THE AMERICAN BARON.
At any other time Mrs. Willoughby would perhaps have manoeuvred Minnie
out of the room; but on the present occasion the advent of the Italian
was an inexpressible relief. Mrs. Willoughby was not prepared for a
scene like this. The manners, the language, and the acts of Rufus K.
Gunn had filled her with simple horror. She was actually bewildered,
and her presence of mind was utterly gone. As for Minnie, she was
quite helpless, and sat, looking frightened. The Baron Atramonte might
have been one of the excellent of the earth--he might have been brave
and loyal and just and true and tender, but his manner was one to
which they were unaccustomed, and consequently Mrs. Willoughby was
quite overcome.
The arrival of Girasole, therefore, was greeted by her with joy. She
at once rose to meet him, and could not help infusing into her
greeting a warmth which she had never shown him before. Girasole's
handsome eyes sparkled with delight, and when Mrs. Willoughby
pointedly made way for him to seat himself next to Minnie his cup of
joy was full. Mrs. Willoughby's only idea at that moment was to throw
some obstacle between Minnie and that "dreadful person" who claimed
her as his own, and had taken such shocking liberties. She did not
know that Girasole was in Rome, and now accepted his arrival at that
opportune moment as something little less than providential.
And now, actuated still by the idea of throwing further obstacles
between Minnie and the Baron, she herself went over to the latter, and
began a series of polite remarks about the weather and about Rome;
while Girasole, eager to avail himself of his unexpected privilege,
conversed with Minnie in a low voice in his broken English.
This arrangement was certainly not very agreeable to the Baron. His
flow of spirits seemed to be checked at once, and his volubility
ceased. He made only monosyllabic answers to Mrs. Willoughby's
remarks, and his eyes kept wandering, over beyond her to Minnie, and
scrutinizing the Italian who was thus monopolizing her at the very
moment when he was beginning to have a "realizing sense" of her
presence. He looked puzzled. He could not understand it at all. He
felt that some wrong was done by somebody. He fell into an ungracious
mood. He hated the Italian who had thus come between him and his
happiness, and who chatted with Minnie, in his abominable broken
English, just like an old acquaintance. He couldn't understand it. He
felt an unpleasant restraint thrown over him, and began to meditate a
departure, and a call at some more favorable time later in the
evening. But he wanted to have a few more words with "Min," and so he
tried to "sit out" the Italian.
But the Italian was as determined as the American. It was the first
chance that he had had to get a word with Minnie since he was in
Milan, and he was eager to avail himself of it. Mrs. Willoughby, on
her part, having thus discomfited the Baron, was not unmindful of the
other danger; so she moved her seat to a position near enough to
overlook and check Girasole, and then resumed those formal, chilling,
heartless, but perfectly polite remarks which she had been
administering to the Baron since Girasole's arrival.
At length Mrs. Willoughby began to be dreadfully bored, and groaned in
spirit over the situation in which Minnie had placed herself, and
racked her brains to find some way of retreat from these two
determined lovers, who thus set at naught the usages of society for
their own convenience. She grew indignant. She wondered if they would
_ever_ go. She wondered if it were not possible to engage the Count
and the Baron in a conversation by themselves, and, under cover of it,
withdraw. Finally she began to think whether she would not be
justified in being rude to them, since they were so inconsiderate. She
thought over this, and was rapidly coming to the decision that some
act of rudeness was her only hope, when, to her immense relief, the
servant entered and announced Lord Hawbury.
The entrance of the welcome guest into the room where the unwelcome
ones were seated was to Mrs. Willoughby like light in a dark place. To
Minnie also it brought immense relief in her difficult position. The
ladies rose, and were about to greet the new-comer, when, to their
amazement, the Baron sprang forward, caught Lord Hawbury's hand, and
wrung it over and over again with the most astonishing vehemence.
