particularly so. I have scarcely read or thought enough about the
Catacombs to be greatly interested in them. Indeed, it was to please
my sister that I came to-day."

"Your sister! does she then take greater interest in these things than
you do? I should hardly have supposed it."

His tone, even more than his words, made her laugh,--the idea of
Helena's being interested in the Catacombs for their own sake, was
certainly very amusing; so she replied--

"Well, no; Lena is not particularly devoted to antiquarian researches,
but she thought it would be a pleasant party, and begged me so
earnestly to accompany her that I did not like to refuse."

"Ah! I understand."

A silence ensued, while Mary thought, "Poor man! he does not know how
to get at the subject which he is so longing to talk about; he thinks
it beneath him to let any one see that he could feel curiosity about a
young lady's proceedings, and I have a great mind to make him pay for
his dignity, and not help him over the dilemma. This I could do, but
that it would defeat my own purpose of crushing any incipient fancy
which he may have taken to Flora. Yet how mean it is! Were I but sure
that she is really going to marry Mr. Lyne, I should not feel so false
as I do now. But what is the use of all this self-reproach? If I am to
do it at all there must be no looking back; yet would it not be better
to give it up altogether, and let things take their natural course?
Yes, it would indeed be truer, nobler, better to do so; but----"

The silence continued, and she walked on like one in a dream; yet
there was not much of dreaming in the hard struggle which was going on
within her between her better nature and passion. The former had almost
triumphed; she felt it was too base to try to rob another--one, too,
whom she liked--of a man's love; for, with the quickness of jealousy,
she _felt_ that he loved Flora, even unknown to himself. But, whilst
good and evil thus hung in the balance, there occurred one of those
chances which so often seem to decide a question. She was suddenly
roused from her reverie by Mr. Earnscliffe's laying his hand upon her
arm and saying--

"Miss Elton, do you not see the flight of steps before you? What a fall
you might have had!"

She drew back with a start and looked at him--the good angel was
vanquished. That touch upon her arm--that voice--that countenance, to
which circumstances lent a momentary interest in her favour, were more
than she could withstand. She murmured to herself, "No, I cannot give
him up--I will die rather than see him another's." Then she calmly
answered, "Thank you, Mr. Earnscliffe; had it not been for you I might
indeed have had a bad fall, so _you_ have saved me."

Had he done so? Did it not rather appear to be the contrary? A moment
before good was in the ascendant; had she not been thus saved from a
fall good might have triumphed, but that saving seemed to give the palm
to evil.

When they had descended those steps Mary said, "Now, Mr. Earnscliffe,
I am going to ask a favour of you; and one which, I hope, you will not
refuse to grant."

He had quite resumed his cold indifferent manner as he answered--

"Let me hear the request, for I can make no guess as to what I can
possibly have it in my power to grant or refuse you."

"Undoubtedly it is in your power to grant it; whether you _will_ do so
is another matter. We are to have some friends with us on Friday, this
day week, and mamma would be so pleased if you will come also."

"Friday?--let me see----"

"Do not try to improvise an engagement, or say, 'Parties are not
much in my way.' I know that it is so; but surely for once you might
condescend to come; particularly as we are going away on the following
Monday, so that--by us, at least--you could not be importuned any
more. We shall have some good music, of which I know that you are
fond." And now to throw out her bait without letting it appear that
she thought it was one: "And--only I suppose you would not care about
that--you would have an opportunity of seeing Flora Adair perfectly
recovered from her sprain, for our evening is to wind up with a dance,
and, as you heard at Frascati, she is a great dancer. Mr. Lyne will
also be there, so we shall see how he plays the lover's part."

She had watched him narrowly while she spoke, and saw by the change of
his countenance that the bait had taken, and so she was not deceived as
to the motive of his accepting when he replied--

"Asked thus as a favour and a farewell, I cannot do otherwise than say
in the recognised form, 'I shall be most happy to accept Mrs. Elton's
kind invitation.'"

"Very well, then, it is agreed that you will come. Of course you will
receive a formal invitation, but you need not answer it, as I shall
tell mamma that you have already accepted. And now, Mr. Earnscliffe, as
you are almost an _habitué_ of these underground regions, perhaps you
can tell me if we have nearly _done_ them?"

"Well, I have not been paying much attention, but from the time we have
been here"--looking at his watch--"I should say yes. I see we are
coming to a chapel, probably that of St. Cornelius, which is generally
the last."

It was the chapel of St. Cornelius, as he had said, and there it was
that Helena received the glance from Mary, which she rightly understood
to be an intimation that her flirting had better come to an end for
that day. When they were once more in the passage, Helena succeeded in
getting close to her sister and whispered, "You are an angel, Mary!"

"Don't be silly, Lena," answered Mary, almost roughly. Perhaps the
being called an angel just then, when she knew how much the reverse of
it she was, irritated her.

"But you are indeed an angel, and I know you will carry your angelic
sisterly charity a little farther by asking Harry to our ball; then,
when you tell mamma that you _have_ asked him, it will be too late for
her to object. You will ask him, Mary, will you not?"

"Yes," was the curt reply; and she added, "And now do be quiet; surely
you have talked enough to-day."

"Not nearly enough, you dear _dame Sagesse_. I am quite ready to begin
again."

"Then I beg you will not do so; and be pleased, Lena, to give up that
absurd habit of calling me such names as angel and _Sagesse_--you
ought to know how inapplicable those terms are to me, and they annoy
me."

Helena began a warm denial of this, but Mary interrupted her by saying,
"That's enough, Lena; do cease talking--my head aches. Thank goodness,
I see the daylight, so I suppose we shall soon get into the open air
again!"

No wonder that her head ached and that she longed for rest, even for
the rest of lying back silently in the carriage.

A few minutes more and they were in the vineyard, enjoying the warm
rays of the sun, which still shone brightly in the clear blue sky.

Mrs. Penton, having kissed the Cardinal's ring, received his blessing,
and thanked him for all his kindness, bade him farewell, and turning to
her own party, said--

"Will either of you three gentlemen take the vacant seat in the
carriage? We are going to take a turn on the Pincio." She looked at Mr.
Earnscliffe, but he answered--

"Thank you, Mrs. Penton; I think I must have a walk in this clear fresh
air, after the darkness and damp of the Catacombs."

"Then Signor Lanzi, may we hope that _he_ will escort us?"

"To escort la Signora Penton is alway de most high honour for me; but
I did ride here, also la signora must have de goodness to allow me to
accompany her on horse."

Mrs. Penton bowed, and smiled slightly as she said, "Well, Mr.
Caulfield, I left you for the last as you are the youngest; what say
you to coming with us?"

"That I shall be delighted to go with you, Mrs. Penton."

"With my company, rather, _non è vero_, Mr. Caulfield? And now let us
start; it is late enough as it is."

Mr. Earnscliffe accompanied them to the carriage; and, as he took leave
of Mary, she said, "Remember Friday night." He bowed, and, raising his
hat, left them.

Mary immediately turned, and asked Mr. Caulfield and Signor Lanzi
for the same night. They accepted; and Signor Lanzi having mounted
his horse, the party proceeded to the Pincio, and thence to their
respective homes.

CHAPTER V.

Flora's mind was filled with interest in the young lady of whom Madame
Hird had spoken. On the morning after their visit to the Villa Ianthe
she read all the papers which Madame Hird had given them about their
little _protégée_. They consisted, first, of a letter from Madame de
St. Severan; next, of the manuscript containing Marie's history. They
were as follows:--

"Although, dear Madame Hird, we have lost sight of each other for many
years, and you would not recognise, under my present name, the Caroline
Murray of our merry school days, yet I am sure that you, like myself,
remember those days. I venture, therefore, to ask you to interest
yourself in a young lady who will soon be an inmate of your convent,
and who is dear to me because she is so to my husband.

"For some time I have been in correspondence with your superioress,
and have obtained permission for our little friend to be received at
the Villa Ianthe, and placed especially under your care. We are very
anxious that she should spend a few months in a convent in Europe
before making her _entrée_ into the _beau monde_ of Paris, and knowing
that you are in Rome, I have made every exertion to have her confided
to your care; and in this I have fortunately succeeded. Will you, then,
dear friend, kindly undertake this charge, and direct her studies?

"A good priest will protect her from Algiers to Rome. As I am writing
to you I know that I need not say, be very kind to her. She is, by all
accounts, a most affectionate little creature, and is now in great
grief at being separated from the guardians of her childhood.

"I have compiled a little sketch of her history, which I now send you.
The first part of it is drawn from my husband's account of his African
experience; the rest from the joint accounts of Marie and the good nuns
who had charge of her...."

Here the remainder of the letter was torn off, not relating, as Flora
supposed, to the little Arab girl. She next took up the manuscript,
which ran thus:--

"After the battle in the plain of Cheliff, where the Duc d'Aumale and
his little army so bravely captured Abd-el-Kader's encampment, many
of the officers left their tents in the evening and wandered over the
scene of their late conflict. Among them was Colonel, then Captain de
St. Severan. He had strayed to some distance beyond the rest, following
the direction which the fugitives had taken, and was about to return,
when, standing for a moment gazing back upon the battle-field, he was
startled by the sound of a half-smothered cry. A few paces before him
lay the body of an Arab; he approached it, and as he shook the cloak
which nearly covered it, the cry was repeated. Within the folds of
the _bernous_ there was a little child, whose large black eyes were
wide open with fright, and little hands stretched out, as if to ward
off some coming danger. With no slight effort he drew the child from
the dead Arab, and tried to quiet its cries by caresses and marks of
endearment. After taking it up in his arms he returned to his tent,
and sent for one of the camp women, to whom he related his adventures,
adding that he had determined to adopt the child as his own, and
confiding it to her care.

"Having been wounded in one of the later skirmishes, Captain de St.
Severan was sent back to Algiers with a detachment of troops, when he
took care that the woman to whom he had entrusted the little foundling
was to accompany them. The child was a little girl of about two or
three years old, and was christened Marie. Day by day she became a
greater darling--the pet, indeed, of the whole brigade--and was in
danger of being completely spoiled, when her protector was ordered
again on active service. Of course, he could not take little Marie with
him, so he yielded to the advice of his lady friends, and, stipulating
that she should learn her father's language, placed her under the good
guardianship of the French nuns at Algiers.

"It so happened that he never returned to Algiers, save to pass through
it almost in a dying state on his way home. After a long and tedious
illness in Paris, which left great depression of spirits upon him,
a friend, Mr. Molyneux, induced him to accept an invitation to the
family seat of Mr. Molyneux's father in England, and try there the
invigorating tonic of English country life. At this house I met him,
and the sequel of that meeting was, that a few months afterwards I
became Madame de St. Severan.

"I need scarcely say that I heard many stories of Algiers, and of
Marie. We had agreed to send for her as soon as we should get to
France, but, on our arrival in Paris, my husband was offered an
important post in one of the colonies, and thought he could not well
refuse it without retiring from the army, which he did not wish to
do, therefore he consented to go; in consequence, Marie was left at
the convent in Algiers. We remained away nearly ten years, and only
returned to Paris last winter, when we wrote at once to request that
Marie should be sent to us; being doubly anxious to have her, as we
had, alas! lost our own dear ones. But the answer received from the
superioress caused us the greatest pain and anxiety. She said, that
shortly before our last letter arrived Marie had been missed one
evening from prayers at church, when it was found that she had obtained
permission to walk in the grounds, as she was suffering from headache,
and that, on search being made for her, a door in the garden was
discovered to have been forced open from without, and a scarf, which
had been worn by Marie, found on the ground there. These, with other
facts, left no doubt that she had been carried off by some Arabs, who
had before been seen about the place.

"Three months passed without any tidings of poor Marie. At length
a letter came containing the joyful news that she had been safely
restored to the convent, and was suffering only from weakness and
exhaustion.

"Marie's account of what occurred tells us that, having obtained
permission, she went out alone and sought shade and repose in a
summer-house at the far end of the grounds--a favourite retreat of
hers. She supposes that she had been asleep, when she was roused by
feeling something thrown over her head and twisted tightly across her
mouth, so that she could not speak or scream. She was then carried for
a short distance, placed upon a horse by some one, who got up behind
her and galloped away. Save the rapid movement through the air, Marie
remembers nothing until she found herself lying on a bed of moss in
what appeared to her to be a rocky cavern. As she awoke the bright rays
of the sun were pouring in upon her, and for a moment she thought she
must have dreamed some fearful dream. An old man in a white _bernous_
then entered the cavern, and all the terrible reality was revealed to
her. He came and bent over her, when she exclaimed, 'Oh, sir, take me
back! What injury have I ever done you that you should steal me away
from all those whom I love? Only take me back and you shall have as
much money as you like.'

"'Money!' he sorrowfully repeated. 'Can money buy me back my beautiful,
my brave children whom the hateful Roumi killed? Can money make the old
man young again, and give him new sons to perpetuate his race?'

"'I pity you very much, sir; but what have I to do with your
misfortunes? Why revenge upon a poor weak girl like me the death of
those who were dear to you?'

"'What have you to do with my misfortunes? Are you not the child of
my firstborn, his only one? Did they not tear you from his dead body,
to which you clung with all your baby strength? Did I not see it all?
Yes; lying wounded at some distance from my brave boy, your cries
roused me from the almost death swoon into which I had fallen, and I
saw you taken away from him. I vowed then to the Prophet, that if I
recovered from my wounds, my life should be spent in trying to rescue
you from our enemies, that you might become the mother of a race of
strong warriors to struggle against those hated usurpers. During all
those weary years I never flagged for an hour, and repeated failures
did but urge me to new exertions. At last the great Prophet rewarded my
fidelity by giving you up to me, and now you cry and pray to be taken
back to your father's murderers, and ask what you have to do with my
misfortunes? Child, I have told you.'

