. Severan; next, of the manuscript containing Marie's history. They were as follows:—
"Although, dear Madame Hird, we have lost sight of each other for many years, and you would not recognise, under my present name, the Caroline Murray of our merry school days, yet I am sure that you, like myself, remember those days. I venture, therefore, to ask you to interest yourself in a young lady who will soon be an inmate of your convent, and who is dear to me because she is so to my husband.
"For some time I have been in correspondence with your superioress, and have obtained permission for our little friend to be received at the Villa Ianthe, and placed especially under your care. We are very anxious that she should spend a few months in a convent in Europe before making her entrée into the beau monde of Paris, and knowing that you are in Rome, I have made every exertion to have her confided to your care; and in this I have fortunately succeeded. Will you, then, dear friend, kindly undertake this charge, and direct her studies?
"A good priest will protect her from Algiers to Rome. As I am writing to you I know that I need not say, be very kind to her. She is, by all accounts, a most affectionate little creature, and is now in great grief at being separated from the guardians of her childhood.
"I have compiled a little sketch of her history, which I now send you. The first part of it is drawn from my husband's account of his African experience; the rest from the joint accounts of Marie and the good nuns who had charge of her...."
Here the remainder of the letter was torn off, not relating, as Flora supposed, to the little Arab girl. She next took up the manuscript, which ran thus:—
"After the battle in the plain of Cheliff, where the Duc d'Aumale and his little army so bravely captured Abd-el-Kader's encampment, many of the officers left their tents in the evening and wandered over the scene of their late conflict. Among them was Colonel, then Captain de St. Severan. He had strayed to some distance beyond the rest, following the direction which the fugitives had taken, and was about to return, when, standing for a moment gazing back upon the battle-field, he was startled by the sound of a half-smothered cry. A few paces before him lay the body of an Arab; he approached it, and as he shook the cloak which nearly covered it, the cry was repeated. Within the folds of the bernous there was a little child, whose large black eyes were wide open with fright, and little hands stretched out, as if to ward off some coming danger. With no slight effort he drew the child from the dead Arab, and tried to quiet its cries by caresses and marks of endearment. After taking it up in his arms he returned to his tent, and sent for one of the camp women, to whom he related his adventures, adding that he had determined to adopt the child as his own, and confiding it to her care.
"Having been wounded in one of the later skirmishes, Captain de St. Severan was sent back to Algiers with a detachment of troops, when he took care that the woman to whom he had entrusted the little foundling was to accompany them. The child was a little girl of about two or three years old, and was christened Marie. Day by day she became a greater darling—the pet, indeed, of the whole brigade—and was in danger of being completely spoiled, when her protector was ordered again on active service. Of course, he could not take little Marie with him, so he yielded to the advice of his lady friends, and, stipulating that she should learn her father's language, placed her under the good guardianship of the French nuns at Algiers.
"It so happened that he never returned to Algiers, save to pass through it almost in a dying state on his way home. After a long and tedious illness in Paris, which left great depression of spirits upon him, a friend, Mr. Molyneux, induced him to accept an invitation to the family seat of Mr. Molyneux's father in England, and try there the invigorating tonic of English country life. At this house I met him, and the sequel of that meeting was, that a few months afterwards I became Madame de St. Severan.
"I need scarcely say that I heard many stories of Algiers, and of Marie. We had agreed to send for her as soon as we should get to France, but, on our arrival in Paris, my husband was offered an important post in one of the colonies, and thought he could not well refuse it without retiring from the army, which he did not wish to do, therefore he consented to go; in consequence, Marie was left at the convent in Algiers. We remained away nearly ten years, and only returned to Paris last winter, when we wrote at once to request that Marie should be sent to us; being doubly anxious to have her, as we had, alas! lost our own dear ones. But the answer received from the superioress caused us the greatest pain and anxiety. She said, that shortly before our last letter arrived Marie had been missed one evening from prayers at church, when it was found that she had obtained permission to walk in the grounds, as she was suffering from headache, and that, on search being made for her, a door in the garden was discovered to have been forced open from without, and a scarf, which had been worn by Marie, found on the ground there. These, with other facts, left no doubt that she had been carried off by some Arabs, who had before been seen about the place.
"Three months passed without any tidings of poor Marie. At length a letter came containing the joyful news that she had been safely restored to the convent, and was suffering only from weakness and exhaustion.
