DISENCHANTMENT.
"MISSY, dear missy, she not listen to poor ole Phœbe any more?" said
the faithful old nurse, sighing over a fair girl who was looking
coaxingly into her face, and stroking the iron-grey hair neatly under
her turban.
"Well, you foolish old woman, it is of no use to listen to you. You
are to listen to me, and hear that mamma is willing to spare you to
go with me, and you are to be willing to go. Now, Phœbe, you consent?
You wouldn't send me away alone to strangers and strange servants in a
strange land, you know."
"Missy got Massa Count, house and fine tings, 'ligion and all," said
Phœbe sorrowfully.
"But, according to your view of the value of my new possessions, there
is the stronger reason for putting yourself into the bargain," said
the young lady playfully; "besides, Phœbe, you know you changed your
religion."
"Hadn't got none, missy; Phœbe heathen and know noting. Good missionary
tell about de Lord Jesus, and Phœbe come to b'lieve in Him. Den Phœbe
got 'ligion, and nebber, nebber lose it again."
"Well of course the Count believes in Him, and so do I, and so it is no
change after all."
"But what him b'lieve? Only dat de Lord a little chile, allays in
moder's arms, doing what him telled. But de Bible Lord Jesus a man; He
say, 'All power in hebben and earth given to me,' not my moder. Oh how
she be grieved when she hear what de popes does with her. Dey forget
she say to servants, 'What He saith unto you, do it,' and dey don't do
it. Oh He no more her babe, but glorified Lord in hebben, Son of de
Father, Saviour for you."
"Well, now, Phœbe, suppose I win the Count, after letting him win me?"
"Ah, missy, 'spects massa Count don't care noting 'bout it; me tink him
not b'lieve too much."
"What do you mean, Phœbe?"
"Only massa, him got too much sense to worship Moder, and saints, and
bread and such, but him not got 'nough yet to lub and worship true God,
and see how Jesus poor sinner's Saviour. Massa, him very proud and
grand, him 'spise lies, him not know truth. Missy know a little truth,
and gib it up for lies. Oh very, very sad! Break her own heart some
day."
"I'll have you to comfort me then, Phœbe," cried the happy bride-elect.
And she carried her point.
The old black nurse, who in her youth had entered the family of Mr.
Geoffry Falconer with his bride, the young widow of an English officer,
and her only child, had remained faithful to their service, tended
them in sickness and health, and had the chief charge of the elder Mr.
Falconer in his last illness. She was privileged to say many things
which would not have been permitted from any other person in her
position in life, and the only child of the house, the step-daughter of
its master, was as dear to her heart as if she had been her own.
To see this admired and courted girl the affiancée of one who,
gifted though he was in personal attractions, rank, wealth, and high
intellectual powers, was nevertheless a stranger in country and
religion, gave poor Phœbe the deepest sorrow she had known in her life
of service. In vain, she had opposed it by every argument and entreaty
in her power: Mr. and Mrs. Falconer had no scruples on the subject, the
spoiled child herself willed it, and in due time, the young Count di V—
carried off his Anglo-Indian bride to adorn his home in the proudest of
Italian cities.
Standing high in the too fickle regard of his countrymen, expected
to uphold the dignities of the class to which by birth he belonged,
and the authority of the Pontifical government around which ominous
clouds were gathering, the Count became an honoured public servant,
and to his house flocked men of all countries, and on all errands,
great or small; the visitor for pleasure, the philosopher for inquiry,
the adventurer for patronage, the talented for sympathy, the poor for
aid; and among them came nameless poets, struggling artists, and even
ambitious politicians with many a daring scheme for the elevation of a
priest-ridden weary people, beginning to feel that life was intended
for something better than running after processions of sacerdotal
state, and submitting with superstitious slavery to a usurped authority
which ruled complacently over ignorance, beggary, and sloth. Amongst
such, the hospitable presence of the Count and Countess radiated light,
pleasure, and hope. But not without some danger.
Anything British, even though adopting, so far as external observance
went, the Romanism of the only tolerated faith, was watched with
jealous eyes, and the young Countess was made to feel the bondage of a
tyrannical yoke, at which her husband laughed, and whispered cheerfully
that it might make the most of opportunity, for events were pending,
and its days were numbered.
