Easter Tuesday had arrived, and all the excitement of Easter in Rome
was over. Our friends had joined in the grand ceremonies of Holy Week;
they had heard the silver trumpets sound forth the Alleluias on Easter
morn, and on the evening of the same great day they had looked upon the
glorious illumination of _San Pietro_; on the next day they had seen
the _girandola_, or fireworks, on the Pincio; and Easter, with all its
festivities, had become bygone things.
Before we proceed we surely ought to ask how Flora Adair had got over
her accident at Frascati. On the day after it happened Mr. Earnscliffe
called, as he had said, to inquire for her; and, considering himself in
some degree as the cause of the mishap, he was quite distressed to find
that it was so serious as to give her a good deal of pain, and keep her
from walking for some time. It was so tiresome, he said, to be obliged
to lie upon a sofa in such lovely weather--and in Rome, too! Would
that he could do anything to make amends for the mischief he had caused!
He exerted himself to the utmost to amuse and interest her during the
time of his visit; and so well did he succeed, that before he left
her she had become quite animated, and seemed to have forgotten her
ailment. When he stood up to take leave, he said, "I hope, Mrs. Adair,
that you will allow me to call again to see how the invalid progresses?"
"Certainly, we shall always be happy to see you, and, now that Flora
cannot go out, society is particularly desirable for her. The interest
of conversation will make her forget her suffering--for a time, at
least."
"Thank you! Then I shall indeed avail myself of your permission; I
shall be _so_ glad to think that I can in any degree lessen, even for
half an hour, the weariness of that imprisonment of which, I must
repeat, I feel I am the remote cause."
Thus he went constantly, and Flora found a charm in conversing with him
which she had never known before. They often disagreed and looked at
things each from a different point of view, yet their _way_ of thinking
seemed the same; there was sympathy even where they least appeared to
agree. As she recovered, and when the excitement of Easter was over,
she began to feel the blank caused by the cessation of those long
and looked-for visits. There remained nothing to expect from day to
day with hope and pleasure. She enjoyed his society as she had never
enjoyed that of any other person, and did not at all like the prospect
of being obliged to do without it, or indeed without much of it, for
the future.
There are women who centre every delight in the object of their
affections, and this, to a certain degree, even in friendship; but
in love alone is it fully shown. To love, for such, is to centre
everything in the beloved; they have no fits of great ardour followed
by calmness--theirs is one unbroken act of love. Should there be no
obstacles to their love, it is to them a source of happiness undreamed
of by many, for their world is full. They have attained happiness, as
far as it can be attained on earth from earthly things--for the human
heart is made for the Infinite, and nothing finite can ever _fully_
satisfy it. These do not stop to calculate whether loving another will
be for their own advantage; they call that, egotism--the very opposite
of love. "_Non amate Dio per voi_" is for them the expression of
perfect love; and is not the love of God the model, ay, and the motor
too, of all true human love? When love is pure and disinterested it
wants not its due reward, but it obtains so much the greater recompense
the less it seeks.
But should such obstacles arise, should they be separated from the
object of their love, their misery is correspondingly great. Like
a native of some sunny clime banished in the noonday of life to a
northern land, clouded in chilly mists, it is vain to surround him with
all that should cheer his heart; vain to strive--how tenderly soever
it may be--to beguile his weariness; he pines for the beloved sun of
other days, and sighs hopelessly for the glowing brightness of his
home. So is the sun of _their_ life beclouded,--he who was their sun,
he who threw a halo over all, is gone; the chilly mist is ever upon
their hearts, and they know in this life something of that terrible
torture--the pain of loss.
But another pang is often reserved for them, and it is of all the most
bitter; it comes when they have to choose between love and conscience,
and when, in obeying the dictates of the latter, they have to bear the
reproach of not loving truly, whilst, as they know but too well, they
love so fully that few understand or realise it. To feel all this, and
yet to be powerless to prove their love, is torture so great that they
must indeed be watched over from above if they get safely through the
ordeal.