"Marie's account of what occurred tells us that, having obtained permission, she went out alone and sought shade and repose in a summer-house at the far end of the grounds—a favourite retreat of hers. She supposes that she had been asleep, when she was roused by feeling something thrown over her head and twisted tightly across her mouth, so that she could not speak or scream. She was then carried for a short distance, placed upon a horse by some one, who got up behind her and galloped away. Save the rapid movement through the air, Marie remembers nothing until she found herself lying on a bed of moss in what appeared to her to be a rocky cavern. As she awoke the bright rays of the sun were pouring in upon her, and for a moment she thought she must have dreamed some fearful dream. An old man in a white bernous then entered the cavern, and all the terrible reality was revealed to her. He came and bent over her, when she exclaimed, 'Oh, sir, take me back! What injury have I ever done you that you should steal me away from all those whom I love? Only take me back and you shall have as much money as you like.'
"'Money!' he sorrowfully repeated. 'Can money buy me back my beautiful, my brave children whom the hateful Roumi killed? Can money make the old man young again, and give him new sons to perpetuate his race?'
"'I pity you very much, sir; but what have I to do with your misfortunes? Why revenge upon a poor weak girl like me the death of those who were dear to you?'
"'What have you to do with my misfortunes? Are you not the child of my firstborn, his only one? Did they not tear you from his dead body, to which you clung with all your baby strength? Did I not see it all? Yes; lying wounded at some distance from my brave boy, your cries roused me from the almost death swoon into which I had fallen, and I saw you taken away from him. I vowed then to the Prophet, that if I recovered from my wounds, my life should be spent in trying to rescue you from our enemies, that you might become the mother of a race of strong warriors to struggle against those hated usurpers. During all those weary years I never flagged for an hour, and repeated failures did but urge me to new exertions. At last the great Prophet rewarded my fidelity by giving you up to me, and now you cry and pray to be taken back to your father's murderers, and ask what you have to do with my misfortunes? Child, I have told you.'
"He stopped as if exhausted by his own vehemence, and gazed at her in seeming anger. Poor Marie could not repress the shudder which crept over her as her eyes rested on her grandsire. Visions of what her fate would be with him, and still worse as the slave—for what else is an Arab's wife?—of an infidel husband, rose up vividly before her eyes and filled her with horror.
"At length the old man went out, and Marie, being left alone, rose from her rude couch, and kneeling, she drew forth her silver crucifix—it was Colonel de St. Severan's parting gift—and prayed earnestly to Him who had died for her, that He would save her now from worse than death, and restore her to the care of His true followers. Hearing a step she rose, and carefully hiding the precious crucifix, she stood waiting to see what would happen next. She had come to the conclusion that the best chance of escape was to endeavour to win the old man's heart, and, as he entered with cakes and fruits which he had brought for her on the previous night, she thanked him and began to eat. This seemed to please him greatly.
"As soon as she had finished he said, 'Now we must start again, for we have a long ride to take before we reach the tribe.' He gave her an old cloak, and told her to draw its hood over her head; then he desired her to wait for a few moments in the cavern while he got the horse ready. Again he went away and left poor Marie alone. Her heart began to sink. That night they were to reach the tribe. What hope was there now for her.
"Journeying on, the old man tried to amuse her by talking of the handsome young chief whom he wished her to marry. Then he related stories of the brave deeds of her ancestors, and of her father especially. He told her that her mother was a Frenchwoman whom the Arabs had taken captive, and whom his son fell in love with and married. He spoke much, too, about the great honour which his son had done her in making her his wife, and about her ingratitude to him, and said that she fretted and pined until she lost all her beauty, got ill, and died shortly before the battle on the river Tanguin.
"At last, after a long and, to Marie, a terrible day's ride, they came to the encampment. As soon as they got to the entrance of the circle of tents they were surrounded by the men of the tribe; the women stared, but remained at their occupations. Many questions were asked of the old man, but, before he answered any of them, he lifted Marie almost tenderly from the horse; she could scarcely stand, and terrified by all those strange faces which crowded round her, she clung to him for support and protection. At this moment a witch-like looking woman came and asked, 'Is this the lost child of thy brave son, Ben Arbi?'
"'It is, Masaouda,' he replied; 'help her to my tent and take care of her; she is weary, and, as I fear, ill?'
"The old woman obeyed, and as soon as they got into the tent Marie saw a seat, and fell upon it with a moan of pain. Masaouda knelt down beside her, felt her hands, her forehead, and cheeks, and then left her to repose.
"Marie was alone, but she could not rest; all that Ben Arbi had said to her about the chief whom he wished her to marry haunted her, and when at last sleep stole upon her, fantastic and horrible forms seemed to crowd around, driving her to despair. This, she says, is the last thing that she remembers of that night.
"When next she awoke to consciousness it was broad day-light, and she saw Ben Arbi and Masaouda sitting at the door of the tent. She felt strangely weak, and closed her eyes almost as soon as she opened them, yet not before Ben Arbi had seen that one returning ray. Approaching her, he asked in a low anxious tone—
"'Does my child know me?'
