fr 
 
 n 
 
 LIBRA R.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N I VERS ITY 
 
 Of ILLI NOIS 
 
 823 
 
 K\7s 
 
 v. I

 
 SILVIA. 
 
 / 
 
 1 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA KAYANAGH, . 
 
 AUTHOE OP 
 
 l - NATHALIE," " ADELE," " DORA," 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HURST AND BLAOKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1870. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGVTELL, BLENHEIM BOUSE. 
 
 BLENHEIM 8TREET, OXFORD STREET.
 
 2^5 
 
 
 SILVIA. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER I. 
 
 • 
 
 "TkOM SABINO NARDI sat reading Horace in 
 \J the small plot of ground, half orchard and 
 half garden, which girt his masseria. for villa it 
 could not be called. Indeed it was no more 
 than a very little Italian farmhouse ; but then it 
 had a loggia and a low flat roof, whereby it 
 
 . made, as it were, the surrounding country its 
 own ; for rising as it did on one of the many 
 
 i heights above Sorrento, it overlooked that broad 
 bay which sleeps in careless beauty within the 
 
 „ grim shadow of Vesuvius. 
 
 The crumbling old house, baked by many sun- 
 
 : sets into the deepest yellow-ochre, stood half 
 
 hidden in a little grove of lemon and orange 
 
 trees, with the rich Hesperian fruit shining like 
 
 red or pale gold through theirdark green boughs. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 SILVIA. 
 
 Darker still a tall cypress-tree rose amongst 
 them, standing out alone on the blue sky, and 
 casting on the warm sunlit earth a long slender 
 shadow. 
 
 Dom Sabino sat in the shade, leaning back 
 in an old worm-eaten arm-chair, which still bore 
 traces of tarnished gilding. A checked cotton 
 handkerchief was thrown over his bald head to 
 save it from the flies, his legs were crossed, 
 Horace, a fine quarto edition, lay open on his 
 knee, at the third ode of the second book, and 
 Dom Sabino's heavy classic face expressed a 
 calm content. 
 
 He had an easy temper, small means, a few 
 books and nothing to do, and he was certainly 
 the happiest gentleman of fifty who ever read 
 the sweet, luxurious, philosophic strain of the 
 Roman poet. And Dom Sabino knew his hap- 
 piness. With the first line of the ode to Delius, 
 he stretched out his hand, and without lifting 
 his eyes from the page, took a pinch of snuff out 
 of the little silver box lying open on a small 
 deal table by his side. When he came to the 
 Moriture Delli, he looked up at an old Roman 
 columbarium inserted in the very wall of his 
 garden, within ten steps of his chair, and nodded
 
 SILVIA. 3 
 
 to it sagely. With the " short-lived rose, " he 
 turned towards the roses which grew everywhere 
 around him in the wild and careless profusion of 
 a neglected Italian garden — roses so fragrant 
 and so beautiful, that Horace could scarcely have 
 ventured to take myrtle in their stead ; and 
 when the ode was finished, Dom Sabino al- 
 lowed his eyes to wander over the edge of 
 the low wall which enclosed his demesnes. 
 For, owing to the steep nature of the ground, 
 Dom Sabino, from the spot where he sat 
 under the orange-trees, could see Sorrento 
 and green gardens, out of which gleamed a 
 white villa here and there, and rose a church 
 tower. All going down to a blue bay, beyond 
 which lay the purple mass of Vesuvius, with a 
 dense white column of sunlit smoke rising slow- 
 ly to the sky. Beyond that curve lay Naples, 
 and beyond Naples Italy, then Switzerland, 
 France, and the strong northern world. 
 
 " Better here," thought Dom Sabino, shading 
 his eyes with his hand to look, "better here 
 with Horace." 
 
 He took a fresh pinch of snuff on the strength 
 of it, and returning to Delius, he was telling that 
 Roman Patrician, in sonorous and measured ac- 
 
 B 2
 
 4 SILVIA. 
 
 cents, to which his fat forefinger beat time on 
 the arm of his chair : 
 
 " iEquam memento rebus in arduis 
 Servare mentem," 
 
 when the sound of a light step on the gravelled 
 path made him look np with a smile, as a young 
 girl of pleasant aspect came towards him. She 
 was not beautiful, nor even very pretty, for her 
 features were irregular, but she had a bright 
 Italian face, fine eyes, glossy dark hair, and the 
 loveliest of dimples. She had, also, what her 
 plain mourning could not conceal, a graceful fig- 
 ure, and that light graceful carriage which is not 
 always the gift of youth, but is one of its chief 
 seductions. She came from the house and 
 brought with her a little wooden stool, which 
 she put down at Dom Sabino's feet, and on 
 which she sat in silence, but with a look which 
 said plainly, 
 
 " Put by your book, Dom Sabino, for I have 
 come to stay." 
 
 So Dom Sabino closed Horace, keeping his 
 forefinger at the page he was reading, and said 
 good-humouredly, 
 
 " What is it, carina 1 " . 
 
 " I do not like knitting," was the impetuous
 
 SILVIA. 5 
 
 answer, " I do not like to knit edges or laces for 
 napkins and curtains." 
 
 Dom Sabino looked puzzled. 
 
 " Silvia mia," he began, " knitting is both 
 useful and beautiful ; and if the Principessa in- 
 sists 
 
 Silvia raised her dark eyebrows, and open- 
 ing her black eyes to their fullest extent, she 
 seemed much amazed. 
 
 " Insists ! why should she, since I dislike it % 
 But she wants me to like it, and I cannot, Dom 
 Sabino, I cannot." 
 
 Dom Sabino stroked his chin with the hand 
 that was free, then, drawing his moral illustra- 
 tion from a little fishing-boat, with a broad 
 Latin sail, which was gliding slowly over the 
 glassy sea, he remonstratively said, 
 
 " The fisherman does not like being out cast- 
 ing his nets and maybe getting no fish, and yet 
 he does it." 
 
 Silvia clasped her hands around her knees, 
 and with a half humorous, half demure meaning 
 on her face, she gazed at the columbarium be- 
 fore her. It was a plain one, nothing more than 
 a low arch set in the wall, beyond which it 
 slightly projected. A broad vine had been
 
 6 SILVIA. 
 
 trained around it, and delicate maiden hair 
 filled the twelve little niches whence the urns 
 had long vanished. Ages ago the bones and 
 ashes of the poor female slaves, for whom, after 
 a life of toil, this last resting-place had been 
 prepared by the noble Lady Placida — the Roman 
 mistress of Dom Sabino's present possession — 
 had been scattered to the winds of heaven. 
 
 " Dom Sabino," said Silvia, very gravely, 
 " you are very proud of your columbarium, but 
 to me it seems a narrow and uncomfortable 
 place. These niches are very small, and the 
 urns that once fitted in them must have been 
 smaller still. I should like room. I should not 
 like to be put in an- urn, and to have that urn 
 set in a niche, especially when the whole colum- 
 barium was a black walled-up place." 
 
 " And how could you have helped it if you 
 were dead?" asked Dom Sabino, a little im- 
 patiently. 
 
 Silvia's dark eyes sparkled triumphantly. 
 
 " That is just it," she said gaily. " One can 
 help nothing when one is dead, but whilst one 
 is alive altra cosa" she shrewdly added. " And 
 now you know, Dom Sabino, why, as I do not 
 like knitting, I will not knit."
 
 SILVIA. 7 
 
 Dom Sabino was a little taken by surprise, 
 but unwilling to be beaten in argument, he 
 again pointed to the white-sailed boat gliding 
 softly away on the smooth blue sea. 
 
 " The fisherman is not dead, Silvia mia," he 
 said, a little solemnly, " but necessity rules him." 
 
 " I should not think it hard at all to be on 
 the sea this afternoon," said Silvia, giving the 
 distant boat a wistful look. 
 
 " Well, well," kindly replied Dom Sabino, 
 " I believe I promised you should see one of the 
 grottoes, so let it be this day." 
 
 Silvia started to her feet, flushed and breath- 
 less with delight. 
 
 " Shall I get ready T she asked. " Shall I 
 go and tell the Principessa V 
 
 Dom Sabino smilingly assented. Light and 
 swift the young girl flew to the house, and Dom 
 Sabino, sighing, declined the noun Juventas. 
 An hour later Dom Sabino, his sister, the 
 widowed Principessa, and Silvia Nardi, were 
 seated in a boat, and two bronzed marinari, in 
 coarse jackets, short linen trousers, and red 
 caps, rowed them slowly along the steep coast, 
 above which rise the little town and the green 
 orange gardens of Sorrento.
 
 8 SILVIA. 
 
 Some people cherish a natural dislike to plea- 
 sure, and to that narrow but very real class the 
 Principessa belonged. She was a plump little 
 practical woman, with a kind heart, a good 
 temper, and no imagination. She had endured 
 a very bad and spendthrift husband with great 
 patience, was glad to have no children, and was 
 quite happy in keeping house for her brother 
 Dom Sabino. To please him and Silvia, whom 
 she liked, though they had little in common, she 
 had come out this afternoon, but would much 
 have preferred staying within, bustling about 
 the house, and superintending the doings of 
 her one handmaid, Maria Laura, whose occa- 
 sional perversity gave all the excitement it 
 needed to the good lady's life. So wondering 
 rather uneasily how this faithful but erratic help 
 was getting on in her absence, the Principessa 
 sat at one end of the boat, gazing abstractedly 
 at the grand and lovely scenery around her, 
 and looking, in an old-fashioned bonnet, an 
 equally old-fashioned silk cloak, and a cotton 
 print dress, like a good and dowdy little house- 
 keeper, and not at all like a high-born Italian 
 lady. Her young relative Silvia, who sat at 
 the other end of the boat in her favourite atti-
 
 SILVIA. 9 
 
 tude, with her hands clasped around her knees, 
 and her dark eyes taking in every feature of the 
 scenes through which they glided, was as eager 
 and enthusiastic as the elder lady was cool and 
 indifferent, and her enthusiasm was spoken, not 
 silent. 
 
 " What is that low purple island, Dom Sabino? 
 Ischia ! ah ! no, Procida ; and that is Castella- 
 mare, and here is Vico ; and all is so beautiful, so 
 very beautiful !" 
 
 Her voice faltered a little, but the Principessa, 
 in whom habit had deadened the perception 
 of a beauty which was all new to her young 
 Roman cousin, only said abstractedly, 
 
 " Every one says Sorrento is beautiful." 
 
 Whilst Dom Sabino put in with scarcely more 
 emotion, 
 
 " Non c' e male. It is not amiss ; and here 
 is one of the grottoes of the Syrens, Silvia." 
 
 Their boat was gliding within the shadow of 
 the yellow cliff which rose steeply against the 
 blue sky, with an uneven line of green running 
 along its broken edge. Low down an irregular 
 arch of Gothic gloom sank into the rock, and 
 opened into a deep, dark cave, within which 
 the waves flowed with a low murmur. The
 
 10 SILVIA. 
 
 boat turned, and, passing beneath the arch, 
 entered a chill and dark grotto. The floor 
 was sea water of the deepest and darkest blue, 
 with streaks of blight emerald green. The 
 walls and lofty ceiling were of brown rock, and 
 here and there gleams of bright azure or faint 
 purple lit up their rude and jagged surface. 
 The place was very cool, very mysterious, and 
 very beautiful. To Silvia it seemed to pierce 
 the very bowels of the cliff. Stooping, she 
 watched a low tremulous ray of white light, 
 which shone in other grottoes deeper and 
 farther away, and wholly inaccessible. There 
 the sea water might flow freely, but the 
 boat, though shallow, could not follow its 
 track. 
 
 " What is there in there V she asked eagerly. 
 
 " The Syrens," composedly replied Dom Sa- 
 bino. " You see, when Christianity came, these 
 ladies, knowing the time was gone by for 
 them to allure unwary mariners by their sweet 
 singing, retired in high dudgeon to their cool- 
 est and most hidden grottoes, of which this is 
 merely the hall or vestibule." 
 
 "And what are they doing in there, Dom 
 Sabino T
 
 SILVIA. 11 
 
 " Waiting, poor, foolish things, for the return 
 of Olympus." 
 
 "Do they sing any more?" 
 
 " Why should they I" here put in the practical 
 Principessa ; " they get nothing by it now." 
 
 " Yet I should like to hear them sing," wil- 
 fully said Silvia. " Syrens, my dear friends 
 the Syrens, do come out and let us sing to- 
 gether." 
 
 She spoke in a loud, clear voice, that echoed 
 in the grotto ; and to entice the Syrens forth, 
 she began warbling gaily a little Roman 
 melody. One of the boatmen, an old man, who 
 looked rather uneasy at this invocation, here 
 remarked gravely : 
 
 " They are asleep, signorina." 
 
 "Yes, they are asleep," saucily replied Silvia; 
 " and not even the trumpet on the great Judg- 
 ment-day will waken them, Giuseppe." 
 
 " Chi lo sa," sententiously said the boatman. 
 
 " I wonder if they can tell fortunes," remarked 
 Silvia. 
 
 " Of course they can," replied Dom Sabino. 
 " Are they not semi-deities ?" 
 
 " Then I shall call them. I feel sure I am to 
 have a great many adventures before my life
 
 12 SILVIA. 
 
 is ended, and I should like to get a taste of 
 them as it were beforehand." 
 
 So again raising her voice, Silvia began to 
 call on the Syrens to come forth ; but all her 
 coaxing — and she was prodigal of endearing 
 epithets — availed not. The Syrens did not 
 appear. 
 
 " They are not asleep, but dead," said Silvia, 
 glancing in mocking triumph at the marinaro, 
 who looked more and more uneasy at the sig- 
 norina's audacity. 
 
 " Perhaps they are only sulky," she resumed. 
 " Suppose I try them again." 
 
 The Principessa, who felt sure that Maria 
 Laura was up to mischief, here remarked that 
 the grotto was very chill, and without giving 
 the Syrens time to repent and come forth, Dom 
 Sabino, to Silvia's great regret, gave the sig- 
 nal for returning, and the boat glided back into 
 the open sea. But when they came out of the 
 dark grotto into the bay, now all fire and gold 
 in the sunset, Silvia tittered a cry of delight. 
 The sun was sinking behind the violet peaks of 
 Ischia ; above them crimson, orange, and saffron 
 melted into each other, and faded away into 
 the pale blue of upper air. Below a long
 
 SILVIA. 13 
 
 bright track of golden light mingled with the 
 liquid azure of the sea. The slopes of Vesuvius 
 were lit with a burning glow. Naples glit- 
 tered at the foot of azure hills ; whilst purple 
 shadows gave deeper and softer gloom to the 
 lovely creeks of that enchanting coast. With 
 the austere beauty of a Roman sunset Silvia 
 was familiar, but not with the seductive charm 
 of this old haunt of the Syrens. Dom Sabino 
 looked at her speaking face and bright eyes, 
 and said triumphantly, 
 
 " You have not got that in Rome." 
 " We have the Campagna, and ruins, and 
 aqueducts," she replied quickly. 
 
 " The Campagna means fever. As for ruins, 
 Silvia mia, look at this bit of marble, ross an- 
 tico, which I picked up from the sandbank in the 
 grotto. It came from Stabise, perhaps, or from 
 Capri. It may have belonged to one of Tibe- 
 rius's twelve palaces ; it was precious and im- 
 perial, but for all that the sea took it, and made 
 a plaything of it, and has rolled it about these 
 seventeen hundred years. So will your ruins 
 be devoured by time, but our bay, and our 
 islands and mountains, will endure whilst time 
 is."
 
 14 SILVIA. 
 
 " The Campagna is beautiful — it is like a 
 sea," obstinately said Silvia. 
 
 " Well, well, I suppose it is," placidly return- 
 ed Dom Sabino ; but the Principessa, who was 
 too thorough a Neaj>olitan to like Rome or 
 anything Roman, her young cousin excepted, 
 drily remarked that the Campagna was a sea 
 which yielded no fish — a speech which Silvia 
 so far resented, that she pouted, and never once 
 opened her lips all the way home. 
 
 It was night when they landed at the Marina, 
 and thence climbed up to Dom Sabino's moun- 
 tain dwelling. When they entered the low, 
 broad room on the ground-floor, where their 
 frugal supper w^as waiting, Silvia uttered a 
 cry on seeing a white letter lying on the 
 table. 
 
 "That is for me," she said, joyously spring- 
 ing forward. 
 
 "For you !" a little indignantly echoed the 
 Principessa. 
 
 But the letter was for Silvia. She seized 
 upon it, threw herself upon a low chair, broke 
 the seal, and eagerly read an epistle four pages 
 long twice over, and that without once uttering 
 a word. Dom Sabino and his sister looked at
 
 SILVIA. 15 
 
 her, much puzzled. The light of the lamp fell 
 on her flushed cheeks, and showed them her 
 parted lips and smiling eyes ; but beyond the 
 fact that the letter was evidently a pleasant 
 one, they knew, and could even surmise no- 
 thing. 
 
 " It is no use showing it to you," at length 
 said Silvia, looking up, and putting the letter 
 in her pocket — " it is in English." 
 
 " And you know English V exclaimed Dom 
 Sabino, raising his eyebrows. 
 
 " But is it possible ?" incredulously remarked 
 his sister. 
 
 Silvia looked neither surprised nor offended 
 by these remarks of doubt. 
 
 " I know English, and that lady writes in 
 English, and is my relation, oh ! very, very 
 far away," she added, with a remote look. 
 
 Dom Sabino and his sister seemed to think 
 that Silvia must be dreaming. 
 
 " She is, " she said, a little impatiently. 
 " My mother was a Roman, but her great- 
 great-grandfather came to Rome with the 
 Stuart who is buried in Saint Peter's ; and he 
 was English, or Welsh, rather, and we have al- 
 ways known a little English, and kept up a
 
 16 SILVIA. 
 
 little connection with our English cousins, and 
 this lady is my relation, and I saw her ten years 
 ago, before she was married." 
 
 " And what does she write about, Silvia ? ' 
 asked Dom Sabino. 
 
 " She has heard that Prince Nardi, who took 
 care of me, is dead, and she asks me to go and 
 see her, and stay with her, if I like. She has 
 the leave of my guardian, Cavaliere Nardi. 
 Her friend, Mrs. Green, will come and fetch and 
 escort me to Paris, if I am willing." 
 
 Dom Sabino and the Principessa heard her 
 in silent surprise, on which questions rapidly 
 followed. Silvia's answers, though rather 
 laconic, were sufficiently satisfactory. Madame 
 de l'Epme was about twenty- five years old. 
 She was the wife of a Frenchman, and she re- 
 sided in Paris ; she was also rich, and of good 
 birth. Dom Sabino looked much perplexed, and 
 his sister shook her head ; then they exchanged 
 looks. 
 
 " What shall we do V they said in a breath. 
 
 Silvia, who sat by the table, with her elbuw 
 leaning upon it, and her dimpled chin resting 
 in the palm of her hand, looked and listened 
 silently.
 
 SILVIA. 17 
 
 11 From Naples to Paris is a terrible journey 
 for a child like her," said Dom Sabino. 
 
 " Paris is a heathen city," warmly remarked 
 the Principessa. 
 
 " Bnt the lady is not a heathen," kindly put 
 in Dom Sabino, " and Silvia has seen her." 
 
 " Ten years ago. She has got married since. 
 No, it will not do for the child. Better Sor- 
 rento than Paris — better Sorrento, I say." 
 
 " Besides, they have got railways and 
 steamers now, and terrible accidents do occur," 
 said Dom Sabino, who had a natural aversion 
 to modern invention. " Yes, better Sorrento. 
 Silvia mia," he added, kindly addressing the 
 young girl, " write to the lady and thank her, 
 but say that for the present you are with kind 
 friends, who like you, and that for the future 
 heaven will provide. You may also say that 
 you came two months ago from Rome to Sorren- 
 to, and that you have had travelling enough." 
 
 " Quite enough," said the Principessa, with 
 an emphaticj—od. 
 
 Silvia, vA had heard them out very atten- 
 tively, non finding they had no more to say. 
 quietly remarked — 
 
 " You are both, and have always been, very 
 
 VOL. I. C 

 
 18 SILVIA. 
 
 good to me, but I shall go and see my friend in 
 Paris, and tell the other lady to come and fetch 
 me." 
 
 On hearing the matter thus coolly settled, 
 Dom Sabino and his sister looked confounded. 
 It had evidently never occurred to them that 
 Silvia had any voice in the matter. Dom 
 Sabino, indeed, looked offended as well as sur- 
 prised, and he took a pinch of snuff in sulky 
 silence. The fact was, he had not much to say. 
 Silvia was a visitor, not a ward, and though 
 Dom Sabino had received his young cousin very 
 kindly, he had too many poor nieces of his own 
 to offer her a permanent home. So, partly for that 
 reason, partly through indolence, he had trusted 
 her future destinies to Providence, and now that 
 she took the care of them in her own hands, he 
 was just enough to feel that he had no right to 
 object. His sister was less logical and more 
 outspoken. 
 
 " I never yet heard any good of young girlR 
 roving about," she said very sharply. 
 
 Silvia smiled demurely. 
 
 " I got no harm by coming here," she said, 
 M and people in Rome wanted to frighten me." 
 
 " Paris and Sorrento are very much alike !"
 
 SILVIA. 19 
 
 ironically remarked Dom Sabino, leaning back 
 in his chair, crossing his legs, and dancing his 
 right foot up and down. " Sorrento is danger- 
 ous, and Paris is safe — very safe for young un- 
 married women especially !" 
 
 Silvia laughed mischievously. 
 
 " It is a very fine place," she put in perverse- 
 ly ; "I shall see many new things — things I 
 could never see here, and which the Syrens could 
 have told me of." 
 
 "And this is highly needful to you, of 
 course !" he shortly retorted. 
 
 " Well, I believe it is," she replied. 
 
 "Silvia mia, mark my words," he said, rising 
 and pacing the room to and fro, " you will re- 
 pent this, and maybe glad to come back to us," 
 he added, stopping short before her, and looking 
 down at her rather sorrowfully. 
 
 Silvia looked up at him with a very joyous 
 happy look in her bright eyes. The smile of 
 her parted lips was hopeful, and gladness beam- 
 ed in every one of her pretty dimples. She 
 took his hand, and kissing it in the respectful 
 Italian fashion, she said, 
 
 " I shall always be glad to come back to Dom 
 
 C 2 

 
 20 SILVIA. 
 
 Sabino and the dear Principessa, but had I not 
 better write to the lady at oncef 
 
 And dropping his hand she left the room, 
 and ran upstairs with a light joyous step. 
 
 The young girl's quick decision, independ- 
 ence, and resolve to leave them, were heinous 
 sins in the Principessa's eyes. Her feelings and 
 her prejudices made her feel very indignant 
 with Silvia, whose conduct seemed to her 
 both ungrateful and indecorous. But, after all, 
 she was more grieved than angry ; and her bro- 
 ther, who saw it, said very kindly : 
 
 " The bird will leave the cage where it has 
 food and safety, and fly forth into a world 
 where cats abound, and where good seed is not 
 plentiful. It is so, and, cara mia, it has always 
 been so, and we cannot change it." 
 
 Yes, truly, it has always been so ; and when. 
 two days after this, Mrs. Green, a stout, red- 
 faced lady of fifty, went off with Silvia Nardi 
 under her wing, Dom Sabino and his sister 
 looked woebegone, and the young girl as merry 
 as a lark. The cage could not but seem empty 
 without that gay young bird, but how could 
 she, the merry bird, fret to leave it when " The 
 world was all before her. *
 
 21 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE steamer which was to convey Mrs. Green 
 and her young companion from Naples to 
 Marseilles, was leaving the bay. The two 
 ladies sat on deck, Mrs. Green reading letters 
 which she had just received, and Silvia look- 
 ing her last of the land she was leaving, and 
 feeling most inconsistently sorrowful to be go- 
 ing away. Indeed, as Naples, Vesuvius, and 
 the purple islands, all seen on a background of 
 golden sky, receded farther and farther away 
 from before her eyes, she fairly broke down, and 
 turned her head on one side to cry unnoticed. 
 But no one minded her. She was alone on that 
 boat as she was alone in life, an orphan who 
 might steer her own course as she thought fit. 
 The Principessa had said a hard thing, but it 
 might be a true one : her guardian had allowed 
 her to go to Madame de l'Epine just as he had 
 allowed her to go to Dom Sabino's, because he
 
 22 SILVIA. 
 
 was an easy selfish man, who cared very little 
 what became of her, so she did not trouble him. 
 
 " Yes, that may be it, " thought Silvia, 
 checking her tears. " I am alone — quite alone ; 
 and am I then doing well to leave these two 
 kind friends, who were so sorry to part from 
 me this morning ?" 
 
 She began to feel remorseful as well as sad. 
 Why had she been so prompt, nay, so glad to 
 leave that excellent Dom Sabino and his no less 
 excellent sister ? She was very happy with 
 them, surely? How beautiful and cool their 
 mountain garden had looked that morning when 
 she went down the narrow path which led to 
 the columbarium, and gathered from one of its 
 niches a bunch of maiden hair as a memorial. 
 And as she stood and looked at the blue sea, on 
 which still slept the freshness of the early hour, 
 as she saw the faint silvery outlines of distant 
 mountains fading away on the sky, and the deep 
 green of luxuriant gardens extending from the 
 capo to the piano, had there not come to her 
 something like a presentiment that even as this 
 spot was said to be one of the most beautiful of 
 which earth can boast, so might it also, though 
 so narrow, be the very home for happiness.
 
 SILVIA. 23 
 
 " Perhaps Dom Sabino was right," thought 
 Silvia, still looking at the little promontory on 
 which Sorrento stands. "Perhaps I shall regret 
 having left them. But then to see Paris — Paris, 
 the world's wonder !" 
 
 And with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she 
 smiled as her quick imagination painted two 
 pictures side by side. One showed her the low 
 room in Dom Sabino's masseria, the bare walls, 
 the lamp on the table, the Principessa knitting, 
 Dom Sabino reading Horace, and Silvia Nardi 
 suppressing a yawn, and listening to the low 
 moaning of the scirocco. 
 
 Very different indeed was the other vision, 
 though somewhat shifting ; for now it showed a 
 ball-room, now a theatre, now the thoroughfares 
 of a great city, and in all these scenes Silvia 
 saw herself moving or bearing a part. No, she 
 could not regret her choice. Besides, Josephine 
 and she were friends, old friends, and it would 
 be delightful to meet after so many years. She 
 remembered her very well, a pale girl, not pretty, 
 but gentle and good. 
 
 " And she loved me," thought Silvia, smiling 
 to herself, " she loved me, and I saw it very 
 well, and I loved her too."
 
 24 SILVIA. 
 
 " I am so glad," here said Mrs. Green, with a 
 sigh of relief. 
 
 Thus called out of her dream, Silvia looked 
 up inquiringly. Mrs. Green's red face was 
 beaming. 
 
 " We need not go so far as Paris," continued 
 Mrs. Green, "Madame de l'Epine writes to say- 
 that she will leave it in a few days, and that as 
 I am going to Lady John's, at Saint Remy's — 
 they are next door neighbours, you know — I had 
 better take you there at once. It is such a relief 
 not to have that long journey," added Mrs. Green 
 complacently. " What odd-looking creatures in 
 blue are these?" 
 
 But Silvia, who had heard her with a blank 
 face, did not answer. Not go to Paris ! What 
 did it mean ? When she was so far recovered 
 as to put a few questions, Mrs. Green showed 
 her Madame de l'Epine's hurried note. It ex- 
 plained nothing. Madame de l'Epine could not 
 remain in Paris, she said, and she accordingly 
 requested Mrs. Green to take Silvia to Lady 
 John's house. She had written on the subject 
 to Lady John, who would, she knew, receive 
 her young friend for a few days, until she could 
 relieve her of the charge, &c, &C., &C.
 
 SILVIA. 25 
 
 Silvia handed back the letter to Mrs. Green, 
 and uttered not one word of comment. She 
 looked at the people on the deck, at the groups 
 of ladies and gentlemen, at the little children 
 running about, at the coast now fading farther 
 and farther away ; and Mrs. Green, who was 
 watching her thought, furtively, 
 
 " She takes it very well." 
 
 " Who is Lady John ? And where is that 
 Saint Remy ? ' asked Silvia, turning upon her 
 with an abruptness for which she was not pre- 
 pared ; " what place is that 1 Is she young, old, 
 cross, or good-tempered? Is she pretty ? How 
 is she Madame de l'Epine's neighbour ?" 
 
 From the very first hour of their acquaintance 
 Mrs. Green had secretly pronounced Mademoi- 
 selle Nardi to be a thoroughly uncivilized young 
 person. But she now felt tempted to consider 
 these indiscreet questions, put with the full 
 earnest look of two dark eyes, as a stroke of 
 that high art which assumes the guise of frank- 
 ness and inexperience. To answer them in a 
 plain, straightforward manner, and maybe give 
 Mademoiselle Nardi the opportunity of repeat- 
 ing her answers to Lady John, was, of course,
 
 26 SILVIA. 
 
 the last thing she thought of doing ! So she 
 carelessly replied, 
 
 " Oh ! Lady John is a most charming, delight- 
 ful woman. You will like her so much ! As to 
 her house, it is a bijou, and Saint Remy is so 
 pretty ! On the road to Paris, you know. But 
 do tell me if these creatures in blue are Neapoli- 
 tans. I really think they are." 
 
 " Yes, I believe so," replied Silvia, who felt 
 choking, and put no more questions. 
 
 The disappointment seemed almost more than 
 she could bear. Not see Paris ! the dream of 
 every moment since she had received Madame 
 de l'Epine's letter, surely it was too much. And 
 she turned her head away resentfully from Mrs. 
 Green, who, as the bearer of the evil tidings, 
 came in for the largest share of her displeasure. 
 Madame de l'Epine had no doubt been compel- 
 led to act as she did, but Mrs. Green — heinous 
 sin ! — had been glad, and had shown it ? 
 
 Poor Mrs. Green ! She was a widowed lady 
 of very small means, who lived a good deal with 
 and upon her friends. She also often acted as 
 travelling companion to other ladies, and had 
 just conveyed a flock of young unprotected doves 
 to Naples, and left them there under the paternal
 
 SILVIA. 27 
 
 wing, when it became her duty to escort Silvia 
 to France. Mrs. Green was considered as good 
 as Bradshaw and Murray put together, and 
 being a very fair courier besides, she was pro- 
 nounced " invaluable in her way." 
 
 Travelling, to be sure, was no more Mrs. 
 Green's choice than visiting ; but choice had 
 very little to do with her whole scheme of life, 
 over which tyrant circum stance held sway ab- 
 solute. Hence it may be that Mrs. Green was 
 guarded and prudent, and knew better than to 
 answer all Silvia's questions. The young girl 
 had the quickness of a woman, and a southern. 
 She saw that her companion did not trust her, 
 and the knowledge added to her secret resent- 
 ment, and helped to keep her silent. 
 
 "Much more comfortable," thought Mrs. 
 Green, who did not care much for Silvia's 
 secret thoughts. 
 
 But comfort and Mrs. Green were never long 
 acquainted together. Something ever occurred 
 to part them, and that something now came, 
 when the boat reached Genoa, under the shape 
 of a telegram from Lady John, thus worded : 
 
 " Is she pretty 1 Answer by telegram." 
 
 Great was Mrs. Green's perturbation when
 
 28 SILVIA. 
 
 she read this message in the cabin where Silvia 
 lay in her berth motionless and with closed 
 eyes, after a long fit of sea-sickness. Mrs. 
 Green looked at her furtively over the edge of 
 the telegram, and to her infinite satisfaction she 
 saw that Silvia was decidedly yellow, and 
 that when her eyes were shnt she was almost 
 plain. So, hastening to seize on this favour- 
 able moment which allowed her to gratify Lady 
 John, to whose house she was going, and whose 
 motives she could guess, and yet not disap- 
 point Madame de TEpine, who was paying the 
 expenses of her journey home, she confided the 
 following message to the telegraphic wires — 
 
 " She is not pretty." 
 
 And, though not without some secret appre- 
 hensions as to the recovery of Mademoiselle 
 Nardi's good looks by the time Lady Johns 
 house was reached, she tried to believe that it 
 would all end well. 
 
 In Marseilles Mrs. Green found another tele- 
 gram from Lady John ; but as this did not refer 
 to Silvia, she acquainted the young girl with 
 its tenour. 
 
 " Dear me, how delightful I" she said ; " it 
 seems the Fords are here with Miss Lovell,
 
 SILVIA. 29 
 
 Lady John's ward, whom I am to take on to 
 St. Kemy. Yon will be charmed to have a 
 young companion, will you not, dear? Miss 
 Lovell is a dear girl — a little restless, perhaps ; 
 and she is cousin to that rich Mr. Lovell whom 
 you have heard of in Rome, of course." 
 
 But Silvia raised her eyebrows and shook 
 her head. No, she had never heard of him. 
 
 " Well, Miss Lovell is not very rich, but she 
 is Lady John's ward ; and the Fords are to 
 bring her to us this afternoon." 
 
 The Fords did bring Miss Lovell, and they 
 left her too, and Mrs. Green was provided with 
 a second charge, and Silvia with a companion, 
 at whom, to say the truth, she gazed with as 
 much surprise as her innate Italian courtesy 
 would allow her to display. Miss Lovell's am- 
 bition was to look masculine and be thought 
 strong-minded, but nature having made her 
 little, and gifted her with a round face and 
 slight features, and not having bestowed upon 
 her either great mental powers or a strong cha- 
 racter, she was obliged to wear her hair short 
 and part it on one side, to procure a masculine 
 appearance, and to talk slang in order to assert 
 the vigour of her intellect. Her name being
 
 30 SILVIA. 
 
 Georgiana, she made a vehement attempt to 
 have it shorten ed into George ; but Lady John 
 interposed her veto, and Miss Lovell had to be 
 satisfied with the compromise of " Georgie," by 
 which she was known amongst her friends. 
 
 " She is very odd," thought Silvia. But it 
 was not long before she discovered that Miss 
 Georgie Lovell was also very good-natured. 
 Some whims and fancies she had, besides those 
 already alluded to. She was apt to express 
 her candid opinion of people, which is an awk- 
 ward habit; she also was given to long for 
 everything she saw ; and, to crown all, she 
 could not be quiet for five minutes at a time, 
 and thereby kept Mrs. Green in hot water. 
 But, spite all this, good-nature was Miss Georgie 
 Lovell's characteristic. She liked Silvia at 
 once, and told her so before they left Marseilles. 
 Mrs. Green had gone to her room, and left them 
 alone in the dingy sitting-room at the hotel. 
 Silvia stood at the window looking down into 
 the street below, making the best of this glimpse 
 of a new country and a new people ; and Miss 
 Lovell sat lolling back in her chair, with her 
 little booted foot resting on the seat of an- 
 other.
 
 SILVIA. 31 
 
 " I say, Silvia," she suddenly remarked, " you 
 know I like you." 
 
 " I am glad you do," replied Silvia, turning- 
 round her bright face. " I like to be liked." 
 
 " I don't like everybody," resumed Miss 
 Lovell, knitting her smooth brows. "I can't 
 endure the people at Lady John's. There's old 
 Enfield, so fussy, and such a bore. As for Pro- 
 fessor Smith, he's a snob, or a muff, or both. 
 Then there's Mrs. Barton, whom I detest." 
 
 " Is she wicked V asked Silvia. 
 
 " Wicked ! — not she, poor soul." 
 
 " Then is she good V 
 
 " Oh ! so good," gushingly replied Miss Lovell. 
 "But slow," she added, confidentially, " that's 
 why I hate her." 
 
 " Slow ?" exclaimed Silvia, wondering. 
 
 ** So slow," repeated Miss Lovell, shaking her 
 head. 
 
 " But how slow ? ' asked Silvia, after a per- 
 plexed pause. 
 
 "Why, slow, you know," persisted Miss Lovell. 
 
 It was Silvia's turn to shake her head 
 gravely. 
 
 " I do not understand," she said, with a cer- 
 tain solemnity.
 
 32 SILVIA. 
 
 "Don't you?" exclaimed Miss Lovell, open- 
 ing her little eyes and puckering her little fore- 
 head into numerous wrinkles. " Well, never 
 mind ; but when I say that a person is slow, 
 why, I mean that they are slow," she added, 
 after a puzzled pause, "and there's an end 
 of it." 
 
 " And is there no one else at Lady JohnV 
 asked Silvia. 
 
 In a much more reserved manner Miss Lovell 
 replied that Miss Gray and her cousin Gerald 
 Lovell were also Lady John's guests. Then in 
 the same breath she added, 
 
 "I suppose Charlie Meredith will be at his 
 sister's." 
 
 Charles Meredith was Madame de l'Epini 
 half-brother. 
 
 " Well, and what is he lib asked Silvia, 
 with her straightforward inquisitiveness. 
 
 " Oh ! he's just one of the handsomest fellows 
 
 I have met with for a long time," coolly replied 
 
 Miss Lovell. "But then it is such a nuisain 
 
 r 
 to be so handsome, you know. All the girls go 
 
 mad about poor Charlie." 
 
 "Do they?' said Silvia, amazed and rather 
 
 shocked. 
 
 *
 
 SILVIA. 33 
 
 11 Oh. ! yes, girls are such muffs, you know." 
 Miss Lo veil's language was very mysterious to 
 the Italian girl, whose knowledge of English 
 was limited. She wondered at "muff," but 
 wondered still more when Miss Lovell resumed, 
 " You'll have the old Captain too. He quarrelled 
 with his Colonel, and had to give up the fight- 
 ing ; but he's a Captain still, you know. He's 
 not handsome, you know, but so jolly, such a 
 brick !" 
 
 " Jolly " Silvia could master, but " brick " 
 bewildered her utterly. 
 
 " You like him ?" she said, perplexed. 
 
 " Oh ! so much !" replied Miss Lovell again, 
 gushingly. " I dote on the Captain !" 
 
 This was satisfactory so far. 
 
 "I am sure I shall be happy with them," 
 thought Silvia, looking down once more into 
 the street. " Josephine is good — that I know 
 of old. Her father is good too, and if her half- 
 brother is so handsome what need I care ?" 
 
 "What can she be staring at so?" thought 
 Miss Lovell. She rose, and going behind Silvia, 
 stood on tiptoe to look below. 
 
 "My goodness!" she exclaimed, with a sudden 
 cry, " a cock, a bantam. The man has him in 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 SILVIA. 
 
 a cage. I must have him. lei, vite, ici ! 
 
 The man, wondering where the call came 
 from, was staring in every direction but the 
 right one, when Mrs. Green's head appeared at 
 her window, and signing him threateningly not 
 to come, she uttered broken and dismayed ex- 
 clamations. 
 
 "You cannot have that cock, Miss Lovell. 
 Allez vous eng. Lady John would never for- 
 give me. Allez tout de souite." 
 
 Bewildered by these contradictory directions, 
 the man stared first at one window then at the 
 other, but Mrs. Green's frowns and threats 
 proved more potent than Miss Lovell's calls, 
 and even than the sight of her porte-monnaie 
 which she held up significantly. He shook his 
 head, shrugged his shoulders, and went on, 
 whilst the little cock in the osier cage on his 
 back uttered a shrill defiant crow." 
 
 " Don't let Mrs. Green come near me," cried 
 Miss Lovell, throwing herself back in her chair, 
 " don't, please. I am in such a rage at missing 
 that bantam that I don't know what I might 
 not do to her. I have a horrid temper when I 
 am put out. So don't let her come near me." 
 
 She frowned and tossed her head as she
 
 SILVIA. 35 
 
 uttered these ominous words ; but Silvia gave 
 her a shrewd though quiet look, whilst an 
 amused smile flitted for a moment on her pretty 
 Grecian lips. The thought of a personal en- 
 counter between sturdy broad-shouldered Mrs. 
 Green and her diminutive antagonist enter- 
 tained her exceedingly. " I should like to see 
 it," she wickedly thought ; but Mrs. Green did 
 not give her the chance, she prudently kept out 
 of the way until Miss Lovell, tired of brooding 
 over her wrongs, sulkily went to bed. 
 
 If Dom Sabino and the Principessa had been 
 vindictive people, which they were not, and 
 could have learned the troubles Silvia endured 
 during her flight from her little Sorrento cage, 
 they might have been much gratified ; for to the 
 disappointment of losing Paris, and the punish- 
 ment of sea-sickness, the shock of a railway 
 accident was added. An up-train ran into a 
 down-train at the Genetieres Station, a few 
 miles from Saint Remv. Three second-class 
 passengers were badly hurt. The engine- 
 driver escaped by a miracle, and the stoker was 
 killed on the spot. The place was a lonely one, 
 and even by daylight it looked wild and deso- 
 late. It looked very dreary on this evening, 
 
 d2
 
 36 SILVIA. 
 
 the sixth since Silvia Nardi had left Sorrento. 
 The gaslights of the station flared dismally in 
 the night wind to the left. To the right miles 
 away a faint glimmer betrayed the existence of 
 a small town ; between these spread a low dark 
 plain, and above it a pale sky, whence a young 
 crescent moon dimly looked down on the scene 
 of the catastrophe. That portion of the line on 
 which it had taken place was strewn with 
 broken carriages, smashed trunks and boxes, 
 and the corpses of a few poor bullocks killed by 
 the shock, and all lying together in a ghastly 
 heap. Of the two terrible engines whose en- 
 counter had worked all this woe, one lay deep 
 buried in the earth, the other surrounded by 
 ruins, stood black, grim, and pitiless, seeming 
 to triumph silently over his conquered enemy. 
 
 Mrs. Green and her two young companions 
 had escaped unhurt, but, to Silvia's surprise, 
 Miss Georgie Lovell uttered the most piercing 
 screams, not merely during the accident, but 
 for several minutes after all appearance of 
 danger had vanished. Her terror, indeed, was 
 so great, that she could not be moved from the 
 spot, but sat alternately screaming and sobbing 
 on the embankment, to which they had all three
 
 SILVIA. 37 
 
 taken refuge. At length she grew somewhat 
 calmer, and Mrs. Green, who had been engaged 
 in soothing her, could remember her own 
 troubles. 
 
 " They say the luggage is safe," sighed poor 
 Mrs. Green, "but then they always do say 
 that ; and all my laces were in my trunk, as 
 you know, Mademoiselle Nardi !" 
 
 Silvia, who sat by her side, with her hands 
 clasped around her knees, shook her head, and 
 said, in a sorrowful, penitent tone, 
 
 " Uom Sabino was right. He told me it was 
 dreadful to travel. They say, Mrs. Green, the 
 stoker, a poor Englishman, was killed. He was 
 old, but he had a young wife and two little 
 children, who only came yesterday. That is 
 the cottage to which they carried him, where 
 the light is burning close by us." 
 
 " My goodness !" cried Mrs. Green, forgetting 
 the stoker, the accident, and her laces, even, in 
 a new cause of alarm which suddenly rushed to 
 her mind, " Lady John expects us for dinner ! 
 Why, she will never forgive me ! Of course, I 
 can't help railway accidents, but still Lady 
 John will never forgive me if I keep her wait- 
 ing. Perhaps I can send a telegram."
 
 38 SILVIA. 
 
 " You shan't leave me !" cried Miss Georgie 
 Lovell, clinging to her desperately — " I say 
 you shan't, Mrs. Green !" 
 
 " Think of Lady John, my dear !" 
 " No !" shrilly cried Miss Lovell—" I won't !" 
 " Can I do this for you, Mrs. Green ?" asked 
 Silvia, taking pity on the poor lady. 
 
 " I shall be so much obliged to you," thank- 
 fully exclaimed Mrs. Green ; " but we must not 
 let the telegram exceed twenty words, or we 
 shall have to pay double. Let me see, * Acci- 
 dent' — no, that would frighten Lady John — 
 6 Delayed ; do not wait dinner — to-morrow.' 
 Six words. * Lady John Saint Remy,' ten — 
 ' Mrs. Green, Genetieres Station,' fourteen. Six 
 words to spare." 
 