"He stopped as if exhausted by his own vehemence, and gazed at her in
seeming anger. Poor Marie could not repress the shudder which crept
over her as her eyes rested on her grandsire. Visions of what her fate
would be with him, and still worse as the slave--for what else is an
Arab's wife?--of an infidel husband, rose up vividly before her eyes
and filled her with horror.

"At length the old man went out, and Marie, being left alone, rose from
her rude couch, and kneeling, she drew forth her silver crucifix--it
was Colonel de St. Severan's parting gift--and prayed earnestly to Him
who had died for her, that He would save her now from worse than death,
and restore her to the care of His true followers. Hearing a step she
rose, and carefully hiding the precious crucifix, she stood waiting to
see what would happen next. She had come to the conclusion that the
best chance of escape was to endeavour to win the old man's heart, and,
as he entered with cakes and fruits which he had brought for her on the
previous night, she thanked him and began to eat. This seemed to please
him greatly.

"As soon as she had finished he said, 'Now we must start again, for we
have a long ride to take before we reach the tribe.' He gave her an old
cloak, and told her to draw its hood over her head; then he desired her
to wait for a few moments in the cavern while he got the horse ready.
Again he went away and left poor Marie alone. Her heart began to sink.
That night they were to reach the tribe. What hope was there now for
her.

"Journeying on, the old man tried to amuse her by talking of the
handsome young chief whom he wished her to marry. Then he related
stories of the brave deeds of her ancestors, and of her father
especially. He told her that her mother was a Frenchwoman whom the
Arabs had taken captive, and whom his son fell in love with and
married. He spoke much, too, about the great honour which his son had
done her in making her his wife, and about her ingratitude to him, and
said that she fretted and pined until she lost all her beauty, got ill,
and died shortly before the battle on the river Tanguin.

"At last, after a long and, to Marie, a terrible day's ride, they came
to the encampment. As soon as they got to the entrance of the circle of
tents they were surrounded by the men of the tribe; the women stared,
but remained at their occupations. Many questions were asked of the
old man, but, before he answered any of them, he lifted Marie almost
tenderly from the horse; she could scarcely stand, and terrified by
all those strange faces which crowded round her, she clung to him for
support and protection. At this moment a witch-like looking woman came
and asked, 'Is this the lost child of thy brave son, Ben Arbi?'

"'It is, Masaouda,' he replied; 'help her to my tent and take care of
her; she is weary, and, as I fear, ill?'

"The old woman obeyed, and as soon as they got into the tent Marie
saw a seat, and fell upon it with a moan of pain. Masaouda knelt down
beside her, felt her hands, her forehead, and cheeks, and then left her
to repose.

"Marie was alone, but she could not rest; all that Ben Arbi had said to
her about the chief whom he wished her to marry haunted her, and when
at last sleep stole upon her, fantastic and horrible forms seemed to
crowd around, driving her to despair. This, she says, is the last thing
that she remembers of that night.

"When next she awoke to consciousness it was broad day-light, and she
saw Ben Arbi and Masaouda sitting at the door of the tent. She felt
strangely weak, and closed her eyes almost as soon as she opened them,
yet not before Ben Arbi had seen that one returning ray. Approaching
her, he asked in a low anxious tone--

"'Does my child know me?'

"Again she looked up for a moment; he saw that she had recognised him,
and exclaimed--

"'Allah be praised! She may live now!'

"By degrees Ben Arbi's presence and Masaouda's recalled her sad history
to her. Soon she was able to connect all the links of that chain
so coiled around her. One day as she lay with closed eyes thinking
over her forlorn condition she heard Masaouda and Ben Arbi talking
together. From their conversation she learned that she had been more
than three weeks ill, and that at one time they had almost despaired
of her recovery. He spoke much of his anxiety that she should get well
quickly, as war was menacing, and he wished her to be married before it
broke out, otherwise it might be impossible for some time.

"How Marie's heart bounded as she heard these words! And how she prayed
that God would not permit her to get well until this, for her, blessed
war should have begun! She determined to speak as little as possible
and to avoid giving any signs of returning strength. Accordingly, day
after day she resisted all the efforts made to rouse her, and refused
much of the nourishing things which they constantly brought to her, and
thus she endeavoured to retard this dreaded recovery. Nevertheless, she
felt that she _was_ rapidly improving, and every day it became more
difficult to repress the natural restlessness of convalescence.

"Time passed on slowly, and nothing more was said of the war; she was
beginning to lose hope, when one evening she heard Masaouda come into
the tent with Ben Arbi, who was questioning her eagerly about his
child's health; he asked if it would be possible for her to be married
in a week from that time, as the war had been determined upon, and the
chiefs would depart. 'It is impossible,' the old woman answered; 'the
child is too ill, and a relapse would probably cause her death.' Ben
Arbi sighed deeply, but made no reply; while Marie felt that she could
have fallen at Masaouda's feet and have blessed her for speaking these
words. She knew, however, that she must remain silent, and from the
depths of her heart she sent up a fervent thanksgiving to God. She was
not yet saved, but this was a respite, and whilst it lasted might not
her friends find and rescue her? It was a renewal of hope, and that is
almost a renewal of life.

"At length the happy day arrived when the greater portion of the tribe
set out for the scene of war, and from that day forward Marie improved
rapidly. She devoted herself completely to Ben Arbi, vaguely hoping
that if she could make him very fond of her she might perhaps be able
to induce him to take her back to Algiers. She succeeded to her heart's
content in exciting his tender affection for her, but he would not hear
a word about taking her back, and appeared to be as intent as ever upon
her marrying.

"Marie observed that his strength seemed to decline, and he himself
said frequently that the old man's course was nearly run, and that if
he could live to see his child married the object of his life would be
gained, and he would be glad to sleep in peace with his brave sons.

"About two months from the time when the chiefs set out for the war,
the survivors returned in triumph, and, with pride and joy lighting up
his countenance, Ben Arbi told Marie that her husband elect was waiting
to see her. She fell upon her knees, and clinging to him, besought him
not to force her to marry, if he would not see her die of grief, as
her poor mother had died. He sternly repulsed her, and left the tent
in anger. It was a rude shock to Marie's hopes, and now, for the first
time, she felt despair.

"Passively she submitted; she heard them agree that her marriage should
take place in a few days, and even this did not rouse her. Ben Arbi
tried to caress her and win her from this deep sadness, but she shook
off his hand roughly, as she exclaimed, 'Do not touch me,--do not
add hypocrisy to your cruelty. Is it not enough for you to force me
to do that which will be to me a living death, without making false
professions of affection for me? As you killed my mother, so will you
kill me!' She stopped her ears and would not listen to a word from him.

"A few days before the fatal one named for Marie's wedding, Ben Arbi
said that he must go to visit some holy shrine, to which there was
then a great pilgrimage, but that he would be back on the day of the
wedding. They were to be married, as is the Arab custom, in the evening.

"Early on the morning of this eventful day an old man tottered across
the encampment and entered Ben Arbi's tent. Marie was already out, and
was sitting at a little distance from it in a state of mute despair,
yet she recognised her grandfather's form, and followed him into the
tent. He had fallen upon the ground, and was lying there moaning as if
in mortal agony. A feeling of sickness came over Marie as she looked at
him, and she leaned against the side of the tent for support.

"At this moment the whole camp seemed roused, and were gathering round
the tent, and he to whom she was betrothed implored her to come to him,
saying that they must lose no time in departing from a place which was
cursed by the plague.

"'What!' she cried; 'you would leave the old man here to die alone? Go;
I will remain with him!'

"'Are you mad, girl!' exclaimed her betrothed. 'Come before you are
yourself infected--before you have touched him!'

"He advanced a little way into the tent and took hold of her arm, but
she shook him off, and springing to her grandfather's side, she laid
her hand upon him and said--

"'Now come and take me away if you will, but with me take this fell
disease!'

"One and all they stood as if spell-bound, gazing at her; then slowly
and silently they withdrew.

"At last, Marie, and the sufferer by whose side she knelt, heard the
heavy tramping of men and flocks, as the caravan moved away from the
presence of the plague-stricken. Marie turned and kissed the old man's
forehead.

"That kiss seemed to thrill through him. He raised himself up, and
looking intently at her, he exclaimed--

"'My child!--I have never wrought thee aught but evil. I stole thee
from those who were dear and kind to thee. I spurned thy prayers and
tears, entreating to be taken back to them; and even this very day
I was about to force thee into a marriage against thy inclinations.
Nevertheless, in my hour of need and misery thou remainest with me,
whom all others have abandoned! Child, who taught thee to act thus?'

"'Grandfather, it was the lesson which our God came down from heaven
to teach us. He died to save those who most cruelly injured him. His
doctrine and example are summed up in this one sentence--"Love thy
God above all things, and thy neighbour as thyself!" And it was He
who said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my
brethren, ye have done it unto me!" And I have only done to you as I
would that you should have done to me were I struck with this terrible
disease, whilst I know that in thus attending to you I am ministering
to Him.'

"The old man bowed his head, and said, 'Thy God shall be my God! The
religion that could make thee act as thou hast done must be divine.
Child, make me what thou art.'

"Marie clasped her hands together in deep but silent thankfulness; then
she exclaimed, 'Would that some one were here to teach you; yet I can
baptize you and make you a Christian. Oh, how happy you have made me! I
can even thank you now for having stolen me from my dear convent!'

"'Do not say thou canst not teach me, child; for thou hast taught me so
great a lesson that nothing could surpass it. Make me what thou art,
and I shall die in peace. But what is to become of thee, my poor child!
If thou shouldst survive this danger they will claim thee, and thou
wilt not escape them. Would that thou wert in safety with thy Christian
friends!'

"Marie trembled; yet a moment after she smiled brightly, and said,
'Fear not for me, grandfather; God is with us, and He will protect me.
I no longer fear for myself; but say, are we far from Algiers?'

"'Not more than a good day's journey on foot. I brought thee by a
longer route, in order to elude pursuit. But what does that avail;
there is no one to send thither!'

"'It is all in the hands of God, and all will be well; do not let us
think any more about me, but about yourself.' And when she had done
all she could to soothe him, she sat down beside him and talked to
him about the loving Saviour, whose follower he wished to become; and
related to him as much as she could remember of the touching Gospel
histories.

"Towards evening he fell into a light sleep, then Marie went out to
breathe the fresh air, and was thinking of the happiness it would be
to her if she could send for the dear old chaplain of the convent, who
would baptize her grandfather, and, if he lived, find means to have
him as well as herself removed to Algiers. Whilst she was musing, a
sound of footsteps fell upon her ear, and looking up, she saw coming
towards her a poor, half-witted boy, to whom she had been kind, and who
seemed to have taken an ardent fancy for her. He was leading a goat;
and, as soon as he saw her, he hastened to her, and said he had brought
the goat for her that she might have some milk to drink.

"Marie took his hand, and pressing it within her own, thanked him
warmly for thus thinking of her. The boy blushed, and laughed sillily;
then he asked if he could do anything for her.

"'Yes,' she answered quickly; 'if you would go to Algiers, and bring
back something--some medicine--for my grandfather, I shall love you so
much.' The boy assented gladly; and then she asked him to wait until
she had obtained the necessary instructions.

"Finding Ben Arbi asleep, Marie had to wait some time before she could
speak to him; then she told him that God had sent them in the poor boy
a messenger to Algiers, and asked him if he knew any Arab there to whom
she could entrust a message to the convent. The old man thought for a
few moments, and said he knew one who was under great obligations to
him, and in whom he could trust. 'Then all is well,' she answered;
'only tell me how I am to describe the place where we are?' She had her
little pocket-book still with her; and what a treasure it proved to her
now, since it gave her the means of communicating with her friends!

"The old man having given her the necessary directions, dictated a
few lines to the Arab, to desire him to give the messenger a little
phial containing a certain cordial, and above all to lose no time in
conveying Marie's packet to its destination.

"When all this was done, and the messenger had departed, Ben Arbi
seemed inclined to sleep again, and she began her night-watch; a lonely
one indeed would it have been had not the bright star of hope shone
through all its gloom.

"Slowly passed the hours until the next day, when, about noon, the
faithful messenger appeared again. He gave her the phial, and told
her that the Arab desired him to say that Ben Arbi's wishes should be
executed. Marie could have cried for joy, and her gratitude to the poor
boy was far greater than she could express. It was necessary, however,
to send him away; and this cost her a severe pang, as she thought of
when he would return and find the place deserted by them.

"Every feeling was, however, soon merged in an intense longing for the
arrival of the good chaplain. Her grandfather was sinking rapidly,
and she began to think that Père de la Roche would not be there in
time to baptize him; and how she shuddered at the thought of being
left there alone with the dead. Evening came, and twilight waned into
night, but no Père de la Roche; and poor Marie's heart began to droop
again. Perhaps he had not received the note, and, if so, what was she
to do? She almost shrieked aloud as she thought of her probably forlorn
condition, for she felt sure that her grandfather had not long to
live,--he had said so more than once; and during the whole day he had
been tormenting himself about what was to become of her if no one came
from Algiers.

