£-<£ of common justice and decency, is outraged by this man and his book, and by the Society which patronises it and him, and I can hardly control, within polite limits, the expression of my indignation at them for trying, by means of that miserable composition or compilation of slanders, to deceive me, and cause me to be most unfair in thought, and perhaps also in act." " Still," rejoined Lady Merton, " I believe his affirmation in regard to the Bible among Catholics." " As I said, I have looked into that. ' In little more than half-a-century between the invention of print- ing and Luther's outbreak no less than fifteen editions of the whole Bible, to say nothing of portions, had been issued in German, and five in Flemish. In Italian, eleven complete editions of the Bible appeared 150 Laay Merton. before the year 1 500, and were reprinted eight times more before the year 1567, with the express permis- sion of the Holy Office. More than forty editions are reckoned before' the appearance of the first Pro- testant version in Italian.' In a letter which Pope Pius VI. addressed to Archbishop Martini on his translation of the Bible into Italian, may be read : ' You judge exceedingly well, that the faithful should be excited to the reading of the Holy Scriptures : for these are the most abundant sources which ought to be left open to everyone to draw from them purity of morals and of doctrine. This you have reasonably effected by publishing the sacred writings in the language of your country suitable to everyone's ca- pacity.' And the Pope sent his Apostolic Benedic- tion to the translator." " Oh, well, there was some subterfuge. That letter was written for publication, to blind Protestants, it surely was, you know ; " and Sir Henry's face ex- pressed the scorn he felt for such tricks. " Many times have I heard priests in the pulpit recommend reading the Bible," returned Mr. Tellifer. "And only the other day, at St. Luigi dei Francesi, the preacher, a very eloquent man, urging his hearers to read books of devotion, named for them ' first and above all the Bible, second the " Imitation of Jesus Christ," third " The Devout Life," and so forth. XVI. A FEW days after that supper at the Cafe de Rome, Mr. Tellifer wished Sir Henry and Lady Merton to go with him to the Palatine. He had asked one of his friends, Don Foresti, to meet them there. " He is a distinguished priest of the Roman Catholic Church," said he. " And therefore I shall decline to go," replied Sir Henry, with an almost imperceptible toss of his head. " I do not see why you should," returned the American. " He is a very courteous gentleman, who speaks English, and knows how to make himself agreeable." " Of course he does. I have heard that they possess the devil's own power to appear what they will, with their smiles, and soft words, and flattery, and obse- quiousness " " This is a very learned, elegant, modest, thoroughly well-bred gentleman," said Mr. Tellifer, interrupting, fretted at length by this disposition to vilify, on every opportunity, people of whom the detractor knew nothing. " You will excuse me for saying it," he continued, " but even if I were obliged to admit that these people deserve the hard things which you say of them, it would pain me to hear you utter 152 Lady Merton. sentiments that, on your own showing, cannot be warranted by any facts within your knowledge, and which, therefore, are so unfair in spirit." " Let us go," said Mary. " It certainly will do us no harm to make the passing acquaintance of one priest." " Does he know your belief — that is, your unbelief ?" asked the Baronet. "Of course he does. We Americans are not apt to hide our opinions." " And he associates with you — openly ? " " Thank you — yes. He does not avoid me as the Pharisees and hypocrites do. He probably thinks I am as good a man and as hopeful a subject as a heretic. But come, I will promise that he shall not annoy you, and that he will largely contribute to your enjoy- ment." The priest was waiting for them inside the entrance gate. The utter unconsciousness of self, and the urbane cordiality with which he greeted Mr. Tellifer's friends, as if they had been his own, was a marked contrast to Sir Henry's frigid manner, which said plainly enough : " Keep your distance." Before they had been an hour together, however, the Churchman's intimate knowledge of the place they were visiting, its history, topography, and what was told by its ruins, had excited the Englishman's admiration, whose dis- dainful iciness was at the same time thawed by the priest's genial, clearly unaffected and unobtrusive kindness. Mary was particularly interested in, and looked with veneration at, portions of the walls which had surrounded Roma quadrata, the original site, the Lady Merton. 153 embryo, as it has been called, of the mistress of the world. She remembered that these walls had been built about two thousand six hundred and thirty years. And there stood the Porta Mugionis ; there the Porta Roma/ia, two of its three gates, whose places had only recently been ascertained. Next to these the point of greatest attraction for her was the Flavian Palace, built by Vespasian, and of course the home of Titus, for whom from her early years she had felt admiration mingled with a kind of tenderness, on account of his great desire to treat the Jews with generosity and preserve their Temple. The most important event of the day, however, was the meeting with Don Foresti, although Sir Henry little suspected it at the time. How much reason he had to regret laying aside his distrust, permitting himself to be disarmed of hereditary antagonism by a guileless exterior, soft eyes, an earnest, gentle voice, and a seductive manner, will hereafter be seen. Observing how greatly Mary was interested by things archaeological, and how readily she appreciated their value, her reading and imagination enabling her to restore them after her fashion, mentally, and thus get their signification, Don Foresti proposed, before they separated, a visit to the catacombs of St. Calixtus ; and the excursion was appointed for the next day. In accordance with this arrangement they went out of the gate St. Sebastian the next morning, and a mile and a quarter from it, on the Appian Way, came to a vineyard in which they noticed a small brick structure. Pointing to it Don Foresti said : " That building was identified by De Rossi as an oratory of St. Calixtus, and he induced Pope Pius 154 Lady Merton. IX. to buy the property. In a short time De Rossi's investigations brought to light most important dis- coveries. The entrance to the catacomb is close to that oratory." Taking the wax tapers which were provided for them they descended, the priest leading, while Mr. Tellifer offered his hand to Lady Merton. Arrived at the bottom they went through a passage, having on either hand places for depositing the dead, and came to the' Papal chamber, containing tombs of Popes on each side; while that of Sixtus II., mar- tyred in the catacombs during the year 260, was in the central wall. In front of this was a long metrical inscription, honouring those here intombed, composed by Pope Damasus about the year 375. After they had read this, Don Foresti, noting their curiosity in regard to such records, called attention to some graffiti, or writings, scratched on the rock somewhere from one to two hundred years after the death of St. John the Evangelist. Of these with his help they deciphered three. The first was : " Holy souls have in mind Marcianus Successus Severus and all our brothers." The second : " Holy souls ask that Vere- cundus with his may sail well." The third : " Ask rest both for his parents and brothers and " " Why," exclaimed Mary, " these are prayers to the saints ! " " Yes," assented Don Foresti quietly. " They are no such thing ! " cried Sir Henry warmly. " The word ' pray ' or ' prayer ' does not occur. Petite is not orate; I remember Latin enough for that." Don Foresti said nothing, but Mr. Tellifer replied : Lady Merlon. 155 " They certainly are requests which some person or persons coming here made to holy souls of martyrs, or other holy souls ; and these requests were that the same holy souls should obtain for the petitioners something which they wanted." " But the tombs where this is written are Popes' tombs, and the holy souls are Popes' souls ; and bless my heart, I'll be d , you know, if it is not all flat Popery as ever was invented ; " and the Baronet took off his hat to wipe his forehead. This assertion was plainly so near the truth that no one ventured to dispute it ; but the priest created a diversion by remarking : " It is well settled that the Christians assembled from time to time at the tombs of the martyrs for prayer and to celebrate the Communion." " How do you know that these sentences were not written later than the year 300 ? " demanded Sir Henry, with the air of a general who has found a weak place in his enemy's lines. " By the evidence." " What evidence ? " " That borne by the characters, the style of the composition, the words " " What words ? " " The neuter noun, spiriium, instead of the mascu- line, spirituSy for instance, to indicate soul. Such use of this neuter is frequent in epitaphs of the third century." To this the Baronet did not know what objection could be made. They lingered in the chamber which once held the body of St. Cecilia, whose remains are now in the church placed under her invocation in 156 Lady Merton. Trastevere, and which had already been visited by- Sir Henry and Lady Merton. Thence they continued their way, which at length began to seem intermin- able to Mary, and with a voice not entirely firm she asked Don Foresti how long these subterranean corridors were. " It has been calculated," he answered, " that if all the passages in this and other catacombs, that is, all the catacombs of Rome, were put one after another, so as to make an unbroken line, the entire length would be about five hundred and forty-five miles." " Do you think he knows the way ? " Mary con- trived to ask Mr. Tellifer, indicating the priest. " As well as you do about your own house," replied he, confidently. Still she could not help feeling some uncomfortable trepidation as she thought how easy it would be in these dark, imprisoned lanes, one so like another, to take a wrong turning and then But after some time longer her heart gave a great jump of relief as she clearly saw in advance of their leader a ray of daylight. And, climbing some long stairs, much more difficult than those by which they had descended, they stood in sunshine which seemed to Lady Merton literally the smile of a lovely day. She was now in the mood for further investigation of the same kind, and they had yet time for a look at the cemetery or catacombs of St. Priscilla, two miles outside the Porta Salara, one of the oldest about Rome. It was founded by Priscilla, of whom St. Paul writes to the Romans : " Greet Priscilla and Aquila, my helpers in Christ Jesus : who have for my life laid down their own necks : unto whom not only I Lady Merton. 157 give thanks, but also all the churches of the Gentiles. Likewise greet the church that is in their house." Here was Priscilla buried with her husband, the virgins Prassede and Pudentiana, disciples of the Apostles ; and here were also buried not a few freed- men of the imperial house in the Apostolic age. Of all that was seen in this place by Sir Henry and Lady Merton one thing only will be mentioned, namely, a painting of the Virgin Mary seated with the Infant at her breast, the star over her head, and a man standing at her right. The Virgin has on her head a short veil, wears a tunic with short sleeves, and over the tunic a mantle. The man is young and wears only a mantle. His right hand is raised, and with the index he points as if he would indicate the star and the Virgin with her Child. His left holds a roll. " I suppose the man is Joseph," said Mary. " No," returned Don Foresti. " He is a prophet, probably the prophet Isaiah." "There is no nimbus, or halo, to show that these are images of holy persons," remarked the Baronet. " Which is a sure proof that the picture was anterior to the fourth century," rejoined the priest. " As a distinctive honour the nimbus came into use in the fourth century." " How early do you suppose it was painted ? " asked Lady Merton. " That composition is coeval with the very first exercise of Christian art ; and very nearly, or quite, contemporary with the Apostolic preaching in Rome. That image, or portrait, was made almost under the very eyes of the Apostles." 158 Lady Merton. " According to Roman Catholic authorities, I sup- pose," said Sir Henry. " According to the judgment, not only of the best archaeologists of every country, both Catholic and Protestant, but of Italian and foreign masters of the painter's art, none of whom fix the date of its origin later than the first Antonine — who died in the year 161 — or about forty to sixty-five years after the death of St. John the Evangelist ; while their general opinion inclines to a much earlier date, and to the conclusion that it is a specimen of the most primi- tive Christian art." " From which you gather that during the era of the Apostles, in the golden age of Christianity, the faith- ful made images of the Virgin in the crypts and sepulchres, which, as we have seen, were also their altars," remarked Mr. Tellifer. " Certainly ; and therefrom I conclude also that the cult or veneration of the Virgin is shown to be synchronous with the first preaching of the Gospel. Other painted images of the Virgin confirm this ; one in the very ancient cemetery, or catacombs, of Ostriano, on the Via Nomentana " " We did not see it," said Mary, interrupting, and speaking with some excitement to Mr. Tellifer. " We went there only to see one thing*. We will go again to see the rest." " And a very interesting one in the catacombs of Saints Peter and Marcellinus," continued Don Foresti, " which was painted between the years 200 and 300. There the Virgin is seated with the Infant in her arms, and two Magi approach with offerings. In this representation the Virgin wears nothing on her Lady Merton. 159 head, which indicates that she is a maiden, since girls previous to marriage did not veil the head. This, doubtless, was a delicate design of the artist to denote her virginal integrity. Indeed, antique depictions of the Virgin implying her cult are almost without number." As they left the catacomb, Mr. Tellifer remarked to Sir Henry : " All this is to me intensely interesting as history." " History ? " exclaimed the Englishman. " Do you call that history? Well, if it is, save me from it. If I had known how dangerous it was I would never have exposed my wife to it ; I would not, upon my word. To me it only proves that those early Christ- ians were all Roman Catholics and idolaters ; it does, indeed, you know. And I think the sooner our people find it out and put them in their places the better. Don't talk to me any more about primitive worship. They never knew what pure worship was till Henry VIII. invented it for himself." XVII. PLEASURES and fatigues of sight-seeing in Rome were varied and relieved by drives and walks in its neighbourhood, in the gardens and villas and, as spring-tide was coming on, by excursions to the " Castelli Romani " on the slopes of the Alban Hills, Albano, Rocca di Papa, Frascati, and others ; to the Three Fountains, which commemorate the beheading of St Paul, and to Ostia ; which last Mary thought could hardly be less interesting than Pompeii, particularly when visitors might be accompanied, asthey were, by that accomplished and amiable archaeologist Prof. Com. Lanciani, the most eminent in the depart- ment of archaeology to which ruins of the pagan world belong ; who had especial charge of the ex- cavations at this place. But, as spring advanced, Lady Merton's favourite resort, above all in the early morning, was the Pincio. The ascent to it from the Piazza del Popolo by the road and the paths with their easy zigzags, and the stairs, gave just an agreeable expansion to her lungs. Arrived on the terrace, she felt a delight beyond expression. Rome, Rome, the Eternal City, lay at her feet ; now just awake and on the point of getting up, partly throwing off its light, semi-transparent covering of mist ; clearly above which could already be seen Lady Alert on. 161 cupolas, and towers of churches, and there, across the great Piazza, across the tawny Tiber and the Prati di Castello, beyond the Castello itself with the plague- staying angel sheathing his sword on its summit, towered the immense, the majestic dome of St. Peter's and the huge pile of the Vatican Palace. Downwards from the stairs, garden succeeded garden. Rose-vines twined around their trellises passionately, like loving wives trying to detain un- loving husbands. And in an opposite direction, on the plateau, gems were bursting from the trees ; germinating seeds were pushing sprouts through the rich soil and growing almost visibly in the genial sunshine. Rose-buds reddened as if blushing on a first entrance into society, or as if conscious that their verdant vestments were falling from their shoulders. Ilexes, like fashionable women, laid aside green mantles, for no other reason than because they had worn them a year, and put on new ones of the same colour, fresher. Peach trees, after the manner of old time coquettes, spotted themselves with rose-coloured patches, and cherry trees put on bridal dresses, using white powder plentifully. And how well they all selected, and where did they buy their exquisite scents ? Violets were sadly giving place to pansies ; and great double pinks opened their breasts sensu- ously and voluptuously to the sun ; while a stealthy breeze went noiselessly about gathering and mixing an extrait de bouquet. Enticing vistas invited Mary to walk, and climbing roses from branches of trees, where they felt secure, held towards and tempted her playfully to snatch at their rich clusters. Beyond, in the same line of vision, stretching from the foot of a 12 1 62 Lady Merton. high abutment which sustains the Pincian garden on that side, was spread out the Villa Borghese, with its groves, and drives, and avenues, and fountains, and casino. Turning again and facing the Porta del Popola she had before her the valley of the Tiber, above the city, bounded on the west by Monte Mario, and stretching far away northward. These views and these things grew more and more familiar to her, and with increasing familiarity more and more lovely. To this place in front of the music- stand she and Sir Henry also came frequently towards evening, when returning from the drive, and listened to fine music of the municipal or a regimental band, and, while with a feeling of exquisite enjoyment she received the delicious concord of sweet sounds, all the variety, all the tones and suggestions of the scene before and around her, made a harmony not less delightful, which, through her eyes, entered her inmost soul. The train of pleasure-seekers, the stately equipages, the voiture de place, often rusty and battered, with its broken-down horse, the throng of people on foot, did not disturb her. Only when she caught sight of the scarlet liveries of her most gracious, graceful, and amiable majesty, Queen Mar- guerite, would she rouse, as though from a dream, to pay willing tribute to the royal beauty. At that hour the sun made a golden background behind St. Peter's, and she perceived that the great old Italian painters were more faithful to nature than she had ever supposed. The air seemed filled, all up the valley of the Tiber and towards Monte Mario, with tiniest drops of a golden shower, or rather, with a golden mist. What a place it was in which to hear music. Lady Merton. 163 especially when the strains were fitted to the scene, and harmonised with memories and fancies that filled the atmosphere ! How her soul expanded, and took in the whole with an infinite delight of reception ! And so the short winter and early days of spring- had passed. There was no carnival in the Corso that season worthy of the name. Part of the population was mourning for a king and part for a Pope ; few felt inclined for unrestrained gaiety and frolic. Vernal tokens came in February that year ; and in that month Mary had gathered violets in the Villa Borghese. And now Lent was drawing towards its close, when one day, just after lunch, Mr. Tellifer came in to ask Sir Henry and Lady Merton to accom- pany him to the Church of St. Maria Maggiore. As they entered this edifice, which Mary venerated for its antiquity, particularly for the fifth century- marble columns and mosaics of the nave, and ad- mired greatly for its proportions, as well as the rich- ness and warmth of its decorations, she could not see that anything very entertaining was going on, although the number and clamour of the beggars outside, and the scattered twigs of laurel without and within the basilica seemed to indicate something uncommon. She remarked, however, the presence of many more people than were ordinarily found in a church except during the performance of some service or ceremony, and a great number of lighted candles on the high altar, before which three priests were bowed in motionless adoration. " Why are we here? " asked Sir Henry. " To see something that appeals strongly to my 164 Lady Merton. ethical sense," answered Mr. Tellifer, "and that I think a beautiful and imposing scene : which, by the way, will tell you much of Roman Catholic faith and practice." " Oh, I know all about that " " Excuse me " " Do you mean to imply that I do not ? " " Certainly." " Why, bless my soul, sir, I believe I have read half the books that have ever been written about them ; I do indeed." " By Protestants ; but not their own books." " Well, really, now, what an idea ! They never made a book that was not full of 1 " "Eh?" " I mean that could be believed, you know." " Let me differ from you as to that. Anyhow, if I wanted to know what a person believed, I should ask him, and " " What service are they going to have ? " asked Mary, purposely interrupting. " None other than the one you see. It is the Quarant' Ore/ or forty hours' continuous adoration of the Sacrament " " What Sacrament ? " " The Eucharistic ; in commemoration of the forty hours during which the body of Jesus Christ is said to have remained in the sepulchre. It is exposed above there, in the monstrance." " And are they actually worshipping it ? " inquired Mary. " Actually, as you see." " Well," said Sir Henry, " I really did not think, Lady Merton. 165 you know, that they would let anybody catch them in the very act of manifest idolatry." " How can their worship be idolatry when its object is the Second Person of the Trinity, Jesus Christ the Lord, their Creator, Redeemer, and Judge?" "How so?" " Really present in the form of the consecrated wafer, which actually contains His body, blood, soul, and divinity, and which is indeed His flesh." " Well, now, how can that possibly be ? " " By a miracle. It is a mystery, as probable and as easily understood as the Incarnation." " Of course, you do not believe any such absurdity." " I should if I could believe in the Incarnation of the Son of God ; but I do not, because I do not believe any part of the Gospel story. If I did, I should be obliged to say that the faith of this people is right." " How could you ? " " The evidence would compel me. Why, look here" — they had walked towards the front of the church far enough not to disturb the worshippers — "you think it strange that I do not believe what I cannot understand. Yet what other reason have you for disbelieving this dogma ?" " Because it is Papal," promptly responded Sir Henry. " The other day we were saying that St. John's Gospel was not written till about the year 98, when the doctrines of Christianity had already, for more than sixty years, been criticised, disputed, wrenched ; and, doubtless, this dogma was among the most im- portant of those attacked, as it was the first to be 1 66 Lady Merton. rejected by some followers ; and therefore John is particular to record minutely the very emphatic words uttered by his Master in regard to it, and the circum- stances which give them especial force and clearness, as if he would overwhelm objection." " I do not remember." "John makes Jesus Christ say, emphatically re- peating it, that He was the bread of life, the living bread, the bread which came down from Heaven, of which, if any man eat he should live for ever ; adding : c The bread that I will give you is My flesh.' The Protestants of that day asked, ' How can this man give us His flesh to eat?' He replied, affirming it with two verilys : ' Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth My flesh and drinketh My blood, hath eternal life ; and I will raise him up at the last day,' and so forth. You will find it all in the last part of the sixth chapter of John's Gospel." " Yes ; but everybody knows it was all a figure of speech. Besides, it is practically affirmed by all Protestant Communions that neither St. John nor any of the Apostles understood or taught the doc- trine of the Eucharist correctly. In fact they were all wrong. The true meaning of the language re- ferring to, and instituting it, was in England, first brought to light through Henry VIII." " Inspired by Anne Boleyn," quietly remarked Mr. Tellifer. "Then it was discovered to be all figurative," added the Baronet ; " and a true fanciful interpretation was given to it, you know." Lady Merlon. 167 " Those who heard Him, who asked how this man could give them His flesh to eat, did not know that He used a figure of speech. Many of them, who up to that time were disciples of Him, said : ' This is a hard saying ; who can bear it ? and from that time went back and walked no more with Him.' That is to say He, Who, according to the story which you profess to believe, was so loving, benevolent, com- passionate, meek, inconceivably condescending that He came from supreme power, in the abodes of bliss, to suffer all insults, all ignominy, all agony past human imagination, to save men from eternal ruin, rather than explain His parable, as He frequently did, and say to these disciples that His speech was figurative, and not to be taken, as they took it, literally, let them turn back, abandon Him, and go to perdition. This personage, this Deity, who with solicitude so tender, yearned to be comprehended, who so often asked His disciples, ' Have ye under- stood all that I have said ? ' this Truth itself sending men to damnation because they would not believe a fiction from His lips — zax\ you credit this?" " Well, really, now, you ask me abruptly. I can hardly answer on the spur of the moment, you know. But I suppose I do. I do if the Anglican Church does." " This you must believe, or else that His language was literal and could not be explained as figurative. There is no possible escape from the alternative. And what a melting appeal was that to the twelve ! ' Will ye also go away ?' Because I cannot change my language to please you, because I cannot speak other than the truth, will ye also go away ? I should 1 68 Lady Merton. be afraid to disbelieve, to dispute, to deny the plainest, most emphatic, most reiterated, most awful of the recorded words of Jesus Christ the Son of God, the Lord God Almighty Himself, whose literal sense is terribly sealed by the apostasy and perdition of many who had, till that time, followed Him, simply because I could not understand the process by which they are fulfilled, or because a man calling himself a reformer, or reformed, told me to do so, or because they are Papal. Why, the importance that John gives this, which, for some reason, the other Evangelists, writing at least thirty years and more earlier, did not think it necessary to record, and his insistence are re- markable, and must have been intentional, showing that he accepted and taught the literal meaning of the words, as did all the Apostles, and as did all Christians for fifteen hundred years." "Well, you know, I suppose it was not intended that they should be understood till the Reformation." " Of seventy-one verses, which the chapter contains, more than forty are written to repeat and enforce this doctrine and make plain the literalness of it, so far as language and facts could do so. And with this is perfectly consistent, is indeed its supplement and ful- filment, what He said and did at the Last Supper, when, by blessing the bread, He changed it into His body, as He again plainly asserted ; saying in effect, 1 This is how I give you My flesh to eat.' You can avoid all this by denying His power ; but then you will stand again in full fellowship with me as entire, and not as half and half infidels." At this moment Mary called her companions' at- tention to the peculiar looks and actions of a man Lady Merton. 