 Mrs. Green wondered how she could use 
 those six spare words, but not being able to get 
 them into the telegram, she reluctantly made a 
 present of them to the company. Armed with 
 these instructions, Mademoiselle Nardi made 
 her way to the telegraphic office. The dead 
 stoker's cottage was in her way ; the door was 
 ajar, and as she passed by it, Silvia Nardi 
 paused, and stood in the little ray of light 
 which came out on the path. There was grief
 
 SILVIA. 39 
 
 within — deep, bitter sorrow ; but we do not 
 shrink from that when we are at Silvia's 
 years ; our own sorrows, however keen, have 
 come and gone again. They are like stormy 
 days in summer-time — when the thunder-cloud 
 has burst, and the whirlwind had its sway, the 
 sky is clear, the air is warm once more, for it is 
 summer still. It is when time has been with us 
 that sorrow is apt to be not a visitor, but an 
 abiding guest. We lull her to sleep as best we 
 may ; we are cautious not to waken her ; we 
 do not care to hear about other people's trou- 
 bles ; we shun the sight of strange grief — have 
 we not got our own? Besides, where is the 
 use ? — do we not know that each man and wo- 
 man must bear his or her burden, and that no 
 mortal hand can take it away ? But youth — 
 generous, imprudent youth — has faith infinite 
 in the power of consolation, and through that 
 faith becomes a true comforter in the hour of 
 tribulation. Tell it not that words are weak, 
 that sympathy is unavailing ; words are not 
 words to youth, but wonderful realities, and 
 sympathy is sweet and healing as balm of 
 Gilead. So, though she just stood still outside 
 one moment, Silvia, too full of pity to think
 
 40 SILVIA. 
 
 that her compassion might be irksome or ill- 
 timed, pushed the door open, and gently enter- 
 ed the cottage. 
 
 A tallow candle burning on the table nearly 
 went out in the rush of night air that came in 
 with her. By its doubtful light Silvia saw a 
 small dull room, and a low bed, on which the 
 dead stoker lay, with his pale face uncovered — 
 the face of a man who had seen fifty years. A 
 fair-haired young woman sat on the edge of 
 the bed, looking down at him with a piteous, 
 sorrow-stricken aspect ; a little toddling child 
 clung to her skirts unheeded, another older 
 child sat in its little chair, with a scared look 
 on its round face, and two French women, who 
 had kindly come in to give assistance or com- 
 fort, stood looking on helplessly. No help was 
 needed now, and the little widow did not un- 
 derstand their language any more than they 
 could speak hers. Silvia went up to her, and 
 gently took her hand. 
 
 "Try and cry," she said in English — "it will 
 do you good." 
 
 What the sight of his poor dead face — what 
 the thought of her orphan children and her 
 loneliness had not done, that sound of her own
 
 SILVIA. 41 
 
 speech, though on a foreign tongue, did to this 
 poor young creature. She burst into sobs and 
 tears. The two French women nodded to each 
 other : that would do her good. 
 
 " Oh! to be left so lonely — so lonely!" sobbed 
 the little widow, looking up piteously in Sil- 
 via's face. "He was husband and father to 
 me ! He was both ! Oh, he was ! And I took 
 him because I was so lonely — so lonely !" 
 
 Mademoiselle Nardi looked from the pale 
 golden hair of the speaker to the thin grey 
 locks which the night air stirred gently on the 
 pillow, near the face for ever, still and silent, 
 and her very heart was touched with pity. She 
 was young herself, and very ignorant of life, 
 but she had the quickness of a southern and of 
 a woman, and these two faces, the dead and 
 the living one, told her their story at a look. 
 The tender follies of young love had never 
 bound that grey-haired man and that blooming 
 girl ; but they -had met on the path of life, and 
 agreed to journey on together, one to secure a 
 home for his declining years, the other to spend 
 her youth in its shelter. And now that was 
 over; the journey of one was ended, the bond 
 between husband and wife was broken. The
 
 42 SILVIA. % 
 
 grey cap on the wall, the pipe forgotten that 
 morning on the mantelpiece, the half-mended 
 jacket lying on a chair, would be put away from 
 sight henceforth, even as their owner must go 
 and sleep in the earth far from the eyes to whom 
 his presence had been most dear. This had not 
 been the wedded love which girls of Silvia's 
 years think of, but it had been love tender and 
 true ; no bold grand ship going forth with sails 
 unfurled and pennon flying at the mast-head to 
 seek new lands and romantic adventure, but a 
 little homely faithful bark, happy and willing to 
 keep in safe and quiet waters. 
 
 With tears in her eyes and sorrow at her 
 heart, Silvia Nardi beheld its wreck, and when 
 the widow sobbed again, " Oh, he was so good, 
 so very good to me !" the Italian girl took her 
 hand and said, with naive faith, 
 
 " God will be very good to you." 
 
 Wonderful is that promise of Almighty lo vi- 
 and protection ! What heart, save one stricken 
 down by despair, has it ever failed to reach ! 
 The sorrowful young widow looked up in Sil- 
 via's face as if some good angel had spoken. 
 
 " And your children too will be good," con- 
 tinued Silvia. " I see it in their faces."
 
 SILVIA. 43 
 
 The faces were two round, rosy dumplings 
 with blue eyes set in, but Silvia spoke with a 
 sincerity which did credit to her imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 " This one is his father all over," said the 
 little widow simply — " as like him as can be, 
 and has all his ways, God bless him! The 
 older he grows, the more he's like him, and, as 
 William says " 
 
 But here sudden remembrance smote her, her 
 lips quivered, and in a subdued altered voice 
 she said, " I had forgotten." 
 
 She said it with deep, but also with calm 
 sorrow, already submitting to her hard but in- 
 evitable lot. 
 
 " I must go now," said Silvia. " I wish I 
 could stay, but I must go. Can I do anything 
 for you !" 
 
 " Nothing, thank you, but God bless you for 
 coming !" 
 
 Silvia kissed her. She kissed the children 
 too, and as she stooped over the eldest, the one 
 so like its dead father, she slipped a little gold 
 piece in its hand. It was a small one — one of 
 the very smallest that ever was coined — but it 
 was the gift of a tender and generous heart.
 
 44 SILVIA. 
 
 At the door of the cottage Silvia unexpected- 
 ly found Mrs. Green. 
 
 "My dear Mademoiselle Nardi, where have 
 you been 1 Did you send the telegram V 
 
 " Not yet, but " 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad ! I have got a return car- 
 nage. Such an opportunity ! The man charges 
 next to nothing. We shall be in Saint Remy 
 in no time, and spare the two francs as well." 
 
 " The stoker's widow is in there. Would you 
 like to see her, Mrs. Green ?" 
 
 "My dear Mademoiselle Nardi, what good 
 could I do her?" asked Mrs. Green, seeming 
 rather distressed at the suggestion. " Besides, 
 the carriage is waiting, and we shall be late as 
 
 it IS. 
 
 Silvia did not insist, but youth is severe as 
 well as generous ; and as she walked by Mrs. 
 Green's side Silvia emphatically said to her- 
 self— 
 
 " Mrs. Green is selfish. She was glad I did 
 not go to Paris, and she does not care a pin for 
 the stoker's widow."
 
 45 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " r THINK Mrs. Green might have sent me 
 JL word that she did not mean to come," said 
 Lady John in a feeling tone. 
 
 The dinner was spoiled with waiting ; the 
 cook had sent up from the kitchen a despairing 
 message which was like the last gun of a ship in 
 distress. Lady John's guests looked moody and 
 famished, and Lady John exasperated. 
 
 " Professor Smith," she said, turning to a 
 portly gentleman on her right, " what is the 
 time, pray ?" 
 
 " A quarter past seven, Lady John." 
 That peculiar resignation which comes after 
 exasperation appeared on Lady John's face as 
 she folded her hands on her lap, and looked at 
 the ceiling. Lady John, whom her enemies 
 called by her full name of Lady John Dory, was 
 a pretty widow, who two years before this had 
 come to the conviction that to live and die in
 
 46 SILVIA. 
 
 Saint Remy, and have her friends crossing over 
 and paying her long visits, would be perfect 
 happiness. So she bought land, and built a 
 miniature French chateau, with round windows 
 set in the steep roof, tall chimney stacks and 
 gilded vanes that glittered in the sun. This 
 abode Lady John furnished luxuriously and 
 comfortably. There were statues in the hall ; 
 the staircase windows were of painted glass ; 
 the drawing-room though erratic was delight- 
 ful ; the dining-room was perfect, and the bed- 
 rooms were so many nests of comfort. Then 
 the grounds, part of which had belonged to 
 Madame de l'Epine's chateau close by, had been 
 laid out by a great landscape gardener, 
 and the only objection to Lady John's new 
 home lay in the fact that she was fairly sick of 
 it by the time it was completed. Unluckily 
 when at the end of her building campaign, Lady 
 John reckoned up the killed and wounded, or 
 in plain speech made up her accounts, she found 
 that, unlike most prudent commanders who 
 wisely secure the means of retreat before they 
 engage the foe, she had left herself no alterna- 
 tive save that of remaining encamped as it were 
 on the battle-field which had witnessed her de-
 
 SILVIA. 47 
 
 feat. She could not afford to leave Saint Remy ; 
 her friends bored her dreadfully, but less than 
 solitude ; so she remained in her citadel, kept 
 there by that grim besieger want of means ; and 
 she worried or nattered her little garrison alter- 
 nately with shameless inconsistency. 
 
 Desertion indeed seemed imminent at one 
 time, but Lady John sent for a Paris cook, and 
 before the potent spells of this Circe all suc- 
 cumbed save one who, pleading business, went 
 forth and, ravenlike, came not back. His flight 
 made room for Mrs. Green, and also, as the gar- 
 rison learned with some excitement, for a young 
 Italian girl, the friend of Madame de l'Epine, 
 Lady John's neighbour. 
 
 " What was she like f" asked the garrison. 
 " Was she plain or pretty V 
 
 "Not pretty," Lady John had briefly answer- 
 ed, on the faith of Mrs. Green's telegram. 
 
 But there are so many ways of not being 
 pretty, that on the evening when Mrs. Green 
 and Mademoiselle Nardi were expected curiosity 
 was as rife as ever, until it was fairly conquered 
 by starvation. The guests sat waiting with 
 blank faces in Lady John's drawing-room, a 
 spacious and lofty apartment, amenable to no
 
 48 SILVIA. 
 
 laws, and obeying no recognized standard. It 
 was full of pictures, of statuettes, of Indian gods 
 and Eastern jars, of mediaeval relics, and Louis 
 Quatorze andLouisQuinzegemsof art, and every- 
 one agreed that it was a very fascinating room. 
 It had rare plants, beautiful flowers, ferns in 
 cages, and little fountains sparkling up in little 
 dew-drops bright and clear. But its chairs were 
 the glory of Lady John's drawing-room. They 
 were of every variety luxury has ever contrived 
 for man's ease, and for his indolence. It was de- 
 licious, if you were at all lazy, or felt inclined to 
 become so, to sit in one of these chairs, and, 
 without so much as taking the trouble of look- 
 ing, to let your eyes rest on whatsoever lay be- 
 fore them. 
 
 In these chairs, whom they had done much 
 to keep faithful, the garrison now sat around 
 its commander-in-chief. Lady John was pretty, 
 and she looked remarkably well leaning back 
 in her crimson velvet Voltaire. She had lively 
 black eyes, and glossy black hair, and a bloom- 
 ing complexion, and it was very difficult to say 
 whether Lady John was twenty-five or fifty. 
 Next to her sat Professor Smith, her favourite, 
 and the garrison's for the time being; for a
 
 SILVIA. 49 
 
 peculiarity which might have proved fatal to a 
 less privileged person than Lady John, only 
 strengthened her ladyship's hands — this was 
 her utter inability to do without a cavalier 
 servante. He might be old or young, wise or 
 foolish — these were subordinate matters — subor- 
 dinate at least to his existence and to Ladv 
 John's fancy. The post was much sought after. 
 Lady John indeed was not a marrying woman ; 
 she was also wayward and capricious, and to- 
 day's favourite might be discarded by to-mor- 
 row ; but this to-day was so pleasant, that few 
 had the fortitude to forego it. To-day now 
 belonged to Professor Smith, a rosy and portly 
 gentleman of fifty, in whom perfect good 
 humour and insatiable curiosity were happily 
 blended, and To-morrow was expected to fall 
 in to Mr. Enfield, a little wiry, fidgetty man, 
 who did all the hard work of cicisbeism, and 
 whom her ladyship kept as a sort of errand-boy 
 or courier. Between these two she now sat, 
 petting the one and snapping up the other, 
 without the least regard to the golden rule of 
 fair play. 
 
 " / call Mrs. Green's behaviour abominable,'' 
 she said, fanning herself indignantly, and hav- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 SILVIA. 
 
 ing fairly exhausted her stock of resignation. 
 
 Professor Smith, who never could find fault 
 with a lady, began with a deprecatory cough, 
 
 " I am sure that Mrs. Green," but was not 
 allowed to go on — three lozenges from Lady 
 John's own bonbonniere at once stopped his 
 mouth. 
 
 " What a bad cough you have," she said, 
 tenderly. 
 
 Signs of favour vary. Lozenges in Lady 
 John's court were as good as having one's ears 
 pulled in that of the first Napoleon. With an 
 envious sigh Mr. Enfield moved his chair. Lady 
 John was down upon him directly — 
 
 " Oh ! you fidget of a man !" she said, in a 
 quiet little voice, with a pretty, because per- 
 fectly natural crossness hi it. "Do be quiet, 
 will you ? Mr. Lovell, what shall we do ?" 
 
 " Really can't tell," was Mr. Lovell's languid 
 reply, after pulling his yellow whiskers with a 
 contemplative mien, which was habitual to him. 
 Mr. Lovell was a tall, handsome, blue-eyed 
 young man, between twenty-five and thirty. 
 As he lounged on a little sofa in a shady part 
 of the drawing-room, he looked what he was — 
 a calm, well-bred gentleman, whom very few
 
 SILVIA. 51 
 
 things had the power to move or to charm. 
 He was said to he wealthy, very honourable, 
 very amiable, and also very tired. Fatigue, 
 mental and bodily, but chiefly mental, certainly, 
 was this young man's great characteristic. You 
 read it in his languid smile and in his abstracted 
 look. He was also slightly bored, not merely 
 there and then, but ever and everywhere — in a 
 passive rather than in an active way, however. 
 That slow Mrs. Barton, by whom he sat, bored 
 him, of course ; but so would Lady John have 
 bored him too, so would Professor Smith. Such 
 being the case, it did not matter much to Mr. 
 Lovell where he went, whose society he had, 
 nor by whose side he sat. He might be rather 
 more bored by one person than by another — 
 perhaps Mrs. Barton was rather more of a bore 
 than Lady John, and perhaps Professor Smith 
 was the greatest bore of the three ; but it did 
 not make much difference, you know, to Mr. 
 Lovell's mental state of boredom and fatigue, 
 who happened to be his actual tormentor. 
 
 " Something is the matter, Lady John," 
 sagely remarked Mrs. Barton. "Mr. Barton 
 would see through it at once if he were here. 
 He would have a dozen theories on the subject. 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 SILVIA. 
 
 Mr. Barton ought to have been a cabinet minis- 
 ter," she added, turning back to Mr. Lovell, and 
 resuming a confidential tone. " Such a mis- 
 take of his, with his connexions and his talents, 
 to accept that appointment in India." 
 
 " Indeed !" languidly replied Mr. Lovell. 
 
 " Oh ! quite," triumphantly resumed Mrs. 
 Barton. " I always told him so ; but I am sorry 
 to say Mr. Barton would never mind me." 
 
 Mr. Barton did not seem to be singular in 
 this, for whilst Mrs. Barton went on, deploring 
 her absent lord's blindness, which was shared 
 it seemed by her five brothers-in-law, who by 
 some strange infatuation did not seem aware 
 that her society could be of immense advantage 
 to them and their children, Mr. Lovell listened 
 to her with his well-bred indifference, and said 
 " Ah !" " Indeed !" " To be sure !" at the light 
 times, and every now and then looked over to 
 a remote corner of the room, where a young 
 lady sat alone — the last of this select gar- 
 rison. 
 
 " She is so lovely this evening l" whispered 
 Mrs. Barton to Mr. Lovell, " and that mauve 
 suits her charmingly. A sweet creature, Mr. 
 Lovell — at least, I think so."
 
 SILVIA. 53 
 
 " Miss Gray is very lovely," slowly answered 
 Mr. Lovell. 
 
 "And do you know, I fancy that young 
 Italian will be quite charming. I dote on 
 Italians !" Mr. Lovell thought " Indeed !" a 
 sufficient answer. "And then there's that 
 sweet little darling Georgie," continued Mrs. 
 Barton, fondly — " such a dear ! — so original !" 
 
 "Ye — es," replied Mr. Lovell — "not pretty, 
 but a good little soul." 
 
 " A dear little duck of a thing !" cried Mrs. 
 Barton, who knew that Mr. Lovell was very 
 fond of his cousin. " We shall have a sweet 
 trio of girls, shall we not ?" 
 
 Mr. Lovell supposed so, and continued to 
 look at the young lady in mauve. 
 
 Lovely is the only word that will describe 
 Ada Gray. She was lovely from top to toe, 
 and so true and characteristic was this much- 
 hackneyed word when applied to her, that 
 " lovely Ada " was the name by which she was 
 known amongst her friends. She had beauty, 
 but not beauty's dazzling glow. Everything 
 in her delicate features and graceful person was 
 subdued into loveliness, and the great simpli- 
 city and perfect taste of her attire added to the
 
 54 SILVIA. 
 
 sense of repose you received on looking at her. 
 You were not struck or overpowered, but you 
 were completely charmed. 
 
 " I really will not bear this any longer," said 
 Lady John, rising, " and I think that Mrs. 
 Green " 
 
 A sound of wheels and of jingling bells along 
 the road interrupted the sentence which Lady 
 John was going to pronounce on the offender. 
 The moody brows cleared, cheerful smiles re- 
 turned to the dejected faces, and curiosity re- 
 sumed her sway. Mrs. Green and her young 
 Italian were coming at last. Even Mr. Lovell, 
 as he pulled his whiskers, looked as if he would 
 rather enjoy being bored by new people. 
 
 Lady John went down to receive her guests, 
 and the garrison, having suddenly discovered 
 that it was very fond of Mrs. Green, and 
 wished to welcome her, followed. They were 
 still on the staircase as the three travellers 
 alighted from the carriage, and entered the 
 hall. 
 
 " Such an accident I" breathlessly began poor 
 Mrs. Green, who could read the meaning of 
 Lady John's austere mien. " It is a mercy we 
 are alive to tell the tale. Poor dear Miss Lovell
 
 SILVIA. 55 
 
 has only just rallied ; she nearly fainted." 
 
 " Fainted !" screamed Miss Georgie, in a high 
 state of indignation — " I wonder you can say 
 that, Mrs. Green ! Oh ! Gerald, how are you ? 
 Such a handsome little bantam cock as I want- 
 ed to bring you, but Mrs. Green would not let 
 me." 
 
 " Thank you all the same, Georgie," said her 
 cousin, languidly. 
 
 He stood on the steps of the stairs leaning 
 on the wooden balusters, and looking down 
 rather curiously at Silvia, between whom and 
 Lady John Mrs. Green was performing the 
 ceremony of introduction, trying, at the same 
 time, to keep Silvia in the shade of her bulky 
 person, but vainly. The lamp in the hands of 
 the white marble statue burned clear, and Sil- 
 via stood full in its light. She stood there, 
 with dark eyes glancing brightly from beneath 
 her little travelling-hat, her young cheeks 
 flushed, a half-shy, half-pleased smile on her 
 lips, and the loveliest of dimples playing on her 
 face ; and Lady John looked at her, then at 
 Mrs. Green, who trembled beneath the look. 
 
 At length the lady of the house turned to a 
 servant, and the travellers, to Mrs. Green's
 
 56 SILVIA. 
 
 great relief, were allowed to go up to their 
 rooms. 
 
 " Professor Smith," said Lady John, " come 
 here, pray — I want to speak to you." 
 
 She pointed to the dining-room, into which 
 Professor Smith followed her, feeling that there 
 was something wrong, but unable to imagine 
 what that something could be. No sooner had 
 he closed the door, than Lady John's wrath 
 broke forth. 
 
 " It's a regular take in," she said, turning to- 
 wards him with sparkling eyes — " a downright 
 swindle, and I will not stand it I* 
 
 " My dear Lady John " 
 
 " Don't Lady John me — I'll not stand that 
 either." 
 
 Professor Smith was Lady John's prime- 
 minister, but he could not be said to enjoy the 
 confidence of his sovereign, who rarely told him 
 anything she did not want the whole garrison 
 to know ; and no mariner, drifting at sea on a 
 starless night "without rudder or compass, could 
 be at a greater loss how to steer his course than 
 Professor Smith now was to direct his through 
 the shoals and quicksands of his fair lady's 
 meaning.
 
 SILVIA. 57 
 
 " Mrs. Green's a cheat !" resumed Lady John. 
 
 Now Professor Smith was one of Mrs. Green's 
 trustees in certain money matters. 
 
 " Good gracious !" he exclaimed, turning 
 pale, and sitting down very suddenly — " you 
 don't mean " 
 
 " I do, but / am not going to be victimized 
 by Mrs. Green, / can tell her !" 
 
 Professor Smith's breath and colour came 
 back. Of course if Lady John was going to be 
 victimized, he was safe ; but he was as far as 
 ever from sounding the depths of Mrs. Green's 
 iniquity. Of the two telegrams he knew no- 
 thing — of the question one had put, and the 
 other answered he was ignorant. Lady John had 
 said to him once, 
 
 " It seems that Italian girl is not pretty." An- 
 other time Lady John had remarked, " Made- 
 moiselle Nardi is plain, you know; and her third 
 comment had been : " I wonder why Mrs. Green 
 will bring her ugly Italian girls to my 
 house !" 
 
 And so when her ladyship now exclaimed in- 
 dignantly, 
 
 "Did you see her? was there ever such a 
 take in !"
 
 58 SILVIA. 
 
 Professor Smith, who was short-sighted, said 
 in the innocence of his heart, 
 
 " Oh ! dear, is she so plain as all that ?" 
 
 Lady John looked at him in wrath, which BUD- 
 sided into contempt expressed by a drooping of 
 her white lids ; then she said with cool scorn, 
 
 " Don't you see that she is not plain V 
 
 " Pretty," he suggested, beginning to under- 
 stand. 
 
 " Ten times worse," crossly said Lady John, 
 " fascinating ! But I shall settle that," she add- 
 ed, very scornfully. " I wonder when Mrs. 
 Green means to come down and let us have our 
 dinner." 
 
 Mrs. Green, however, did not add to the sum 
 of her iniquities by any needless delay ; for be- 
 fore the dinner-bell had well done ringing, she 
 appeared with her young friends, and Lady 
 John's starving guests could eat at last. 
 
 And now dinner was over, and Silvia sat in 
 Lady John's drawing-room, and her quick ear 
 heard every word that was said, whilst her dark 
 eyes took in accurate notes of all they rested 
 
 om 
 
 The wax lights, the rich velvet hangings, the 
 bright carpet, were pleasant to one reared in the
 
 SILVIA. 59 
 
 stately gravity and gloom of an old Roman 
 palace. The very pictures were different 
 from those of the Italian masters Silvia had 
 been familiar with from infancy. On the wall 
 opposite her hung a soft, golden Claude-looking 
 landscape, then near it the portrait of a young 
 cavalier smelling a flower, and beyond that a 
 Watteau group of shepherdesses in satin petti- 
 coats, playing at blind-man's-buff in a garden full 
 of roses. 
 
 Then the curiosities bewildered Silvia. She 
 had never seen such pretty Chinese toys, or 
 such hideous Indian deities as those now before 
 her. 
 
 " What are they all for !" she half whispered to 
 Miss Georgie Lovell, who sat on the sofa by her 
 side, with her feet very indecorously gathered 
 up under her. 
 
 u Goodness knows !" she answered, wrinkling 
 up her little forehead ; " they are very stupid ; 
 but then this is a stupid place, you know — no 
 fun here." 
 
 There might be no fun at Lady John's : but 
 to Silvia there was bewildering novelty, to say 
 the least of it. Mrs. Green's account of the ac- 
 cident puzzled her extremely, for in that account
 
 GO SILVIA. 
 
 the death of the stoker figured chiefly with re- 
 ference to the delay of Lady John's dinner, and 
 to the mental agonies Mrs. Green had endured 
 through the said delay. The icy coldness of 
 Lady John's manner, as poor Mrs. Green thus 
 endeavoured to get back into favour, was like- 
 wise inexplicable te the Italian girl. She little 
 knew why Lady John remained thus provok- 
 ingly cool and distant ; whilst leaning back in 
 her crimson velvet chair, she gently moved her 
 foot, a very pretty one, up and down, and 
 watched Mr. Lovell. He sat pulling his straw- 
 coloured whiskers with a meditative air, and 
 looking abstractedly at his cousin and her com- 
 panion. But he did not attempt to rise and join 
 them. This silent after-dinner contemplation 
 was evidently quite sufficient to his happiness. 
 
 However, everyone at Lady John's knew Mr. 
 Lo veil's ways, and everyone knew what his 
 looks meant, save she on whom they rested. Miss 
 Georgie Lovell seemed surprised not to say 
 puzzled at this, and puckered up her forehead 
 in her odd way, as she looked once or twice 
 from deserted Miss Gray to Silvia, as much as 
 to compare their relative merits ; but she too 
 knew her cousin's meaning, and wondering at
 
 SILVIA. 61 
 
 his preference, endeavoured to concentrate the 
 forces of her powerful mind on this mysterious 
 subject. Silvia, in the meanwhile, unconscious 
 of the cause of Miss Georgie's silence, was get- 
 ting more and more bewildered. For a vehe- 
 ment argument which had suddenly broken out 
 between Lady John and Professor Smith, puz- 
 zled the young Italian completely. 
 
 " My dear Lady John," blandly said the Pro- 
 fessor, " I feel morally certain that it can be 
 done. Electricity can be and will be made 
 available in the next great Avar. Now just lis- 
 ten. Take your electricity, put it in a glass 
 ball, cover it over with a thin steel coating, and 
 fire your gun." 
 
 Lady John dropped her eyelids at him. 
 
 " What gun I " she asked. 
 
 " Any gun. It will kill seventy-five men, 
 neither more nor less, in sixty seconds." 
 
 Silvia gave Miss Lovell a horrified look, but 
 that young lady looked wholly unmoved ; whilst 
 Professor Smith, looking very benevolent, went 
 on — 
 
 "I consider this the real end of war. The 
 old heroic system of the Horatii and the Curi- 
 atii will certainly come back. A few will have
 
 62 SILVIA. 
 
 to fight for the many, who will go about their 
 business, eat their dinner, and visit their 
 friends." 
 
 " Why not have fighting machines ?" asked 
 Lady John ironically. 
 
 Professor Smith looked much struck. He 
 evidently thought the idea suggestive. 
 
 " Or why not," continued Lady John, " have 
 it all done in one convenient spot — a sort of 
 arena with seats — paying, of course ; it would 
 bring in a good deal of money." 
 
 " If Mr. Barton were here, he would give you 
 his theory, Lady John," said Mrs. Barton. " Mr. 
 Barton would have made a great soldier." 
 
 "What is it all about? " asked Silvia of Miss 
 Lovell. 
 
 That young lady puckered her eyebrows as 
 she answered : 
 
 " Lady John and the Professor liked that sort 
 of thing ; they would go on in that fashion by 
 the hour." 
 
 " Well, but what did it mean ?" persisted 
 Silvia. 
 
 " Oh ! nothing, of course," was the composed 
 answer. 
 
 Lady John was clever, said Miss Lovell, but she
 
 SILVIA. 63 
 
 hated trouble. So the Professor found out the 
 subjects for her, and then they discussed them. 
 They were gentle bones of contention, in short, 
 without which, according* to Miss Lovell, these 
 two gifted persons could not have endured life. 
 With a few more of these " bones," one of which, 
 to Silvia's amazement and bewilderment, was 
 the length of all the telegraphic lines in the 
 world, they beguiled the evening, kindly doing 
 all the talking, until Miss Lovell got sleepy, 
 and began to yawn privately, and finally went 
 to bed. 
 
 The place by Silvia's side was scarcely 
 vacant when Miss Gray rose from her own seat 
 and, with a sweet smile, took that which Miss 
 Lovell had forsaken. Pleasantly, though with 
 a somewhat languid grace of manner, she drew 
 Silvia out, for though young in years she was 
 old in knowledge of the world, and perfect mis- 
 tress of that art. Silvia, who could not help 
 feeling attracted towards this gracious-looking 
 young lady, told her the brief story of her life 
 and the adventures of her journey, with the 
 needless candour of the young, not omitting a 
 full and pathetic account of the stoker's widow. 
 " And she is so young," she added pityingly : 
 VOL. I. e
 
 G4 SILVIA. 
 
 " and she was so fond of him, though he was 
 quite old — but then he was so good, you know.'* 
 
 All of which Miss Gray heard with a gentle 
 smile, which might be sympathetic, or amused, 
 or anything, till Silvia suddenly remarked, in 
 the course of conversation, 
 
 " I wonder if I shall know Madame de FEpine 
 again. I have not seen her since I was that 
 high, and yet we are related, you know. She 
 is my cousin, and so is the other one." 
 
 Miss Gray's looks so plainly said " What 
 other one ?" that Silvia laughed and said, 
 
 " I mean her brother." 
 
 "Ah! my cousin Mr. Meredith!" carelessly 
 replied Miss Gray. 
 
 Silvia turned upon her with eager question- 
 ing in her dark eyes, but words had not time to 
 follow, for Mrs. Green, who had seen with con- 
 siderable uneasiness the direction taken by Mr. 
 Lovell's looks, now rose, declaring that she was 
 sure Mademoiselle Nardi was dreadfully tired, 
 and carried her off forthwith. 
 
 Having escorted the young girl to her room. 
 Mrs. Green retired to her own apartment. She 
 had scarcely entered it, thinking herself safe for 
 the night at least, when Lady John uneeremoni-
 
 SILVIA. 65 
 
 ously came in. Her attack was brief and piti- 
 less. 
 
 " Mrs. Green, what did you mean by telling 
 me that Mademoiselle Nardi was ugly ?" 
 
 " Good gracious, Lady John, I only said she 
 was not pretty ; and really she is not. Her 
 mouth is too large." 
 
 " She has beautiful teeth, Mrs. Green." 
 
 " And her nose is really too short." 
 
 " Nose fiddlestick ! She has splendid eyes, 
 and Mr. Lovell stared at her the whole evening. 
 You must take and keep her away whilst he is 
 here. You can go and join the Raymonds — 
 they are only thirty miles off. I daresay they 
 will take a fancy to her and keep her. You can 
 leave her with them and come back here alone." 
 
 Mrs. Green heard Lady John with piteous dis- 
 may on her broad red face. She was tired to 
 death, and here was a most ungracious mission 
 and a most vexatious journey put upon her. 
 She tried to resist, but was at once overruled 
 and borne down. No other girl besides Ada 
 Gray should be in the same house with Mr. 
 Lovell, said Lady John. 
 
 " I thought," suggested Mrs. Green, " that 
 you meant her for Mr. Meredith." 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 SILVIA. 
 
 " Well, what about it % Charles Meredith is 
 not here, and Mr. Lovell is." 
 
 In short, it was plain that lovely Ada was to 
 have two strings to her bow, and that submis- 
 sion was Mrs. Green's only chance of forgive- 
 ness. 

 
 67 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE room assigned to Silvia was a rather 
 solemn-looking apartment. It had heavy- 
 draperies, a large mirror in a brown velvet 
 frame, with an edge of gold, and on the velvet- 
 covered mantel-shelf a low bronze sphinx, hold- 
 ing a dial between its claws, and looking at you 
 with the calm impassive face which ^ias seen 
 the passing of ages in Egyptian deserts. 
 
 On leaving Mrs. Green, Lady John had to 
 pass by this room, and as the door stood ajar 
 she could see the young girl very plainly with- 
 in. Silvia stood on the hearth holding a lamp 
 in her left hand. The white clear light from 
 the crystal globe gave a brilliant glow to her 
 bending face, as she stooped forward to look at 
 the bronze sphinx. Her intent gaze, the half 
 smile on her lips, puzzled Lady John. Sud- 
 denly her little fore-finger was at the dial, and 
 the hands went round and round. 
 
 " My goodness ! " cried Lady John, entering 
 
 f2
 
 68 SILVIA. 
 
 the room, " what are you doing to the clock, 
 Mademoiselle Nardi ?" 
 
 Silvia turned round, more startled than 
 penitent ; and the clock, on being released, be- 
 gan striking spasmodically an hour that had no 
 reference to the real time. 
 
 " I wanted to provoke her," replied Silvia, 
 nodding towards the sphinx. 
 
 " But it will spoil the clock." 
 
 " Oh ! no," was the cool reply. " I used to 
 do as much to the clocks in Nardi Palazzo, and 
 there "were twenty-three." 
 
 " Well, I am sure I don't care what you do to 
 her, horrid thing," carelessly said Lady John. 
 " It was on her account, I know, Mr. Laing 
 went away, though he never said so. I only 
 came to apologize to you, Mademoiselle Nardi. 
 for the possible intrusion of Mrs. Groom here. 
 She is Madame de l'Epines housekeeper. She 
 came the other day to prepare the chateau, and 
 as my maid was ill I asked her to stay with me 
 a day or tAvo. She sees to my things, and if 
 she should have forgotten any in this room will 
 you kindly excuse her for coming in I She is a 
 most respectable person, and was Madame de 
 TEpine's nurse."
 
 SILVIA. 69 
 
 "Was she Mr. Meredith's too?' asked Silvia. 
 
 "I really do not know," replied Lady John, 
 drily. 
 
 " What is he like ? " inquired Silvia, with 
 that foreign accent which gave emphasis to all 
 she said. 
 
 " Oh ! very handsome, and very much ad- 
 mired." 
 
 " I did not mean that," said Silvia, waving 
 her hand to imply her indifference to Mr. Mere- 
 dith's fascinations. " I do not care about that, 
 you know ; but I inquire about him because it 
 seems he is to be here with my friend Madame 
 de l'Epine." 
 
 " What about it ?" said Lady John, tartly. 
 u You have only to let Mr. Meredith alone, and 
 you will find him delightful." 
 
 Silvia looked much amazed, then very loftily 
 indignant. She smiled in calm scorn. 
 
 " Let him alone, Lady John ! If he will let 
 me alone," she said, coolly, " I shall not meddle 
 with him. I suppose he has a good temper ? 
 Has he a good temper ?" she added, suddenly 
 turning on the lady of the house. 
 
 The extreme frankness of this question made 
 a satisfactory reply very difficult.
 
 70 SILVIA. 
 
 "How should I know?" said Lady John, 
 with her little cross tone. " He was not likely 
 to show his temper to me, was he % Are you all 
 right ? You have got a fire, I see. Good night." 
 
 And before Mademoiselle Nardi could frame 
 further questions she was gone. Silvia sank 
 down in a low chair and looked wistfully at the 
 smouldering wood fire on the hearth. Any 
 passing uneasiness about Mr. Meredith she soon 
 forgot. Life is a fair book to the young, and 
 one easily read. 
 
 Silvia was eighteen — no more, and she had 
 abundant hope and little or no bitter experi- 
 ence to clip that fair Hope's wings. So she let 
 that bright goddess spread her pinions, and 
 soaring aloft upon them, Silvia was survey- 
 ing a very land of enchantment, when a rather 
 harsh voice said behind her, 
 
 " Beg pardon, mamzelle. I didn't know yon 
 were here ; but I shall have done in a minute." 
 
 Silvia looked round, and saw a short, square 
 woman, with a broad face, a vigorous forehead, 
 and a pair of shrewd brown eyes. She was 
 plain, and above forty. Without looking at 
 Silvia, she opened a piece of furniture, and 
 began emptying it of its contents.
 
 SILVIA. 71 
 
 " You are Mrs. Groom," said Silvia, with her 
 bright smile. 
 
 " Yes," the new comer replied, in the same 
 abrupt and rather harsh voice. She was Mrs. 
 Groom, and mamzelle need not mind her. 
 Silvia did mind her, however — she even looked 
 at her with evident interest and curiosity. Per- 
 haps young and inexperienced though she was, 
 the shrewd young Italian detected in the house- 
 keeper's brown face a native strength and ori- 
 ginality which she had not found in the draw- 
 ing-room below. Mrs. Groom, not seeming 
 much inclined to speak, Silvia opened the 
 conversation — she hoped she did not interfere 
 with Mrs. Groom. " Oh ! dear no, not at all," 
 Mrs. Groom answered, without looking at her. 
 This was not encouraging, but Silvia per- 
 sisted. Shyness was not her fault ; she could, 
 like all girls, be wild as a bird at times ; but she 
 could also be as free as a child. She drew a 
 chair near her own, and tapping the seat with 
 her little hand, she nodded to Mrs. Groom, and 
 said, " Come here." Mrs. Groom stood and 
 stared, with a cap of Lady John's in her hand. 
 Everyone in the house, from Lady John down- 
 wards, stood in awe of Mrs. Groom, and here
 
 72 SILVIA. 
 
 was this audacious little chit of a girl tapping 
 a chair to her as if she were Dash, the dog. 
 But Silvia was evidently unconscious of offence, 
 for as Mrs. Groom did not obey her first signal, 
 she renewed her intimation by beckoning to 
 her in a pretty, graceful way, and saying in 
 the most coaxing tones, " Do come." And again 
 she patted the chair. But Mrs. Groom was not 
 going to be patted to — not she. So she drily 
 answered that she had no time. 
 
 " No time !" said Silvia, frowning. 
 
 " No." 
 
 The young girl rose, stamped her foot, and 
 looked at her with sparkling eyes, 
 
 " Say you are a cross old thing !" she ex- 
 claimed warmly. 
 
 The cap nearly dropped from Mrs. Groom's 
 hands at this unexpected burst of temper ; but 
 before she had recovered from her surprise, 
 Silvia sat down again, and looking at the 
 fire, shook her head ruefully. She was evi- 
 dently arguing with Silvia Nardi, and she did 
 not seem much pleased with that young lady's 
 behaviour. After a while spent in silently look- 
 ing at the smouldering embers, the young 
 Italian rose, knelt down, and said her prayers,
 
 SILVIA. 73 
 
 with every appearance of sincere devotion. 
 Whilst she was thus engaged, Mrs. Groom, 
 having finished the emptying of the piece of 
 furniture, walked away. She had scarcely 
 reached her own room, when she discovered 
 that Lady John's cap was missing. She re- 
 traced her steps without finding it, and con- 
 vinced that it must be in Mademoiselle Nardi's 
 apartment, she entered it, after a short, un- 
 ceremonious knock, meant for form's sake rather 
 than implying any doubt or hesitation on Mrs. 
 Groom's part. The young girl was in bed, and 
 her lamp was extinguished ; but Mrs. Groom 
 had come armed with a lighted taper, and at 
 once made her way to Lady John's cap, which 
 was lying on the chair so unluckily patted by 
 Silvia. She was going to retreat with it, 
 when a voice proceeding from behind the bed- 
 curtains said very softly, 
 
 "Mrs. Groom." 
 
 " Yes, miss," was the stiff reply. 
 
 " Will you tuck me in, please ?" 
 
 Mrs. Groom went and did as she was de- 
 sired. Whilst she was thus engaged, Silvia 
 suddenly flung her two arms around her neck, 
 and said penitently,
 
 74 SILVIA. 
 
 " I am so sorry, Mrs. Groom." 
 
 Mrs. Groom tried to frown, but could not. 
 She tried not to laugh — in vain. She burst out 
 into a loud, sonorous ha ! ha ! which showed 
 that Mrs. Groom had good lungs and no refine- 
 ment. 
 
 "Why, what a little spitfire you are," she 
 said, still tucking Silvia in. " You a young 
 lady ! — not you ! — you are no young lady !" 
 
 This declaration Mrs. Groom uttered as if not 
 to be a young lady were rather meritorious 
 than otherwise in her creed. Without minding 
 the distinction, Silvia continued — 
 
 " And do sit down by me, Mrs. Groom, and 
 talk a bit. You are Madame de l'Epine's nurse, 
 and I felt so strange below with all these 
 people." 
 
 " Of course you did," retorted Mrs. Groom, 
 sitting down this time, however, and bringing 
 her chair to Silvia's bedside to do so. " Of 
 course you did. But Lady John will have too 
 many men about the place. I tell her so." 
 
 Silvia raised her arched eyebrows. 
 
 " You object to men, Mrs. Groom," she said. 
 
 " They're great worries," replied that lady : 
 "but we can't do without them," she added.
 
 SILVIA. 75 
 
 shaking her head. " And they know it," so- 
 lemnly continued Mrs. Groom, laying much 
 stress on the conjunction. " And they know it," 
 she said again. 
 
 " Can't we do without them ?" demurely asked 
 Silvia. 
 
 " No, they build, they bake, and they brew 
 (baking and brewing came in for the sake of al- 
 literation, which Mrs. Groom rather favoured), 
 " and they're useful, which women ain't." 
 
 " Not useful !" cried Silvia, looking ready to 
 break a lance in favour of her slandered sex. 
 
 " No, a useless lot, who count and crochet, and 
 crochet and count, and fiddle and faddle, and 
 loll in chairs, and read novels," replied Mrs. 
 Groom, whose philosophy evidently took a severe 
 view of innocent amusements. 
 
 " And can we do without them, Mrs. Groom?" 
 
 " Perhaps not," coldly replied Mrs. Groom, as 
 if this were an open question, " but they're tick- 
 lish subjects to deal with. Don't you believe all 
 women say ; as to that, better not trust men 
 either," she added, with that impartiality in 
 blame, which seemed to be one of the character- 
 istics of her philosophy ; " they're great cheats, 
 the best of them."
 
 76 SILVIA. 
 
 " Oh ! dear, " said Silvia, trying to look 
 deeply despondent, " I am not to believe wo- 
 men, and not to trust men ! Oh ! dear, what am 
 
 i to do r 
 
 Mrs. Groom looked at her and shook her 
 head. 
 
 " You are a sly one," she said, " but it won't 
 go down, mamzelle — it won't go down with 
 me." 
 
 " Well, but what am I to do ? ' asked Silvia, 
 " do advise me." 
 
 " I can tell you what you will do," rather sar- 
 castically replied Mrs. Groom. " You'll be sweet 
 as honey with the ladies till it comes to scratch- 
 ing. As to the men — as to the men " 
 
 Mrs. Groom paused. 
 
 " Well !" saucily said Silvia. 
 
 " Why, you'll try and break their hearts. 
 " And, mamzelle," she added softly — laying her 
 hand on the arm which supported Silvia's 
 head as it lay turned towards her, " mind one 
 of them don't break yours instead." 
 
 She spoke very earnestly, but Silvia heard 
 her with a careless smile. 
 
 " And that won't do,' either."" said Mrs. Groom, 
 answering that smile ; " it's an old story, moth
 
 SILVIA. 77 
 
 and candle. Moth likes to be burned, and candle 
 likes to burn him ; and what's rare fun to one is 
 death to the other. And don't try to be the 
 candle, mamzelle, lest you should be the moth." 
 
 " Were you ever married, Mrs. Groom !" asked 
 Silvia, rather gravely. 
 
 " Yes, I married Mr. Groom twenty years ago, 
 and he was a rascal," she coolly added, " and he 
 gave me a weary time of it, but I'd do it again 
 — I'd do it again," emphatically said Mrs. 
 Groom. 
 
 Silvia looked at her with eager, sparkling 
 eyes. 
 
 " Do tell me all about it," she said, " do." 
 