"Again she looked up for a moment; he saw that she had recognised him, and exclaimed—
"'Allah be praised! She may live now!'
"By degrees Ben Arbi's presence and Masaouda's recalled her sad history to her. Soon she was able to connect all the links of that chain so coiled around her. One day as she lay with closed eyes thinking over her forlorn condition she heard Masaouda and Ben Arbi talking together. From their conversation she learned that she had been more than three weeks ill, and that at one time they had almost despaired of her recovery. He spoke much of his anxiety that she should get well quickly, as war was menacing, and he wished her to be married before it broke out, otherwise it might be impossible for some time.
"How Marie's heart bounded as she heard these words! And how she prayed that God would not permit her to get well until this, for her, blessed war should have begun! She determined to speak as little as possible and to avoid giving any signs of returning strength. Accordingly, day after day she resisted all the efforts made to rouse her, and refused much of the nourishing things which they constantly brought to her, and thus she endeavoured to retard this dreaded recovery. Nevertheless, she felt that she was rapidly improving, and every day it became more difficult to repress the natural restlessness of convalescence.
"Time passed on slowly, and nothing more was said of the war; she was beginning to lose hope, when one evening she heard Masaouda come into the tent with Ben Arbi, who was questioning her eagerly about his child's health; he asked if it would be possible for her to be married in a week from that time, as the war had been determined upon, and the chiefs would depart. 'It is impossible,' the old woman answered; 'the child is too ill, and a relapse would probably cause her death.' Ben Arbi sighed deeply, but made no reply; while Marie felt that she could have fallen at Masaouda's feet and have blessed her for speaking these words. She knew, however, that she must remain silent, and from the depths of her heart she sent up a fervent thanksgiving to God. She was not yet saved, but this was a respite, and whilst it lasted might not her friends find and rescue her? It was a renewal of hope, and that is almost a renewal of life.
"At length the happy day arrived when the greater portion of the tribe set out for the scene of war, and from that day forward Marie improved rapidly. She devoted herself completely to Ben Arbi, vaguely hoping that if she could make him very fond of her she might perhaps be able to induce him to take her back to Algiers. She succeeded to her heart's content in exciting his tender affection for her, but he would not hear a word about taking her back, and appeared to be as intent as ever upon her marrying.
"Marie observed that his strength seemed to decline, and he himself said frequently that the old man's course was nearly run, and that if he could live to see his child married the object of his life would be gained, and he would be glad to sleep in peace with his brave sons.
"About two months from the time when the chiefs set out for the war, the survivors returned in triumph, and, with pride and joy lighting up his countenance, Ben Arbi told Marie that her husband elect was waiting to see her. She fell upon her knees, and clinging to him, besought him not to force her to marry, if he would not see her die of grief, as her poor mother had died. He sternly repulsed her, and left the tent in anger. It was a rude shock to Marie's hopes, and now, for the first time, she felt despair.
"Passively she submitted; she heard them agree that her marriage should take place in a few days, and even this did not rouse her. Ben Arbi tried to caress her and win her from this deep sadness, but she shook off his hand roughly, as she exclaimed, 'Do not touch me,—do not add hypocrisy to your cruelty. Is it not enough for you to force me to do that which will be to me a living death, without making false professions of affection for me? As you killed my mother, so will you kill me!' She stopped her ears and would not listen to a word from him.
"A few days before the fatal one named for Marie's wedding, Ben Arbi said that he must go to visit some holy shrine, to which there was then a great pilgrimage, but that he would be back on the day of the wedding. They were to be married, as is the Arab custom, in the evening.
"Early on the morning of this eventful day an old man tottered across the encampment and entered Ben Arbi's tent. Marie was already out, and was sitting at a little distance from it in a state of mute despair, yet she recognised her grandfather's form, and followed him into the tent. He had fallen upon the ground, and was lying there moaning as if in mortal agony. A feeling of sickness came over Marie as she looked at him, and she leaned against the side of the tent for support.
"At this moment the whole camp seemed roused, and were gathering round the tent, and he to whom she was betrothed implored her to come to him, saying that they must lose no time in departing from a place which was cursed by the plague.
"'What!' she cried; 'you would leave the old man here to die alone? Go; I will remain with him!'
"'Are you mad, girl!' exclaimed her betrothed. 'Come before you are yourself infected—before you have touched him!'
"He advanced a little way into the tent and took hold of her arm, but she shook him off, and springing to her grandfather's side, she laid her hand upon him and said—
"'Now come and take me away if you will, but with me take this fell disease!'
"One and all they stood as if spell-bound, gazing at her; then slowly and silently they withdrew.