"Hawbury, as I'm a living sinner! Thunderation! Where did you come
from? Good again! Darn it all, Hawbury, this is real good! And how
well you look! _How_ are you? All right, and right side up? Who'd have
thought it? It ain't you, really, now, is it? Darn me if I ever was so
astonished in my life! You're the last man I'd have expected. Yes,
_Sir_. You may bet high on that."
"Ah, really," said Hawbury, "my dear fellow! Flattered, I'm sure. And
how goes it with you? Deuced odd place to find you, old boy. And I'm
deuced glad to see you, you know, and all that sort of thing."
And he wrung the Baron's hand quite as heartily as the other wrung
his; and the expression on his face was of as much cordiality and
pleasure as that upon the face of the other. Then Hawbury greeted the
ladies, and apologized by stating that the Baron was a very old and
tried friend, whom he had not seen for years; which intelligence
surprised Mrs. Willoughby greatly, and brought a faint ray of
something like peace to poor Minnie.
The ladies were not imprisoned much longer. Girasole threw a black
look at Lord Hawbury, and retreated. After a few moments' chat Hawbury
also retired, and made the Baron go with him. And the Baron went
without any urging. He insisted, however, on shaking hands heartily
with both of the ladies, especially Minnie, whose poor little hand he
nearly crushed into a pulp; and to the latter he whispered the
consoling assurance that he would come to see her on the following
day. After which he followed his friend out.
Then he took Hawbury over to his own quarters, and Hawbury made
himself very much at home in a rocking-chair, which the Baron regarded
as the pride and joy and glory of his room.
"By Jove!" cried Hawbury. "This is deuced odd, do you know, old chap;
and I can't imagine how the mischief you got here!"
This led to long explanations, and a long conversation, which was
protracted far into the night, to the immense enjoyment of both of the
friends.
The Baron was, as Lord Hawbury had said, an old friend. He had become
acquainted with him many years before upon the prairies of America,
near the Rocky Mountains. The Baron had rescued him from Indians, by
whom he had been entrapped, and the two friends had wandered far over
those regions, enduring perils, fighting enemies, and roughing it in
general. This rough life had made each one's better nature visible to
the other, and had led to the formation of a friendship full of mutual
appreciation of the other's best qualities. Now it is just possible
that if they had not known one another, Hawbury might have thought the
Baron a boor, and the Baron might have called Hawbury a "thundering
snob;" but as it was, the possible boor and the possible snob each
thought the other one of the finest fellows in the world.
"But you're not a Roman Catholic," said Hawbury, as the Baron
explained his position among the Zouaves.
"What's the odds? All's fish that comes to their net. To get an office
in the Church may require a profession of faith, but we're not so
particular in the army. I take the oath, and they let me go. Besides,
I have Roman Catholic leanings."
"Roman Catholic leanings?"
"Yes; I like the Pope. He's a fine man, Sir--a fine man. I regard that
man more like a father than any thing else. There isn't one of us but
would lay down our lives for that old gentleman."
"But you never go to confession, and you're not a member of the
Church."
"No; but then I'm a member of the army, and I have long chats with
some of the English-speaking priests. There are some first-rate
fellows among them, too. Yes, Sir."
"I don't see much of a leaning in all that."
"Leaning? Why, it's all leaning. Why, look here. I remember the time
when I was a grim, true-blue Puritan. Well, I ain't that now. I used
to think the Pope was the Beast of the 'Pocalypse. Well, now I think
he's the finest old gentleman I ever saw. I didn't use to go to
Catholic chapel. Well, now I'm there often, and I rather kind o' like
it. Besides, I'm ready to argue with them all day and all night, and
what more can they expect from a fighting man?
"You see, after our war I got my hand in, and couldn't stop fighting.
The Indians wouldn't do--too much throat-cutting and savagery. So I
came over here, took a fancy to the Pope, enlisted, was at Mentana,
fit there, got promoted, went home, couldn't stand it, and here I am,
back again; though how long I'm going to be here is more'n I can tell.
The fact is, I feel kind of onsettled."
"Why so?"