 " No, that I won't," was the short reply. 
 " 'Taint no business of yours, and it would do 
 you no good." 
 
 She spoke so positively, that Silvia, who had 
 half sat up to hear a love story, sank back, and 
 did not insist. 
 
 " Have you any children ?" she asked. 
 
 " None ; but I have got my nephew Philip, 
 and maybe you have seen him. He is a painter 
 in Rome. I sent him there. He is a handsome 
 fellow, tall, fair, blue-eyed. Quite handsome.'" 
 
 She looked at Silvia as if this personal de-
 
 78 SILVIA. 
 
 scription of her nephew was sufficient for the 
 young artist's identification. But Silvia shook 
 her head. 
 
 It was not when the painters were at their 
 work that she visited the gallery in Palazzi 
 Nardi, so she knew nothing of Mrs. Groom's 
 nephew. 
 
 " Well, never mind," said Mrs. Groom, though 
 she looked a little disappointed. " I know he 
 will be a great painter yet. He's quite a genius, 
 always was. He ruined all the paper hangings 
 in my room, with drawing heads in charcoal 
 upon them when he was a boy." 
 
 Silvia could be very shrewd, but she also 
 had a great deal of naive faith. She was quite 
 ready to believe in the genius of Mrs. Groom's 
 nephew, and she was too thorough an Italian 
 not to kindle at the mere talk of art. Eager 
 and interested she questioned Mrs. Groom about 
 the wonderful nephew of hers, and soon had his 
 whole history. He was her sister's orphan boy, 
 and Mrs. Groom had not merely reared and 
 educated him, she had also invested almost all 
 her savings in his future triumphs. For he was 
 to be a great, a very great painter indeed, quite 
 " a tip-top one," said Mrs. Groom in the pride of
 
 SILVIA. 79 
 
 her heart. "And now, mamzelle, I'll let you 
 sleep," she added, rising to go. 
 
 But Silvia would not let her. 
 
 " Do stay and talk," she said, coaxingly. " I 
 like hearing you much better than I do the 
 people below." 
 
 "I should think so," coolly replied Mrs. 
 Groom, not so much in admiration of her con- 
 versational powers, as in contempt for those " of 
 the people below." " Now, there's Professor 
 Smith. What is it all about,- just tell me that ? 
 A while ago 'twas cigars. How many cigars a 
 day are smoked all the world over. Then yes- 
 terday 'twas matches, and how many is burned 
 daily. Six a head for France and eight in Eng- 
 land. Then how much wood them matches 
 make, and how many trees that wood takes, 
 and the whole lot of it. A pack of nonsense !" 
 indignantly added Mrs. Groom. " Who wants 
 to know it all ?" 
 
 " It was about guns this evening," said Sil- 
 via. "He has one that will kill seventy-five 
 men a minute." 
 
 " Yes, yes, 1 know Professor Smith's gun." 
 
 " But it is a new one, Mrs. Groom." 
 
 " Bless you, i" know," persisted Mrs. Groom,
 
 80 SILVIA. 
 
 not looking in the least alarmed at Professor 
 Smith's gun. " "Why, the man would not kill a 
 fly. It's all talk — all talk. The world was 
 made for him to talk about. And that poor 
 French king he went on so about the other day, 
 trotting him up and down through his conver- 
 sation, why, he had his head cut off that Pro- 
 fessor Smith might talk of it, you know. That's 
 Professor Smith — and 'taint much," added Mrs. 
 Groom, sotto voce, " 'taint much. The man's 
 head is no bigger than a pin's at any time ; but 
 there is this good in him, that he has got no 
 corners, you know." 
 
 Silvia was getting so far accustomed to 
 Mrs. Groom's phraseology that she took this re- 
 mark concerning corners and Professor Smith 
 in a figurative as well as in a literal sense. 
 
 " Oh ! that beautiful Miss Gray, she has got 
 no corners, I am sure," she cried, rather ar- 
 dently. 
 
 There was a brief pause ; then Mrs. Groom 
 said drily, 
 
 " P'raps she keeps them in." 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Groom, don't you like her ?" 
 
 " We don't dovetail," said Mrs. Groom, in the 
 same dry tone. " She don't fit to me, and I
 
 SILVIA. 81 
 
 don't fit to her, and so we don't dove tail." 
 Silvia looked shrewdly at Mrs. Groom. 
 Perhaps she thought it might not be the easiest 
 thing in the world to dovetail with that lady, 
 but she did not say so. 
 
 " Besides," resumed Mrs. Groom, u she's one 
 of them yawning ones, whom I can't abide. 
 There's Mr. Lovell, he's a yawning one too. 
 They were both born tired. They give Lady 
 John most trouble, you know." 
 
 " How so, Mrs. Groom 1 They seem so quiet." 
 "And that's it, ain't it? Ladies like Lady 
 John must all do something, when they come 
 to her time of life. Frenchwomen mostly take 
 to snuff. Some take to the poor, and don't 
 they worret them, and poke into all their holes 
 and corners. Lady John has taken to chess, 
 only it's the people she knows are the pawns, 
 and knights, and bishops, and the whole lot of 
 it. Bless you, I should not mind if Lady John 
 heard me — they all know it, and they like it, I 
 suppose ; but that's what I mean when I say these 
 yawning ones give her most trouble." 
 
 "And Mr. Meredith, has he got corners'?" 
 asked Silvia, with her frank curiosity. 
 Mrs. Groom stared, but replied drily, 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 SILVIA. 
 
 " He is sure to have, mamzelle, everyone has 
 corners, but some people keep theirs in, and 
 others thrust them out a little. Miss Georgie 
 puts out all hers, you know, but she ain't got 
 many, though she talks so big, and tries to 
 swagger — poor little soul !" 
 
 " I like her," said Silvia, but even as she 
 said it a delicious drowsiness came over her. 
 The room gently faded away. For awhile she 
 watched the firelight dancing up to the ceiling, 
 then she saw the pale wax light burning on the 
 table, and Mrs. Groom's plain brown face ; then 
 it all vanished in the deep, sound, dreamless 
 sleep of eighteen. 
 
 Mrs. Groom rose, and before she prepared to 
 retire for the night, she took her candle, and 
 raising it, she let its light fall on the young 
 girl's sleeping face. It looked very young and 
 very happy even in its sleep — the face of one 
 whose dreams, whether sleeping or waking, are 
 full of joy and brightness. But Mrs. Groom's 
 countenance grew very grave as she gazed at 
 Madame de L'Epine's young friend — so grave, 
 that when she turned away, and put down the 
 light, Mrs. Groom looked almost sad, and shook 
 her head, and muttered, " Poor thing ! — poor
 
 SILVIA. 83 
 
 little thing !" that was not without a sort of 
 pathos. For though she could never see forty 
 again — though she was Madame de l'Epine's 
 housekeeper, and content to be so, Mrs. Groom 
 had been eighteen, and that perverse, though 
 fascinating Mr. Groom had no doubt left some 
 traces in her life. Men put by these things once 
 they are over, and think no more about them ; 
 but what woman, were she three score, ever 
 forgets that she has been young ? 
 
 g2
 
 84 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LADY JOHN'S house was built on a hill ; 
 below it passed a carriage-road, on which 
 a terrace with a broad stone balustrade looked 
 down. Thence the eye commanded a wide and 
 varied prospect ; and there Silvia stood early 
 the next morning, looking about her with a 
 bright, curious eye, like a young bird, who, 
 having just taken a long flight, reconnoitres 
 the new land to which it has journeyed. Below 
 her, lay the village of Saint Reroy, with its 
 grey church-tower, and its slate and tile roofs 
 peeping out from rich masses of trees, whose 
 summer green was fast melting into autumnal 
 gold. Beyond the village spread undulating 
 plains, bathed in a golden morning light, that 
 shone dimly through the autumn haze. 
 
 " Pretty, but not like Sorrento," said a voice 
 behind her. 
 
 Silvia turned round, and saw Mr. Lovell, 

 
 SILVIA. 85 
 
 who stood looking at her with smiling courtesy, 
 and, though Silvia was too careless and too 
 inexperienced to see it, with evident admira- 
 tion. He thought her so graceful, so warm- 
 looking, so bright. 
 
 " Ah ! — no, it is not like Sorrento," replied 
 Silvia, with a half-sigh, as she remembered 
 Dom Sabino's villa, and the blue sea and sky, 
 and green gardens she had forsaken for a nor- 
 thern home. 
 
 Mr. Lovell pulled his whiskers, then said, 
 after a while — 
 
 "Are you likely to go to London?" 
 
 " I don't know," she answered, shaking her 
 head ruefully. " We were to go to Paris, and 
 we do not." A deep sigh, expressive of her 
 disappointment, accompanied this melancholy 
 declaration. 
 
 " Do you like travelling ?" asked Mr. Lovell, 
 curiously. 
 
 " Oh ! so much !" she answered, with a flash 
 of her bright eyes. " Do you ?" 
 
 She turned upon him, and looked at him as 
 if his reply interested her deeply. 
 
 " Is it not a bore rather !" he could not help 
 saying.
 
 86 SILVIA. 
 
 The word " bore " had already puzzled Sil- 
 via in Miss Lo veil's conversation. 
 
 " A bore P she now exclaimed — " what's 
 that 1 — a creature ? — a thing ? — is it alive ?" 
 
 Whilst Mr. Lovell, much amused, was deli- 
 berating how to answer these rapid questions, 
 Lady John's voice called him from within in 
 accents full of despair. 
 
 " Mr. Lovell, everything is lost and ruined, if 
 you do not come to me at once." 
 
 Mr. Lovell turned round languidly, much 
 hesitating whether he should obey this imperi- 
 ous mandate, or define the word "bore" to 
 Silvia. She left him no choice. 
 
 " Don't you hear Lady John ?" she asked, a 
 little impatiently. 
 
 " Was it Lady John ?" said Mr. Lovell, rais- 
 ing his eyebrows. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; go at once — make haste." 
 
 Mr. Lovell stared at Mademoiselle Nardi, 
 who evidently took Lady John's appeal in its 
 literal meaning, and was amazed at his delay ; 
 but feeling how hopeless a task it would be to 
 enlighten her as to the exact value and mean- 
 ing of polite phraseology, he made up his mind 
 to obey Lady John just as her impatient lady-
 
 SILVIA. 87 
 
 ship appeared on the highest step of the perron, 
 with a smile on her lips, indeed, but also with a 
 frown on her brow. Ignoring Silvia's pre- 
 sence, she said, impatiently — 
 
 " Do come, yon tiresome man — I want you 
 so badly !" 
 
 And so she did. Lady John wanted him 
 very badly indeed — she wanted him not to 
 stand talking there with Silvia, to whom, 
 however, she nodded very kindly, as soon as 
 she had secured Mr. Lovell. 
 
 Silvia saw them go in unsuspiciously. She 
 lingered awhile on the terrace, then, feeling 
 chill, she entered the house. It looked very 
 bright and gay. The stained glass in the win- 
 dow shed a tinted light on the carpeted stair- 
 case. A magnificent Louis Quatorze clock was 
 ticking gravely and sonorously the progress of 
 time in the hall, and through a broad glass door 
 Silvia saw a green and sunny garden, with a 
 quaint lime-tree walk, at the end of which a 
 little shining fountain sent up its waters danc- 
 ing and quivering in the morning sun. 
 
 "Nice, ain't it?" said Mrs. Groom's voice be- 
 hind her. 
 
 Silvia turned round and saw the house-
 
 88 SILVIA. 
 
 keeper standing in the hall, with a bunch of 
 rusty keys in her hand. 
 
 " I am going to air the chateau," continued 
 Mrs. Groom, " and ain't it musty, that's all !" 
 
 " I shall go with you ! " cried Silvia with 
 sparkling eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Groom nodded, and leaving the hall, 
 they entered Lady John's garden together. 
 Silvia wore a long loose cloak and a little hat, 
 and she looked well, chiefly, perhaps, because 
 she looked delighted. Her cheeks were flushed 
 with the lovely bloom of youth and joy, her 
 dark eyes beamed as if the keys Mrs. Groom 
 held were the keys of an earthly Eden ; and Mrs. 
 Groom, looking at her, could not help exclaim- 
 ing admiringly, 
 
 " And you are a pretty creature !" 
 
 "It is the hat," said Silvia saucily — "it is 
 all the hat." 
 
 " Yes, ladies will wear hats. We shall soon 
 see gentlemen in white frilled caps. I can 
 fancy Professor Smith in one !" 
 
 Silvia did not restrain her mirth at this 
 suggestion, and she laughed heartily as she 
 walked bv Mrs. Groom's side. 
 
 " She has a step and a carriage," thought
 
 SILVIA. 89 
 
 Mrs. Groom, observing her keenly. " There's 
 breed in her. Ay, that there is. This way, 
 mamzelle," she said aloud. 
 
 Silvia followed her along the lime-tree 
 avenue, charmed with all she saw. The morn- 
 ing was a lovely morning. The lime-trees rose 
 like yellow gold on the blue sky, soft shadows 
 played on the grass, and Lady John's garden 
 looked very airy, bright and gay. But when 
 they came to a postern gate in the boundary 
 wall, when Mrs. Groom opened it, and they 
 stepped through deep rank weeds into the 
 neighbouring demesne, Silvia paused one 
 moment, and looked round wondering. It was 
 as if they had entered another world, a world of 
 green gloom and silence, a world of solitude 
 and almost savage liberty. For fifty years the 
 chateau had been untenanted, save at rare in- 
 tervals, and the grounds uncared for. During 
 that half century young trees had become 
 giants, and spread out their gloomy arms unre- 
 strained Grass had grown under their deep 
 shadow, and so invaded every alley, that you 
 could now scarcely trace the lost outlines of 
 the long untrodden paths. The parterres had 
 turned into a rank and luxuriant world of weeds,
 
 90 SILVIA. 
 
 above which a garden flower, degenerated back 
 to its primitive wildness, here and there raised 
 its blooming head. Every now and then statues 
 gleamed faintly through the tangled brushwood, 
 which had enclosed them at nature's bidding as 
 securely as the forest which grew round the 
 sleeping beauty when the evil fairy spoke. 
 There they dwelt, Cupids, Fawns, and Nymphs, 
 for ever alone, and no longer speaking to man 
 through the graceful forms of a long-lost wor- 
 ship. 
 
 For a moment, as we said, Silvia stood still 
 looking and listening. Above her head she 
 heard low broken twitterings, a flap of wings, a 
 rush ; then in the silence that followed there 
 came to her the low trickle of a little fountain 
 hidden in its niche, the only living token of 
 man's presence that still remained in this wild 
 spot. Even as it had flowed for bygone gene- 
 rations, so it still flowed on sweet and bountiful 
 to the last. As she heard it, as she gazed on 
 the dewy gloom around her, which even the 
 morning sun failed to pierce, Silvia wondered 
 if the bright, gay Nardi gardens would ever 
 come to this. Mrs. Groom unconsciously an- 
 swered her thoughts by saying,
 
 SILVIA. 91 
 
 " That's what all them pranking places come 
 to when they're left to themselves. As soon as 
 the gardener's back is turned they play their 
 tricks upon you." 
 
 A young tree whose boughs bent low over 
 the path justified Mrs. Groom's assertion by 
 nearly making her stumble, and sprinkling her 
 with a dewy shower, when she turned its 
 branches aside. She shook her head at it good- 
 humouredly, as if in indulgent pity for its frolic- 
 some youth, and went on muttering to herself 
 philosophic comments on the vanity of man's 
 sway over nature. 
 
 Silvia followed her, silent, impressed, and 
 rather awestruck. There was a sort of solemn- 
 ity in this old place, which had been going back 
 so long to primaeval wildness and solitude. 
 We rarely look on nature face to face ; we 
 rarely see her without that veil which man's 
 hand spreads between her and the gazer. Few 
 are the spots in a cultivated land which the 
 vanquished mother can still call her own. 
 Savage hills, deep forests, untitled plains are 
 rare. There is a lament, if we could but hear 
 it, of all things, for the lost freedom and rank 
 luxuriance of the elder world ; and there is a
 
 92 SILVIA. 
 
 triumphant and boastful gladness in every spot 
 which the subdued powers can conquer back 
 again from their great oppressor — man. Never 
 had the sense of that triumph come to Silvia 
 as it did when she passed through those few 
 acres of ground which man had once adorned 
 so fondly, and over which mighty Nature now 
 threw her strong grasp, pouring out life in every 
 form and aspect, bidding the high grass wave 
 like a western prairie, giving the wildness and 
 the gloom of virgin forests to trees and tangled 
 brushwood, and affording food and shelter to 
 generations of countless birds, insects, and small 
 living things. 
 
 When they emerged from this wilderness 
 into an open space, when they left damp gloom 
 behind them and stood in a sunny garden, with 
 gravelled paths and boxwood edges, and a few 
 autumn flowers, Silvia uttered a relieved sigh. 
 Before them rose a little grey old chateau, with 
 a terrace in front, broad and sunlit. The hand 
 of Time had touched it too ; but its progress 
 had been averted and partly effaced. Grass 
 and weeds indeed grew between the flags of the 
 terrace and in the highest crannies of the wall ; 
 here and there a pane was gone from one of the
 
 SILVIA. 93 
 
 upper windows, and the steep slate roof wanted 
 repair. But the place was habitable, and though 
 silent, as if enchanted, had a joyous, open, sun- 
 lit aspect, which brought a smile to Silvia's 
 face, and made her exclaim "How charming!" 
 
 " Musty, very musty !" said Mrs. Groom. But 
 when she opened the great door, when they en- 
 tered the deserted rooms, with their brown old 
 furniture, and gave them air, when the warm 
 sunshine came streaming in, lighting up a few 
 old portraits on the walls — when Silvia passed 
 from room to room, bright, gay, and noisy, 
 even Mrs. Groom felt that the mustiness of the 
 place lay a good deal in her imagination. 
 
 " What room is this? ' asked Silvia, peeping 
 into a square apartment on the ground floor, 
 where she saw maps on the wall, a large bureau, 
 two chairs, and a dusty pile of heavy books on 
 the oaken floor. 
 
 Mrs. Groom answered it was Mr. Meredith's 
 study, and so saying she entered it and opened 
 the window. Silvia's quick eyes detected a 
 circumstance which struck her as singular. One 
 of the panes of that window had been broken, 
 but the shattered glass had not been removed 
 from its frame, and the whole had merely been
 
 94 SILVIA. 
 
 mended with paper. She looked curiously at 
 Mrs. Groom, who said drily, 
 
 " That's the window through which Mr. Mere- 
 dith was shot at. He won't have it mended." 
 
 " And who shot at him ? ' asked Silvia, 
 looking very much startled. 
 
 "And who knows it?" replied Mrs. Groom, 
 more dryly than before. " 'Twas not done for 
 money, you know. He was sitting here read- 
 ing in that chair, with the light of the lamp full 
 on his face ; and the murderer took a pretty good 
 aim, for the ball grazed Mr. Meredith's fore- 
 head ; and there you can see the hole it made 
 in the wall." 
 
 Silvia looked, and saw where the plaster 
 was broken in a line with the bureau, and about 
 the height of a sitting man's head. From that 
 token of the murderer's hate she looked to the 
 window, and beyond it, to the spot where he 
 must have lurked and hidden before he took 
 aim. She saw a long avenue of trees leading to 
 a forest, and she turned a frightened look to Mrs. 
 Groom. Was the country safe ? she asked un- 
 easily. " Safe enough for them as knew how to 
 make no enemies," drily replied Mrs. Groom. 
 " And how did Mr. Meredith make enemies ?"
 
 SILVIA. 95 
 
 persisted Silvia," looking more and more un- 
 easy. 
 
 And how did Mrs. Groom know it, was 
 the tart reply. How did she even know 
 that he had made enemies at all. The subject 
 was evidently one she was not inclined to pur- 
 sue, so Silvia allowed it to drop ; but walking 
 out through the French window which Mrs. 
 Groom had opened, she stepped down into the 
 avenue. It was strewn with fallen leaves, and 
 looked wild and lonely ; the very place for the 
 deed which had been attempted in it. Yes, the 
 assassin could lurk in that forest there beyond, 
 climb over the wall, then creep from tree to 
 tree in the darkness of the night, stand behind 
 this last broad trunk, and thence aim at the de- 
 fenceless man within, with the light of the 
 lamp shining on his face. " And it had not been 
 done for money," said Mrs. Groom, " it had been 
 done for hate. That meant revenge ; revenge 
 for what V ' 
 
 All sorts of strange fancies came to Silvia's 
 mind ; but were soon dispelled by the voice of 
 Mrs. Groom informing her that the place was 
 aired from the ground-floor to the garret, and 
 that it was time to go back. The unlucky shot
 
 9G SILVIA. 
 
 fired at Mr. Meredith had rather sobered Sil- 
 via's liking for the old chateau. She began to 
 think it was a sort of ogre with a smiling face, 
 and an incident which occurred before they re- 
 entered Lady John's pleasant abode did much 
 to strengthen the impression. 
 
 As they, reached the postern gate, Mrs. Groom 
 said suddenly, 
 
 " I have left the key in the door." 
 
 They went back at once. They found the 
 garden, the terrace, the chateau sunny and 
 lonely as they had left them, but the key was 
 not in the lock. 
 
 " You must have dropped it," said Silvia. 
 
 " I did not drop it — I remember quite well 
 leaving it in the lock." 
 
 " Do you think, then, that anyone took it 
 away? " asked Silvia, to whom such an idea had 
 not occurred before. 
 
 Mrs. Groom turned upon her almost sharply. 
 
 " And who should have taken it away ?" she 
 asked. " Did we see a soul about the place V 
 
 Silvia confessed they had not. 
 
 " Well, then, who could have taken it away ?" 
 
 " Then I suppose you dropped it, Mrs. 
 Groom."
 
 SILVIA. 97 
 
 Mrs. Groom began looking about without an- 
 swering. Silvia assisted her ; they looked on 
 the terrace, in the garden, back as far as the 
 postern gate, but they found no key, and at 
 length they gave up the useless search. 
 
 They had scarcely opened the postern gate, 
 and entered once more Lady John's pleasant 
 garden, when they met that lady coming down 
 the lime-tree walk with Professor Smith holding 
 a sun-umbrella over her, and the fair Ada, who 
 walked by her side. 
 
 At once Mrs. Groom went up to Lady John, 
 and told the story of the lost key. Silvia saw 
 a peculiar expression pass across the lady's face, 
 but all she said was : 
 
 " And you saw no one !" 
 
 " Not a soul, my lady." 
 
 " Well, then, we must get the lock changed. 
 Professor Smith, do hold that umbrella better, 
 will you ? Mr. Enfield," she added, waving her 
 handkerchief to that gentleman, who stood 
 smoking a cigar at a respectful distance, " throw 
 that horrid thing away and come here, please." 
 
 Mr. Enfield did as he was bid, but as the 
 fragrance of the " horrid thing " still lingered 
 about him, Lady John, with a little jerk of her 
 
 VOL. I. II
 
 98 SILVIA. 
 
 handkerchief, intimated that he was not to come 
 too near ; and keeping him thus several paces 
 off, she delivered her commands. Mr. Enfield 
 was to go directly, before breakfast, emphati- 
 cally added Lady John, to Saint Remy, and 
 there see Jean, and tell him the key of the 
 chateau door was lost, and that the lock must 
 be changed as soon as possible. 
 
 " Why does she send him and not a servant ?" 
 thought Silvia, much surprised; her Italian 
 quickness soon supplied the answer. 
 
 A servant might talk, and Mr. Enfield would 
 be silent. It was plain Lady John thought the 
 key not lost, but stolen. 
 
 " Stolen ! " thought Silvia, wondering, " by 
 whom, and what for V
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " TTOU like this fountain !" said Miss Gray's 
 
 JL low and pleasant voice. 
 
 Silvia, whose eyes were following Mr. En- 
 field as he went on his errand, looked round 
 with a little start. Mrs. Groom was gone. Lady 
 John and Professor Smith were walking to- 
 wards the house. They appeared to be con- 
 versing very earnestly beneath the sun-umbrella. 
 They walked so slowly, that Lady John's long 
 morning robe scarcely seemed to move as it 
 swept the ground. Silvia was alone with 
 Miss Gray in the lime-tree avenue. Plea- 
 sant morning shadows played along the path ; 
 the autumn foliage of the trees was shivering in 
 the wind, and the fountain by which she stood 
 sent up its bright waters in the sun with a joy- 
 ous murmur. Through the sparkling shower 
 she saw the delicate and pensive face of Miss 
 Gray, looking in her pale green robe like a fair 
 northern Nixe. 
 
 h2
 
 100 SILVIA. 
 
 " No," frankly answered Silvia, shaking her 
 brown head, " I was not thinking of the foun- 
 tain ; I was thinking of the key. Who can have 
 taken it?" 
 
 " Was it taken ?" asked Ada Gray quietly. 
 
 Silvia felt provoked at the persistent reti- 
 cence everyone displayed on this subject. 
 
 " If Lady John did not think it had been 
 taken she would not have the lock changed," 
 she said, rather shortly. 
 
 " Very true ; but there is nothing of any 
 value at the chateau. How do you like it ?" 
 
 She spoke with that calm carelessness which 
 irritates the curiosity it is meant to baffle. 
 
 " Not at all," answered Silvia. " I do not 
 like houses in which people are shot at as they 
 read." 
 
 " It may not happen again," said Miss Gray, 
 smiling ; and as Mrs. Green now appeared com- 
 ing up the avenue as if to join them, she grace- 
 fully walked away, for between her and that 
 lady there existed a coolness of long standing. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Green ! She had wakened in keen 
 trouble of mind that morning. She was selfishand 
 indolent, and had no deep feelings of any kind. 
 From imagination she was free, and not a particle
 
 SILVIA. 101 
 
 of malice had ever entered her breast, but peace 
 was her weak point. Peace bodily and mental 
 was the goddess at whose shrine she knelt, and 
 before whom she burned incense. Never had 
 double-faced Janus so fond an admirer of his 
 closed gates in the old heathen times as Mrs. 
 Green would have made had she been a Roman 
 matron. Motion, conflict, trouble, grief, were 
 all abhorrent to her. Lady John's scolding had 
 given her the nightmare, and made her waken 
 in a fever. It was dreadful to have to go, but 
 it would be more dreadful still to stay on such 
 terms. So her first care that morning was to 
 seek for Silvia, in order to hint at their ap- 
 proaching departure. Silvia, however, was 
 already gone ; and now when they met at last 
 in the lime-tree avenue, Mrs. Green wondered 
 if her ungracious errand could be put off a little 
 while longer. Whilst she thus hesitated, Silvia 
 eagerly questioned her. 
 
 "Mrs. Green, you know Mr. Meredith was 
 shot at ? Have you any idea who could have 
 done it T 
 
 Here was a loophole through which Mrs. 
 Green's purpose might creep out. 
 
 " My goodness !" she cried, " I hope the place
 
 102 SILVIA. 
 
 is safe for you, Mademoiselle Nardi. I have a 
 great mind to take you away." 
 
 M Take me away ! ' cried Silvia, raising her 
 fine dark eyebrows. " Why, Mrs. Green," she 
 added, with a merry laugh, " you do not think 
 anyone could want to shoot me ?" 
 
 " No, but I fear it will make you so nervous, 
 my love." 
 
 " Are you nervous, Miss Nardi ?" asked Mr. 
 Lovell, joining them, and gently pulling the 
 yellow down which adorned his cheeks, whilst 
 his cousin Miss Georgie Lovell, who had come 
 out with them, puckered her eyebrows and said 
 with a frown, 
 
 "Nonsense, you are not nervous, Silvia, are 
 you ?" 
 
 " I should not like to be shot at," answered 
 Silvia candidly. 
 
 " And I am sure I could stand fire," retorted 
 Miss Lovell, forgetting in perfect good faith her 
 terror at the accident. 
 
 " Now I shall get it from Lady John," thought 
 poor Mrs. Green. 
 
 She made a motion as if to go towards 
 the house, but Silvia, instead of following, 
 stood listening whilst Miss Lovell continued,
 
 SILVIA. 103 
 
 " And Charlie Meredith is just the man not to 
 care a pin for a shot." 
 
 " Is he so brave ? " exclaimed Silvia, opening 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Oh!" remarked Mr. Lovell, a little super- 
 ciliously, " he's an engineer, you know. He had 
 and has something to do with the Genetieres 
 branch, so I suppose he turned off some man 
 or other, who did that out of revenge. A man 
 must expect that sort of thing when he has to 
 do with that sort of people." 
 
 And Mr. Lovell pulled out his whiskers with 
 great composure. He seemed by no means so 
 secretive as the others. Silvia's eyes sparkled, 
 and at once she poured forth a series of rapid 
 questions. Was it a workman 1 Was anyone 
 suspected? Was the line finished? — and was 
 it likely more workmen would be turned off, and 
 prove revengeful ? And all the time she ques- 
 tioned thus her dark eyes flashed and were bent 
 on Mr. Lovell with unconscious eagerness. He 
 was unused to anything of the kind, and though 
 her rapid vehemence rather worried him, it also 
 pleased him in a certain way, even as sluggish 
 creatures like that tickling under the ear which 
 rouses their dormant sensations. He was pre-
 
 104 SILVIA. 
 
 paring to answer her with something more of 
 vivacity than he generally infused in his con- 
 versation, when Lady John came to the rescue. 
 Her ladyship was remarkably long-sighted, and 
 even from her window she could see the lively 
 play of Mademoiselle Nardfs expressive features 
 when addressing Mr. Lovell. 
 
 " Of all audacious little flirts," as she after- 
 wards declared to Mrs. Green, "your Made- 
 moiselle Nardi is peer." 
 
 She soon put an end to Silvia's supposed 
 pastime by causing the breakfast-bell to be 
 rung ten minutes before the time. Mrs. Green 
 went in at once, and Silvia was obliged to 
 follow with all her eager inquiries left unan- 
 swered. 
 
 Breakfast at Lady John's was a substantial 
 meal. Silvia, abstemious as an Italian, ate 
 little, and entertained herself chiefly with look- 
 ing at the garrison. Mrs. Green's round red 
 face and glistening eyes told their own story. 
 " She is too fond of eating," she thought severe- 
 ly. Mrs. Barton's youthful neglige, Mademoiselle 
 Nardi pronounced foolish in a person of such 
 advanced years — Mrs. Barton was turned forty ; 
 Miss Georgie Lovell she looked at indulgently,
 
 SILVIA. 105 
 
 because she liked her ; but Ada, lovely Ada won 
 her heart. "What a charming profile she had — 
 what a look of high breeding! and that delicate 
 pale-green robe, how well it fitted, and how be- 
 coming it was ! From this graceful young per- 
 son, Silvia was passing on to the mistress of 
 the house, when Lady John, who had taken 
 good care that Mr. Lovell should be seated as 
 far as possible from her guest, now interrupted 
 the sileut contemplation she had not been able 
 to prevent, by remarking, in her sudden way : 
 
 " Mr. Lovell, do tell me why we all go to sleep 
 at the same time V 
 
 Mr. Lovell pulled his whiskers in mild surprise. 
 
 " Really, Lady John — " he began. 
 
 " Yes," she interrupted impatiently ; " I want 
 to know why we don't do it in turns, for in- 
 stance !" 
 
 " On my word, Lady John, I think it would 
 be much the better plan ; but you see " 
 
 " Of course it would," again interrupted Lady 
 John. " Sleep is an absurdity, as everyone knows. 
 To go and put oneself in a perfectly helpless 
 condition, is ridiculous on the very face of it. 
 But why all men and women agree to do it at 
 once, is what I want to know."
 
 106 SILVIA. 
 
 " I think I can explain this on physiological 
 grounds," pompously began Professor Smith, 
 whilst his right hand gently raised and flourished 
 a silver spoon. 
 
 What Professor Smith's explanation would 
 have been, no one ever knew. Mr. Enfield, who 
 had been wriggling uneasily all the time on his 
 chair, said hastily : 
 
 "We all sleep at the same time because we 
 don't care to trust one another, Lady John." 
 And Mr. Enfield winked like a man who has 
 said a smart thing, and who knows it. 
 
 " I prefer a physiological explanation," again 
 began Professor Smith ; but Mr. Enfield, who 
 was not easily daunted when he thought he had 
 said a smart thing, again forestalled him. 
 
 " I remember telling Raymond, and he thought 
 it was rather a good thing." 
 
 But this good thing of Mr. Enfield's was as 
 much lost to the garrison as Professor Smith's 
 physiological explanation ; for Lady John, find- 
 ing the very opportunity she wanted, seized it 
 without ceremony. 
 
 " Ah! those Raymonds. You know, Mrs. Green, 
 I shall never forgive you." 
 
 Mrs. Green smiled faintly, and Lady John
 
 SILVIA. 107 
 
 carried on the war with the tactics thanks to 
 which she had already triumphed in a hundred 
 battle-fields. 
 
 "You are the greatest wanderer there ever 
 was," she persisted coolly, " but we shall not 
 trust you to those fascinating Raymonds, whom 
 you so want to see. If you will go," added 
 Lady John emphatically, " Mademoiselle Nardi 
 must accompany you, and bring you back 
 safely." 
 
 " How can I ask Mademoiselle Nardi to make 
 such a sacrifice V replied Mrs. Green. 
 
 It is hard to deceive a woman ; doubly hard 
 when that woman has the quickness of a southern 
 as well as the finesse of her sex. At first, in- 
 deed, Silvia felt confused and petrified ; but 
 she darted a look from Lady John's impertur- 
 bable face to Mrs. Green's undisturbed counten- 
 ance, as with a flash of light she saw the -truth. 
 Lady John wanted to send her away, for what 
 motive she could not imagine, and Mrs. Green 
 was her accomplice in the scheme. Humiliation, 
 grief, the sense of her loneliness, which exposed 
 her to such treatment, almost choked her, but 
 by a strong effort she rallied quickly ; her lips 
 quivered indeed, and the blood of the Nardis
 
 108 SILVIA. 
 
 dyed her cheeks for a moment — for a moment, 
 too, her soft dark eyes flashed with the old 
 patrician fire ; but the next second she smiled, 
 a sweet seductive smile, and bending her head 
 with that stately grace which has come down 
 to the sons and daughters of Italy, the inheri- 
 tance of their ancient civilization, she said 
 pleasantly, 
 
 " You are both too kind !" But in her heart 
 she thought " They want to get rid of me," and 
 in her heart, too, there rose a passionate revolt 
 against the insult. 
 
 Silvia had been reared in the seclusion 
 which surrounds Italian girls. The ways of the 
 world were unknown to her, but she had de- 
 cision, promptness, and a strong will. She re- 
 solved both to defeat and to gratify her inhos- 
 pitable hostess, to rid her of her presence, in- 
 deed, but yet not go to see these unknown 
 Raymonds, to whom Lady John presumptuously 
 thought to transfer her. She took no one in 
 her confidence. She was a true Italian in this ; 
 she liked to keep her own counsel, and she 
 could act on her own impulses, and not fear the 
 result or seek advice to strengthen or weaken 
 her resolve. She was an orphan, she had
 
 SILVIA. 109 
 
 grown up unloved, and she could suffer and not 
 betray it. 
 
 After breakfast the garrison separated. Pro- 
 fessor Smith, who had a finger in every pie, 
 trotted off to see some Celtic remains recently 
 discovered. Mr. Enfield fastened on Mr. Lovell, 
 who allowed himself to be bored. The ladies 
 went up to write letters (Mrs. Green to take a 
 nap), and Silvia, thinking that her opportunity 
 had come, was going to leave the house quietly, 
 when she was unexpectedly joined by Miss 
 Georgie Lovell on the terrace which overlooked 
 the road. 
 
 " I say," remarked that young lady, slipping 
 her arm within Silvia's and looking up into 
 her face with an attempt at a frown, " don't 
 you go to the Raymonds. The girls are such 
 muffs." 
 
 " But Lady John says I am to go," replied 
 Silvia, smiling haughtily. 
 
 " Say you are tired, and stay here." 
 
 " But if Lady John is already tired of 
 me " 
 
 "Not a bit of it," interrupted Miss Lovell. 
 " It's all on account of Gerald staring at you. 
 She wants him for Ada, you know."
 
 110 SILVIA. 
 
 Silvia remained petrified, and looked at her 
 companion, who spoke quite seriously, and in 
 evident good faith. 
 
 " But / do not care about that gentleman," 
 cried Silvia, looking exasperated. " And it is 
 very impertinent of anyone to think such a 
 thing." 
 
 " Not care about Gerald !" said Miss Lovell, 
 staring at her. " Why, he is very handsome, 
 you know, and ever so rich, and the best fellow- 
 there ever was, and Ada Gray would give her 
 ears to have him, he's such a match !" 
 
 " I don't care about his money, and I don't 
 think him handsome at all, and I wouldn't have 
 him on any account ! " cried Silvia, still ex- 
 asperated. 
 
 "Nonsense," retorted Miss Georgie, coolly, 
 " you would have him if he were to ask you — 
 as I daresay he will, for I never saw him look- 
 ing so at anyone before last night. I am sure 
 I would have him at once, if he were to ask 
 me," she added, with perfect candour. " How- 
 ever, as he never will, I would rather he would 
 marry you than Ada Gray. She is such a 
 pussy, you know, and I hate a pussy girl." 
 
 At another time Silvia might have asked
 
 SILVIA. Ill 
 
 Miss Lovell to explain this mysterious language, 
 but she was too much mortified to think of that 
 now. Tears of shame and grief started to her 
 eyes, and only pride prevented them from fall- 
 ing. Miss Lovell, who was shortsighted, did 
 not see this, and was going to resume her ad- 
 vice to Silvia not to go to the Raymonds, but 
 to remain and stand her ground, when she sud- 
 denly remembered that she was to practise 
 shooting with her cousin that morning. She 
 tried to coax Silvia into joining her, but meet- 
 ing with a flat denial, left her to her own 
 thoughts. 
 
 Mademoiselle Nardi just gave one look round 
 her, and seeing that the coast was clear, went 
 and opened the gate and walked down the road 
 leading to Saint Remy. After passing by 
 straggling farms she reached an ill-paved street 
 with quaint old houses on either side, and end- 
 ing in an irregular place, in the middle of which 
 rose a grey old church. The doors were open, 
 and looking down one of the chill aisles Silvia 
 saw beyond rows of oaken benches a white and 
 lonely altar, on which a few bright tints from a 
 stained-glass window fell softly in the light of 
 a pale October sun. She was too true an
 
 112 SILVIA. 
 
 Italian to pass this church by and not enter it ; 
 but as she knelt down near the door and prayed 
 devoutly, Silvia could not help feeling some 
 pricks from that secret monitor -who will not let 
 us rest even in our little iniquities. She knew 
 that her conduct was not quite frank, that she 
 was passively deceiving Mrs. Green and Lady 
 John by allowing them to believe she would go 
 to the Raymonds. She knew it, but Silvia's 
 piety did not do all for her that it might have 
 done. It kept her heart and her thoughts pure, 
 it gave depth and reality to her compassion for 
 the needy and the suffering, it taught her to 
 curb in and restrain a rather warm temper, 
 but it had not taught her yet the sweet virtue 
 of humility, and the divine beauty of perfect 
 forgiveness. In short, Mademoiselle Nardi did 
 what we mostly all do, she practised the virtues 
 that were easiest and most pleasant to her, and 
 left by the painful ones for a later season ; so 
 though the garden of her devotion was fair 
 and yielded many sweet and pleasant flowers, 
 it also had its weeds, which she wilfully or care- 
 lessly allowed to grow. Weeds which sorrow 
 and time, those two stern husbandmen, will 
 have to eradicate ere her tale be done.
 
 SILVIA. 113 
 
 u And how can I help it t" she secretly 
 argued, as she left the church. "Why does 
 Lady John act so shamefully, and why does 
 Mrs. Green abet her? They are my enemies 
 now, and am I bound to tell everything to my 
 enemies !" 
 
 Thus comforted, and armed oap-h-*pie against 
 all conscience could say, Silvia stepped out of 
 the church and looked around her. A few 
 children were playing at the foot of a stone 
 cross in the sun ; an old woman sat spinning 
 at her door ; two merry blooming girls were 
 looking at her curiously from a window overrun 
 with vine-leaves, from behind which their laugh- 
 ing faces peeped out, and an aged priest in 
 black was moving towards the church, which he 
 entered by a side door ; and still Silvia stood 
 irresolute and doubting, 
 
 At length an old brick house, almost black 
 with the smoke of a century, caught her eye. 
 Above the arched door, which stood wide open, 
 displaying a low, broad kitchen, and a bright 
 fire within, Silvia saw a dangling signboard, 
 on which she read^- 
 
 " Hotel d'Algeree, Jean Varot." 
 vol. I. I
 
 114 SILVIA. 
 
 A man stood leaning against the door-post 
 smoking, and examining a lock in his hand. 
 Silvia went up to him ; he took out his pipe, 
 and silently waited her pleasure. His appear- 
 ance struck her. He was young, tall, and 
 strongly built ; he had a dense head of red hair, 
 a long freckled face, long features, and grey 
 eyes, with a cold, impassive look in them. 
 
 "Are you the master of the inn?" asked 
 Silvia, hesitatingly addressing him in French, 
 which, like all members of the Italian aristo- 
 cracy, she spoke fluently. 
 
 " I am," he replied. 
 
 His tone and manner struck her. They were 
 neither above nor beneath his position in life, 
 but they were those of a remarkable man — a 
 man of few words and strong will ; so Silvia 
 thought, whilst she asked to be directed to the 
 railway station. 
 
 " Saint R6my is not a station," he briefly 
 replied. 
 
 " But it has a telegraph office." 
 
 " No — the nearest is two leagues away." 
 
 Whilst Silvia stood irresolute and perplex- 
 ed, a little man, who sat at the kitchen table 
 eating bread and cheese, stopped in the act of
 
 SILVIA. 115 
 
 filling his glass to turn round and say, with 
 great alacrity — 
 
 "I am the courier. I bring and take letters 
 daily, and I can take a telegram for you, made- 
 moiselle." 
 
 Silvia looked doubtfully at the master of 
 the inn, but the stolid face, crowned with brist- 
 ling red hair, gave her no response ; the keen, 
 greenish eyes had no answering look. Silvia 
 was to act exactly as she pleased. Her resolve 
 was soon taken. She put her hand in her 
 pocket, opened her purse, drew out a folded 
 paper, and putting the paper and some money 
 in the courier's hand, she bade him bring the 
 reply at Lady John's. The little courier was 
 profuse in assurances of punctuality, fidelity, 
 and general correctness. The red-haired owner 
 of the Hotel d'Algerie never opened his lips, 
 nor moved from the doorway, but stood there, 
 with the lock in one hand, and his pipe in the 
 other, in evident expectation of Silvia's de- 
 parture. 
 
 It was done, and Silvia did not repent it, 
 as she turned back towards Lady John's house. 
 Her pride still suffered keenly from the insult 
 she had received. What had she done to be so 
 
 I 2
 
 116 SILVIA. 
 
 treated % Mr. Lo veil's admiration, which Lady 
 John had so quickly detected, had been so 
 quietly expressed, that Silvia had not even 
 suspected its existence. It had not occurred to 
 her that she was a dangerous person — that she 
 could upset cherished schemes, and dethrone a 
 beauty ; that before receiving her Lady John 
 had stipulated for her plainness, and that the 
 fascinations with which nature had endowed her 
 were an injury upon her ladyship. Miss Georgie 
 Lovell's revelations had enlightened her, indeed, 
 but only aggravated Lady John's offence. 
 
 " I have been shamefully treated," she 
 thought, " but there is a comfort, I have been 
 quite a match for my enemies." 
 
 There is no denying that this conviction 
 gave Mademoiselle Nardi, who was anything 
 but a perfect person, considerable satisfaction. 
 She longed, as she entered Lady John's house, 
 to meet and mystify its owner concerning the 
 nature of her errand to Saint R6my ; but that 
 gratification, such as it was, she did not have. 
 No one had seen her leave — no one saw her 
 come back. 
 