Flora Adair thought and dreamed of the truest love to be found on
earth, and without it life seemed to her but a sunless sojourn.
Could she but have soared high enough so to love God, without the
intervention of any creature, how great would have been her happiness!
No struggle, no doubting, no separation possible! To this, however, she
felt unequal,--she rested on a less lofty height, yet it was still a
_height_, since all love, in order, is homage to God!
Was this great enjoyment of Mr. Earnscliffe's society the dawning of
her dream of day? We can only answer that she herself did not so think
about it; she only felt that he pleased her more than any other had
ever done, and that she wished her ankle had not got well so quickly,
that she might still have had the pleasure of meeting him frequently.
To dissipate the weariness which she felt to be stealing upon her, she
proposed to her mother and Lucy to go to the Blakes, as Mina Blake had
said something about going on that day to the novitiate house of one of
the teaching Orders, to see Madame Ely, an old and intimate friend of
theirs, who was an inmate of that convent, and had asked if they would
like to go also. Flora said that she would be delighted to meet Madame
Ely again in order to see if the warm poetic South had softened that
apt pupil of the frigid discipline of her Order, or if she were still
the same icy being as before in their northern climes. Mrs. Adair
agreed to the proposal, but Lucy declined, pleading that she had a
pretty novel and would rather stay at home to finish it than go to see
such a prim old lady as Flora described Madame Ely to be. Accordingly,
Lucy was left to her novel, and Mrs. Adair and Flora set off for the
Piazza di Venezia, where the Blakes lived.
Of "the Blakes" there were only the mother and daughter then in Rome,
Mr. Blake had not been able to accompany his wife and their only child,
Mina, to Italy. Mrs. Blake was very lady-like, clever, and agreeable.
Mina and Flora had been school companions and were great friends;
there were some traits of similarity between the two girls--both
were habitually reserved and undemonstrative in manner, although
enthusiastic enough when they liked any one very much; but they were
not easily attracted, and their apparent indifference made them
somewhat unpopular.
The arrival of the Adairs was greeted by many expressions of pleasure,
especially from Mina, who exclaimed, "Oh, Flora! I am so glad that you
have come, because you and Mrs. Adair will, perhaps, join Miss Lecky
and me in going to the convent,--you remember I spoke of it the other
day. Mamma has got a cold and cannot come, so I was in despair at the
prospect of an afternoon's drive _tête-à-tête_ with old Lecky. We are
to go to the Doria Villa afterwards--_do_ come."
"I shall be delighted," answered Flora; "and mamma, will you not come
also?"
Mrs. Adair assented, and Mina said she would go and get ready, as they
were to call at the hotel for "old Lecky" at four, and it was then
half-past three. She soon returned dressed for the expedition, and the
Adairs took leave of Mrs. Blake. When they reached the Piazza they
called one of the open carriages which are so common in Rome, and drove
to the Hotel d'Amerique, where Miss Lecky was staying. She did not keep
them waiting many minutes, so they reached the convent a little after
four.
They were shown into a small square room, the walls of which were
white-washed; rows of cane chairs and a table in the centre completed
its furniture. There was a glass door standing open leading into a
garden which looked so fresh and green in the bright sunshine that Mina
said it would be a blessed change from that little cold, prim room; she
hoped that Madame Ely would ask them to walk in it, so that they might
mount the rising ground at the back and see from it the celebrated view
of Rome. This hope, however, was not destined to be gratified by Madame
Ely, who made her appearance just as Mina ceased speaking. She was
tall and slight, with finely cut, sharp features, dark brown piercing
eyes, thin lips, and a firmly closed mouth; she looked as rigid as
ever, and her manner was as freezing. Flora saw at a glance that not
even Italian suns had succeeded in melting that block of ice.
She whispered to Mina, "Byron says--
'The deepest ice which ever froze,
Can only o'er the surface close;'
but I scarcely think he could say so here, as he would see some which
had frozen far beneath the surface, or else there never was anything to
freeze over: perhaps it is so."