For centuries, the wish of Caligula seemed granted, that the Roman
people had but one neck; and it lay in the lowest dust, with the Papal
foot upon it. The body would never rise from its stupor, so long as
that foot was there. How to get rid of it was a problem not easily
solved, and men often met in secret and at night, to consider it.
One day, the Count requested with some evident uneasiness that
accommodation might be prepared for a guest who would remain the night.
"I cannot avoid this, Lena," he said; "but I wish he had sought other
quarters. If you could invite some stranger to divide attention at
dinner, it would be well, but no one of our visiting circle, on any
account."
"I can arrange it easily," replied the Countess, "so be not troubled.
I will ask the young English artist, to whom you know some civility
is due, and you can promise him access to those works of art which he
desires to study."
"Excellent, my little prime minister," said the Count. "Your artist
will know nothing, and pictures and painting will supply a fund of
conversation."
"Who are we going to entertain, signor?" asked his wife, indifferently.
"Only one General Carlotté, who has been absent for some years, and
is passing through Rome. He wished to renew acquaintance with me, and
however inconvenient, I cannot refuse hospitality."
"Surely not; we will not make him a trouble, so clear your brow, dear
husband mine, and we will devote ourselves to the arts forthwith.
Here is the address of my—what shall I call this young Englishman?
Cousin, or what? Why no relation after all, I believe. But I suppose my
step-father must have owned him, so we must do the same."
"And, Lena, nothing of the General to anyone. It is nobody's business
but his own."
"And we will make it very pleasant business while it lasts," said Lena,
playfully. "I am curious to see some of your old friends, and mean to
make him compliment you on your choice of a new one."
"I don't need any opinions upon that point, my own sweet wife," said
the Count, as he tenderly bade her farewell. But a sudden thought
knitted his brow ere he reached the street, and rankled painfully at
his heart. "Oh, to be free, free from this hated system! Why not give
up all, and live where no such shadow darkens domestic life? Yet it may
pass away. Patience and hope!"
At dinner, the young Englishman satisfactorily filled his place, for
the General was silent and reserved, and seemed to baffle the efforts
of the hostess to entertain him. Once only, on some allusion to a
despotic act on the part of the Pontiff, his eyes flashed fire, and his
breast heaved with pent-up feeling; but the Count was instructing the
artist concerning the valuable studies to which he should have access,
and trusted it was unnoticed.
At the moment of parting, however, won by the frank and easy bearing of
his young English guest, the Count said kindly,—
"Are you Catholic or Protestant?"
"Protestant, decidedly."
"Remain so," said the Count, emphatically. Thenceforth he was a
frequent and welcome visitor, enjoying advantages in the classic
capital which only the Count's rank and influence could secure to a
foreigner; warned however to be chary of expressing opinions that might
excite jealousy where political intrigues were rousing suspicion on the
part of the government.
One evening, the Countess returned early and discomposed from an
entertainment where her husband had promised to meet her, and he had
not appeared.
She tossed off her jewels and sat down by her baby's cradle, watching
Phœbe's busy fingers engaged on some work.
"Phœbe," she said, "do you know I feel as if there is something wrong:
he never disappointed me before; he always sends a note or message if
he is detained. What can it be?"
"Dear missy, hab patience. P'raps him call away sudden. No time to send
note."
"Phœbe, I have been so happy with him. Do you remember saying when I
was going to change my religion for his sake, that it would break my
heart some day?"
"Yes; bery well 'member dat. It was de 'ligion, not massa, me tink ob.
Why, missy 'member now?"
"I don't know, excepting that your prophecy has not come to pass yet;
but, Phœbe, I don't like the religion, and the more I see of it, the
more stupid it seems. That ridiculous bambino, and the box of old
bones, to be worshipped and bowed down to! Do they think we are idiots
to be moved by such trumpery?"
Phœbe raised her eyes to her mistress's face in sheer astonishment.
"You may be surprised, Phœbe, and I don't know what possesses me to
talk so, but I feel cross and disagreeable, and I have been thinking of
these things, for how can I bring up my child to believe in such folly?"
"Ah," thought Phœbe to herself, "heart-break beginning now. Poor dear
missy!"
"I wonder they don't invent something more sensible than these
everlasting shows and processions," continued the Countess.
"Ah, they got de sensible ting behind de back ob dem. Don't missy see?