"The old man had fallen asleep; the bright light of the moon showed
Marie that his eyes were closed. In her anxious hope she went out of
the tent and climbed up a tree which stood near, to gaze across that
vast plain; but nothing appeared. She then determined to descend, and
baptize her grandfather herself as soon as he awoke. One last yearning
look, however, brought before her something which made her heart
throb almost aloud. It was but a small spot; but it seemed to move,
and to draw nearer to her. At last she could see that it was a man
on horseback. There was no Arab dress; it must be, it was Père de la
Roche! She almost sprang from the tree, and ran towards him.

"Père de la Roche and Marie hastened to the tent, and Marie went in to
announce the glad tidings. The old man was lying with his eyes wide
open, and looked at Marie fondly and sadly as she entered; but when she
told him that Père de la Roche had arrived, his countenance lit up, and
he exclaimed, 'Then thou art happy. I can now die in peace, and thou
wilt go back to those whom thou lovest! But go, child, and send him to
me quickly, for my course is nearly run.' Marie went out and led Père
de la Roche into the tent. She left him there, and waited without for
him.

"She was roused by the good father, whose hand lightly shook her.
'Come, my child,' said he; 'thy grandfather would see thee again before
he dies. He is now a Christian, and will be with his God before many
minutes have passed. Ah! what a great work thy faith has wrought!'

"Hardly were Ben Arbi's eyes closed in his happy death, when the
sound of horses caused Marie once more to tremble. Père de la Roche
reassured her by saying that it was probably a detachment of cavalry
from Algiers, sent to guard their safe return. Taking her by the hand,
he led her out of the tent, and there she saw again the beloved French
uniforms. This second shock of joy, and the death scene she had just
witnessed, were too much for her. She sank down quite overcome; and
they laid her upon the long grass, where they left her to slumber,
whilst they hurriedly performed the last rites to Ben Arbi.

"When all was done, they gently awoke her; and placing her on
horseback, they returned to Algiers. Poor Marie was carried exhausted
into the convent just as the bell was tolling for matins. The nuns came
gathering round their lost child, now restored to them, to their great
joy."

CHAPTER VI.

The Adairs were doubly anxious to know Marie and to have her with
them, after reading the papers which Madame Hird had given them;
moreover, she would, they thought, so well supply Lucy's place, and be
a companion to Flora.

Accordingly, when the day arrived which had been fixed for Lucy's
departure, and they had confided her to the care of the friends with
whom she was to travel to England, they determined to drive straight
to the convent. They got into an open carriage, but the driver looked
wonders when he was told that their destination was the Villa Ianthe,
on the Lungara--a long distance indeed from the Piazza dei Termini. He
tried to console himself, however, by driving as slowly as possible,
being too truly Italian to trouble himself as to whether, in so doing,
he lost other fares or not. What true Italian does not prefer the
_dolce far niente_ to gain? Fortunately it was a matter of indifference
to the Adairs; they were not pressed for time, and that slow motion
through the soft, hazy air of Rome was far from disagreeable, so they
let him _gang his ain gate_.

Even their slow pace brought them, at length, to the convent, and
once more they were shown into the little square room, with its prim
air--that room which not even the sun of Italy could cheer or warm.

Madame Hird came down quickly, and when the usual greetings were over,
and they were all seated, Mrs. Adair gave back the papers, and said,
"These have interested us so much that we are longing to make the
acquaintance of the little heroine, and to have her with us. When can
she come? We leave Rome on Tuesday week, and should like it to be as
soon as possible, that she may get accustomed to us before we set out
on our journey."

"You can see her now, if you wish," replied Madame Hird, "but the
Superioress will say when she can go to you. I had a letter from Madame
de St. Severan yesterday; she is greatly pleased to hear that Marie is
to travel with you, and that you intend to make some _détour_; a little
travelling with you and your daughter will, she thinks, be of great
advantage to Marie. I wrote to her of you from what I knew of you in
former days, and of Mademoiselle I said, that as far as I could judge
in a visit, she would be an admirable companion for my young charge."

"We are most grateful for your good opinion," answered Mrs. Adair, "and
shall do our best to merit it, by making Marie as happy as we can while
she is with us."

"I have no doubt that she will be very happy, and the new and varied
scenes which she will visit with you will delight her. I will go and
tell her that you wish to see her,--she may be a little shy at first,
as she is so unaccustomed to meet strangers."

"Very naturally, poor child; but she will soon get over that with us, I
trust."

"Then I will go to announce your visit."

After a short time Madame Hird returned, with a tall, and rather an
imposing-looking nun, whom she introduced as "Madame la Supérieure."

The lady was French, but she spoke English tolerably well, and at once
addressed Mrs. Adair in that language.

"Mademoiselle Marie will have the honour to salute you in a few
instants. Madame Hird tells me that you have the goodness to permit her
to make the voyage to Paris with you, and that you desire to know when
she can go _chez vous_. It is to-day Friday; shall we then say Monday
next? Madame de St. Severan has sent me a sum of money, which she
prayed me to give you, should it be decided that Mademoiselle Marie was
to travel with you; it is for her voyage. Shall I give it to you now,
or when you come for her on Monday?"

"Then, if you please, since I can have a receipt ready to give you.
You know, Madame, that it is better to do these things _en règle_; it
prevents misunderstandings."

"Just as you like. At what hour will you come on Monday?"

"Would five o'clock suit you, Madame?"

"It is equal to me, and Marie shall be ready for you at that hour. I
am astonished that she has not come down to be presented to you. And
now that all our arrangements are made, I will ask you to give me
permission to retire, as I am very much occupied. I will send Marie to
you at once. Adieu, Madame,--adieu, Mademoiselle." And making a formal
curtsey to each of them, she left the room.

Flora drew a long breath as the door closed, and had not Madame Hird
remained in the room, we should probably have heard her utter a fervent
"_Deo gratias!_" Madame Hird smiled slightly and said, "Marie will get
a reprimand for dilatoriness, but in reality it is timidity which has
prevented her from coming sooner. I hear a step,--I will go and meet
the poor child; she would never have courage to come in herself."

She went into the passage and returned immediately, leading in a young
lady dressed in a black silk frock. She was very short, but she had a
well-formed, plump figure, large liquid black eyes, full red lips, a
clear olive complexion covered with blushes, and black hair curling
round her head in short curls. A pretty little creature she certainly
was, and she looked so innocent and clinging that from the first moment
it was hardly possible not to be fond of her.

Madame Hird presented her to Mrs. Adair and said, "This is the lady who
is so kind as to take charge of you to Paris, Marie; and to whom I am
sure you will be very grateful."

Marie made a shy curtsey and muttered something in French; but Mrs.
Adair took her hand and kissed her, saying, "Oh, this is quite too
formal; ... we must be friends, Marie--or must I call you Mademoiselle?"

"_Oh non, Madame_," and she blushed more than ever.

Flora now came and kissed her also, as she said, "Come and talk to me,
Marie." She drew her to the window and made her sit down beside her.
Meanwhile Madame Hird devoted herself to Mrs. Adair, and they wisely
left the young people to themselves.

"You must not be shy with me, Marie; I do not appear very terrible, do
I?"

"_Mais non, Mademoiselle_," answered Marie, with a smile.

"Well then, you must call me Flora, and not _Mademoiselle_. I call you
Marie."

"_Quel joli nom vous avez._"

"You like it!--then you must show me that you do by using it. But you
speak English they say; I see that you understand it well."

"_Oui, je le comprends très bien, Made_----"

Flora looked at her and shook her head. Marie smiled, hesitated for a
moment, and then said, coyly, "_Flore_."

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Flora, "there is a victory already gained! But
you were going to say--

"_Mais je ne le parle pas bien, et j'ai peur de vous._"

Marie turned, and for the first time looked up fully in Flora's face.

"But you are not much afraid of me, Marie, after all?"

"_Mais vous, vous parlez Français,--c'est très heureux pour moi!_"

"Well, I must say that I do not quite see that, Marie; perhaps you can
explain it to me?"

"_Oui, et très bien même. Je n'aime pas à parler une langue étrangère
avec vous, parceque j'ai peur de vous, mais vous n'avez pas peur de
moi!_" And she laughed merrily, as if she thought it an absurd idea
that any one could be afraid of her. It made Flora laugh also, and the
laughing seemed to set Marie more at her ease,--very soon all fear of
the formidable Flora appeared to have vanished.

After some little time Mrs. Adair said, "I am glad, Marie, to see that
you and Flora are becoming friends."

"_Oui, Madame, et je n'ai plus peur d'elle!_"

"So I perceive, nor must you be afraid of me, either. Now we must leave
you, but only until Monday. Flora has told you, I suppose, that the
Superioress has given you leave to come to us then."

"_Oui, Madame, et ce sera un bonheur pour moi de faire ce voyage avec
vous et avec Mademoiselle votre fille!_"

"I hope you may find it so. Good-bye, then, for a few days." She kissed
her, and then turned to bid Madame Hird adieu.

"Only four o'clock! It is too early for us to go home," said Flora,
looking up from her watch as they got into the street.

"Is there anything near that we have not seen?"

"The Farnese Palazzo is quite close, but if the king and queen are not
away it is only shown to visitors on Sundays at five in the evening."

"Let us try, at all events; they may perhaps be absent."

As the two ladies turned off the Lungara into the _Via del Ponte_, they
met Mr. Lyne coming down the _Via delle Fornaci_.

"Mrs. Adair! who would have thought of seeing you here?" and he shook
hands with her and with Flora.

"We are returning from the Villa Ianthe," answered Mrs. Adair.

"And I," rejoined Mr. Lyne, "from the beautiful Fontana Paolina. Are
you going to walk home?"

"Yes; or rather we are going first to the Palazzo Farnese to try if we
can see it. Flora says it is quite near."

"So it is, and I think you _can_ see it. I know that the royal family
were absent yesterday, and they may not have returned. May I have the
pleasure of accompanying you, Mrs. Adair?"

He addressed Mrs. Adair, but he looked at Flora, who replied, "Well, I
suppose you may, as I dare say your coming will not prevent our seeing
the pictures."

"I should think not," added Mrs. Adair, smiling. So they went on
together.

Ah! Flora, could you have known the past events of the day before, or
the coming ones of that day, how different would have been your answer
when Mr. Lyne asked to accompany you to the Farnese Palace!

Mr. Lyne was about the middle height and rather slight; he had regular,
well-cut features, brown eyes, and dark hair. He was certainly
gentleman-like in appearance, and was generally called handsome, being
so, indeed, to those who think more of form than of expression; not
that his expression was wanting in goodness or even in intelligence,
but it was devoid of animation or energy. He was essentially what
is called a good young man,--one who fulfilled every duty with the
greatest exactitude, who always did just what was expected of him.
His ideas and conversation on most subjects were just, calm, and
deliberate, but never original, and he was perfectly guiltless of ever
allowing himself to be carried away by feeling or enthusiasm. No one
ever heard of his doing a startling act of kindness, self-devotion, or
generosity; but on the other hand he was invariably kind in a general
way, a sincere friend, too, and moderately generous.

We have heard that he was going to be married to Flora Adair, or at
least that he intended to propose for her, and felt no doubt about
being accepted. This was true, and his courtship and love were quite
in keeping with the other features of his character. As his mother was
French, and he had been brought up chiefly in France, he had acquired
much of the French ideas about marriage. The Adairs were old friends
of his family; so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Adair always called him
George; and he was aware that a marriage between him and Flora would
be agreeable to his own and to her friends. It was just the connection
which his parents wished for, but he was not a person ready to marry
any girl who was pointed out to him as eligible; on the contrary, he
was determined never to marry any one whom he did not _like_ very much.
If he could like one an alliance with whom would please his family, he
thought it would be a most desirable thing, and therefore he cultivated
an intimate acquaintance with the Adairs.

Flora, strange to say, did inspire him with a feeling as nearly akin
to love as it was in his nature to feel, and she treated him with a
friendly, cordial manner, as the son of a very old friend of her
mother's, never for a moment supposing that he could think of wishing
to marry her, feeling, as she did, that their characters were too
essentially different for anything like union between them. Thus she
innocently encouraged him to believe that she liked him, and he did
not understand the different symptoms of love and liking, otherwise
her friendly but indifferent manner would have driven him to despair.
Her real opinion of him was that he was a good-natured "bore," very
obliging, gentlemanly, and quite capable of taking his place creditably
in conversation; better informed, indeed, than the majority of those
around him, but tiresome withal. And this was the man whom Mary Elton
had told Mr. Earnscliffe that she was going to marry!

When they got to the palazzo they found--as Mr. Lyne had said--that the
royal family had not returned. They were told that the _custode_ had
gone upstairs a moment before with a gentleman. They hurried on and
overtook them just as the door of the gallery was opened. The gentleman
turned to let them pass before him,--it was Mr. Earnscliffe!

The unexpected meeting of those whom we esteem greatly is a delicious
sensation, and this Flora then felt. Had she known all that had passed
between Mary and Mr. Earnscliffe, how different would have been her
feelings!

The Adairs were in advance when Mr. Earnscliffe turned, and his
expression seemed to light up a little as he saw them, but it grew dark
again as he caught sight of their companion, and he appeared to be in
one of his haughtiest moods as he shook hands with them and Mr. Lyne.

"This is a fortunate day for me," said the latter; "as I was returning
from a walk to the Fontana Paolina, I met Mrs. and Miss Adair, who
kindly permitted me to accompany them here, and now we meet you who are
such a connoisseur in painting, our visit will be doubly instructive."