During the conversation with Mrs. Adair, Madame Ely named a Madame
Hird, whom, as it turned out, Mrs. Adair had known very well. She now
expressed a wish to see her, which request was granted, and Madame Hird
came down.
She was the very opposite of Madame Ely--short in stature and of
drooping carriage; she had small, delicate features, soft blue eyes
with a most gentle expression, and, if she also was somewhat cold, it
was merely a conventual coldness,--it could easily be seen that, in
her, the ice had indeed
"Only o'er the surface" closed.
She remembered Mrs. Adair quite well, and they talked of former days
and old acquaintances till Mrs. Adair thought it was time to say adieu,
and she asked Madame Hird if they could take any commands for her to
Paris, or indeed to Ireland, whither they were eventually going.
"I thank you, no," she answered; but after a momentary pause she
continued, "Yet you could indeed do me a great service, if it would
not be asking too much. It is to take charge of a little _protégée_ of
mine as far as Paris,--instead of _protégée_ I should rather have said
one who has been particularly recommended to my care by a dear friend,
Madame de St. Severan, a countrywoman, but, as her name proclaims,
married to a Frenchman, Colonel de St. Severan."
Mrs. Adair said she would be most happy to oblige her old friend Madame
Hird.
"Well, then," answered the latter, "you must allow me to hand over to
you a sketch of my little charge's history, which Madame de St. Severan
sent to me. You can take it with you and read it at your leisure; then
come again and tell me if you are still willing to take charge of
Marie. She is the daughter of an Arab chief,--but all that you will see
in Madame de St. Severan's account of her. I will go and fetch it."
She left the room, but returned quickly with the packet. Mrs. Adair
thanked her for it, said they would call again in a few days, and then
the whole party stood up to take their leave.
When they got to the door, Mrs. Adair said, "Come, Flora, we must get
home as quickly as possible; it is already past five."
"Oh, Mrs. Adair," exclaimed Mina, "please not to take Flora away;
let her take a drive with us and spend the evening; you know mamma
is always delighted to have her, and as Miss Lecky lives in your
neighbourhood, she can see her home."
"But she has not dined, child, and you have!"
Mina looked imploringly at Flora and glanced with dismay at Miss Lecky.
Flora understood the mute appeal, and said--
"Really, mamma, I could not eat any dinner as I made such a very good
luncheon, therefore _that_ need not keep me from going with Mina!"
"And we shall have a 'thick tea' when we get home," added Mina; "so,
Mrs. Adair, you will not be so cruel as to refuse to let her come with
us;--but why will you not come also?"
"Oh! I am too rational to leave my dinner for a drive; besides, Lucy
would be waiting for us. I must go home, but if my fair daughter
chooses to go without her dinner she may do so."
"I thank you _so_ much, Mrs. Adair," answered Mina: "but you will let
us take you home?"
"Indeed I can allow no such thing,--it would make you far too late for
the Villa Doria. I will say good-bye, now; and, Flora, pray come home
in good time."
"You may depend upon my leaving her at home in good time, Mrs. Adair; I
never stay out late," said Miss Lecky.
Just then one of the little open carriages passed; Mrs. Adair called it
and drove home; the other three ladies then started for the Villa Doria.
But we have not yet presented Miss Lecky to the reader,--she has only
been heard of as "old Lecky." It is true she was no longer young or
interesting, yet a few words must be said, not of her appearance so
much as of her character. She was, then, a desperate saint and a
church-haunter, but, at the same time, indefatigable in running about
to all the profane sights. In the galleries of painting and statuary
she evinced the most rigid modesty in turning away her head and looking
down when any undraped figure--of which there is no lack in Italian
galleries--caught her eye, and this to the great amusement of the
girls, who, whenever they went with her to any of these places, took
the greatest delight in pointing out to her on the catalogue objects
which were particularly to be observed, and afterwards watching the
poor old lady's start of horror at such representations; being
short-sighted, moreover, she did not see anything until she was quite
near to it. For the rest she was a good-natured, kind-hearted old
creature, yet a little wearisome withal to our young friends.