169 dressed like an artisan. His movements seemed sus- picious, having a quite unnecessary air of stealthiness as he glided from column to column, slowly approach- ing the chancel. His black eyes glittered beneath scowling brows. His right hand was hidden behind his back, under the short skirts of his outer garment. To judge by appearances he was intent on the ac- complishment of some sinister design. Keeping him in view Mr. Tellifer's party walked forward to the steps of the Borghese chapel, and there overlooking the assembly watched him, till, slipping through the crowd, he came directly in front of the altar, when, suddenly shouting a fearful blasphemy, he hurled at the monstrance a stone which he held in his con- cealed hand. The missile, not well aimed, missed its mark, and only with a loud crash knocked down some of the great gilded candlesticks, breaking and putting out several candles. All the people, who were not at the time kneeling, with a groan of horror fell on their knees as one man, and the whole congregation in breathless silence, many foreheads bowed to the pavement, appeared, as Lady Merton thought, to await in awful terror some immediate manifestation of Divine anger : — all save half-a-dozen men nearest the perpetrator of the sacrilege, who seized and promptly delivered him into the hands of some po- licemen that were present. Mary was painfully shocked. At the same time she perceived as never before the actuality and intensity of this people's faith in that particular dogma, and, in a way, felt its in- fection. That they were stricken with great horror and fear by this act there could be no doubt. " A poor, crazy, politico - religious convert from 170 Lady Merlon. Roman Catholicism," said Mr. Tellifer, coming back after having made some inquiries about the sacri- legist. " I think the people are disappointed." Mary spoke very low. " How ? " " In seeing no terrible display of Divine wrath and vengeance." " Excuse me if I say that in this you are wholly mistaken. The Christ in the Eucharist descends to the altar not as Judge and Avenger, but as Victim, the same that meekly, patiently, forgivingly suffered under Pontius Pilate ; and in this, His mystic body, the great sacrifice of Calvary is mystically repeated. He no more resists, no more defends, vindicates, or avenges Himself here than there. The vengeance is reserved till He shall come as Judge ; and you may be certain that these Roman Catholics know all this. They feel that an appalling crime has been com- mitted, akin to the jeerings and mockings and smitings while the Christ was carrying His cross to the place of a skull. And they deprecate it, and would fain with passionate outbursts of greater love and devotion make amends for, in some way expiate, and, if it were possible, cause it to be forgiven and forgotten. For, let me assure you, these people do not like to have Jesus Christ's feelings hurt, and do all they can, when they know He is wounded, in their way, reve- rently, to placate and soothe." " It really affected me like a dreadfully tragic deed." As Lady Merton spoke, Mr. Tellifer noticed her unusual paleness. " I had," said he, " a word or two that I wished to Lady Merton. 171 say when this man engaged our attention. What was there ' hard ' in that which Christ said about really eating His flesh, if it had the meaning that Protestants assert, if it was to be understood as Pro- testants understand it? How was it 'hard ' if it did not mean the Real Presence, and if it was not to be taken literally ? But Protestants also find this sense too hard, agreeing with their predecessors, the Jewish protesters, in rejecting the meaning which they re- jected, and in turning back from following Him. The very question of the Real Presence is exactly, and with the greatest precision, raised by the objection in the fifty-second verse of the sixth chapter of John. 1 How can this man give us His flesh to eat ? ' Those protesters had not the courage of their modern imitators." " All this," replied Sir Henry, " seems superficially to make out a good case, but, for your alternative I will give you a dilemma ; either what you urge is not the true doctrine, and therefore we should not believe it ; or He who enunciated it was at heart a Roman Catholic, and therefore we, as Protestants, should not accept it." And the Baronet held up his head and took some steps up and down, so well satisfied with his shot that he did not stop to see it go home. " I should like a nearer view of the people," said Lady Merton. There had been a constant coming and going, for the Lenten station that day was also in this church ; and now the tide of worshippers was at its full. Mr. Tellifer's party were fortunate enough to find a bench unoccupied, on one side, not far from the altar, and 172 Lady Merton. sat down to observe the quietly moving, ever- varying, most picturesque multitude, as they came up to kneel near the sacred monstrance, or fall on their knees before it at middle distance, in profound adoration. Ladies, richly dressed, almost invariably in dark colours, gentlemen, princes and princesses, members of royal families whose history for centuries was the history of Europe, kneeling among and in contact with beggars and the poorest rag and dirt- covered common folk, with no manifest consciousness of superiority ; monks of every order, priests, and prelates, among whom Mary caught sight of Don Foresti's pale, sweet, spiritual face. Of monks and priests there seemed to be represen- tatives from every land, the blond northerner, the brown southerner, the black African, the copper- coloured Oriental. But what most stole into Mary's heart, to leave more than a memory there, after the expositions of doctrine from an unbeliever which she had just heard, was the single-minded fervour, the devout adoration, the patent sincerity of these wor- shippers. Plainly, for them, that monstrance held a visible presence of the Lord. Two individuals par- ticularly attracted her notice. One was a young Dominican monk, hardly more than a boy in appear- ance. He knelt with a group of his order, as heedless of observation and of those about him as were they. His face was very beautiful ; his eyes large, dark, and shaded by long lashes, as she noted while they were fixed in a rapt look on the pyx. It was the ideal countenance of a young saint, so pale, so pure, so ethereal, so entranced. She remarked that a hack- ing cough tormented him. " He is not long for Lady Merton. 173 this world," she thought, and knew not whether to be glad or sorry. The other individual whom Lady Merton watched with especial interest was a young peasant girl, brown, ruddy, beautiful in her costume with its pic- turesque covering for the head. She was kneeling in front of a column of the nave, half-way from the door to the altar, motionless as a statue, with her hands folded against her bosom, her chin resting on her breast, and her eyes raised and fixed on the ex- posed Sacrament — a graceful and touching picture in unconscious completeness. Mary directed Mr, Telli- fer's and her husband's attention to the young girl. After contemplating her a few minutes, the American said : " An artist who could paint that face and preserve that expression for a Madonna adoring her Child would make himself immortal." Meanwhile, Benedictines, Jesuits, Dominicans, Franciscans, Augustinians, Passionists, Carthusians, Carmelites, Trappists, ecclesiastical students from the different colleges, with their distinctive costumes, ladies and gentlemen, tradesmen and artisans, beg- gars and the uncomplaining poor, continued to glide into the sacred Presence, and reverently retire, till Mary, not so much from weariness as because her heart and mind were oppressed with new emotions and overpowering ideas, proposed to leave the church. For some time Sir Henry had wished to go, having seen more than enough of this u abominable supersti- tion." But, as it seemed impossible that any English man or woman of sound mind could tolerate such an exhibition, the thought never occurred to him that 174 Lady Merton. it, and things like it, might be dangerous to his im- pressionable, imaginative, poetic wife, fascinated by what Mr. Tellifer had called the aesthetic quality of the scene. As for that gentleman's arguments and expositions he considered them the idle conversation of a man who liked to hear himself talk, and, like all Americans, show how " smart " he was. And thus poor Lady Merton was exposed to almost constant, sometimes great, peril, against which she might have been protected. If any Catholic priest had ventured to say one-half what Mr. Tellifer had freely spoken, or even entered upon such topics, the Baronet would have been on the alert, and at the first opportunity changed the con- versation, and in a manner to make the Churchman perceive the error into which he had fallen. At any rate, such was the Englishman's plan of campaign, formed in expectation of an attack. But, strangely enough, and much to the disappointment of Sir Henry, and his wife also, the only priest whom they as yet knew, Don Foresti, in his two or three visits had not so much as hinted at religion or dogma, or difference of creed. And thus, so far as concerned his plans, the Baronet was compelled to inaction, which, for a man ready and eager to crush an imper- tinence, was rather painful. Perhaps it was on account of this that he began to accuse the priest of lukewarmness, indifference, neglect of his ecclesias- tical duties, worldliness. As they drove away from the church Mary was evidently absorbed by some persistent thought. Many of the notions with which she came to Rome, and which she had believed immovable as the ever- Lady Merton. 175 lasting hills, had already received shocks that dis- turbed their foundations, and the consciousness of this caused her a kind of vague, troublesome appre- hension. She was thinking how strangely it had happened that her one article of religion, belief in the absolute falsity of all Roman Catholic claims,, had been unsettled, not by a member of that body, but through an unbeliever in all religions. That he was an unbeliever did not sensibly distress her, but she was pained to hear him apologise for Roman Catholicism. She had conceived a great liking for the American. His love of logic, his loyal and honest submission to its conclusions, as well as his allegiance to fair-play, agreed with the principles which she had inherited from her father, and were a medium of sympathy between them. But now she was consider- ing the question whether it might not be well for her peace and safety to see much less of him. XVIII. " A RE we not going to hear the Tenebrse ? " asked A Mr. Tellifer some days later, as he was making a morning call on Lady Merton. " Where ? " "At St. Giovanni in Laterano. The singing there is now better in Holy Week than at any other church in Rome." " I thought the Tenebrse were only performed on Good Friday." " They used to be said at a very early hour on Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Satur- day ; but now are said or sung, by way of anticipa- tion, on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday evenings. This is Maundy Thursday ; the Tenebrae this even- ing, then, are those originally intended for to-morrow, Good Friday." As they were driving to St. Giovanni's Mary abruptly said to Mr. Tellifer : " Professing fair-play, why cannot you be fair, and say as much in favour of Protestantism as you do for this Romanism ?" " Because honesty will not permit me to do so." How hopelessly warped he was, to be sure ! And he continued : " I can understand how a person wishing to be religious could adopt Catholicism. It is a religion. Lady Merton. 177 It has a complete body of theology, a thoroughly harmonised system of belief, a priesthood, a settled dogma, definite, and for that matter, splendid acts of worship ; while Protestantism has not one of these things — unless I admit that your Anglican parsons are priests, of which there is a serious question — and is not a religion ; and I cannot understand how any man is able to accept it as such. Besides, certain propositions which underlie Protestantism are to me utterly absurd ; as, for instance, that Christ's teach- ing and intention in regard to the Eucharist were not understood till fifteen hundred years after they were enunciated ; that it was His plan to convert the world by Bibles, and yet for fifteen hundred years — till printing was invented — it was not possible for Bibles enough to be made, nor possible for the people to read them, even if they could have been furnished ; that God is not immutable, but a follower of fashions, changing Himself and His religion, and the meaning of His revelations to suit alterations in circumstances and tastes of human society ; whence the necessity to explain ' Modern Christianity.' But no matter about all this. Here we are at the church." Mary was never so affected by music before. It would have seemed to her actually heavenly, save for its sadness, and she had a notion that Heaven was a joyful place. It was surely superhuman, the anguish of entreating spirits, sorrowful anguish, resigned anguish, anguish submissive, anguish which resembled, as finite may resemble infinite, in kind, the agony of Gethsemane. It saturated her heart, overflowed, pene- trated her whole being till she felt as though she too were a spirit responding to this soul-filling, over- whelming harmony. 13 178 Lady Merton. But it was the next day, Good Friday, at the Mass of the Presanctified in St. Peter's, that she seemed to be literally entranced. She had prepared herself by getting a book which contained an English transla- tion of the offices for that day. Thus she was able to follow all the prophecies, the lessons, the history of the Passion, and the prayers intelligently, and with the consequence that tenderness, pity, veneration, and love for the Personage whose sufferings were in this way commemorated were excited in her such as she had never before conceived, and which penetrated and melted her heart. Then, when the officiating priest took a veiled cross from the altar and, beginning to unveil it, said with reverent emotion : " Behold the wood of the cross on which hung the salvation of the world," and the choir, prostrate on the ground, replied : " Come, let us adore " ; and the priest then lifting it up unveiled, repeated : " Behold the cross on which hung the sal- vation of the world," she involuntarily sank on her knees. But she did not join the procession of the laity, who, following the clergy by twos and twos and kneeling three times made the act of adoration. It was by no exercise of will that she abstained ; she did not even question whether to do it or not, whether the act was, or was not, one of idolatry ; but, spell- bound by the music interpreting and enforcing the words which were sung, both together by dramatic effect bringing before her the awful tragedy of Calvary, she listened to the " Improper id" while the adoration was going on. She did not visibly weep, but her heart seemed full of and painfully oppressed with tears, as the wonderful, thrilling soprano voice, Lady Merton. 179 clearly and with pathos so deep, pronounced the tender reproaches, as if of Him Who hung upon the cross : "Papule mens, quid feci tibi? Ant in quo contristavi te ? Responde miJii. My people, what have I done to thee ? Or in what have I grieved thee ? Answer Me." It seemed as though that " Quid feci" repeated as it was over and over from time to time, became stamped into her very soul, never to be erased. " Because I brought thee out of the land of Egypt, thou hast prepared a cross for thy Saviour?" The rest of the service passed, for her, as though she were in a trance, aware only of hearing the " Quid feci" and the succeeding "Reproaches." Sir Henry noticed her emotion and, this time, suspected its cause. But he did not imagine the amount of mischief which had been done by permitting his wife to see the attrac- tiveness of Catholic worship, and become acquainted with facts and truths that appeared to a young unsuspecting person like herself, utterly opposed to information and instruction which she had received. However, he adopted the very best plan under the circumstances, which was to prevent her attending any more services in the churches, and, as much as possible, to distract her thoughts. As they came out of the basilica Mr. Tellifer joined them. " I have been very much amused," said he, which Mary deemed a heartless and shocking speech, thinking he referred to the ceremonial. But he went on : " As I came into the Piazza a short while ago, I 180 Lady Merton. t heard a voice say in English : 'With a little fixin' this would make a first-rate hippodrome.' The speaker was a man. ' What ! with that water spoutin' right in the track ? ' returned his female companion. ' Oh ! them would be handy to lay the dust, and in case of fire ; and seats could be fixed up under them sheds/ indicating the colonnades. ' Jest the place for Buffalo Bill.' I followed them into the church. ' Not much of a show,' said the man, taking a general view of the interior. ' Don't begin to be so big as the Grand Central Depot. What's that thing there in the middle?' 'Law sakes,' answered his wife — I took it for granted she was his wife — l Law sakes, if that ain't where Peter usurped the Popedom.' 'Ah!' said he, ' Jes so. You allers was a sharp one for findin' things out' They turned to the right, paying no attention to the service or the music, and presently discovered Domenichino's great picture of the Last Communion of St. Jerome. They studied it a moment. ' Wall,' said the woman, ' that must be the dyin' gladiator that them people was talkin' about in the pension this mornin.' ' Wall, now, he does look sick,' returned the husband ; ' but it was all his own fault. He got licked because he trained himself down too fine : all the muscle as well as the fat off him. He must have had a fool of a trainer. I wonder where he was hit. I don't see no blood.' ' Laws, there's no blood in him.' ' He couldn't have stood up to the scratch very well ; he ain't been punished. He was too old to fight, any way, and nobody but them bloody Popes would have made him do it, jest so as they might see the fun. What be they givin' him ?' ' Why, medicine, of course. Lady Merton. i8t They are tryin' to git him up for the last round.' Crossing over they stood before Raphael's Trans- figuration. ' Wall, now, that is a stunner,' said the man. 'I reckon it's the Apollo; bel — bel — what was it them people called it?' At this moment I espied you coming out of the church, and I left them." Both Sir Henry and Lady Merton appeared absent- minded, and did not seem to be entertained by Mr. Tellifer's narration. In fact, Mary was still under the impression of the service, and her husband heartily desired the absence of the American, lest by his blundering speculations he should make bad worse. With quick perception Mr. Tellifer felt something discordant in the air, bade his friends good morning, and re-entered the church. But in the course of a few hours the Baronet, feeling compunction for his want of cordiality, sent a warm invitation for the unbeliever to dine with them on Easter Day. The question then chiefly discussed at table was whether it were necessary or desirable to leave Rome im- mediately after the paschal feast, or might be safe and agreeable to remain till later in the season. 11 I fail to see the reasonableness of your English maxim, that it is not hazardous to stay here till Easter, and hazardous after that holiday ; that it is cool enough till then, but not later. That is, if this feast comes the first of April it is not cautious or comfortable to pass that month in Rome ; and if it does not come till the last it is prudent and agree- able to remain till then." " Well, really, you know, I think you lose too much time looking for reasonableness. Nothing is so unreasonable as a reasonable being ; " and Sir 1 82 Lady Merlon. Henry gave his head the exact obliquity which showed his consciousness of having said a good thing. " Rome and its neighbourhood are delicious in the months of May and June ; never so charming as then. At no other time are the villas so fresh and so filled with exquisite odours. It is worth remaining here to have a promenade every Monday and Friday in the Villa Doria-Pamphily generously opened to the public on those days by Prince Doria, and several times a week in the Villa Borghese, as gener- ously lent by its proprietor, both acting en vrais grands seigneurs. The care with which these villas are kept, their avenues and vistas, walks and drives, make them enchanting places in which to while away an afternoon." And Mr. Tellifer presented so many inducements that, to please his wife, rather against his own judg- ment, the Baronet consented to prolong their sojourn in the Eternal City. Another matter of importance was also finally decided that evening, namely, that Sir Henry should take an apartment for the next year, in which they would continue a residence in Rome so long as it might please them ; and this apartment should be furnished by themselves, although the husband made some objections. " He who furnishes a hired house gives hostages to fortune, you know ; " and you could have seen by the action of his lips that he enjoyed the after-taste of what he had said. XIX. BUT the Baronet almost regretted his concession as, a few minutes later, he heard his wife re- mark to Mr. Tellifer : " The other day, when you were talking about adding tradition to the sacred writings in order to complete the sum of revelation, I did not think of a conclusive answer to such reasoning which is contained in the last verse but three of the Bible : * If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues which are written in this book.' " " Are you quite sure that is a conclusive answer ? " " Certainly I am ; the language is clear." " Well, let us look into it, and see what this clear language means. Evidently the book referred to was the one which John had in his hand, or before him, which he was concluding in fact. Now, a moment's reflection will convince you that this book was no more than the Apocalypse. There was then no finished and bound Bible ; especially was there no collected New Testament, though I suppose many Protestants could hardly be persuaded that the Bible, containing the books of their version as now arranged, was not delivered to man printed and bound." " I confess," said Mary, " dull as it may make me appear, that I never thought of this." " The several books of the New Testament were 184 Lady Merton. scattered around among the Churches, the Epistles manifestly so. And when the compositions to con- stitute this same New Testament about the year 400 should be selected and brought together it is an assumption that John knew by prophetic inspiration that his work would be put at the end. This arrange- ment of the books was more or less arbitrary." 11 And do you think that passage refers only to the Apocalypse ? " " The fact is plain as a pike-staff. Any other con- clusion is contrary to history and common sense ; and shows to what straits Protestants are driven in their fight against tradition, and also the extreme danger, as a believer would say, of private, unin- structed interpretation of the Scriptures." " I remember," said Lady Merton, " something like this : ' Wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein.' " " And therefore Protestants, arbitrarily making that refer to the Bible, hold that no man is too ignorant and simple to understand that book, notwithstand- ing the other texts : ' In Paul's Epistles are some things hard to be understood, which they that are un- learned and unstable wrest, as they do also the other Scriptures unto their own destruction ;' and ' no prophecy of the Scriptures is of any private interpretation.' " " Who said that ? " demanded Sir Henry. " Peter, in his second Epistle, third chapter, six- teenth verse, and first chapter, twentieth verse." " Well, now, really, I think the English Church and all Protestants should, like Luther, apply a doctrinal test and strike out that Epistle as savouring too much of Papistry ; I do indeed, you know." Lady Merton. 185 " To me no proof is needed to sustain this pro- position : that a person, who in reading the Bible knows positively when he has the right interpretation of it, must have antecedent knowledge, is superior to, and therefore in no need of revelation." " I think all that is part of, or arises from, your incredulity," said Mary. At the same time she had very nearly surrendered to his reasoning, though not then and there willing to make the admission. " In a way it probably is," returned Mr. Tellifer, " for my incredulity permits me to examine the Bible with the light of its history and all which can be brought to shine on it, as I would the Zendavesta, the Vedas, or the Koran, without prejudice or any wish to find interpretations to support my party, or bolster up a foregone partisan conclusion. I can afford to seek in it what you all profess to look for, truth, and with no wish to find it on one side or another, or any different from what it is, or not to discover it at all." " I must say," remarked Sir Henry rather impa- tiently, " and it is not the first time I have thought so, that you abuse reasoning. Logic should be the servant, not the master. It may be called in to de- monstrate so much as it is desirable to prove, and then dismissed. It will not do to permit it the in- convenient freedom of a jester in the old times, to go on talking and saying disagreeable things, or, like a troublesome child, tell the whole truth when a part of it should be suppressed. It should be like a court- ier in the sovereign's presence and only speak when spoken to, and only utter the things which it is ex- pected to say. Treated in any other way logic is 1 86 Lady Merlon. sure to bring about something disagreeable ; it is indeed, you know." " I have too much respect for logic to use it in that manner." "It is like religion, made for man, and not man for it, and therefore it is his privilege to conform both to his tastes and convenience, and to make of them agreeable and serviceable companions." And Sir Henry turned the conversation. Easter was late that year, and a week after it hardly an English person, known to Sir Henry and Lady Merton, remained in the city. There had been few opportunities for extending an acquaintance in Roman society, on account of the general sadness caused by the King's and the Pope's deaths. Mary did not much regret this, preferring freedom to see and study the city itself and its treasures. From time to time they received a visit from Don Foresti, always desirous to do something for them, and Mr. Tellifer they saw every day. For the next month they were engaged in the very fatiguing business of looking at apart- ments, and at last found one to their liking in an old palace on the Corso. Then came the consideration of how this, that, and the other room should be furnished, subjects of never-failing interest and dis- cussion. Another matter which was never allowed to be long absent from their minds was brought before them by a letter from Madame Predestine, Superior of the school near Geneva. She informed Sir Henry, with sober congratulations, that his daughter had edifyingly made a profession of faith and joined the Calvinistic Church. Vivy herself announced to him the same Lady Merlon. 