"I believe the _custode_ undertakes to point out everything of note,"
replied Mr. Earnscliffe, stiffly. "It is usually so when one goes round
with visitors in such places. But we are keeping the man waiting." He
motioned him on, and they all followed.

It would have been too harsh had he not asked Flora if she felt
perfectly recovered from her sprain; and in formal politeness Mr.
Earnscliffe was scrupulously exact; so he said in a cold tone, "I hope,
Miss Adair, that you do not feel any lingering inconvenience from your
sprain?"

"None in the least, I thank you, as you will see by my dancing at
Mrs. Elton's on Friday night. Helena told me that we were to have the
pleasure of meeting you there."

"Yes, I promised Miss Elton to go; she said it was a farewell."

"So it is; they leave Rome on the Monday after. We met them yesterday
evening on the Pincio after their visit to the Catacombs."

"Indeed!" He turned away, and seemed intent upon looking at the
frescoes and listening to the guide's remarks about them.

Flora was gazing abstractedly at Domenichino's Deliverance of
Prometheus, as she leaned back against the wall opposite. She could
not rid herself of the chill which she felt from the moment that Mr.
Earnscliffe had shaken hands with her, and yet had she been asked why,
she could not have given a very clear answer. But who does not know
that vague sensation of unhappiness which the manner of one dear to us
sometimes causes us to feel, although there may not be any positive
or, at least, any definable change in it such as an indifferent person
could see?

How well she remembered what Mr. Earnscliffe had said to her about this
Farnese Palazzo. All that he had told her of its founder, Alessandro
Farnese, afterwards Paul III.; of its architecture, of its frescoes;
how it had descended to the royal family of Naples, and eventually
become their refuge and dwelling-place in exile. But how different he
was on this day. He hardly noticed or spoke to her, save those few
words of ordinary civility about her accident. She thought it was too
provoking of him to be so changeable, but the next moment she felt
indignant against herself for harbouring even a suspicion against him,
and thought it was but natural that a clever man like him should not
care greatly to talk in such a place to one like herself. When she was
a prisoner it was otherwise; then he thought himself in some measure
bound to try to amuse her; but that was all past, and his manner to her
now was just what she ought to have expected.

Nevertheless, Flora wished that they had not come there then. Suddenly
it struck her that it was all that tiresome Mr. Lyne's fault; if he had
not met them and said that the king and queen were away, perhaps they
might not have come.

The _custode_ seemed at length to think that they had spent sufficient
time in admiring the frescoes, and he led them into the two large
halls looking on the Piazza, where there are a few remnants of the
fine collection of statues which this palace once contained. Mr.
Lyne appeared to be much struck with the gigantic group hewn out of
the stone taken from the basilica of Constantine, and representing
Alessandro Farnese crowned by Victory. He was most anxious to hear all
about Moschino, whose work it is, and expressed his wonder that he had
never heard of it before.

Mr. Lyne will, doubtless, be considered to be a very strange lover,
since he was so occupied with the statues whilst in the company of
his beloved; but it should be remembered that Mr. Lyne never allowed
himself to be carried away by feeling, that he always did the right
thing at the right time; and he considered that in visiting celebrated
places and galleries of art the object was to learn as much as he
could; afterwards he could afford to please himself, and be devoted to
the lady of his choice. At last his questionings came to an end, and
the guide, seeing that the rest of the party were quite ready to go,
moved towards the door.

Would Mr. Earnscliffe walk home with them? This was a question upon
which Flora had been pondering for the last ten minutes, and she would
have given a great deal to have had it satisfactorily answered. When
they got into the Piazza she said, "Mamma, we can return by the Gesù,
and inquire for our friend there who has been so ill."

"That was a happy thought, Flora. I am delighted to call to-day, as I
fear that to-morrow we may not have time to do so. Do we say good-bye
to you here, Mr. Earnscliffe?"

"No, as far as the Corso my way is the same as yours," he replied,
after a moment's hesitation.

"Then come, George," said Mrs. Adair, turning to Mr. Lyne; "let us
lead, and you must be my guide, for I do not know the way."

They went on, and Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora followed. She wondered
whether he would now talk to her as he used to do, or remain in his
silent mood. She need not to have feared; he was far too well bred to
make a lady feel any such _gène_ while walking with him, but she hoped
in vain that he would be the same towards her as he had been three
weeks before.

He spoke of the topics of the day, of the ceremonies of Holy Week, and
of the Easter rejoicings. It was very dull work; and when she saw that
he was determined not to glide into their former intercourse, she gave
up making any effort to sustain the conversation. She knew that he took
no pleasure in speaking of ceremonies and illuminations, and as _she_
certainly did not, why, she thought, should she bore him or herself
with such things?

Nor was he slow to discover that she did not care to continue their
conversation, and, as is so often the case, he fixed upon a wrong
motive as the cause of her silence. He supposed that she was thinking
of the change which was about to take place in her life. He did not see
how different his own manner was to her, but concluded that all he had
seen on that day was proof of what Mary Elton had told him; and Flora's
seeming indifference towards Mr. Lyne only made him think still less
kindly of her, as it showed that she had not the grace even to pretend
that she loved him, although she was ready to marry him.

What a run of ill-luck there was against Flora on that day! Everything
seemed to confirm what he had heard; yet how different was the reality!

When they reached the Gesù, she said, "I suppose you have had a very
dull walk. I know I was very silent, but you must feel that it was
_your_ fault. I saw that you did not care to talk.... Here we are,
however, at our destination, so good-bye."

She held out her hand, and as he took it he answered, "I do not quite
understand what you mean?"

Flora smiled, turned away, and went up the steps as Mrs. Adair and Mr.
Lyne wished him good-day. He stood for a moment until he saw them go
into the convent, and then walked slowly away murmuring to himself,
"What could she have meant by saying, 'You must feel that it was
_your_ fault?'... The look, too, which accompanied those words seemed
to ask some question.... But what is all this to me?"

He quickened his pace, and soon arrived at his apartments in the Piazza
di Trajana.

CHAPTER VII.

On Friday morning--the morning of the Eltons' _soirée_--Marie Arbi, who
had been with the Adairs since the Monday before, was in a state of
great excitement, mingled with no little terror, about her first ball.
Flora could but laugh at the timid fears of the world's novice, for she
knew that her prettiness and simplicity would amply cover any want of
self-possession, and, indeed, render her doubly attractive.

One moment Marie was in ecstasies of delight with her dress and wreath;
the next she would rush into the drawing-room to Flora and ask a score
of questions. Then she would declare that she knew she should be
horribly _gauche_, and looked half ready to cry over her anticipated
awkwardness. But a word from Flora about her toilette would set her
off again into a rapture of admiration, and, with all a Frenchwoman's
delight in the details of dress, she would descant on each particular
of it. All this made Flora think of her own first ball, and of how
comparatively indifferent she was about it, although she really was
fond of dancing; but she had never possessed any of that almost
childish gaiety which characterised Marie.

A few minutes before nine o'clock the important business of dressing
was satisfactorily completed, and the young ladies went into the
drawing-room to Mrs. Adair, who was already dressed. Both the girls
were in white. Marie's dress was trimmed with lily of the valley
and pink convolvulus; she wore a wreath to match this trimming, and
necklace and earrings of topaz. Flora's was looped up with bunches
of scarlet geraniums, and a spray or two of the same flowers gleamed
through the masses of her hair; she wore a band of pearls round her
neck, and earrings to correspond. Marie was, according to all rule, by
far the prettier of the two, as she stood there with her black eyes
dancing merrily, and her full red lips parted in eager expectation;
her short plump figure harmonised, too, so well with the child-like
expression of her face. Flora looked well also, and her slighter and
more delicately formed figure gave to her a grace which was quite her
own.

"I hear the carriage!" Flora exclaimed, "so let us put on our cloaks.
Mrs. Elton said that the music was to begin exactly at nine, and it is
striking that now; so we shall not be too early at all events."

At the door of the brilliantly lighted saloon they were received by
Mrs. Elton and Mary. Did the latter feel a qualm of conscience as she
greeted Flora, after she had been plotting so against her? No change of
countenance betrayed any such feeling. She looked as usual, calm and
dignified, as she motioned to her to pass on, saying, "A little farther
on in the room you will meet Charles and Helena, who will find seats
for you."

The entrance of the Adair party was followed by that of Mr. and Mrs.
Penton. She looked queen-like in her training dress of black velvet,
which well displayed her majestic bearing; and the smallness of her
head was rendered especially remarkable by the way in which her hair
was dressed. It was combed back plainly from her forehead, plaited up
tightly at the back, and surmounted by a magnificent tiara of pearls.
Her fair round-faced husband looked the character of a gentleman farmer
quite as well as she did that of a queen. Immediately afterwards came a
number of gentlemen, and among them were Signor Lanzi, Mr. Mainwaring,
Mr. Caulfield, Mr. Lyne, and Mr. Earnscliffe.

The music-room, which was rather small, was quite full, and the room
next to it nearly so, when Helena went to ask her mother if she wished
the music to begin. On her way, however, she discreetly managed to pass
close to Mr. Caulfield, and to exchange a few words with him. He cast
a questioning glance towards the place where Mrs. Elton stood, as if
to ask if there was any hope of her looking favourably on him. Helena
shook her head and turned away. In a few moments she returned with her
mother and Mary, and the music began.

There were but short intervals between the pieces, so by a little
after ten, as the last notes of one of Beethoven's sonatas died away,
they were answered from the other end of the room by the inspiriting
tones of the Overland Mail Galop. This was a special favourite of
Helena's, and she had asked the leader of the band to commence with it;
accordingly a few bars of it were played; then there was a pause in
order to give the couples time to form.

What a scene of confusion there was at that moment! The girls looking
anxiously to see if the _right_ one was coming to them; the gentlemen
rushing about seeking for those to whom they were, or wished to be,
engaged. Gradually the ladies and their partners paired off into the
dancing-room, so that single couples could easily be distinguished.

Mr. Lyne, in his usual deliberate way, waited until the first rush was
over, and then he went up to Flora and asked for the honour of her hand
for this galop.

"I am not engaged," she answered; "but you will oblige me very much if
you will dance with my friend instead of with me. She is a little shy,
as it is her first ball, so it would be pleasant for her to begin by
dancing with one whom she has met before. You will do this, will you
not?" and she looked up smilingly at him.

"I would do much more than that to oblige Miss Adair," replied Mr.
Lyne, and he offered his arm to Marie. She hesitated to accept Flora's
partner, but the latter insisted.

As they went into the dancing-room Flora looked after them with an
expression of amusement at Mr. Lyne's answer, which she supposed was
meant to be very complimentary, but which was in reality just the
contrary; implying as it did, that to give up a dance with her was a
very slight sacrifice indeed.

Meanwhile Mary and Helena Elton went about to see if all their friends
had partners. They did not adopt the fashionable style of leaving
people to get on as well as they can whether they know any one or not.

Mr. Caulfield was watching Helena with longing eyes. She had told him
that she could not give him the first dance, so he felt half inclined
to do the _doloroso_, by not dancing it at all, and he really thought
that he could have refrained had the band played anything but that
"Overland Mail." To stand still during such a galop was more than
nature could bear, so as he saw Helena going towards Flora with a man
"in tow," as he expressed it, to be introduced to her, he hastened in
the same direction, and said in a low voice as he passed her, "Well, if
I can't have you, I'll have the best dancer in the room," and the next
minute he was making his bow to Flora.

"Why did you not say, 'Miss Adair, I want you to dance with me _faute
de mieux_?'" she said laughingly, as she took his arm.

"By Jove, Miss Adair, I would rather have you for a partner than
_almost_ any one in the room; you do go the pace to such perfection!"

She blushed as she felt how humbling it was to be told by Mr. Caulfield
that he had chosen her for such a reason; but she knew that he meant
it as a very great compliment, and therefore she thought it was
unreasonable to be annoyed at it, so she answered lightly, "Well, let
us begin."

Mary had asked Mr. Earnscliffe if he would allow her to get him a
partner, but he replied, "Thank you, I very seldom dance; especially
these dances." He bowed, turned away, and joined some gentlemen who
were talking in another part of the room. Mary looked annoyed, and
murmured to herself, "He might at least have asked me to dance a
quadrille, if only from mere politeness. Ah! I see that I shall never
succeed, but, at least, I need no longer to fear a rival in Flora
Adair. My plan is working well," and a sinister expression came into
her eyes as Flora passed with Mr. Caulfield.

The dancing continued with unflagging spirit until supper was
announced, and even then it ceased only because the musicians went
away to take some refreshments. Helena, however, considered that it
would be too sad to lose such a delightful opportunity of dancing and
flirting with Mr. Caulfield, so she managed to induce some obliging
lady to sit down to the piano and play a valse. In a moment his arm was
round her waist and away they twirled, enjoying intensely the pleasure
of stealing a march on the "dragoness," as Mr. Caulfield irreverently
persisted in calling Mrs. Elton. Their example was at once followed by
all the lovers of dancing, who always prefer the supper dances to any
others.

Marie seemed to have got over her shyness, and was quite a focus of
attraction; her _naïveté_, and even her blunders in English, attracted
every one, and she became a general favourite.

"Time flies when it should linger most," and Mr. Caulfield thought that
this was the truest of all things, as Mary came to tell them that the
people were coming back from supper. There was a deep recess in one of
the rooms, in which was an ottoman. Here they had seated themselves,
and were making plans for bright hours to come. For the moment they
appeared to have forgotten the existence of a "dragoness" who might
possibly prevent the realisation of visions so fair, but it was
forcibly called to their recollection by Mary, who exclaimed, "Helena,
how can you be so imprudent? In another moment mamma would have caught
you!"