"At last, Marie, and the sufferer by whose side she knelt, heard the heavy tramping of men and flocks, as the caravan moved away from the presence of the plague-stricken. Marie turned and kissed the old man's forehead.
"That kiss seemed to thrill through him. He raised himself up, and looking intently at her, he exclaimed—
"'My child!—I have never wrought thee aught but evil. I stole thee from those who were dear and kind to thee. I spurned thy prayers and tears, entreating to be taken back to them; and even this very day I was about to force thee into a marriage against thy inclinations. Nevertheless, in my hour of need and misery thou remainest with me, whom all others have abandoned! Child, who taught thee to act thus?'
"'Grandfather, it was the lesson which our God came down from heaven to teach us. He died to save those who most cruelly injured him. His doctrine and example are summed up in this one sentence—"Love thy God above all things, and thy neighbour as thyself!" And it was He who said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me!" And I have only done to you as I would that you should have done to me were I struck with this terrible disease, whilst I know that in thus attending to you I am ministering to Him.'
"The old man bowed his head, and said, 'Thy God shall be my God! The religion that could make thee act as thou hast done must be divine. Child, make me what thou art.'
"Marie clasped her hands together in deep but silent thankfulness; then she exclaimed, 'Would that some one were here to teach you; yet I can baptize you and make you a Christian. Oh, how happy you have made me! I can even thank you now for having stolen me from my dear convent!'
"'Do not say thou canst not teach me, child; for thou hast taught me so great a lesson that nothing could surpass it. Make me what thou art, and I shall die in peace. But what is to become of thee, my poor child! If thou shouldst survive this danger they will claim thee, and thou wilt not escape them. Would that thou wert in safety with thy Christian friends!'
"Marie trembled; yet a moment after she smiled brightly, and said, 'Fear not for me, grandfather; God is with us, and He will protect me. I no longer fear for myself; but say, are we far from Algiers?'
"'Not more than a good day's journey on foot. I brought thee by a longer route, in order to elude pursuit. But what does that avail; there is no one to send thither!'
"'It is all in the hands of God, and all will be well; do not let us think any more about me, but about yourself.' And when she had done all she could to soothe him, she sat down beside him and talked to him about the loving Saviour, whose follower he wished to become; and related to him as much as she could remember of the touching Gospel histories.
"Towards evening he fell into a light sleep, then Marie went out to breathe the fresh air, and was thinking of the happiness it would be to her if she could send for the dear old chaplain of the convent, who would baptize her grandfather, and, if he lived, find means to have him as well as herself removed to Algiers. Whilst she was musing, a sound of footsteps fell upon her ear, and looking up, she saw coming towards her a poor, half-witted boy, to whom she had been kind, and who seemed to have taken an ardent fancy for her. He was leading a goat; and, as soon as he saw her, he hastened to her, and said he had brought the goat for her that she might have some milk to drink.
"Marie took his hand, and pressing it within her own, thanked him warmly for thus thinking of her. The boy blushed, and laughed sillily; then he asked if he could do anything for her.
"'Yes,' she answered quickly; 'if you would go to Algiers, and bring back something—some medicine—for my grandfather, I shall love you so much.' The boy assented gladly; and then she asked him to wait until she had obtained the necessary instructions.
"Finding Ben Arbi asleep, Marie had to wait some time before she could speak to him; then she told him that God had sent them in the poor boy a messenger to Algiers, and asked him if he knew any Arab there to whom she could entrust a message to the convent. The old man thought for a few moments, and said he knew one who was under great obligations to him, and in whom he could trust. 'Then all is well,' she answered; 'only tell me how I am to describe the place where we are?' She had her little pocket-book still with her; and what a treasure it proved to her now, since it gave her the means of communicating with her friends!
"The old man having given her the necessary directions, dictated a few lines to the Arab, to desire him to give the messenger a little phial containing a certain cordial, and above all to lose no time in conveying Marie's packet to its destination.
"When all this was done, and the messenger had departed, Ben Arbi seemed inclined to sleep again, and she began her night-watch; a lonely one indeed would it have been had not the bright star of hope shone through all its gloom.
"Slowly passed the hours until the next day, when, about noon, the faithful messenger appeared again. He gave her the phial, and told her that the Arab desired him to say that Ben Arbi's wishes should be executed. Marie could have cried for joy, and her gratitude to the poor boy was far greater than she could express. It was necessary, however, to send him away; and this cost her a severe pang, as she thought of when he would return and find the place deserted by them.