187 fact, bewailed her great sinfulness, and especially all the trouble and pain she had caused him by her wickedness, pleaded for his forgiveness and that of " mamma," spoke of the joy she felt in her soul since she had become a Christian, and so forth. The letter was, in short, made up of commonplaces, somewhat worn, but entirely suited to the case re- presented. The Baronet, hardly knowing whether to be amused or vexed, believe or disbelieve in the reality of this conversion, wrote a formal letter of thanks, for all her care and zeal, to the Superior ; and to his daughter one of commendation and affectionate counsel, with assurances of full pardon if she should persevere in her changed life. A little later Hugh received from his sister the following communication : " Dear Hugh, — Since I became a Christian — only Calvinists are true Christians, you understand — it has been a holy and constant joy with me to know that a great many people, almost all, I suppose, except Calvinists, and a large number of them, are to be eternally damned. So far as I am able to learn, they were made for that express purpose. I should like well enough to save the chaplain at Vevey, because he is so jolly and full of fun, and when he talks good he never means what he says, and I know it, so it never annoyed me. I always remembered that it was his profession. The poor man has to do some- thing for a living, and to get pretty things for his wife and children. I am sure I would rather be a parson than a farmer or a shopkeeper, even if it did not make a gentleman of me to boot. It is so much pleasanter 1 88 Lady Merton. to have a good place in Switzerland than it is to stay- in that nasty old London all summer ; and, as an honest man, he must sometimes seem to believe what he preaches. We must not be too hard on him for that. Besides, since I became a Christian I try to be charitable. " You will think it strange that I write so much about theology. But now that I am a Christian I don't care for anything except religion. I only study my books to please my teachers. " This is a delightful place, all you want to eat, and of the best, with a sweet every day at dinner, and all the teachers are so good to me, particularly Madame Predestine. They say I am sure to be a great lady and have a very rich and very handsome husband if I go on as I have since I was a Christian. You must become a good Calvinist if you want to be one of the elect. I don't think of anything more this time, so good-bye. — Your loving Vivy." Inside the envelope of this letter was another, written on thinnest paper, and folded to a narrow strip. It ran as follows : " Since I went into their Church they have not been so strict with me, and I noticed that, after reading and sealing my letters, they sometimes handed them back for me to put in the box. So I thought I would cheat them and tell you the truth, and I had this written all ready for a chance. How did I get it in? Through the little slit at the corner of the envelope, which you might have seen before opening it. After they had read and sealed it they gave me the letter to drop in the box and I slipped this in. It is an awful place here, a real jail. The wall is so high that I can't see over it ; and Lady Merton. 189 since they caught me climbing a tree to look out, they have twisted thorn bushes about them all, the nasty things ! They won't let me see anybody but women and horrid old men. It is really awful. I hate them all and would do anything to get away. Some of their long, ugly faces are always after me, and I declare, I think their big snouts have grown longer and been pushed further out of their beastly mugs by stretching to poke and snuff round in corners. If these are going to Heaven to wrinkle their foreheads, and roll up their eyes, and peer and leer about and draw down their mouths and know everything, I want to go to the other place. I can't eat the food, and there is not enough of it anyhow ; and the sweet is that nasty boiled bread with their everlasting raspberry sauce on it all the time. Ugh ! It makes me sick to think of it. I know now why they would not let me have or send any letters which they shouldn't see. It was to keep me from telling of them. The only thing 1 enjoy is to hear the minister preach about hell and damnation, and curse — I feel as if I was having a good swear myself — and to see him get mad — at any rate he seems to be mad — and say so many people are bound to the brimstone pit, just as if he was glad of it, and wanted to give them a push. And then I remember so many that I think ought to hear him and go where he says, and old M'lle is always the first and papa's new wife, oh, how I hate her ! and Madame Penser, and all these people of course, down, down to the hottest and deepest. But no matter. I am not going to worry about it. They'll all get there without his or my help. I wish you and N would come up here as often as you can, and give the whistle out- 190 Lady Merlon. side the wall by the big tree. If I answer you may know that it is safe to throw letters over, and if it is safe I will throw some over to you. In that way if you are good and patient enough, as a dear brother and a , you know what, ought to be, we shall find some way to outwit them and get me out of this horrid place. Oh, dear, dear Hugh, speak to N , and try to rescue me. He is not fit to be my 1 , I mean my knight, if he does not do it. Trusting to your affec- tion, always your loving Vivy." XX. MR. TELLIFER, who seemed always to be on the look-out for something that might be agreeable to his English friends, had informed Sir Henry and his wife that on the fifth of May there would be a festival at Frascati in honour of its patron saints, Philip and James, and the Madonna of Capocroce. Mary had long felt a desire to visit Tusculum as well as to be present at one of these village holidays ; and early, in company with the American, her husband and herself drove out of St. John's Gate on their way to the Alban Hills. A balmy, delicious morning air was sweet with the scent of flowers growing by the wayside, peeping over and through bordering fences, and carpeting adjacent fields. Before them, in the distance, across the campagna and the arches of ruined aqueducts, lay Frascati at ease and smiling in the very lap of the purple-clad range ; while Rocca di Papa had nestled up and was clinging to the breast of Monte Cavo like a grieved or hungry infant, and Marino and Grotta Ferrata were amusing themselves as best they could on the ground at their mother's feet. The hedgerows at Frascati seemed to put on their freshest new green robes, embroidered with white May-bloom, in honour of the occasion, using, as country folk are apt to do, perfume rather sharp and strong. Chestnut trees had dressed all their stems 192 Lady Merton. with white nosegays, and the acacias hung out grace- ful white flowers ; a symphony of white on a green ground, which was repeated, as though they were in- audible echoes of visible sounds, by myriads of tiny white flowerets through the fields and meadows, in honour of the revered Madonna's virginal purity. From the open doors of the church came a faint odour of incense, mingling and going up to the clear, blue, smiling heaven with the more subtle offerings of the trees and shrubs. In the procession a group of young girls, who, in strong contrast with their richly tanned faces, were dressed all in white, as though for a first Communion, marched with modest mien and downcast eyes, followed by robust contadine, some of whom wore mighty gold chains, which fell from their necks over expansive bosoms and disappeared near their hearts, as if they had made sure that this time those unruly organs should not go astray ; and ear-jewels of gold and pearls, heirlooms for untold years, only brought from their hiding-places and displayed on these festive days. Here and there among the women might be seen a distinguishing and picturesque costume, some- times surprisingly rich, peculiar to one or another of the Castelli Romani. The men and boys appeared to be constrained and ill at ease in their fresh shirts, their best and cleanest clothes, not always very good or very clean. The banner of the Madonna was surrounded by the tallest girls. Then came the smallest, all clad in little blue gowns. " Those are orphans," said Mr. Tellifer, " from the school of the Sisters of Charity, who, as a Frenchman has remarked, find inexhaustible treasures of tender- Lady Merton. 193 ness for these little ones, loving infancy, as they do, with the ardour of maternity suppressed." All united in responses to the chanters, who led the way, the children's strains sweetly and touchingly soaring above the rest, as if each small voice were the sensible manifestation of a spirit which could go up, up, straight away to Heaven if it would, did the bands of affection not hold it back ; as if these young spirits were lighter than the others, were not yet burdened and weighed down with soil caught by falling, and being draggled in the world's highway. Lady Merton could not but notice the sobriety and sincerity of the people assembled, but confessed it did not seem to her a religious festival. " Because," replied Mr. Tellifer, " you miss the sad, sombre sobriety and sternness, the long, disfigured faces, with the rigidity of muscle and the black broad- cloththat in your country are supposed to be essentially, properly, and profoundly religious, and without which there is no salvation. These people are not thinking how they do, or how they ought to appear. They come here in all simplicity and candour to honour in a particular manner their loving, tender, unfailing friend, their gracious patron, the unwearied, benevolent advocate who has so many times presented their cause to her Divine Son with such efficacy as to gain His approval. They rejoice and are glad in the assurance of this advocacy, and gratefully, joyfully give thanks to God and the Blessed Lady heartily for this patron- age, as they have learned to do from their fathers." The procession slowly passed through the church portal. The interior of the building was brilliant with lighted candles, hangings, and festoons of different colours, in which rose predominated. 14 194 Lady Merlon. The Baronet now proposed that they should walk about the village and look at some of the delicious villas. As they turned away Mary caught sight of a very pretty picture, the priest at the distant high altar, and the crowded congregation kneeling and bent on the flagstone-floor. After they had strolled for half- an-hour their course brought them in front of the church. The voice of someone speaking in an impas- sioned strain induced them to drawnearer. A youngish priest was in the pulpit, earnestly addressing the as- sembly which hung upon his words with rapt attention. " He is giving them a panegyric of the Virgin," said Mr. Tellifer, and they stepped inside the entrance to hear a specimen of Italian pulpit eloquence, though Sir Henry, as he brought up the rear, made some vigorous, but only half-audible, protests. Lady Merton had brought to Rome a good knowledge of the Italian language, which several years' residence in the country, at different times, had rendered familiar to the American. The eulogist was just saying : "Like Esther, who prefigured her, Mary presented herself at the throne of the King of kings and said : 1 If I have found favour in Thy sight, give, oh give me Tusculum and my people at my request.' " " Esther revised and enlarged," whispered Mr.Tellifer. After a pause, which seemed only to intensify the motionless attention of his audience, the speaker went on : " Again, when clouds of thy ferocious enemies, like a flight of rapacious vultures, were darkening the air " " Middle-age history," whispered Mr. Tellifer, caus- ing Mary to lose the conclusion of the sentence. Lady Merlon. 195 " They cross the borders of thy campagna, they tread its fair fields, they approach, they gather against thee. What terror and confusion at the noise of their arms, at the flash of their swords, at the glitter of their helmets, at the roar of savage shouts, at the dreadful imprecations ! The earth shakes with their going, the air shudders at their blasphemies ! Ah! they are at hand ! Thou hearest the words of their threats, their screams, their yells, their long footsteps, their hot, hard breath. Mercy ! Mercy ! They tread upon the skirts of thy garments falling from thee in thy disordered flight, stretching forward bloody hands to seize thee by thy throat, designing for thee a fate worse than death ! Have pity !— Hist !— Hark !— What do I hear ? That voice so low and sweet, like a heavenly spirit penetrating, making itself felt through the horrible uproar? Ah! It is the voice of Mary ! Mary! moved by the danger and the cries of her children, presenting herself at the throne and pleading : ' Give me, give me this my people for whom I beseech. Dona mihi popuium meum pro quo obsecro! The invaders fall backward as if smitten, they turn to escape, they reel one upon another, disordered, terror-stricken, over- thrown. The princes of Edom are appalled, the champions of Moab tremble, all the inhabitants of Canaan are amazed " " He is referring to something which happened in the year 1527," remarked Mr. Tellifer. " You are as good as a chorus," returned Lady Merton. " Let us get some lunch," suggested the Baronet. And they betook themselves to the little inn. When they were seated at table Sir Henry said, with uncommon earnestness : 196 Lady Merton. " Hearing is believing. I heard with my own ears, while we were in that church, the name Mary several times, but not once the name of the Deity. I know Italian enough for that. And this proves, what every- body knows, how much more important in their belief is the Virgin than any or all the Persons of the Trinity." "Just as, in celebrating the benefactions of Welling- ton, and eulogising him and mentioning his name more than that of the Creator, it would be shown that in an Englishman's belief the conqueror of Napoleon is more important than his Maker. You must remember," continued Mr. Tellifer, " that this eulogist was not professing at this time to eulogise the Trinity, but only the Mother of one of its Persons. And, as a matter of fairness, I call on you to note that, according to the orator, it was not by her power, but by her prayer, and only by her prayer, that she obtained the salvation of the people." "But," said Mary, "Dr. Littledale, in 'Plain Reasons,' affirms that, by Catholics, 'the Blessed Virgin is more worshipped than the Father or Christ.' " " Dr. Littledale be — blessed. Yes, and as a proof of this Mariolatry he asserts that in Rome more than four times as many churches are dedicated to her as to all others — do you see the demonstration ? — and to show that the English Church does not worship, yet gives the Virgin due and proper reverence, he says : 1 without counting ancient churches, or churches re- placing ancient ones, there are no fewer than six-and- thirty modern churches in and round London dedicated in her honour.' Mind you, the churches in London are dedicated in her honour, and those in Rome to Lady Merton. 197 her, according to Littledale. But who, in any part of the world, does not know that churches are always dedicated to the Deity ? And yet this is put forward by this pettifogging attorney in such a way as to deceive the unwary. I confess that, at first, I was myself taken in. Even I, an infidel and a reprobate, am too guileless for such Christians as Dr. Littledale." " You speak warmly." " Can you read such stuff without impatience and disgust ? I am made angry by the want of candour and honest intention in a man writing in the service of a society for the promotion of Christian knowledge. Is Christian knowledge promoted by insincerity, deceitful insinuations, false assertions, plain untruths ? Is the cause of the Father of Truth advanced by them, or that of the father of lies ? I speak as though I believed in both." " But, my friend," expostulated Sir Henry, " Little- dale is a very respectable man, you know. He is a doctor." " Look here," broke in the American rather hotly, "you might as well swing a red rag in a bull's face as to quote that Littledale to me. I have told you he tried to, and nearly did deceive me, and I never forgive anybody who tries on me that little game. Besides I have looked into it, and I have looked into hint." " He is the chaplain of the East Grinstead Sisters," put in by force the Baronet. " I expected to hear of him to-day," said Mr. Tellifer, in a voice which showed how deeply his feel- ings were moved by this dispute, " and I took with me this small pamphlet. It has only twenty-five 8 Lady Merton. pages. But two of them are enough to confound this Anglican doctor, this unscrupulous servant of an un- scrupulous society. As you are so familiar with 1 Plain Reasons ' I need not tell you that its author denounces the invocation of saints and angels as idolatrous. Now, this same author, this same doctor, this same Littledale has written the preface for, and thus expressed his approval of, a work which contains prayers addressed directly to the Virgin and to different saints and angels, invoking their aid and intercession. All of which, though contrary to his professed faith and the solemn obligations of his Church articles, like dedicating churches to the Virgin, is good Christianity in London and, while agreeing with avowed Roman faith and Church doctrine, is idolatry at Rome." " Who is the author of that pamphlet ? " asked Lady Merton. " Owen C. H. King, who says further that he has heard Mass at Queen Square, which was said in Latin from a Roman Missal ; that on the altar was a taber- nacle, in the tabernacle a ciborium, in the ciborium consecrated altar breads ; that on Sunday afternoon what Littledale calls the ' Modern Roman Rite of Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament ' is performed, and Dr. Littledale exposes on the altar a consecrated wafer, in the monstrance, for the worship of the Sisters and the few permitted to be present ; that the hymns on this occasion are sung in Latin ; that the chapel is not without a sacred image surrounded by flowers and candles ; and much more, specifically to the same purpose ; and he adds : * I challenge Dr. Littledale to deny these things. As I said before, I am prepared Lady Merlon. 199 to prove them all, and I say further that his own conduct gives the lie to his writings, and that as an anti-Roman controversialist he is utterly unworthy of credence.' " " Dear me, dear me," exclaimed Sir Henry, " what a pity that King, whoever he is, cannot be punished for perjury." " For myself," resumed Mr. Tellifer, " I think Little- dale has forfeited all right, among honest people, to any, the least, consideration. But that a powerful society of English people, receiving large sums of money entrusted to it for the promotion of Christian knowledge, directed by eminent gentlemen, should continue to employ this man and to distribute his book after the falsity of both has been again and again demonstrated is, to my infidel mind, a strange commentary on, and appears to be a strange manner of promoting and confirming the truth of, Christianity." " Is it not time for us to go ? " asked Mary, not un- willing to put an end to this discussion. Taking a charming, shady walk, all the time among trees and under verdant arches, with a light, subtle air perfumed by its passage through bosquets of pines and chestnuts gently moving about them, they breathed delicious odours of new-mown hay, of eglantine, of wild strawberries, and of acacia flowers, as they ascended towards Tusculum. They met no one. Roman citizens and natives of the adjacent slopes do not mount so high. Only may be heard the woodman's axe in the forest and the monotonous chant of a shepherd on the mountain. Going up still, seeing here and there traces of the ancient Roman road, they came to the amphitheatre and were where was 200 Lady Merton. Tusculum. Mary wanted to believe that Telemachus did found the town on whose site they stood. The tradition to that effect occupied her mind more than the certainty that Cato was born there, or that within its limits Cicero had a favourite residence. The amphitheatre, the forum, and the theatre did not detain her long ; but at the so-called villa of Cicero she lingered. " Only to think," said she, " that here he dreamed of the divinity, of the immortality of the soul, search- ing for and never finding a sure answer to the question : ' If a man die shall he live again ? ' Here he thought over the great causes entrusted to his eloquence, and studied his never-to-be-forgotten speeches. Here, with his brother and nephew, he received news of the proscription, and that they were included in it. From here he set out for his villa and a boat at Astura, only to be driven by the sea into the hands of his assassins. And whom Rome, that he had preserved from fire and sword, would not protect, was killed by a man whose life he had saved in pleading. And to that rostrum whence his voice had argued so powerfully for justice, liberty, and right, his head was now affixed between his two hands, after, if the legend be true, his tongue had been pierced with a golden bodkin by a revengeful woman." " A most sad story," remarked Mr. Tellifer. " Do not think of it, but regard the view ; there Rocca di Papa ; higher up the summit of Monte Cavo ; lower some of the Castelli Romani and the transparent, aerial waves tinged with gold which bathe the campagna and Rome, where mighty St. Peter's rises, Jike the Mount of Purgatory in Dante's vision, above Lady Merton. 201 them ; and beyond a border of molten gold which is the sea. This landscape can have changed little since Cicero's eyes rested on it — eyes that first opened in a delicious scene. I have visited his birthplace at Arpinum, a very lovely spot." " Yes, yes, I remember reading something about it," said Sir Henry eagerly, " there cannot be a better proof of its loveliness than that it is now possessed by a convent. ' Strange revolution ! ' exclaims the author, 1 the seat of the most refined reason, wit, and learning converted into a nursery of superstition, bigotry, and enthusiasm ! What a pleasure it must give the monks to trample on the ruins of a man whose writings, by spreading the light of reason and liberty through the world, have been one great instrument of obstructing their unwearied pains to enslave it ! ' I think I quote correctly," and the Baronet set his head at that angle with his body which showed a consciousness that he had acquitted himself cleverly. " Correctly enough," rejoined Mr. Tellifer. " I know your author. He is a doctor too, a doctor of divinity. And Macaulay called his work a ' Lying legend of St. Tully.' As for the monks, so far is he from the truth that he could not get further. If it had not been for them he never could have read any of Cicero's refined reason, nor had any knowledge of Cicero himself." " Well, now, really you know, don't you think that is a little too strong ? " expostulated Sir Henry. " Not at all. I have looked into it. But I remem- ber what has been said by authorities whom you will not dispute. The Protestant Dr. Hody says : ' For whatever has been preserved to us of the writings of Greece and Rome, for every monument of religion, 202 Lady Merton. and for the sacred Scriptures, we are wholly indebted to the monks of the middle ages. In the Catholic Church there never was a moment when the study was neglected.' And Gibbon says : ' A single Bene- dictine monastery has produced more valuable works than both our universities.' " " The sun is getting low," remarked the Baronet. " I think we should be on our way back." And as they went Mary's mind was so filled with the past that at every turning she almost expected to encounter an antique Roman on his way to consult, or claim the patronage of, Rome's most eloquent lawyer and orator. When they were driving from Frascati Lady Merton spoke warmly of the great and varied pleasures that day enjoyed, naturally mentioning the picturesque scenes of the festival, and innocently, with no intention of renewing a discussion which was becoming rather wearisome, she remarked : " I suppose they had the Mass to the Virgin." " Oh, no," answered Mr. Tellifer, " there is no such Mass." "But," returned Mary, leading in a way which she did not wish to go, " Dr. Littledale says : ' In fact the indulgenced votive Mass of the Holy Trinity is en- tirely taken up with the acts of praise and thanks- giving for the graces, gifts, and privileges bestowed on the Blessed Virgin.' " " Well, I know myself that what you have just quoted is untrue," replied Mr. Tellifer. " That asser- tion has been squarely enough met by the Rev. A. Mills, whose answer is published, so that it may be read by Dr. Littledale and all his disciples, em- ployers, and promoters." Lady Merton. 203 " What is it ? " asked Mary. "This, after quoting what you have just cited. 1 Now, unless Dr. Littledale is in the condition of the most complete ignorance of the whole subject, he is as certain as we are ourselves that in the above he has printed a deliberate and most atrocious false- hood.' And let me say here," continued Mr. Tellifer, " that the fundamental principle of my religion, or of my substitute for religion, as you please, is ' to give the devil his due,' in whatever form he appears, or however he be called ; and therefore I particularly desire to give nothing less or more to Dr. Littledale. But for the life of me I cannot see that ignorance is any excuse for him or for his suborners. The man who should partially testify against another, and testify falsely, would find the plea 'ignorance of the whole sub- ject ' unavailing. All men who would write or speak on this question are bound to inform themselves or to hold their peace. And they are bound to inform themselves from authentic sources, from facts, and not from such false witness as Dr. Littledale and others like him bear. The amount of false witness borne against Catholics and the Catholic Church by Protestants, professing to obey the Commandments is enough to sink the world." "Well, really, you know, don't you think you are a little severe for a non-Catholic? Circumstances alter cases, you know. I never heard that it was a sin to speak against Catholics and the Pope." " Even to speak untruly — to lie against them ? " " Well, you know, the end really does justify the means sometimes." " Not every one of your side has thought so. The 204 Lady Merton. Protestant professor Zanchius said : ' I am indi gnant when I consider the manner in which most of us defend our cause. The true state of the question we often, on set purpose, involve in darkness that it may not be understood. We have the impudence to deny things the most evident, we assert what is visibly false. The most impious doctrines we force on the people as the first principles of faith, and orthodox opinions we condemn as heretical. We torture the Scriptures till they agree with our own fancies, and boast of being the disciples of the Fathers while we refuse to follow their doctrine. To deceive, to calumniate, to abuse, is our familiar practice ; nor do we care for anything provided we can defend our cause, good or bad, right or wrong. Oh, what times, what manners ! ' " " Did you commit all that to memory ? " asked Mary, smiling. " Yes, for the same reason that I took with me this pamphlet. I thought it good for Dr. Littledale, and was sure I should have a chance to use it." The sun had already set, and there had been at its disappearance an almost instantaneous fall of temper- ature. The Baronet, who imprudently had neglected to take with him an overcoat, felt and complained of the chill. They were yet three or four miles from the city, on the campagna. The coachman whipped up his horses and drove at a fast pace, never slackening his speed till they were within the walls. Arrived at the hotel Mr. Tellifer strongly recommended Sir Henry to take a good dose of quinine ; but he, pre- ferring to preserve English supremacy, swallowed instead a glass of brandy and soda. XXI. CALLING the next morning to inquire of his friend's welfare, Mr. Tellifer found the Baronet rather indisposed. He had passed a bad night, which fact he attributed to the chill felt on the campagna. Lady Merton was plainly anxious on his account. However, Sir Henry brightened as the American entered, and when his wife left the room for a few minutes, he said good humouredly : " Do you know, I have been thinking, that if you had been really a Roman Catholic and talked in the same way, I should have quarrelled with you long ago." " But I took pains to explain that what I advanced was only dictated by reason and constrained by an honest logic." "Just so ; and on that account I did not mind it, you know. It had no weight with me whatever." " But I am inclined to think it did with Lady Merton. I believe that, with her love of investiga- tion, and of candid, straightforward reasoning, she would become a Roman Catholic if she felt the need of any religion." " Then Heaven forbid she should feel that need ; it is her only safety. This is due to your headstrong, unruly logic, which runs away with you. I do not know where you got it, or why you keep it. If I 206 Lady Merton. wanted any I would have a kind more tractable, I would indeed, you know. Yours is obstinate as destiny." " And as resistless. I have a notion that if we could see the whole argument we should per- ceive that destiny is but a logical sequence, or a series of them." " You yield and it becomes your master. I cannot be grateful enough to Protestantism for freeing us from that most troublesome and narrow servitude, subjection to logic, as well as from other things;" and Sir Henry looked truly thankful. " As a philosopher," rejoined Mr. Tellifer, referring back to the effect which his arguments might have had on Lady Merton, " I have only been searching for truth " " Truth is all very well in a way," broke in the Baronet somewhat impatiently, " but that is not what we hold to. We hold to the English Church like honest Englishmen. And in this Englishmen are honest ; they don't claim what does not belong to them. They like their Church because it is theirs. Each feels in it a right of property ; just as they are loyal to their Queen because she is theirs, they own her. Let them once feel that she owned them and you would see what would happen." Here Mary re-entered and Mr. Tellifer caused no little surprise by announcing his suddenly formed intention of going to America. "We thought you were going to spend the summer, at least, in Europe," said Mary, " and that we should see you," she added, with a slight drooping of her voice, her eyes, and her lids. It was an act of Lady Merton. 