Keep de eyes and ears amuse with shows, dat not feel de grip on dere
souls and conscience. De priest know what deys about well 'nough. Got
fast hold ob secret thoughts, got all, make go any ways dey choose."
"You don't suppose I am such a slave as that, Phœbe, and I'm sure the
Count is not."
"Maybe chain not show yet, missy. Hope she cast it off fore it cut in
poor weak flesh. Massa him allays not b'lieve too much in dis 'ligion."
"I suppose you mean that he is not a good Catholic, but I don't care
whether he is or not, so long as he is good and kind to me. I expect we
can both get to heaven without the help of the priests."
"Bless de Lord, hear missy say dat; but dat not 'nough. Must hab de
Great High Priest de Lord Jesus Christ; Him make de way all alone. Him
take poor sinner's hand and say 'I will nebber leave thee nor forsake
thee.'"
"Phœbe," cried the Countess, after a long silence, "I can't bear this
any longer. Oh! Where is my husband?"
Phœbe did her loving best to comfort her young mistress, while a
servant was despatched to inquire at the offices where the Count
attended for public business; but no information could be obtained. He
had been there in the day, but had left as usual.
"There might be secret business," the man suggested.
This was a glimmer of hope, and the anxious wife yielded at last to
Phœbe's entreaty that she would try to sleep; but servants sat up, and
the lights burned all the night.
Morning came, and the Countess was up, restlessly pacing the rooms.
"Phœbe," she said, "I want you to go to the Piazzi di— and find the
young English artist; he may know if the Count had any intention of
absence."
"Missy tell him name. Plenty English artists maybe 'bout ole city."
"Mr. Falconer,—Guy Falconer, I mean. Didn't I tell you that a young man
was introduced to the Count lately by letter from England, and that he
is nephew (I think) to my step-father?"
"No, ole Phœbe nebber hear dis. What him be to de ole man dat die?"
"Grandson, of course. He is poor, it seems, and wants to study
painting. My husband likes him, and has shown him paintings that are
seldom to be seen by strangers. Now, Phœbe, go and find him. I dare say
he is up and at work, and certainly will help us if he can."
"Falconer,—Massa Guy," repeated the black nurse to herself. "Bery
curous. Phœbe nebber hear dis afore, but bless de Lord she hear it now."
But it was not so very "curous," seeing that Phœbe's chief charge lay
in the nursery, and that she never asked questions about visitors, nor
interfered with the other servants.
Though she never entered any of the churches, and had as much respect
for the Pope as for Juggernaut, she had much keen observation, and with
her infant charge had traversed the city and found out many of its
scenes of interest, so that without any great difficulty, she traced
her way to the lodgings of the English artist.
The maître d'hôtel was surly and uncommunicative. Signor Anglais was
gone, he could not tell where; it was hard to lose a lodger who paid
punctually, and gave little trouble, but he knew nothing more.
Phœbe did not believe him; but, bowed out, and the door shut upon her,
she could do no more in the way of cross-examination.
As she slowly retraced her steps along the silent street, a poor ragged
looking boy followed her, and without looking into her face, said in
low broken English as he passed,—
"You want kind Englis' gentleman? He teach Pierre, and let him clena
palette."
"Whar he be, chile? What you know 'bout him?"
"He all safe, Madame Blackamoor. Pierre help him to escape, all safe,"
and he nodded with infinite self-complacency.
"Tell whar him be, you chile?" cried Phœbe, laying her firm hand on the
boy's old coat-collar.
But he was too lithesome for her; quick as lightning, he twisted
himself out of the coat, which was considerably too large, besides
sundry dilapidation which helped the peeling process, and leaving it in
her hand, ran off with a merry laugh.
Phœbe dropped the rag and began to run after him, but her dignity
returned to her aid in time to prevent a ludicrous exhibition of her
locomotive powers, and the certainty of ignominious defeat.
She shrewdly surmised that the coat, old as it was, and superfluous its
dimensions, might nevertheless be valuable to its owner, and that the
boy would presently be peeping round to recover it; so she stood by it
for a few minutes, and was rewarded by the sight of him again.
Beckoning him forward, she showed a small coin, but he made no attempt
to take it, and as he picked up his garment, said quietly,—
"Are you friend to Englishman?"
"Yes; I give you dis and more if you take me to him."
"I daren't now: come at dark, and bring him something to eat."