 " Perhaps," thought Silvia, " the answer to 
 my telegram will come before dinner, or this
 
 SILVIA. 117 
 
 evening, in the drawing-room. It would be 
 pleasant to thank Lady John for her hospital- 
 ity, then, with all her friends looking on, and 
 she overpowered with shame and confusion, of 
 course, to leave the drawing-room, cross the 
 garden, open the postern gate, and go to the 
 chateau." 
 
 Her dark eyes flashed triumphantly at the 
 thought, but their brightness, which was several 
 times shed on Mr. Lovell in consequence, proved 
 to be premature. No answer to her telegram 
 came before dinner, nor yet in the evening, 
 giving her the opportunity for that little scene 
 which in her heart she longed for. 
 
 Every time the bell rang at the great gate 
 outside, every time a step crossed the hall or 
 the door opened, Silvia started and thought 
 that her revenge was coming, wrapped up in a 
 square sheet of paper. 
 
 But it was not. Professor Smith and Lady 
 John had a dreadful passage of arms concern- 
 ing his great gun. Mr. Enfield contradicted 
 them both ; Mrs. Barton bored Mr. Lovell, who 
 endured it and looked at Silvia; and Mrs. 
 Green nodded in her chair ; whilst Silvia, 
 playing her part like the rest of them, talked
 
 118 SILVIA. 
 
 with Miss Gray. Once, indeed, that young lady 
 found her a very inattentive listener. The con- 
 versation had turned from the great gun to the 
 Kaymonds, and the next day's journey. It was 
 all settled. Jean Varot had promised his best 
 carriage and the two grey horses ; the weather 
 was to be beautiful, and Mrs. Green was to be 
 called up early. 
 
 " No need to waken Mademoiselle Nardi," 
 here remarked Mrs. Green ; " she is always up 
 with dawn." 
 
 She looked at Silvia, who pretended deaf- 
 ness. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were 
 very bright, but she looked as free from care as 
 if Lady John's house had been her own ; and 
 when she went up to her room that night, and 
 stood face to face with the bronze sphinx, she 
 gave it a defiant look. 
 
 " You are like Lady J ohn," she said to it in 
 her own thoughts — "you pretend to be very 
 clever, but one need not tell you everything 
 you see."
 
 119 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " TVT^^' ^" rs ' ^ reen » ^ * s no use ^° worr y?" 
 
 AA said Lady John, addressing her guest 
 in that lady's bedroom early the next morning. 
 " The weather is lovely, and it is quite a treat 
 to go and see the Raymonds." 
 
 " I dislike those Raymond girls," plaintively 
 answered Mrs. Green, who sat in an armchair, 
 looking both piteous and helpless. 
 
 "Nonsense," tartly said Lady John — "they 
 are full of spirits." 
 
 "They are quite boisterous," persisted Mrs. 
 Green, " and very rude. They are always 
 quizzing me." 
 
 Lady John tapped her foot, and looked im- 
 patient. 
 
 " Quiz them," she said. 
 
 " I can't," was the sulky reply. 
 
 " Well, then, only think that you will soon 
 come back. I shall be sure to let you know
 
 120 SILVIA. 
 
 when Madame de l'Epine returns. And please 
 to take that dreadful little flirt to her at once — 
 without first coming to me, I mean. Mr. Lovell 
 hates Charles Meredith, and will scarcely have 
 made up his mind to call on Madame de l'Epine 
 before her brother arrives. Once he is at the 
 chateau, Mr. Lovell will not put his foot in it." 
 
 Blank dismay appeared on Mrs. Green's broad 
 face. 
 
 11 And is Charles Meredith coming ?" she asked 
 faintly. 
 
 " Yes, of course, for the winter." 
 
 The blow seemed to be too much for Mrs. 
 Green. She had unconsciously fallen from 
 Charybdis into Scylla. 
 
 " What will old Miss Meredith think or say if 
 he should take a fancy to Mademoiselle Nardi !" 
 she exclaimed in great consternation. 
 
 Old Miss Meredith, as her friends kindly called 
 her, was a lady of considerable property, who 
 had reared her cousin Charles Meredith, and 
 had set her heart on seeing him marry her 
 young relation, Ada Gray. They did not seem, 
 indeed, much inclined to gratify her ; but Mrs. 
 Green, who acted as occasional companion to 
 that lady, and expected to be put down for
 
 SILVIA. 121 
 
 something handsome in her will, was none the 
 less alarmed at the thought of thwarting her 
 scheme, howsoever remotely. If Mr. Lovell in- 
 duced Ada Gray to marry him, the responsibil- 
 ity was Lady John's and not Mrs. Green's ; but 
 if Mrs. Green, by escorting Silvia, had brought 
 her, as it were, to Mr. Meredith, and if Mr. 
 Meredith should unluckily take a fancy to her, 
 during that winter which they were to spend 
 together in an old chateau, would old Miss Mere- 
 dith ever forgive her? Now first appeared to 
 her mind the dreadful consequences of Madame 
 de rEpine's altered plans. Business would 
 have kept Mr. Meredith away from Paris, and 
 business, on the contrary, would bring him to 
 Saint Remy. How had the advantage of tra- 
 velling home at Madame de l'Epine's expense 
 blinded poor unfortunate Mrs. Green to this 
 fatal contingency ? There was one chance in 
 her favour, indeed — Charles Meredith might not 
 care for Silvia Nardi ! 
 
 " Perhaps he will not like her," she said, look- 
 ing up for comfort to Lady John. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Green, I think it very likely that 
 he will," perversely replied Lady John ; " she is 
 just the sort of girl to attract him, in my opinion,
 
 122 SILVIA. 
 
 and the longer you keep her at the Raymonds 
 the better it will be for you — at least, I think 
 so." 
 
 " But how can I keep her there V asked Mrs. 
 Green, waxing desperate, till a bright thought 
 struck her. Mr. Lovell was rich — much richer 
 than Mr. Meredith, whose hopes of fortune 
 rested on his cousin's favour. Suppose Mrs. 
 Green took an early opportunity of impressing 
 these facts on Silvia's mind. That might be 
 sacrificing Lady John indeed ; but old Miss 
 Meredith was much the more valuable friend of 
 the two. Hesitation in such a case was im- 
 possible. 
 
 " Well, what is it ?" asked Lady John, sus- 
 piciously. 
 
 " Nothing," answered Mrs. Green, with a sigh ; 
 " but I wish we were gone. I wonder where 
 Mademoiselle Nardi can be." 
 
 " Surely she is in her room." 
 
 " She was not there a quarter of an hour 
 back." 
 
 " I declare, she is below talking to Mr. Lovell I" 
 exclaimed Lady John, looking out of the win- 
 dow by which she stood. "Mr. Lovell, who 
 never gets up before ten [ M
 
 SILVIA. 123 
 
 This was certainly an ominous symptom so 
 far as Mr. Lovell was concerned ; but though 
 Silvia's guilt was not a necessary consequence, 
 Lady John again bestowed upon her that un- 
 gracious epithet of the most audacious little 
 flirt she had ever seen ; and with that prompti- 
 tude which characterizes the generalship of all 
 good commanders, she at once went down 
 to the rescue, imperiously summoning Mrs. 
 Green with a " Come along," which that lady 
 obeyed. But Silvia was standing alone on 
 the terrace, standing with a paper in her hand, 
 when the two ladies joined her. Mrs. Green 
 presently addressed her — 
 
 " My love, where have you been ?" she asked. 
 " You know we leave early ; and of course you 
 must have some breakfast before you go." 
 
 " Thank you," replied Silvia, quietly, " I am 
 not going, Mrs. Green." 
 
 " Not going !" exclaimed Lady John, thrown 
 off her guard ; " not going with Mrs. Green !" 
 
 " No, I do not wish to go." 
 
 Lady John reddened. 
 
 " Dear me," she said, " I understood that you 
 promised to go with Mrs. Green." 
 
 "Promised," repeated Silvia, very slowly,
 
 124 SILVIA. 
 
 " did I promise, Lady John ? I said you were 
 both too kind — you in sending me away from 
 your house, and Mrs. Green in taking this jour- 
 ney to oblige you." 
 
 The two ladies exchanged looks of dismay 
 and remained silent. Silvia stood before them 
 pale, scornful, and indignant, all the majesty of 
 an offended queen in her looks. 
 
 " This is a most extraordinary mistake, Made- 
 moiselle Nardi," coolly began Lady John. " Of 
 course we shall all be too happy if you prefer 
 staying here to going with Mrs. Green " 
 
 " Staying here ! " interrupted Silvia. " Sleep 
 here another night ! You do not think it — you 
 do not mean it, Lady John. Last night was 
 too much. When I understood that your house 
 was too full to hold me, I sent a telegram to 
 Madame de l'Epine, asking her for a room in the 
 chateau." 
 
 " You did !" cried Lady John, staring. 
 
 " Yes," replied Silvia, with a merry, trium- 
 phant nod, " and I have just got her answer. 
 She is coming to-night, and Mrs. Groom is to 
 get everything ready at once. So I must go 
 and tell her, must I not ?" 
 
 So saying, she quickly walked away, and
 
 SILVIA. 125 
 
 entered the house before Lady John could utter 
 a word. 
 
 " Impertinent little thing !" she said crossly. 
 " I should not care a pin if it were not for Ma- 
 dame de l'Epine. However, I shall deny it all. 
 But of course you must go to the Raymonds." 
 
 Mrs. Green, who had been secretly hoping for 
 a reprieve, looked both piteous and disconcerted, 
 but Lady John was inexorable. 
 
 " You must," she said, decisively ; " how can 
 1 deny if you stay V 9 
 
 Mrs. Green was patient ; but even patience 
 has its limits. She asked indignantly why she 
 was to be made to run about so on account of 
 Mademoiselle Nardi. To which Lady John 
 coolly replied that such was the consequence of 
 escorting young ladies, and that Mrs. Green 
 would know better another time. A little judi- 
 cious coaxing, added to this sharp line of rea- 
 soning, enabled Lady John to carry her point. 
 And as the travelling-carriage had come in the 
 meanwhile, Mrs. Green, after taking her break- 
 fast, entered it, and drove away, to Lady John's 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Mrs. Groom, on hearing from Silvia what 
 had passed, what she had done, and how she
 
 126 SILVIA. 
 
 had succeeded, a narrative which Silvia gave 
 with considerable liveliness, looked anything 
 but charmed. 
 
 " Madame de l'Epine is too delicate to travel 
 fast," she said crossly ; " you should have con- 
 sulted me first, mamzelle." 
 
 " I wanted Madame de l'Epine's permission 
 to go to the chateau," shortly replied Silvia. 
 
 " Permission fiddlestick I" more shortly an- 
 swered Mrs. Groom. " The great thing is not 
 to worry her, poor dear. She has had trouble 
 enough already. I am sure she will not be able 
 to come to-night, and so you will have to stay 
 here all the same." 
 
 Silvia became crimson. " But I will not stay 
 here !" she cried angrily. " I will go away at 
 once — at once, Mrs. Groom." 
 
 " Then, my dear young lady, you will have 
 to fast," composedly replied Mrs. Groom, " for I 
 must get my two servant women, and bread 
 and meat, and all sorts of things before you can 
 eat in the chateau, and I warn you that I may 
 not be able to do all this before to-night." 
 
 Silvia felt ready to cry with vexation, but 
 Mrs. Groom was inexorable. She had the keys 
 of the chateau, and she meant to keep them.
 
 SILVIA. 127 
 
 Silvia must breakfast and dine at Lady John's 
 table, or starve. 
 
 " I know what I am doing," she added, with 
 perverse good-humour, "I am preventing you 
 from being laughed at by Lady John and all 
 her people, and I am also saving my poor dear 
 from a quarrel with Lady John. So as you can't 
 help yourself, best submit, mamzelle. You may 
 be as cross as you like with me. Bless you, I 
 shan't mind it!" 
 
 And Mrs. Groom, who looked perfectly un- 
 concerned, at once went about her business. 
 
 Silvia was very much provoked, but she was 
 also amused. She was too thorough an Italian 
 to look on Mrs. Groom as an English young 
 lady looks on a servant. There is rank and 
 pride in Italy, and vanity of old descent and 
 belief in blood are rife there as they are every- 
 where ; but there is also a deeper and stronger 
 human love than in countries which hold them- 
 selves more advanced. It is but a narrow 
 stream, very easily waded through, and not an 
 ocean, which flows there between the servant 
 and his master. 
 
 So Mrs. Groom's position in life did not much 
 affect this young daughter of the Nardifl. She
 
 128 SILVIA. 
 
 knew and she believed that society and Nature 
 had established a very wide difference between 
 herself and Madame de l'Epine's nurse ; but she 
 also knew that Italy was a continental country, 
 and believed that Romulus was the founder of 
 Rome. The real thing that vexed her was that, 
 in order not to be ridiculous, and not to cause a 
 breach between her friend and Lady John, she 
 had to sit down at the table of her enemy. 
 
 Well-bred people are like the benightecPtmes 
 in Scripture. They have eyes and they see not. 
 They have ears and they hear not. The garri- 
 son was profoundly unconscious that Lady John 
 had been ruffled that morning, that Mrs. Green 
 had been propelled as it were out of Saint Remy 
 on to the Raymonds ; that Silvia had sent and 
 received telegrams, and that Madame de l'Epine 
 was coming. All these things it ignored com- 
 pletely, though secretly devoured with curiosity 
 and perplexity concerning them. 
 
 The day was not a pleasant one for Silvia ; 
 at length it closed, and with a light heart she 
 went up to her room to prepare for her depar- 
 ture. 
 
 She was stooping over her trunk when a harsh 
 voice behind her said,
 
 SILVIA. 129 
 
 " You needn't, mamzelle. Madame de l'Epine 
 has sent me a telegram. She's too poorly to 
 travel." 
 
 Silvia turned round and saw Mrs. Groom 
 standing behind her with a paper in her hand. 
 
 " I am very sorry for Madame de l'Epine's ill- 
 ness," she said gravely, " but I shall sleep in the 
 chateau to-night." 
 
 " Alone ?" suggested Mrs. Groom ironically. 
 
 " If I sleep there alone it is your business, not 
 mine," coolly answered Silvia, putting on her 
 hat, " but I found the keys in your room, and I 
 will sleep there to-night." 
 
 Mrs. Groom stared at the audacious young 
 rebel ; then she burst out into her loud ha ! ha ! 
 
 " I like that," she said, " I like spirit ; but la ! 
 bless you, my dear," she kindly added, " and 
 though I am willing and ready to go over to the 
 chateau this minute, don't you see you are only 
 pleasing Lady John by going. She did not mean 
 it this way, of course, but she meant it." 
 
 " Of course she did," angrily replied Silvia, 
 looking for her gloves, " and you made me stay 
 and have dinner, Mrs. Groom." 
 
 u Never mind about the dinner," was Mrs. 
 Groom's philosophical reply. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 SILVIA. 
 
 " But I do mind," retorted Silvia, stamping 
 her foot, and looking highly indignant, "and I 
 am very angry." 
 
 " Are you ?" answered Mrs. Groom, shaking 
 her head wisely. " Well, then, we must go, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Of course we must," shortly answered Sil- 
 via, and she went down at once to take leave 
 of Lady John in the drawing-room. 
 
 " What, going, though Madame de l'Epine 
 has not come ? " very crossly exclaimed Lady 
 John. " You cannot mean it, Mademoiselle 
 Nardi ?" 
 
 But Silvia did mean it, and was not to be 
 moved from her purpose. Professor Smith, 
 lovely Ada even, tried to make her stay in 
 vain. Mr. Lovell pulled his whiskers and looked 
 sulky, Miss Georgie Lovell remained in a corner 
 like a little frightened mouse, but neither inter- 
 fered. And Silvia, looking a little pale, though 
 very wilful and pleasant with it all, declared she 
 should like a lonely house of all things, and 
 that she hoped there were ghosts in the chateau. 
 In vain Lady John entreated — she would not 
 apologise, which might have altered matters — 
 Silvia was hard-hearted, and the mistress of
 
 SILVIA. 131 
 
 the house at length said, with a clouded brow, 
 " Mademoiselle Nardi must have her way." No 
 one could insist after this, and no one did. 
 Silvia joined Mrs. Groom, who was waiting 
 below with a lantern, and though Lady John 
 was remarkably short and snappish with Pro- 
 fessor Smith the whole evening, Mademoiselle 
 Nardi's name was not uttered once. 
 
 No sooner had the postern door closed upon 
 them, than Silvia stopped short, and laying 
 her hand on Mrs. Groom's arm, looked at her 
 rather anxiously. 
 
 " There is no danger, is there V she asked. 
 
 " Not a bit. Why should there be !" 
 
 Silvia's reply was to present an imaginary 
 pistol at Mrs. Groom's head, but though with 
 her hat and cloak she looked a very determined 
 young brigand, especially when seen by the 
 dim light of the lantern, Mrs. Groom showed 
 true British fortitude, and never so much as 
 winced. 
 
 "Nothing of the kind," she shortly answered. 
 
 Silvia did not look quite convinced. She 
 was very careful in the fastening of the door 
 when they entered the chateau together, and 
 when a stout servant girl came to take the 
 
 K 2
 
 132 SILVIA. 
 
 lantern from Mrs. Groom's hand, Mademoiselle 
 Nardi measured her with a quick keen eye, as 
 if calculating inwardly the strength of the gar- 
 rison. She looked scarcely satisfied, for as the 
 girl was showing them upstairs she whispered 
 an anxious request to be allowed to have a bed 
 made up in Mrs. Groom's room that night. To 
 which Mrs. Groom replied, with good-humoured 
 compassion, that mamzelle might please herself, 
 but that there was no manner of danger, and 
 that there need be no manner of fear ; all of 
 which might be very true, but failed to convince 
 Silvia. 
 
 Mrs. Groom's room was large, square, lofty, 
 and substantially furnished, but it was a very 
 matter-of-fact room, not a common-place room, 
 but one from which grace, fancy, and imagina- 
 tion were rigidly excluded. The Italian girl 
 felt this at once. She sat down by the fireside 
 whilst her bed was being made. And as slit- 
 warmed her little feet, and looked around her, 
 a cloud gathered on her smooth clear forehead. 
 Ah! how very different she would have made 
 this room ; how she would have taken the stiff- 
 ness out of those rigid brown draperies, and 
 given a touch of carelessness to these dreadfully
 
 SILVIA. 133 
 
 decorous and well-behaved articles of furniture. 
 She wondered if Mrs. Groom would not let her 
 try ; but just as she was going to utter an in- 
 sidious request to that effect, Mrs. Groom, who 
 was on the point of sitting down, perceived a 
 chair two inches out of a line with its brethren, 
 and immediately went to set the offender right. 
 " She never would," thought Silvia, and she 
 resignedly gave up all thought of improving 
 Mrs. Groom's room according to her own ideas 
 of the beautiful in such matters. Mrs. Groom, 
 indeed, who was accustomed to improve other 
 people, and not to be improved by them, ob- 
 served with a complacent air, as she sat down 
 on her side of the fireplace, 
 
 " It's a good room, and I settled it all myself. 
 Only the wind ! ' she added, answering Sil- 
 via's startled look, as a low plaintive sound 
 rose and died away with a distant moan midst 
 the trees of the forest. " You must not be so 
 timorous, mamzelle, there is no need to fear — 
 besides, the devil is not so black as he is painted. 
 I got on very well with the burglars who paid 
 us a visit ten years ago in England. There 
 was a pair of them in my room before I could 
 say Jack Robinson. Bless you, they were as
 
 134 SILVIA. 
 
 civil as could be. One of them sat down by me 
 — I was in bed — to keep watch, whilst the other 
 one went rummaging about the house. ' It's a bad 
 trade you've got,' says I. ' It is,' says he ; 6 but 
 least said about that is soonest meuded. Are 
 you a widow, marm V ' Yes, I am,' says I. 
 
 * Then why don't you marry again V says he. 
 
 * S'pose I won't,' says I, for as he wouldn't let 
 me lecture him why should he lecture me ? 
 ' No offence, marm,' says he very civilly. * How 
 are you getting on, Jim V i Jim'll get nothing 
 at all,' I says ; ' I have told you this is a fur- 
 nished house, and that the family plate ain't 
 here.' 'I don't mind telling you,' he re- 
 plies, giving me a wink, ' that we're used to 
 being done — by the ladies especially. You sit 
 there, Jim, and I'll have a look.' So he w r ent 
 and had a look, and found nothing worth speak- 
 ing of, only a few spoons, w T hich Jim — he 
 looked downright stupid — had not seen. 'And 
 now we'll go,' said he ; ' good-night, marm.' 
 1 Good-night,' says I ; * mind you shut the door.' 
 ' All right.' And they did shut the door," tri- 
 umphantly added Mrs. Groom, " for on second 
 thoughts I got up to see about it." 
 
 " And that was all ? ' said Silvia, who had
 
 SILVIA. 135 
 
 listened breathlessly to this account of a bur- 
 glary. 
 
 " All about that matter," coolly replied Mrs. 
 Groom, " but he was taken for stealing a coat 
 from a clothesman's two months later. It was 
 not in his way, but I believe he was hard 
 pushed to about that time. ' There never was 
 such an owdacious fellar,' says the clothesmam 
 4 1 see him take down the coat, then feeling a 
 pair of trousers, then turning over a waistcoat, 
 then walking away quite slowly. I let him go, 
 then I ran after him.' ' Indeed, then, you did 
 not put yourself out of joint,' says my friend, 
 ' so don't talk of running,' * Then you don't 
 deny it !' cries the clothesman in a rage. ' Can't,' 
 says my friend, cool as a a cucumber. I read it 
 all in the papers," continued Mrs. Groom, " and 
 I knew 'twas him, for it came out about the 
 burglary, and I had to give evidence, and he got 
 seven years. I was very sorry. I had much 
 rather it had been Jim." 
 
 "Well, but there are thieves who murder," 
 objected Silvia. 
 
 "So there are ; but there ain't much in a mur- 
 der, after all." 
 
 " Not much, Mrs. Groom !"
 
 136 SILVIA. 
 
 " No, it's the getting up. It's the man lying 
 dead and stiff in his bed ; it's the blood-stained 
 finger-marks on the door, or the foot-prints in 
 the mere outside the house. That's what I call 
 the getting up, and that's what people read 
 murders for. That's what they like. Bless you, 
 the murdered man might have died ten times 
 over, for all they cared. And if he was killed 
 in his sleep, what great difference does it make 
 to him V philosophically inquired Mrs. Groom. 
 
 "Ah ! but if he woke and had to struggle for 
 his life," said Silvia, below her breath. 
 
 " Bless you, mad people go through ten times 
 as much. Some of them are always being mur- 
 dered, poor things, and no one cares about it. 
 There is no getting up there, you see." 
 
 Mrs. Groom's opinions on the matter of get- 
 ting up, as connected with murder, were evi- 
 dently immutable. Silvia did not attempt to 
 change them, but notwithstanding the house- 
 keeper's personal experience of burglars and 
 their courtesy, the young Italian took care to 
 bolt and lock the door, and to get on her knees 
 and look under the beds before she retired for 
 the night. She slept very soundly, spite this 
 touch of apprehension, nor did she waken once
 
 SILVIA. 137 
 
 and find Mrs. Groom discussing her matrimonial 
 prospects with a civil burglar. When she did 
 open her eyes at last Mrs. Groom had disap- 
 peared, and a sunbeam was dancing gaily on her 
 pillow. V
 
 138 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 GHOSTS, it is said, cannot endure daylight ; 
 and fears, those ghosts of the imagination, 
 generally vanish before its cheerful aspect. 
 Silvia felt very cool and brave as she rose 
 and dressed herself, and when she stole down 
 the staircase and got out into the bright dewy 
 garden, looking so fresh, so wild in the plea- 
 sant morning sun, she forgot that her fancy 
 had peopled that lovely solitude with some 
 grim phantoms, she only felt that she could go 
 forth and wander at her will and make a voyage 
 of discovery in the little world which still lay 
 unexplored before her. She struck into a path 
 on her left, hoping and indeed expecting that 
 it would lead her to some dark wild nook, 
 but it did not. The further she advanced, 
 the more open grew the scene, until she 
 reached at length a little lake beyond 
 which extended the line of the railway. The
 
 SILVIA. 139 
 
 lake itself, a grey and quiet sheet of water, lay- 
 sleeping in the shadow of tall trees, and was 
 partly encircled by a ruined marble colonnade. 
 In the centre rose a fountain, which played 
 with a pleasant gurgle, and through a va- 
 poury shower Silvia saw a group of round- 
 limbed winged boys disporting themselves with 
 marble flowers in eternal freshness. She sat down 
 on an old stone bench near a mildewed statue of 
 Flora, who, with a bunch of flowers in her hand, 
 seemed to be perpetually looking down at herself 
 in the tranquil water, over which she stood half 
 bending. 
 
 The place was wild, lonely and beautiful. 
 Beyond the railway line, which had cut off part 
 of the lake, and now formed one of its bound- 
 aries, rose a steep green bank, and above this 
 nodded the silent forest. Presently a shrill 
 whistle was heard, then a panting, rolling sound 
 far away, but which, coming nearer and nearer, 
 seemed to shake the earth as it came. Then, 
 as if impelled by a whirlwind, all noise and fire 
 and smoke, the engine with its black train of 
 carriages came rushing past. In a minute, in a 
 few seconds it seemed to Silvia, the vision had 
 vanished. A white cloud floated awhile above
 
 140 SILVIA. 
 
 the line, then melted away, and all was quiet 
 and silent as before. The morning sun tipped 
 the summits of the trees with light, their boughs 
 shivered gently in the wind, and Silvia, look- 
 ing dreamily around her, forgot to leave this 
 spot. The quiet lake on which yellow autumn 
 leaves lay sleeping, the bending trees, the 
 statues, the colonnade, all called back other 
 waters, other statues, another garden than this. 
 Sorrento and Villa Nardi were not Silvia's 
 home. She was a Roman girl, a Roman, too, of 
 Patrician birth, with blue blood in her veins, blood 
 that had fed for eleven hundred years the hearts 
 of noble men and many beautiful women. The 
 Roman Nardis had been very fierce, very strong 
 and very wealthy ; but all this had passed away 
 with the ages of strength. 
 
 Silvia, the orphan daughter of a younger 
 branch, was reared indeed in the old Nardi Pal- 
 azzo, but it was not to be her inheritance, and 
 she knew it. She even knew that the noble 
 place was doomed, and must pass away to 
 strangers on the death of its master, a proud, 
 lavish and childless man, who had bartered it 
 for a princely income, and only kept a life ten- 
 ant's right in the grand old home which his an-
 
 SILVIA. 141 
 
 cestors had reared, and where they had been so 
 honoured and so mighty. All this Silvia knew, 
 but she was a Nardi, and midst these alien 
 scenes the ancient palazzo, with its halls, its 
 courts, and its gardens sloping down to the 
 shores of the river, came back to her very 
 vividly. 
 
 As a little child she had lived and played in 
 great sounding rooms, and fallen asleep with 
 mythological gods and goddesses looking down 
 at her from the lofty ceiling, where they dwelt 
 in golden olympian clouds, the gods ever 
 strong, the goddesses ever fair and young. As 
 a girl she had sat and embroidered at her frame 
 looking down from her window into the quiet 
 court below, not the great court around which 
 the palazzo was built, and where lofty camellias 
 bloomed in the severest winter ; but an inner 
 court, sacred to domestic uses. A tranquil place 
 was this, cool and sunless. 
 
 The flagged pavement was green with damp, 
 maiden's hair grew in every cranny of the shady 
 walls, and clustered thickly around the little 
 fountain, to which servant girls, with silver ar- 
 rows in their hair, and coral necklaces around 
 their brown necks, daily came to wash broccoli.
 
 142 SILVIA. 
 
 Alas ! the long deep trough which they used 
 thus, and in which stalks and leaves floated, had 
 been an ancient sarcophagus. The dust of an 
 emperor had slept in it once ; the defaced basso 
 relievos on its stone panels were records of his 
 victories, and the mutilated head with its laurel 
 wreath, by which its broken end was tilted, 
 had received the incense due to gods in the 
 capitol ! 
 
 Silvia was reared Roman fashion. She never 
 went out, but the palazzo was large, and she 
 wandered over it at her will. There were many 
 grand old rooms in Palazzo Nardi ; rooms with 
 endless windows, and a white statue rising calm 
 and still in every one, rooms all mirrors and 
 cupids and flowers, rooms with Florentine cabi- 
 nets, and great inlaid chests and precious mo- 
 saics, rooms full of treasures, over which debt 
 and mortage had been casting their mildew and 
 their spider web for many a year, and for which, 
 to speak truth, Silvia cared very little. 
 
 But very willingly Silvia lingered in the 
 great gallery two hundred feet long, when the 
 painters, men from every land, who daily sat 
 at their easels, copying the famous Nardi 
 Titians, were all gone. Tn her car . girlish
 
 SILVIA. 143 
 
 way, Silvia had seen that these old Venetians 
 had been men indeed, princely men with eagle 
 eyes, beneath which the look of meaner creatures 
 must have quailed when these eyes had life and 
 light ; men with smiles of haughty grace or 
 mien of stately gravity ; men clad in shining 
 armour, with hands in steel gauntlets, resting 
 carelessly on their sword hilts, or clothed in 
 black Genoa velvet, and looking graciously 
 down at the young Roman girl, spite the long 
 dark lapse of three hundred years. 
 
 When Silvia wearied of them she stepped 
 out on the terrace in front of the palazzo. 
 Leaning on the stone balustrade, the little cap- 
 tive, who as yet no more cared about her cap- 
 tivity than a bird reared in a cage cares about 
 his, looked down on a matchless prospect. Be- 
 low her lay the old Italian garden, and the 
 Tiber rolling on its sluggish yellow waves to 
 the Tyrrhene sea. To her left the Imperial city 
 reared her domes, her churches, and obelisks, in 
 endless succession, against the blue Roman sky. 
 Beyond all lay a vast desert, with ruins, and 
 tombs, and ancient aqeducts. In places its 
 smooth circular line cut the horizon as unbroken 
 as that of the sea, and in others it flowed like a
 
 144 SILVIA. 
 
 green lake to the foot of snowy mountains, 
 sleeping at their base like a beautiful but per- 
 fidious serpent, dealing out the fever and death 
 which never reached the pure breezy regions 
 above. This was the Campagna, and Silvia 
 never wearied of gazing on it, of watching the 
 blue shadows from the clouds above float over 
 the sunlit waste. The garden, too, she loved. 
 She liked its laurel groves and bowers of orange 
 and lemon-trees, and avenues of cypress. She 
 liked its cool dark alleys, which the sun could 
 never pierce, and its trim boxwood-edged paths, 
 which it lit like gold. She liked its statues and 
 its fountains, gently plashing away in their fern- 
 grown niches. She liked its ruins, real ruins of 
 what had once been a noble temple ; and per- 
 haps because the picture was such a contrast to 
 all this decaying grandeur, she liked to sit on a 
 stone bench below and look at the brown old 
 houses on the other side of the Tiber. One 
 there was which Silvia delighted in. No 
 palatial mansion was this, but a most homely 
 tenement, where Transteverini men and women 
 might dwell. A strip of garden came down to 
 the river edge, beyond it rose the house, rickety 
 and insecure. A narrow-roofed loggia, open t<>
 
 SILVIA. 145 
 
 sun and wind, was the kitchen. Saucepans and 
 cooking utensils hung in rows from the house 
 wall, and here many a day had Silvia seen 
 the bareheaded mistress of the place cooking 
 and knitting alternately. Midst these scenes 
 had Silvia's youth been spent, with little com- 
 panionship save the bright one of her own 
 thoughts ; and these were the images which 
 came back to her as she sat looking at the 
 quiet waters, with the silent railway line beyond 
 them. 
 
 At length Mademoiselle Nardi remembered 
 that time was passing, and that Mrs. Groom 
 would wonder at her absence. She rose and 
 turned homewards, and found the housekeeper 
 standing on the terrace, and peering out for her 
 with her hand shading her eyes from the rays 
 of the morning sun. 
 
 " Did you think a brigand had carried me off* 
 to the mountains ?" saucily asked Silvia. 
 
 " There are no mountains about here," drily 
 answered Mrs. Groom. 
 
 "And the lock!" suddenly cried Silvia, 
 going up to the front door to see that it was 
 safe. " I saw it in the man's hand, the man at 
 the inn, the man with the red hair." 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 SILVIA. 
 
 "Yes, red enough," grumbled Mrs. Groom. 
 " I do believe he keeps it on for warmth, like a 
 fur cap. And what does he know about locks, 
 just tell me that ?" 
 
 Silvia, without heeding her, was trying to 
 look less critical than Mrs. Groom. She pro- 
 nounced it all right, then catching a glimpse of 
 the breakfast-table in the dining-room, she went 
 in to it forthwith. Through the open window 
 she saw the sunny terrace, and beyond it 
 garden flowers, trees, and blue sky. It was 
 very pleasant, so pleasant that as soon as her 
 breakfast was over Silvia ran out again. This 
 time, however, she did not go far, but kept 
 within reach of the dwelling. Far away to her 
 left lay the region of the wilderness, beyond 
 which extended Lady John's home ; but in the 
 spot where she wandered up and down, man's 
 rule had conquered invading nature ; here the 
 hedges were trim, the trees were pruned and 
 lopped, here autumn flowers bloomed once more 
 in carefully cultured parterres within the shelter 
 of the old chateau, to which centuries had given 
 a warm and mellow gray. 
 
 It was delicious to walk up and down the 
 terrace on this still autumn morning, and look
 
 SILVIA. 147 
 
 out on the calm, golden garden below ; and 
 Silvia, as she paced it up and down, thought 
 of the terrace of Palazzo Nardi, of the Tiber 
 gliding on between his antique shores, and of 
 the pleasant Italian speech which she heard no 
 more ; but she thought of them with that sad- 
 ness which is not sorrow. When she wearied 
 of the terrace, she entered the house, seeking 
 for Mrs. Groom, who, however, proved invisible. 
 Silvia wandered from room to room, coming 
 sometimes on apartments which she had not 
 seen before. Thus she entered a room almost 
 at the top of the house. The morning sun shone 
 in gaily through the open window, and filled 
 the place with warmth and brightness. Silvia 
 sank down in the nearest chair and looked 
 curiously around her. On the broad marble 
 console stood an old clock, which had been of 
 great value once, before Time had meddled 
 with and defaced it. The upper part was made 
 like a church organ ; wreaths of sevres porce- 
 lain flowers grew around it, but many a rose- 
 bud had left its stem, many a leaf was broken. 
 At the foot of the organ was a sort of bower, 
 whence shepherds and shepherdesses, of porce- 
 lain still, were coming forth in fantastic dancing- 
 
 l2
 
 148 SILVIA. 
 
 attitudes. Such short petticoats, such flutter- 
 ing ribbands, such little feet, Silvia had never 
 seen. One of the shepherds, indeed, had long 
 lost his head, and his partner's extended leg 
 showed that her right foot was wanting ; but 
 these trifling accidents did not impair the gene- 
 ral mirth and .good-humour. 
 
 Facing this clock was another memorial of 
 the same period — a sedan chair of black polished 
 wood, with carved gilt ornaments, glass front 
 and sides, and red velvet lining. Above this 
 chair hung the portrait of a lady, who might 
 have been its tenant once — a lady in pink, with 
 a delicate face and soft blue eyes, and lofty 
 powdered hair, and a gracious smile on her rosy 
 lips. How living looked that image above the 
 coffin-like sedan-cbair, now so empty and so 
 grim without its lovely guest ! How one could 
 fancy her borne in it, a lover on each hand, 
 gently moving her powdered head up and 
 down, and playing off her graces in the streets 
 of pompous old Versailles. 
 
 Whilst Silvia sat thus looking and dream- 
 ing, she heard strange sounds coming from the 
 clock. It began with a little groan, as *if it 
 were a creature in pain ; then in a weak, shrill
 
 SILVIA. 149 
 
 key it went through some quaint, old-fashioned 
 French, airs from "Lull!" down to " Ramean." 
 Silvia thought the shepherds would skip and 
 dance in good earnest at this piping, but they 
 were not more lively than before ; and still the 
 music went on, till uttering two weak pitiful 
 squeaks, it was mute. 
 
 " And what are you thinking of?" asked Mrs. 
 Groom, coming in upon her. 
 
 Silvia started up with a joyous laugh. 
 
 "I was thinking of that creature and that 
 lady up there, and the sedan-chair," she said 
 gaily ; " and they gave me all sorts of fancies. 
 I saw her sitting in that black old thing, plump 
 and living ; then the clock struck up a minuet, 
 and all the shepherds and shepherdesses began 
 dancing around her. They climbed up her 
 chair, got in at the window, ran up her neck 
 and arms and danced there. That shepherd in 
 violet actually stole up to her head, and stand- 
 ing on her top-knot, tumbled head over heels, 
 whilst the shepherdesses screamed with laugh- 
 ter. I wonder you did not hear them, Mrs. 
 Groom. But to be sure, you frightened them 
 away. For when you came up, they all ran in 
 like so many mice."
 
 150 SI'LVIA. 
 
 Mrs. Groom looked very solemn, and it was 
 very solemnly that she said — 
 
 " I do not believe a word of it." Upon which 
 Silvia indulged in a merry ringing peal of 
 laughter, and ran out of the room singing. " I 
 do believe she is half crazy," thought Mrs. 
 Groom, shaking her head ; " she's young, you 
 see — she's young." 
 
 Silvia was much more sober in the evening. 
 Mrs. Groom was fond of reading, and had 
 brought down a few books to St. Remy for her 
 private perusal. Amongst these was " Ivanhoe," 
 and Silvia having taken hold of it in the 
 afternoon, had not put it by, and was reading 
 still when night came. 
 
 "What a beautiful book, Mrs. Groom," she 
 said to her, when she at length put it back on 
 Mrs. Groom's bookshelves. 
 
 "Yes," replied Mrs. Groom, "I like that 
 Templar." 
 
 " He is verv bad, Mrs. Groom." 
 
 " Yes, but 1 like him. That's what men turn 
 to when we are unkind to them," very seriously 
 said Mrs. Groom. 
 
 Silvia started. Mrs. Groom's "we" puzzled 
 her, but she said nothing.
 
 SILVI£. 151 
 
 " The fact is," continued Mrs. Groom, who had 
 a great deal more romance in her than people 
 would have given her credit for, " we can do 
 almost anything with a man. Now, there's 
 Lord Orville, ah ! he's another favourite of mine 
 — such a gentleman ! and yet he can't resist a 
 little thing like Evelina! Just listen." Mrs. 
 Groom stretched out her hand, took down 
 " Evelina " from the bookshelves, and read with 
 infinite relish the following passage, interspers- 
 ed, indeed, with a few comments of her own : 
 " ' My Lord,' says Evelina, ' pray let me go.' 
 
 " ( I will !' cried he, to my inexpressible confu- 
 sion, dropping on one knee, 'if you wish to 
 leave me !' 
 
 * Little Evelina is not used to having a Lord 
 Orville kneeling to her, and thinks he is laugh- 
 ing at her — but not a bit of it. 
 
 " ' I revere you,' he says, * I esteem and ad- 
 mire you above all human beings ! You are 
 the friend to whom my soul is attached to its 
 better half! You are the most amiable, the 
 most perfect of women !' And so he goes on, 
 and he's on his knees all the time, till Mrs. Sel- 
 wyn comes in. Now," continued Mrs. Groom, 
 " I never thought there was much in Evelina,
 
 152 SALVIA. 
 
 and yet you see what she brings a man like 
 Lord Orville to ! My dear mamzelle, the best 
 of them cannot help himself when we are in the 
 case;' 
 
 Silvia looked at Mrs. Groom's brown face, 
 and felt more puzzled than ever. She could 
 trace there nothing of Rebecca's heroism, or of 
 Evelina's loveliness. 
 
 " Yes, that's how it is," continued Mrs. Groom, 
 " but then they serve us out sometimes, so take 
 care, mamzelle, And that reminds me of some- 
 thing I have got to say. You have high spirits, 
 but my poor dear lady is delicate, and has had 
 trouble, and you must not wonder if she is not 
 always ready to laugh and sing and be merry 
 like you/' 
 
 Silvia's dark eyes expressed frank surprise. 
 
 "But Madame de l'Epine was very merry 
 when I saw her, ten years ago, in Rome," she 
 said. " She was fifteen then, and so merry. 
 We ran about the gardens together, and played 
 at hide and seek behind the ruins." 
 
 " She is not merry now," sadly replied Mrs. 
 Groom — "she never will be merry again. She 
 has bad health, and — and a bad husband, who 
 will not live with her."
 
 SILVI.A. 153 
 
 " Does he never come here ?" asked Silvia 
 wondering. 
 
 " Never. He married her for her money, and 
 he dislikes her because she is not pretty. So 
 he keeps away from her, and that is the very 
 best thing he can do. Poor young lady ! She 
 always liked him — they were cousins, you know 
 — and she looked so happy on her wedding- 
 day. So did her father the poor Captain. 
 Only Mr. Meredith never could endure his 
 brother-in-law." 
 
 " Is he fond of his sister?" asked Silvia after 
 a pause. 
 
 " Ah, isn't he !" replied Mrs. Groom, with a 
 sudden rush of tears to her brown eyes. " And 
 so does she love him dearly ; but for all that 
 she is sad, having had trouble, poor dear, and 
 is rather low at times. And — and you will not 
 wonder or mind it, mamzelle, will you ?" 
 
 She looked wistfully at Silvia, who nodded 
 and took the hint very good-humouredly. 
 
 " Thank you for telling me, Mrs. Groom," she 
 said; "but tell me something too about the 
 Captain and that Mr. Meredith. I never saw 
 them, you know." 
 
 " The Captain is the best gentleman living, 
 
 O
 
 154 SILVIA. 
 
 but not the wisest, for he will think every one 
 as good as himself. And he will talk English," 
 added Mrs. Groom, seeming exasperated ; " and 
 he does not talk it like you, mamzelle so nicely, 
 though every one would know you for a 
 foreigner." 
 
 Silvia smiled. 
 
 " And Mr. Meredith," she said. 
 
 " Mr. Meredith!" repeated Mrs. Groom. " Well, 
 he is very handsome, to begin with." 
 
 Silvia was like the Athenian, who wearied 
 of hearing Aristides called the Just. 
 
 " I detest a handsome man," she said petu- 
 lantly. 
 
 "Do you ?" composedly answered Mrs. Groom; 
 44 well, then, you will detest Mr. Meredith, mam- 
 zelle, for he's a beauty." 
 
 44 And he knows it, of course," remarked Sil- 
 via, with scornful, flashing eyes. 
 
 44 Well, now you are out there, mamzelle" 
 said Mrs. Groom, with her provoking coolness, 
 44 for Mr. Meredith, though so shrewd and clever 
 in some things, is so absent in others, that I 
 don't think he knows the colour of his own 
 hair, and I am very sure that he has never 
 found out how much young ladies admired him.
 
 SILVIA. 155 
 
 For though he has chosen to be a civil engineer, 
 in order to be independent, yet he was reared 
 by old Miss Meredith, who is ever so rich ; and 
 what with her property, which he is to have, 
 and his good looks, he has been quite run down 
 by the girls, if I may say so. But, as I said, he 
 is so absent, that I dare say he never found it 
 out." 
 
 Silvia's dark eyes opened wide at this 
 revelation of a social state wholly unknown in 
 Italy. She heard Mrs. Groom with some scorn, 
 not unmixed with incredulousness. 
 
 " Perhaps it was one of the disappointed 
 young ladies who shot at him," she ironically 
 suggested. 
 