207 natural, unintentional coquetry on her part, but not less disturbing to Mr. Tellifer for its lack of design. " What makes you want to go to America ? " she asked. " To fill my lungs with live, fresh air, and to have free breezes fan my face ; to toss up my hat and scream, for very exuberance of life, with the American eagle ; to feel myself moved up and down by waves of the general ferment, my nerves stretched by the mental fever, and get free of the confinement caused by this hardened shell of custom, which here has grown up like an invisible coral reef about society, allowing it constrained, creeping motion only in tunnels, each class on its own monotonous level. To be where I can travel by rail three thousand miles always in the same direction, from ocean to ocean, and never cross a frontier, or meet a custom house officer ; and to have the consciousness that I am one of a firm and a race of kings who own and rule all that land of the future." " Now, ah, i say, don't you think Americans have rather a good opinion of their country ? " " Of course they do, and that is where they are right. But I cannot say that in proclaiming it they always manifest good taste or the most refined po- liteness. For every big thing in Europe we are ready to bring forward a bigger, or, at any rate, something which will beat it. One of my countrymen had been travel- ling with one of yours. You may have heard the story. They made the ascent of Vesuvius. ' There,' said John Bull, as they looked into the crater, ' you can't show a thing like that in your country anyhow.' ' No,' replied Jonathan, ' I reckon we can't ; but 208 Lady Merton. we've got a waterfall that would put it out in half-a- minute.' The truth is, we have a general notion that we could lick all creation. Well, you see, I have looked into it, and I believe we could. But we would rather not. We do not want to be compelled to do it. We don't wish to be provoked. We are willing to let everybody alone, and we prefer to be left alone ourselves. But, as I said, I believe we could do it. We showed during the late unpleasantness " " What was that ? " " Our little difference about secession — what we might do united as one man. We are naturally a military nation. It comes from the soil. We are born colonels, and majors, and captains, chiefly colonels, which does not happen with any other people, and saves us the ruin of an artificial standing army. There has been nothing like it since dragon's teeth were first planted." " And that is why you talk so large." " Well, no : I do not think it is. Every people has a way of talking according to the education which it has received from experience and circumstances. Now, you see we have a big country ; big plains which a railroad train cannot cross in a day ; big mountain ranges, and mountains that smile down on Mont Blanc with conscious and visible superiority of thousands of feet. Lakes which are big fresh-water seas ; big cataracts where these seas fall freely one hundred and fifty feet — Cataracts ? Why, in Alaska we have one that is a mile and a-half wide and falls three hundred feet. I reckon we bought that country to have still the biggest thing out in the way of known waterfalls. I cannot say, however, that for Lady Merton. 209 our youth this is an object of daily contemplation. As for cascades, we can show them two thousand feet high. Big rivers ? — well, the drops rising in springs vvhich are the sources of the Missouri, if not drunk oy fish or other total abstainers, nor evaporated by the sun, or to propel floating palaces, travel four thousand miles to reach the Gulf of Mexico without crossing a frontier or seeing a custom house uniform." " How in the world do you smuggle cigars and tobacco when you travel ? " u Gorges thousands of feet deep, the biggest cave in the world, natural bridges with magnificent arches, geysers, trees three hundred to four hundred feet tall, twenty-five to thirty-five feet in diameter, two thou- sand to three thousand years old, and not yet done growing ; big cyclones, big blizzards, and lately we have produced a very respectable earthquake — why, we cannot think your big things great ; and we honestly wonder when we see your Thames, and your Seine, and your Rhine, and your dirty Tiber, why they ever became famous. And our soil — well, our soil, besides all the metals, and food, and clothing, produces fire and light " "And light?" 11 Yes, gas ready to burn — everything, in fact, except ready-made houses and furniture, which, when the continent was originally built, were not considered necessary ; otherwise it would have raised them also." 11 Well, really now, I think that is an assumption, you know." 11 We do not try to dignify little things by giving them big names. I have seen in the State of Maine 15 210 Lady Merton. a sheet of water twelve miles long and three broad which was known only as a pond. From our infancy we are used to big things, and when we come over here all — all except the Alps and monuments of art and history — appears to us very small. And seeing big things constantly we naturally have big ideas and large expressions ; and we are big hearted. Come out there and try our hospitality, one relic and virtue of barbarism which we still retain. As for Lady Merton, all our women would swear by her, and all our men fight for her — to defend her, I mean, and glad of the chance too. We have had such experience as no other people, and we talk according to our experience : cities springing instantaneously into life, as it were, and growing with incredible rapidity ; the progress in wealth and strength of the whole nation : one hundred years ago its population equalling one-half that of London, and now twice that of all England. It does not enter our heads through false modesty to conceal facts, or, for the sake of politeness, to pretend great admiration for the magnitude of a thing which really, to us, looks little." " There is one thing," said Sir Henry, " I've — er — wanted — er to know, you know ; but it's — er rather a delicate — er question, you know." " Well, out with it. It seems big enough not to be over delicate." Mr. Tellifer said this last to himself, inaudibly. " I — er wanted to know, you know, why in your country it is unconstitutional to be noble ; that is, I mean, why your Constitution, as I have heard, pro- vides that no American shall be noble ? " Lady Merlon. 2 1 1 " Why, bless your British soul, more than half our people are noble, and the proportion would be greater but for importations of immigrants. What you are thinking about is the prohibition to grant titles of nobility." " Why was that ? " " To prevent frauds practised in Europe." "In what way? " " By the use of titles : giving counterfeit nobility to ignoble persons. A great majority of our people would feel themselves belittled and degraded by the bestowal of a title." " No, really ! How so ? " " Because it would be an intimation that they were not naturally noble, noble in fact ; and therefore to be so considered must be made noble by law ; and thus their sense of personal value, dignity, and self- respect would suffer." "Well, now, really, you know, that is quite an original way of looking at it." " I confess, however, that I should greatly prize a title granted by the Pope. If we had made noblemen as you do in Europe we should have excelled both in quantity and quality. And first we should have been obliged to invent new titles. For where in the Old World was one high enough for our Washington and his mates ? Their families would be princes and prin- cesses, their generals dukes, their counsellors mar- quesses. And the frost-bitten, bare-footed patriots who fought under Washington, or the no less devoted and generous patriots who came when secession called, and the governors of States, and members of Congress, and judges, and millionaires — why, by this time Europe 212 Lady Merton. would be complaining of American competition in the manufacture of nobility as in other things." " But really, now, some of your people are glad enough to get titles." " Yes, we have a few Anglo-maniacs who imitate the English also in that. But yet we are a chaste people. We promote marriage, and consequently mo- rality, by making divorces easy. There is no need for hesitancy or much consideration before entering the holy estate, when it is known that if the wife have cold feet, for instance, or commits any other crime of equal gravity, the bond may be dissolved, and the husband be free to seek another companion with a better heart and a more uniform circulation. Or, if the husband insists on going to bed with a quid of tobacco in his mouth, or is guilty of any other like act of in- fidelity, the wife may put him away and choose another mate whose breath shall smell only of whisky." In the course of some further conversation it came out, however, that Mr. Tellifer's actual motive for going to America was business. "They have started a scheme in San Francisco which I must look into," said he, " and this morning I received a telegram which decided me to set out at once." To part with the American was a real sorrow to Mary, especially this morning when, depressed on her husband's account, she was disposed more than ever to feel the absence of friends. There was much in his character to which her own responded ; and she had unconsciously associated his idea with all her dreams ol journeys, excursions, and pleasures in store for the summer. She followed him from the room and anx- Lady Merton. 213 iously asked if he thought Sir Henry was going to have the " Roman fever." " Certainly not," he replied. " Set your mind at rest about that. There is no such disease — no such thing." This assurance, however, did not silence Lady Merton's fears, which were shared by her husband, whose growing nervousness augmented the feverish symptoms, which, being noted by the patient, in- creased the nervousness. He and his wife had been vainly assured by natives and foreigners, among whom were English and Americans long resident in the city, that there was no fever or other malady proper to Rome. They admitted that during certain later months of the warm season, in some parts of the town and campagna, malaria might be taken, particularly by persons who neglected to use pre- cautions; but they insisted that this was a cause of illness by no means peculiar to the Eternal City. The impression made upon Sir Henry and Lady Merton by what they had read and heard before coming to Italy was stronger than this testimony, and their apprehensions were increased by the English doctor, lately come to Rome, who, in a vague, mys- terious way, while not declaring the malady to be what they feared, would not positively assert that it was not the dreaded disease. Unfortunately, this doctor had before him the phantasm of " Roman fever," which, though shadowy, was strong enough to paralyse his science to a great extent, so that, failing to give plain symptoms their obvious interpretation, he was acting more or less in the dark ; watching for those which he thought might be expected, and treating the sick man for a mys- 214 Lady Merton. terious malady of which he had heard, rather than for the illness which to unprofessional eyes would have been clearly indicated. Of one thing only was he certain, namely, that Lady Merton ought to have the help of a nurse. This she positively refused. No one but herself should care for or serve her idolised husband. And so day and night she was always by him, administering remedies, attending to all his wants, feeling them intuitively before they were intimated by him, through the perfection and acuteness of her sympathy ; more than compensated for all her watch- fulness 'and weariness by his eager, clinging depen- dence upon and his absolute faith and hope in her only. For some time, by aid of the medicines, he con- tinued to sink, and at length the doctor's treatment caused the patient's mind to wander in a mild delirium. This rendered her task all the more diffi- cult. She could not leave the room while he was awake without greatly distressing him. And if she did so when he was sleeping a consciousness of her absence seemed to awaken him; and his faint, thrilling cry of joy and relief when she returned, the sense of perfect protection and safety which he felt in her presence, the way in which he would seize her hands and feebly put his arms around and cling to her brought tears from her eyes, while her whole heart went out to him in tenderest love and gratitude for his entire trust. And now she learned to understand and value Don Foresti's modest, gentle, self-forgetting spirit. He called almost daily to know how the patient was, and if he could be of any service. It was a marvel to Mary how he thought of things which nobody else did — the Lady Merton. 2 1 5 right things at the right time — which were a great solace to her husband and herself. And all that he did was so delicately, so unobtrusively, so undisturb- ingly done that its worth was not perceived at first, nor, perhaps, till long after. By-and-bye Sir Henry seemed instinctively to feel confidence in him, so that he could sit with the sufferer while Lady Merton took much-needed short turns in the open air. Delirium freed the patient from nerve-exhausting dread of " Roman fever," and permitted him to rest ; so that, towards the end of May, he began to im- prove, in spite of the doctor and his drugs. The physician strongly advised his removal to the sea- side, or to the mountains. Where should they go? A decision was postponed till one day the medical man, taking Mary aside, said to her very solemnly : " So far I have only urged change of air and scene as necessary to your husband's recovery; now I insist upon it for you, and without delay. Though your admirable spirit of self-sacrifice might disregard this warning, and the danger, if it were to affect yourself alone, you will hardly dare do so when you consider the deplorable effect which your severe illness would have on Sir Henry. Your strength has long been overdone. The excitement of anxiety, the danger which your affection has magnified, and an ever- present sense of responsibility, have solely kept you up. Now, happily, those stimulants have nearly ceased. You must have immediate change and rest. Let these words induce you to decide at once." Within two days Sir Henry and Lady Merton left Rome for Perugia. XXII. ALTHOUGH every means was used to diminish the fatigue and discomfort of travelling, Sir Henry arrived at the Umbrian capital greatly exhausted, and in a condition of nervous de- pression and irritation almost intolerable. Even Mary's long strained fortitude was near giving way. An hour's absolute privacy and freedom, in which to indulge in a good, unrestrained fit of crying, would have afforded her the greatest relief and consolation. But this was out of the question, and she continued to bear herself bravely and cheerfully. They were fortunate enough to obtain rooms at the Grand Hotel de Perugia, outside the Porta Croce, and in its English landlady felt as if they had found a friend. The windows of their apartment com- manded a magnificent view of the valley of Foligno bounded by the Apennines, embracing that town, Assisi, and many others with the Tiber ; a scene which, as day after day she gazed at it, caused Lady Merton to believe it had been in the mind of a certain painter when he undertook to represent on canvas " The Plains of Heaven." In a short time after their arrival she began to see the good effects of the delectable mountain air. Her husband did not, indeed, manifest any rapid increase Lady Merton. 217 of strength, but rather a diminution of restlessness and nervous distress. As days went on, however, he gained appetite and vigour till, by the middle of June, they could take short walks and drives. But any effort to fix his attention, or exercise his understanding, was yet painful, particularly if the matter was one of business. And yet there were often small matters which needed attention ; hotel bills to be examined and paid, pur- chases and bargains to be made, drafts to be cashed, or money to be drawn. Before the end of the month, days of purest sunshine succeeding one another, the heat, especially in the middle of the day, though its effect was tempered by the delightfully cool and re- freshing nights, admonished them that they must seek a colder retreat. While they were still in Rome the plan formed for them was, after sufficiently resting at Perugia, if Sir Henry's improvement in health permitted it, to continue their way, by easy stages, to the Upper Engadine. The bare thought of the journey, and the exertion which it would demand, oppressed the invalid. Mary did her best to cheer and encourage him, and personally superintended all preparations. One of the last things she did was to write a letter, at her husband's request and dictation, for his signature, instructing his solicitor to send an instrument which, when signed by him, would authorise his wife to manage all his money affairs without reference to him, so that he might be relieved from any thought or bother in regard to them. Oh ! could she have had foresight enough to refuse this proof of the most perfect confidence ! Much to her regret, Lady Merton was constrained 2i8 Lady Merton. to leave Perugia without having seen its historic and art treasures. Once, indeed, while helping Sir Henry as he feebly took his slow walk, they had gone outside the Porta S. Pietro till they were near the Porta S. Costanza. The day was very lovely, a breeze bearing faintest sweet odours cooled the air ; the wide pros- pect, at which they were never tired of gazing, was more than usually entrancing, with its varied colours and lightly passing shadows of bright clouds. From the parade-ground came in waves, increasing and diminishing, the music of a regimental band. While her husband was seated on a bench, giving himself up, during his rest, to the concert of sweet influences about him, and apparently lost in reverie, she had paid a hasty visit to the Church of S. Pietro de' Casinensi ; had glanced at the paintings by Perugino, Doni, Varsari, Sassoferrati, and other old masters ; had nervously turned over the leaves of some ancient choir-books, which the sacristan insisted upon showing her, admiring their exquisite miniatures of the sixteenth century, afraid lest she might stay too long, yet unable to force herself away without at least gaining some knowledge of what might be seen, if only she had time to look ; had passed in review, all to quickly, the walnut choir-stalls, and the reading- desk, with their carvings by Stefano da Bergamo, after designs by Raphael; and had returned to Sir Henry excited, full of enthusiasm and full of regret that she could not give to these beautiful things all the study which they deserved ; that she could not imprint them on her memory, so that they might never be erased, and, above all, that her husband could not see them. Lady Merton. 219 From Perugia they took the train directly to Florence, and all the way Mary was in a state of nervous solicitude, reading her guide-book, and moving from one window to the other, that she might not lose, at least, a hasty, superficial view of anything men- tioned. She gladly would have explored the wooded heights and defiles to the north of Lake Trasimeno till she should stand in the very pass where Hannibal had gained his bloody victory. She looked with longing eyes at lofty Cortona till it was hidden from sight ; tried to imagine how it ap- peared when Etruscans dwelt in it, building, and talk- ing, and fortifying, and fighting very much, probably, as their successors have done ; wished so much that she might see the Etruscan Museum of Antiquities, and particularly the lampadario ; more than all, the ancient Etruscan wall and the tomb, the Grotta di Pitagora ; all those monuments of a people, a civili- sation, a world living before the birth of history, talking, laughing, scheming, loving, hating, intrigue- ing, singing, dancing, bargaining, gambling, winning, losing, triumphing, despairing, in this same sunlight, and now The paintings of Luca Signorelli, Fra Angelico, Lorenzo di Niccoli, and the rest which are kept there : yes, she would like to see them too, and the cathedral ; but not so much as those silent wit- nesses of Etruscan life, and death. When they came within sight of the picturesque cathedral and town of Arezzo, she forgot Cortona as, after a few minutes' delay at the station, this other one of the twelve confederate cities of Etruria, like Perugia and Cortona, so full of historic reminis- cences, with its works of art, modern by com- 220 Lady Merton. parison, though their authors are called old masters, disappeared. She tried to console herself with the hope that, some time, when her husband should be quite well and strong, they might make that journey again without haste, staying as long as they should choose in each place, under no guidance and subject to no constraint but that of fancy and their own good pleasure. Presently her attention was claimed by Sir Henry, who, happily, had slept most of the time thus far. But now he was wide awake, tired and irritated by the motion of the car, nervous, suffering, and impatient to be at the journey's end. Mary used all her in- genuity to entertain him and distract his thoughts, spoke of one thing after another, pointed out different objects which they passed, but all was futile. To please her he would look languidly in the direction indicated, but it was only too plain that he took no note of that on which his eyes seemed to rest. Every few minutes he would ask what time it was, and if they were not now near Florence. She could only sit by him, holding his hand, fanning his pale face, and, through sympathy, suffering on his account pain and impatience perchance greater than his own. They remained in Florence two nights and one day, when Sir Henry again began to fret at the delay. He was longing with an intolerable desire to be at the seaside and breathe the moist, salt air. In two stages they reached Venice, having passed one night at Bologna. Here, for a time, the patient seemed to feel relief and pleasure moving through the — as it ap- peared to them — silent city in a gondola. There Lady Merton. 221 was no jar in the motion, and it soothed him ; the soft gurgle, made by the gliding boat, sometimes lulled him to sleep. Then Mary's heart was filled with thankfulness ; for his nights were wakeful, and, by what seemed almost the perversity of caprice, during the hours designed by nature for slumber it was always furthest from him. Thus they explored all the principal canals, and one day went to the Lido on a small steamboat ; sometimes sauntered in the piazza of S. Marco, and watched the feeding of the doves. Once they stepped into the porch of St. Mark's Church ; but the invalid did not wish to go farther, and they returned to their hotel. In fact he was not equal to the mental exertion of sight-seeing, even in the smallest way ; and his wife would not leave him to go by herself; nor did she wish to do so. Any pleasure which might have been obtained in this way would, she knew, be more than counterbalanced by the consciousness that he missed her and was impatient for her to come back, and a sense of selfishness on her part, in seeking enjoy- ment which he could not share. So she saw nothing but the outside of Venice, consoling herself again by the hope of revisiting the place with her husband when he should be able to do a tourist's full duty. Before many days, however, the stillness of the town began to oppress him ; and he wondered why Lady Merton had ever brought him to a city so dead. And this notwithstanding the fact that they were there in consequence of his own repeated request. He was disappointed, for he had expected to enjoy the sight and the smell of the sea ; and believed that the salt air would brace him up. But here was no sea ; nothing 222 Lady Merton. but sluggish, greenish waters. Only at the Lido had he perceived the old refreshing scent, which dwelt in his memory. And he was now as eager and impatient to behold the snow-capped Alps and feel the cool mountain breezes, as he had been to look once more at the salt waves. After his thoughts had turned to the mountains he could bear no delay ; would not consent to divide the journey to the lake of Como by passing a night at Verona, as his wife urged for the sake of his own com- fort. So they hastened on by Padua, Vicenza, Verona Brescia, and Bergamo to Lecco, where they were trans- ferred to the deck of a steamboat, which was to take them the rest of the way to Bellagio. He manifested no interest in the scenery ; the fact that they were on the lake of Como stirred no feeling in him ; his one feverish wish was to go forward, to be at the end of the day's journey, and be sure that he was certainly so much nearer his destination. Should they not reach Bellagio soon ? Lady Merton had hoped that at this place, admitted to be the loveliest spot on the loveliest of lakes, the Baronet would at length be glad to view and enjoy with her its charms. But no. The demon of unrest seemed to possess him. He did not like the spot, could see no beauty in the prospects ; the hotel did not suit him ; it was too full of people who were not English, he said. Therefore, after remaining one night, they were again on their way up the lake to Colico, whence a carriage, engaged by telegraph, took them to Chiavenna. Here they first felt the peculiar freshness of Alpine air, as they strolled about the village, while their evening meal was prepared. A soft breeze was Lady Merton. 