"Not while I have such a dear, thoughtful prig of a sister to guard
me," replied Helena, as she jumped up and kissed her; then waving her
hand to Mr. Caulfield, she glided away humming, "_Addio del passato bei
sogni sorridenti_." A few minutes afterwards she was seen walking into
the supper-room leaning on Mr. Mainwaring, and looking as demure as
possible.

To Mary's surprise and delight Mr. Earnscliffe came and asked her to
dance the next quadrille with him. As she took his arm she saw Mr.
Lyne and Flora Adair coming towards them, and said, "Let us ask them to
form part of our set."

He bowed and led her to them, but he did not speak. Mary said, "I am so
glad that I chanced to see you, Flora; will you be our _vis-à-vis_?"
The stereotyped answer, "With pleasure," was given, and they took the
places opposite to each other. How often in the world are these two
words uttered mechanically and untruly.

Mary was looking unusually pleased and animated. Not so was Flora.
She felt puzzled about Mr. Lyne. His marked attention to her during
the whole evening, and his--for him--devoted manner, made her wonder
if so wild an idea as his imagining himself in love with her could
have got into his head; but she rejected such a supposition as absurd,
and persuaded herself that his increasing attention to her might be
the effect of champagne, which would quickly wear off, and that it
would be best to treat it lightly, so she tried to appear gay and
amused. She little knew how closely she was watched, and how false an
interpretation was given to whatever she did.

In taking the usual promenade after the dance, they passed the recess
where Mary found Helena and Mr. Caulfield after supper. Pointing to
the seat, Mr. Lyne said to her--

"Will you rest here a little, Miss Adair?"

"Thank you; I would rather rejoin mamma."

"Nay, Miss Adair, I beg you to grant me a few moments."

She did not see how she could well refuse, so she allowed him to take
her to the ottoman. She seated herself, and he took the place beside
her. How she wished to say to him, "If you are going to propose to me,
I pray you not to do so, and it will save us both pain." But of course
she could say nothing of the kind, and must leave him to take his own
course; she had already done all that she could to avoid the threatened
conversation. He did not keep her long in suspense, but plainly and
directly asked her to be his wife.

"Oh, Mr. Lyne!" she answered, "I am so sorry that this should have
occurred; for although I feel deeply gratified by your preference, I
would much rather not have had that gratification than be obliged, as I
am, to inflict the pain of a refusal upon you."

"Pray hear me for a moment, Miss Adair," he exclaimed, eagerly,
"before you give so decided an answer. Your mother has given her full
approbation to my suit, and my family would be enchanted to receive
you among them; for myself, I can truly say that I have the highest
possible respect and admiration for you, and you have always appeared
to like me. I would do everything to make you happy--agree to anything
you could desire. What obstacle, then, is there to your marrying me?"

She looked at him in amazement, and was on the point of giving him
rather a sharp answer; but remembering that more or less a refusal must
give him pain, she felt that it would be unwomanly not to make hers as
gentle as she could; therefore she determined to restrain herself, and
after a little hesitation she said--

"There is one grand objection, Mr. Lyne. I feel no love for you, and I
could not do you the wrong of marrying you without loving."

"Oh! if that's all, I'll forgive you the wrong. I will try to win
your love, and I am too sensible to want that sort of romantic love
about which some people rave. Indeed, I do not think it in the least
necessary to the happiness of marriage."

This was too much for Flora; she forgot all her good resolutions, and
retorted with heightened colour, "I dare say _you_ do not; you probably
think, as I have heard good people in France say, that _l'amour n'est
rien dans le mariage, c'est une affection--un dévouement chrétien,
qui doit exister entre les époux, et_ cet _amour ne vient qu'après le
mariage_. Perhaps you would be satisfied with that sort of thing!"

No sooner had the words escaped her than she felt heartily ashamed
of herself, and she added, humbly, "Forgive me; I have been rude and
ungrateful. I have no excuse to offer save that I was carried away
by momentary excitement. This is a subject upon which I feel very
strongly, and I cannot, as I know many estimable people do, look upon
marriage as a sort of half religious, half social duty, for which
suitable position and fortune, without any prominent incompatibility
of disposition, are the only requisites. If I have ever misled you
as to my sentiments towards you, believe me, Mr. Lyne, that it was
unintentional. I never thought of you in any other way than as a
friend, and, until this evening, I never imagined that you otherwise
regarded me--surely we are too unsuited to each other for anything
more."

"Yes, I do feel now that we _are_ unsuited to each other; yet I never
admired you more than I do at this moment. As to your having misled me,
the fault, if any, was all my own. I might have seen how reluctant you
were to grant me these few minutes, and yet I would persevere, so you
are perfectly free from blame. Whatever pain you may have caused me I
freely forgive. Remember also, Miss Adair, that should you ever want a
friend you will find a true one in me."

"Of that I am sure."

He looked gratified, pressed her hand, and murmured, "God bless you!"
and then left her.

Flora felt so unhappy that it was difficult for her to prevent the
tears which stood in her eyes from falling. She had fortunately refused
to engage herself for the dance which was now beginning, pleading a
wish to rest before the cotillon which was to follow it, so she had a
little time to recover herself.

This conversation was not long in passing, yet, short as it was, Mr.
Earnscliffe had observed it,--he saw the parting, and the tears in her
eyes afterwards, yet he never doubted that she had accepted Mr. Lyne,
and he thought to himself, "What! even in the first moments, is she
bewailing the sale which she has made of herself, and the wrong she is
doing to him? I suppose she is not quite hardened as yet in her _rôle_,
and that it costs her a few tears to act it--soon enough it will become
a second nature to her!... What soulless things women are! And I was
once so silly as to worship them; but I was cured of that folly long
ago. This is only another proof of their worthlessness; and that, too,
in one of whom I felt half inclined to believe better things. How she
excited my curiosity as we walked home the other day from the Farnese
Palace! I could not comprehend her.... Well, at all events I will go
and say good-bye to her, since we may perhaps never meet again."

As soon as he got close to where she was sitting he said, "I am come to
bid you farewell, Miss Adair. I leave Rome to-morrow."

She started as she heard his voice, for she had been leaning her head
upon her hand, and had not seen him approach, and now, as he took the
vacant place beside her, she looked rather confused, and felt very
much at a loss for something to say, so she repeated, "Leaving Rome
to-morrow?"

"Yes, I am going to the neighbourhood of Naples; it is so beautiful
there in spring."

"I should imagine so; spring is beautiful everywhere, and in Southern
Italy it must be doubly so."

He did not answer, and, to break the silence, she added, "We go in the
very opposite direction--northwards. I am longing to see Venice."

"But you do not go immediately," he rejoined; looking at her
inquiringly, "you remain here some time longer, and then you begin
_your_ travels?" he laid a slight stress on _your_.

"No, we go at once. What should we remain here for when all our
friends are gone? New scenes give variety, and--for the time at
least--interest."

Her tone was sad and listless as she said this, and again he fixed his
full blue eyes on her face with a meditative and a questioning gaze.
She wondered what he meant by looking at her thus, as if he would read
her very thoughts, and feeling that it was most unpleasant to be gazed
at in this way, she exclaimed, "Mr. Earnscliffe!"

He was on the point of saying, "And Mr. Lyne goes with you, of course?"
when the sound of his name, uttered by Flora, arrested his words: had
they been spoken, he must have discovered his mistake; but, alas! they
were not, and she continued, "Will you take me to mamma?"

This annoyed him, yet he stood up at once and offered her his arm. As
they went she said, "I must thank you once more and for the last time,
as we say good-bye to-night, for all your kindness to me when my ankle
was sprained,--it was so good-natured of you to condescend to come and
lighten my close imprisonment. I cannot say how grateful I feel to you."

"There is no cause for gratitude, Miss Adair; I did nothing for you
beyond what I was bound in justice to do." It was now her turn to feel
annoyed. "Besides, I enjoyed those hours very much."

"Wonderful! I thought you hated women too much to derive pleasure from
their society?"

"Hate them, Miss Adair!--ah! I should do anything but that if I could
only trust them. How different this life would be if they were only
true! if they were not, as the best of them are--even those to whom it
costs a pang to act so--ever ready to sell themselves for wealth and
position."

Flora became scarlet. Mr. Earnscliffe noted that vivid flush, and
considered it to be caused by consciousness of guilt, whilst in reality
it was from a sense of injured innocence. A few minutes before she had
been called upon to decide between wealth and possible dependence and
humiliation--humiliation in the eyes of the world--and she had chosen
the latter; but it was useless as a proof of the falseness of that
sweeping accusation--in honour she was bound not to speak of it. She
waited until the rush of excited feeling had subsided a little, and
then said quietly--

"I _know_ that you are wrong, Mr. Earnscliffe--we are not _all_ ready
to sell ourselves; there are many women who would refuse any man, no
matter what advantages he could offer them, if they did not really love
him."

His eyes flashed and he exclaimed, "You!" but he stopped suddenly,
changed his tone, and added in his usual cold, polite manner, "Here is
Mrs. Adair; but I see that she is speaking to some one, so I will not
interrupt her; and now allow me to wish you _Addio, e felice viaggio_!"

He held her hand for a moment, whilst he looked at her again with one
of those searching glances which had annoyed her before. Mrs. Adair
turned round just as he left her, and said, "Why, Flora, how tired you
look! Here is Marie as fresh and gay as ever!"

The gentlemen now came to claim them for the cotillon. Marie was
engaged to dance with Charles Elton, and Flora with Mr. Caulfield; but
Mrs. Adair said to him, "I really think that Flora ought not to dance
any more, she appears to be so tired."

Flora saw Mr. Caulfield's look of annoyance, and answered with a
smile--although it was rather a weary one if the truth must be
told--"Not so much so, mamma, that I cannot fulfil my engagement," and
she took Mr. Caulfield's arm.

At last the cotillon came to an end, and it was with a feeling of
relief at not being obliged to talk or dance any more that Flora
followed her mother down the stairs and got into their carriage, Marie
declaring that she wished the ball was going to begin again.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Eltons' ball, that ball to which our friends Flora Adair, Marie
Arbi, and the two Elton girls had looked forward with so much
eagerness, was over. Had it brought them pleasure or pain? To Helena
and Marie it had brought pleasure; but to Flora and Mary, pain. Mary
felt that, although she had succeeded in prejudicing Mr. Earnscliffe
against Flora, she had not advanced one step towards winning his
admiration for herself; and when Helena congratulated her on his having
danced with her--that being an honour which he did not often confer on
any one--she answered bitterly, "You mistake, Helena; Mr. Earnscliffe
danced with his hostess's eldest daughter, and not with Mary Elton!"

Yet the more the attainment of the object upon which she had set her
heart seemed remote, the more wildly did she long for it. To gain Mr.
Earnscliffe's love, or even to hinder another from possessing it, she
would stoop to any, even the most unworthy, means. Hers was a powerful
passion, but it was a passion for evil rather than for good; it was not
a passion of devotedness but of selfishness; she would sacrifice his
happiness to her love, and not her love to his happiness. Evidently
she did not know that a woman's happiness consists "in another's love
become her own." The song of Solomon represents the love of the Saviour
and His Church under the type of human love;--the Christian marriage
ceremony says, "Let a woman be subject to her husband in all things,
as the Church is subject to Christ;" and Saint Paul tells "wives" to
"be subject to their husbands as unto God!" It is in such submission,
and in such alone, that a woman's happiness consists. Short-sighted
people call this bondage, but it is that bondage in which alone is true
liberty!... To serve truly is indeed to reign!

"What?" we hear young ladies, ay, and old ones too, exclaim--"Are we
never to do what we like,--never to think of pleasing ourselves? A
curious notion of happiness indeed!" Nevertheless it is the only true
one. Woman was created to be "a help meet for man;" her ministry in
the world is one of love, and she can never be really happy save in
fulfilling the end for which she was created. A mere preference,
accompanied by calm affection and esteem, will never enable a woman
to be to her husband what the Church is to her Lord. It must be a
feeling such as Leibnitz speaks of when he says, "To love, is to place
our happiness in the happiness of another;"--and as an illustrious
French writer beautifully describes it, so beautifully that we would
not venture to translate it, and must be pardoned for quoting somewhat
at length in a foreign tongue--"L'amour ne s'arrête pas à l'acte
de choix, il exige le dévouement à l'être choisi. Choisir, c'est
préférer un être à tous les autres; se dévouer, c'est le préférer à
soi-même. Le dévouement, c'est l'immolation de soi à l'objet aimé.
Quiconque ne va pas jusque là n'aime pas. La préférence toute seule
n'implique en effet qu'un goût de l'âme qui a besoin de s'epancher
dans la cause d'où il sort, goût honorable et prècieux sans doute,
mais qui se bornant là n'aboutit qu'à se rechercher soi-même dans un
autre que soi. Si beaucoup d'affections s'arrêtent à ce point, c'est
que beaucoup d'affections ne sont qu'un egoïsme deguisé, on eprouve un
attrait, on s'y abandonne, on croit aimer, on a peut-être des lueurs de
l'amour veritable, mais l'heure du dévouement arrivée, on reconnait à
l'impuissance du sacrifice la vanité du sentiment qui nous préoccupait
sans nous posséder."

When a woman loves, she creates happiness, so to say, for herself
and for those around her, and obtains so much the greater recompense
the less she seeks it. In this submission she is immeasurably more
free than if she had no law but that of her own will, just as a true
Christian is more free than those who follow their own opinions, for
"where the law is, there is liberty."