"Every feeling was, however, soon merged in an intense longing for the arrival of the good chaplain. Her grandfather was sinking rapidly, and she began to think that Père de la Roche would not be there in time to baptize him; and how she shuddered at the thought of being left there alone with the dead. Evening came, and twilight waned into night, but no Père de la Roche; and poor Marie's heart began to droop again. Perhaps he had not received the note, and, if so, what was she to do? She almost shrieked aloud as she thought of her probably forlorn condition, for she felt sure that her grandfather had not long to live,—he had said so more than once; and during the whole day he had been tormenting himself about what was to become of her if no one came from Algiers.
"The old man had fallen asleep; the bright light of the moon showed Marie that his eyes were closed. In her anxious hope she went out of the tent and climbed up a tree which stood near, to gaze across that vast plain; but nothing appeared. She then determined to descend, and baptize her grandfather herself as soon as he awoke. One last yearning look, however, brought before her something which made her heart throb almost aloud. It was but a small spot; but it seemed to move, and to draw nearer to her. At last she could see that it was a man on horseback. There was no Arab dress; it must be, it was Père de la Roche! She almost sprang from the tree, and ran towards him.
"Père de la Roche and Marie hastened to the tent, and Marie went in to announce the glad tidings. The old man was lying with his eyes wide open, and looked at Marie fondly and sadly as she entered; but when she told him that Père de la Roche had arrived, his countenance lit up, and he exclaimed, 'Then thou art happy. I can now die in peace, and thou wilt go back to those whom thou lovest! But go, child, and send him to me quickly, for my course is nearly run.' Marie went out and led Père de la Roche into the tent. She left him there, and waited without for him.
"She was roused by the good father, whose hand lightly shook her. 'Come, my child,' said he; 'thy grandfather would see thee again before he dies. He is now a Christian, and will be with his God before many minutes have passed. Ah! what a great work thy faith has wrought!'
"Hardly were Ben Arbi's eyes closed in his happy death, when the sound of horses caused Marie once more to tremble. Père de la Roche reassured her by saying that it was probably a detachment of cavalry from Algiers, sent to guard their safe return. Taking her by the hand, he led her out of the tent, and there she saw again the beloved French uniforms. This second shock of joy, and the death scene she had just witnessed, were too much for her. She sank down quite overcome; and they laid her upon the long grass, where they left her to slumber, whilst they hurriedly performed the last rites to Ben Arbi.
"When all was done, they gently awoke her; and placing her on horseback, they returned to Algiers. Poor Marie was carried exhausted into the convent just as the bell was tolling for matins. The nuns came gathering round their lost child, now restored to them, to their great joy."
The Adairs were doubly anxious to know Marie and to have her with them, after reading the papers which Madame Hird had given them; moreover, she would, they thought, so well supply Lucy's place, and be a companion to Flora.
Accordingly, when the day arrived which had been fixed for Lucy's departure, and they had confided her to the care of the friends with whom she was to travel to England, they determined to drive straight to the convent. They got into an open carriage, but the driver looked wonders when he was told that their destination was the Villa Ianthe, on the Lungara—a long distance indeed from the Piazza dei Termini. He tried to console himself, however, by driving as slowly as possible, being too truly Italian to trouble himself as to whether, in so doing, he lost other fares or not. What true Italian does not prefer the dolce far niente to gain? Fortunately it was a matter of indifference to the Adairs; they were not pressed for time, and that slow motion through the soft, hazy air of Rome was far from disagreeable, so they let him gang his ain gate.
Even their slow pace brought them, at length, to the convent, and once more they were shown into the little square room, with its prim air—that room which not even the sun of Italy could cheer or warm.
Madame Hird came down quickly, and when the usual greetings were over, and they were all seated, Mrs. Adair gave back the papers, and said, "These have interested us so much that we are longing to make the acquaintance of the little heroine, and to have her with us. When can she come? We leave Rome on Tuesday week, and should like it to be as soon as possible, that she may get accustomed to us before we set out on our journey."
"You can see her now, if you wish," replied Madame Hird, "but the Superioress will say when she can go to you. I had a letter from Madame de St. Severan yesterday; she is greatly pleased to hear that Marie is to travel with you, and that you intend to make some détour; a little travelling with you and your daughter will, she thinks, be of great advantage to Marie. I wrote to her of you from what I knew of you in former days, and of Mademoiselle I said, that as far as I could judge in a visit, she would be an admirable companion for my young charge."
"We are most grateful for your good opinion," answered Mrs. Adair, "and shall do our best to merit it, by making Marie as happy as we can while she is with us."
"I have no doubt that she will be very happy, and the new and varied scenes which she will visit with you will delight her. I will go and tell her that you wish to see her,—she may be a little shy at first, as she is so unaccustomed to meet strangers."
"Very naturally, poor child; but she will soon get over that with us, I trust."
"Then I will go to announce your visit."
After a short time Madame Hird returned, with a tall, and rather an imposing-looking nun, whom she introduced as "Madame la Supérieure."