"Oh, it's an aggravating place, at the best."
"How?"
"There's such an everlasting waste of resources--such tarnation bad
management. Fact is, I've noted that it's always the case wherever you
trust ministers to do business. They're sure to make a mess of it.
I've known lots of cases. Why, that's always the way with us. Look at
our stock-companies of any kind, our religious societies, and our
publishing houses--wherever they get a ministerial committee, the
whole concern goes to blazes. I _know_ that. Yes, _Sir_. Now that's
the case here. Here's a fine country. Why, round this here city there's
a country, Sir, that, if properly managed, might beat any of our
prairies--and look at it.
"Then, again, they complain of poverty. Why, I can tell you, from my
own observation, that they've got enough capital locked up, lying
useless, in this here city, to regenerate it all, and put it on its
feet. This capital wants to be utilized. It's been lying too long
without paying interest. It's time that it stopped. Why, I tell you
what it is, if they were to sell out what they have here lying idle,
and realize, they'd get enough money to form an endowment fund for the
Pope and his court so big that his Holiness and every official in the
place might get salaries all round out of the interest that would
enable them to live like--well, I was going to say like princes, but
there's a lot of princes in Rome that live so shabby that the
comparison ain't worth nothing.
"Why, see here, now," continued the Baron, warming with his theme,
which seemed to be a congenial one; "just look here; see the position
of this Roman court. They can actually levy taxes on the whole world.
Voluntary contributions, Sir, are a wonderful power. Think of our
missionary societies--our Sabbath-school organizations in the States.
Think of the wealth, the activity, and the action of all our great
charitable, philanthropic, and religious bodies. What supports them
all? Voluntary contributions. Now what I mean to say is this--I mean
to say that if a proper organization was arranged here, they could get
annual receipts from the whole round globe that would make the Pope
the richest man on it. Why, in that case Rothschild wouldn't be a
circumstance. The Pope might go into banking himself, and control the
markets of the world. But no. There's a lot of ministers here, and
they haven't any head for it. I wish they'd give me a chance. I'd make
things spin.
"Then, again, they've got other things here that's ruining them.
There's too much repression, and that don't do for the immortal mind.
My idea is that every man was created free and equal, and has a right
to do just as he darn pleases; but you can't beat that into the heads
of the governing class here. No, Sir. The fact is, what Rome wants is
a republic. It'll come, too, some day. The great mistake of his
Holiness's life is that he didn't put himself at the head of the
movement in '48. He had the chance, but he got frightened, and backed
down. Whereas if he had been a real, live Yankee, now--if he had been
like some of our Western parsons--he'd have put himself on the tiptop
of the highest wave, and gone in. Why, he could have had all Italy at
his right hand by this time, instead of having it all against him.
There's where he made his little mistake. If I were Pope I'd fight the
enemy with their own weapons. I'd accept the situation. I'd go in head
over heels for a republic. I'd have Rome the capital, myself
president, Garibaldi commander-in-chief, Mazzini secretary of state--a
man, Sir, that can lick even Bill Seward himself in a regular,
old-fashioned, tonguey, subtile, diplomatic note. And in that case,
with a few live men at the head of affairs, where would Victor Emanuel
be? Emphatically, nowhere!
"Why, Sir," continued the Baron, "I'd engage to take this city as it
is, and the office of Pope, and run the whole Roman Catholic Church,
till it knocked out all opposition by the simple and natural process
of absorbing all opponents. We want a republic here in Rome. We want
freedom, Sir. Where is the Church making its greatest triumphs to-day?
In the States, Sir. If the Catholic Church made itself free and
liberal and go-ahead; if it kept up with the times; if it was imbued
with the spirit of progress, and pitched aside all old-fashioned
traditions--why, I tell you, Sir, it would be a little the tallest
organization on this green globe of ours. Yes, _Sir!_"
While Hawbury and the Baron were thus engaged in high discourse, Mrs.
Willoughby and Minnie were engaged in discourses of a less elevated
but more engrossing character.