 "My dear young lady," kindly said Mrs. 
 Groom, looking up at her, " you may talk about 
 that as much as you like to me, but take my ad- 
 vice and do not talk about it to anyone else. 
 It makes Madame de l'Epine miserable, the Cap- 
 tain swears and gets in a rage every time he 
 hears of it, and Mr. Meredith knows too much 
 about it to care to have people talking." 
 
 " You don't mean to say, Mrs. Groom, that 
 Mr. Meredith knows who shot at him V 
 
 "There is no knowing. Mr. Meredith ain't
 
 156 SILVIA. 
 
 like everyone. You can do anything to him, 
 and he don't care. One thing I am sure of, 
 though, he knows who did not shoot at him. 
 You see, that shot was fired about this time 
 last year, before the line was finished. Mr. 
 Meredith is one of the company's engineers, 
 and there was a bit of tunnel, with a deal of 
 blasting and mining going on. One of the 
 workmen got drunk, and Mr. Meredith turned 
 him off. The man shook his hand at him as he 
 walked away, and promised to pay him out. 
 The next evening the shot was fired. Well, 
 the man was taken up at once, and as he could 
 give no account of his time, he was sent to 
 prison. He had a wife and family, and Mr. 
 Meredith gave them money ; he did more than 
 that — he said he was sure the man was inno- 
 cent. There was something about a gun, too, 
 for that fellow had one by the sly, and without 
 ever having paid for Ins permis, as they call it ; 
 but Mr. Meredith took the trouble of proving 
 that the gun was a bad one, and had not got a 
 range long enough for the shot, for the foot- 
 prints showed behind what tree the murderer 
 had stood to fire, and it seems he must have 
 had a first-rate gun, and been a good shot as
 
 SILVIA. 157 
 
 well. Well, the man staid a long time in 
 prison, then got off, and Mr. Meredith it was 
 who gave him money to leave this part of the 
 country — at least, Jean Varot says so — the 
 man who wears the red fur cap, you know. It 
 is he who does everything here for the Captain 
 and Mr. Meredith, though why they make so 
 much of him, unless because he was with the 
 Captain fighting against them poor Arabs in 
 Algeria, is more than I know. I hate the sight 
 of the man, for my part !" 
 
 Silvia did not answer. She looked musing- 
 ly at the fire, and remained silent so long, that 
 when she looked up again, Mrs. Groom was 
 nodding gently. Silvia rose softly, and went 
 up to the window, and drew the curtain back. 
 A clear, cold moonlight slept over the garden, 
 and on the forest trees far away. Mrs. Groom's 
 room was over Mr. Meredith's study, and Sil- 
 via could see the avenue from which the shot 
 had been fired. She long looked at the silver- 
 ed path, and dark trunks, and thin foliage 
 tipped with cool light, till, little by little, they 
 took her to Sorrento, and Dom Sabino reading 
 Horace, and the Principessa knitting. She re- 
 membered their predictions concerning the
 
 158 SILVIA. 
 
 dangers of travelling, and she began to think 
 there might be truth in them. Truly it had 
 not been all smooth and level ground with her. 
 She had had sea-sickness, she had undergone a 
 railway accident, she had been affronted by 
 Lady John, and uoav she was going to live in a 
 house where murder had been attempted. Had 
 she not been imprudent to scorn the advice of 
 her friends, and come to this strange land ? 
 
 As she arrived at this conclusion, a sound of 
 carriage wheels and jingling bells suddenly 
 brought her back from Dom Sabino's green and 
 sun-lit garden to this cool evening in an old 
 chateau, with Mrs. Green nodding by the fire- 
 side, and Madame de l'Epine drawing nearer 
 and nearer. 
 
 "Mrs. Groom, here she is!" cried Silvia, 
 joyously, "here she is !" 
 
 And whilst Mrs. Groom was wakening with 
 a start, Silvia, forgetting everything save that 
 she was going to see the friend of her youth, 
 ran downstairs fleet as a bird, and reached the 
 door as the carriage drew up before it.
 
 159 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IT is not always, when childish friends meet 
 after the great gap of years has flowed 
 between them, that the old love wakens anew 
 in all its early fervour. Tempers may have 
 altered as well as faces, and imagination, that 
 great beguiler, may have thrown her glamour 
 over the past, and robed it in hues so fair that 
 no present could realize them. Happy, there- 
 fore, are they with whom to meet again is to 
 love as truly as when they parted, and to find 
 every promise of Hope fulfilled by her severe 
 sister Truth. 
 
 " You are just what I expected to find you," 
 said Madame de l'Epine to Silvia the next 
 morning — "just all that you promised to be, 
 Mademoiselle Nardi." 
 
 The young girl interrupted her by a light 
 touch of her little hand on Madame de l'Epine's 
 arm, and looking at her with a smile which was
 
 160 SILVIA. 
 
 on her lips, in her eyes, in her dimples, in her 
 whole face, like an all-pervading sunbeam, 
 whose light and brightness nothing can escape, 
 she said, with a pretty, reproachful shake of the 
 head — 
 
 " Will you not call me Silvia V 
 
 " Silvia — yes, that is your name. Your god- 
 mother was a fairy, surely, and she made you 
 thus bright and joyous." 
 
 Silvia tried to look grave. 
 
 " I am not always merry," she said, giving 
 her friend a sedate look, that seemed to imply, 
 " do not fear lest I should overpower you with 
 merriment. I am young and gay, but I can 
 keep in." 
 
 Madame d l'Epine was a little fair woman, 
 with blue eyes and a sickly face. She was pre- 
 cise and neat to an excess, and was always 
 gentle, always well, though simply dressed, 
 always courteous and refined, but never even 
 for one second pretty, or charming and seduc- 
 tive, as plain women can be now and then. 
 She had a fine mind and a kind heart, she was 
 pious and charitable in a rare degree, but that 
 gift of fascination which was Silvia's so abun- 
 dantly, had been wholly denied to her. Per-
 
 SILVIA. 161 
 
 haps she was too refined, too neat, too con- 
 siderate even — too much, in short, as she should 
 be, and thereby left nothing to the imagination. 
 Every one thought her a most excellent young 
 woman, with whom it was impossible to find 
 fault, but no one was attracted by her. She 
 knew it. It was the great sorrow of her life, 
 for to be loved by everybody and everything 
 was her weak point ; but she was powerless to 
 change this. " I wonder if I can make her love 
 me," she now thought, giving Silvia's bright 
 face a wistful look. The young girl was willing 
 enough to love her friend with her whole heart. 
 That heart was warm and vacant just then, 
 and though Madame de l'Epine's precise neat- 
 ness awed her a little, it failed to chill her 
 genial temper. 
 
 " I hope you will like this place," said Madame 
 de l'Epine, after awhile. And as she spoke she 
 stood still on the sunny terrace, up and down 
 which they were walking, to give the garden 
 a doubtful look. "We shall be a little lonely," 
 she continued, "for after what happened we 
 cannot see much of Lady John." 
 
 " The less the better," replied Silvia, colour- 
 ing angrily. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 SILVIA. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine looked rather shocked, 
 but did not like to blame. Silvia continued : 
 
 " I am sure I shall like this place — now that 
 you are here," she added, with the tender Italian 
 smile of tender Italian flattery. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine's pale, plain face bright- 
 ened a little. 
 
 " You are like the sun," she said ; " you do 
 one good, you give one life." 
 
 Silvia laughed joyously, and whilst she 
 was thus laughing, a tall, military-looking man, 
 with a plain brown face and flowing white hair, 
 came striding up a garden path and joined 
 them. Impetuous frankness and utter guile- 
 lessness were written in Capitaine de l'Epine's 
 face, and only told the story of a pure, blame- 
 less life. He had spent a portion of his youth 
 in England, and had there known a beautiful 
 girl, whom he had loved very desperately and 
 very uselessly, for he had the mortification of 
 seeing her marry a worthless Mr. Meredith, who 
 soon left her a penniless widow. She was des- 
 titute, she had a young child, and she had lost 
 both health and beauty during her brief mar- 
 ried life ; but she was still dear to her earlv 
 lover, then a lieutenant in the French army,
 
 SILVIA. 1G3 
 
 and she ultimately became his wife, and was 
 made the happiest of women for some years. 
 After her death, Josephine was placed in a con- 
 vent, and Charles Meredith educated, and in 
 some sort adopted by his cousin, Miss Meredith. 
 
 Lieutenant de l'Epine, who had risen to the 
 rank of captain, saw some hard fighting in Al- 
 geria, then suddenly retired on half-pay when 
 his daughter, whom he had married to his own 
 nephew, was deserted by him. 
 
 " France has had the best of me," he said, 
 " the rest I will give to my poor little Josephine, 
 if it were only as an atonement for having 
 given her a bad husband." 
 
 This, his dear daughter's trouble, was the one 
 dark spot in the Captain's cheerful life ; but even 
 that dark spot could not repress his exuberant 
 spirits, and it was in his most cheery voice that 
 he now said in English, which he spoke fluently, 
 but with a strong, vehement French accent : 
 
 "Mademoiselle Nardi, did you ever see such 
 a morning as this I — I never did. No, not in Al- 
 geria, where the mornings are divine. Why, 
 this is glorious, it is splendid ! I never saw the 
 sky so blue, the sun so bright." 
 
 m2 
 
 i
 
 164 SILVIA. 
 
 Silvia shook her head and replied : 
 
 " There is nothing like a Roman morning." 
 
 The Captain raised his shaggy eyebrows, and 
 laughed boisterously. 
 
 " We are all alike," he said good-humouredly. 
 " I think there is nothing like a French morn- 
 ing, and a Laplander would prefer a morning in 
 Lapland to any other. Shall we go to the forest 
 and show it to Mademoiselle Nardi ?" he added, 
 turning to his daughter. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine looked at Silvia, and 
 reading the meaning of her bright face, assented. 
 To the forest they went forthwith. 
 
 u How very nice and dainty she is," thought 
 Silvia, who saw how her friend shrank with 
 fastidious care from every little doubtful spot on 
 the path. " I suppose she is like the ermine, a 
 stain would kill her. I hope she will not think 
 me too careless and untidy." 
 
 Silvia, however, had no such fear with re- 
 gard to the Captain, who led the way, carry- 
 ing folding-stools, and nourishing his stick with 
 much superfluous vigour. 
 
 He talked all the way, now and then turning 
 round to address Silvia, and the gist of his 
 conversation was either vehement praise, or
 
 SILVIA. 165 
 
 no less vehement condemnation of something or 
 other. 
 
 u That stick, Mademoiselle Nardi, is the best 
 stick that ever was. I have had dozens of 
 sticks, but none like this, and I bought it from the 
 greatest rascal I ever knew. I do not suppose 
 there ever was such a rascal anywhere as old 
 Claude." 
 
 " My dear father !" remonstrated Madame de 
 FEpine, looking slightly shocked. 
 
 " The man was not a thief, granted — not a 
 swindler, granted again ; but for all that," added 
 the Captain, striking his stick on the ground 
 most emphatically, " Claude was the biggest, 
 the most outrageous, the most abominable rascal 
 who ever lived. Do not argue with me, Jose- 
 phine. Women know nothing of character, 
 know no — thing of char — rac — ter," repeated 
 the Captain, in the triumphant tone of a man 
 who has laid down an unanswerable propo- 
 sition. 
 
 " I wonder how much you know of character," 
 thought Silvia, much amused. 
 
 Unconscious of so disrespectful a comment, 
 the Captain still led the way, using his stick 
 lavishly, like a white-haired old school-boy, and
 
 166 SILVIA. 
 
 seeming to be, for no cause that Silvia could 
 discover, in the highest state of enjoyment. 
 
 A grated iron gate opened into the forest. A 
 pyramid, with a gilt ball glittering on the top, 
 rose far away where many avenues met. The 
 forest was old, silent, and majestic, and Silvia 
 was breathless with admiration. This was one 
 of autumn's golden mellow days, a day steeped 
 in sunshine, a day of pale blue sky and yellow 
 trees, a day when the very air was still, and the 
 withered leaves dropped softly on the grass, and 
 lay there unstirred by the faintest breeze. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine asked to rest, and Silvia 
 could not help wondering at the care with 
 which her place was chosen, so that neither dust 
 nor dew could sully her garments. 
 
 "An ermine, a real ermine," she thought again, 
 " and an industrious one," she added, with inward 
 contrition, as Madame de l'Epine took out some 
 coarse handkerchief for the poor, which she be- 
 gan hemming. 
 
 "Oh! Josephine, how can you work in this 
 weather," she said, a little petulantly, " the sun 
 is so hot !" 
 
 " Hot !" echoed the Captain, with his joyous 
 laugh. " I wonder what you would say to the
 
 SILVIA. 167 
 
 sun of Algeria, if you were galloping under it 
 with a dozen black fellows in white burnous gal- 
 loping after you." 
 
 " But they did not catch you !" cried Silvia. 
 
 " Yes, they did ; they shot my horse under 
 me, down we both tumbled, poor Brilliant and 
 I, and I could see them flying towards me with 
 their white cloaks fluttering, and their long 
 lances glittering in the sun; it was very pictur- 
 esque, but what would I not have given to be 
 in the dingy cafe of Denis at Soukharas, that's 
 all." 
 
 " Did they take you f" asked Silvia, breath- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Of course they did." 
 
 " And how did you escape ? Oh ! do tell 
 me." 
 
 The Captain said it was a long story, but 
 Silvia eagerly said she liked long stories, and 
 he could not resist the entreaty in her bright 
 eyes. 
 
 " I had just got to my feet when they came 
 up to me. I knew the lot that lay before me, 
 and preferred being despatched at once. So I 
 made a desperate resistance, which a grim, 
 white-bearded fellow soon put an end to. I
 
 168 SILVIA. 
 
 saw the butt-end of his pistol whirling above 
 my head, and tried to shun the blow, but down 
 it came like lead. I saw, or seemed to see, a 
 blood-red flash, I heard a loud singing noise, 
 then it was all over. I felt remarkably cool 
 when I woke out of that nap. I soon found out 
 that I was lying on my back, firmly bound to 
 stakes in the earth. I saw a few low earthen 
 houses, and above me a dark sky, and thou- 
 sands of stars glittering in it. I believe I 
 groaned, upon which I at once got a severe 
 kick in my right ribs, and I heard a harsh voice 
 uttering in Arabic the complimentary remark, 
 1 The dog is alive after all.' Then the light of 
 a torch flashed across my eyes, and I saw my 
 white-bearded friend leaning on his long gun, 
 and with his swarthy face, and turbaned brow, 
 and flowing garments, he looked very pictur- 
 esque, I assure you. I will not conceal from 
 you, Mademoiselle Nardi, that apart from the 
 horrible pain I was in I felt quite uncomfortable. 
 For you see I could guess what fate awaited me. 
 I was to be given up to the women, the chil- 
 dren, and the dogs, all pitiless enemies in these 
 parts. That is to say, I was to be spat at, taunt- 
 ed, slapped, kicked, beaten, and torn and beaten,
 
 SILVIA. 169 
 
 till flesh and life could stand it no longer, when 
 daylight came. I hoped I should bear it like 
 a man, but as no one can be sure of himself till 
 he has been tried, and as no one can well be 
 tried that way more than once, I think boast- 
 ing uncommonly foolish, to say the least of it. 
 Well, it was a bitter night, one of the bitterest 
 I ever went through. I was in great pain, but 
 the body could have borne it — the mind suf- 
 fered most. I remember wondering what time 
 it was, and thinking of my little Josephine. Was 
 she asleep in her convent in Algiers, safe and 
 sound in her little cell ? I thought of Charlie 
 too, who was with us then en amateur. Had he 
 missed me ? What would he do ? — what could 
 he do ? For who could know the track the 
 vagabonds had taken? And so time passed, 
 and every now and then I got a kick to keep 
 me awake, lest I should sleep through sheer ex- 
 haustion and loss of blood ; and there came at 
 length a greyness in the sky, and I knew that, 
 these black fellows being early risers, my hour 
 was at hand." 
 
 The Captain paused, and looked shrewdly at 
 Silvia. She sat at the foot of the tree, lean- 
 ing against its mossy trunk, her hands clasped
 
 170 SILVIA. 
 
 around her knees, her eager eyes raised up to 
 his face. 
 
 " My dear Mademoiselle Nardi," he exclaimed, 
 with a joyous laugh, "how can you be so intent 
 upon an old soldier's story ? "When you see 
 me don't you read the last page in the book f 
 Can't you know it ended well ?" 
 
 " Oh ! but how — how so ?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 ** As all such things end, when they end hap- 
 pily. Help came. When that greyness ap- 
 peared in the sky the wind rose. That wind 
 had been a great traveller, mademoiselle, it had 
 come from wonderful African deserts, crossed 
 snowy chains of mountains, seen lost cities and 
 the grandest old ruins, and it could have told 
 me many things, things to know which bold 
 travellers risk their lives. But if it had whis- 
 pered to me the secret of the sources of Ihe 
 Nile, what would the tidings have been to the 
 welcome sound it brought me across the desert, 
 the low, faint, far-away voice of a French bugle. 
 Talk of Italian music after that ! My very 
 heart leaped with joy. They might kill me, 
 and they probably would, but the baiting was 
 not to be thought of now, and — and I had no 
 fear of disgracing my manhood and my country.
 
 SILVIA. 171 
 
 They did not make up their minds to kill me 
 after all. There was a great commotion among 
 them, and a rapid council was held ; then I was 
 unbound, hoisted up on the back of a horse, and 
 firmly tied thereto. Then the white-bearded 
 fellow who had called me dog leaped up into 
 the saddle of a magnificent black Arabian, and 
 away we went far into the grey silent desert, 
 above which a rosy flush was breaking. Away 
 we galloped far from the friendly sound of the 
 French bugle. I endured agonies. You see 
 being strapped to a horse when you are badly 
 wounded is not at all the right sort of thing. 
 Well, we stopped at length. We had reached 
 and we entered a grove of laurel-trees, dark, 
 intricate, full of shade, and where a sweet clear 
 spring was gurgling pleasantly. My companion 
 got down to drink. Oh ! how I longed for one 
 draught of that cool water ! But to ask and 
 be denied, and called a dog, where was the 
 use ? So I held my tongue, but I could not so 
 well control my eyes. As the Arab knelt on 
 the ground and drank from the hollow of his 
 hands that sweet delicious water, he caught my 
 look, and gave me back a glance that seemed 
 to go through my very flesh. God forgive him!
 
 172 SILVIA. 
 
 I have been told since that if he hated the 
 French so mortally he had good cause for it ; 
 but you may believe me, Mademoiselle Nardi, I 
 still seem to feel that look as I speak. Well, 
 my white-bearded friend gave a sudden start, 
 and stooping, laid his ear to the ground and 
 listened intently. I forgot pain, thirst, every- 
 thing. He had heard horses' hoofs ; they were 
 coming, there was hope. Now you must know 
 that the horse to which I was strapped could 
 not in a rapid flight hope to keep up with 
 his. He rose, his eyes glowed like coals, 
 and in broken French he said, ' They are 
 coming, but thy head shall hang at my saddle- 
 bow before they get thee.' I did not answer. 
 I suppose, however, I had some value as a hos- 
 tage, for instead of despatching me forthwith, 
 he led the two horses into the grove ; then, 
 hiding in ambuscade behind a thicket, he waited. 
 I could see nothing — I could only hear. The 
 somid of hoofs tramping the desert sands came 
 nearer and nearer. It was agony to lie there and 
 feel helpless. I hated that roof of green, with a 
 a patch of blue sky. I hated those gorgeous tufts 
 of pink flowers that smelt so sweet, and those 
 rustling of leaves, and flapping of wings, and
 
 SILVIA. 173 
 
 humming of insects, that went on all the same, 
 whilst those who were coming to save me were 
 rushing into a fate I could not avert. It was soon 
 over. The galloping ceased ; they had reached 
 the grove, they were reconnoitering ; I heard a 
 shot, a cry, then I saw my Arab bound forth 
 like a panther, then he leaped up into the air 
 shot through the back, and he fell down dead." 
 
 Silvia clasped her hands. 
 
 " I know, I know !" she cried triumphantly, 
 " it was your son who had crept round behind 
 and shot him." 
 
 " My son," good-humouredly said the Cap- 
 tain, " was lying badly wounded under his horse, 
 and his head would have been off as well as mine, 
 but for Jean Varot. You see, mademoiselle, life 
 is not a novel, and it is not always the gentleman 
 and the handsome young man who achieves the 
 romantic deed. The man is no more than a mere 
 corporal or a sergeant half the time, and he has 
 red hair, and keeps an inn. It is disappoint- 
 ing, but it is so. To Jean Varot I owe this 
 head of mine, which, brown and foolish though 
 it be, I dearly like ; and to Jean Varot Charlie 
 owes his head, a clever head, and a handsome 
 head, too, but with which my Arab friend would
 
 174 SILVIA. 
 
 have made short work. Yes, but for brave Jean 
 Varot he would have galloped off with our two 
 heads strung to his saddle, leaving the poor 
 trunks behind for our friends to find and bury. 
 To Jean Varot, under God's will, we owe our 
 two lives. And here he is," he added, his face 
 brightening as the red-haired innkeeper came 
 towards them. 
 
 The Captain went off to meet him, and gave 
 him a warm shake of the hand, which Jean 
 Varot returned cordially. Silvia looked at him 
 and tried not to be disappointed, but the red 
 hair, the long face, the impassive look were 
 as unattractive as ever to the imaginative 
 Italian girl. She looked at him, shook her head 
 and turning to Madame de l'Epine, she said 
 emphatically, 
 
 " I don't like him." 
 
 " And I bless him every day of my life," re- 
 plied the Captain's daughter ; " morning and 
 evening I pray for him." 
 
 Here the Captain looking round said, 
 
 " I shall be back presently," and walked away 
 with the innkeeper. Madame de l'Epine read 
 Silvia's alarmed look and remarked gently, 
 
 " Do not be afaid, they are close at hand. I
 
 SILVIA. 175 
 
 daresay they want to talk of some sporting 
 matter which I am not to hear." 
 
 " Why so ?" 
 
 "I cannot bear what is called sport. It is 
 too like war — war which I dread and hate." 
 
 " Because vour father is a soldier," said Sil- 
 via; " otherwise it is so grand — quite glorious!" 
 she added, with a sudden light in her dark 
 eyes. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine sighed, 
 
 "When I look at this beautiful world," she 
 said, glancing around her, " a world in which 
 nothing is half so beautiful as its creatures, and 
 when I think of war, my heart fails me. Mothers 
 watch and pray by cradles, men give a lifetime 
 to learn how to teach a child, the boy survives 
 dangerous illness and passes through fiery temp- 
 tations to reach a noble manhood, and yet the 
 thrust of a sword, the shot of a gun, may end in 
 one moment all that has been suffered and done 
 to make a man. In time of peace his violent 
 and wrongful death is a fearful event. All so- 
 ciety is then conjured against the murderer, 
 and even his death is felt throughout a 
 nation. With war this changes. Then man is 
 destroyed, not in secret places, not by stealth,
 
 176 SILVIA. 
 
 not by single numbers, but with the sun looking 
 down in broad plains chosen for that purpose, 
 and by thousands and tens of thousands. The 
 saddest of all is that men like my dear father, 
 good, humane, gentle, should make this their 
 profession, and delight in it ; and failing this, 
 delight in the destruction of innocent creatures, 
 some of whom die after enduring all the terror 
 and agonies of a prolonged flight, and in all of 
 whom life is wonderful and beautiful. I know 
 it must be so, for, as I have read somewhere, 
 the great harmony of nature is lost, and we 
 have only fragments of the once perfect and 
 divine symphony. Man's sin has set the beau- 
 tiful instruments out of tune for evermore. The 
 blackbird's song, the nightingale's melody, the 
 little linnet's notes, and the clear trilling of the 
 lark, are but the ceaseless attempts of creatures 
 to recover the lost beauty of primaeval music. 
 It is gone, and will not come back for all their 
 trying ; and so I suppose, spite of all man's 
 efforts after good, spite saints and martyrs, and 
 generous souls and lofty ambitions and tender 
 and merciful hearts, Adam's sin still casts its 
 shadow over the world, and there must be war 
 and suffering and death until the great light of
 
 SILVIA. 177 
 
 God shall have conquered and devoured that 
 darkness." 
 
 Silvia looked at Madame de l'Epine with 
 some wonder. She sat leaning back against the 
 trunk of the tree, with her hands clasped on 
 her knees, and her eyes looking dreamily before 
 her. And she spoke in a low even voice, more 
 like one who thinks aloud than like one who 
 addresses another, and expects an answer. Sil- 
 via felt she could give her none. It was not 
 her wont to soar in that region to which the 
 sadness of her life often sent Madame de l'Epine 
 for a refuge. The world was very fresh and 
 fair in Silvia's eyes. She saw it robed in 
 morning beauty, without stain or darkness on 
 its face. 
 
 "Is your brother fond of sport?" she asked 
 after a while. 
 
 " Yes, he, too, likes it." 
 
 " And is he soon coming V 
 
 " Very soon, I hope. I also hope that you 
 will like him," 
 
 " Perhaps he will not like me," replied Silvia 
 demurely. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine did not answer, but gent- 
 ly laying her hand on Silvia's shoulder, she 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 SILVIA. 
 
 looked down in her face with a quiet smile, that 
 said so plainly, " Do you think so ?" that Silvia 
 answered it with a warm rosy blush. For, to 
 say the truth, she thought it a very unlikely 
 thing indeed that Mr. Meredith should not like 
 her.
 
 179 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HAPPINESS is far more a matter of temper 
 than one of circumstance ; so, though Paris 
 was no longer thought of, and London never 
 mentioned, Silvia could write to Dom Sabino 
 and his sister : 
 
 " I am happy in Saint Remy, and I like it." 
 Madame de l'Epine had recently inherited the 
 chateau, the grounds around it, and a small 
 farm attached to it. Besides these, she had a 
 life interest in a handsome income, of which her 
 worthless husband kindly spent the best part in 
 German watering-places. She never complained 
 of this, never mentioned it, but subdued sadness 
 was written in her pale young face, and clouded 
 her life. 
 
 She stayed very much within ; her health was 
 not good, and pleasure was but a name to her 
 now, after the wreck of all her hopes. But nei- 
 ther her mind nor her heart remained unoccu- 
 
 N 2
 
 180 SILVIA. 
 
 pied. Tender piety filled the one, whilst study, 
 delightful study, that charmer of grief, weaned 
 the other from thoughts too little and too sad. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine's first task, on arriving in 
 Saint Kemy, was to set her house in order. 
 And the extraordinary amount of washing, 
 scrubbing, and cleansing which the whole cha- 
 teau had to undergo in consequence amazed 
 Silvia. Mrs. Groom herself murmured, and 
 said a little tartly that she did believe her dear 
 young lady would try and set Heaven to rights 
 when she got there, as she was sure to, being a 
 saint neither more nor less. But one of the 
 results of this general disturbance was, that 
 Silvia's room became a nest of comfort and 
 prettiness. It was a large room, with vine- 
 framed windows overlooking the terrace and 
 parterres, and had been rather bare at first. But 
 Madame de 1'Epine soon changed all this. The 
 old clock which Silvia had taken a fancy to, 
 was placed on the broad marble mantelpiece, 
 and sent her to sleep with its weird music. A 
 Louis Quinze bureau and work-table of inlaid 
 woods were repaired and varnished, and sent 
 in to her one morning, and a few good pictures 
 by old forgotten painters were hung on the
 
 SILVIA. 181 
 
 walls whilst she was out in the garden one 
 afternoon. Silvia was charmed with all this, 
 and especially with the pattern, daisies and 
 roses, of her chintz furniture, which was young 
 and gay, and seemed to set all these rather old- 
 fashioned relics of the past at defiance. 
 
 " And now," Madame de l'Epine said to her 
 one morning, " we must pay a few visits." 
 
 Accordingly, a large old carriage came out 
 from under a remise, and two sober horses be- 
 ing harnessed to it, the ladies and the Captain 
 were conveyed in this vehicle to the village of 
 Saint Remy. 
 
 The Cure, the Maire, and the notary of Saint 
 Remy were the magnates of the place. Saint 
 Remy was very small, very secluded, and very 
 quiet. And when Madame de l'Epine had 
 called on these three "authorities," as they 
 were called, she had only one more visit to pay, 
 and this was to Lady John. Silvia, who felt 
 very dignified and very stately, had secretly 
 resolved to surprise her ladyship by the freez- 
 ing politeness of her manners, but the opportu- 
 nity of doing so was not granted to her. Lady 
 John and the garrison were all gone on a pic- 
 nic some miles away.
 
 182 SILVIA. 
 
 " And now," said Madame de l'Epine, with a 
 sigh of relief, " that is over." 
 
 Silvia had lived in the seclusion of an 
 Italian girl, and was not surprised that the 
 social resources of Saint Remy should be so 
 restricted ; but she did ask herself, a little rue- 
 fully, if, so far as pleasure went, she need have 
 exchanged Sorrento for the lonely life that lay 
 before her. Such as it was, she made the best 
 of it. She had an inventive Italian nature, a 
 bright, genial temper, and was never at a loss 
 for amusement. She read very little ; she 
 sewed rather more than she read, though not 
 much. She talked about Rome with the Cap- 
 tain, who was deep in Plutarch, [and now and 
 then favoured Mademoiselle Nardi with old 
 Roman strategy and old Roman politics. She 
 accompanied her friend's singing in the evening, 
 for Madame de l'Epine had a very sweet, low 
 voice; and in the morning she often filled the 
 chateau with peals of stormy music, all her own, 
 all rather wild, but always original, and some- 
 times beautiful. 
 
 " You are quite a genius," Madame de l'Epine 
 would say to her, with sincere admiration. 
 
 " Not I," Silvia would answer, saucily, and
 
 SILVIA. 183 
 
 no persuasion would induce her to cultivate a 
 gift both so rare and so delightful. 
 
 There is no denying it, Mademoiselle Nardi, 
 if she was a genius, which we doubt, was not a 
 patient or an industrious one. She liked her 
 pleasure beyond anything, and her pleasure in 
 this case was to be out, not in. The little 
 world over which she could roam at will was 
 after Silvia's own heart. It was ruder than 
 that of the Nardi Gardens, and on a larger 
 scale than Dom Sabino's Masseria. She neither 
 felt change of climate as yet, nor missed splen- 
 dour of colouring ; for imagination, that kind 
 fairy, supplied every deficiency. Of all her 
 many haunts around the chateau, the farmyard 
 delighted her most. Hens, ducks, geese, 
 turkey-cocks, abounded in it, and made a 
 constant cackling and gabbling, which Silvia 
 thought enchanting ; so she spent a consider- 
 able portion of her time in this company. Ma- 
 dame de l'Epine thought it a dreadful waste of 
 time, just as Silvia thought that her friend's 
 precise, studious, and old-fashioned ways were 
 scarcely such as suited twenty-five. 
 
 " She is too young, for all that," thought 
 Silvia, in her wisdom.
 
 184 SILVIA. 
 
 Alas ! what is the youth of years, when that 
 other youth, which lies in our own heart, is 
 wanting — that youth, which can scarcely con- 
 ceive its own ending ? 
 
 When, on a warm sunny day, we sit on the 
 grass, listening to birds singing, and to the 
 pleasant ripple of water in the shade, do we 
 really believe in winter, with its bleak winds 
 and its shroud of snow ? No more does glow- 
 ing youth believe in the cold blood of age. 
 Ah ! if some cruel enchanter could shorten and 
 shrivel up time, and convey us instantaneously 
 from one to the other state ! Surely death 
 would be preferable ! — surely it would be too 
 terrible to lose the balmy summer season, and 
 stand forlorn in a frozen landscape, to forfeit 
 the lovely ardour of spring for the bare wisdom 
 which comes with years ! Such a cruel enchanter 
 is grief to some. For them the work of time 
 is done in space so brief, that the only wonder 
 is they survive the shock. Winter falls on the 
 tree and withers it, and it stands leafless and 
 bare, shorn of life and beauty and sweet song, 
 but with no hope of returning spring through 
 all the returning years. Such was Madame de 
 l'Epine's lot. Youth was withered within her.
 
 SILVIA. 185 
 
 Many sweet gifts remained, but that, the most 
 joyous, the most hopeful, their crowning grace 
 — that was gone ! 
 
 " You must not be so sad and grave," Silvia 
 could not help saying to her, one bright after- 
 noon ; " you must be merry and young," she 
 added, strengthening the injunction with a 
 frown. 
 
 " I have had some grief," replied Madame de 
 l'Epine, quietly. 
 
 " Say to it ' Begone !' " 
 
 Her friend did not answer at once. She was 
 smoothing with a neat and careful hand some 
 papers which she had been sorting out the 
 whole morning. Suddenly pausing in the task, 
 to look up at her young friend, she said, 
 
 " Even prayer cannot bid grief begone, Silvia 
 mia, and yet it is a divine remedy." 
 
 Silvia looked up at her wistfully. 
 
 "I suppose you are always praying," she 
 said. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine coloured, for she could not 
 deny — life was one long prayer to her; but 
 without giving any direct answer, she said, 
 
 " I consider prayer like one of those high 
 places to which men climb in order to get a
 
 186 SILVIA. 
 
 wider view of all that lies below. Whenever 
 I want to see how small my trials are, and 
 when I cannot, because, alas ! they are so near, 
 I climb up that divine mountain and look down 
 at them. How different they seem when seen 
 from that distance. Some have vanished utterly ; 
 others are so small that I could laugh at them. 
 And there have been times, happy times, when 
 dwelling there, I, as it were, saw nothing else. 
 All lay below, miles away, and quite forgotten." 
 
 " Is it not cold up there V objected Silvia, 
 with a look half-mirthful, half-wistful, "cold 
 with snow and clouds and bare rocks?" 
 
 " It is not cold, my dear. You only see the 
 rocks, the snows, and the chill white clouds 
 from below, and so you pass on ; but if you 
 were to go up and abide there awhile, you 
 would find places as delightful and as pleasant 
 as in the fairy-tales, where the desert leads to 
 the enchanted palace." 
 
 " Well, but I do go up there too," replied 
 Silvia, half affronted ; " only I also like to be 
 merry, and to mind the farmyard, and talk with 
 the hens and ducks and geese." 
 
 "And your way is a good way too," said 
 Madame de l'Epine, giving up the argument
 
 SILVIA. 187 
 
 with her tranquil smile. " To be glad is one of 
 the forms of prayer." 
 
 Spite this concession, Silvia was but half- 
 pleased, and being bent on mischief, exclaimed 
 with a startled look — 
 
 " Oh ! dear, is that a stain on your dress ?" 
 
 No ermine could have looked more distressed 
 than Madame de l'Epine on hearing this. 
 
 " Where 1 — what is it?" she cried uneasily. 
 
 " It is only a bit of shadow — it is gone," re- 
 plied Silvia, with a saucy laugh ; and having 
 thus shown her friend that her philosophy was 
 not proof against a stain, she left her, and went 
 forthwith to the farmyard, where she sat down 
 on a bundle of hay by the well and gazed 
 around her, indolent and dreamy. 
 
 The day was mild, and a pale sun shone on 
 the low tile roofs of the farm outhouses. The 
 withering foliage of the vine which covered 
 their white-washed walls looked beautiful in 
 the bright hues of its decay. Through a half- 
 open stable door, a white cow, thrusting out 
 her head, lowed loud, plainly asking to be 
 taken out to pasture. A grey, superannuated 
 donkey, who was fastened to a post at the other 
 end of the yard, seeming to take this as a chal-
 
 188 SILVIA. 
 
 lenge, answered by a loud braying. Hens were 
 pecking and cackling and scratching around the 
 corn they had just got ; whilst an old stately 
 cock, standing on one leg, looked on with his 
 bright, supercilious eye. The grey geese kept 
 apart, and gabbled together at the other end 
 of the yard, seeming greatly affronted about 
 something or other ; and through a wicket gate 
 Silvia caught a glimpse of the kitchen garden, 
 with its green cabbages and homely flowers. 
 
 It was a lovely morning, a morning which, if 
 Silvia had been but wise, might have read her 
 a homily against the mood she was now in. 
 A soft haze veiled the blue of the sky; the 
 fading flowers looked languid on their stems ; 
 the yard was strewn with withered leaves 
 from a solitary poplar-tree. Its branches were 
 already half bare of their foliage, and the deli- 
 cate tracery of twig or bough was seen distinct 
 and clear ; the green and yellow leaves that re- 
 mained upon it still shook with every breath of 
 air, for mild though that autumn morning was, 
 the poplar-tree knew that winter was coming, 
 and looked as it felt — lone and chill. But 
 Silvia, why was your mood so restless ? — you 
 who were as yet in your spring, near whom the
 
 SILVIA. 189 
 
 breath of sunnner had not come, and to whom 
 autumn and winter were but as remote dreams 
 of the future 1 
 
 But even if the poplar-tree itself had ad- 
 dressed her thus, Silvia, her surprise at so 
 unusual an occurrence being taken for granted, 
 would not have needed it. She would still 
 have felt vexed and wondering at Madame de 
 l'Epine's subdued mood. "No bad husband 
 could or would make me so moping as all that," 
 she thought. ".Why, I would be merry and 
 gay if it were only to vex him. But what a pity 
 he is so bad ! Now, if he were only like the 
 poor stoker — old, but so good, you know." 
 
 " My goodness !" said a voice in English close 
 by. Silvia looked round, and, to her great sur- 
 prise, saw the stoker's widow, with her two 
 children standing behind her, and looking quite 
 amazed at so unexpected a meeting. Made- 
 moiselle Nardi was no less astonished ; but her 
 surprise increased on hearing that the little 
 widow had just arrived, and was come to stay 
 on the farm. 
 
 Mr. Meredith, engineer of the company in the 
 service of which her husband had perished, had 
 procured the favour for her from his sister.
 
 190 SILVIA. 
 
 '"Not that it is all a favour, miss," said this 
 young thing, looking slightly conceited. " There 
 is room to spare for the children and me, and 
 children are always useful in a place like this," 
 she added with grave simplicity. 
 
 " Of course they are !" cried Silvia, " so use- 
 ful." 
 
 " And I was reared on a farm, and I know all 
 about the managing of poultry," said the stoker's 
 widow. " I understand pigs, too, and I know 
 that I am quite an acquisition, as it were, in 
 such a place as this ; but I am glad to be useful, 
 and of course it is a great comfort to have a 
 home again." 
 
 Here her lips quivered, and her eyes grew dim 
 at the memory of her bereavement. 
 
 " You will be happy here'" said Silvia, con- 
 solingly. " Madame de l'Epine is so good, and 
 you must not mind Mrs. Groom. She seems 
 odd, but she is so kind, you know. The Cap- 
 tain, too, is very good, and I think there is no 
 place like a farmyard !" she added, with a warmth 
 verging on enthusiasm. 
 
 And in the fervour of her admiration for the 
 farmyard, she at once introduced the stoker's 
 widow and her children to all its tenants. This
 
 SILVIA. 191 
 
 took time, and when Silvia had done at length, 
 it occurred to her that she had not seen Mrs. 
 Groom that day, and hoping to secure her fav- 
 our for the new-comers, she at once repaired to 
 the room in which it was Mrs. Groom's wont to 
 sit of an afternoon. 
 
 " Only think, Mrs. Groom," she said, entering 
 the room in a half breathless state, " the stoker's 
 widow that I told you of is below." 
 
 Mrs. Groom was reading the lives of the 
 Painters, and wondering whether her nephew 
 was to be a Leonardo da Vinci, or a Titian. 
 Perhaps she did not like being disturbed in that 
 contemplation, for she said rather crossly : 
 
 "Yes, a baby. I have seen her. Three 
 babies." 
 
 "Oh! but children are so useful," argued 
 
 B 5 
 
 ilvia. 
 
 " Are they ?" 
 
 " Of course they are, Mrs. Groom, and she, 
 their mother, I mean, knows all about pigs and 
 poultry " 
 
 " Does she T 
 
 " Yes, she does, and she is quite an acquisi- 
 tion, you know." 
 
 " Is she t w
 
 192 SILVIA. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the sarcasm of Mrs. 
 Groom's brown face as she uttered these ironical 
 questions. 
 
 " Now, don't take a dislike to her !" implored 
 Silvia, who felt rather uneasy. 
 
 " Not I," was the contemptuous reply. " Only 
 I wonder what her husband did with her. As 
 to my dear young lady," she added ten- 
 derly, " it is just like her to have brought her 
 here." 
 
 " She says it is Mr. Meredith." 
 
 " Does she ? Well, mamzelle, you lost some- 
 thing by chatting with the little thing. I looked 
 up and down for you, but could not find you. 
 Mr. Lovell called, with Lady John and Miss Gray 
 to watch over him." 
 
 Mrs. Groom's tone and look were very signi- 
 ficant. Silvia coloured deeply. 
 
 " Mr. Lovell shall see when he calls again," 
 she began. 
 
 " Mr. Lovell will not call again, " unceremoni- 
 ously interrupted Mrs. Groom, " for Mr. Mere- 
 dith will be here." 
 
 "Have they quarrelled?" asked Silvia, 
 amazed. 
 
 " Oh ! dear no, but they never dove-tailed as
 
 SILVIA. 193 
 
 boys, and they never will dove-tail if they lived 
 to be old men." 
 
 Silvia would have liked to know more, but 
 Mrs. Groom was reticent. 
 
 "They did not dove-tail," she said; "perhaps 
 they were too much in the same position, both 
 handsome, both good matches, and both rather 
 worried by young ladies." 
 
 " I never heard anything like it !" cried Sil- 
 via, whose face was all in a flame. " In my 
 country men go mad about girls, or break their 
 hearts, or do something desperate ; but here it 
 is all the reverse." 
 
 " Here kittens like cream," said Mrs. Groom 
 drily. 
 
 There was no agreeing with this obstinate 
 woman, who likened young ladies to kittens, and 
 young men of fortune to cream, so Silvia left 
 her abruptly, looking very red, and feeling very 
 indignant. 
 
 " I shall show Josephine's brother that I am 
 not one of those intrepid young ladies," she 
 thought in her wrath ; and her opportunity to im- 
 press this truth on Mr. Meredith came that very 
 same evening. 
 
 When she entered the drawing-room, after a 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 SILVIA. 
 
 long ramble, Silvia felt at once that something 
 had happened. There was an unusual number 
 of wax lights burning on the broad black marble 
 mantelpiece ; the wood fire on the hearth blazed 
 up with a bright warm glow, which shone again 
 on the polished oak floor ; the Captain's genial 
 face was beaming, and Madame de l'Epine had 
 a gentle happy smile. 
 
 " Charlie's come !" cried the Captain, the mo- 
 ment she opened the door ; " ha ! ha ! what do 
 you say to that?" 
 
 Silvia said nothing, but stopping short at 
 the door, she darted a quick, involuntary look 
 of curiosity and surprise over the room, and at 
 length found the object of her search seated a 
 little in the background, near Madame del'Epine's 
 chair. 
 
 " My brother Charles Meredith — Mademoiselle 
 Nardi," said Madame de l'Epine. 
 
 He bowed courteously, but Silvia scarcely 
 heeded the introduction. From the leading 
 part Charles Meredith acted in all his step- 
 father's stories, from the instances of his intre- 
 pidity and coolness the Captain was fond of 
 relating, and also from some of Mrs. Groom's 
 remarks, Silvia had expected to find in the
 
 SILVIA. 195 
 
 brother of her friend a bold, dashing and brilliant 
 young man — a scornful young eagle who soared 
 above his peers, and who, spite all Mrs. Groom 
 said to the contrary, must certainly have but one 
 fault : rather too keen and clear a conscious- 
 ness of his own merits. Wholly unlike this was 
 the Charles Meredith she now gazed at. 
 