"Stop, chile. Be any oder one dere too?"
"No, nobody more," said the boy.
And Phœbe returned home in great disappointment.
But so impressed was the Countess with the conviction that the English
artist would be able to give some information of her husband, that she
insisted on accompanying Phœbe to the rendezvous.
So the two eager women, the black one and the white, were found by
master Pierre in punctual attendance, and provided with some little
delicacies for the appetite of the fugitive.
He led the way through several winding lanes and broken paths until
they came to a sort of cavity among the ancient ruins, formed by fallen
pillars and shattered arches, and peering in round the pedestal of a
column, he suddenly whispered,—
"Ladies, Signor."
Guy Falconer started up amazed at such unexpected visitors, and the
imploring voice of the Countess for news of her husband, increased his
perplexity concerning his own personal affairs.
It appeared that, while absorbed in the study of some exquisite
paintings in an apartment of the Vatican, to which the influence of
the Count di V— had introduced him, a strange officer, lounging about,
entered into conversation, described the meaning of certain symbolic
devices, and added in a lower tone,—
"You know many a story is told in symbols, like language in flowers.
A dagger sent to one would indicate danger and self-defence, a cord
suggests penance, a feather advises flight. There are times when
plainer language is inopportune, and when strangers in our city are not
careful with whom they dine."
Guy looked up instantly, but the speaker was carelessly lounging away.
He had scarcely reached his lodging, ere Pierre, his young temporary
errand boy, and often guide to localities he wished to find, presented
himself with a peacock's feather in his hand.
"Signor," said he, "a noble captain sends this specimen of the plumage
he was describing to you!"
"Watched and warned!" thought his astonished master.
And he went on to say briefly how Pierre had led him to his present
concealment, and had ascertained that his rooms and luggage had been
searched, his portfolio and sketches scattered about, and his maître
d'hôtel thrown into violent alarm at the idea of having entertained a
suspicious character.
"There is evident connection," concluded Guy, "between the three
circumstances: the presence of the General at your house that day, the
disappearance of the Count, and the warning to myself. Let us hope that
the Count also received a feather."
"Why suspect wrong from the visit of the General?" asked the Countess.
"Who could give information concerning him? No one in the house, but
the Count himself, had ever seen him before."
"I have never alluded in any way to the circumstance," said Guy; "but
Pierre tells me that the Government has spies everywhere, and no one is
free even in his own house, in Rome."
"Boy, are you free to do as you will?" asked the Countess quickly of
Pierre, who stood near.
"I am poor and low, lady," said Pierre, "and can escape notice, but I
will be wholly free some day. My father was English," he added proudly.
"Find out something of my husband, and I will reward you well. Will you
try, and quickly?"
"I will, lady," said the boy. "Give me a note to him, and if he is in
Rome, I will bring you his answer. Let your black woman seek me outside
your palace with it before day-break!"
"And money,—will you have money also?"
"Money does much: it opens doors and gives messages. Yes, lady, I know
those who have some love for the sight of it, and will do good or bad
for the sake of it."
"And what is your purpose for yourself, Guy Falconer?" asked the
Countess. "It would not serve you to take shelter at any house of mine."
"I purpose keeping concealed for a while, and then renewing my
studies, if safe; quitting the city, if not—but I must be guided by
circumstances, and Pierre, whom I like and trust."
"And de good Lord who guide dem all," said Phœbe.
"True," said Guy; "I do not forget to ask Him."
"Bless de Lord, den you be all right, nebber fear."
Pierre guided the visitors into the best way home, and returned to his
master to do what he could for his comfort, and wait until it should be
time to meet Phœbe and the note.
"There was news to-day," he said, "of some scheme just found out, to
set Rome free of so many cardinals and priests, but the Count is too
great to be in it."
Guy thought of the General, and the tone of some remarks he had heard
in conversation with the Count, and felt little doubt himself that
suspicion had fallen upon him, and that he had been arrested secretly.
For himself, he felt no particular uneasiness, though annoyed at the
interruption of his work, and waste of precious time.
Wrapped in a warm cloak and travelling rug, secured by the forethought
of Pierre, and with his head leaning against a marble pedestal that
might once have borne a triumph of forgotten skill, Guy fell asleep,
and dreamed of home.