After the ladies had escaped they went up stairs. Lady Dalrymple had
retired some time before to her own room, and they had the apartment
to themselves. Minnie flung herself into a chair and looked
bewildered; Mrs. Willoughby took another chair opposite, and said
nothing for a long time.
"Well," said Minnie at last, "you needn't be so cross, Kitty; I didn't
bring him here."
"Cross!" said her sister; "I'm not cross."
"Well, you're showing temper, at any rate; and you know you are, and I
think it very unkind in you, when I have so much to trouble me."
"Why, really, Minnie darling, I don't know what to say."
"Well, why don't you tell me what you think of him, and all that sort
of thing? You _might_, you know."
"Think of him!" repeated Mrs. Willoughby, elevating her eyebrows.
"Yes, think of him; and you needn't go and make faces about him, at
any rate."
"Did I make faces? Well, dear," said Mrs. Willoughby, patiently, "I'll
tell you what I think of him. I'm afraid of him."
"Well, then," said Minnie, in a tone of triumph, "now you know how I
feel. Suppose he saved your life, and then came in his awfully
boisterous way to see you; and got you alone, and began that way, and
really quite overwhelmed you, you know; and then, when you were really
almost stunned, suppose he went and proposed to you? Now, then!"
And Minnie ended this question with the air of one who could not be
answered, and knew it.
"He's awful--perfectly awful!" said Mrs. Willoughby. "And the way he
treated you! It was _so_ shocking."
"I know; and that's just the horrid way he _always_ does," said
Minnie, in a plaintive tone. "I'm sure _I_ don't know what to do with
him. And then he's Lord Hawbury's friend. So what _are_ we to do?"
[Illustration: "LOOK AT THE MAN!"]
"I don't know, unless we leave Rome at once."
"But I don't _want_ to leave Rome," said Minnie. "I hate being chased
away from places by people--and they'd be sure to follow me, you
know--and I don't know what to do. And oh, Kitty darling, I've just
thought of something. It would be so nice. What do you think of it?"
"What is it?"
"Why, this. You know the Pope?"
"No, I don't."
"Oh, well, you've seen him, you know."
"Yes; but what has he got to do with it?"
"Why, I'll get you to take me, and I'll go to him, and tell him all
about it, and about all these horrid men; and I'll ask him if he can't
do something or other to help me. They have dispensations and things,
you know, that the Pope gives; and I want him to let me dispense with
these awful people."
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Willoughby.
"I don't see any nonsense in it at all. I'm in earnest," said Minnie;
"and I think it's a great shame."
"Nonsense!" said her sister again; "the only thing is for you to stay
in your room."
"But I don't want to stay in my room, and I can't."
"Oh dear! what can I do with this child?" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby,
whose patience was giving way.
Upon this Minnie went over and kissed her, and begged to be forgiven;
and offered to do any thing that darling Kitty wanted her to do.
After this they talked a good deal over their difficulty, but without
being able to see their way out of it more clearly.
That evening they were walking up and down the balcony of the house.
It was a quadrangular edifice, and they had a suite of rooms on the
second and third stories. They were on the balcony of the third story,
which looked down into the court-yard below. A fountain was in the
middle of this, and the moon was shining brightly.
The ladies were standing looking down, when Minnie gently touched her
sister's arm, and whispered,
"Look at the man!"
"Where?"
"By the fountain."
Mrs. Willoughby looked, and saw the face of a man who was standing on
the other side of the fountain. His head rose above it, and his face
was turned toward them. He evidently did not know that he was seen,
but was watching the ladies, thinking that he himself was unobserved.
The moment that Mrs. Willoughby looked at the face she recognized it.
"Come in," said she to Minnie. And drawing her sister after her, she
went into the house.
"I knew the face; didn't you, Kitty dear?" said Minnie. "It's so easy
to tell it. It was Scone Dacres. But what in the world does he want?
Oh dear! I hope _he_ won't bother me."