The lady was French, but she spoke English tolerably well, and at once addressed Mrs. Adair in that language.
"Mademoiselle Marie will have the honour to salute you in a few instants. Madame Hird tells me that you have the goodness to permit her to make the voyage to Paris with you, and that you desire to know when she can go chez vous. It is to-day Friday; shall we then say Monday next? Madame de St. Severan has sent me a sum of money, which she prayed me to give you, should it be decided that Mademoiselle Marie was to travel with you; it is for her voyage. Shall I give it to you now, or when you come for her on Monday?"
"Then, if you please, since I can have a receipt ready to give you. You know, Madame, that it is better to do these things en règle; it prevents misunderstandings."
"Just as you like. At what hour will you come on Monday?"
"Would five o'clock suit you, Madame?"
"It is equal to me, and Marie shall be ready for you at that hour. I am astonished that she has not come down to be presented to you. And now that all our arrangements are made, I will ask you to give me permission to retire, as I am very much occupied. I will send Marie to you at once. Adieu, Madame,—adieu, Mademoiselle." And making a formal curtsey to each of them, she left the room.
Flora drew a long breath as the door closed, and had not Madame Hird remained in the room, we should probably have heard her utter a fervent "Deo gratias!" Madame Hird smiled slightly and said, "Marie will get a reprimand for dilatoriness, but in reality it is timidity which has prevented her from coming sooner. I hear a step,—I will go and meet the poor child; she would never have courage to come in herself."
She went into the passage and returned immediately, leading in a young lady dressed in a black silk frock. She was very short, but she had a well-formed, plump figure, large liquid black eyes, full red lips, a clear olive complexion covered with blushes, and black hair curling round her head in short curls. A pretty little creature she certainly was, and she looked so innocent and clinging that from the first moment it was hardly possible not to be fond of her.
Madame Hird presented her to Mrs. Adair and said, "This is the lady who is so kind as to take charge of you to Paris, Marie; and to whom I am sure you will be very grateful."
Marie made a shy curtsey and muttered something in French; but Mrs. Adair took her hand and kissed her, saying, "Oh, this is quite too formal; ... we must be friends, Marie—or must I call you Mademoiselle?"
"Oh non, Madame," and she blushed more than ever.
Flora now came and kissed her also, as she said, "Come and talk to me, Marie." She drew her to the window and made her sit down beside her. Meanwhile Madame Hird devoted herself to Mrs. Adair, and they wisely left the young people to themselves.
"You must not be shy with me, Marie; I do not appear very terrible, do I?"
"Mais non, Mademoiselle," answered Marie, with a smile.
"Well then, you must call me Flora, and not Mademoiselle. I call you Marie."
"Quel joli nom vous avez."
"You like it!—then you must show me that you do by using it. But you speak English they say; I see that you understand it well."
"Oui, je le comprends très bien, Made——"
Flora looked at her and shook her head. Marie smiled, hesitated for a moment, and then said, coyly, "Flore."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Flora, "there is a victory already gained! But you were going to say—
"Mais je ne le parle pas bien, et j'ai peur de vous."
Marie turned, and for the first time looked up fully in Flora's face.
"But you are not much afraid of me, Marie, after all?"
"Mais vous, vous parlez Français,—c'est très heureux pour moi!"
"Well, I must say that I do not quite see that, Marie; perhaps you can explain it to me?"
"Oui, et très bien même. Je n'aime pas à parler une langue étrangère avec vous, parceque j'ai peur de vous, mais vous n'avez pas peur de moi!" And she laughed merrily, as if she thought it an absurd idea that any one could be afraid of her. It made Flora laugh also, and the laughing seemed to set Marie more at her ease,—very soon all fear of the formidable Flora appeared to have vanished.
After some little time Mrs. Adair said, "I am glad, Marie, to see that you and Flora are becoming friends."
"Oui, Madame, et je n'ai plus peur d'elle!"
"So I perceive, nor must you be afraid of me, either. Now we must leave you, but only until Monday. Flora has told you, I suppose, that the Superioress has given you leave to come to us then."
"Oui, Madame, et ce sera un bonheur pour moi de faire ce voyage avec vous et avec Mademoiselle votre fille!"
"I hope you may find it so. Good-bye, then, for a few days." She kissed her, and then turned to bid Madame Hird adieu.
"Only four o'clock! It is too early for us to go home," said Flora, looking up from her watch as they got into the street.
"Is there anything near that we have not seen?"
"The Farnese Palazzo is quite close, but if the king and queen are not away it is only shown to visitors on Sundays at five in the evening."
"Let us try, at all events; they may perhaps be absent."
As the two ladies turned off the Lungara into the Via del Ponte, they met Mr. Lyne coming down the Via delle Fornaci.