 She saw a pale, handsome and elegant young 
 man indeed, but one whose countenance ex- 
 pressed modesty and a gentleness almost verg- 
 ing on indifference. Mr. Meredith did not look 
 bored like Mr. Lovell, but he looked as if he 
 could scarcely take the trouble of being angry. 
 So spoke the first look, but a second glance 
 told a very different story to Silvia. There 
 was the vigour of a strong mind in the broad, 
 clear forehead, shadowed with curling chesnut 
 hair. Those deep-set gray eyes, so luminous 
 and so clear, looked as if they could kindle into 
 sudden wrath if need were ; and Silvia felt that 
 she must not trust the careless gentleness of 
 Mr. Meredith's smile. The first impression was 
 one of grace, elegance and amiable goodness ; 
 the second of strength, bodily as well as mental. 
 Silvia felt vaguely that when the Captain said 
 of his stepson that for the endurance of fatigue 
 
 02
 
 196 SILVIA. 
 
 he had no equal, he must have spoken truly ; 
 she also felt that this pale, absent-looking young 
 man had a will which could curb the strong 
 tide of life within him, and ever made him his 
 own master. 
 
 " They are all wrong," she thought, as she 
 at length sat down and looked at the fire ; and 
 in her heathen Italian phraseology Mademoiselle 
 Nardi, remembering the graceful statues of the 
 young heathen gods in the Palazzo Nardi, said 
 to herself, " He is more than handsome ; he is a 
 god." 
 
 Andso hewas, in that heathen sense, of course. 
 A man in whom the godlike attributes of youth, 
 strength and beauty were combined. A man of 
 fine intellect, clear and firm ; a man of keen 
 vision, who could read other men as Silvia could 
 read a book ; whom none had yet deceived, and 
 very few had baffled. Such gods there are in 
 plenty,* wherever the world is rife, though 
 Silvia knew it not. They are the born con- 
 querors of society, and they rule it with the iron 
 hand in the velvet glove. Fortune does not 
 always favour them to their full bent. The 
 accidents of life will step in. This man, who 
 might have been a Caesar, is only the manager
 
 SILVIA. 197 
 
 of an obscure company ; sometimes an irresist- 
 ible vocation carries them away, and they are 
 lost at sea or perish in deserts exploring ; some- 
 times, too, they are reckless, and they go to 
 early ruin ; but whether they are called Napoleon 
 or Claude Duval, they are ever first. First in 
 fashion, first in genius, first in power, first in 
 crime ; supremacy is their attribute. In savage 
 tribes or in primitive communities they rule and 
 lead, as a matter of course ; in civilized society 
 they are perforce curbed in, and often turn into 
 mere men of the world, brilliant or strong as 
 the case may be ; but wherever they are, or 
 whatever may be their scope or their sphere, 
 they have all this one characteristic, that no rival 
 can Sourish near them, no more than other trees 
 can grow beneath the royal oak's broad-spread- 
 ing boughs. 
 
 Joy made the good Captain even more than 
 usually talkative. Shakespeare was the hobby 
 he rode this evening, and how he rode him ! — 
 how he made him prance and curvet through 
 torrents of praise ! 
 
 " Shakespeare, sir ! — ha ! ha ! — not another 
 like him ! He is the grandest fellow — he is 
 gigantic, sir — a perfect mountain of a man, and
 
 198 SILVIA. 
 
 others sleep in his shadow — others sleep in his 
 shadow. ' All the world's a stage ' — who else 
 could say that V 
 
 The Captain stood with his i&ack to the fire- 
 place, shaking his white locks, and stamping 
 heavily on the rug, to give emphasis to his lan- 
 guage. Silvia, who had not been listening 
 very attentively, asked Madame de l'Epine, in 
 a whisper, who was that mountain. 
 " What mountain, dear I" 
 M Oh ! a talkiug mountain, who said ' All the 
 world's a stage.' " 
 
 " Shakespeare, of course." 
 " And who was he ? — a general ?" 
 Before Madame de l'Epine could answer, 
 Silvia had seen Mr. Meredith leaning back in 
 Ins chair, and looking over at her with as much 
 amusement in his pale, handsome face, as good 
 breeding would allow to appear there. Her 
 dark eyes flashed like diamonds, and saying 
 hastily, " Ah ! I remember — a poet," she looked 
 at the fire, and spoke no more. Soon after 
 this, she rose and left the room. Her hair had 
 got loose, and she stopped for a moment out- 
 side the door in order to fasten it. She heard 
 a chair moving, and from what followed, she
 
 SILVIA. 199 
 
 knew that Mr. Meredith had left his place to go 
 and sit in the chair she had left vacant near his 
 sister. 
 
 "What charging young barbarian is this, 
 Josephine ?" he asked. 
 
 "Ah! is she not pretty?" 
 
 " Delightfully pretty, and she has heard of 
 Shakespeare ! and wears a charm against the 
 evil eye !" 
 
 Silvia could imagine the smile with which 
 he said it ; perhaps he said more in the same 
 spirit, but she was too proud to listen ; she 
 went on, her eyes flashing, her lip curling, all 
 the way up the staircase to her room. Who — 
 what was this Mr. Meredith, that he should 
 treat his sister's guest so ? Barbarian ! — they 
 were the barbarians, those Gauls and Britons, 
 whose stone effigies she had seen in the Nardi 
 Palace — heavy-looking, bearded, and captive 
 kings, in unclassical garments ; and she — why, 
 for all she knew, she was an imperial Roman, 
 and she scorned them, she did, and especially 
 that pale Mr. Meredith, with his smile, so gentle 
 and amiable, but so hard to read, for all its 
 sweetness. 
 
 In this mood she reached her room, and sat
 
 200 SILVIA. 
 
 down near her bed. Her hair had got un- 
 fastened again, and as she pinned it up impa- 
 tiently, Silvia turned to the glass. She 
 was alone, yet she blushed — she blushed, and 
 she smiled, and turned away, a little triumph- 
 antly. For, after all, she was charming ; ab- 
 sent though he was, he had seen it, and said 
 so ; and even if he had not said it, Silvia knew 
 it, although she cared very little for it, and 
 thought of it but seldom. " I wonder if their 
 Shakespeare is so difficult ?" she said to herself, 
 and a meditative frown knit her smooth brow. 
 She did not know, indeed, whether this said 
 Shakespeare dealt in idylls or in tragedies ; she 
 only knew vaguely that he was hard of access 
 to foreigners, and being an ambitious little 
 thing in her way, she resolved to attack him 
 speedily. 
 
 Silvia had been reared on the good old 
 Roman plan of Domum mansit Lanam fecit, but 
 for all that she was a quick Italian girl, credu- 
 lous through habit, but with a mind clear and 
 bright, and searching as an Italian sunbeam. 
 She had always succeeded in whatever she at- 
 tempted ; she had studied music very little, yet 
 could play charmingly, She could compose
 
 SILVIA. 201 
 
 pretty sonnets for a death, a bridal, or a taking 
 of the veil, but never did so unless when she 
 was asked. She could improvise for fun, and 
 sing as birds sing, and dance like a fairy, and 
 excel in every kind of needlework that she at- 
 tempted ; and it all came so easily to her, that 
 she thought nothing of her accomplishments, 
 which was the best and the rarest of all her 
 gifts. 
 
 " I do not think Shakespeare can be more 
 difficult than satin stitch," she now said to her 
 own thoughts ; " and I know how I shall be- 
 have to that Mr. Meredith, who looks so amia- 
 ble, and is so ill-natured. I shall make it a 
 point to take no notice of him. I am sorry, on 
 account of Josephine, but I cannot help it." 
 
 In this mood Mademoiselle Nardi went down 
 to dinner, and though Mr. Meredith sat by her 
 side, and was studiously attentive to her, she 
 adhered, so far as politeness allowed, to her 
 severe resolve of taking no notice of him.
 
 202 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 AN acquaintance thus unfavourably begun 
 might not have progressed pleasantly if 
 Mr. Meredith had not been very busy just then. 
 But it is difficult to take no notice of a person 
 whom one scarcely sees, and if, notwithstanding 
 the few opportunities he had, Mr. Meredith did 
 perceive how small a share he had of Silvia's 
 good graces, he seemed wholly unconscious of 
 the fact, and was as courteously attentive to his 
 sister's friend as on the day of his arrival. He 
 puzzled Silvia very much. He was very quick, 
 and keen, and shrewd, but he was also very 
 absent, so that she never knew how far he 
 heard or saw what passed in his very presence. 
 She was very sure that he never lost a look or 
 a word that interested him. But then it would 
 have perplexed her greatly to say what did in- 
 terest Mr. Meredith, his sister, the Captain, and
 
 SILVIA. 203 
 
 his profession and pursuits excepted. About 
 himself he evidently cared very little, and Sil- 
 via, after a few days, came to the conclusion 
 that he was just the sort of man not to know 
 the colour of his own hair, as Mrs. Groom said, 
 and to remain unconscious of the adoration of 
 smitten young ladies. 
 
 She did not like him, but she could not help 
 admiring him, not merely because he was hand- 
 some, and intellectual, and refined, but because 
 he was a man who went through all he at- 
 tempted without the least appearance of effort, 
 fatigue, or even ennui. He had come to Saint 
 Remy to go on with a branch of the railway, 
 which a lawsuit between the owners of the land 
 through which it was to pass and the company 
 whose engineer he was had interrupted. His 
 task had to be completed within a stated time, 
 and his activity amazed Silvia. Mr. Meredith 
 was often up and gone by dawn of day, and 
 often, too, it was past midnight when Silvia 
 heard his step passing her door on his way up 
 to his room ; yet if they chanced to meet the 
 next morning at breakfast, she could not find 
 one trace of fatigue on his pale, handsome face. 
 
 " Ah ! ha ! " his stepfather once said to her,
 
 204 SILVIA. 
 
 " fresh as a daisy, is he not, Mademoiselle Nardi ? 
 Yet he was twelve hours on horseback yester- 
 day." 
 
 " Ten," corrected Charles Meredith, smiling. 
 
 " Ten ! — ten hours on horseback midst these 
 low sandy hillocks ! There's a treat for you. 
 I would rather be galloping fifteen hours on a 
 fine stony road — fifteen, I would rather be 
 twenty ! If there is anything I hate it is sand, 
 such sand, too, as they have about here. It is 
 worse than African sand. African sand, indeed, 
 is delightful, and this is abominable. Of all 
 horrible things," continued the Captain, warm- 
 ing as usual with his subject, " the sandy tracts 
 in this vicinity are the worst. I do not believe 
 there are worse anywhere — no, not in the whole 
 world!" he added, striking the table so emphati- 
 cally, that every plate and cup on it rang again, 
 and Madame de l'Epine gave an alarmed start. 
 " My poor Josephine," said the Captain, abashed, 
 " I always do forget your poor dear nerves. I 
 shall try and think of them. But these sandy 
 hillocks are frightful, that is the truth. Only 
 you see, Mademoiselle Nardi, Charlie has to go 
 through some hard work. We have a rocky 
 tract as well as a sandy tract, and I do believe
 
 SILVIA. 205 
 
 our rocks are the worst that could be found to 
 try an engineer's patience." 
 
 " Not they," interrupted Mr. Meredith, care- 
 lessly. " They are tame rocks, rocks of a low 
 inferior character, for which, so far as their 
 rocky nature goes, I have a thorough con- 
 tempt." 
 
 " And I say they are marble," hotly cried the 
 Captain, striking the table again; then, suddenly 
 remembering himself, he gave his daughter an 
 abashed look, and uttered so contrite a " I am 
 sorry," that Madame de l'Epine, her brother, 
 and Silvia all smiled at the simple good faith 
 with which the words were spoken, 
 
 The Captain gave them all a half-rueful, half- 
 merry look of his bright blue eyes; then, thrust- 
 ing his hands in his pockets, and leaning back 
 in his chair, he shook his white locks, and burst 
 out into a loud and merry ha ! ha ! which he 
 suddenly interrupted to remark, 
 
 " By the way, Josephine, why has the lock of 
 the door on the terrace been changed V 
 
 Madame de l'Epine looked surprised. She 
 knew nothing of the matter, and said so. Sil- 
 via glanced furtively at Mr. Meredith. Hi did 
 not seem to have heard his stepfather's remark,
 
 206 SILVIA. 
 
 and carelessly changed the topic of discourse. 
 
 " And yet Mrs. Groom and Lady John both 
 thought there was something in that lost key," 
 thought Silvia, as she went out after break- 
 fast to walk up and down the sunny terrace ; 
 for the weather, though bright, was sharp, 
 and the shelter of the massive old chateau was 
 pleasant to the Italian girl. As she was thus 
 passing by the French window of Mr. Meredith's 
 study, the sound of his voice talking to the 
 Captain came out to her on the still cold air. 
 Mr. Meredith was saying — 
 
 " I may not be back for some days ; but do 
 not tell Josephine." 
 
 "You will send a message every time you 
 can," said his stepfather. 
 
 " Oh ! certainly — every day." 
 
 Silvia could not have heard more without 
 standing still to listen ; but she had heard 
 enough to know Mr. Meredith's meaning. In- 
 deed, that meaning was not a hard one to guess. 
 Every time he w^ent out, Silvia had seen his 
 sister's pale face grow troubled; every time his 
 return was delayed, she had seen Madame de 
 l'Epine become restless and anxious, though she 
 never said a word concerning the cause of her
 
 SILVIA. 207 
 
 uneasiness ; and every time he came back safe 
 and sound, Silvia had read very plainly her 
 friend's relief and gladness in her beaming 
 eyes. 
 
 " I suppose she is afraid lest he should be 
 murdered," thought Silvia, with a little shud- 
 der of horror. Such was Madame de l'Epine's 
 fear, indeed, and to that fear Mr. Meredith and 
 his stepfather now evidently alluded when they 
 agreed to conceal from her the probable length 
 of his absence. 
 
 From the end of the terrace, which she had 
 now reached, Silvia could see the significant 
 paper pane in Mr. Meredith's open window. 
 Why had he kept that memento of the treacher- 
 ous attempt made on his life ? Was he afraid 
 of forgetting it? Or did he, as Mrs. Groom 
 had half hinted, know who the murderer was, 
 and was he keeping that record as a silent men- 
 ace of vengeance yet to come ? The thought 
 frightened her, and there was something of that 
 fright still on her face when Mr. Meredith 
 walked out on the terrace. He was alone, and 
 came towards her with downcast eyes. Her 
 shadow on the sunlit flags made him look up 
 suddenly, and for a moment each stood still 
 
 *
 
 208 SILVIA. 
 
 looking at the other. Quickness of perception 
 almost amounted to intuition with Mr. Mere- 
 dith. He knew that Silvia had overheard 
 him. 
 
 " I am going away for a few days," he said, 
 in a tone of voice rather subdued than low, " as 
 I have just been telling the Captain. Will you 
 be so good as not to mention this to my sister ?" 
 
 " No, I shall not," said Silvia, in a faltering 
 tone of voice ; for though she did not like him, 
 yet when she thought of his sister's fears, and of 
 the fate which might lie before him, her heart 
 failed her. 
 
 " May I put a question to you ?" he asked, 
 after a brief pause. " You know that the lock 
 of the door was changed. Can you tell me why 
 this was done ?" 
 
 " And how do you know that I know it ?" she 
 asked, rather startled. 
 
 " Your face told me so, Mademoiselle Nardi." 
 
 "I will tell you what I do know, but not 
 here." 
 
 " The sun is very pleasant down this avenue," 
 said Mr. Meredith, looking towards that which 
 faced the window of his study ; "will you come 
 this way, Mademoiselle Nardi V 9
 
 SILVIA. 209 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, then went down 
 the steps of the terrace and entered the avenue 
 with him. The sky was clear and blue, the 
 trees were bare and thin, the brown earth was 
 thickly strewn with leaves fallen in the night, 
 and which had not yet been swept away ; the 
 spot was sheltered, calm and solitary, yet Sil- 
 via hesitated. Mr. Meredith neither questioned 
 nor looked as if he felt the slightest impatience 
 to hear her, but was well content to walk thus 
 by her side till she should please to speak. 
 Diplomacy was not Silvia's forte. Suddenly 
 standing still, she said abruptly, 
 
 " You should know why the lock was changed, 
 Mr. Meredith. The key was lost, or stolen, on 
 the first day I came here, and Mrs. Groom got 
 the red-haired man, who keeps an inn, to put in 
 another lock. Why did she not tell you this I" 
 added Silvia, a little impetuously. " You should 
 have known it." 
 
 " Mademoiselle Nardi, I prefer speaking openly 
 to you. Mrs. Groom evidently connected the 
 loss of that key with an attempt which was 
 once made on my life, and so she got the lock 
 changed." 
 
 " I know she did," said Silvia — " I knew it 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 SILVIA. 
 
 at the time. But why did she not tell you about 
 it s 
 
 He hesitated before he answered : 
 
 " When that attempt was made I requested 
 that, neither directly nor indirectly, should it 
 ever be alluded to again." 
 
 Silvia coloured deeply; but, without seem- 
 ing to heed this, Mr. Meredith continued : 
 
 " I shall speak to Mrs. Groom at once, and 
 ask her to conceal this matter of the key from 
 my dear sister, so far as she can. It would 
 trouble Josephine, and very uselessly. For of 
 what use is the key of a door to which there 
 are bars and bolts? The key was lost — not 
 stolen." 
 
 " And — and do you think that all danger is 
 over now, Mr. Meredith ? " Silvia could not help 
 asking, forgetting, in her eagerness to know 
 more, that Mr. Meredith did not care to discuss 
 this topic. 
 
 " You mean, do I think that my life will ever 
 be attempted again? God knows, Mademoi- 
 selle Nardi, I do not." 
 
 He spoke very simply, neither denying nor 
 scorning the invisible danger that hung over
 
 SILVIA. 211 
 
 him, like the sword that hung over the head of 
 Damocles. 
 
 " But can nothing be done 1" she exclaimed, 
 turning a little pale — u can nothing be done to 
 prevent this V 
 
 " No, truly nothing. A murderer may choose 
 to cut me off from life when it is sweetest and 
 dearest, and I am powerless. I might be shot 
 dead just now, on this morning, when this 
 world looks so wonderfully bright and glorious ; 
 and yet all I can do is to try and make those 
 who care for me forget that such things could 
 be. Do you take a walk this morning, Made- 
 moiselle Nardi f M 
 
 Silvia did not answer. She could not help 
 recurring to the subject, which fascinated her. 
 
 " But can you forget it V she asked. " You 
 do not think of it often, I am sure." 
 
 " You are mistaken," he said quietly. " 1 think 
 of it frequently. For life is dear to me, and I 
 should be loth to lose it." 
 
 Life was very dear to Silvia too, but her 
 head was full of high-flown notions of the scorn 
 in which brave men should hold death, and 
 Mr. Meredith's candour perplexed her. Perhaps 
 
 p2
 
 212 SILVIA. 
 
 he did not see that his frankness had lowered 
 him a little in her good opinion, or if he did he 
 was too proud and too careless to justify him- 
 self, and too honest to retract ; for as they were 
 now once more near the terrace to which they 
 had been turning back, he thanked her for the 
 information she had given him, and left her 
 thus. Silvia stood looking after him, feeling 
 vexed and disappointed. Her heathen god 
 was a mortal man after all — a man who was 
 loth to lose life, and who said so. 
 
 " If I were a man, ' : thought Silvia with 
 flashing eyes, " I would hunt down that mur- 
 derer if I could ; and if I could not, I would 
 scorn to remember that he so much as 
 breathed/' 
 
 Not being a man, however, Mademoiselle 
 Nardi thought herself privileged to cast a few 
 uneasy looks down the avenue, and to feel com- 
 forted by the thought that as the trees were 
 very thin and bare, evil-doers might not find 
 them convenient hiding-places. 
 
 She was walking in the garden that after- 
 noon with Madame de i'Epine, when Mr. Mere- 
 dith's message came. He simply requested his 
 sister not to expect him home that day. Sil-
 
 SILVIA. 213 
 
 via saw the paper shake in her friend's thin 
 nervous hand, as she exclaimed almost passion- 
 ately : 
 
 " He knew it this morning, but would not 
 tell me : he knew it." 
 
 " He would not alarm you," heedlessly said 
 Silvia. 
 
 " I suppose so," replied Madame de l'Epine, 
 growing calmer. "And now, Silvia, since we 
 have spoken of this, and since, as I see, you 
 know all, you also know why I did not wait for 
 you in Paris. I had learned unexpectedly that 
 he was coming here, and I could not live so far 
 away from him. I can prevent nothing, but at 
 least every time I see him I feel he is safe. I 
 wanted him to give up this Saint Remy busi- 
 ness altogether, but that he would not do." 
 
 " Why not % " asked Silvia surprised. 
 
 " He would think it cowardly to shrink from 
 danger. Charles is very brave," added Madame 
 de l'Epine with a fond proud smile — " as brave 
 as he is modest, Silvia. No man of his years 
 has had such successes in life, and thinks less of 
 them than he does. No man is more daring, 
 and seeks less to impress the fact upon others, 
 than my brother. No man is less given to
 
 214 SILVIA. 
 
 boasting and pride ; no man is less conscious 
 than he is of the admiration he inspires." 
 
 "Perhaps he does not perceive it," saucily 
 said Silvia. 
 
 " That is it, he does not," replied Madame de 
 l'Epine, in perfect good faith ; " for his mind is 
 so absorbed in his profession, and in a hundred 
 matters which interest him keenly, that a sort 
 of blindness and complete self-forgetfulness are 
 the result." 
 
 Silvia's pretty lips curled, and she resolved 
 again that Mr. Meredith need never be blind or 
 self-forgetful so far as she was concerned. 
 
 " There is something in your mind — tell me 
 what it is," said Madame de l'Epine, laying her 
 hand on Silvia's shoulder, and looking earnestly 
 in her face. 
 
 Silvia might have found it difficult to answer 
 the question if a servant had not just then 
 brought the intimation that Lady John, Miss 
 Gray, and Miss Georgie Lovell were in the draw- 
 ing-room. Madame de l'Epine looked doubtfully 
 at Silvia, who smiled and said good-humour- 
 edly, 
 
 " Of course I shall go in with you." 
 
 They found Lady John most becomingly
 
 SILVIA. 215 
 
 dressed in scarlet and black, and looking as 
 young, as blooming and as pretty as ever. Miss 
 Gray, too, who stood by the window, looked very 
 graceful and charming, and Miss Georgie Lovell 
 was lolling back in her chair, and sucking the 
 handle of her parasol behind Lady John's back. 
 The presence of her guardian, however, evident- 
 ly subdued her high spirits, for she scarcely said 
 a word all the time the visit lasted. 
 
 Lady John had come to bid Madame de l'Epine 
 farewell, and Lady John, it soon appeared from 
 her own showing, left Saint Remy because she 
 was an ill-used woman. 
 
 "I built a house for my friends," she said 
 with some asperity, " and I think I have a right 
 to complain that my friends deserted me. Mr. 
 Lovell," his name was uttered with consider- 
 able emphasis, " went first. Mrs. Barton's sister 
 pretended to be ill, just to take Mrs. Barton away. 
 Mrs. Green behaved abominably, and never came 
 back, but went about escorting these Raymond 
 girls. Mr. Enfield, who will run about, took cold, 
 was fit for nothing ; so, as Miss Gray thought of 
 going to Miss Meredith's, Professor Smith and I 
 agreed the best thing we could do was to shut 
 up the house and go with her."
 
 216 SILVIA. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine condoled civilly with her 
 neighbour, and Lady John, who could never 
 weary of her wrongs, again recapitulated them 
 — again complained of her friends. 
 
 All this time Miss Lovell sucked the handle of 
 her parasol and puckered her little forehead, 
 seemingly extremly bored, and Miss Gray went 
 in, looking cool and lively, and keeping up a little 
 by-talk with Silvia, just for politeness sake. 
 What lively weather and how pleasant the forest 
 was just then, and Mr. Meredith was out. 
 
 " Yes, for the day," answered Silva ; then she 
 suddenly added, " You are very like him." 
 
 Yes, they were alike. They both had the same 
 pale style of beauty, the same rather careless 
 grace of expression, but the latent fire of Charles 
 Meredith's countenance never appeared in Ada 
 Gray's cold young face. Girlhood or grief or 
 the inaction of well-bred poverty had exting- 
 uished it so early, if it had ever been there, that 
 no token of it remained behind. 
 
 " We are cousins, you know," she replied cold- 
 ly, in answer to Silvia's remark ; " and, as you 
 say, are thought somewhat alike. I am sorry 
 not to see Charles before we leave." 
 
 Silvia thought, from the cool tone in which
 
 SILVIA. 217 
 
 this was uttered, that Miss Gray's regret was not 
 of a very deep nature, and that it matched 
 pretty well with the indifference of Mr. Mere- 
 dith's manner when he mentioned his fair cou- 
 sin's name. Strange that these two should not 
 care for each other. " Perhaps they are too 
 much alike," shrewdly thought Silvia. 
 
 The same coldness, however, the same languor 
 were displayed by Miss Gray on every subject 
 that was broached. It was as if strong feeling of 
 any kind were either an impossibility to her 
 nature, or too great an effort for her will. Yet 
 with all this indifference there mingled a well- 
 bred easy grace, which charmed Silvia, and 
 made her stand in a window to look after the 
 three ladies as they crossed the court on their 
 way to the carriage which had brought them. 
 Lady John walked briskly ; Miss Georgie Lovell 
 skipped by her side, and Miss Gray moved slow- 
 ly and gracefully, with her long violet silk skirt 
 sweeping the flags as if it were a queen's 
 train. 
 
 Happy girl to be so graceful, so lovely, so well 
 dressed, and to be going to London ! Of course 
 a brilliant life of pleasure lay before her, and she, 
 Silvia, must remain in that dull old chateau,
 
 218 SILVIA. 
 
 between the boisterous Captain and his sad, 
 precise daughter. She liked them dearly, but 
 she would have preferred liking them in Paris. 
 " And Paris, too, I should have had," she thought 
 resentfully, "if it were not for Mr. Meredith, who 
 doesn't even stay, but goes away. Truly the 
 Syrens did well not to tell me my future, for it 
 is a blank, a blank I"
 
 219 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SOMETHING certainly ailed Mademoiselle 
 Nardi about this time. No sooner was 
 Lady John gone, and her house shut up, than 
 Silvia, who had been so well content with her 
 lot before, grew dissatisfied and restless. This 
 Italian girl was not a perfect character, you see, 
 and could not discover what right other people 
 had to go and travel, and change Saint Remy 
 for London, when she was obliged to remain 
 behind. To make matters worse, several days 
 of drizzling rain followed Lady John's depar- 
 ture, and, to crown all, Mr. Meredith put off his 
 return day after day. The result of which was 
 that Madame de 1'Epine grew wretchedly nerv- 
 ous ; that seeing his daughter so miserable, the 
 genial Captain himself began to droop and look 
 gloomy ; and that anxiety being one of the 
 most communicative things in this world, Silvia 
 now and then felt, if not unhappy and depressed
 
 220 SILVIA. 
 
 — that was not in her power — at least under a 
 cloud. She hated gloom, being of a joyous 
 nature; but the darkness would come, and 
 though some sunbeam was sure to pierce it ere 
 long, she felt it as a trouble whilst it lasted. 
 
 The gloomiest time of the day was the morn- 
 ing, when Madame de l'Epine expected her 
 brother's letter. If it delayed coming she was 
 unhappy, and when it did come she would read 
 it, fold it up nicely, put it away carefully, then 
 say with a sigh, 
 
 " Charles is not coming back to-day." 
 
 Silvia, who knew what her friend's thoughts 
 were then, could not help sharing her uneasiness. 
 Fears for Mr. Meredith's safety worried her in 
 the daytime, and three times helped to give her 
 the nightmare. 
 
 "I wish Mr. Meredith would come back at 
 least, and set that matter right," thought Sil- 
 via, feeling injured* "I don't want him for 
 myself, but how can I be happy when his staying 
 away makes them both so dismal." 
 
 She came to this conclusion on a bright 
 morning when, Mr. Meredith's expected letter 
 not having come, Madame de TEpine had gone 
 up to her room, vainly trying to conceal her
 
 SILVIA. 221 
 
 agitation and uneasiness. The Captain stood 
 with his back to the fireplace, pretending un- 
 consciousness, and trying to whistle, but he 
 soon broke down, and shaking his head ruefully 
 at something in his own thoughts, he walked 
 away. It was then that Silvia, remaining 
 alone in the drawing-room, came to the conclu- 
 sion that Mr. Meredith's absence was a personal 
 injury to herself. But what if something had 
 happened to him ? She was leaning back in an 
 arm-chair facing the window, through which the 
 brightness of the day looked in at her, when 
 that thought came, and with it, as a flash of 
 light, Mr. Meredith's handsome face, such as she 
 had seen it on the morning when he went 
 away. 
 
 " I will not think of that," she said, half aloud, 
 and starting to her feet with tears in her eyes. 
 " Poverino ! Nothing has happened to him — 
 besides, I will not think of it." 
 
 And starting to her feet, as we said, she flew 
 out of the room, flew up two pair of stairs, and 
 in a moment was in the room where Mrs. Groom 
 sat day after day, generally mending linen, but 
 sometimes, too, reading the lives of the Painters. 
 When Mrs. Groom was engaged with Michael
 
 222 SILVIA. 
 
 Angelo, or Raffaelle, and thinking of the natural 
 connection which her Philip's destiny must 
 needs have with that of these two remarkable 
 painters, she was not a very accessible person ; 
 and Silvia had to listen to long accounts of 
 Philip's boyhood, and of how he ruined all his 
 aunt's rooms by drawing heads in charcoal on 
 the walls; and how she, Mrs. Groom, sent him 
 to Rome, and kept him there, and meant to 
 make a gentleman and a great painter of him, 
 before she could induce Mrs. Groom to enter on 
 topics of more immediate interest. But when 
 Mrs. Groom was mending linen the task was an 
 easier one, and as it is an amusing, though not 
 always an edifying thing, to make our neigh- 
 bour the subject of our discourse, Mademoiselle 
 Nardi frequently led Mrs. Groom to talk about 
 other people, well knowing that mitigated cen- 
 soriousness was the housekeeper's foible. 
 
 "Mrs. Groom," she said, now breaking in 
 upon her — Mrs. Groom was mending linen — 
 " do say something to amuse me, will you ? 
 Abuse someone or something. Pray do." 
 
 " And whom shall I abuse, mamzelle ?" very 
 gravely asked the housekeeper. 
 
 " Oh ! anyone — Lady John, if you like."
 
 SILVIA. 223 
 
 " Lady John is gone. She went to take care 
 of Mr. Lovell, you know." 
 
 Silvia looked provoked. 
 
 " I don't believe it," she said shortly. " Who 
 wants Mr. Lovell, or Mr. Meredith either, Mrs. 
 Groom V 
 
 " Try them, mamzelle." 
 
 " Them ! What them ?" 
 
 " Why, the Raymonds to begin with, and they 
 are only one of the lot. First, Mr. Meredith, be- 
 cause he is so handsome, and has great expect- 
 ations ; then Mr. Lovell, because he is so rich. 
 One sister after another. Mr. Meredith did not 
 see itj but Mr. Lovell did, and it bored him, poor 
 gentleman. I only wonder he did not marry 
 long ago, if it were only to be safe. You 
 see, mamzelle," philosophically continued Mrs. 
 Groom, " there ain't a greater mistake than to 
 suppose men don't want to be protected. Why, 
 poor dears, I do believe they want it a great 
 deal more than women, being naturally more 
 foolish in that sort of thing, at least. Yes," 
 thoughtfully said Mrs. Groom, putting down 
 the table-cloth she was darning, " I think it is 
 a great mistake to let men run about alone as 
 
 ley do, without anyone to take care of them. A 

 
 224 silvia. 
 
 woman is always taught to be on her guard, 
 and as she is also watched a good deal, she is, 
 as a rule, pretty safe. But with that precious 
 system of letting men run about alone, as I said, 
 telling them they can mind themselves, there 
 is no end to the mischief that comes of it. But 
 the cream of it all is when they set a man to 
 mind a man ! Set a mouse to watch a mouse 
 when the cat's about the house," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Groom in sarcastic rhyme. " No, no, there is 
 but one thing — let every man have a woman, a 
 sister or a mother, to take care of him till he gets 
 a wife. Then he is safe; or if he is not — why, he 
 never will be." 
 
 " Mrs. Groom, you do not mean to say that 
 women are always entrapping men ?" exclaimed 
 Silvia, who was crimson. 
 
 " Well, I don't say all, but plenty do it. Look 
 at Mr. Meredith ! He's a keen one, and a cool 
 one, though he's so amiable and so good-natur- 
 ed, and so sweet, and patient, that it's years be- 
 fore you'll see the colour of his temper ; but for 
 all that, mamzelle, that little stoker's widow has 
 twisted him round her finger. You were right — 
 it was his doing, not my dear lady's. How the 
 artful little thing got hold of him I don't know.
 
 silvia. 225 
 
 but I do know that she did it. She's pretty, 
 and she's young, and she told him her story, and 
 that you had given her money, and cried over 
 her ; and he wrote to his sister and persuaded 
 her to have her and her children on the farm, 
 where they are as useful as so many little pigs 
 that would, just eat and never grow up, and 
 never be fit to be killed and salted. Ay, she 
 understands poultry and farm work, does she ! 
 You don't mean to say," added Mrs. Groom, 
 folding her arms across her ample bosom in 
 quiet scorn, " that that little blue-eyed thing 
 could take me in so !" 
 
 Silvia laughed. 
 
 " Suppose she were a pretty young man, Mrs. 
 Groom," she suggested. And she longed to 
 add a saucy remark about Mr. Groom's attrac- 
 tions, but prudently did not. 
 
 Mrs. Groom shook her head scornfully. 
 
 " They are 'all alike in that," she said — " all 
 takeable in, if I may say so. And that little 
 blue-eyed thing knew how to do it." 
 
 " Ah ! but I like Mr. Meredith for that," warm- 
 ly said Silvia, " I like him for that, Mrs. Groom 
 — it was good, it was kind of him." 
 
 Mrs. Groom looked inclined to say something, 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 silvia. 
 
 but tightened her lips not to do so, and by sud- 
 denly remarking, in the tone of one who has 
 made a discovery, " What a fine day this is," 
 she intimated that no earthly persuasions would 
 induce her to resume the conversation on that 
 theme. 
 
 Long ago Silvia had learned the meaning of 
 Mrs. Groom's meteorological remarks ; they were 
 no doubtful semi-colon, allowing the sense to 
 be prolonged, but a positive full stop, closing it 
 most definitely. 
 
 So, taking the hint, she said saucily : 
 
 " So fine a day, Mrs. Groom, that I shall go 
 and have a conversation with the turkey- 
 cocks." 
 
 " They are good company in their way," cool- 
 ly remarked Mrs. Groom. 
 
 " At all events they are all the company I 
 have just now," thought Silvia. 
 
 She went down to them at once, and found 
 them all gathered under a dilapidated old shed, 
 which it was their wont to favour. Underneath 
 that shed stood an old open carriage, still fit for 
 use, but so dusty and antiquated that it looked 
 as if no one had sat in it for a century. It also
 
 Silvia. 227 
 
 looked, and it might be, a hundred years old at 
 the very least. 
 
 A flock of turkey-cocks had got into it, and 
 Silvia was engaged in teazing them, now by 
 flourishing a long slender wand, now by mock- 
 ing them with a shrill scale of notes not nnlike 
 their own. They were at the very height of 
 exasperatiou, and Silvia of enjoyment, when 
 hearing a step behind her, she looked round and 
 saw Mr. Meredith. 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad you are come back !" she 
 •cried with sparkling eyes. "Poor Josephine 
 has been wretched. Have you seen her I " 
 
 Yes, Mr. Meredith had just seen her. Was 
 Mademoiselle Nardi quite well ? 
 
 " Oh ! quite well, thank you," she answered 
 carelessly. M Pray is this carnage very old, 
 Mr. Meredith ?" 
 
 " Very old," he replied. 
 
 " Do you think it belonged to the lady who 
 had the sedan-chair which I saw upstairs ?" 
 
 A good-humoured smile appeared on Mr. 
 Meredith's handsome face. 
 
 " I really think it did," he said. " And if you 
 are inclined to philosophize, Mademoiselle Nardi, 
 
 <i2
 
 228 silvia. 
 
 here are two pictures for yon. A haughty 
 young beauty, with powdered head, and hooped 
 skirts sticking out on either side, sits in that 
 carriage, and glances around her in the happy 
 consciousness of superior charms. She arches 
 her slender neck, and smiles and passes tri- 
 umphantly through the old forest avenues, and 
 the old trees nod their green heads at her in 
 solemn mockery, for you see they are wise old 
 trees, and they know how long she will last. 
 And now, Mademoiselle Nardi, look at her suc- 
 cessors." 
 
 Silvia, who had been listening very atten- 
 tively to him, now looked again at the old car- 
 riage. The turkey-cocks were perching, some 
 on the seat, some on the back, some on the 
 shafts. All stood there grave, sedate, uncon- 
 scious that they suggested ludicrous ideas in 
 the beholders. 
 
 " Look at the topmost one," said Mr. Mere- 
 dith, " and confess you trace a likeness to the 
 young beauty who sat there a hundred years 
 ago. There is something in the profile, Made- 
 moiselle Nardi, and in the arch of the neck, which 
 is to me quite striking." 
 
 "Yes, there is a likeness," she replied gravely:
 
 silvia. 229 
 
 then looking at him, she burst out into one of 
 her merry, childish laughs. 
 
 For the first time Mr. Meredith heard the 
 sound, and he heard it with pleased surprise. 
 
 " And so that is philosophy !" said Silvia, 
 recovering all her seriousness ; " I did not know 
 philosophy was so entertaining." And, raising 
 her wand, she began provoking the turkey-cock 
 once more, evidently quite careless of Mr. Mere- 
 dith's presence. Nevertheless, he seemed in- 
 clined to linger there with her. 
 
 " Well, it is a sort of philosophy," he said, 
 after a pause — " that philosophy of contrast 
 with which your own Rome must have made 
 you familiar, Mademoiselle Nardi." 
 
 Silvia's upraised wand descended slowly, 
 she turned full on Mr. Meredith, and fastened 
 her dark eyes on his face. Then she averted 
 her look with a raised colour, and turned back 
 again to the turkey-cocks. Mr. Meredith saw 
 that he had displeased her. It was not the 
 first time he had perceived the wayward sensi- 
 tiveness of the Roman girl's patriotism, though 
 he had not thought that a remote analogy be- 
 tween a decayed old carriage tenanted by tur- 
 key-cocks, and imperial Rome and her patrician
 
 230 SILVIA. 
 
 children, would thus offend Mademoiselle Nardi's 
 pride. He saw, too, that she was not inclined 
 for his company jnst then, and he quietly com- 
 plied with her wishes by leaving her. Silvia 
 looked after him as he entered the farmhouse, 
 and as she looked her displeasure calmed down 
 a little. 
 
 " I daresay I was all wrong," she thought ; 
 " he could not mean to be insolent. Still, he 
 ought to be more careful, and not to speak of 
 Rome and an old carriage in the same breath." 
 
 No, Silvia, Mr. Meredith did not mean to be 
 insolent, he would be insolent to no woman, 
 least of all to you, so young, so charming ; to 
 you, Silvia, whose laugh sounds so sweet, 
 and whose eyes are so bright ; and he meant no 
 sort of comparison either. But yet how you 
 would hate him if you knew his estimate of your 
 old Rome ! He is more than irreverent, Sil- 
 via — he is sceptical and disdainful. The blood 
 of Britons and Germans, those ancient foes of 
 Rome, mingles in his veins, and perhaps, though 
 he does not know it, the hate of the conquered 
 is at the root of all his scorn for that mighty 
 Jughernaut who crushed nations beneath the 
 wheels of her triumphal car.
 
 SILVIA. 231 
 
 " No, he can have meant nothing," thought 
 Silvia again. " Of course he admires Rome. 
 Every one admires Rome.*' 
 
 But admiration of Pagan conquering Rome 
 was not Mr. Meredith's foible, and so Silvia 
 soon found out. He did not intrude his opinion 
 upon her, he did not even express it openly, yet 
 she was too quick and too keen not to discover 
 it by many tokens. Her suspicions became con- 
 viction that very afternoon. She stood partly 
 concealed from view in one of the deep draw- 
 ing-room windows, looking at the rain, which 
 was falling in a monotonous drizzle. The bare 
 trees looked damp and chill, pools of water 
 gleamed on the worn flags of the terrace, and 
 there was no hope of coming blue in the grey- 
 ness of the sky. Yet Silvia did not feel dull — 
 she had a Fata Morgana at her command, and 
 bright visions were coming up to her just then 
 one after another. The room was very silent. 
 Madame de l'Epine and her father sat near the 
 fireplace, and both were reading when the door 
 opened and Mr. Meredith entered. 
 
 " Now, Charlie, come here !" cried his step- 
 father, in great glee ; "just listen to this pas- 
 sage from Plutarch. It is in the life of Lucullus.
 
 232 silvia. 
 
 That grand old Plutarch !" continued the Cap- 
 tain, bringing down his hand heavily on the 
 quarto volume. " I could not live without that 
 man." 
 
 " Yes, you could," good-humouredly replied 
 Mr. Meredith ; " and without Lucullus. too." 
 
 " Charles, you are a heathen !" 
 
 " Of course I am ; and hope to die one. If I 
 am proud of anything, it is that I never bent 
 the knee to that old impostor Rome, but even as 
 a schoolboy detested her !" 
 
 Here Silvia, having heard enough, came out 
 from behind the curtain, with a heightened 
 colour and sparkling eyes. The Captain, who 
 was neither mentally nor physically a clear- 
 sighted man, saw nothing; Madame de l'Epine's 
 gentle face expressed sudden concern, and 
 Charles Meredith went on with an unmoved 
 
 voice — 
 
 " As for Plutarch, he's a delightful novelist, 
 I grant it, and I read him Avith infinite amuse- 
 ment, but I decline believing in him. You see, 
 I cannot forget his account of Romulus, and the 
 rest of them." 
 
 " Of all unbelieving, doubting sceptics, you 
 are peer !" cried the Captain, shutting up Plu-
 
 silvia. 233 
 
 tarch. "You believe in nothing — a man tells 
 you that two and two make four, and you do 
 not believe him." 
 
 " Don't I V ejaculated Mr. Meredith, leaning- 
 back in his chair, and looking amused at this 
 vehement attack. " Well, well, I did not know 
 I was such an unbeliever." 
 
 " What ails you f" asked Madame de l'Epine, 
 bending towards her young friend ; " does your 
 head ache ?" 
 
 " No ; but I daresay I am too nigh the fire," 
 replied Silvia, drawing back. She was, to all 
 seeming, intent on her netting, when Mr. Mere- 
 dith came up to her with a slip of paper in his 
 hand. 
 
 " You drew this, Mademoiselle Nardi," he 
 said, looking at her, then at the paper on which 
 an unskilled, but gifted pen had drawn two 
 sketches. One represented the owner of the 
 sedan chair seated in her open carriage, and 
 driving through the forest. Her lofty head- 
 dress, her arched neck, her ample skirts, and 
 above all, her likeness to the portrait upstairs, 
 proclaimed her identity. Opposite this ap- 
 peared the shed, the carriage, and the turkey 
 cock, whose resemblance to the antique beauty
 
 234 silvia. 
 
 was faithfully preserved. Two dates, with a 
 hundred years between each, completed the 
 epigrammatic parallel Mr. Meredith had first 
 suggested. 
 
 " Yes, I did that," carelessly replied Silvia ; 
 and taking it from his hand she made a ball of 
 it to roll her thread upon. 
 
 " That is a pity," he said ; " there is real 
 talent in that sketch." 
 
 Silvia raised her eyebrows and curled her lip. 
 
 " There was a barefooted boy, who with a 
 piece of charcoal drew far better things than 
 this on a wall opposite Palazzo Nardi," she 
 said. 
 
 " But that wall is far away, Mademoiselle 
 Nardi, and your pretty sketch was here." 
 
 Silvia looked impatient. 
 