223 falling from the Splugen by the wild Liro valley, down through forests of chestnuts, bringing the faint odour and delicate moisture of silent mountain shades ; and the noise of a descending torrent seemed of itself to suggest coolness. Only the next day, as they entered the lovely Bregaglia valley, following up the course of rapid, rock-broken, foaming Maira through groves of mag- nificent chestnuts, did the nervous tension, which had held Sir Henry as in a vice, loosen its strain. He reposed easily in the carriage, a more cheerful look appeared on his thin, pale face, and he began to notice with amused interest different objects peculiar to the region ; the double waterfall, the chestnut- covered site of the buried little town, Piuro, which, with its two thousand four hundred and thirty in- habitants disappeared for ever from the sight of men under the great landslip of 1618 ; Bondo, on which for three months in the year the sun does not shine, with its chateau of the Salis family ; Promontogno, with its fine ruins of the Castelmur Castle, and gallery at the rocky gateway, La Porta, which separates two zones of vegetation ; the increasing height and bold- ness of the mountains on either side, and their spike- like crags. He enjoyed the good, but homely, fare at Vicosoprano, where they changed horses and took their midday meal ; went on with growing cheerful- ness, till that huge mountain barrier, the Maloja, rose, like a lofty precipice, filling the valley, before them. Approaching it they perceived the terraced road, an inclined plane running from side to side across the face of the steep, and in half-an-hour were at the summit, at the south-west end of the Upper En- 224 Lady Merton gadine, putting on overcoats and wrappings, which the sudden change of temperature made necessary. Looking before them towards the north-east, as far as the eye could reach, they saw high mountains on each hand, standing out sharply defined against the deep blue and marvellously clear sky, some capped with snow, and some holding glaciers in their bosoms, or upon their shoulders. Between these lines the valley, about a mile in width, stretched away like a long meadow, nearly bare of trees, but all covered, except the space occupied by lakes, with waving grass, to which innumerable flowers gave an almost infinite variety of tints. To the left, the river Inn, just starting from its source, now only a mountain brook, was coming down by successive leaps from its lofty birthplace up on the Pitz Lunghino, and a short distance before them entering the pale green lake of Sils. To the right, mirrored in the smooth water, was the Pitz della Margna with its glacier. Con- tinuing their way on the left side of the valley they passed the hamlets of Sils-Baseglia and Sils-Maria, and the lake ; then the lake of Silvaplana, its pic- turesque village of the same name, with the waterfall opposite and the Pitz Corvatsch looking down in eternal calmness from under its snowy hood ; then Campfer, nestling in the lap of a ravine, as if to court shelter from the wind that was sweeping down the valley, and, keeping to the high road, above the baths, reached St. Moritz, where they found a village of large and commodious hotels filled with fashion- able sojourners from almost every part of the world, at the height of six thousand and ninety feet above sea-level. There they rested and grew strong. XXIII ABOUT the middle of August, while still at St. Moritz, Sir Henry received from Madame Predestine, the Superior of the school where Vivy was, the following letter : " We must beg you to take your daughter from our midst, not because she is too bad to remain, but because she is too good ; too consistent and con- scientious. She takes her religion too much in earnest, indeed seems to believe its doctrines abso- lutely. She considers it an actual thing, as it were a matter of fact, that heaven positively exists, and that the dismal lake is as much a reality as the lake of Geneva. We cannot make her see that there should be a great difference between what we ought to believe theoretically,and what we ought to believe prac- tically, that is, actually ; that theoretically we believe certain propositions in order to be Calvinists, which practically we disbelieve in order to be saved. She persists in holding the theoretical as the real, the practical belief, which, truly, is to be extremely un- practical ; insists that, as very much the larger part of the human race (from four-fifths to nine-tenths probably) are predestined to be damned, it follows almost certainly that at least four-fifths of the young ladies at our school, including herself, are among the 16 226 Lady Merton. number of those condemned before the foundation of the world. That, even if this was not established by the principles of Calvinism and mathematics, we ought, in a spirit of Christian humility, to consider ourselves among those who are rejected, vessels made for base uses. And these doctrines she has preached so constantly and with such effect that the result is disastrous. About one-half of the pupils are wild with despair, who, by their wailing, turn the house into pandemonium. The rest indulge in all kinds of sin possible to them here, saying it is the only en- joyment they will ever have, during all time and all eternity, and cannot aggravate their future condition. In vain we try to persuade your daughter that, ac- cording to the liberty wherewith Protestantism has made us free, we may change and adapt our doctrines so as to bring ourselves within the limits of salvation, while putting others without and consigning them to perdition ; and that the effect of this is to make all, by using that liberty, free to be saved, in spite of Calvinism and predestination. Having fruitlessly exercised our patience as well as our powers of argument and persuasion to the utmost, we are, with much regret, reduced to the necessity of requesting you to remove the young lady from our house at your very earliest conve- nience." " Damn the girl ! " exclaimed Sir Henry in a passion of indignation, flinging the letter from him. The next day he wrote to Madame, begging that Vivy might remain where she was, suggesting that she be punished till she became more reasonable, or isolated altogether from the other pupils, and asking Lady Merton. 227 that she be treated with all needful severity. To this Madame replied that on no account would she consent to keep the Baronet's daughter in her house after the lapse of time enough for him to make for her neces- sary provision. "There is no help for it," said Sir Henry, with a gesture of entire discouragement and surrender. " She must go to a convent ; if a convent can be found that will receive her. I have done all I could to avoid the necessity, and save her. Now it will be her own fault if, perverted to Roman Catholicism, she goes thus to destruction." The following day he and Lady Merton set out for Geneva by way of the Julier and Schyn passes, Thusis, Reichenau, Disentis, Andermatt, the Furka pass, the Rhone glacier, and the Rhone valley. The wild, sub- lime, in places awful scenery impressed Mary very deeply ; but it was not an agreeable impression. In the great heights there was too much desolation ; eternal cold and snow and silence ; terrific crags and precipices and gulfs. It all made her afraid. And although she could not but feel intense admiration for the stupendous display, especially as they went down the dizzy zigzag by the Rhone glacier, literally a cataract of ice, yet she experienced an infinite sense of relief and repose for over-strained nerves when they reached Brigue, and she was sure they had to pass over no more roads terraced high up on the sides of fearful steeps, or overhanging dreadful abysses, unpro- tected by balustrades. Apparently Vivy was delighted to see her dear papa and her " mamma," her " own mamma now," and lavished demonstrations of affection on both. She 228 Lady Merton. made no allusion to, seemed unaware of, the fact that she had been dismissed from the school ; appeared to consider it quite in the natural course of events that she should leave the place at that time, and go wherever her dear papa might think best. Having procured recommendations to, communi- cated with, and secured sympathy and interest of the bishop, under whose jurisdiction was a religious house to which Sir Henry had decided first to apply, he and his wife, with Vivy in charge, proceeded to the convent, the better part of a railroad day's journey from Geneva ; and were greatly pleased to find that all objections to receiving the girl had been smoothed away by the prelate. The Roman Catholic Superior, however, made conditions similar to those of the Calvinist, namely, that they should be free to in- struct the young lady in their religion, and should have absolute control of her correspondence. The high walls, the strong gates, the sombre light, the quiet which seemed full of fearful mystery, the gliding nuns that now and then appeared and dis- appeared silently like ghosts, struck a benumbing chill to Vivy's heart ; and for the first time in her life, probably, she lost faith in her ability by hook or by crook to turn everything to her own advantage, or, at least, to the disadvantage of those whom she considered opposed to her, so that they should be the first to cry " enough." And, when her father and his wife were about to take their leave, she abandoned herself to the wildest passion of terrified grief, so real and despairing that Lady Merton could not restrain tears of pity, and actually pleaded with her husband to have compassion on the poor child. He Lady Merton. 229 was, however, inflexible, and Vivy heard the heavy gates close on her like the doors of an eternal prison, in which she did not know what horrors to expect, so that from their very vagueness her fears were all the more dreadful. A month later she was free from apprehension, but had not been able to liberate herself from a mild kind of awe. The unaffected humility of the nuns, the even tenor of their lives, their patience, gentle- ness, sweetness, their manifest consciousness at all times of an invisible and most to be venerated and conciliated Presence, affected her profoundly. The religious exercises, in which they appeared to be totally absorbed ; their adoration, which impressed itself on her as absolute ; their reverence for the altar and its furniture, and for sacred pictures and images ; and particularly what they called the " Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament," made her, for the first time in her life, actually feel reverential fear for a Supreme Being, for the God of whom she had heard ever since she could remember. All these things were new, occupied her thoughts, took hold of her imagina- tion ; and, if religion consisted in cowardly dread of the supernatural, she would have been pre-eminently religious. After they had left his daughter at the convent, Sir Henry and Lady Merton went to visit Hugh and Freddy at Vevey. As the time for their return to Italy approached, the father found it more than ever painful to part from his youngest child ; and, after much talking and considering, it was decided that Freddy should go home with his parents to Rome. Hugh had a request to prefer. He had 230 Lady Merton. made the acquaintance of some young Italians, and a fancy, that he wished to study at the University of Bologna, had taken possession of him. So well did he plead his cause that the father yielded a reluctant consent ; and together they set out for Upper Italy, intending to visit the lakes, Milan, and some of the other cities in the north of the peninsula. XXIV. THE morning after they arrived at Mantua, Sir Henry learned that, some time previous, an exten- sive strike of farm-labourers had been declared, and had caused great loss to proprietors, as it was their harvest time. Having always felt much interest in the contest between Capital and Labour, he wished to remain a few days to inform himself in regard to the actual facts and merits of this case. The civil authorities had taken cognisance of the affair, arrested a large number of the strikers, and lodged them in jail, where they yet were. Desiring to hear both sides, the Baronet obtained permission to visit the prisoners ; and his wife begged to accompany him. Among those whom they saw was one who par- ticularly excited their interest and compassion, Pio by name. His cognomen, at one time celebrated in Italy, is yet known to every reader of history, and he might truly have styled himself "of the Marquesses of " He was evidently under middle age, though hard labour, coarse and insufficient fare, exposure to weather, a beard unshaven since his arrest, and con- stant anxiety, if not also continual misery, had left marks on his person which made him look older than he was. Tall, finely-formed, muscular, with strong, regular, masculine features, large and mild, but 232 Lady Merton. vivacious dark eyes, which, with the frankness of conscious innocence, looked straight at his inter- locutor, a mass of fine, but neglected, hair, only a few shades lighter than a raven's plumage, a heavy, dark moustache, movements free and easy, he was even yet a very handsome specimen of physical manhood ; appearing to have sprung from a race whose lot in life must have been very different from his. He could not understand why he should have been arrested and imprisoned ; treated like a person accused of some grave crime, because he had refused to work any longer for wages which would not suffice to procure food enough to keep his family alive, even in the poorest way ; nor could he conjecture how long he should be kept in jail, whether or when he should be tried, or wherefore. " How much did you receive as wages ?" he was asked. " Seventy-five centimes a day," was his answer. " About sevenpence-ha'penny," remarked Sir Henry significantly to his wife. " And how much did you demand ? " " One lira." " Tenpence," said the Baronet. " What family have you ? " " A wife, and five of the dearest children," and the tears came into his eyes. "What will become of them ? O my God ! what will become of them while I am here ? " " Will not the authorities take care of them ? " " How can they ? That would be to encourage the very thing for which we were arrested. Oh, no ; their sufferings are part of our punishment — the ring Lady Merton. 233 put into our noses, by which we are subjugated and led." " How old are the children ? " " Fifteen, thirteen, ten, eight, and five, about." " And the eldest— is it a boy ? If so " " No, a girl, almost a woman ; and I am afraid " He stopped short, without expressing the nature of his fear. " She is so very beautiful, so lovely, so very innocent, so very ignorant of the world. We have been so careful of her, my wife — my poor wife and I." His face worked, he looked down, and remained silent. " Let us see what we can do for them," said Lady Merton aside to her husband. " Where are they ? " asked the Baronet. "They were in such a place," answered Pio, giving the address, "but Heaven only knows if they have been permitted to stay there." Sir Henry carefully wrote the directions on his tablets. After trying to cheer the unfortunate prisoner, by expressions of hope and such suggestions as sym- pathy dictated, the visitors left and set out to seek his wife and children. On the outskirts of the town, in an old building, dilapidated and fast progressing in decay, indeed apparently near the time when it would crumble to a mass of rubbish, they found the one room which served as a habitation for Pio, when free, and his family. The landlord, whoever he was, had not disturbed them. The chamber was not very small, and was tolerably well lighted. A large rent could be seen in one of the sides, and in many places the plaster had fallen off, leaving exposed the rough 234 Lady Merton. mass, irregular stones, broken bricks and cement, of which the walls were composed. The visible furniture consisted of a cheap wooden table, from which one leg was missing, so placed against the broken wainscoat as to keep it in a normal position ; a bench, two rickety chairs with dislocated backs, a propped-up sleeping-place — it could hardly be called a bed — in one corner ; in the opposite corner a straw mattress. The third corner, between the door and one of the windows, was evidently used as a fireplace, and the fourth was shut off from the rest of the chamber by a coarse curtain drawn diagonally from wall to wall, sustained by a hempen cord. In this screened nook, as they afterwards learned, the oldest child slept with her younger sister, and it was called her room. Hanging near each other on one side of the chamber were an old crucifix and a faded print of the Madonna. Wretched as the place looked it yet had a certain indescribable air of tidiness. Sir Henry and Lady Merton were received by the wife with that unembarrassed civility characteristic of the Italian peasant. She appeared to be about thirty-five years of age, and in her youth must have been a model of peasant beauty. Now, emaciated by want, the tan on her face could not wholly conceal its pallor. The three younger children were with her. She held some coarse knitting, on which she had evidently been at work. Complying with her repeated invitation, the visitors seated themselves carefully on the crippled chairs, while the children huddled about their mother, and stared wonderingly at the strangers. With a painful pressure at her heart Mary noticed their pinched faces, the unnatural Lady Merlon. 235 largeness of their eyes, and their prematurely serious, anxious, old looks. The woman stood respectfully before her guests, waiting for them to make known the object of their visit. " We have just come from the jail," said Lady Merton gently, " where we saw your husband. He told us about you." The wife made no response. Drawing a clean white rag which served as a pocket handkerchief, she silently wiped away the tears that would come into her eyes. " All your children are not here. We wished to see them." " No, Nina is in the city, trying to sell flowers. My husband always objected to her going into town ; he wanted her to stay at home, for she is very pretty. But there was no help for it after he was arrested. I hope he will not be angry. What could we do ? " " And the other?" " Pippo has gone to see if he can find any work " "How old is Pippo?" " Thirteen next October, the twenty-fifth." "Will they be away all day ? " "Nina will. She does not come back till evening. Pippo may come before." " Do they not come home to eat ? " " Not till evening. We shall have nothing till then. I sold some of this work a few days ago, and after her flowers are gone, Nina will go and see if she can get the pay for it. I hope she may ; and if she does she will bring something." " What will it be ? " " Oh, some polenta, to be sure. It lasts the longest when we have eaten it." 236 Lady Merton. " Lasts the longest ? " " Yes. We are not hungry again so soon as when we eat something else." " What else, for instance ? " "Why, salad, or raw onions. We used to have salt with our salad ; but we can't now. It is very good." "Can nothing be done to get your husband out of jail?" " I don't know. I think not. I have been to the curate, and he tried, but it was no use. And he gave us money at first. But what will you? He is poor, like the rest of us, and he tries to do something for all, so it is small what we can get from him, though I know he spends ever so little for himself, and eats polenta, as we do ; his servant told me so : and he tries to borrow for us, but he can't make big debts, for how could he ever pay them ? If Pio had done anything wrong I could understand it ; yes, and bear it better, for that would be justice. But he hasn't, never in his life. He only said with his friends that he would not work this harvest time for so little pay. And they locked him up, so that he can get no pay at all, and must have the disgrace of it." " I do not see that we can do anything, except to give the poor woman some money," Mary remarked to her husband. " As much as you will, my dear," he replied, blow- ing his nose like a trumpet and affecting to see some- thing out of the window. " This will help you a little," said Lady Merton, rising and putting some gold pieces into the woman's hand ; who, surprised, overjoyed, fell on her knees Lady Merton. 237 and covered her benefactress' hand with ardent kisses. Mary hid the moisture in her eyes by caressing the children ; and taking her husband's arm departed, followed by the poor wife and mother's benedictions ; who, after a fervent thanksgiving, contrived to send a part of the money, and an account of this visit, glorified by joy and gratitude, to her husband in the jail. XXV. WHEN the Baronet and his wife had left the hotel to visit the imprisoned strikers, Hugh went out to seek amusement in the city. He sauntered along the principal street, stopping to examine shows in the shop windows, or note anything which appeared to him peculiar in this old Italian city. Suddenly he was arrested by the exceeding beauty of a young girl who, without a word, but with that frank, innocent smile by which an Italian peasant, and particularly a female peasant, acknowledges a pleasant, friendly look from a stranger, held out to him a small bunch of flowers. For a few moments he was so much absorbed by the attractions of the flower-seller that he took no notice of her offer. She did not advance towards him; on the contrary, drew back a step or two, as if timidly; yet, with her head inclined a little to one shoulder, continued the mute appeal and the enchanting smile. Hugh could not reconcile the youthfulness of her face with the full womanly development of her form. Her dress was very scant, old, and faded, but clean and neat. Her feet were bare, and tanned to a bright copper colour ; but exquisitely small and well formed, as were also her hands, though plainly hardened and roughened by some kind of toil. She wore nothing on her head, and its luxuriant hair, on which sunshine seemed to become bronze powder, was tied up in a Lady Merton. 239 not ungraceful fashion by a narrow bit of faded ribbon. Her features were cast in a pure Greek mould ; her eyes were large, very soft, very dark and very deep, while thick long black lashes seemed to cast a mys- terious shadow into their depths. Her face had a certain uncommon spiritual look, the consequence of almost absolute fasting, which, however, only rendered her beauty more exquisite and interesting. Her brows were straight, delicately and sharply defined ; her teeth small, white, and even. Her lips, rather full, had the most perfect colour, set off and enriched by the polished tan-tint of her complexion. During the last year, in preparation for an expected sojourn in Italy, Hugh had been, rather diligently for him, studying the language of that country ; and he thought this a good occasion to test the practical value of his acquisition. " How much ? " asked he, pointing to the flowers. " Whatever your Excellency pleases," she replied. " Cheap enough," returned he, " but in that way you don't make much, do you ? " " Sometimes I make a whole franc in a day. But I haven't been selling flowers for long ; only since they arrested papa. Then the curate gave me all that grew in the old garden, and I sell them." "The herbs seem to be about as old as the garden," muttered Hugh. "Why did they arrest your papa? Is he a brigand ? " " Oh no ! He is very, very good. But he didn't like to see us always hungry, and wanted more pay for his work ; so they arrested him." " Ah, I see. This is a free country now." " What ? " 240 Lady Merlon. " He was one of the strikers, was he ? " " Eh ? " " A striker. But you are an ignorant little thing ; you don't understand English." " No, I don't know English. It was very cruel to arrest my papa." " Look out, young woman ; you'll be taken up for a rebel." " What ? " " Do you know you are very pretty ? " "Eh?" " That you are very beautiful ? " " Who, I ? " " Yes, you little stupid." " They say so." "They? Who?" " The people who come by and look at me." " Ah, they do, do they ? And buy your flowers ? " "No; but sometimes " " Do you stay here all day ? " " Yes." " And every day ? " " Since papa was arrested." " Bring your lunch with you? " "What?" " Bring something to eat ? " " No." "Why?" " Haven't anything to bring." " When do you eat ? " " When I go home." " At night ? " "Yes." Lady Merton. 241 " And you come here in the morning ? " " Yes." " You must be hungry sometimes." " Always." " Then you're hungry now." " Yes." " Oh, well, we'll stop that." Looking round Hugh perceived a restaurant near at hand and continued : " Come with me and have one good lunch in your life, anyhow." " Have what ? " " I want you to eat something with me in the restaurant. I am hungry myself." " What shall I do with my flowers ? " " Oh, leave them where they are ; I'll pay for them." "All?" " Yes, all. Nobody will run away with them. Will you come ?" " So many thanks. You are very good. Let us go." Seated cosily in a corner of the eating-room, and asked by Hugh what she would like to have, the poor girl could not at once answer. The display of good things quite confounded her, especially as she did not even know their names. But shortly she said, with that trustful look in her great liquid eyes, as they gazed straight into his : " Whatever you please." "Ninny !" exclaimed Hugh, good-naturedly, "say what you would like " " How did you know my name ? But you don't speak it right." 17 242 Lady Merton. " Indeed ! How do you speak it ? " " N i nee n a nah, Nina." " I see. That is better than my way. I won't forget it. Now tell me what you will eat." " Well, then, if you please, ask them to give me some bread and milk." " Bread and milk ! What a little goosey " "Eh?" " What a little stupid." " But bread and milk is very good. I used to eat it when I was little." " Did you ? When was that ? " " Papa had a farm of his own then, grandpapa's farm, and we had cows and some goats " " Why didn't he keep it, so that you might have all the bread and milk you wanted ? I would have done so, just for you." " The taxes were so much that he couldn't pay them, and the crops were bad, and the taxes kept getting more and more, till, one day, officers came and sent us all away, and gave the farm to somebody else." " But I thought united Italy — the land of poetry and — fiction " " What's that ? " " I don't know ; politicians, I fancy, had made the people richer, and everything easier for everybody." " I suppose so. I don't understand it" " Well, you do understand that you are hungry, and that you are going to have one good meal — some meat " " Oh, no. That would cost too much." " and some vegetables, and a sweet, and a Lady Merton. 243 bottle of wine ; and your poor little stomach shall be astonished for once." " Well, I don't know : but it will cost a great deal. We never have any now, and — well, if you don't mind I should like to know how wine tastes, now — if it is like what I remember." " A bottle of Chianti," said Hugh to the waiter, who was patiently standing by. " And now let us see what there is," and he began to read the bill of fare, mispronouncing the names. When he came to Frittura, Nina suddenly exclaimed : " Frittura, that is good. Let us have some frittura" " Very well, little one ; " and he ordered a portion for two. While the cook was making this ready Hugh, added Cotletti a la Milanaise, cabinet pudding, and figs. The figs were just then in perfect condition, honey-like pulp oozing through their cracked rinds, and the youth thought he had never eaten fruit more delicious. Hugh's greatest pleasure, however, was in watching his companion, while apparently attentive to his own plate. She ate with a certain modest eagerness and evident animal enjoyment which plainly showed the craving caused by enforced abstinence, yet with such propriety that, somewhat surprised, her entertainer said to himself : " She has the manners of a lady " — meaning, of course, her manner of eating — "and if she were dressed as one wouldn't she be a stunner ! " He could not prevail on her to drink more than a glass or two of wine. She said it was very, very good, but she was not used to it now, and was afraid to take much. She declined the pudding, yet looked at it wistfully. 244 Lady Merton. " Why don't you take some ? " asked Hugh. " I am not hungry, now, and " — hesitating, with a look which was itself a prayer — " I should like to carry it to mamma." " Certainly, certainly ; take it by all means. I didn't know you had a mamma. Is she hungry too?" " Yes ; more since papa is in jail — and the child- ren " " Oh, a lot of them, I warrant. Never mind. Waiter ! Bring me that cold chicken," pointing to one exposed on the counter. " Good ! Now some bread — so, so. Another bottle of Chianti ; and a basket, or box, big enough to hold these things." Bread, wine, chicken, with the pudding on top, carefully wrapped in clean, white paper by Hugh himself, were placed in the basket. " Now, little one," giving her a twenty-franc gold piece, " here is the pay for your flowers." " But I can't change that," cried she, embarrassed. " Wait, I'll get it," and she went towards the cashier. " Stop, stop ! I want no change. It is all for you — for the flowers. I bought them all, you know." " But they were not worth that" and she held out the money for him to take back. " Oh, yes they were — to me. Put the money in your pocket. And, look here, if you will come to the same place to-morrow, I will buy some more flowers, and you shall take this basket home with you." " Oh, I will, I will, surely ; " and her voice and manner, and sparkling eyes, and eloquent, smiling face expressed the greatest joy and gratitude. " So many, many thanks. You are so good. I never saw anybody so good as you are." Lady Merton. 