His sweet mother with loving smile and gentle word; his sister, or
rather sisters, Maude and Evelyn, with their bright companionship and
never-failing sympathy; the fatherly interest of the generous Squire,
and the watchful care of the grateful mistress of The Moat, all played
conspicuous parts in the mental drama; and over the sleeper's fine
young face wafted an occasional smile of apparent pleasure and content,
which she who stood looking upon him in the grey light of early morning
would not hasten to disturb.
But there must be a waking time, and breakfast time, before black Phœbe
would begin to talk, and she had carefully provided supplies which she
insisted on seeing enjoyed before even answering his inquiries of the
state of the Countess.
"Bery sore heart, heavy and sad, and no dear Lord to lean it on," she
said, pitifully. "Do Massa Falconer know 'bout de Son ob God?"
"Yes," said Guy. "'I know that my Redeemer liveth,' and if it were not
for the risk of attracting unwelcome notice, you and I would sing a
morning hymn to His praise."
"Bery good; ole Phœbe glad. But now, why massa come to dis city whar
nobody honour de Lord, all full ob silly tings and shows, and call it
'ligion?"
"Only because there are beautiful studies for those who want to paint
well."
"Hum! What for massa want paint well?"
"I am poor, and have to earn my bread," said Guy, colouring.
"Nebber shame for dat. All right. But what make him so poor?" persisted
Phœbe.
"You would not understand if I were to tell you," said Guy, slightly
vexed.
"Do me deal ob good to know," said Phœbe, calmly. "Massa, please tell
ole Phœbe."
"It was only that our family estate has passed into other hands, and an
allowance out of it, which used to come to my mother, has ceased. It's
right enough, I suppose. No one could prevent it, and no one has any
right to complain."
"Don't know dat," said Phœbe, as if talking to herself. "Why dem stop
dat 'lowance?"
"There was no provision for its continuance; it was only the
arrangement of my grandfather, and ceased with his life."
"Hum! Please God keep ole Phœbe 'live, she make dem pay up."
"What are you talking about?" asked Guy, rather inclined to laugh at
the black woman's lucubrations.
But to her, it was evidently no laughing matter.
"Will Massa Guy tell real why not go out ob dis city when him warned?
What his people at home bid him do?"
"They would wish me to go, I daresay," said Guy; "but I cannot at
present."
"Got empty purse, maybe?" said Phœbe, coolly.
"Suppose it is so, you strange old probe,—what is it to you?" exclaimed
Guy, impatiently. "I choose to wait for my next remittance; I will not
ask anyone for money."
"Nebber fear, Massa Guy. Trust ole Phœbe, and mind what she say. Me,
dis bery ole black 'ooman, nurse ole Massa Falconer on him dying
bed. He trust poor Phœbe more dan some, and make her read de Englis'
writing. Den him gib her dis," and she drew from her bosom a little
black silk bag, "and him say like dis: 'Phœbe, if ebber you hear ob a
chile of Guy Falconer in trouble or want, you make him get dis, and it
help him one little. You wait, and maybe some day you get to England,
and you find if de widow ob my son Guy get her right share out of
de 'state, or her chil'en. If so it be, den all right, you burn dis
pocket-book. But if it be not so, you gib dis book to de widow or her
chile, and dey see it help to prove dere right. Don't want do nobody no
harm, but must do de right. Now, Phœbe, you be wise and patient, and
see what to do.'"
"And if we were not in want, and had our rights, what then, Phœbe?"
asked Guy, after listening attentively.
"Didn't he tell?—Den burn de book."
"Yes; but look here!" And opening the little pocket-book which he had
drawn from its silken cover, several bank-notes appeared.
"Nebber mind; all right. Massa not poor now, but go away safe dis bery
night."
"Tell me truly, Phœbe. If we had not needed it, what then was to be
done with this money?"
"Poor ole massa, him let Phœbe do what she like; den she gib it to good
missionary to tell 'bout de Lord Jesus. Now see why me come with poor
missy to Rome. Find dear chile here just at right time. Bless de dear
Lord, He do eberyting well!" And folding her hands, she rose from the
block of stone, and stood for a few moments in silent reverence.
And if ever Guy felt thankful, it was then; for alone, suspected, and
a fugitive in a strange city, and that city Rome, it was hard to be
penniless also.
But he could not leave without some information of the Count, and also
some help from trusty Pierre, and for this he must wait at least till
night fall.
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