All this was indeed a sealed fountain to Mary Elton; her idea of
happiness was not centred in "another's happiness become her own," but
in the triumph of her own unbridled will. Yet she was rather to be
pitied than blamed. The too popular code, alas! now-a-days is, that
anything like real ardent feeling is to be ruthlessly crushed down.
In this she was educated, and, being of a less impulsive disposition
than her sister, she succumbed more to this training. She was like
a vigorous young tree whose owner willed that it should grow in a
particular form, quite regardless of the one which nature intended it
to take, and for this purpose had bound and constrained it with what he
thought to be strong bands; but one day a strange hand cut one of those
bands, and at once all the others gave way: the tree then rebounded
from its constraint, and took a more natural form, and the trainer
found with dismay that it had grown wild and unmanageable. He had but
produced deformity; had he helped to develop the plant, and not tried
to force it from its natural bent, it would have grown in the beauty
of its own unity: under his hands it had become a deformed and an
unsightly thing!

Such, too, was Mary Elton. Her mother had tried to swathe her mind and
heart in bands of unnatural propriety and worldliness, and for a time
she seemed to have succeeded. Mr. Earnscliffe was the strange hand
which chanced to cut one of the bands, and thus caused all the others
to give way; then her natural strength of feeling burst forth, rank
and untrained. Had her mother carefully directed and not endeavoured
to crush this, it would have made her character as beautiful as it
was strong. Unfortunately Mrs. Elton had not done so, and the result
was, that in all probability nothing less powerful than that religion
of which Mary knows nothing could show her the difference between a
"disguised egotism," in which one only seeks one's self in another, and
love, which is an immolation of one's self to the beloved object.

We must leave her alone with her gloomy retrospections, which were
not the less dark and unpleasing from the partial success which had
attended her planning. She was haunted by the consciousness of having
acted falsely as well as meanly towards Flora; for she as well as Mr.
Earnscliffe had seen the parting between her and Mr. Lyne, and she
judged it more truly than he had done. Since then she felt certain--if
indeed she ever doubted it--that Mr. Lyne would never be more than a
friend to Flora; yet she had done all she could to make Mr. Earnscliffe
believe that they were to be married, and she knew that in this she had
been successful.

Helena's remembrances of the ball were as bright as Mary's were dark.
She dwelt with heartfelt delight on all the enjoyment which it had
afforded her, and, as Mary listened to her, her smile grew brighter and
more genial than usual. Her protecting affection for her sister was the
one virtue amidst many faults--the one feeling from which she could
draw unalloyed pleasure.

A contrast not altogether dissimilar might have been witnessed between
Flora and Marie. The latter was all animation, and related with
infinite zest her adventures of the previous night; while the former
spoke but little, and appeared tired and weary. She could not help
feeling that she had behaved somewhat unkindly towards Mr. Lyne. She
was angry with herself for not having sooner seen that he meant to
propose, and that she had not taken care to prevent his doing so;
still, were she in a palace of truth, she would probably have been
obliged to confess that it was not the remembrance of the pain which
she had inflicted on Mr. Lyne that weighed most heavily upon her
spirits, but rather Mr. Earnscliffe's conduct to herself. Save to shake
hands with her in the beginning of the evening, he had not approached
her until just before the cotillon when his manner and words appeared
so unaccountable to her.

We have already said that there is no greater pang than that of being
misunderstood by one whom we esteem, and the sharpness of the pang
increases with the strength of our affection. Thus Flora felt most
bitterly the injustice to herself which Mr. Earnscliffe implied when he
said how different it would be if women were not--as even the best of
them are--ready to sell themselves to the first man who asks them to
marry him, if he can give them wealth or position. It was certainly not
a pleasant farewell, and she sighed as she thought that probably she
would never know again such pleasure as she had felt in his society.
Even the memory of it was more to her than any other actual enjoyment
had been; nevertheless she did not deem herself in love. A day after a
ball seemed to possess a fatality for Flora; she found this day a very
sad one, yet the time may come when, by comparison with others, she
may perhaps think it had brought her happiness.

Fortunately for her their approaching departure from Rome, and the
preparations necessary for it, did not leave her much time for
brooding. As usual, the week after Easter saw Rome thinning rapidly.
Some of our acquaintances were going to the south, others to the north:
for the former were bound the Eltons, Pentons, Mr. Lyne, Mr. Caulfield
and Mr. Earnscliffe, and for the latter the Blakes and the Adairs.

On the Tuesday after the ball, at seven in the morning, a large
travelling carriage stood before the door of the Adairs' apartments. It
was open, and in it was seated Mrs. Blake. Mina was in the cabriolet,
and her uncle, Mr. Vincent Blake, who had joined them a few days before
on his way from the East, and who was to return with them to Ireland,
was standing on the flags inspecting the packing of the luggage. The
Adairs were to complete the party; and as soon as they came down, Mr.
Blake hurried them into the carriage with Mrs. Blake--that is, Mrs.
Adair and Marie. Flora was to go in the cabriolet with Mina; and having
handed her up, and taken his own seat beside the coachman, he gave the
word to start; the whip was flourished, and off they went, the wheels
rattling noisily over the pavement to the merry accompaniment of the
bells round the horses' necks.

At the Porta del Popolo they were obliged to halt, in order to have
their passports examined. Mr. Blake got down, and went into the office.
During the delay which this caused, Mina and Flora stood up to take
"one last long look" at Rome, that city which, it is said, few--even
of those who have suffered there--ever leave without a feeling of
regret and a desire to return. It is a strange fascination which Rome
possesses even for those who are aliens within her walls! We know how
one of the most celebrated of these apostrophises her:--

    "O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
    The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
    Lone mother of dead empires! and control
    In their shut breasts their petty misery."

If Rome is so dear to those who regard her only as a standing record of
a mighty past, what must she be to those to whom she is not merely a

    "Lone mother of dead empires,"

but a living mother of a living world--the heart, the centre, the
capital of Christendom itself!

Mina and Flora were fond of Rome for both of these reasons. Flora
loved it especially as the scene of the happiest hours she had ever
known, and so she could not leave it without a feeling of sadness and
a longing to return. How often do we yearn to revisit places where we
have been happy, even when all around us has changed!

    "Cari luoghi, io vi trovai
    Ma quei dì non trovo più!"

After a few moments Mr. Blake reappeared with the passports all
in order. A _scudo_ has a particularly accelerating effect on the
movements of Roman officials. At length they bade adieu to Rome, yet
not to its memories and associations, for their route lay along the
far-famed Flaminian Way.

There is surely no such pleasant travelling for pleasant people as
vetturino! When it is through a beautiful country, in fine weather, and
with intimate friends, it is truly delightful. The irregular meals,
furnished from the contents of capacious baskets, the ever-changing
scene, the never-ending variety of flowers and foliage, the newness of
all around, the expectation of coming events, the evenings at country
inns, where the very "roughing" gives zest to a life so different from
the regularity of ordinary existence; the unflagging chatter, the
buoyant spirits,--these, yes, and a thousand other charms, tend to make
such happy journeys the sunniest of sunny spots in the pilgrimage
of life. As for the cabriolet, if a pair of lovers could only get
possession of it, it would be the perfection of human enjoyment--a sort
of moving elysium. Ah! this is a picture upon which we must not dwell,
or we might be teased by importunate wishes to have it realised, and so
become dissatisfied with the dull plodding routine of stay-at-home days.

Our new friend, Mr. Blake, was tall, stout, and nearly sixty, but
withal strong and healthy in appearance. His fair, florid complexion,
large features, and light blue eyes, and, indeed, the whole expression
of his countenance, gave strong indications of good-humour and
benevolence; nor was there any visible want in it of intellectual
power. He proved a most amusing and instructive companion, having
travelled over this route more than once before. He pointed out to
Mina and Flora the objects of note and of classic interest, quoted
scraps from the Latin poets, which he rendered into extempore English
for them. The position of Civitta Castellana called forth his loudest
praises, and he talked much of the days when it was the proud capital
of the Valisci, who dared to contend with Rome herself, even in the
days of her warlike glory; and he made them laugh heartily over the
story of Camillus and the schoolmaster. Some years before, Mr. Blake
had spent a few days at Civitta Castellana, exploring the beautiful
neighbourhood with some friends, and he related many anecdotes of their
excursions, declaring that there were few things more enjoyable than
such excursions made in agreeable company.

The girls assured him that it was not necessary to impress _that_ upon
their minds, as they could easily believe how delightful it would be
so to wander about in such beautiful scenery. To make it perfect, they
said, there should be a Valerie de Ventadour, and an Ernest Maltravers
to re-people each scene for her with the heroes and legends of old,
to unroll before her the lore of the ancient historians and poets,
and thus to light it up again with a light once its own. And Flora
laughingly added--

"Now, Mr. Blake, you will be obliged to play Ernest Maltravers to one
of us."

"Indeed, young lady! and do you mean to imply that 're-peopling some
lonely scene for you, with the heroes and legends of old, unrolling
before you the lore of the ancients, and thus lighting it up with a
light once its own,' would be at all the same thing done by a rough,
grey-headed old man, as by an Ernest Maltravers? If so, I am afraid
I must say that you are a sad deceiver. Now, I'll lay a wager on it
you are thinking of some one who could play Ernest Maltravers to your
Valerie de Ventadour, very much to your satisfaction?"

Mr. Blake chuckled with delight as he saw Flora get red and turn away
her head.

Thus the day passed quickly away, and about five in the evening they
arrived at Civitta Castellana, where they were to sleep on the first
night of their journey.

It took them about six days to travel from Rome to Florence by this
route. Were we to follow them step by step, we should be writing a
guide-book and not a story. Nevertheless, we cannot pass by in silence
two such spots as the Falls of Terni and Assisi. Byron says that the
view of the falls either from above or below is worth that of all
the cascades and torrents of Switzerland put together. The Staubach,
Reichenfels, are rills in comparative appearance. Who could forget his
description of the contrast between the "giant element leaping from
rock to rock with delicious bound," and the lovely smiling valley by
which the falls are surrounded? It is indeed

    "Love, watching madness with unutterable mien."

Then the church of Assisi, with all its wealth of interest! To the
lover of the picturesque, of art, or of religion, it has special
attractions. Dante sings the loveliness of its site; Cimabue and
Giotto's works adorn its walls, and mark the progress of painting; and
Saint Francis throws over it a halo which dims the glory of poet and
artist, and makes Assisi--for those who know and love his life--another
holy land. Such is the creative power of charity or love. Centuries
ago, Saint Francis died in self-imposed poverty and privation, barely
covered with the cloak of another; yet hardly had the grave closed
over him, when a structure, matchless even in Italy, was built in his
honour, and the precious germs of love and self-sacrifice which he
planted in the hearts of his spiritual children went on fructifying
until his Order spread itself throughout Christendom, and now blesses
the world almost in spite of itself.

Our friends thought that if this route could boast of Assisi alone, it
would have been almost unrivalled; but Assisi was only its crowning
point. It traverses a track of country, for upwards of two hundred
miles, where beauty, history, and poetry combine to give a charm to all
around. The vale of Clitumnus and its stream--

    "Haunt of river nymph!"

the lake of Thrasimene, where Hannibal and his swarthy hosts revelled
in their sanguinary victory over the brave Flaminius; the towns perched
on mountain-tops, and surrounded by deep romantic ravines, where still
stand a ruined arch or pier to tell of the massive bridges which once
spanned them--the colossal works of the mighty Romans.

It was altogether so delightful a journey, that to some at least of our
party it caused a feeling of regret when about six o'clock on Sunday
evening they reached the top of the hill of San Donato, and for the
first time looked upon _Firenze la bella_, and the beautiful view over
the valley of the Arno. They quickly descended to the Porta san Nicolo,
by which they entered the city--crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, drove
along the Lung' Arno, passing the arcades of the Uffizi, and the Piazza
di Santa Trinita, and drew up at one of the hotels which face the
river. And here, in beautiful Florence, let us leave them to repose.

CHAPTER IX.

On the morning after their arrival our travellers--the younger ones
especially--were all impatience to see something of the fair city of
Florence, so famed, moreover, for the beauty of its position; and the
scene, as they looked from the windows of the hotel, inclined them to
join in singing its praises.

The fine quay of the Lung' Arno; the river itself flowing along calmly,
and glittering beneath the sun's bright rays; the hill on the opposite
side with its olive-trees and gardens, relieved here and there by an
imposing building, were all beautiful seen from a distance. The narrow
dusty roads between high walls, the faded and dried-up appearance of
all around, are then hidden; but a closer view raises a sigh for the
lovely lanes with their flowery hedges, and the fresh green verdure
of our own dear country, or even of the neighbourhood of Rome, where
the dampness of the climate counteracts the effect of the scorching
sun, and prevents, in some degree, the washed-out look which is so
striking everywhere about Florence. When our friends come to explore
that which looks so pretty from the hotel windows, they may, perhaps,
be tempted to think that the beauty of the country round Florence has
been overrated, and, were it not rash to say so, even to prefer the
charms of some of the other towns which they passed through on their
way from Rome. They must, however, visit the "lions" within the gates
before they extend their excursions beyond them; and although it is
very possible that they may be slightly disappointed with the latter,
they certainly cannot be with the former. With such treasures as those
which adorn her galleries of the Uffizi, the Pitti, and the Belle Arti,
surely Florence could afford to be surnamed _la brutta_ instead of _la
bella_! Yes, she might well dispense with all exterior loveliness,
and pointing to the long line of celebrated men to whom she has given
birth, say, in the words of the mother of the Gracchi, "Here are my
jewels!" As it is, Nature too has been bountiful to Florence, for she
has undoubtedly given her a large share of beauty in addition to all
the rest.