 "What should I keep the little bit of paper 
 for ?" she asked ; " can I not do another ?" 
 
 " Then pray do cultivate that gift," he urged ; 
 " you have it in a rare degree." 
 
 Silvia looked at him, and then laughed and 
 shook her head. 
 
 " I like netting best," she said. 
 
 " Charles !" here called the Captain, " do tell 
 me what you think of this strategy."
 
 silvia. 235 
 
 Mr. Meredith thus called away, did not come 
 back. 
 
 " I do not believe him," thought Silvia, with 
 a swelling heart ; " I am but an ignorant Roman 
 girl, and in his heart he despises me." 
 
 The idea had taken possession of her mind 
 and could not be dismissed. It perverted all 
 Mr. Meredith's politeness, and turned his cour- 
 teous praise into indirect offence. That very 
 same evening he sinned again. The Captain 
 asked his daughter to sing, but when Silvia 
 sat down to accompany Madame de l'Epine the 
 music they wanted was not to be found. 
 
 " Can you improvise an accompaniment ?" 
 asked Madame de l'Epine with a smile. 
 
 Silvia nodded, and at once, unhesitatingly, 
 like all who possess that delightful gift, she 
 began. 
 
 Mr. Meredith never played now, and rarely 
 sang, though he had a good voice, but he had 
 the theory of music at his finger ends, and he 
 listened to Silvia's improvisation with delight 
 and surprise. He remembered the accompani- 
 ment to his sister's song very well, having often 
 played it for her in years gone by. It was 
 wholly unlike this to which he was listening now.
 
 236 silvia. 
 
 In one the melody was harmonized to its fullest 
 extent ; in the other it flowed like a murmuring 
 brook, too subdued and low to interfere with the 
 voice of the singer, and too sweet not to charm 
 a refined ear like Mr. Meredith's. He took the 
 earliest opportunity to go and sit by Silvia's 
 chair, and then he said to her, 
 
 " Your accompaniment was very beautiful, 
 Mademoiselle Nardi. You have another de- 
 lightful gift in this." 
 
 Silvia looked at him with a half-mocking 
 smile. 
 
 " There was a tailor — " she began. 
 
 " Dear Mademoiselle Nardi !" he exclaimed, 
 raising his hands in deprecation, " leave me a 
 few illusions. I want to look upon you as on 
 one of those Princesses whom one reads of in 
 fairy tales, and who drop diamonds and pearls 
 when they open their lips." 
 
 Silvia shook her head impatiently.* 
 
 " I want to think," he continued, " that some 
 kind godmother showered her gifts upon you at 
 your birth; but if you bring in your tailors and 
 your bare-footed boys, what am I to say .'" 
 
 " When my father travelled in Tuscany once, 
 and asked his way of the peasant whom he met,
 
 silvia. 237 
 
 the man answered him in rhyme ; and do you 
 know who speaks the purest Italian V 9 asked 
 Silvia, turning upon him with eyes that 
 sparkled like black diamonds", " the Tuscan con- 
 tadine, bare-footed girls who perhaps cannot 
 read, Mr. Meredith f 
 
 " Am I to conclude that all Italy has had a 
 fairy grandmother." 
 
 "Conclude what you please, Mr. Meredith," 
 she replied with flashing eyes, for his tone irri- 
 tated her ; " but know that things you think 
 much of here are thought nothing of there." 
 
 " I am quite aware of that," he replied with 
 perfect composure. 
 
 Silvia looked at him. In the look of his 
 eye, in the smile of his lip, she read every re- 
 proach which ever has been heaped on her 
 country. She rose and exclaimed impetuously, 
 
 "I cannot bear this ! For I know what you 
 mean. You mean the coltellatas and the bri- 
 gands ; but those are to be found elsewhere than 
 in Italy, Mr. Meredith ; and you know it — you 
 know it." 
 
 Her tone, her look, expressed burning indig- 
 nation. There was a pause of astonishment in tin ■ 
 room. Madame de l'Epine looked troubled ; the
 
 238 silvia. 
 
 Captain stared ; Mr. Meredith did not stir. His 
 head stillrested onhis hand, his elbow od the table; 
 his look never turned right or left ; it was as if 
 Silvia had not spoken, save for a red spot on 
 his cheek, and a slight, a very slight compression 
 of his lips. Madame de FEpine rose and came 
 towards the pair. As she stood before them, 
 pale and gentle, in her black silk dress falling 
 to her feet, and the book she had been reading 
 still in her hand, she looked full of peace and 
 conciliation. 
 
 " What is it ?" she gently asked, and she 
 glanced from her brother to Silvia, and from 
 her back again to him. 
 
 " I have been so unfortunate as to displease 
 Mademoiselle Nardi," he replied gravely. 
 
 " You have displeased me ; you could not dis- 
 please me more," said Silvia, with tears in her 
 eyes, and her lips still quivering with indignant 
 emotion. 
 
 " I regret it deeply, but need scarcely say I 
 never intended it." 
 
 The words were uttered in his coldest tone ; 
 and having spoken them, Mr. Meredith rose, and 
 bowing gravely, left Silvia's side.
 
 239 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE genial Captain had a horror of scenes. 
 His homely, good-humoured face now ex- 
 pressed trouble and dismay. What was it all 
 about ? He looked at his stepson — Mr. Mere- 
 dith was reading ; he looked at Silvia — she 
 was netting assiduously. What could they 
 have quarrelled about, and why on earth had 
 they quarrelled ? Lovers quarrelled, and liked 
 it — indeed, it is a part of love to quarrel, and 
 make it up again ; but these two were not 
 lovers, and need not resort to that desperate 
 expedient in order to find life pleasant. What 
 a pity ! thought the Captain, looking at them. 
 In his youth a pretty girl and a handsome young 
 fellow never thought of quarrelling ; they were 
 always friends, as a matter of course. Was it 
 really true, as some philosophers averred, that 
 everything in this world was degenerating ? and 
 did the natural liking which young people feel
 
 240 SILVIA. 
 
 for each other follow that dreary rule, and decay, 
 as old Father Time went on his way 1 
 
 The Captain sighed heavily and aloud at the 
 thought. His daughter looked up at him, but 
 the two enemies never stirred. The Captain 
 raised his shaggy eyebrows, thrust forth his 
 nether lip, and shrugging his broad shoulders, 
 intimated by this dumb show that matters 
 were at the worst between Silvia and " Char- 
 lie." Madame de l'Epine looked long and wist- 
 fully at the pair, then bent her sad eyes once 
 more on the page she was reading. 
 
 " A cold evening," said the Captain, rubbing 
 his hands ; then, laying them on his knees, he 
 looked around him, as if expecting an answer. 
 The only one he got was from his daughter. 
 
 " It is chill," she said. 
 
 The others did not speak — one read, and the 
 other netted. The Captain stared, and made 
 portentous signs with his eyebrows at his 
 daughter, as much as to say, " Is she still 
 angry?" He could not bear this. Plutarch 
 and Lucullns lost their attractions ; a gloom 
 was cast over the bright, antique page of the 
 Greek biographer ; the colours faded from the 
 stirring, warlike pictures of Roman history —
 
 SILVIA. 241 
 
 nay, the warm old drawing-room itself under- 
 went a notable change ; the wood fire gave not 
 forth the same glow, and the Captain, with a 
 little shiver, said, 
 
 " I think I shall go and smoke a cigar." 
 
 Forth he went at once, whistling cheerfully 
 as soon as the door closed upon him, and feel- 
 ing warmer and warmer the further he went 
 from the drawing-room down the oaken stair- 
 case to his own little cosy fumoir below. 
 
 " They would have given me a cold in my 
 head, if I had stayed longer," grumbled the 
 Captain, a little out of sorts with the two 
 offenders. " I felt I was going to sneeze — I 
 actually did." 
 
 Yes, it is chilly and ungenial when people 
 quarrel, and make bitter that life which might 
 be so pleasant ; and very cold was the deep si- 
 lence which followed the closing of the door by 
 the Captain. The crackling of the wood, as it 
 blazed brightly on the hearth, and the turning 
 of the pages of Madame de l'Epine's book, 
 alone were heard, and that with almost painful 
 distinctness. After awhile, Madame de l'Epine 
 put by her volume, and leaned back in her arm- 
 chair. She looked both languid and weary, 
 
 VOL. I. R 

 
 242 SILVIA. 
 
 and soon closed her eyes. There was a long 
 pause ; then Silvia looked up. Her bright 
 face was very sad, her dark eyes looked dim. 
 Silvia began to understand that Mr. Meredith, 
 so courteous, so amiable, could not possibly 
 have intended to wound or offend her. And 
 she had been passionate and foolish — she had 
 made a scene. Her mortification was almost 
 more than she could bear ; her regret, her peni- 
 tence proved too much for shame or pride. 
 She put down her work, and said softly, not to 
 waken his sister, who seemed to be sleeping — 
 
 " Mr. Meredith." 
 
 He looked up slowly at her across the table. 
 
 " I am very sorry. I am sure now you never 
 intended offending me. I hope you are not 
 angry with me — I am so hasty — very full of 
 faults." 
 
 " Pray do not mention it," he replied, with a 
 courteous smile ; " and pray," he added more 
 kindly, " do not think of it." 
 
 He spoke kindly and courteously, but Silvia 
 was stung to see that his hand never left the 
 page of his open book. He would be civil to 
 her, but she felt that he met her penitence in 
 no friendly or responsive spirit. There had
 
 SILVIA. 243 
 
 never been much liking between them — that 
 little was now over. She bowed gravely, and 
 by resuming her work, allowed him to return 
 to his book, which he did at once. 
 
 Silvia was impetuous, not patient, not 
 gentle, but she was loving and ardent. It had 
 been unpleasant to her to dislike Meredith, and 
 that dislike, such as it was, had no very deep 
 roots. It was a sort of fictitious feeling to which 
 her jealous girlish pride had first given birth. 
 And now matters had come to that pass be- 
 tween them that they could not very well be 
 friends ; polite indifference was the only thing 
 for them after such an outbreak. They might 
 have gone on pretty well if her temper, her 
 naughty temper, had not broken the charm. 
 Mr. Meredith was not the man to be treated so 
 twice. He had not moved, he had not changed 
 his attitude or his look, but, spite her anger, 
 Silvia had seen that red spot on his cheek, 
 and that compression of his lips ; and having 
 seen these signs once or twice before, she knew 
 their meaning. 
 
 Mr. Meredith was above hating her, but he 
 would treat her like an ill-bred Italian girl — and 
 ignore her! Silvia was of a bright temper, 
 
 R 2
 
 244 silvia. 
 
 not even enough to be called cheerful, but 
 genial and joyous. But even these privileged 
 beings have dark hours, and this happened to 
 be one for her. She remembered a time when 
 the kindness of strangers was very little to her, 
 when she ran about a merry child in an old 
 Italian villa, petted and loved by a fond mother 
 and a fonder father ; and now it was something 
 to her that this Mr. Meredith was alienated and 
 estranged by a little burst of temper ! She had 
 been passionate too in those old days of her lost 
 childhood, and she had been punished and re- 
 prieved, and tenderly forgiven. She remember- 
 ed one evening when, after being so naughty 
 that her father had got angry, her mother had 
 interceded for her and got her restored to 
 favour. At first Count Nardi would not look 
 at the sinner, though he held out Ins hand, 
 which she humbly kissed, Italian fashion ; but 
 when he saw her little tear-stained face his 
 heart relented, he made a sign, she jumped up 
 into his arms, and as she kissed and was kissed, 
 oh ! how fondly a delicious sense of reconcilia- 
 tion and triumph and love and tenderness in- 
 vaded her whole being. And now all that was 
 over ; the two beings who so loved her were in
 
 SILVIA. 245 
 
 the grave, and with them had gone for ever 
 the tender indulgence we must never hope to 
 win from strangers, light though our sins may 
 be. 
 
 Yes, they were dead, these two kind ones. 
 They slept in an old Italian campo santo, with 
 mediaeval arcades around it, and the tall cy- 
 presses cast long shadows over the cold stone 
 slab that sealed their rest. There were armorial 
 bearings on that stone, with a long Latin epi- 
 taph, and the grass was very green and deep 
 around it, and a pale blue sky looked down above 
 almost tenderly, Silvia had thought, when she 
 saw it last, and bade it farewell for ever, to go to 
 Palazo Nardi. For, after all, she was not a real 
 Roman by birth, but called herself Roman by 
 virtue of early adoption ; and even in that old 
 palace, which had sheltered her childhood and 
 her youth, she had met with kindness and in- 
 dulgence. She had seen little of old Prince 
 Nardi, but that little had been pleasant and 
 friendly. She had never read reproof in his 
 worldly dark eyes, so brilliant and so keen at 
 three-score, but had always found that her ap- 
 pearance called up in them a light which it was 
 very pleasant to read. Poor Silvia, you are
 
 246 silvia. 
 
 very young still, and do not know how pretty a 
 piece of furniture your luxurious old kinsman 
 thought you. He did not see much of you, to 
 be sure, but neither did he look often at his 
 Titians, and yet he never gazed on them with 
 indifference. No more could he see without 
 pleasure this graceful young girl of his name 
 and blood, who had a look so bright and a step 
 so free. Some of that indulgence Mr. Meredith 
 too would have given you very willingly, Sil- 
 via — for he is not wiser than old Prince Nardi — 
 had you been gentle and friendly with him as 
 you were with your benefactor ; but grace and 
 youth are not omnipotent unless their owners 
 will that they shall be so, and in Mr. Mere- 
 dith's case Silvia had forgotten to use that 
 wand whose magic sleeps when good-humour 
 is away. 
 
 She knew it, and blamed herself for it ; but, 
 though not of a querulous nature, she blamed 
 circumstances too. Why was she an orphan ? 
 Why had Josephine tempted her to leave Dom 
 Sabino and his sister, so indulgent and so 
 kind, and brought her to that Fren'ch chateau, 
 away from her own land and her own people ! 
 Oh, to be back again in the Masseria with these
 
 silvia. 247 
 
 two kind ones, away from these strangers, who 
 scorned Rome and her children ! It was hard 
 to think thus, hard to repress the tears that 
 such thoughts called up. But Silvia had a 
 strong will ; she had pride, too, and though her 
 heart felt full, she only bent more closely over 
 her work, and would not look up till she felt 
 sure the last trace of emotion had passed away 
 from her face. Then she raised her head a little 
 proudly, perhaps, and in so doing she saw Mr. 
 Meredith. 
 
 He had closed his book, and his elbow rested 
 on the table, as he half bent forward, looking 
 at her with a glance so strange, so deep, so in- 
 tent, that no woman, no girl, however innocent 
 or inexperienced, could mistake its meaning. It 
 was love — love undisguised — love intoxicating 
 and adoring. 
 
 If Silvia had been enchanted, she could not 
 have remained more motionless under that look 
 than she did. Amazement mastered her, and 
 made her almost breathless. He read the mean- 
 ing of her startled face, and his words delibe- 
 rately confirmed it. 
 
 " Yes,'" he said in a low even voice, as if not 
 to waken his sister, "I love you. The very
 
 
 248 Silvia. 
 
 iirst moment I saw you in this room, I loved 
 you, and then as I do now, not more — not less. 
 How much that is I must not expect you, who 
 like me so little, to understand ; but, even though 
 you should hate me for it — I must say it again, 
 though I never meant to say it — I love you." 
 
 His voice ceased, and with it the trance that 
 had bound her. His words had called up no 
 blush to her face, but a deadly paleness had 
 settled there, as if the love thus confessed by 
 that low even voice were some terrible doom 
 and awful denunciation. Her eyes sought her 
 work, her fingers trembled as she held it. She 
 would not have looked up for worlds, and yet 
 she knew his glance was withdrawn from her 
 now — she was sure of it, not because she heard 
 the pages of his book turning once more, but 
 because it was an inward conviction strong as 
 the surest certainty. And what did she feel 
 then as she sat thus netting away, and hearing 
 the pattering rain on the stone terrace without, 
 and the crackling of the wood fire on the hearth 
 within? Was it fear? — was it joy? Was it 
 the intoxication of so sudden and so unexpected 
 a triumph ? Was she elated to think that this 
 Mr. Meredith, so courted, so admired, confessed
 
 silvia. 249 
 
 himself at her mercy, or dismayed to find that 
 she had achieved so mrwished-for conquest over 
 him ? Silvia did not know yet, she knew no- 
 thing save that she was troubled to the heart's 
 core. 
 
 Perhaps it was fortunate for these two that 
 Madame de l'Epine, raising her languid head, 
 now said with a half sigh, 
 
 " Is it raining still I" 
 
 " Yes, it is the rain," replied her brother, 
 leaving his chair to go and sit down by her. 
 " You do not seem well, Josephine." 
 
 " Not very well." 
 
 He took her hand and looked at her wistfully. 
 Every year, every month, every week brought 
 its change on that pale beloved face, and it was 
 Charles Meredith's torment that he knew these 
 tokens, and read every one. Her father was 
 blind, and could live his joyous life without a 
 thought, without a fear — not so her brother. 
 That cruel spectre who haunts our hearts when 
 dear ones are ailing, and whispers evermore 
 such woeful tidings, was ever with him when he 
 gazed on his sister. 
 
 "You should not have come here," he half 
 whispered ; " this place is too cold for you."
 
 250 SILVIA. 
 
 " I could not have stayed in Paris," was her 
 only reply, but he understood it. No more was 
 said. The clock struck ten. Madame de l'Epine 
 rose. 
 
 " I think I must leave you," she said. 
 
 " I am going too," quickly put in Silvia. 
 
 Mr. Meredith said he would go down to the 
 Captain. He followed them out. They heard 
 him going downstairs. They heard the door 
 of the former open, and the Captain's genial 
 " Hey, Charlie !" and to all seeming the draw- 
 ing-room was deserted for the night. 
 
 But its loneliness did not last long. The door 
 soon opened again, and Mr. Meredith came back 
 alone. He sat down in his sister's chair, and 
 bending forward looked long at the fire, which 
 was crumbling into white ashes. Perhaps he 
 too had his visions, perhaps he too looked back 
 over boyhood and youth, and wondered at this 
 first check in a career where success, success in 
 everything, from cricketing to engineering, had 
 been the rule, a golden rule without one flaw or 
 exception. The fire died out, the room began 
 to feel chill, and Mr. Meredith rose, looking 
 rather grave, perhaps, but looking also both 
 calm and cool.
 
 SILVIA. 251 
 
 As lie closed the door behindhim, and was going 
 upstairs in the dark, he heard a door open above, 
 then a light flashed on the wall of the brown 
 old staircase, and a young step with the rustling 
 of a skirt came down. Mr. Meredith knew who 
 it was ; it was Silvia coming for her netting, 
 which she had forgotten on the table in the 
 drawing-room below. The staircase was broad 
 enough for both to pass, yet he preferred wait- 
 ing below, and letting her move on alone. She 
 came down holding a little brass lamp in her 
 hand. Its light shone full on her face, and he 
 could read the sudden change which came there 
 when she saw him. 
 
 She stood still for a moment, looking, with her 
 little flickering lamp, like an injured young ves- 
 tal, whom some profane intruder has followed 
 to the shrine of her jealous deity. 
 
 " Mr. Meredith," she said, in a quick, low tone, 
 "you must never speak so to me again, or I 
 shall leave the house." 
 
 " Perhaps I have deserved this," he replied, 
 his pale face flushing ; " but your prohibition 
 was not needed, Mademoiselle Nardi — I never 
 would have spoken so again." 
 
 Her clear look said so plainly, Then why did
 
 252 SILVIA. 
 
 you so speak 1 that he answered it. " I forgot 
 myself; but you need fear nothing of the kind 
 again. I know you detest me." 
 
 " I do not detest you," she began, doubtfully, 
 " but — but — I cannot like you so." 
 
 He bowed and moved aside ; she came down 
 and entered the drawing-room, and when she 
 came forth again Mr. Meredith was gone. 
 
 " It is all over," thought Silvia, with a sigh 
 of relief, " and now at least he knows there is 
 one girl who is not wild to have him." 
 
 This fruit at least Mrs. Groom's admonitions 
 had borne.
 
 253 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THERE are a few delicious days in late au- 
 tumn, days so warm and sunny that the 
 French have named them Saint Martin's sum- 
 mer; days, too, which we must not look for 
 out of the country that has so designated 
 them. 
 
 For there alone early November can still be 
 green and genial, nor inevitably bring the fogs 
 of the northern climates, or the drenching rains of 
 southern ones. Such a day was the next. The rain 
 was over, and in the garden at least no damp 
 remained. The gravelled paths looked yellow 
 and dry in the sun. Soft fleecy clouds glided 
 so slowly across the blue sky, that you could 
 scarcely perceive their motion. A few yellow 
 chrysanthemums still bloomed in the flower- 
 garden, and monthly roses, growing in shel- 
 tered nooks, had not yet ceased flowering. 
 Everything looked so balmy and so pleasant,
 
 254 silvia. 
 
 that Madame de l'Epine felt tempted to go and 
 sit out, even before breakfast, and Mrs. Groom 
 accompanied her to a warm and sunny spot, and 
 having settled her chair, her footstool, and wrap- 
 ped a shawl around her, she left her there with 
 a book. 
 
 But Madame de l'Epine did not read. Too 
 many pictures of the past flitted perversely be- 
 tween her and the page. She leaned back in 
 her chair, with her book on her lap, and her 
 hands folded upon it, and her sad eyes looking 
 at these fond deluders. One showed her a merry 
 child in a white frock, playing at hide-and-seek 
 with her brothers and her cousin in this very 
 garden. 
 
 And now a sad, thoughtful woman had buried 
 that merry child, and taken her place for ever. 
 Another vision she followed with a wistful look: 
 a young girl, not pretty, but with the joyous 
 grace of youth around her, went down an alley 
 and vanished. She, too, was dead, as dead as 
 the thousands who are daily laid in their graves, 
 " dead beyond all wakening," thought Madame 
 de l'Epine. Yet she too had looked forward to 
 long-lived happiness. On such a mild Novem- 
 ber day as this, in this very garden, that happy
 
 silvia. 255 
 
 girl had agreed to become her handsome cousin's 
 wife. She remembered his words, his tones, his 
 very looks, and her own exulting happiness, and 
 how it had ended ! 
 
 " But it does not always end so," she thought ; 
 "they who have beauty and other gifts are 
 more favoured than I have been. For them 
 happiness lasts more than a few days, and 
 does not close in sudden and blank disappoint- 
 ment." 
 
 She sighed, and again she tried to read ; but 
 this time the sound of a light step in one of the 
 garden paths made her look up. She raised 
 her eyes, and saw Silvia coming towards her 
 with that graceful carriage which was one of 
 of her many attractions. She did not see her 
 friend, and Madame de l'Epine looked at her 
 closely and attentively. 
 
 " If one could imagine a Grecian nymph in 
 a round hat and feathers, she would walk 
 so," thought Madame de l'Epine admiringly, 
 "with that free young step and that modest 
 grace." 
 
 But even as the lady came to this conclusion, 
 Silvia stood still ; she was listening to a bird 
 who, tempted by the sun, was chirping on a
 
 256 silvia. 
 
 bough in the tree above her. When the little 
 warbler ceased, Silvia clasped her hands and 
 uttered an emphatic Italian " brava," and the 
 bird, being a shy one, flew away. It was then 
 she saw Madame de l'Epine sitting in the 
 flower-garden looking at her, with her book on 
 her lap. Nothing disconcerted at being thus 
 caught — very few things disconcerted Silvia, 
 because she was natural — she came towards her 
 friend and said gravely, 
 
 " He flew away. He is very cunning." 
 Madame de l'Epine looked at her without 
 answering. Silvia was exquisitely pretty this 
 morning, and not being a classical beauty, she 
 was subject to many variations in the matter of 
 good looks. There were days when she was if 
 not plain, almost unattractive, and other days 
 when she would have bewitched a woman- 
 hater out of his wits, so graceful, so seductive 
 was her whole aspect. On this morning she 
 was, as we said, exquisitely pretty ; but she was 
 something more, for there was a soft fire in her 
 dark eyes, not transient but abiding, as if the 
 spirit within that gave it could not help burning 
 brightly ; there was a half subdued smile on her 
 lips, a gentle glow on her cheeks, that gave her
 
 . 
 
 silvia. 25.7 
 
 a mingled warmth and radiance with which Ma- 
 dame de l'Epine felt dazzled. 
 
 " Silvia," she said " how pretty you are to- 
 day — how very pretty !" 
 
 Silvia's dark eyes flashed in saucy triumph, 
 and she said gaily, 
 
 " Am I V ' 
 
 "I was not sleeping last night," continued 
 Madame de l'Epine — " I mean when my brother 
 spoke to you." 
 
 Silvia looked transfixed, and her lips parted, 
 but she said nothing. 
 
 " I need not tell you how involuntarily I 
 listened ; I cannot imagine how he committed 
 such a mistake ; my eyes were not even closed, 
 and I saw him very well. But he is so absent, 
 that I suppose he forgot I was in the room." 
 
 The colour deepened on Silvia's cheeks, but 
 still she was silent. 
 
 " Silvia, he asked you for no answer, and 
 you gave him none — but I love him very dear- 
 ly. Oh ! Silvia, Silvia, do tell me if you like 
 him !" 
 
 She had risen, and she took Silvia's hand as 
 she said this. The young girl's fearless eyes 
 were at once raised to her. 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 SILVIA. 
 
 " No," she answered, " I had not thought of 
 such a thing. How should I like him ?" 
 
 She spoke quite frankly, but with a smile, 
 careless in its frankness, that slightly troubled 
 Charles Meredith's sister. 
 
 "My dear little Silvia," she said, passing 
 her arm around the young girl and looking ten- 
 derly down in her face, " it is very natural that 
 you should not know, and I have no right to 
 question, but, oh ! if you could love him — if you 
 could — how happy it would make him and 
 me." 
 
 " He has spoken to you," said Silvia with a 
 little frown. 
 
 No, he had not spoken, replied Madame de 
 l'Epine, she had not even seen him that day 
 but Silvia was verv dear to her, and she loved 
 her brother more than she could say. Silvia 
 heard her and looked at the ground, at a tree, 
 at anything but Madame de l'Epine; then she 
 said decisively, 
 
 " I can never like him." 
 
 " Never !" replied Madame de l'Epine, much 
 chagrined, " you will never be my sister, Silvia." 
 
 The word " sister" moved Silvia very much. 
 Her lips quivered, her eyes grew dim, ami she
 
 silvia. 259 
 
 threw her arms around Madame de l'Epine's 
 neck as she exclaimed, 
 
 " Oh ! how I wish I could, how I wish it — but 
 I cannot — indeed I cannot!" 
 
 Madame de l'Epine sighed. There was no 
 hope that these two, her brother and her friend, 
 would meet and walk hand in hand along the 
 smooth or rugged paths of life. Charles would 
 do far better in a worldly point of view, but 
 then could he ever find a girl she should like 
 so well as Silvia ? She was both grieved and 
 disappointed. 
 
 " Do not mind me — do not regret me," said 
 Silvia — " I am not good at all. He would be 
 quite unhappy with me, you know. Shall I go 
 and fetch my work, and come and sit with 
 you I" she suddenly asked, relaxing her hold of 
 Madame de l'Epine. 
 
 "Yes, do," answered her friend, somewhat 
 surprised at this change of mood ; but she un- 
 derstood its meaning when, as soon almost as 
 Silvia was gone, she was joined by her bro- 
 ther. 
 
 Mr. Meredith looked very well this morning, 
 well and cheerful. He looked after Silvia, 
 then at his sister, and he said gaily — 
 
 s2
 
 260 SILVIA. 
 
 " Decidedly I am not in Mademoiselle Nardi'a 
 good graces. Well, well, I can bear it." 
 
 His sister looked at him, and she felt doubly 
 perplexed. She could not understand, seeing 
 him, as he stood by her side, in all the pride 
 and beauty of his young manhood, that Silvia 
 should not care for a prize so rare ; and she 
 also wondered at the careless composure of Mr. 
 Meredith's manner. Did he, accustomed to 
 succeed in all things as he was, think himself 
 sure of prevailing over this wayward girl ? 
 
 " You can bear it," she said, after a while, 
 " but will you not find it hard V 
 
 A slight tinge of colour rose to his pale cheek. 
 
 " You were not asleep ?" he said, a little 
 hastily. 
 
 " I was not, Charles ; and do not mistake me. 
 I was more surprised than I can say. I love 
 her dearly, but " 
 
 " But she does not care a pin for me. I know 
 it, Josephine ; do not think I have any illusions 
 on the subject. I will not question you — I will 
 not ask if you were attempting to persuade her 
 when I came up ; but if you were, it was kind, 
 but very useless. I met her on the staircase 
 last night, after we had parted. I had been
 
 SILVIA. 261 
 
 sitting awhile in the drawing-room, and she 
 came down for her work, which she had forgot- 
 ten. She addressed me ; her words were brief, 
 but clear. If I ever speak of love to Made- 
 moiselle Nardi again, she leaves this house. 
 She said it, Josephine, and she meant it." 
 
 Madame de l'Epine coloured. 
 
 " Surely," she said, with some displeasure, 
 " that was not called for." 
 
 81 Well, we must be fair even to our enemies," 
 said Mr. Meredith, smiling. " You see, I knew 
 she hated me, and knowing it, why did I make 
 a fool of myself, and look at her, and, being 
 caught thus looking by her two black eyes, why 
 did I speak? 1 believe I spoke just because 
 she detests me. I felt no hope, and expressed 
 none. It was not the love-making of a man 
 who wants to marry ; and depend upon it, inex- 
 perienced as she is, Mademoiselle Nardi under- 
 stood all this, and felt affronted. Perhaps I 
 gave her cause, and though I am guiltless of 
 voluntary impertinence, perhaps I have deserved 
 her sharp treatment. At all events, need I say 
 that I will, and must obey her V 
 
 " You did not deserve it," a little indignantly 
 said his sister. " When you speak of love to
 
 262 SILVIA. 
 
 my friend, you mean such love as any woman 
 might be proud to inspire ; and if she were not 
 a foolish child " 
 
 " She would certainly appreciate me," inter- 
 rupted Charles, with an amused smile. " Don't 
 you see, Josephine, that Roman history has to 
 answer for it all 1 Mutius, Scsevola, Regulus, 
 Caesar, and tutti qnanti have undone me. Made- 
 moiselle Nardi is half a heathen, though she 
 does not know it, and she has all sorts of hea- 
 then fancies, in which I must always disappoint 
 her. Besides, we jarred from the first — why, I 
 do not exactly know, but I have seen it." 
 
 " Oh ! why did I ever bring her to this 
 house?" exclaimed Madame de l'Epine, much 
 distressed. "When, instead of remaining in 
 Paris, I decided on coming here, my fear was 
 not for you, Charles, but — why not confess it ? 
 — for her." 
 
 " For her !" said Mr. Meredith, much surprised 
 — " you mean that you were afraid lest she 
 should care too much for me ? You amaze me. 
 In the first place, I fancy that such calamities 
 rarely happen to persons of your sex ; in the 
 second, I am sure that, if I had known Made- 
 moiselle Nardi when she was a baby in long
 
 Silvia. 263 
 
 clothes, I should have foretold that she would 
 grow up iuto a very flinty-hearted young crea- 
 ture. She has a warm, bright nature, but it is 
 no fault of hers that her heart cannot ache 
 easily." 
 
 " Well, but you will suffer," said his sister. 
 
 " Very little," he answered coolly ; " I am not 
 so sure that I like her, though in looking at her 
 I lost my self-command. Besides, my private 
 opinion of Cupid is, that if it were not for the 
 novelists and the poets, his quiver would be 
 nearly as full of arrows as when Fate first put 
 it into his little plump hand. It is they who 
 keep the little god going. Why should I like 
 this girl, so as to make myself miserable about 
 her ! She hates me to begin with. She sees 
 insult in my civil speeches, an offence in my af- 
 fection. She is not a beauty, she has neither 
 money nor accomplishments, though she has na- 
 tural gifts, and to me at least she is not amiable. 
 Why, then, should I like her !" 
 
 "Because she is pretty and natural, and 
 graceful and original," replied Madame de l'Ep- 
 ine, smiling, " because she attracts you irresisti- 
 bly, and all the more so that she does not care 
 about you."
 
 264 SILVIA. 
 
 Mr. Meredith coloured and laughed. 
 
 " Granted," he said ; " hut I shall have to get 
 over it — for I shall certainly never infringe the 
 prohibition Mademoiselle Nardi has laid upon 
 me. So do not trouble your mind about me, 
 Josephine; and, above all, do not try to persuade 
 her into liking your brother. She is very charm- 
 ing, but she has plenty of faults, and I have plenty 
 more. I daresay we should not be happy to- 
 gether, and are best apart." 
 
 " Then what did you ever intend, Charles ?" 
 asked Madame de l'Epine, looking chagrined. 
 
 "Is it necessary to intend anything?" he 
 carelessly replied, " when you happen to be the 
 particular aversion of the girl you would like 
 to please, and are too clear-sighted not to per- 
 ceive it, is it necessary to intend anything ? To 
 forget her would be the only wise course ; only 
 somehow or other one cannot do that — as I 
 found out last evening when I betrayed myself 
 so suddenly. I would never have spoken to her, 
 Josephine, if she had not looked up ! Cui bono ? 
 Of course she is woman enough to triumph over 
 my defeat. However, that is nothing." 
 
 Madame de l'Epine looked at her brother in 
 sorrowful perplexity.
 
 silvia. 265 
 
 Mr. Meredith, it seemed, had never intended 
 anything. He had, indeed, indulged himself 
 with a look too fond, and on being detected, he 
 had felt bound in pride and honour to speak ; but 
 he had intended nothing. Of course if Silvia 
 had taken this differently, very different, too, 
 would have been his feelings ; but she had shown 
 displeasure, and signified it, and Mr. Meredith 
 was not the man or the lover to sue very hum- 
 bly for a lady's favour. He took her rejection 
 as a matter of course ; he meant to abide by it, 
 and his sister felt and saw that she must be pas- 
 sive. For suppose she were to persuade Silvia 
 into loving him, how did she know that he 
 would be willing to second her efforts? She 
 looked at him, and she could read no strong 
 signs of regret on his face. Still she felt sure 
 that he suffered, and she exclaimed in much dis- 
 tress : 
 
 "I should have foreseen this, and never 
 brought her here. It is my fault — it is my 
 fault !" 
 
 " Foreseen that I should be such a simpleton 
 as to care for that little Roman girl ! No, Jose- 
 phine, you were not bound to foresee a most 
 unlikely thing. And do not trouble about the
 
 266 silvia. 
 
 consequences of last night's folly. I give you 
 my word that your friend shall not even feel 
 any awkwardness when we meet again ; for," he 
 added, " I came to tell it you — I have just got 
 a telegram calling me away to Paris for a few 
 days." 
 
 His sister gave him a searching look, which 
 he answered by putting the telegram in her 
 hand. 
 
 " I shall be home after to-morrow," he said ; 
 " but I must go at once, so good morning, and 
 good-bye." 
 
 He kissed her, and left her with the same easy, 
 cheerful aspect, which made it impossible for his 
 sister to know how far Mademoiselle Nardi's re- 
 jection affected him or not. Did his heart bleed 
 from a deeper wound than he cared to show, 
 even to her kind eyes ? Was he really such a 
 stoic that he could lose the girl he liked, and 
 smile at his defeat ? or did there lurk within him 
 some secret hope, hidden and unconfessed, which 
 conquered the present trouble, and lured him on 
 with fair visions of a triumph yet to come? Ma- 
 dame de l'Epine could not tell. So far as she 
 knew, her brother was by no means a cold man, 
 though he was a self-possessed one. So far
 
 SILVIA. 267 
 
 as she knew, too, Silvia was his first love. 
 Strange that he who had remained unmoved by 
 the high-bred grace of lovely Ada Gray, should 
 be smitten in a moment by the little half-wild 
 thing. 
 
 " And I do believe he is desperately in love 
 with her, after all !" thought Madame de l'Epine 
 as the " little half-wild thing," having seen Mr. 
 Meredith leave, now came back to her friend 
 with the little basket which held her work 
 dangling in her hand. Madame de l'Epine did 
 not allude at once to the matter which was 
 uppermost in her thoughts ; when she introduced 
 it at last, it was to hint rather than express the 
 hope that what had passed would throw no 
 restraint on Silvia. 
 
 Mademoiselle Nardi had never hinted a thing 
 in her life. She could be silent, but when she 
 spoke it was quite plainly. 
 
 " No, no," she said a little impatiently. " I 
 do not mind it at all. He will never speak 
 about it again. And what do I care about it ? 
 He does not really care about me, you know," 
 she added saucily, " it was a fancy. Dom Sa- 
 bino was so once, long ago, says the Principessa. 
 He saw a lady, and for a week he could neither
 
 2f)8 SILVIA. 
 
 eat nor drink ; but it went away, and his appetite 
 came back. He eats very heartily now," phi- 
 losophically added Mademoiselle Nardi. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine made no comment on this 
 speech, but she thought Charles Meredith's case 
 a hard one ; and though she liked Silvia very 
 dearly, she wished she had never brought her 
 to Saint Remy. 
 
 Mr. Meredith's estimate of Mademoiselle Nardi 
 was a correct one in the main. She was flinty, 
 hard-hearted indeed, as youth almost always is 
 in those cases. She felt provoked and an- 
 noyed at Mr. Meredith's passion. She disliked 
 him, and did not care for his trouble or his 
 pain. It would have grieved her to see him 
 suffer, she could have wept with pity if he had 
 died ; but to feel anything save annoyance, be- 
 cause he had happened to take a fancy to her, 
 was out of her power. She did not want him 
 to like her. Why did he like her ? She had 
 done nothing to make him like her ; and if 
 he would like her, why tanto peggio, and there 
 was an end of the matter, so far as she, 
 Silvia Nardi, was concerned. 
 
 But, cool and careless though she was, it re- 
 lieved her to find that the offender was out of
 
 silvia. 269 
 
 the way for a few days at least. She would 
 have liked, in the meanwhile, to hear nothing 
 about him, and to forget that such a person as 
 Mr. Meredith existed. And she might have 
 done so, if it had not been for Mrs. Groom and 
 the stoker's widow. It rather amused, and at 
 the same time rather provoked Silvia, to hear 
 these two discoursing on the same theme, for 
 her benefit, as she felt, and yet so differently. 
 Mrs. Jones was a little babyish, half shrewd, 
 half silly young creature, who did her best 
 to steer her little boat through life ; and who, 
 having taken it into her foolish little head that a 
 handsome young man and a pretty girl who 
 live in the same house must needs be smitten 
 with each other, thought to please Silvia, and 
 forward her own interests, by gently purring 
 Mr. Meredith's praises in the Italian girl's 
 ear. She liked them both to begin with, for 
 both had been kind to her ; and besides, they 
 were a living novel, and though Mrs. Jones could 
 scarcely spell, she had that strong appetite for 
 romantic histories which is one of the character- 
 istics of this novel-reading age. So she built up 
 her little edifice of love and courtship, to end 
 in wedded bliss, and secured her own ends as she
 
 270 SILVIA. 
 
 thought by never omitting an opportunity of in- 
 troducing Mr. Meredith's name when idleness 
 or kindness brought Silvia to see her. For of 
 course this pretty Italian lady would marry the 
 handsome young gentleman, and of course Ma- 
 dame de FEpine, who had a bad cough, would go 
 off somewhere to some warm country or other, 
 and take that sharp-tongued and keen-eyed Mrs. 
 Groom alongwith her. Then, of course, too, the 
 young people would live in the chateau, and Mrs. 
 Jones would be housekeeper, and, giving up 
 the pigs and the poultry, rustle about the place 
 in the dignity of a silk gown; and William 
 would be butler, and John gamekeeper in time. 
 So what between these romantic and maternal 
 visions, Mrs. Jones, whose grief was gently 
 giving way to time, allowed her mind to 
 dwell on Mr. Meredith's and Silvia's concerns 
 rather more than was pleasant to Mademoiselle 
 Nardi. 
 
 Mrs. Jones's favourite theme was the state of 
 acute, not to say distracting grief Mr. Meredith 
 must be in at leaving Saint Remy. She was 
 especially eloquent on this subject one bleak 
 day, when Silvia had come to see how Mrs. 
 Jones was getting on, and she had found Mrs.
 
 SILVIA. 271., 
 
 Jones in a brown study. Now Silvia, too, 
 liked her little bit of romance, and very sweet 
 to her was the Auld Robin Gray story of this 
 young thing's life. When she came into the 
 dark old room in which Mrs. Jones sat by a 
 window with the wintry light stealing through 
 lozenge panes of greenish glass, her work lying 
 idly on her lap, whilst her blue eyes rested 
 dreamily on the two boys, one of whom was 
 horse to the other one's coach, Silvia, stopping 
 in the doorway, thought : 
 
 " She is thinking of her old husband, who was 
 so good and so kind when she was so lonely — 
 — so lonely." 
 
 And when she came forward there was pity 
 in her heart, and tenderness in her soft dark 
 eyes. Mrs. Jones looked up at her with a little 
 start, and rose and curtseyed humbly ; but Sil- 
 via put her two hands on the young widow's 
 shoulders, and gently pushed her down in her 
 chair. 
 
 " You must not," she said with a chiding 
 frown — " you must not grieve." 
 
 " No, miss, I must not," said Mrs. Jones, sigh- 
 ing — " every one has got their troubles. Now, 
 there's that good kind Mr. Meredith, who has
 
 272 silvia. 
 
 been so good to me, and I am sure he's fretting 
 himself to death, as it were, at being away. For 
 of course when one's heart is in a place, as it 
 were, it is a hard case to be away from it." 
 
 Silvia, very much provoked, withdrew her 
 hands from Mrs. Jones's plump shoulders, and 
 looked at her very coldly. 
 
 "Mr. Meredith likes travelling," she said drily. 
 41 Come here, John and William, 1 have brought 
 you some cake." 
 
 She turned her back on Mrs. Jones as the 
 two children ran up to her, but she could not 
 prevent Mrs. Jones's voice from going on in a 
 slow, monotonous drawl — 
 
 " Ah ! that's very true, miss, but travelling 
 ain't much when a young gentleman is tender- 
 hearted, and has left all he cares for behind 
 him." 
 
 44 She is a pert, vulgar little thing," thought 
 Silvia angrily ; and poor Mrs. Jones, uncon- 
 scious of offence, and convinced that she was 
 helping William to his post of butler, and John 
 to the office of gamekeeper, went on putting 
 her foot deeper and deeper into it. 
 
 " There are plenty who would not fret, I 
 know — young men are so gay ; but then, when
 
 Silvia. 273 
 
 they are kind-hearted, as it were, faint the same 
 thing." 
 
 Silvia turned on her with a flushed face. 
 
 " Perhaps Miss Gray is in Paris," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Jones's blue eyes grew round again with 
 consternation and amazement. She had no 
 idea who this Miss Gray was ; but no evil fairy's 
 spell could have laid her enchanted castles more 
 quickly in the dust than the utterance of her 
 name. Of course, if there was a Miss Gray, all 
 her plans and hopes came to naught. Her silk 
 dress turned back into plain alpaca ; William's 
 butler's black coat, John's gamekeeper's badge, 
 grew so dim, that they faded away and vanished 
 even whilst Silvia was speaking; and Silvia, 
 unconscious of the blow she had inflicted, went 
 on, coolly giving Mrs. Jones the coup de grace : 
 
 " You have never seen Miss Gray, Mrs. Jones ! 
 Oh, she is so lovely and so amiable !" 
 
 " I am sure I am very glad !" murmured poor 
 Mrs. Jones, who felt very miserable. 
 