"Mrs. Adair! who would have thought of seeing you here?" and he shook hands with her and with Flora.
"We are returning from the Villa Ianthe," answered Mrs. Adair.
"And I," rejoined Mr. Lyne, "from the beautiful Fontana Paolina. Are you going to walk home?"
"Yes; or rather we are going first to the Palazzo Farnese to try if we can see it. Flora says it is quite near."
"So it is, and I think you can see it. I know that the royal family were absent yesterday, and they may not have returned. May I have the pleasure of accompanying you, Mrs. Adair?"
He addressed Mrs. Adair, but he looked at Flora, who replied, "Well, I suppose you may, as I dare say your coming will not prevent our seeing the pictures."
"I should think not," added Mrs. Adair, smiling. So they went on together.
Ah! Flora, could you have known the past events of the day before, or the coming ones of that day, how different would have been your answer when Mr. Lyne asked to accompany you to the Farnese Palace!
Mr. Lyne was about the middle height and rather slight; he had regular, well-cut features, brown eyes, and dark hair. He was certainly gentleman-like in appearance, and was generally called handsome, being so, indeed, to those who think more of form than of expression; not that his expression was wanting in goodness or even in intelligence, but it was devoid of animation or energy. He was essentially what is called a good young man,—one who fulfilled every duty with the greatest exactitude, who always did just what was expected of him. His ideas and conversation on most subjects were just, calm, and deliberate, but never original, and he was perfectly guiltless of ever allowing himself to be carried away by feeling or enthusiasm. No one ever heard of his doing a startling act of kindness, self-devotion, or generosity; but on the other hand he was invariably kind in a general way, a sincere friend, too, and moderately generous.
We have heard that he was going to be married to Flora Adair, or at least that he intended to propose for her, and felt no doubt about being accepted. This was true, and his courtship and love were quite in keeping with the other features of his character. As his mother was French, and he had been brought up chiefly in France, he had acquired much of the French ideas about marriage. The Adairs were old friends of his family; so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Adair always called him George; and he was aware that a marriage between him and Flora would be agreeable to his own and to her friends. It was just the connection which his parents wished for, but he was not a person ready to marry any girl who was pointed out to him as eligible; on the contrary, he was determined never to marry any one whom he did not like very much. If he could like one an alliance with whom would please his family, he thought it would be a most desirable thing, and therefore he cultivated an intimate acquaintance with the Adairs.
Flora, strange to say, did inspire him with a feeling as nearly akin to love as it was in his nature to feel, and she treated him with a friendly, cordial manner, as the son of a very old friend of her mother's, never for a moment supposing that he could think of wishing to marry her, feeling, as she did, that their characters were too essentially different for anything like union between them. Thus she innocently encouraged him to believe that she liked him, and he did not understand the different symptoms of love and liking, otherwise her friendly but indifferent manner would have driven him to despair. Her real opinion of him was that he was a good-natured "bore," very obliging, gentlemanly, and quite capable of taking his place creditably in conversation; better informed, indeed, than the majority of those around him, but tiresome withal. And this was the man whom Mary Elton had told Mr. Earnscliffe that she was going to marry!
When they got to the palazzo they found—as Mr. Lyne had said—that the royal family had not returned. They were told that the custode had gone upstairs a moment before with a gentleman. They hurried on and overtook them just as the door of the gallery was opened. The gentleman turned to let them pass before him,—it was Mr. Earnscliffe!
The unexpected meeting of those whom we esteem greatly is a delicious sensation, and this Flora then felt. Had she known all that had passed between Mary and Mr. Earnscliffe, how different would have been her feelings!
The Adairs were in advance when Mr. Earnscliffe turned, and his expression seemed to light up a little as he saw them, but it grew dark again as he caught sight of their companion, and he appeared to be in one of his haughtiest moods as he shook hands with them and Mr. Lyne.
"This is a fortunate day for me," said the latter; "as I was returning from a walk to the Fontana Paolina, I met Mrs. and Miss Adair, who kindly permitted me to accompany them here, and now we meet you who are such a connoisseur in painting, our visit will be doubly instructive."
"I believe the custode undertakes to point out everything of note," replied Mr. Earnscliffe, stiffly. "It is usually so when one goes round with visitors in such places. But we are keeping the man waiting." He motioned him on, and they all followed.
It would have been too harsh had he not asked Flora if she felt perfectly recovered from her sprain; and in formal politeness Mr. Earnscliffe was scrupulously exact; so he said in a cold tone, "I hope, Miss Adair, that you do not feel any lingering inconvenience from your sprain?"
"None in the least, I thank you, as you will see by my dancing at Mrs. Elton's on Friday night. Helena told me that we were to have the pleasure of meeting you there."