245 " Well now, run along : and mind you come back to the old place to-morrow, and then we will have another lunch together." " She looked full at him for a moment, but did not speak. Her gaze expressed what she vainly would have tried to put into words. Then suddenly, with infinite grace, she took his hand, kissed it with touching veneration, and, taking the basket, went straight out of the restaurant. It happened that no other customers were in the place, and Hugh sat some time very still, absorbed in thought, an object of admiring contemplation to the waiters. His free use of money — he was always rather reckless in spending his liberal allowance — proved clearly enough to waiter-judgment that he was truly what they had improved every opportunity of calling him, an Excellency, probably a great lord. Besides, and partly on this account, they all expected to profit by his generosity when he should pay his bill. In this they were not disappointed, for it was his strongest conviction that no one could be regarded as a gentleman who did not pay, unquestioning, any price asked for what he wished to buy, and lavishly " tip " serving people. Finally, having lighted a cigarette, he strolled leisurely into the street, and as leisurely, all the time in a brown study, walked back to the hotel. There Lady Merton told him, with many expressions of interest, sympathy, and compassion, what his father and herself had seen and done ; to all of which he listened very attentively, asking a few questions. But he said nothing of how his time had been passed. XXVI. WHEN Nina left the restaurant she was full of eagerness to reach home, anticipating with delight her mother's surprise, relief, and joy, and the pleasure of seeing her and the children eat the good things which the grand signor had given her. But, going, she too began to think ; and she thought so hard as to quite forget her haste, and all about the hungry family at the top of that old house. Her pace slackened till it came to a standstill in the out- skirts of the town. Seeing some lumber by the road- side she mechanically sat down on it and continued her reverie. After a while she sprang up, as if sud- denly awakened, and, with many internal reproaches for the delay, hurried forward, running to make up lost time, till she was at home. There she found the remains of a substantial meal waiting for her. She was much out of breath from the haste she had made, especially in mounting the stairs ; but, after a moment of speechless surprise, she emptied her basket, saying, " See, mamma ! " Exclamations and explanations followed. For some reason Nina only said that her benefactor was a grand signor who had bought all her flowers, giving her that big gold piece for them, and besides all that beautiful food to bring home. The term grand signor somehow conveyed the notion of a mature personage ; and in Lady Merton. 247 regard to him no further information was offered or asked. Indeed, the mother was so full of what she had to impart that she could not receive or pay much attention to any other news ; and began, at the same time, a description and a eulogy of her visitors in the extravagant terms suggested by admiration and gratitude, talking so fast, with many ejaculations and gestures, when her stock of words furnished nothing adequate to the grand idea which was striving for utterance, that Nina could not place a word till her mother paused for breath. Then there was a lively succession of questions, answers, and conjectures as to who these beneficent beings might be. Finally that problem was solved by the youngest child. " I know who they were ; I saw them," said she. "Who?" " The Blessed Madonna and St. Joseph." 11 The lady did indeed look and speak like the Holy Virgin," assented the mother. The child's assertion, uttered with the calm positive- ness of an unquestionable truth, pleased them. Be- sides the fact that the eyes of an innocent young child are clearer than others to perceive heavenly visitants, who so likely to have brought all this about as the most compassionate Holy Mother. They knew she had done things like these in times past for other poor people, to some of whom she had graciously shown herself. " 1 will tell you how it was," said Nina. " We had begged her so hard to intercede for us, and she had prayed for us so much, that by-and-bye, just when it was best, the good Jesus said to her : ' Well, go your- self, and do what you like ; but be sure you give 248 Lady Merlon. them something beautiful to eat, for I know how hungry they are.' And St. Joseph naturally came to take care of her, as he used to do." So they went on talking and imagining till the infant's conceit grew to be almost as good as a fact ; and they more than half believed to be real what, at first, had been a pleasing fancy. But, somehow, while very glad to think that those who had brought such relief directly to her home might be holy, supernatural personages, Nina did not want at all to believe, or even to imagine that her grand signor was a saint, that is an unearthly saint. She had great veneration and affection for all the blessed fraternity ; but, she could not have explained why it was, she did not wish him to be one of its members — at present. Nor, in truth, did she greatly fear that he was, having heard him make use of some brief, thoughtless expressions when the waiter did not serve quickly enough, which certainly sounded like contradictions to any such inference ; and although at the time they rather shocked her, they were now a source of comfort- ing assurance. She could not eat again so soon, and her want of appetite surprised and distressed her mother, who at once took it to be a sign of illness. But Nina explained it by telling how the grand signor had given her enough to eat ; which fact only made events appear more marvellous too, and increased the pious gratitude of the good woman. At length, as day declined, they were tired of talking, and Nina could give herself entirely to thinking of her benefactor and his goodness ; but especially of his personal appearance and kind words, Lady Merton. 249 yes, and admiring regard. Soon as might be she went into her sacred corner behind the curtain ; and then she went on thinking more vividly. It seemed as though he too were there, very near her, only she could not see him with her real eyes ; but he was no less plainly visible for all that. She prayed for him particularly, when saying her evening prayers, and especially that he might be rewarded. She dreamed about him that night, and in the morning, earlier even than usual, was at her place in the street where he had first appeared to her, taking great pains to stand if possible on exactly the same spot where she was when he came. With her were the freshest flowers she had been able to gather in the good curate's garden, while the dew was yet on them. There she remained, while the long minutes wore away, each seeming an hour, hardly moving a foot one way or the other, so great was her desire to be exact and do as he had said ; but, above all, that he should not possibly miss seeing her. Few people were in the street, and nobody bought flowers ; but they looked very hard at her ; and, when two or three were together, she could hear exclamations and words warm in praise of her beauty. But, now, what they said had no interest ; her whole soul was bent upon something else. She watched, with straining eyes, the direction from which he had come yester- day, only looking with tender interest from time to time at something hidden in her basket, or glancing hastily at a neighbouring church clock, and then regarding it more intently to make sure whether it had really stopped. That selfish regulator of time's pace went so very slow, just when she particularly 250 Lady Merton. wished it to go fast ! Once or twice she murmured, examining the hidden thing : " The dew will all be off of them, and they will be withered. Oh, I wish he would come ! " And so the morning dragged wearily on till it was past eleven o'clock. What a terribly long time it had been since she came there, dew-covered, bright, fresh, and smiling herself, the very richest flower it was possible to see. And now the dew was gone, and with it the brightness of smiles, while anxiety was fast withering all remaining freshness. Suddenly her face flushed with animation and pleasure. She had caught sight of him in the distance ; yes, it was he, she could not mistake, though his clothes were not the same in colour or style that he had worn the day before. Coming near to her standing very still with hands clasped, Hugh was met by that full, trust- ing gaze of yesterday. But there was something more and different in it, which caused his heart-throbs to quicken, while seeming to fill all visible space, to envelop and penetrate him like a subtle fluid, carry- ing at the same time an assurance of more than joyful recognition. Eagerly drawing from her basket, where it had hitherto been concealed and protected, a bunch of the freshest, most delicate, and prettiest flowers, culled from all that the neglected garden afforded, arranged with no little taste and apprecia- tion of harmony and effect, in shading and contrast- ing colours, and bound together by a long spear of grass, she held it out to him, saying: " This is for you." Hugh felt for his purse ; but she, shrinking as if from a sudden blow, cried out : Lady Merton. 251 " No, no. I will have no pay for it. I made it for you." Flushing with pleasure he took it with one hand giving- her the other, expecting her to shake it ! but, rather to his embarrassment, she kissed it reverently. " Not so, not so," he exclaimed, and, assuring him- self by a glance that no one was near, or observing them, he added, " Not my hand, but here, if you will kiss me." " May I ? I would be so grateful ! " and, as he bent his head she gave him a salute, with the same purity of intention, and the same kind of veneration which she would have felt in pressing her lips to the image of a saint. It never entered her mind that there could possibly come between them any feeling but reverence, gratitude, worshipful love, on her part; and on his indul- gent, condescending benevolence. Was he not plainly a being infinitely above her, of an order possessing wis- dom and power which she could not even conceive, to whose thoughts and feelings her sympathies could not reach, who might do whatever he pleased, while she was bound and helpless ? With these sentiments Nina, even had she, by nature, been a coquette, would not have brought that part of her character into play during her first intercourse with Hugh. But, in fact, nothing could be more foreign to her than such a complexion. She was simplicity itself, so single- minded that she could not even guess a double mean- ing; and this manifest sincerity was one of her greatest charms to Hugh, who, without taking account of the cause, notwithstanding his youth and small experience felt, when with her, a sensation not unlike that per- ceived by a person going suddenly from confined and impure to pure and boundless air. 252 Lady Merlon. " I began to be afraid that you would not come," said she. " Hungry again ? " " No, not hungry in that way. But I wanted you so much it seemed like hunger." " You are a good little puss. Come along. I have not had my breakfast, because I wished to eat it with you." Hugh had taken the precaution to select another restaurant for this meeting, that remark might not be excited by his reappearance with this beautiful peas- ant, and to order beforehand a plentiful meal. They walked some minutes in silence. Looking closely at his companion he noted that her eyes were* moist. Perceiving the scrutiny in his gaze, and as if answering its implied question : " You will go away some time and then I shall die," she said with indescribable sadness and resignation in her voice and manner. Poor little Juliet in a peasant's garb ! showing that in her nation such hearts as that of her famous prototype are confined to no epoch and to no rank. The evening before Hugh had found the society of his family duller than usual ; and he had vainly urged them to seek amusement with him outside the hotel. It was one of his misfortunes that he could never entertain himself, had no taste for study, little even for light reading ; was tormented by idle curiosity, but felt none for investigations which might increase his intellectual stores. The one dominant necessity of his life was to be amused, generally by the efforts of others. He would engage heartily in any pastime that diverted him, even at the cost of his companions ; but never Lady Merton. 253 for their entertainment Giving his attention to any- thing which was not to him amusing was laborious, consequently irksome. This evening he especially felt the need of distraction ; was nervous, irritable. With visible signs of displeasure at the dulness — his father was reading the English newspaper, just arrived, while Lady Merton was busy studying the guide-book, and Freddy had gone to bed — Hugh presently went out. The street offered no new attractions. It was the same that he had already seen by day and night at least twenty times. The people whom he met were going about their business or their pleasure, but very quietly, and did not even regard him with curiosity. He declared to himself, with unnecessary emphasis, that he had never seen so dull a place. Yet he continued to saunter up and down, thinking of nothing which would not be more tiresome. There was no theatrical performance, no concert, no anything. His legs began to ache with weariness ; he returned to the hotel, and went straight to his room. To-morrow, at any rate, he should receive the flattering devotion so dear to him, the complete, unstinted worship of an entire being ; and she — truly he had never seen, even dreamed of, or imagined a creature so beautiful as she would be if kept from the hardships of her present life, and, above all, dressed like a lady. Consoling himself with this anticipation, and troubling himself with no plans that reached further than the next meeting with Nina, he fell asleep. Generally his plans extended only to the next expected pleasure ; and in forming them he took neither the possible nor even the probable conse- quences into consideration. He would enter the way 254 Lady Merton. which led to the attraction of the moment, without a question as to whither it might ultimately tend, if it had any issue, or whither retreat would be practicable. He slept late the next morning, had coffee before leaving his bed, made his toilette slowly, lazily, yet with habitual fastidiousness, and about eleven o'clock was ready to go out. Evidently he had devised some way to console Nina, for half-an-hour later she was a picture of smiling happiness, as their breakfast drew near its end. From all he could learn, by conversation with the authorities and some of the leading citizens, Sir Henry concluded that the imprisoned strikers would now be liberated in the course of a few days ; and, with their sympathies for the unfortunate people greatly re- lieved, he and his wife, with the boys, continued their journey to Bologna. Before leaving Mantua, Hugh had comforted Nina by solemnly promising to come back, so soon as his parents should have left him at Bologna, on their way to Florence and Rome ; charg- ing her, as he had often done from the first, to say nothing, not even to her mother, of him or of their acquaintance, for his sake ; otherwise it would be im- possible, on account of his own parents, for him ever -to see her again. XXVII. AFTER leisurely viewing all that Bologna offered of interest for the inspection of tourists, making a visit to Ravenna, and seeing Hugh settled to his mind, Sir Henryand Lady Merton went on to Florence, which, for Mary, was the heart of Italy, and not only its heart, but its head, the place for its crown. " It seems to me," she said, " at least I have the feeling, that, if this peninsula be compared to a vine, this should be called its fullest, its most beautiful and perennial cluster. In all its associations it is more truly Italian than any other city between the Alps and Cape Passero, much more so than Rome." " These are the inadequate notions of a foreigner," remarked Sir Henry. " But look at its history ! It is the most unadul- terated product of the country, and sentimentally, traditionally, logically, and, according to the eternal fitness of things, should have remained the capital of united Italy." " Halloo ! I really was not aware that you were a partisan of the Pope," exclaimed the Baronet smiling. " I am a partisan of nobody, except you, my dear," returned Mary, " least of all the Pope's. But I have a strong prejudice in favour of propriety and wisdom and taste. I cannot see why the Government 256 Lady Merton. wanted to leave this city of flowers and go to that town of thorns." Here they not only visited, over and over again, the galleries and the buildings, whose names are familiar to all readers, but went on voyages of dis- covery into every curious nook, corner, and shop, and made excursions to Fiesole, Valombrosa, and other celebrated places in the neighbourhood ; so that their stay was prolonged for some weeks. In all their sight- seeing Freddy was their quiet, intently observant, appreciative and enchanted companion. Pisa claimed one day's attention and Siena several. Passing one night and part of a day at Orvieto, they took tickets for Rome, and arrived there before the middle of October, after some copious showers had refreshed the scorched soil of the campagna and laid the germs of malaria. In the month of November, Pio, who a short time before, by collusion of the not too hard-hearted jailor, had effected his escape, was making his way cautiously over the Apennines from Bologna to Pistoja, fearing he should be discovered and arrested by officers who, doubtless, were on his track. He kept near the highway, skulking under cover of the wood ; had crossed the summit, and, through an open- ing in the trees, had seen the enchanting view of the town and valley below. Half-an-hour later, as he approached the border of the forest, he suddenly found himself face to face with a policeman. His first thought and movement was to fly, which action assured the officer that the object of his search was before him. Unfortunately for Pio his foot slipped, he stumbled, and before he could recover himself he Lady Merton. 257 felt the clutches of the law. Believing that he had already been sufficiently wronged, and determined not to be imprisoned again, the fugitive resisted with all the power of his vigorous muscles, and a violent struggle was the consequence. The policeman was strong and agile, and he had the advantage of having been well fed, and of being comparatively fresh. Pio felt his forces failing. They had moved down the slope, and were now on the brink of a steep fall in the mountain side. Suddenly the officer, whose back was towards the declivity, caught his foot in some obstruc- tion, and, losing his hold of Pio, tumbled backwards. With dread and terror the fugitive looked over the precipice and saw his would-be captor lying motionless at least twenty feet below. He could not doubt that the policeman was dead, and that if taken now he should be accused of murder. At this moment he heard a voice saying : "Betternotwait; the woodsare full oisbirri. Therewas a murder and robbery committed on the highway last night near Pistoja, and they are after the perpetrators." At the sound of this voice Pio had started, turned towards, and was staring in mute consternation and despair at the speaker, a man in a hunting costume, carrying a gun over his shoulder. The ends of his reddish moustache turned up towards his hard steel- grey eyes. He had a hooked nose, and in his hat was stuck a pheasant's tail-feather. His form was tall, lithe, and sinewy. Pio's first impression suggested that this was the devil, appearing to tempt him in his hour of need. He had seen Mephistopheles once, when a kind friend gave him a ticket to the top gallery of the opera, and this was certainly like him. 18 258 Lady Merton. " I saw it all," resumed the stranger. " I was behind that thicket, and I tell you they will make you pay for killing that policeman, if they catch you." All this only added to Pio's terror, embarrassment, and helplessness. Which way could he turn for safety if the wood was full of his pursuers ? " Come here," said the mysterious personage. Pio obeyed with some hesitation, keeping his eyes fixed on the speaker. " Here, sling my game-bag on your shoulder, and take my gun. So. If they meet us now I will say you are my servant." The fugitive looked at the feet of the being who had so easily become his master. They offered no peculiarity, no evidence of the significant deformity. Just then the stranger lifted his hat and cooled his brow — no horns, no appearance even of horns. The poor man was reassured, and, casting aside all fear of the evil one, gave himself up to a feeling of gratitude for this so timely assistance. "You are a stout fellow, and with feeding and clothing would be a handsome one. I want just such a man — will you serve me ? " " Only too gladly, Excellency." " Faithfully ? " " Most faithfully." " Without asking questions ? " " Asking nothing." " I shall pay you well." " Thanks, Excellency." 4 ' And if you are not faithful " " Oh, Excellency ! " . " If you try to know too much, or to tell what you know " Lady Merlon. 259 " Oh, Excellency ! " " I will hand you over to the authorities as the murderer of that poor officer." They had continued to walk, and soon came out of the woods into the high road, by which they kept on without molestation to Pistoja, and there took the train for Florence. And in that way Pio went into service. XXVIII. ONE cause of great pleasure to Lady Merton in furnishing their apartment was the conscious- ness of preparing to " keep house," and to exercise her taste and affection in making a " home " which her husband should find altogether charming. This was her first and most absorbing mental occupation. Next came the wish to render their house pleasing to friends, where they could elegantly exercise elegant hospitality. When fitted up the apartment consisted of first and second anterooms, reception and drawing- rooms, a large saloon suitable for a ballroom, a dining-room, study and smoking-room for Sir Henry, a boudoir for his wife, several bedrooms, the kitchen, and offices. Mary frequently expressed her surprise at the way in which furniture and decorations seemed to disappear, or seemed to be of small account in these large, high, stately rooms ; and she very soon abandoned the notion of completing their equipment at once. She would make them habitable and pre- sentable, and then, as occasion offered, go on with their embellishment. In all this work Freddy was her constant com- panion and assistant. Beginning to ask his opinion or advice more to see what he would say than any- thing else, unless it was to feel and to make him feel that he was associated with her in this business, she Lady Merton. 261 came, led by his exquisite taste and unerring eye, seriously and as a matter of course to consult him in regard to every proposed purchase or arrangement. It was strange how large a space that child appeared to occupy in the house, how his presence seemed to fill the room in which he was with a refined, sweet, sacred influence. Nor was this noticed alone by Mary and Sir Henry ; strangers remarked it, but no one so feelingly as Don Foresti, between whom and the boy sprang up a warm friendship. They plainly had something in common which was too subtle for definition, and it was probable that when Freddy should grow up he would look like the priest : the same sweet, sad expression about the eyes, counter- acted by the habitual half-smile on the lips ; the same delicate texture of the pale skin ; the same exquisite features, with their signs of sensibility. They seemed to understand each other without need of many words, as if they were both children. Don Foresti came frequently to the house. Sir Henry liked him for his knowledge, his amiability, his gentle, unobtrusive manners, and, it must be said, his usefulness in regard to many things in which a foreigner needed instruction. He had no fear of the priest, because he did not talk religion. But, alas ! he did what was worse, he lived it. Any unperverted heart would have been saddened by seeing how the Baronet's honest dulness permitted his sensitive wife, more ready even to admire spiritual than physical beauty, to be exposed to imminent peril. It seemed to have been the result of accident that Sir Henry and Lady Merton's acquaintances, outside of English-speaking residents, were of the old Roman 262 Lady Merlon. families that still adhered in political sentiment to the Pope. And as her familiarity increased Mary- was more and more impressed by the harmony existing in families : the filial and paternal affection ; the dutifulness of children of both sexes, even when past their majority ; the respect and propriety of conduct, especially tenderness to their mothers, on the part of sons ; the easy, unaffected modesty and sweetness of daughters ; and was in doubt whether these were peculiar national characteristics, or the effects of their religion. Some time in November Lady Merton received a letter and a pile of manuscript from Mr. Tellifer. The letter had been written in the month of September, at a place among the Rocky Mountains in the United States, and sent to London. Thence it had continued its way, misdirected, and, after arriving too late at various post offices in Switzerland, had returned to London, to be, this time, forwarded direct to Rome. It informed Lady Merton and her husband that the writer had been one of the victims of a disagreeable adventure ; and, though the facts did little credit to himself and his fellow- sufferers, he could not resist the temptation to send an account of them to his English friends, as an illustration of the large ideas inspired by American scenery. He could vouch for the truth of his recital since he had carefully looked into the whole matter ; and, that he felt some interest in looking into it, they would understand when he told them that he had lost on the occasion one hundred thousand dollars, part of a sum which he had just made by a lucky trans- action, and which, unfortunately, he had been obliged Lady Alert on. 263 to carry from one station to another in bank-notes. And he added that, to give a lighter swing to his narrative, he had endeavoured to put it into the form of a tale. Here it is ; the narrator was one of the passengers in the coach. " Three or four miles west of the highest point in a Rocky Mountain pass, over which lies the road traversed by stage coaches, which run from several mining towns to the nearest station on the Pacific Railroad, a youngish man, with a full, tangled, reddish beard, long, uncombed hair, and eyes of an uncertain light colour, was examining the route and the features of the place with absorbing attention. Gaunt and strong, he had an unmistakably hungry look on his handsome face — handsome, save for a certain sinister, hawk-like character. "He was at about an equal distance from two post- houses, at the bottom of a depression, obliquely crossed by the road, between the lower summits. Coming towards this point from the west the coach had to run along the flank of a mountain, on the very brink of a fearful precipice ; and, after traversing the depression, wind up the side of a higher elevation till it reached the top of the pass, between two lofty peaks. " After noting carefully these facts the man walked slowly up the ascent towards the east, turning from time to time, and measuring with his eye from the deepest point of the depression. At a few hundred yards from that point he stopped, as if finally, and again looked back. ' The horses will come down the other side at a run,' he said aloud, ' and will continue the pace while the momentum lasts, but not farther 264 Lady Merton. than here ; and this is just the spot. It could not have been better if I had made it myself.' The bank on the higher side of the road was here crowned by a row of large rocks, looking as though they had been purposely so placed for a breastwork. Behind them was the thick, scrubby, dark forest, if forest it might be called. Into this the man penetrated, and soon returned with a dead and dry fir sapling. It was almost perfectly straight, about a yard and a-half long, and, at the larger end, two or more inches in diameter. On one of its sides the bark had cracked, curled up, and almost entirely fallen off; on the other it had turned to a blackish-brown colour. With a large knife he took off all the remaining bark on the partly naked side, and removed all the twigs. The wood, from which the dried bark was peeled, appeared smooth and polished, and had a light, almost brilliant, steel-grey colour. The man lifted the bigger end of the stick to his shoulder, pointing it like a musket. " ' This is perfect,' he exclaimed. ' In starlight I would myself swear it was a gun-barrel. But, my belly, my belly. I must have something to eat.' " Again he entered the thicket, and began a careful search among the trees, and particularly in the more open spots and on the moss-covered knolls for any tender, innocuous plant, or berry, or fungus, with which to appease his hunger ; was fortunate enough to find a bed of winter-green, and ravenously ate the leaves and fruit. Looking further he dis- covered a wider opening, and some blue-berries. 