 "And now she will never worry me 'again,'' 
 thought Silvia ; and as the cake was out, and 
 she felt no further inclination for Mrs. Jones's 
 company, she went up to Mrs. Groom's room. 
 Here, of course, she found a very different view 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 silvia. 
 
 of things. Mrs. Jones was barely twenty -five, 
 and Mrs. Groom was near fifty — and twenty- 
 five and fifty stand at the antipodes in their 
 estimate of the feelings of young gentlemen. 
 Indeed, about their feelings Mrs. Groom did not 
 trouble herself in the least, though she did, as 
 usual, trouble herself a great deal about their 
 defenceless position. Her only hope for Mr. 
 Meredith was, that he was so absent. 
 
 "Mr. Meredith can take care of himself,'' tart- 
 ly said Silvia, scarcely less provoked J ian with 
 Mrs. Jones. " Young men get on very well, Mrs. 
 Groom." 
 
 " In novels, mamzelle ! Don't they get on 
 there !" replied Mrs. Groom. " Not that I dislike 
 novels. They are company to me. I like the 
 people in them. So civil and well-behaved. 
 Real ladies and gentlemen. And I don't dis- 
 like the bad ones either. If I had been Rebec- 
 ca," gravely added Mrs. Groom, " I would just 
 have given up that namby-pamby Ivanhoe and 
 taken the Templar. He was a man." 
 
 " But, Mrs. Groom, Rebecca could not marry 
 the Templar." 
 
 " Couldn't she '?" replied Mrs. Groom, compos- 
 edly, " well, that's a pity to be sure !"
 
 silvia. 275 
 
 But it did not seem to Silvia that Mrs. 
 Groom's feelings were much modified by this 
 consideration, from which it appeared that the 
 Mrs. Groom of real life, and the Mrs. Groom of 
 the novel-reading world, were two very different 
 persons." 
 
 " I like Lord Orville, too," continued Mrs. 
 Groom, musingly — " such a gentleman ! And 
 Sam Weller," she added, with an abrupt transi- 
 tion, "he's a good one. How Mr. Meredith 
 used to laugh over him when he was a boy, 
 poor gentleman." 
 
 As Mrs. Groom seemed inclined to go back to 
 Mr. Meredith's peculiar position as a defence- 
 less young man, Silvia prudently left her. 
 
 " What between Mrs. Groom and Mrs. Jones," 
 she thought, as she went downstairs, " I shall 
 wish never to set my eyes on Mr. Meredith 
 again." 
 
 But this was not to be ; and as if to show Sil- 
 via how little our wishes have to do with life 
 and its daily events, she met Mr. Meredith him- 
 self on the staircase, and on the very spot where 
 she had said to him, 
 
 " You must never speak so to me again, or I 
 shall leave the house." 
 
 T 2
 
 276 SILVIA. 
 
 It was impossible for her to say whether he 
 remembered this. He was coming up towards 
 her with his hand on the balusters, and the 
 light from a tall window falling full on his face. 
 He smiled as their looks met, and greeted her 
 with extended hand and friendly courtesy ; no 
 trace of the look which she remembered was in 
 his calm eyes, no tone of the voice which she 
 had heard lingered in his calm language. She 
 might have dreamed both for all that there ap- 
 peared of either in the man before her. She 
 tried to be as self-possessed as he was, and feel- 
 ing that she failed, the sense of her failure 
 brought so warm a glow to her cheek, that the 
 Captain, who was coming up after his son, ex- 
 claimed admiringly : 
 
 " We need not mind about our flowers being 
 dead, Mademoiselle Nardi. It is as good as be- 
 ing in a garden to look at you. Eh ! Charlie ?" 
 
 " Saint Remy agrees with Mademoiselle Nar- 
 di," replied Mr. Meredith, smiling ; " I find her 
 looking remarkably well." 
 
 " Well," cried the Captain, who, remembering 
 that these two were enemies, wanted to do his 
 best to make matters straight between them, 
 " say charming, charming. Don't be afraid to
 
 SILVIA. 277 
 
 be frank, I have accustomed Mademoiselle Nardi 
 to plain speaking. When she comes down look- 
 ing a little yellow I tell her so. Mademoiselle 
 Nardi, you are yellow to-day, I say, you have 
 sat up reading late. And when she comes down 
 looking as fresh as a flower, I tell her so, too." 
 
 " Thank you, Captain," said Silvia, giving 
 him a saucy little nod ; and she continued to go 
 down whilst they entered the drawing-room. 
 And as she went down, Silvia thought, "It is 
 all over, I felt it in the very touch of his hand. 
 It is all over."
 
 278 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AUTUMN had been warm and sunny, but 
 winter had come early, and it came with 
 bitter winds, that withered the last green traces 
 of autumn ; and sharp frosts, that covered garden 
 and landscape with a chill white garment. 
 
 On a grey December afternoon, with a pro- 
 mise of snow in its dull, low sky, Silvia sat in 
 one of the deep drawing-room windows. Her 
 work had fallen on her lap, and looking down 
 on leafless trees and blank, bare paths, she 
 thought of Palazzo Nardi, and its camellias, 
 that bloomed all the winter long, and its 
 orange-trees, ever laden with golden fruit ; and 
 as this vision of a sunny land and an azure sky 
 came back to her, Silvia, forgetting that there 
 are rainy days in her grand old Rome, heaved 
 a little sigh, and looked up. 
 
 A pile of books on a round table near the 
 fire concealed Madame de TEpine from Silvia's
 
 SILVIA. 279 
 
 view. Now and then her pale thin hand took 
 or replaced a volume, but that hand, with its 
 flashing diamond rings, and the hem of a dark 
 silk robe, was all the young girl saw of her 
 friend. Mr. Meredith was more visible, but not 
 less absorbed than his sister. He leaned back 
 in his chair reading. His handsome face looked 
 like pale marble on that dark velvet back- 
 ground. It was very handsome indeed — 
 remarkably so ; but Silvia wondered at his 
 knit brow and compressed lips. Was he study- 
 ing something so very difficult ? Could any- 
 thing be difficult for Mr. Meredith ? He, too, 
 more chilly than Silvia, was sitting by the 
 fire. 
 
 " That, at least, is cheerful," thought Silvia, 
 a little provoked at her isolation between this 
 studious pair. 
 
 It was very cheerful, indeed. Logs of wood, 
 piled on the broad hearth, were burning with a 
 joyous blaze. The bright glow filled the room. 
 It gave warmth to the deep, rich velvet carpet ; 
 it stole up to the lofty ceiling, and played there 
 midst the grey shadows ; it lighted up the old 
 portrait of a lady in blue on the wall, till her 
 faded face softened back into life, and her lips
 
 280 SILVIA. 
 
 seemed to smile, and her eyes to shine, like one 
 who hears a pleasant, genial tale. 
 
 " What would I not give to know Mademoi- 
 selle Nardi's thoughts about my sister's great- 
 aunt V here said Mr. Meredith's voice ; and 
 Silvia, turning full upon him, saw that he had 
 put his book by, and was looking at her with 
 frank curiosity. 
 
 " I was only thinking she might as well walk 
 out of her frame and warm herself a bit by the 
 fire," replied Silvia, gravely. " She must be 
 cold, always hanging up there, and tired, I 
 should think, to be for ever smelling her rose, 
 poor thing. I used to pity the statues in Pa- 
 lazzo Nardi, always so bare and chill in their 
 niches." 
 
 "Very kind and humane," said Mr. Meredith; 
 " but does it not occur to you, Mademoiselle 
 Nardi, that the world is very full as it is, and 
 that, if pictures and statues became animate, 
 the increase might be inconvenient ? Then 
 some of the consequences are decidedly alarm- 
 ing to contemplate. Imagine a few heroes in 
 Greek costume entering Lady John's drawing- 
 room ! — nay, what would you feel if a Muse or 
 a Goddess waylaid you in a garden-path ? But
 
 SILVIA. 281 
 
 these are trifles. I shudder to think of dead 
 heroes, who would want to fight their grand 
 battles over again — of dead beauties, who would 
 insist on carrying all once more before them. 
 Fancy a Cleopatra let loose, or a Mary Stuart, 
 or twenty more, whom I could mention — all 
 lovely, all dangerous, all Syrens, who won by 
 the ear as well as by the eye ! No, no, Made- 
 moiselle Nardi ; you are a kind fairy, but, thank 
 heaven, your power is limited — your wand can- 
 not break the two great spells of Death and 
 Time ! Let these gentlemen and ladies rest, I 
 say. It may not be pleasant to hang against a 
 wall, or to stand, and sometimes on one leg, in 
 a niche for a very, very long time, but these are 
 the drawbacks of beauty and fame." 
 
 "Charles, do explain this to me," said Ma- 
 dame de l'Epine, handing her book to her bro- 
 ther. 
 
 She wanted some mysterious geological 
 question made clear, for there were few things 
 in the way of study which she did not attempt, 
 and an argument in which Silvia took no sort 
 of interest followed between her and her bro- 
 ther. Again she looked out of the window, 
 feeling more dull and more lonely than ever.
 
 282 silvia. 
 
 Madame de l'Epine's few visits had long ago 
 been returned, and with them social life in Saint 
 Remy had seemed to end, so far as the inhabit- 
 ants of the Chateau were concerned. 
 
 " A fairy might as well have enchanted me in 
 a castle in a wood," Silvia thought sometimes ; 
 " we never go out, and no one ever comes to 
 us. As to Mr. Meredith, I wonder he remem- 
 bered my existence to-day. He has already 
 forgotten it again." 
 
 She felt a little provoked, and not for the first 
 time, with Madame de l'Epine's brother. It had 
 been some satisfaction to her to feel that he, 
 who had been so courted and so admired, had 
 learned at last a plain unflattering lesson from a 
 portionless and not very beautiful Italian girl. 
 But on that satisfaction a sort of discontent had 
 quickly followed. Her repulse had produced no 
 sort of apparent change in Mr. Meredith. He 
 had, indeed, grown so absent of late, that he 
 sometimes seemed scarcely aware of her pre- 
 sence ; but otherwise he was quite friendly with 
 her, and especially quite at his ease. 
 
 " Of course he could not be so if he cared about 
 me still," now thought Silvia ; " and of course 
 he does not, after the way in which I treated
 
 SILVIA. 283 
 
 him ; but I do wonder why he ever did." 
 And as Mr. Meredith was once more absorbed 
 in his book, she looked up at him as if his silent 
 face could tell her the tale of that bygone pas- 
 sion. From behind her books Madame de l'Epine 
 was looking at them both, somewhat uneasily. 
 Nothing in her brother's deep gray eyes, when 
 they chanced to alight on Silvia, had ever told 
 her whether he secretly wondered at the charm 
 which had once bound him, or whether he was 
 ready to succumb again before the spells of this 
 unconscious and unwilling Armida. Her own 
 strong feeling was, that Mr. Meredith's liking 
 was quite over. 
 
 " No, he cannot love her any longer," she now 
 thought ; " the only wonder is that he, so re- 
 fined, so accomplished, should ever have cared 
 for this brusque, half- wild little creature. It is 
 well she rejected him. But what ails her, that 
 she is watching him so keenly ? Oh ! I hope, I 
 trust she does not repent !" 
 
 Poor Silvia ! unconscious that her face was 
 a book far more easy read than Mr. Meredith's, 
 she was still looking at him, sure that he could 
 not see her, and forgetting that his sister could; 
 and as she looked there woke a vague regret in
 
 284 silvia. 
 
 her heart. It was the old story. Sovereigns 
 who abdicate are apt to repent. Charles the Fifth 
 put down his crown for a monk's cowl ; he had 
 his own funeral performed, with coffin, pall, and 
 chaunting, but he forgot to bury his own heart. 
 So, too, with Silvia. It was very easy to for- 
 bid Mr. Meredith ever to speak of love again, 
 but it was not so easy to check the natural re- 
 gret for a lover — fond, young, and handsome 
 — who had everything to recommend him to a 
 lady's favour. But she had done it, and she 
 must abide by it ; and with a sort of impatience 
 at her own weakness, in thinking of all this, she 
 rose, and going up to her friend said, a little 
 abruptly, for she was too artistic to be very par- 
 tial to study, 
 
 " How fond you are of those books, Josephine !" 
 
 " They have been good Mends to me, Sil- 
 via. 
 
 " Well, I like books, too, but not always, you 
 know ; not at every hour of the day, I mean." 
 
 "I understand. I wonder how often a day 
 you change your mind, Silvia mia" 
 
 " Oh ! so often," was the candid reply. " But 
 you see there are so many Nardis in me." 
 
 " Are there, truly ?"
 
 silvia. 285 
 
 " Yes, there is my great-gran dmother, the 
 Abbess, who became a nun when her husband 
 died. I am like her when I am good. Then 
 there is my great-uncle, Cavaliere Nardi, who 
 wrote bad verses ; then I am a little bit of a 
 Clifford, you know, and when " 
 
 Here Silvia paused, and the sound of the 
 door opening and shutting again made her look 
 round. It was Mr. Meredith, who had risen and 
 left the room. 
 
 " And when I find out anything new I lay it 
 to the Cliffords," continued Silvia. 
 
 " Was there no studious Nardi, Silvia?" 
 
 " Dom Salvatore Nardi was a priest, and very 
 learned, I believe." 
 
 " I wish you would like study then, my dear. 
 I wish all girls would. If they could always be 
 young and pleasant to look at, and amiable and 
 fascinating, they need care very little for it, 
 perhaps ; but these are the gifts of a few 
 only, and of those few for a very short time. 
 Domestic ties and domestic happiness are not 
 every woman's lot. Some remain single ; others 
 are left widowed and childless. Thousands and 
 hundreds of thousands find time a ceaseless 
 burden, a bitter cause of discontent. They read
 
 286 silvia. 
 
 until they are palled with books ; for reading is 
 not work, and the charm and power of study is 
 to be labour. Oh ! if I could but give these my 
 experience, if I could say to them : ' Are you re- 
 ligious, then study, for to extend the powers of 
 the wonderful mind God gave you is one of 
 the noblest forms of worship. Study, if it were 
 only to remain breathless at the marvels of 
 God's world.' I have books and treatises here," 
 added Madame de l'Epine, laying her thin hand 
 on some of the volumes by her side, "which are 
 to me so many grand Te Dewns. Sometimes 
 they confound me at man's littleness, and some- 
 times they raise him to the most sublime heights, 
 and make him all but divine. What a being must 
 that be for whom the world was prepared so long 
 and waited ages, and to whom all creatures 
 are subject. True, one must not pin one's faith 
 to systems, for out of one wrong hypothesis 
 countless errors may spring, but abundant truths 
 are left — truths lovely and marvellous — truths 
 in every direction — truths which deal with stone 
 or crystal, or insect, or mosses and ferns, or 
 sea- weed growing in the strange gardens of the 
 sea, or shells which were once the abodes of lost 
 species ! Do not wonder, Silvia, that I like
 
 SILVIA. 287 
 
 study. I do not like — I love it, and find it a rare 
 boon to spell a few words in the great book of 
 knowledge, of which all the pages will lie open 
 to me hereafter. It is the delight of little 
 children to sit at their father's knee, and, look- 
 ing up at him, to hear the great things he can 
 do. For unbounded admiration as well as love 
 is part of the child's worship. Thus, too, feeling 
 but a little child in my great Father's sight, I 
 sit and listen, and looking at his works I learn 
 a little, a very little ; for what can a child un- 
 derstand ? But when they perplex me I think 
 ' my dear Father knows best.' Besides I know, 
 too, that a day will come, when what was dark 
 will be made clear. So I trust and wait." 
 
 " You are very good," said Silvia absently ; 
 for, alas, only half her friend's homiily had 
 reached her ear, and whilst Madame de l'Epine 
 hoped she had made an impression, Silvia was 
 saying to herself, 
 
 " He cares so little about me now that he 
 left the room whilst I was talking, without so 
 much as waiting till I finished the sentence I 
 had begun. I don't want him to like me, but 
 he might be civil !" 
 
 As Silvia thought thus, a little resent-
 
 288 silvia. 
 
 fully, the Captain entered the room, laden with 
 maps and books, and looking, as usual, the 
 happiest of men. As usual too, he was quite 
 willing to impart the cause of his happiness to 
 whosoever might be pleased to listen ; and in his 
 lightest and most exuberant tone he exclaimed, 
 throwing himself back in a chair as he spoke, 
 
 " Mademoiselle Nardi, I am going to devote 
 the day to one of your countrymen — the great 
 Lucullus, who is going to fight the great Mi- 
 thridates. Here we are! This is Otryae in 
 Phrygia. These are the Roman eagles," added 
 the Captain, sticking into the map before him a 
 set of pins with little waxen heads, in which 
 only a lively imagination could recognize the 
 Imperial bird ; " and here are the Roman troops, 
 thirty thousand foot and two thousand five 
 hundred horse. Mithridates is there, strong in 
 men, but poor in provisions, a sad plight for a 
 commander opposed to a general like Lucullus, 
 who understood the art of starving his enemies. 
 Ah ! we shall have terrible work presently, Ma- 
 demoiselle Nardi — the beautiful Monimia at- 
 tempting to hang herself with her diadem, which 
 breaks."
 
 silvia. 289 
 
 Here the Captain interrupted his own his- 
 torical oration to exclaim eagerly, 
 
 " Surely that is Pierre's voice below ! And 
 Josephine is gone, we'll have him up. You'll 
 like to see Pierre the louvetier, Mademoiselle 
 Nardi. Charlie," he added, going to the door, 
 and whispering over the balusters, " Come up 
 with Pierre, Mademoiselle Nardi wants to see 
 a louvetier." 
 
 Silvia put down her work, much puzzled ; 
 and presently Mr. Meredith entered the room, 
 followed by a dark young man, in a blue coat 
 with red facings, a leather girdle, and a hunting 
 knife. 
 
 "Well!" eagerly said the Captain, "what 
 news V 
 
 "The news," replied the keeper, " is, that Bap- 
 tiste has been out again." 
 
 " Just like him ! What has he done V 
 
 " Frightened Pierrette to death, and carried 
 off a sheep." 
 
 "The thief!" 
 
 " So you have got brigands here too !" ex- 
 claimed Silvia, with sudden triumph. 
 
 Pierre's rough brown face took an odd mean- 
 ing. The Captain threw himself back in his 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 SILVIA. 
 
 chair and roared aloud from the excesfe of enjoy- 
 ment, and Mr. Meredith replied with the utmi 
 gravity, whilst his stepfather went on with a 
 loud-pealing ha ! ha ! — 
 
 " Our brigands are four-footed, Mademoiselle 
 Xardi. Baptiste is a wolf." 
 
 " Oh ! we have them too," cried Silvia, in 
 the ardour of her patriotism ; " but why is he 
 called Baptiste ?" she added, darting a sudden 
 and distrustful look around her. 
 
 M Simply to distinguish him from his inferior 
 brethren. You see the common run ofwoh 
 do mischief, of course, but farmers do not mind 
 a few mishaps, till Baptiste has come out. Then 
 is the real tug of war, for Baptiste is old and 
 gray, and wily as a fox, and ferocious withal. 
 Baptiste knows as well as Pierre there when the 
 wolves are going to be beaten up ; whether 1 - 
 cause he has spies or scouts, or through the 
 penetration of genius, is more than I can tell 
 you, but so it is. He knows it." 
 
 Silvia looked at Pierre in evident doubt, but 
 the man nodded and said, 
 
 " lie knows it." 
 
 " Then why does not someone go out alone 
 and kill him V she asked, impetuously.
 
 SILVIA. 291 
 
 " With what f" asked Pierre, winking at the 
 Captain, who was still in high glee. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Nardi," put in Mr. Meredith, 
 " when Baptiste sees a man with a gun in his 
 hand, he takes the hint and goes home, and 
 when Baptiste expects a troublesome visitor he 
 invariably goes out. Baptiste is a consummate 
 general, but he is like one of your old Romans, 
 his battles are all won by the policy of absten- 
 tion." 
 
 Silvia's dark eyes left Mr. Meredith's pale 
 amused face to seek Pierre's brown features ; 
 and Pierre nodded and looked sagacious, and 
 said Baptiste was a sly one, he was. There was 
 a moment's pause — a moment's, no more — then 
 Silvia said, with a little scornful curl of her 
 pretty Grecian lip — 
 
 " My father had a pistol ; he would have shot 
 Baptiste." 
 
 The Captain's merriment, which had subsided, 
 woke anew at this speech, and he shook his 
 head at Pierre, whose bronzed face took a deep 
 red dye. Suddenly stripping Ins arm, he bared 
 it to the elbow, and almost thrust it under Sil- 
 via's face. 
 
 " Does mademoiselle see that ?" he asked, dis- 
 
 u 2
 
 292 silvia. 
 
 playing a long jagged scar ; " well, then, these 
 are the marks of Baptiste's teeth. I wanted to 
 kill Baptiste, I wanted the whole country to 
 talk of me ; and if my foot had not slipped, why, 
 I might have done it, mademoiselle, though I 
 was only a boy. As it was, he pinned me there, 
 and if my brother had not come up, and he had 
 got at my throat, why, Baptiste might have 
 been too much for me." 
 
 " And what did Baptiste do when your bro- 
 ther came up 1" asked Silvia. 
 
 Pierre stared. 
 
 " Why, he ran away, of course." 
 
 Silvia's pretty Grecian lip curled again. 
 
 " Then that Baptiste is a coward after all," 
 she said. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Nardi," feelingly said Mr. 
 Meredith, " would you have poor Baptiste be one 
 to two." 
 
 Silvia looked impatient. " If Baptiste had 
 been in Italy," she said,"hewouldhave been dead 
 long ago;" an assertion which woke the Captain's 
 mirth anew, brought a smile to Mr. Meredith's 
 lips, and made Pierre look very indignant and 
 offended. 
 
 "Had mademoiselle never heard of the Bete
 
 silvia. 293 
 
 du Gevaudan V he asked. " That bete had de- 
 voured ever so many people, and when killed at 
 last turned out to be a she wolf." 
 
 " Oh ! that is an old but awful story," said 
 the Captain nodding. "Indeed, Mademoiselle 
 Nardi, you do not know what wolves are here. 
 Why, there are ever so many fine fellows like 
 Pierre whose only business is to hunt them. 
 Moreover, the Maire of Saint Remy can call us 
 all out for a battue whenever he thinks fit. But 
 for all that we cannot get rid of them. The old 
 wolves take their cubs out hunting till they can 
 shift for themselves, and I defy anyone to catch 
 an old wolf." 
 
 " A battue ! What is a battue ?" asked Sil- 
 via. 
 
 "A battue is beating up the wolf, neither 
 more nor less. Get the best dogs you can, 
 Mademoiselle Nardi, and the best shots as well. 
 Send the dogs to rouse the wolf out of his lair, 
 and post your men on foot or on horseback, 
 wherever you expect him to pass ; and when you 
 have taken that trouble, don't expect to kill an 
 old general like Baptiste. English dogs are 
 fleet and strong, but an old wolf defies them 
 all. Ah ! a battue is a fine sight. Hounds and
 
 294 silvia. 
 
 horns, and shouts of men in a forest on a clear 
 cold day, are very pretty, Mademoiselle Nardi." 
 
 "And French wolves are not like Italian 
 wolves," said Pierre, in a grumbling under- 
 tone. 
 
 Silvia's eyes flashed brightly. 
 
 " Italian wolves are twice as ferocious and as 
 strong as other wolves," she said. 
 
 And with a heightened colour, and having, as 
 she conceived it, settled the question by so 
 comprehensive a statement, Mademoiselle Nardi 
 returned to her place in the window, whilst 
 Pierre and the Captain discussed a battue in- 
 tended chiefly, though, as they knew before- 
 hand, uselessly against Baptiste. 
 
 When the keeper left the room Mr. Meredith 
 rose and followed him out down to the hall 
 door.
 
 295 
 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " I17E shall have snow for our battue, said 
 T I Pierre, looking up at the gray sky. 
 
 Mr. Meredith laid his hand on the man's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Pierre," he said, "I am idle just now. I 
 should like to have a look at Baptiste's where- 
 abouts with you. Before the battue, you 
 know." 
 
 " Done," frankly said the man, " and we will 
 ask that pretty young lady whether there are 
 any wolves like Baptiste in her country." 
 
 He winked very knowingly ; Mr. Meredith 
 coloured slightly, but only for a moment. 
 
 " I feel dull," he said carelessly ; " besides, I am 
 tired of hearing about Baptiste. We will take 
 no guns, I only would know where the old fel- 
 low lives." 
 
 " When shall it be, Monsieur Charles, to- 
 morrow ?"
 
 29C SILVIA. 
 
 " Why not to-day V 
 " To-day let it be." 
 "Why not now T 
 
 " Why not, indeed, but I must go and get 
 Finaud." 
 
 u Then I suppose Baptiste does not live close 
 
 by" 
 
 " Indeed he does not, Monsieur Charles." 
 
 " Very well, we shall ride. You will find me 
 at the pyramid, Pierre." 
 
 The man nodded and strode away. 
 
 The day was intensely cold, but very calm 
 and still. A low sky of iron gray seemed to 
 touch the very summit of the leafless trees as 
 Mr. Meredith entered the forest. The frosty 
 ground echoed again to his horse's hoof 1 
 rode along a lonely avenue. If this had been 
 an enchanted wood, whence the cheerful songs 
 of birds, and all the pleasant sounds of life had 
 
 been banished for evermore by some baleful 
 
 spell, it could not have been more silent than it 
 was on this winter noon. 
 
 There was something Solemn and grand in 
 the scene. That strange repose of natn -k 
 
 Mr. Meredith's mind back to the early days 
 
 creation, when the great task was not yet half
 
 SILVIA. 297 
 
 done, and the weird gigantic animals who are 
 said to have preceded man's advent, had not yet 
 risen from their slime on the banks of mighty 
 rivers, or learned to fill primeval forests with 
 their deep roaring voices. Here, if geology spoke 
 truly, a jungle, to which that of tropical climes 
 is barrenness, had once spread its rank luxuri- 
 ance, now deep buried in the soil above which 
 rose the growth of a northern land. Here, be- 
 neath vanished ferns tall as young oaks, had 
 rested, lived and flourished, lost species of won- 
 derful creatures, heavy Pachyderms, strange 
 Saurians, insects whose gauze-like wings had 
 left their imprints in soft mud, since turned to 
 rock in the burning furnace of many ages. And 
 when the great waters had passed over them 
 all, and buried them and their records many a 
 fathom deep — when another world, fresh, fair, 
 young and verdant, had risen above the flowing 
 waves, and beech, and fir, and oak, had clothed 
 whole plains, and shivering poplars and aspens 
 had learned to grow on the banks of the rivers, 
 and birds and numberless creatures peopled the 
 solitude, how many ages was it yet ere man ap- 
 peared ? When he came he wore the flowing 
 garments of the Druid ; he wielded the golden
 
 298 silvia. 
 
 sickle, he worshipped fierce gods, he offered up 
 bloody sacrifices, he went to Rome with Brennus, 
 he slew the bearded senators in their curule chairs, 
 and uttered a " vce victis" words intolerable to Ro- 
 man ears, which Roman lips uttered back again 
 with far more woful meaning in the plains of 
 Gaul. 
 
 And when new laws rose out of barbarous 
 chaos — when the Roman and the Gaul had 
 passed away, and the Frank had come, and 
 with him feudal tenure and serfdom, and later, 
 the stir and clang of chivalry had filled the 
 land, the mighty forest, still living in its de- 
 scendants, with here and there a patriarch of 
 the olden time, had seen it all, and dropped 
 from its many boughs the seed whence younger 
 generatious were to spring. And now these, 
 too, were children of the past. They, too, had 
 seen times which have long ago faded in the 
 sunset glow of history. Battles, for the rights 
 of dead or banished dynasties, were fought 
 here ; gallant hunters ran down the doer, and 
 sounded a gay tra-li-ra along these avenues. 
 Kings and royal favourites — women whose 
 beauty has become a by-word — passed through 
 the shade and sunshine of these paths, all
 
 silvia. 299 
 
 hurrying on to that great bourne, where there 
 is ever room for the generations of man, count- 
 less though seems to be their multitude. 
 
 To that bourne, in the hope of first sending 
 poor Baptiste thither, Mr. Meredith was now 
 riding at full speed. He knew it, and did not 
 care much for it. His mind did not always 
 dwell in pre-historic times, or linger among 
 bright legends of the past. Its keen vision 
 stretched towards the future, and even now 
 altered every feature of the scene through 
 which he passed. The forest trees were felled, 
 and covered far seas with ships. City roofs 
 rose higher than the blackbird's nest. A broad 
 canal flowed through one of the avenues, and 
 the spot where stood the lonely pyramid was 
 the gathering-place of thousands — the mart 
 where the unborn multitude were to meet. 
 
 "Why should not the old world, as well as 
 the new, see the birth of a Chicago f" thought 
 Mr. Meredith — " one day a desert, the next a 
 city, with thousands and hundreds of thousands 
 gathering towards it in mighty impulse. Why 
 should it not have its seventeen railways, like 
 the queen of the prairies, and canals, and ports, 
 whence ships can sail, and cross the Atlantic
 
 300 SILVIA. 
 
 without unlading ? Who can limit the future ? 
 That vigorous new world may be decrepit yet, 
 and young blood be infused in the old, and 
 give it a mightier life. None can tell the fate 
 of the coming generations. How much will 
 they not know that is for ever concealed to us ? 
 We break our hearts on speculations concern- 
 ing that which to them will be the merest cer- 
 tainty. Will they then look back to us as age 
 looks back on childhood, with pity and with 
 envy too ? Will they scorn our ignorance, and 
 yet, in the weariness of their knowledge, all 
 but lament having lost it ? — or, rather, will 
 they not, feeling even more ignorant than we, 
 because so much more will remain to learn, go 
 down to new, unexhausted depths, and revel in 
 them, and never reach a safe footing, but wan- 
 der there in doubts and perplexities, that shall 
 both fascinate and torment them ?" 
 
 Here Mr. Meredith's speculations came to an 
 abrupt close, for Pierre, mounted on a little 
 black Breton horse, was trotting towards him. 
 Mr. Meredith gave the animal a keen look, then 
 said, gravely — 
 
 " How is Finaud to-day I" 
 
 " Finaud is veiy well, thank you," as gravely
 
 SILVIA. 301 
 
 replied Pierre. " He is a wonderful horse, Mon- 
 sieur Charles. I called him Finaud because he 
 is so cunning. That horse is incomprehensible," 
 added Pierre, shaking his head over Finaud's 
 sagacity. " I do believe," he continued, " that 
 Finaud guessed what we were going out for. 
 He would not come. Finaud and I had, as 
 usual, a regular battle before we could set off; 
 but, as usual, too, I got the better of the little 
 devil's temper !" 
 
 Everyone who knew Pierre had to hear about 
 Finaud, and Finaud's cunning and temper. 
 Pierre was a bachelor, and Finaud, spite his 
 misdeeds, occupied a soft corner of his heart, 
 which he shared with a large, ill-tempered mas- 
 tiff, called Pataud. As they rode on, Mr. Mere- 
 dith remarked that Pierre had not brought the 
 dog. 
 
 "Why, no," said Pierre; "Pataud, though 
 brave as a lion, might not like the scent of the 
 wolf — that is to say, if we have a chance of 
 finding where old Baptiste lives, for we may 
 just come back no wiser than we went forth, 
 you know." 
 
 "Come, Pierre, that will not do. I see in 
 your eye that you have some sure inkling of 
 Baptiste's lodgings."
 
 302 SILVIA. 
 
 " He has three," replied Pierre, looking very 
 knowing. " Ah ! he is a rare old fox, he is. He 
 was south yesterday, he will be north or east 
 to-day. We are east now, so, if you please, we 
 will try that first." 
 
 " I wish we had Pataud." 
 
 "Pataud would only have slunk whining 
 under Finaud, and given us trouble. This way, 
 please." 
 
 They entered a covered path, shaded by the 
 leafless boughs of tall chestnut trees, with deep 
 thickets on either side. 
 
 " Baptiste likes this place," gravely said 
 Pierre. " He hides in the fallen chestnut-leaves, 
 and makes a soft bed of them, and takes his 
 supper there, the thief! and it was here, I do 
 believe, that I met his father. Did I ever tell 
 you that story, Monsieur Charles I" 
 
 "Tell it, at all events, Pierre," replied Mr. 
 Meredith, willing to indulge him. 
 
 "Well," said Pierre, nothing loth, "I was 
 then a lad of fifteen, and Langlois, the old 
 keeper, you know, used to say I was a fair shot 
 for a boy. We had gone out, a whole lot of us. 
 on a cold clear morning, and, after knocking 
 about all day, we were coming home dead tired.
 
 SILVIA. 303 
 
 We had had little luck, and I for one had not 
 killed so much as a brace of partridges. It 
 might be that which made me think there never 
 had been such a heavy gun as the one I carried 
 that evening, and the more I walked the heavier 
 it seemed to grow. I was the youngest of the 
 band, and not the strongest, so I lagged be- 
 hind until the rest were a good bit ahead of 
 me. We were crossing the fields which lie 
 south. In July you are roasted there, but in 
 January, with a keen north-easterly wind blow- 
 ing full in your face, you are frozen. I remem- 
 ber that my very nose seemed to be shaved off 
 as with a razor ; so as the forest was a short 
 cut, and sure to be sheltered, I let the others 
 walk on, and just got in this very path, a mile 
 or so beyond the spot where we are now. I 
 had not walked many steps when I heard a rust- 
 ling in one of those thickets on the right. I 
 turned round and saw a pair of eyes, just like 
 two burning coals in a dark room. Langlois 
 had a sturdy old dog, who was always sneaking 
 after me, and who had been out with us that 
 day. I made sure this was he. 
 
 " ' This is not your way home, Scaramouch,' 
 said I — * go back, sir.' But dogs are obstinate,
 
 304 SILVIA. 
 
 like the rest of us, and the creature would fol- 
 low me. I walked on without minding him, 
 but when after a time I looked round again, 
 Scaramouch was a good bit nearer to me than 
 before. I stood still and whistled, but no Sca- 
 ramouch came bounding and barking up to me. 
 So you see I began to think it might not be the 
 dog. I was only fifteen, and I was quite alone, 
 and the wood was getting darker and darker. 
 I walked straight up to the creature. He turned 
 and fled. I heard branches crackling, and I 
 looked and looked. Not a sign of him. I 
 thought I was rid of the beast, for I need not 
 tell you, Monsieur Charles, that unless when he 
 gets you at a disadvantage, a wolf is a cowardly 
 wretch, and not a very terrible enemy to man. 
 Well, I was but a boy, as I said, and I suppose 
 the creature had put the right path out of my 
 head, for I soon found out that I had lost my 
 way. I called and shouted and whistled, and 
 called again. No answer. No oiie had seen 
 me enter the wood; and no one, I suppose, would 
 have looked for me there. But lo and behold 
 you! there were the two burning eyes again; 
 and this time, though it was too dark to see the 
 creature's body, I guessed he could not be more
 
 SILVIA. 305 
 
 than fifteen paces off. Well, I walked up to 
 him once more, but the villain was hungry, I 
 daresay, for though he did not wait for me, he 
 went back step for step. I stood still, and what 
 do you think he did, Monsieur Charles 1 Why, 
 he sat down and looked at me, and licked his 
 
 lips r 
 
 " I thought it was dark, Pierre." 
 
 " So it was," replied Pierre, not a whit dis- 
 concerted, " but the moon was up, and just peep- 
 ed in through the trees and showed me the great 
 ugly brute squatting on his haunches, and look- 
 ing at me. There never were such eyes as his, 
 Monsieur Charles — I tell you coals are nothing 
 to them. I took a step forward, he never stirred. 
 I took another step, he rose; another step again, 
 he just moved towards me, and I sent a bullet 
 through his brain and put out his eyes like the 
 snuff of a candle. Well, truth is truth, and I 
 won't deny it. I walked off and never looked 
 back ; and when I joined my comrades again, 
 and they turned back to see what I had really 
 done, and found the largest wolf that had ever 
 been seen about here lying stiff and dead across 
 the path, I began to shake as if I had the ague, 
 crawled home, and as soon as I got in took to 
 
 VOL. I. ^
 
 306 SILVIA. 
 
 my bed, which I kept for a week. And that 
 wolf is said to have been Baptiste's father." 
 
 "So that Baptiste owes you a hereditary 
 grudge," said Mr. Meredith. 
 
 "He does, Monsieur Charles, and I daresay 
 he knew it when he and I had our encounter a 
 year later. My opinion of animals is that they 
 know a great deal more than we give them 
 credit for. And now suppose I get down and 
 see if Baptiste is at home, for we are near the 
 place, and Finaud never could get into these 
 thickets." 
 
 He alighted, crept into the bushes and van- 
 ished. At the end of twenty minutes he came 
 back looking much excited. 
 
 " Baptiste is out," he said, " but I found the 
 bones of a dead sheep, and I feel sure his lair is 
 somewhere in there. I did not like to break 
 the thicket too much, lest he should find out I 
 had been after him." 
 
 " You seem to think Baptiste knows every- 
 thing, Pierre." 
 
 "Baptiste was caught in a trap once, and 
 got away with a torn paw; he has been lame 
 ever since, but he has also been very cunning." 
 
 " And you say his lair is in there. In what 
 direction ?"
 
 SILVIA. 307 
 
 Pierre extended his hand. Monsieur Charles 
 saw the broken trunk of a tree ; well beyond it, 
 on the right, lay a thicket, and beyond that 
 again another. Well, on the left where the 
 wind had drifted the withered leaves of the 
 chestnut trees, till they lay thick and deep and 
 rose in a huge heap, there Pierre thought was 
 one of Baptiste's lairs. 
 
 " You seem confident that he has more than 
 one," said Mr. Meredith, whilst his keen eyes 
 tried to pierce the gloomy and tangled depths 
 of the forest. 
 
 " I am quite sure of it. Baptiste is not like 
 another wolf. Would Monsieur Charles like to 
 go and look at his lair now ?" 
 
 " No ; I would rather find Baptiste at home." 
 
 " Then what shall we do ?" 
 
 " Go home, Pierre. We know where he lives. 
 That will do for the present." 
 
 Mr. Meredith spoke with much seeming indif- 
 ference, but Pierre gave him a shrewd look. 
 
 " You want to kill Baptiste, my fine young 
 fellow," he thought, as they turned homewards, 
 " but you want to kill him alone, and have all 
 the glory, so that the young lady with the dark 
 eyes may admire none but you. Try your luck ; 
 
 x 2
 
 308 SILVIA. 
 
 try your luck, I say, but you will be lucky in- 
 deed if you catch Baptiste." 
 
 " Are we far from Baptiste's other lair V asked 
 Mr. Meredith, suddenly looking up. 
 
 " Not very far," replied Pierre, with so know- 
 ing a look that Mr. Meredith said carelessly, 
 
 " Ah ! well, it will do another time." 
 
 " But Baptiste may change his lairs for all I 
 know," shrewdly remarked the keeper: "for you 
 see, Monsieur Charles, Baptiste is a peculiar 
 wolf;" and Pierre was going to give his reasons 
 for coming to such a conclusion, when he saw 
 Mr. Meredith, who had been looking intently be- 
 fore him for some time, suddenly take out a 
 revolver. He fired, without seeming to take 
 aim, but quick as lightning Pierre had thrown 
 up the young man's arm, and the ball whizzed 
 harmlessly up the branches of a tree, cutting 
 them on its way. u Would Monsieur Charles kill 
 poor Pataud ?" reproachfully asked Pierre, as the 
 great mastiff, breaking out of the thicket, came 
 bounding on the path towards them. " Pataud 
 you must talk another time. You have had a 
 narrow escape, Pataud, for Monsieur Charles is a 
 dead shot." 
 
 Pataud's only answer to this speech was a
 
 SILVIA. 309 
 
 joyous bark and a leap up at Finaud's nose, 
 which that sagacious animal took, as it was 
 meant, in kindness ; after which preliminaries 
 they all rode on together, and Pierre entertained 
 his companion with a prolix account of Pataud's 
 many virtues and qualities, until a fine chill 
 snow began to fall, and as it drove full in their 
 faces, silence became pleasanter than speech. 
 They soon reached the pyramid, yet so fast had 
 the snow been falling, that everywhere the 
 ground was white. White, too, were the trunks 
 and branches of the trees in the direction of the 
 wind : and very ghostly they all looked in the 
 grey light of the declining day. 
 
 "Now, Pataud, you old fool, why did you 
 not stay at home?" asked Pierre, as they passed 
 the open space and entered another avenue. 
 " Just tell me why you came out, at your time 
 of life too? Getting rheumatic pains as you are." 
 
 Pataud had begun a barking reply to this 
 speech, when he suddenly stood still and uttered 
 a low deep growl. The two riders halted, ex- 
 changed looks, then cast keen glances around, 
 but the avenue was very, white and lonely. 
 
 "I wish he had his spiked collar on," said 
 Pierre.
 
 310 SILVIA. 
 
 Pataud growled again, and bristled up with 
 that appearance of uneasiness which bravery- 
 does not exclude. 
 
 " If he sees a wolf and springs at him he will 
 get throttled," said Pierre. " Pataud, here, sir 
 — here, I say !" 
 
 Pataud obeyed reluctantly, and they rode on, 
 but they had not gone a hundred yards before 
 Pierre exclaimed, 
 
 " Look behind you, Monsieur Charles." 
 
 And looking behind him as he was bid, Mr. 
 Meredith saw in the gloaming something dark 
 coming up the white avenue. Nay, his keen 
 vision distinguished two other dark forms far- 
 ther away. He burst out laughing. 
 
 " Pierre," he said, " the wolves are hunting 
 us ! There are three of them." 
 
 " There are the villains ! And my gun is at 
 home, and we have the horses. Take care of 
 yours, Monsieur Charles. It will not do to 
 stumble and have the hungry wretches down 
 on the poor beasts. Finaud is getting beside 
 himself. Pataud, here, you fool, here !" 
 
 He spoke too late. The wolves were draw- 
 ing nearer and nearer, and with one bound 
 Pataud sprang at the throat of the foremost.
 
 SILVIA. 311 
 
 At once the other wolves closed around them, 
 and in a moment the silent forest was filled 
 with the growling of the fight, with which 
 mingled the fearful neighing of the horses, who 
 plunged and reared, wild with terror. 
 
 " Now for the revolver !" cried the voice of 
 Pierrre, rising above the tumult. 
 
 But even before he had done speaking Mr. 
 Meredith fired. With a long, dismal howl, the 
 wolves fled up the avenue — they fled, all save 
 one, who remained stretched on the snow, fast 
 dyeing it crimson with his blood, whilst Pataud 
 crawled towards his deliverer, all torn and 
 mangled. 
 
 " Is Pataud killed ?" asked Pierre, compelling 
 Finaud, still panting and trembling, to come up 
 to the scene of the fray. He looked out eager- 
 ly as he spoke in the gray twilight, rendered 
 doubly gray by the gaunt, leafless trees on 
 either side of the avenue. 
 
 " The wolf is killed, I believe, but poor Pa- 
 taud is badly hurt. Get down and see. I will 
 hold Finaud." 
 
 "Pataud will never get over it," ruefully said 
 Pierre, after he had alighted and examined the 
 dog, -who was moaning pitifully. " The villain's 
 fangs have gone too deep in him."
 
 312 SILVIA. 
 
 " N:^ , give everyone his due," said Mr. Mere- 
 dith — " it was Pataud who began the battle." 
 
 " You have killed Baptiste, Monsieur Charles. 
 I know him by his lame paw. It was like poor 
 Pataud to fly at the biggest and the fiercest of 
 'he three. Come down and look at him, Mon- 
 sieur. I will hold the horses," added Pierre, 
 almost forgetting Pataud in his excitement. 
 
 Mr. Meredith alighted, and looked at the 
 grizzly creature already stiffening in the snow. 
 Yes, this was Baptiste. The robber, the mur- 
 derer, had met his doom at last : but poor Pa- 
 taud, still moaning with pain, seemed to say, 
 " You have won the victory, but I pay the 
 cost." 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE. 
 
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