"Yes, I promised Miss Elton to go; she said it was a farewell."
"So it is; they leave Rome on the Monday after. We met them yesterday evening on the Pincio after their visit to the Catacombs."
"Indeed!" He turned away, and seemed intent upon looking at the frescoes and listening to the guide's remarks about them.
Flora was gazing abstractedly at Domenichino's Deliverance of Prometheus, as she leaned back against the wall opposite. She could not rid herself of the chill which she felt from the moment that Mr. Earnscliffe had shaken hands with her, and yet had she been asked why, she could not have given a very clear answer. But who does not know that vague sensation of unhappiness which the manner of one dear to us sometimes causes us to feel, although there may not be any positive or, at least, any definable change in it such as an indifferent person could see?
How well she remembered what Mr. Earnscliffe had said to her about this Farnese Palazzo. All that he had told her of its founder, Alessandro Farnese, afterwards Paul III.; of its architecture, of its frescoes; how it had descended to the royal family of Naples, and eventually become their refuge and dwelling-place in exile. But how different he was on this day. He hardly noticed or spoke to her, save those few words of ordinary civility about her accident. She thought it was too provoking of him to be so changeable, but the next moment she felt indignant against herself for harbouring even a suspicion against him, and thought it was but natural that a clever man like him should not care greatly to talk in such a place to one like herself. When she was a prisoner it was otherwise; then he thought himself in some measure bound to try to amuse her; but that was all past, and his manner to her now was just what she ought to have expected.
Nevertheless, Flora wished that they had not come there then. Suddenly it struck her that it was all that tiresome Mr. Lyne's fault; if he had not met them and said that the king and queen were away, perhaps they might not have come.
The custode seemed at length to think that they had spent sufficient time in admiring the frescoes, and he led them into the two large halls looking on the Piazza, where there are a few remnants of the fine collection of statues which this palace once contained. Mr. Lyne appeared to be much struck with the gigantic group hewn out of the stone taken from the basilica of Constantine, and representing Alessandro Farnese crowned by Victory. He was most anxious to hear all about Moschino, whose work it is, and expressed his wonder that he had never heard of it before.
Mr. Lyne will, doubtless, be considered to be a very strange lover, since he was so occupied with the statues whilst in the company of his beloved; but it should be remembered that Mr. Lyne never allowed himself to be carried away by feeling, that he always did the right thing at the right time; and he considered that in visiting celebrated places and galleries of art the object was to learn as much as he could; afterwards he could afford to please himself, and be devoted to the lady of his choice. At last his questionings came to an end, and the guide, seeing that the rest of the party were quite ready to go, moved towards the door.
Would Mr. Earnscliffe walk home with them? This was a question upon which Flora had been pondering for the last ten minutes, and she would have given a great deal to have had it satisfactorily answered. When they got into the Piazza she said, "Mamma, we can return by the Gesù, and inquire for our friend there who has been so ill."
"That was a happy thought, Flora. I am delighted to call to-day, as I fear that to-morrow we may not have time to do so. Do we say good-bye to you here, Mr. Earnscliffe?"
"No, as far as the Corso my way is the same as yours," he replied, after a moment's hesitation.
"Then come, George," said Mrs. Adair, turning to Mr. Lyne; "let us lead, and you must be my guide, for I do not know the way."
They went on, and Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora followed. She wondered whether he would now talk to her as he used to do, or remain in his silent mood. She need not to have feared; he was far too well bred to make a lady feel any such gène while walking with him, but she hoped in vain that he would be the same towards her as he had been three weeks before.
He spoke of the topics of the day, of the ceremonies of Holy Week, and of the Easter rejoicings. It was very dull work; and when she saw that he was determined not to glide into their former intercourse, she gave up making any effort to sustain the conversation. She knew that he took no pleasure in speaking of ceremonies and illuminations, and as she certainly did not, why, she thought, should she bore him or herself with such things?
Nor was he slow to discover that she did not care to continue their conversation, and, as is so often the case, he fixed upon a wrong motive as the cause of her silence. He supposed that she was thinking of the change which was about to take place in her life. He did not see how different his own manner was to her, but concluded that all he had seen on that day was proof of what Mary Elton had told him; and Flora's seeming indifference towards Mr. Lyne only made him think still less kindly of her, as it showed that she had not the grace even to pretend that she loved him, although she was ready to marry him.
What a run of ill-luck there was against Flora on that day! Everything seemed to confirm what he had heard; yet how different was the reality!
When they reached the Gesù, she said, "I suppose you have had a very dull walk. I know I was very silent, but you must feel that it was your fault. I saw that you did not care to talk.... Here we are, however, at our destination, so good-bye."