1 Ah,' said he, as he gathered them, ' an excellent dessert. Now, if I might fall upon a spring ! ' But Lady Merton. 265 for this he hunted in vain. The moisture of leaves and berries, however, had, in some measure, allayed his thirst ; and he returned to his work. In a little while he had prepared half-a-dozen sticks in a way to give them, dimly seen, the appearance of muskets, and laid them on the rocks in such a manner that they pointed towards the road, but high as a man's breast above it. Walking up and down in front of this fictitious battery he inspected it with great care, now readjusting one and now another of the sticks, till he appeared satisfied with the result. Then looking at the sun, and making a mental calculation of the hours that he should have to wait before the coach could arrive, he once more entered the thicket, threw himself down on some soft moss, and was soon fast asleep. XXIX. " r THWO days earlier, the man mentioned above, X under the name of Jonathan Wilder, after hearing himself sentenced to a long term of imprison- ment for the crime of forgery, had been brought back to the jail, from which, on the following morning, he was to set out, in charge of the sheriff, for his place of punishment This jail, and the court-house in which was delivered the sentence, were some leagues nearer the Pacific Ocean, in one of the new cities whose elements ' in the west ' congregate, condense, and incorporate with marvellous swiftness. This one had very recently developed into the condition of Maw and order.' It had been called ' The Pan ' during its early days, but when law and order came, and it assumed the dignity of a ' city,' the need of a more distinguished name was felt, and the local scholar suggested Panopolis, which was unanimously adopted. The court was new, and the court-house, and so were the jail, the jailor, and his deputy. This deputy had received his appointment for ' political services.' He had little knowledge of the duties and discretions incident to his new office. But he was a ' good fellow,' active, strong, fearless, frank, ready for any adventure, good-humoured, never refusing to take a hand at poker, to fight the tiger, on occasions, or any other wild beast, or man either in a fair stand-up ; Lady Merton. 267 had killed several grizzlies, one in a hand-to-paw en- counter, armed only with his knife, though he ever afterwards bore marks of the conflict, and asserted that in these cases he preferred the more dignified and gentlemanly use of the rifle. The citizens gladly spoke a good word for and recommended Bill Mundly. " Immediately after taking Jonathan Wilder from the court-house to jail the head jailor left town on business, not to return till the next morning in time to deliver his charge to the sheriff. " When, several months before, Mr. Jonathan Wilder came there with letters to some of the prominent men, presenting him as a great English capitalist, who, for himself and friends, wished to buy mines, Bill was yet a private citizen. Hospitable and generous, he gladly undertook to initiate the dis- tinguished gentleman into mysteries of ' western life.' The acquaintance speedily became an intimacy, and an avowed friendship. No one congratulated Bill more warmly when he became deputy jailor than did Jonathan ; and nobody was so much shocked as Bill by the arrest of, and the charge against, his friend, not even that friend himself. And now, after his chief's departure, he could not resist an inclination to go and condole with the prisoner. " But he found this a hard task. The convicted man was in excellent spirits, and soon proposed a last friendly game of poker. Bill had nothing to do except guard this man ; the uninhabited jail was not a cheer- ful place, and he always felt lonely when he could talk to no one, so he readily acceded to the proposal. Cards were produced from some occult place, and 268 Lady Merton. soon the game was pursuing its zigzag course. Pre- sently Wilder said, in his frank, off-hand way : " ' Don't you think the old man would join us ? ' " ' He can't,' answered Bill, incautiously. ' What do you do ? ' " ' Go you ten better. Why not ? ' "'Gone out of town,' more incautiously. " Wilder pricked up his ears and momentarily forgot his cards. " ' All right, I raise you fifty,' said Bill. " ' Well, when he comes back then. I suppose he will return before bedtime.' " ' No ; he said he should be away all night/ most incautiously. ' What do you do ? ' " ' I'm out' " From this time on Wilder was but an indifferent player, made, indeed, several blunders, and before long threw down his cards, saying : " ( I believe, after all, I am a little funked by that sentence ; it was so unexpected, you know. I did not believe an innocent man, and particularly a stranger of my position, could be condemned in your country. But they will find out their mistake ; the truth is sure to be known before long, and then I will — well, no matter. It is near supper-time, and you can do me a favour, if you like — it may be the final one ; for if they do keep me, I shan't last long. The dis- grace, you know, old fellow, the disgrace ' and here, for the first time, the speaker's courage seemed to give way and his light-heartedness to forsake him, as he impatiently went through the motion of dashing away an impertinent tear. " ' Surely,' returned Bill ' I reckon there must be Lady Morton. 269 some mistake, or you can bet your life I shouldn't be here. Uv all the white-livered, sneaky, nasty ways uv gettin' money, forgin' is, to my mind, the sneak- inest. But, I must say, the evidence was putty strong.' "'Perjury, rank perjury, my dear fellow. They have me, and may-be I shall not be able to show it till I am out again — if I live so long. — But it will never do to go on with this kind of talk. My liver is getting cold, and I want to warm it. I have no appetite, and yet I should like something that would pull me together, and put a little life No, thank you, no whisky ; you know I left off drink. But if you could get me, just for this last time, you know, some hot broth, hot as hot ; and pepper it well, red pepper, red-hot pepper, white-hot pepper, the more the better. You cannot put in too much. I am used to the stuff, and it will tone me up.' " Bill Mundly's generous heart could not refuse so small a favour. Locking the cell door after him, he went to get the soup. In a short time Wilder heard the street door of the jail opened, shut, locked, and the heavy key withdrawn ; then the door opening from the vestibule into the corridor, where was his cell. " ' It is better so,' said the prisoner to himself. ' He will have the keys about him.' "There was a little delay, and then Mundly en- tered the cell with a large bowl of steaming broth, brought from the neighbouring restaurant, boiling hot, and on fire with red pepper. " 'By thunder! as'your people say,' exclaimed Wilder, 1 you are a brick. So very kind of you ; ' and, receiv- ing the bowl, he suddenly threw its entire contents 270 Lady Merlon. into the open eyes and honest, sympathetic face of his guardian, and quickly jammed one of his thick woollen socks, already taken off for that purpose, into the wide open, gasping mouth of the blinded jailor, push- ing it so far back as to render breathing impossible. Throwing the unfortunate man who, writhing in an agony of suffocation, was unconscious of his scalded face and burning eyes, he searched, but neither keys nor a revolver, on which he had counted, could he find. A fierce oath expressed his disappointment. He did, however, bring to light a huge dirk, a modi- fied bowie-knife, and a pair of handcuffs, with which he pinioned the jailor's arms behind his back. By this time the strangling victim was black in the face, and his struggles growing feeble. Noticing this Wilder withdrew the sock from his throat and cast into his face all the water he could find. Then he stood quietly watching the slowly reviving man who in the course of about half-an-hour was sufficiently restored to ' attend to business/ as his assailant thought ; and therefore he spoke as follows : " ' Now look here. I'll leave that thing out of your mouth if you will promise me to make no noise, and to do as I say. You may just as well agree without whining, for you can't help yourself. I am going to quit this place.' " Bill had partly risen and was supporting himself by leaning his back against the wall, while he intently watched his adversary out of half-opened, bloodshot eyes, of which, fortunately, the vision had not been destroyed. " Wilder's plan, as first conceived, was, after taking the keys from Mundly, to lock him gagged in the Lady Merlon. 271 cell and escape. But failure to find these keys, and ignorance as to where they were, compelled him suddenly to substitute for that design another. M ' What d'yer want me ter do ? ' at length asked Mundly, in a voice low and tremulous with indigna- tion, mortification, and rage. 11 4 Simply to tell me where I can find the keys of this jail.' " The only reply was a scornful laugh, that sounded like the suppressed growl of a panther. " ' If you don't, by I will kill you.' " l Wall, I guess yer could, seem' as how yer're armed with my knife and with yer nasty, pisen stockin', while I'm unarmed and fettered. And it wouldn't hurt yer dog-goned cowardly soul to do it, nuther. Hadn't yer better begin ? It would help yer mightily. You never could find them keys ; luckily I thought uv that, though I was such a blamed everlasting damnation fool as ter trust and treat yer as ef yer was a white man. And when the chief comes and finds yer here with my bloody corpse, wall, es I said, it'll help yer mightily.' " ' You forget that now I have this beautiful knife — it is a beauty, Bill ; wherever did you get it ? And when the old man comes I will quietly lay him alongside of you, and then walk out. He won't be so awfully careful of his precious keys as you are.' " Mundly at once saw that this scheme was practic- able, and the sacrifice of his own life would probably bring about the murder of his chief. " ' And,' continued Wilder, ' it would be a pity for you never to see that stunning sweetheart again, not to say good-bye to her, no last kiss, you know. And 272 Lady Merton. she, poor thing — for I couldn't stay to console her.' "Bill clenched his hands and ground his teeth, for the mockery bit. He was to be married shortly to the prettiest girl in town. Then for some minutes he seemed lost in reflection. At length he said quietly : " ' Yer couldn't possibly get them keys ef I was to tell yer the best I know. Nobody could but me.' " It was Wilder's turn to reflect. Soon he replied : " ' We can get over that difficulty. As I said, I will keep this sock, which does not seem to suit your taste, out of your mouth, and treat you with the politeness due to your position, if not with the confidence of an old friend, if you will promise me to obey my orders and not in any way give an alarm.' " Mundly seemed to have decided on his course. Handcuffed and helpless he must substitute cunning for strength ; and he gave the promise required. "'I know,' remarked Wilder, 'that I have treated you in a beastly way ; but it was the only chance. You see you're too honest for your own good ; otherwise we might have made a little arrangement in a friendly way. But I knew it was no use to try that on. I'm sorry.' "'Oh, dry up, will yer; don't waste yer oil. What d'yer want me to do now ? ' growled Mundly. " ' Nothing just yet ; it's not late enough. Make yourself comfortable as you can on my luxurious bed there : don't mind tumbling it ; it resists well, and besides, I shall not use it again': and the conqueror seated himself on the only stool, facing the cot, with the captured knife open in his hand. ' Only mind one thing,' he continued leaning forward, ' if you call, Lady Merton. 273 or in any way try to attract attention, you will be stuck like a squealing pig.' " The young jailor sat down on the bed. Indigna- tion at the treachery of which he had been a victim, amazement at villainy which he would have declared impossible, together with mortification caused by his utter defeat, and anxiety as to its consequences on his official position and future political success, as well as its effect on his sweetheart, so distracted him that he was only dimly conscious of physical sufferings. He scorned to upbraid his betrayer, or to utter any complaint ; and for some hours remained mute and, apparently, deaf to all the excuses and explanations of its necessity that the author of the treason proffered. A little after midnight Wilder said : " ' Now you will show me where to get the keys.' " 4 Much good that would do yer. The doors have patent locks, which nobody can work but a hand used to urn.' " 'Well, then, you shall unlock the doors, and we will walk out together like two friends, as we are, and go a mile or more from the town.' " This arrangement was the one to which Mundly wished to push his antagonist, as, under the circum- stances, it was the only one that offered any chance of retrieving what he had lost. His fear had been lest his adversary might succeed in quitting the jail and leaving him locked within it, where, pinioned and powerless, he should have to wait till the head jailor's return ; in which time the fugitive would make good his escape. " They approached the first door. " ' Where are your keys ?' demanded Wilder. 19 274 Lady Merton. " ' I can't git um without hands.' " ' Oh ! Then I will take off the bracelets ; though it is running a great risk — for you. If you try to take advantage ' "'Bosh!' exclaimed Mundly. 'Don't scare me. Yer may put um on agin when we're outside ef yer want to. / won't hinder yer.' " The handcuffs were removed and, clumsily, for his arms were cramped and numb, Bill took from his watch-chain what the late prisoner had regarded as merely a fanciful trinket, and pushed it into the lock, a part of which springing open exposed the means for withdrawing the heavy bolts. A like operation opened the street door. This, Wilder insisted, should be carefully closed after them, lest anything un- usual might arouse the suspicion of some observing passer-by. "Mundly placed his hands together and Wilder put on the handcuffs. " ' Wall, yer're all fired smart, you are,' said Bill contemptuously. ' Mind the cattle don't see yer ; they'd browse on yer.' "'What's the matter now?' asked Jonathan, feeling uneasy. " ' Somethin' the doctors can't cure. It's yer head. Yer're a darned fool.' "'Really?' " ' Suppose we should happen to meet the boys, what d'yer reckon they'd say, noticin' me and you together, and me with the nippers on ? ' " ' By you are right,' remarked Wilder, after a moment's reflection ; ' though I do not intend to meet them.' Then he considered again for some Lady Merton. 275 minutes. He was armed with that terrible knife, and he knew that Bill was unarmed and well aware of these two facts. It might be ventured ; in fact, it must. And he removed the pinions and put them in his pocket. Drawing Mundly's right under his left arm, and still holding in his right hand the formid- able weapon, Wilder directed their course through the most unfrequented ways towards the mountains. The town was unusually quiet ; and much to the deputy jailor's disappointment and chagrin, they saw no one. In about half-an-hour they had reached the edge of a forest at the base of the hills. " While sitting on his late prisoner's bed Bill had been studying the chances and forming contingent plans. One was that, in case he could get rid of the manacles, he would watch his opportunity, and at all risks try to overpower his adversary. But that per- son's proposal, that they should go through the town together, awakened in him a new hope. They might meet some of the ' boys,' who would instantly per- ceive the actual state of the case, or to whom he could make it known. If this man should get away, •how could he ever prove, with the indisputable evidence of certain facts against him, that, taking ad- vantage of the head jailor's absence, he had not connived at and helped the escape ? His intimacy with the would-be fugitive was a matter of notoriety. The loss of his reputation for trustworthiness in any and all circumstances, together with disgrace, and perhaps degrading punishment, were before him. But even all this seemed as nothing when he thought how he should be despised by his Jenny, either for such connivance and faithlessness, or for having been 276 Lady Merton. whipped, conquered, utterly defeated and used up, by this soft-footed stranger. To prevent all this he must make a desperate effort. The walk and the cool night air had refreshed him ; his arms had regained their elasticity ; and with reason he felt great confi- dence in his agility and strength. " At the edge of the wood Wilder stopped, freed Mundly's arm, and stood before him. " ' Now,' said he, ' I will bid you good-bye. Our ways must be different for some time. In truth, I have no further use for you. Try not to keep a grudge against me ' " The two men were facing each other, a few feet apart. Suddenly, with a spring forward and without waiting for the end ofWilder's speech, Bill let drive his left fist straight at the culprit's nose; but he, who was on the look-out, warded with his right which still held the knife. The force of Mundly's blow was enough to beat down his adversary's arm in such a way that the knife struck one side of his head and penetrated the upper part of his breast. He sank without a sound. " ' My G what has happened ? ' exclaimed Wilder. ' What have I done ? ' In the obscurity he did not at first perceive blood. ' Bill ! Bill ! ' " But Bill did not reply. He lay silent and motion- less where he had fallen. " ' I see — it was the knife — he's done for. He brought it on himself, d him ! The fool ! But I must be going. The hounds will be after me. I shall be hunted like a grizzly. Poor Bill ! ' and, after a last look at his victim, he disappeared in the forest. " The fugitive was well aware that five or six hours must elapse before his escape would be discovered r Lady Merton. 277 and more than that time before poor Bill's body could be found ; and his plan was quickly formed. He took the shortest way to the stage road, which ran in a south-easterly direction to the nearest station on the Pacific Railroad, and followed it at a rapid pace. As day appeared he came to a brook that crossed the highway, turned into it that his track might be lost in case dogs were used to hunt him, walked in it some distance till, bending, it re- crossed the road, which he here re-entered and con- tinued his rapid course. " He was at all times a strong and fast walker, but never before had he made so good time for so many hours. By eight o'clock m the morning he was, at least, twenty-five miles from Panopolis, heated, weary, and blown, creeping into a dense thicket on the summit of a hillock, and taking great pains to leave no trace of his passage. Hardly was he stretched on the ground before he fell into a pro- found sleep, and did not wake till towards evening. When he thought the night sufficiently dark he re- sumed his course, avoiding post-stations by turning into the woods. Before sunrise on the second morn- ing after his escape he had reached the place where, as has been seen, he seemed determined to make a stand, and carry some desperate purpose into effect. For desperate he was. Since the day before he had left the jail no food had passed his lips, except a few berries and some tender leaves. He had no firearms, no means of killing game. There were no inhabitants, and he durst not show himself at the post-houses. Besides, he was painfully aware that he could not make good his escape without money, and this, at whatever risk, he must obtain. XXX. "A S has been said, after arranging his battery, J~\ Wilder had gone to sleep. It was already evening when he awoke with stiffened and aching limbs ; an evening so perfectly lovely that the stars seemed to have come out in unusual numbers and brilliancy to enjoy it. At a little after ten o'clock he heard the noise of wheels, seized his sham musket, and crouched behind a rock. Presently he saw against the sky a dark moving mass, as the coach was whirled round the mountain above the precipice by its horses at full run. In spite of his own purpose a thrill of terror shot through him when he saw the heavy vehicle swing towards the gulf as its opposite wheels ran over a stone fallen upon the road. On it came, however, down the incline with ever-increasing speed to the lowest point. The gallop of the horses con- tinued up the ascent on the other side for some two hundred yards, then changed to a trot, and, just before they came abreast of the battery, the pace had diminished to a walk. " Wilder, alert, cool, every nerve active with one intention, waited till the coachman was nearly oppo- site to him at the upper end of his battery. Suddenly appearing, he called out, ' Halt ! ' at the same time aiming his simulated rifle at the driver. He, who some years before, on the old California route, had Lady Merton. 279 been knocked from his box by a bullet for not obey- ing a similar order, had learned prudence by experi- ence, and at once pulled up his horses. By the shout and sudden stopping all the passengers, most of whom had been asleep and the rest somnolent, were roused, in time to hear Wilder say to his supposed con- federates, ' Mind, boys, if they show fight kill every mother's son of them ! ' and then to the driver : ' Get down there, and stand at the horses' heads — quick, or I'll ' It was not necessary for him to give his threat words, for the coachman leaped from the box and took his place as commanded. With a show of care, leaning his imitation rifle against the rock, and with a ' Look sharp, boys ! ' addressed to his battery, Wilder advanced and took the driver's revolver — a most important acquisition. All this time the pas- sengers, believing that half-a-dozen loaded muskets, in the hands of desperate men, were pointed at them, had done nothing except try hastily to conceal such valuables as they could. " The aggressor now turned his attention to them. 1 Every one out. — Hands up. — In line,' he ordered, and they obeyed. Those guns had an appalling look to men just awakened, and who, earlier in the evening, had been entertained with an account of atrocious massacres by stage-robbers, given with full play of a powerful imagination and strong love for startling blood-coloured effects. Wilder's first care was to secure all arms, and presently he had as many revol- vers as there were captives. These he put into the coach, remarking, to console his victims, ' You will find them all right when you get in.' Then he ' went through ' each passenger in order. When every way- 280 Lady Merton. farer had been plundered of all valuables discoverable in a rather hasty examination, with another exhortation for the wooden guns to ' drop the first man that moves,' he sprang up to the driver's seat, as though to look for more booty, and presently called to him, 1 Leave their heads and come here ; I want your keys.' The man moved to obey ; but no sooner had he taken a few steps than the heavy whip fell again and again upon the horses. Leaping, the spirited beasts ran wildly up the hill, guided by their captor who shouted back : ' I say, boys, don't shoot ; be generous to brave men in misfortune ; let them off easy,' and before the astonished dupes recovered from their surprise at this unexpected ending of the adventure, horses, coach, and its new driver had disappeared round a projection of the mountain. The passengers had, towards the last, congratulated themselves, believing that their luggage would not be disturbed ; and now they were left late at night without horses, arms, luggage, or anything, except a few flasks of whisky, miles from a post and telegraph office. " It was fortunate for the horses that the summit of the pass was not farther off, as the ' road agent ' kept them at the top of their speed till it was passed and they were near the next post. Here, also, the road, for a short distance, skirted an overhanging precipice, not very deep, a hundred feet, more or less. The place was known to Wilder. Through the gulch at the foot of this beetling rock he and poor Bill Mundly, not many months before, had passed when ' prospecting ' for mines, and he had noticed at the cliff's base a low- mouthed cavern and a winding passage from the stage road, by the end of the precipice farthest from Lady Mei'ton. 281 the nearest post, up which he and Bill had found their way from the gulch. Fastening the steaming, trem- bling, and loud-breathing horses to a scrubby tree, he inspected the interior of the coach, and found, in addition to the revolvers that he had placed there, a repeating rifle and plenty of ammunition. The moon had now risen and gave light enough for his purpose. He also discovered a half-emptied bottle of whisky, a light draught from which greatly refreshed him. The contents of a lunch-basket he reserved for more lei- surely discussion. With all possible celerity he de- tached the luggage, and, one by one, the heaviest pieces first, dropped trunks, valises, boxes, and sacks over the cliff's edge. Touching nothing in their de- scent they fell upon a bank of sand, pebbles, rubbish, and mould at the bottom. When all had been taken from the coach he unfastened the horses, turned, and, again urging the poor beasts to their best speed, drove back two or three miles, wheeled the horses' heads eastwards and tied them. The road was so hard and dry that no track of these movements was left, and he felt morally certain that, when the vehicle should be discovered, it would be inferred that there it had been plundered, and, consequently, that all search would be confined to that neighbourhood. Then he walked back and descended to the cave, near which he found the luggage. The repeating rifle, pistols, whisky bottle, and lunch-basket had been kept about his person. In a short time all the plunder was hidden in the cavern, and the marks of its falling disguised. Then the lunch-basket was opened and the whisky. For the first time in more than fifty hours he ate what, under the circumstances, seemed a very ' square meal.' 282 Lady Merton. " Fully convinced that if taken he should be incon- tinently ' lynched ' in spite of ' law and order,' he deter- mined, in case he were discovered, on a desperate resistance. His arsenal contained seven revolvers and the repeating rifle, all in excellent order and charged. These he arranged near the mouth of the cave, which was low, narrow, and easily defended. He had also the knife that had been so fatal to poor Bill. Next he examined the contents of the trunks, boxes, and bags, and found not only an assortment of cloth- ing and a surprisingly rich booty in money and valuables, but what at that moment he esteemed of the greatest worth, an additional supply of am- munition for the firearms. He was now ready to stand a siege, provided it did not last long enough to reduce him by famine. Every few minutes he peered cautiously from his hiding-place, but no sign of an enemy could be seen. " While rifling the coach he had found and put on an ordinary Derby hat of the right size for his head, not too new and fresh, and he now selected, from the stores spread around, and dressed himself in a clean shirt and a plain sombre coloured suit of clothes. He put another shirt and some articles for the toilette together, and tied them up in a large pocket-hand- kerchief; disposed the treasure about his person, ad- justed a trunk strap around his waist, as a belt for the revolvers ; secured his ammunition in another pocket- handkerchief, which could be attached to his belt, and felt himself ready to set out on the journey that he had in view as soon as prudence would permit. " The day passed without alarm or incident. In the gulch darkness came early so as effectually to conceal Lady Merton. 