Their first visit was to the Uffizi, and in the far-famed tribune
they saw, with wondering eyes, Mr. and Mrs. Penton, and her brother,
Mr. Barkley. As they shook hands with Mrs. Penton, and expressed
some surprise at seeing them there, since they supposed them to be in
Naples, she replied, "We did go to Naples on the evening after Mrs.
Elton's ball, and we spent a week there; then Edmund"--looking towards
Mr. Barkley, who was in another part of the room--"came to us from
Sicily; we sailed direct to Leghorn, and arrived here yesterday."

"You certainly have lost no time," said Mrs. Adair; "for we came
straight from Rome, and yet we only arrived yesterday. We travelled
however by the Perugia route, which is a long one, but oh, how
beautiful!"

"So every one says. We were, however, pressed for time, and therefore
we had to get over the ground as quickly as possible; but how we shall
ever tear Edmund away from Florence is more than I can say. You know my
brother, do you not?"

"Yes,--that is, Flora and I know him, but the Blakes have never met
him; he would, I am sure, find Mr. Blake a delightful companion; he
knows Florence so well, and is quite an enthusiastic admirer of its
works of art; in fact, he is a most desirable guide to them."

"Then please to ask him if I may introduce my brother; to make his
acquaintance would be quite a _trouvaille_ for Edmund." Mrs. Penton
was one of those who like to introduce French words into their
conversation. "Gerald and I, not being such worshippers of painting,
should be quite exhausted if we attempted to keep pace with him; it is
so fatiguing to look up at pictures for any length of time. We have
been here more than an hour already, and I do not want to be tired
before the afternoon, when we intend to drive in the Cascine to see the
_beau monde_ of Florence; so it will be an excellent thing if we can
get Edmund and Mr. Blake together, and then I can make Gerald take me
home."

Accordingly Mrs. Adair turned to Mr. Blake, who was near to them,
examining a picture, and said that Mrs. Penton wished to introduce
him to her brother; and Mrs. Penton added, "Edmund will have a double
pleasure in making your acquaintance, as Mrs. Adair tells me you are a
_connaisseur_ here."

"It is indeed true that I am a warm admirer of the great treasures
which Florence contains, but I have no claim to the title of
_connaisseur_. I shall be most happy, however, to be introduced to your
brother, and to give him any information I possess about the Florentine
galleries,--they are old acquaintances of mine, but strangers, I
suppose, to him."

"Yes, it is our first visit to Florence; we only arrived yesterday. Let
us go to Edmund!"

They crossed to Mr. Barkley, and his sister--laying her hand upon his
shoulder--said, "Edmund, I have just met Mrs. Adair, her daughter, and
some friends of theirs, whom I had the pleasure of meeting in Rome. Mr.
Blake knows Florence _à coeur_, I believe, and he kindly says that this
knowledge is at your service: Mr. Blake--my brother, Mr. Barkley."

They bowed, and Mr. Barkley said, "I am most grateful for your kind
offer, Mr. Blake, and shall gladly avail myself of it."

After a few moments of conversation Mrs. Penton said, "You must speak
to the Adairs, Edmund; but first tell me, where is Gerald?"

"I think he went into that room," pointing to the door on the left side
of the tribune.

"Will you then take me to my husband, Mr. Blake, while Edmund goes to
the Adairs?"

Mrs. Penton made this request in the manner and tone of voice of one
who feels certain that any man--even an old one--would be pleased at
being asked to walk with her.

Mr. Barkley was like Mrs. Penton, but handsomer, and, apparently,
of superior intelligence. His complexion was dark--if black hair,
eyebrows, and moustache, with grey eyes and a pale face, constitute
the dark style; his well-formed forehead was almost ivory-like in its
whiteness, his nose straight and finely cut, and his mouth small and
sufficiently expressive, without, however, being very remarkable for
that distinctive quality. He was just the sort of man that the greatest
number of women rave about,--quite a _héros de roman_, with his
tall, straight figure, and air of refinement. Nevertheless there was
something wanting; it was not a face which gave one the idea that its
possessor was a man of courage--we mean _moral_ courage, or fortitude;
nor did his fair and delicately-moulded hands redeem his face: they
were not hands formed for a firm grasp, or to hold on steadfastly
through time and difficulty. He was, however, generally considered to
be quite an Adonis, a lady-killer. Of this he was fully conscious, but
he had far too keen a sense of what is really worthy to be admired ever
to betray this consciousness in his manner or conversation; and towards
women he was almost chivalrous in his courtesy and deference,--another
reason, doubtless, why he was so great a favourite with them.

Meanwhile he went to speak to the Adairs, and was introduced to Mrs.
Blake, Mina, and Marie.

Mrs. Penton returned in a few moments with her husband and Mr. Blake,
and, addressing her brother, she said, "Edmund, Gerald and I are
going; but I suppose you will not come with us?"

"Nay; here is something more attractive," answered Mr. Barkley, with a
smile and a bow towards the three girls who were standing together.

"But you will come to drive in the Cascine, will you not? There will, I
suppose, be plenty of attraction for you there, in the youth and beauty
of Florence."

"Then you may depend upon me."

Did Mrs. Penton divine what her brother's wishes were? For she turned
to Mrs. Adair, and said, "We shall have a vacant seat in the carriage;
will you allow one of your young ladies to accompany us?"

"With pleasure."

"Then I will call at a little after four. But which of them am I to
have the honour of chaperoning?"

"Marie," replied Flora, quickly. "Mina and I are great walkers, and
shall probably go for a walk in the country with Mr. Blake."

Mr. and Mrs. Penton left the tribune, but the rest of the party
remained. Mr. Blake and Mr. Barkley agreed to go on the following day
to the Accademia delle belle Arti and also to San Marco. "I know a good
little Padre there," said Mr. Blake, "who will show us everything. He
and I are the best of friends, although I cannot help regretting his
blindness in matters of faith. And I dare say he has the same sort of
feeling towards me."

"No doubt he has," replied Mr. Barkley, laughingly; "and I, as you
probably know, side with the Padre."

"Oh, yes,--I know that you do; so I must be upon my guard, as you will
be two to one. But the ladies have gone on; we had better follow them."

They left the tribune, and went into the small rooms on the right-hand
side of it, and there they found the ladies. Marie and Flora were
standing together,--the former talking eagerly of the goodness of Flora
in wishing her to drive with the Pentons instead of herself. To all of
which Flora answered--

"I deserve no praise whatever, for I really do not care to go. I shall
be quite as much pleased to have a nice long walk, which would only
tire you. You don't know, Mignonne, how often an appearance of goodness
may spring from indifference. You may indeed enjoy your drive without
imagining that I have made any sacrifice whatsoever in not going."

Just then Mr. Barkley joined them, and asked what they were talking
about so earnestly?

"My share in the conversation," said Flora, "consisted in trying to
persuade Marie that I am not making any sacrifice in giving her my
place for the drive this afternoon,--indeed, as I have already told
her, I shall prefer a walk to driving up and down a public promenade,
with nothing but fashion to look at."

It is probable that an Adonis like Mr. Barkley found it rather
difficult to believe that any girl should prefer a walk with other
ladies, or, at least, with an old gentleman, to a drive in _his_
society; and he said, with a smile, "It is fortunate for our
vanity that at least one of you wishes to come out with us. We
shall do everything in our power to make it an agreeable drive to
Mademoiselle----I have not caught her name."

"Arbi," replied Flora.

"Thank you;" then turning to Marie, he continued--"Then, Mademoiselle
Arbi, we may expect to have the pleasure of your company this
afternoon?"

"_Oui, Monsieur_," replied Marie, blushing. Whenever she was eager
about anything, or particularly shy, as she was at that moment, she
spoke French.

Flora now moved on after the others, who had gone into the next room,
and Marie followed her as closely as possible, in terror at the thought
of having to keep up a _tête-à-tête_ talk with Mr. Barkley.

The conversation now became general, and naturally turned upon
painting; so, between talking of, and admiring, the many beautiful
works contained in the Uffizi, the hours sped on until past two
o'clock. It was then decided that they should go home for luncheon, and
take a rest before the fatigues of the afternoon began.

After leaving the gallery, they stopped to _flâner_ a little in the
Arcades. Mr. Barkley had succeeded very fairly in dispelling Marie's
shyness of him. He made her laugh merrily at his account of some of
his adventures in Sicily, and his ridiculous mistakes in the language,
which he then knew but slightly. His French, however, was perfect; and
this was to Marie a great boon. He purposely lingered at one of the
stalls, explaining something which he had pointed out to her, until
the others had got into the Piazza della Signoria; and having thus
managed that she should walk home with him, he exclaimed, "I declare
they are half way across the Piazza! What a hurry they are in! But do
not tire yourself; we shall easily keep them in sight, and that is all
we require. But that we _must_ do, or we should not find our way to our
hotels."

He took care, however, not to overtake them before they reached the
hotel, at the door of which they had to wait a minute or two for Marie.
When she and her cavalier did come up, Mr. Blake said, "Can you find
the road to your abode, Mr. Barkley; or shall I accompany you?"

"Thank you, it is so near that I cannot mistake my way. Good morning."

CHAPTER X.

At breakfast on Tuesday morning the plans for the day were talked over.
Mr. Blake began by saying, "I suppose you know, ladies, that I am
engaged to go with Mr. Barkley to the Accademia at eleven; but in the
afternoon I shall be at your service."

"Which is a polite intimation, uncle," said Mina, "that our company is
not wished for in the morning."

"Really, I never thought about your coming with us, for after we have
been to the Accademia we are to go to San Marco; and you know that
ladies are not permitted to pass the outer cloister. There's one of
your pretty Roman rules for you!"

"Not badly turned, uncle. I suppose that closing observation was
intended to excite our indignation, and so make us forget the truth
that you do not want us to go with you. But don't be afraid,--we shall
have no design upon you; indeed, before we came down we had agreed to
go to the Pitti."

"Then the morning is disposed of; and what do you mean to do in the
afternoon?"

"Mamma and Marie are going to drive with the Pentons," answered Flora,
"and as for the rest of us, we have not thought about what we shall do."

"Then you two girls had better come with me to San Miniato. The church
is well worth a visit, and the walk round the hill upon which it stands
is most lovely. Will you come also, Agatha?"

"Perhaps," replied his sister-in-law; "if I am not very tired after
the Pitti. _My_ going, however, is not a matter of any importance; the
girls can go with you whether I do or not."

"Well then, young ladies, I shall be ready for you at any time after
three; and now, adieu for the present."

The ladies remained some time longer at the breakfast table laughing at
Marie's animated description of the people whom she saw on the Cascine
on the day before, and at the theatre in the evening. She was most
enthusiastic in her praise of Mrs. Penton and her brother's kindness,
and asked naively if Englishmen--meaning natives of the United
Kingdom--were generally as handsome and as charming as Mr. Barkley,
adding that there were not any so nice at Mrs. Elton's ball.

"You think so, Mignonne, do you?" said Flora. "Well, I should say that,
had he been at Mrs. Elton's, he would not have been unrivalled, or
perhaps unsurpassed."

"But who den, Flore, was so seducing (_séduisant_) as he?"

"Oh! _I_ should say _this_ person; somebody else would say _that_
person; it is all an affair of taste, you know," answered Flora,
smiling at the question itself, and also at the _very_ literal
translation of _séduisant_, as she stood up and went to look out of the
window. Marie jumped up and followed her, put her arm round her waist,
and leaning her little curly head upon Flora's shoulder, she looked up
coaxingly at her and said, "Flore, will you not tell your Mignonne who
it is dat you have found better than Mr. Barkley _chez_ Madame Elton?"

"What a little goose you are, Marie. I did not speak of any one in
particular. I only said that he would not have been unrivalled. You
know--as I also said--that it is all a matter of taste. Helena Elton, I
dare say, would prefer Mr. Caulfield."

"Mr. Caulfield! But you are not of her advice, Flore?"

"_Opinion_ you mean, Mignonne, and not _advice_, which is the English
for _conseil_. For your satisfaction I am glad to be able to say that
I do not agree with Helena; and as you are going again to enjoy this
afternoon the society of the person who suits _your_ taste best, I
consider that you are a most enviable little being. But see, they are
all gone,--we must go also."

Marie held up her fair face for a kiss, which was cordially given, and
then they left the room.

The difference in their characters, as shown in their manner, was most
striking. Marie was shy in the simple acceptation of the word, but
she was not reserved. She knew nothing of Flora's bugbear--that dread
of importuning or wearying others. As soon as Marie had got over the
childish timidity which she always felt on a first acquaintance, she
was demonstratively affectionate. It never crossed her simple little
mind that her caresses might bore any one; so that whilst Flora would
stand at a distance from those whom she liked, longing to be near them,
yet afraid to go to them without a word or look which seemed to call
her, Marie would at once run to _her_ favourites, throw her arms round
their necks, and tell them how much she loved them, without stopping to
think whether they wanted her or not.

How Flora envied this simplicity, and wished that she had a little
more of it. It would have saved her so much pain; but it is one of
those things which cannot be acquired, at least by a person like Flora,
who could not summon up sufficient courage even to touch the hand of
any one whom she liked extremely, unless she were unmistakably made to
feel that it would give pleasure. Flora had said after reading Marie's
history, "We shall be such contrasts!" and so they were; but this
difference of disposition only seemed to make them greater friends.

But it is time for us to leave the ladies, and follow the two gentlemen
to the Accademia. As it was Mr. Barkley's first visit to Florence, he
had still most of Beato Angelico's masterpieces to see. He had indeed
seen his works, on the day before, at the Uffizi, and the "Crowning of
the Blessed Virgin," in the Louvre, was an old familiar friend to him;
but another treat was now in store for him, for Beato Angelico was his
master-painter.

On their way they talked of the different subjects from his pencil
which they were about to see, and especially of the "Descent from the
Cross" and the "Last Judgment." Mr. Barkley said that he meant to keep
these for a _bonne bouche_, and begged to be taken straight to il
Beato's "poem in painting," the "Life of our Lord." Mr. Blake could
not help rallying his friend a little about his desperate enthusiasm
for the _Frate_, which he thought somewhat extravagant.

"But here we are," he exclaimed, "so you will soon be gratified. I
shall, as you wish, take you straight to the 'Life of our Lord,' and
then leave you to your ecstasies for a time. When I come back, be
pleased to impart some of them to me."

Accordingly Mr. Blake left him to the contemplation of this august
history, and did not join him again for a considerable time, which he
spent in paying long visits to his favourite pictures. He was not at a
loss for occupation during this time, as a most varied experience and
a fair share of study had rendered him capable of really enjoying fine
paintings.

When he did at length return to Mr. Barkley, he found him at the
closing subject--the "Last Judgment;" not the great picture on that
subject, but an older one, and asked, "Well?"

"Well!" echoed Mr. Barkley, "this _is_ art indeed! Here we see that
the painter had a higher aim in view than that of displaying his own
talent in originality of design, or even correctness of outline. These
indeed have not been neglected, but they have been used only as means
to a great end, and that end was to teach a sublime lesson. Each of
these thirty-eight compartments is a study in itself, a study in which
the mind of the angelic painter speaks to us through his works, causing
us to know, and by knowing, to love something of 'the splendour of
unity'--the Beautiful itself. To produce this--you will agree with
me--is the highest triumph of art. Where this is not, what do we see
but the works of copyists, who portray, more or less well, what they
see with their mortal eyes?"

"I quite agree with you that we cannot rightly call anything a work
of real art which is not in some degree a creation, and a teacher,
whose purpose it is to draw us from the lower and material world to
the contemplation of higher things. But we must have a standard of
truth, and therefore I cannot altogether share in your admiration of
Angelico's 'History of our Lord,' as there are many things represented
in it for which we have no authority, and in some places the meaning
is obscure and unintelligible. Much of it seems to be inspired rather
by the mystic imagination of a pious monk than by the grand and simple
written record of our Saviour's life upon earth, the beauty of which
these paintings ought only to illustrate. When your favourite keeps
to this he is truly great, as in the 'Descent from the Cross,' for
instance."

"Ah, true! Will you forgive me if I say that you can hardly seize _all_
the speaking beauty depicted in this great history? I do not say this,
as you will believe, in any way to depreciate your judgment, but in
regard only to the _extent_ of your belief."

"I do not quite catch your meaning. Have we not an unerring standard to
direct us here?"

"The _letter_ of Scripture, no doubt?... Yes, you have _that_, but
you have it surely without the spirit. Moreover, you have, so to say,
dislocated yourselves from the family traditions of Christianity--from
the memory of Christendom; and having lost this, and therewith all
traditional intercourse with the past, you hopelessly seize upon our
first written records, and in them alone have you any knowledge or
faith. The living voice which from age to age has handed down every
detail of the glory of Christ and His saints, is silent for you. You
are strangers here, and these family records, which to us are so
precious, are the objects of your suspicion, are even rejected by you
as unworthy of belief; it is thus, I mean, that you are unable to seize
_all_ the speaking beauty depicted here."

"Would you have us then to accept as truth the wild fantasies of
individual painters?... It is far too much."

"Most assuredly not; that would, I should say, be to fall into another
snare like the very one which has already caught you. When I said
that you can hardly seize _all_ the beauty of il Beato's poem on our
Lord, my meaning was, that having rejected the recognised sources
of sacred Tradition, you can receive nothing but what is written;
although, by the way, even there it is said that 'there are also many
other things which Jesus did, which if they were written the whole
world itself could not contain the books that should be written.'
Think for a moment: if you so confine the works of art to the text of
Scripture, how greatly you limit and narrow their field, and how many
great pictures, which through ages Christendom has honoured as its
family heirlooms, you will be forced to condemn as false. You object
to the touching scene of Saint Veronica--to this exquisite painting
of Jesus carrying His Cross and meeting His blessed Mother on her way
to Calvary. Scripture does not say that He _did_ meet her; therefore,
to you it appears to be a deviation from truth; but these facts are
household words in Christendom, resting upon the highest of all moral
certainty--Christian Tradition. The spoken testimony of His chosen
companions and the dogmas of our faith, in harmony with the loving
memory of Christendom, hand down these family records to us with
holy and unerring care. You would hardly believe how jealous we are
of any mutilation of them. Numberless, however, would be the great
pictures which must thus seem to you to be false or unintelligible,
whilst to us they are rich in truth and supernatural meaning. I love
Saint Paul's cry, '_Be ye enlarged!_' You know not how much you lose
even of Scripture itself;--the very parables of our Lord, which, you
will remember, are not so to those 'to whom it is given to know,' are
parables indeed, or at very best but beautiful histories, to _you_."

"You are too hard upon us. I grant you that the principle of
limitation, in our sense, fully admitted and carried into practice,
would go far to strip our galleries of their treasures, and leave us
without connection with the past. I am a sincere lover of art, and I am
old enough to have the courage to confess to you that the consequences
of the proper application of such a principle terrify me. I frankly
acknowledge that it would hardly leave a monument standing of more than
a few centuries old, and how few, I fear even to say. I comfort myself
by the hope that the great storm has already past, and there I rest,
with the principle still in my belief, that you must not venture into
the work of God--Scripture itself,--there all is holy, because all is
Divine. The parables are far more to us--believe me--than beautiful
histories."

"Let me explain what I have expressed with, I hope, pardonable
enthusiasm. It is not a question, as you seem to suppose, of
_criticising_ the divine work, but of _appreciating_ it in a greater or
lesser degree. You will grant us, I think, the larger comprehension of
what was intended to be, to some, simply parables or riddles. In the
parable of the prodigal son, for instance, _we_ learn how God receives
repentant sinners. The young man leaves his father's house, and, in a
far country, wastes his substance in wrong-doing; he soon feels the
want of the _spiritual life_ which he has squandered away, and of which
there is a famine in that country. Still he cleaves to one of the
chief citizens there, who sends him to feed swine; but his hunger is
unappeased. At last he resolves to return to his father and confess his
error and his sin. His father runs to meet him while he is yet a great
way off, and falls upon his neck and kisses him. Then He says _to His
servants_, 'Clothe him quickly with the robe of innocence, put the ring
of adoption upon his finger, the shoes of safe direction upon his feet,
offer the Holy Sacrifice, and feed him with the food of life, for this
my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found!' Here,
we have Dogma, Tradition, and Scripture, harmoniously illustrating
this, as indeed all the other parables. To us they are neither riddles
nor beautiful histories, but sublime declarations and proofs of the
divinity of our faith, since to us--by our Divine teaching--'it is
given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of God.' Now how would
one of your painters portray this? Were he merely to represent it as
Scripture relates it, it would be simply a riddle; or did he attempt a
higher meaning, there would be evident discrepancy between the truth
of Scripture and your belief and practice. So that should he aim at
anything beyond drawing graceful figures and giving dramatic effect
to his picture, he would be forced to abandon the subject altogether,
or turn to us for its true illustration. So it is, and it is a very
momentous fact that no country fallen away from Christian unity ever
produces real artists; it may even outstrip all the rest in material
discoveries and progress--'the children of this world,' you know, 'are
wiser _in their generation_ than the children of light'--but it has
lost the Divine power of creation. Like Mirabeau to Barnave, we may
indeed say to each of them, 'There is no divinity in thee!' You may
find painters who can copy a dog to a hair, a blade of grass, a battle,
anything that the eye of man can see and measure; but you will never
find an Angelico where 'the evidence, the light, the splendour of
unity' is no longer intact."

"I have listened to you with all the admiration of an artist, although
with some patience, since I cannot admit your starting-point--namely,
that you have an unerring source of tradition and knowledge. There are
few subjects, however, in which I feel so wide an interest: so let us
return to it again on another occasion. We have forgotten time: it is
already one o'clock, and we ought to be with the Padre in half-an-hour,
as that is the best time for seeing the convent; and I suppose you
would not be willing to leave this gallery without having a look at the
two pictures which you said you would keep for a '_bonne bouche_?'"

"Certainly not. I must have a look, as you say--if nothing more. Let us
go to them."

If Mr. Barkley was pleased with the "Last Judgment," which closes the
"Life of our Lord," what must have been his delight with that later
one, and with the "Descent from the Cross?"

After a little time spent in admiring these two masterpieces, our
friends proceeded to San Marco, and found the Padre at home. He
received them most graciously, and took them over the convent,
sparing no trouble in showing Mr. Barkley everything of interest, and
especially the matchless frescoes of il Beato.

When they had made the tour of the convent, they were shown the relics
of Savonarola, the church, and its exquisitely illuminated choir books.
Having now seen all San Marco's treasures, they thanked the good Padre
for the great pleasure he had afforded them, and took an affectionate
leave of him.

As they walked home, Mr. Blake said--

"You will confess, I suppose, that the relics of Savonarola rightly
belong to us; that soaring spirit, who could not submit to injustice
and tyranny in the person of Alexander VI., and so became the
forerunner of the great emancipation of mind which was brought about
a century later. Savonarola is truly one of our most illustrious
forerunners and martyrs."

"His brother--our kind friend, the Padre--would not like to hear
you so slander him! The whole life of our great Dominican,--all his
teaching,--his public acknowledgment of the supremacy of the Pope,
accepting his absolution on the way to death,--all will rise up against
you. We have no lack of reformers of morals; but we have no reformers
of Divine dogmas amongst us. The life of the illustrious Savonarola has
yet to be written; but if you will read one, published not long ago
by Villari, and which is already in English, you will hardly have the
courage to talk of Savonarola as one of your 'forerunners and martyrs.'
He died as he lived, in the unity of the Christian faith."

Mr. Blake looked at his watch, and exclaimed--

"I declare it is three o'clock! and I promised to be at home by that
time. I had no idea it was so late!"

"Nor had I. So it seems that all our battling only made the time fly?"

"Indeed it did. I have seldom spent a shorter or a pleasanter morning."

"Thanks. Then I hope you will feel inclined to spend another in the
same way very soon."

"Shall it be to-morrow?"

"Most willingly! At the same time as to-day?"

"If you please. And now I must say good-bye, and hasten home to keep my
appointment with the young ladies."

"With many thanks."

CHAPTER XI.

Loitering amidst the artistic haunts of _Firenze la bella_, we seem to
have forgotten some of our Roman acquaintances, who, when leaving the
Eternal City, took the southern instead of the northern direction.

We know already that Naples, or its neighbourhood, was the Eltons'
destination; it was also that of the three gentlemen who played so
prominent a part at their ball. How strange it is that such a _trio_
should have fixed on going to the same place, each moved by motives so
unlike those of the others!

Mr. Earnscliffe went there because he wanted change of scene, and
thought Naples the most interesting;--Mr. Lyne, because it was a part
of his plan to visit the south of Italy before returning to France;
had Flora Adair accepted him, he would have done so with her, as his
bride; now he would do so alone, for he was far too methodical to allow
a disappointment to interfere with any of his arrangements;--Mr.
Caulfield's motive was to meet the Eltons, and he wished to get there
before them, in order that the "dragoness" might not be able to say he
had followed them.

Mr. Earnscliffe chose Capri. He liked boating excessively, and would
sometimes spend hours alone in his little craft, accompanied by a poor
fisherman called Paolo, whom he had engaged as his boatman, and who
interested him greatly by his free and amusing tattle. Mr. Earnscliffe
was fond of mixing in this way with the people in foreign countries.
Thereby he learned their habits and thoughts; and although among his
equals he was considered as haughty and proud, such thoughts were never
entertained of him by his inferiors. With them his generosity and
readiness to help any one in real distress, combined with an evident
determination not to let himself be imposed upon, caused him to be
truly liked and respected. He thought about difference of position and
inequality of fortune just in the same way as he did of the creation
around him--namely, that all was full of inexplicable mystery. Reason
told him that when he and Paolo came into the world there was no real
distinction between them; it appeared unaccountable why the one was
born in a wretched hovel and was only to have rags to cover him,
whilst the other first saw light in a luxurious chamber, and servants
waiting ready to serve him. He would often sit looking at Paolo,
as he lolled with careless grace in some part of the boat, singing
or reciting something with all the characteristic animation of his
country, and wondered what each would have been had their conditions
been reversed,--had Paolo been the highly-born rich man, and he the
poor lowly fisherman. This train of thought would often lead him to
ask, "Why do these inexplicable contrasts exist?" Then, with a gesture
of impatience, he would begin sometimes to row vigorously, much to
the wonder of the indolent Italian, who saw no cause for this sudden
display of energy.

Mr. Earnscliffe's equals in the social scale were not unjust when