283 everything there, while on the higher ground objects could still be discerned in the twilight. Having placed the three largest pistols in his belt, and another smaller one in the pocket designed for such use in his lately acquired trousers, and fastened the selected am- munition to his girdle, he shouldered the rifle, took the bundle which served as a valise, and set out on his way down the ravine. After walking some distance he turned and scanned the road, now in plain sight, and the surrounding heights, but could perceive nothing calculated to excite even a suspicion of danger. Having previously traversed the gulch he had a general notion of its length, and of the country below. His progress was slow and tedious, but his spirits grew lighter with increasing confidence in his safety. After the moon rose his way became easier. By daybreak he was among the foot-hills eighteen or twenty miles from the place whence he had set out. " A little before sunrise, climbing an elevation to obtain a view of the flatter land to the south-east, he was startled by reports of firearms. Hurrying on to an open space he saw, not far from the foot of the hill, a cabin, and, almost at the same moment, smoke, followed by the report of a gun fired through a hole in its side. Looking for the object of the shot he saw half-a-dozen Indians skulking behind stones, knolls, or anything which served as a cover. Not far from them were their horses tied to trees. It was the first time that Wilder had been really glad to see a red-skin. ' Now,' said he to himself, ' is the time for me to make a friend.' Suspecting no danger in the rear, the Indians were fully exposed to an attack coming from that direction. A belt of wood on the 284 Lady Merton. hill-side stood between him and them, through which he hastened with all possible speed. But when he arrived at its lower edge, where he had expected to be within half-rifle shot of the assailants, the con- dition of affairs was changed. Having drawn the cabin fire, and perceiving that it had but one defender, the red-skins appeared to have decided on an assault. Crawling in hollows, and dodging from cover to cover, they were cautiously, and so far safely, approaching the dwelling, from which, now and then, a shot was ineffectually fired. In a few minutes Wilder occupied the place held by the savages when he had first seen them, while they were within a few rods of the hut. Hiding himself behind a boulder he opened fire with the repeating rifle, within little more than half-range, and each of the first two shots brought down an Indian. The others, seeing by the smoke whence the attack came, and that by it they were cut off from their horses, began a helter-skelter foot race for the nearest woods. Wilder discharged a shot at some one of them as often as there seemed to be a probability that he should not throw away his ammunition ; but in their course they crouched and dodged and zigzagged with so much effect that only one more of them was hit before they were out of range. " In the first surprise of his enemies, and while, looking for the source of this unexpected danger, they thoughtlessly exposed themselves, the besieged party had fired his first successful shot, and killed one of the besiegers. He had also made a sally, and wasted more powder and ball on the fugitives. " Wilder now came from his place of concealment, Lady Merlon. 285 and advanced to meet the person whom he had so opportunely relieved. Doubtless the two savages, who had escaped, were now observing them from the woods, and would know that they had been routed by one man. But they would know also that the cabin now held two men ; knowledge which would prevent their return before they should have obtained a reinforcement. " ' Wall/ said the man of the hut, grasping his ally's outstretched hand, ' I reckon this is bein' a friend in need.' " ' You bet,' returned Wilder, who had become familiar with the terse idioms of the country. " ' The sneakin' thieves fust killed and scalped my pard, who had gone ter git some water from the spring fur our breakfast ; and I had only time ter barricade the shanty when they opened on t'it. Ef yer don't mind, we'll fust bury my poor pardner, and then have suthin' t'eat.' " In the bottom of a hollow the grave was quickly dug, the murdered man's remains, in his bloody working clothes, placed in it, and covered with earth and stones. All the Indians who had been hit were dead. Their bodies were left where they lay, and their horses brought to the cabin. A breakfast of game, coarse bread, and black coffee was soon ready, of which Wilder ate ravenously. Nothing of import- ance was said till the man, handing his late partner's pipe to the stranger, filled his own, and they began to smoke. Wilder's thoughts had been chiefly occupied in the preparation of some story to account for his appearance there. " ' I believe,' said he, ' that those red devils are the 286 Lady Merton. same ones who killed my partner. You see, we had set up a shanty, and were looking for an outcrop just over the leg of the mountain there. I had gone out alone, as you see me, leaving my pard in camp. When I came back, his dead body, scalped, was lying before the door. Everything had been carried off, except what is in that bundle, which they didn't happen to discover.' " ' Wall,' said the man, ' my minin' in this yere place is played out. Ter be sure, we haven't found nuthin' yit 'cept indicashuns. But them cusses '11 be back with a crowd fur revenge ; so I shall leave these parts.' " ' That is exactly what I had decided to do,' re- turned his guest. ' Suppose we go together.' " ' All right,' was the response. Then they began to discuss the question as to the point towards which their course should be directed. To Wilder the de- cision presented some difficulties. The nearest station on the Pacific Railroad was about twenty miles to the south-east of them ; but it happened that this station was the terminus of the stage line, one of whose coaches had been stopped ; and it seemed likely enough that of the passengers waiting there someone might recognise him. The man urged that they could sell their captured horses at this place better than elsewhere ; besides, it was a long distance to any other station on either side. The fugitive durst not explain why he did not wish to go there ; and could think of no plausible pretext for avoiding that particular settlement. So he finally yielded the point. " ' But,' said he, 'as we are going back to civilisation, Lady Merton. 287 I must make myself look a little more civilised. There is a dodge,' he continued, pulling off a wig, and exposing the bald top of his head, ' which your late partner never thought of to preserve his scalp. I wore it as a precaution in case they should get too near,' and he threw the wig into the fire, which had been made to boil water for their coffee, and which was still burning. He next produced shaving appar- atus from the bundle, and cut off his beard and moustache." " ' Wall,' said the man, looking at him with admira- tion, 'yer're transported. Yer own mother, if she'd a known yer when yer come here wouldn't know yer now.' " Wilder himself thought so too, and was pleased to have his opinion confirmed. Taking a small, bat- tered valise, which had belonged to the dead partner, he filled it with the booty he had brought from the cave, and declared himself ready to set out. In the meantime the owner of the cabin had put in his bag the few things which his shanty contained. The valise and sack were tied together and thrown across the back of one of the animals, the men mounted, and, each leading two horses, arrived at the station, frankly told how they came by the steeds, and, asking low prices, readily sold them and divided the proceeds. Here the cabin man changed his mind and concluded to remain till something should turn up. " Although he saw several persons who had known him in the mountains Wilder was recognised by none. He read, posted in several places, a written notice offering, with a description of himself, a large reward for his arrest, or for information leading surely to his 288 Lady Merton. capture. But the description indicated an appear- ance so different from what his own now was that he felt no apprehension. " Bidding his friend of the cabin good-bye he took an evening train for the first junction with a road running south." "While looking into this matter, hunting, with others, through the mountains for the highwayman, and to find some salve for the feelings of seven able bodied, well fed, and well armed men, who had sur- rendered to, and tamely let themselves be plundered by, one hungry man unarmed," continued Mr. Tellifer, resuming the style of a letter, " in a certain valley I came across and incidentally looked into a new sect of Protestants. It is not known from what engrafted branch of the ideal Church this bunch of fruit dropped ; but I am sure you will be interested to hear about its members. They call themselves Lunatics, from the article of their faith which teaches that it is a mistaken interpretation, or a wrong reading, which represents the sun as a proper emblem of the Founder of Christianity, and that His true symbol is the moon, as is evident from Genesis i. 16, where it is expressly declared that the light which is to rule the night — that is, the night of this world's wickedness — is the lesser light, or the lunar orb. And they say that this is plain also from the facts that He changes and has phases, and shines somewhat dimly at times, and again not at all. That His rising was like that of the moon, in the night, when ' darkness covered the earth, and gross darkness the people,' whereas the sun never comes up till it is broad daylight. That, Lady Merton. 289 when He first rose, He shone for three or four cen- turies with great splendour, in a way fit for those times, and disappeared. That then came the moonless night of the dark ages, during which he did not shine at all. That, when it came, His second rising brought with it that lunatic luminosity called the Reforma- tion. That since this rising He has shown many phases, and shone with many different degrees of light. That the reading about the ' Father of lights ' (James i. 17) 'with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning,' is a wrong translation, or a cor- ruption of the text ; that the error is in the word 1 with,' which should be 'without'; so that the reading would stand, ' without whom is no variableness,' and so forth. That ' modern Christianity,' and ( enlight- ened Christianity,' and ' Christianity suited to the advanced spirit of the age,' as well as changes in doctrines of the older sects, and the outgrowth of new ones, only correspond to and demonstrate so many alterations and phases in the common Founder of all the different kinds of Christianity. That to vary doctrine, even to substitute yes for no, and no for yes, is plainly a Christian duty, an object which ought to be followed with zeal, since the sect which makes the most frequent, radical, and contradictory revolutions, inversions, tergiversations, will come out champion and have the prize at the last great ex- hibition. That when He said ' My spirit shall guide you into all truth,' it was an intimation that what He had said was not truth entirely ; which, indeed, was confirmed by the holy Reformers. And this is why the modern teachings of the Spirit seem to be inconsistent with, in fact are often diametrically op- posed to, the teachings of Him Who sent it. 20 290 Lady Merton. " In this sect diseases are cured through the influ- ence of the moon and potency of the crescent. I saw- its founder and leader, a magnificent animal — tall, strong, well-proportioned, of robust health — a mighty contrast to the other men of the community, who are pale, puny, feeble, slow-bellies. This founder and the sick person are laid on their sides in the light of a young moon, back to back, their shoulders and feet attached. Then the miracle-worker, by curving himself forward, bends the patient backward till the line of curvature coincides with the arc of the crescent moon. They are left in this position. When this ceremony has been repeated times enough the invalid gets well, or dies. If he or she dies it is for want of faith. " You see that the principles of Protestantism are fresh, lively, vigorous, fruitful, and enterprising with us, going on making new discoveries, like some other speculators, and, above all, that the proper spirit of religious progress keeps abreast of the age, by the aid of private and independent interpretation of the Scriptures. " I hope to spend the winter in Rome, and that we may renew, or rather continue, our most interesting inspections." XXXI. SIR HENRY affected much regret for Mr. Tellifer's most provoking loss, all the more emphatically because he felt a secret gratification in believing that the man who, alone, had outwitted, whipped, routed, reduced, conquered, ravaged, and plundered so many Yankees was an Englishman. England still held the supremacy in all. As a descendant of Anglo-Saxons and Vikings he could but sympathise with and feel admiration for any freebooting act of conquest, achieved through superior force, or superior cunning with inferior strength, at the cost only of threats and bullying backed by a formidable show of muscle and bludgeons ; by which his nation, or any fraction of it, acquired territories, mines, treasures of any kind, present or prospective commercial profits. He could not help saying : 11 Though, really, my dear, I think that fellow deserved all he took and to get off scot free, now don't you ? I must say it was clever, very clever, uncommonly clever." A month later Mary was busy with Freddy making plans and preparations for Christmas. It had been decided that he should give a party and invite the two young daughters of Prince and Princess , the son and daughter of Lord and Lady , and some half-a-dozen other small people, whose acquaintance 292 Lady Merton. he had made since his arrival in Rome. A tree had been obtained, very symmetrical, very tall, very hand- some, and now it was to be dressed with suitable presents for all. In the preparations Freddy was wholly absorbed ; he could think or talk of nothing else. Lady Merton noticed with some surprise and more disquiet his untiring vivacity and eagerness, his feverish solicitude. No one whom he knew was for- gotten. For each a gift was chosen with admirable taste and sense of fitness. But as the work went on and the boy never seemed to be weary, while his colour improved — that is, liis cheeks were no longer pale, but rosy, and his eyes bright — Mary's uneasiness on his account yielded to a conviction that the change of climate was what the little fellow needed, and that now he would grow hardy and vigorous. Christmas Eve arrived and Mary with the mothers of the little ones sat rather apart admiring the amia- bility and grace with which the youthful host received and entertained his guests. In his manner and ad- dress was a certain suggestion of that delicate, self- forgetting benevolence which is the essence and soul of courtesy. And this benevolence put into his mouth the apt word as he gave each gift. It was a very, very happy evening for him, a very merry one for his friends, and one never forgotten by Sir Henry and Lady Merton ; nor by Don Foresti, who entered fully into the children's pleasures, and knew so well how to become a little child that the others seemed really to take him for one, distinguishing him only by a kind of tender deference and by especially desiring his approbation. That evening the priest's penetrating eye saw and noted the beginning of what was to follow. Lady Merton. 293 Shortly after New Year's Day, Hugh, who was comfortably, or rather, elegantly established at Bo- logna, received from Nina the following letter : " My poor, dear, darling Ugo, — I could not write sooner ; it is all too terrible ! And I am ill — oh, so ill ! But that is nothing. I ought to burn — to be racked — tormented — as I am. And my heart is broken, for you and by you, and worse than that. Oh, Ugo ! How could you make me do it ? How could you deceive me — if you loved me as you said ? And then I think you did it because you loved me, and could not find any other way for us to be together. I am all con- fused about that, and cannot see anything clearly ; only I know we have done a very great wrong, and have been living in mortal sin. And when I remem- ber how I thanked God so many times a day that you were my husband — it seemed impossible — my husband, you ! Such a great thing to happen to me — me ! You so great and splendid, and knowing so much ! And I. No, I could not feel it to be true. I could not really believe it, and I prayed that I might not wake up and find it was not so. And then I believed you, and I believed in you, and you said it was so. Therefore it must be, I thought, and thanked God again and more. And I thanked Him for all the blessings of your love, and for all the learning you had taught me and made others teach me. And now I know you were not my husband at all, and I was lying to Him, and thanking Him for a false thing which was not, only a pretence ; and He knew I was mocking Him. Oh, Ugo ! I have already been terribly punished — but it is only the beginning — and there is no reparation any more. I can never make 294 Lady Merton. amends — never undo what I have done — never — never! If I could only think straight and write clearly you would see. But my thoughts keep turning back and crossing one another, and twining themselves together — oh, it is dreadful ! " I begged you to let me come home to pass Christmas, because I could not bear any longer to have no news from mamma, and of papa, and the children ; no answer to any of my letters — and it was so long, so long, the silence. And I came home. Home ! Ugolino ! I ran most of the way to the old house — for I did not want to go there in a carriage. It was shut up — all still — nobody, only a cat. And she rubbed against me, seeing my trouble. Then suddenly I thought, ' They have moved to a better place. The money I sent them through my Ugo's goodness was enough to get a decent house ; may-be they have also got the farm back.' And that thought made me so glad. The curate would know ; so I went to him. But he wasn't glad to see me, not as he used to be — though he was in another way. He looked at me very solemnly, and made me afraid. He never used to look so. Well, he did not reprove me at first. He spoke gently and kindly, and oh, so sadly ! I saw he did not like my good clothes. I asked him at once where papa and mamma and the children had gone. He lifted his head, and looked at me surprised and very sorry. Then he said, ' My poor stray lamb !' and he asked, ' Do you not know?' I told him I knew nothing — had written so often — sent money. ' Poor child,' said he, ' poor erring child, poor stray lamb.' I began to tremble, and cried out, ' Tell me, oh ! do tell me.' And he told me— Oh ! oh ! Ugo ! Lady Merton. 295 " Not long after we went away mamma was taken ill — it was the carbon — starvation and bad polenta — because it was cheapest. She was carried to the hospital, became delirious, kept asking for me and papa, and talking to us — and died — do you hear, Ugo ? died — without receiving any of my letters, without knowing that I loved her more than ever, without any money — without forgiving me ! And yet, when I went away secretly with you, one part of my happiness was that I could make them so much better off with the money you promised to give me for them — and they never received it — none of it — not a centime — none — none. " The children, through the curate's goodness, were taken into charity homes, all except Pippo, who got a place where he could work. But it was too late for the others. They died : dysentery, starvation, and bad food, when they could get it, green and raw, had done their work — the poor, dear, little tender ones ! And papa ? I don't know what has become of him. He was not let out of prison, as we thought he would be — kept there five months in all, then he escaped. Soon the rest were turned away without any trial ; the magistrates said they were not guilty of any crime. Yet they kept him in jail while his wife starved and died, and his children became beggars, and died too, all but Pippo and me, — and I — When he found the room empty, and that mamma and the little ones were dead, and that I had gone away nobody knew where, nor with whom, he seemed to fall together, and walked away feebly, and never came back any more. I went to see Pippo. He only said I was very bad, very wicked, and turned his back to me. 296 Lady Merton. " Now, don't you see, Ugolino, don't you see ? If I had stayed and sold flowers, or done anything, we might still have been hungry ; but mamma would have had something better to eat, and would have lived, and I should not have killed her and the chil- dren, and been the cause of all that may happen to papa, nor lived in mortal sin, nor lost my soul ! Oh, Ugo ! Ugo ! it is all horrible ! I feel as if I ought to die — to be tortured to death — a long death, but I am afraid ! " I am staying in a little house near the curate's. His servant found the place for me. She is so good, and so kind, and I go to him every day, and he talks to me so gently, so tenderly, so sadly — yes, and so hopefully, if I will only do right. But to do right I must never, never go back to you. He does not know who you are, for in confessing, you know, we must tell our own, not other people's sins, and we must not name them who do wrong with us ; if we wanted to the priest wouldn't let us. He says I must never, never go back to you unless we are first really married ; for, forgive me, dear Ugo, he says you lied when you told me that in your country, where the people are better than everybody else, and know more than anybody else, when two persons in love agree to be faithful to each other, that marries them ; and that it was very, very wrong for you not to let me tell my mother about your love, and get her consent and be married by the Church, which makes the only true marriage, for it is a sacrament ; and that / was wicked, consenting to keep all this a secret from mamma, and that your reasons — I told him what they were — were no reasons at all, if you really Lady Merton. 297 meant to make me your wife, and — and a great deal more. But mind, he doesn't know who you are ; you are only the person. And I dare not go back. And if I do not, and you don't want to come and marry me — a real marriage — I shall not live long. I cry all the time, and I wish I could cry more ; for what I do is not enough to comfort or relieve me, and my life will all run out of my eyes. " I love you so dearly, Ugolino, so dearly; and I thought you loved me, though I was so poor, and so much below you, every way. But now I don't know. I shall know if you come to to do as the priest says. If not, I shall love you still, just the same, as long as I live. If you will not come to do that, please write me one kind little letter to tell me so. Let me know the worst at once. I shall not eat or sleep till I hear. But Ugolino, dear Ugolino, do, please do, say that you still love me. You never can know how viucJi you are loved by Nina." Hugh was completely taken aback by this letter. He knew how gentle, sweet, innocent, unselfish, and true this girl was, and also how conscientious and how faithful to her religion. And, now that she was aware of the relation in which she had stood to him, nothing could induce her to renew it. He was irritated with her, and angry with the priest, whom he heartily and loudly cursed. What business had he to interfere, and frighten the girl when she was so happy ? Mingled with his less amiable feelings was, however, one of pity for all the misfortunes which had come upon Nina, and for the sufferings caused in her by remorse. He had seen her intellect expand wonderfully, with some aid from him and others, and the command of books. 21 298 Lady Merlon. She seemed to absorb a knowledge of all that best befitted a lady ; or rather, it appeared as though this knowledge had been dormant in her, spell-bound by poverty and all its incidents, and was now freed and awakened by ease and an atmosphere of intelligence. He was proud of her, as of something which, in a measure, his hands had fashioned ; and he loved her selfishly. She was a victim constantly sacrificed to his vanity, and thus dear to him ; making him envied by all the class of careless students whose society alone he sought. No, he was not going to give her up — not yet. He would " get ahead " of that meddlesome old priest in some way. Marry the girl, a peasant, and, more, dis- honoured ? He laughed at the notion. It was too absurd to be thought of, particularly as he did not wish to be bound to anyone. He had distant, but pleasing, visions of some day making an alliance which with everything else desirable, should bring him lots of money. Money would be the first requisite in a wife. He never had, and never could have, enough of it ; for he knew not how to deny himself, and had to have and to do all that he supposed a spirited young gentleman ought to do or to have. The question how to keep Nina without marrying her was difficult ; and he studied it with more assiduity than he had ever yet studied anything. And, while studying, the idea came to him that the law itself might point to a solution of the problem. And so he applied himself to ascertain what was the law of the country in regard to marriage. Soon he found that to be valid and binding in the courts there must be a civil contract and ceremony before a magistrate. He Lady Merlon. 299 seized Nina's letter. She, or rather the priest, only demanded a religious marriage, a Church marriage. He caught up his hat and tossed it in the air. The priest should be circumvented, Nina should return to him, yet he would not- be married; for a religious marriage was, by law, no marriage. To such a cere- mony there could be no objection since, if he wished, he might at any time legally abandon her. He might not wish to do so, probably should not for some time, when it would be easier for the girl ; but then, again, he might have good reasons for doing so any day, if it was plainly for his advantage. In all cases he should be free to do as he liked. It took Hugh three days to fully investigate the subject, examine it on every side, and assure himself that he could wed Nina, as the priest had dictated, without any risk of being caught. All this time the poor girl was suffering tortures of suspense which, alternating with the torments of remorse, reduced her to the most pitiable condition. The good curate did what he could to give her hope and comfort, but only succeeded in doing so while he was talking. Sometimes, indeed, her remorse and compunction were so great that she was inclined to offer all her love, and all her possible happiness with Hugh, as a sacrifice of expiation. Then her great affection for him would triumph ; and when, at last, she received his letter announcing the intention of being with her the next day, and wedding her as soon as possible, she was almost mad with joy. Presently, recollecting herself, she went into the nearest church, and, spread- ing his letter before an image of the Madonna, poured out her heart in thanks for the pitying and powerful 300 Lady Merton. intercession which had obtained, through the pity of her Divine Son, this most undeserved blessing. The next day Hugh arrived at the appointed hour, and Nina's passionate, plainly ineffable joy and grati- tude as she met him brought tears to his cheeks. They were almost immediately married by the curate, the Anglican calling himself a Catholic, and together at once returned to Bologna. 3 0112 047686461 ■ I