As they drove to the Villa Doria the task of entertaining her fell
principally upon Mina, as her mother's friend and guest. Flora sat
silently enjoying the delicious Italian evening; she might have been
accused of looking a little abstracted, as, with eyes apparently
fixed on vacancy, she leaned back in the carriage. Perhaps there were
floating before them visions of other and yet more delicious evenings,
when she lay upon a sofa near an open window and listened to a voice
and words very different from old Lecky's!
They drove out of the Porta San Pancrazio, a little distance beyond
which are the grounds of the Doria Pamfili Villa, one of the most
extensive and park-like places to be found on the Continent, and
although somewhat disfigured by avenues, terraces, and fountains, it is
an enchanting spot, especially in the gorgeous Roman spring-time.
Such it was on the evening when our party entered its gates. Had they
come to see the fashionable world it was rather late; already the
carriages were disappearing, for the sun was declining rapidly towards
its setting in the west, and the Romans are far too careful of their
health to brave the dangerous half-hour which, it is said, precedes and
follows sunset. Our friends, however, did not come to see the _monde_,
and the lateness of the hour only enhanced the beauty of the grounds.
As for the health question, the young ladies simply ignored it, and
Miss Lecky probably did not know anything about it, or _she_ would not
have been so recklessly indifferent to it as her companions were.
One of the chief objects of interest is the _Columbarium_. Perhaps,
for the advantage of our readers who have not been to Rome and have
not studied Murray, we ought to say that Columbarium is a name given
to certain sepulchral buildings from their likeness to a modern
pigeon-house with its tiers of little niches; and in these were
deposited in former days urns containing the ashes of the dead, whose
names are inscribed on marble tablets above. In one of the _Columbaria_
on the Appian Way there is a curious record placed by a lady over the
ashes of a favourite dog; his portrait accompanies the inscription, and
he is designated as the delight--"_delicium_"--of his mistress!...
The _Columbarium_ in the grounds of the Villa Doria consists of one
large chamber and several smaller ones; it contains a great number of
urns, but few inscriptions, and none of any great interest, so the
inspection of it detained our friends only for a few minutes. They then
drove to the monument erected by Prince Doria to the memory of the
French who fell there in the year 1849, when General Oudinot forced
Garibaldi and his Republicans from the Casino and grounds, where they
had taken up a strong position. It is situated at the end of one of the
great avenues of evergreen oaks, and is an octagonal temple, supported
by four columns of white marble, on which is placed a statue of the
Blessed Virgin, and on the pedestal are the names of those who fell in
defence of the Villa. This is a beautiful object seen from the other
end of the avenue,--the white marble contrasting so well with the dark
green of the majestic oaks.
It was now high time for them to think of returning, as the gates of
the villa were about to be closed; but the evening was still so lovely
that Mina declared it would be a sin to go home so soon. Miss Lecky
agreed with her, and asked if there were any church which they could
see on their way back. Mina answered, "Yes, _Santa Sabina_; we shall
pass close to the _Bocca della Verità_, which is very near to it; one
of the fathers of the Dominican convent is my cousin, so I can ask to
see him."
Miss Lecky said that she would be delighted to go, as she had never
seen that church. Mina whispered to Flora that she would not see much
of it, unless she had cat's eyes and could see in the dark; but it was
a good joke to storm the convent after the _Ave Maria_, and astonish
the monks by the sight of three women at that hour.
Accordingly they drove to Santa Sabina, or rather, to the foot of Mount
Aventine, on the summit of which it stands. The driver begged them
to walk up as "the hill was so steep," and, the light fading, he was
afraid that his horses might stumble and fall on their way down; so
they got out and went up on foot, the carriage waiting below for them.
On reaching the convent they rang at the door, which was quickly opened
by a lay-brother, who looked wonder-struck on seeing the three ladies.
Mina ignored the look of surprise, and calmly asked if she could see
"_il Padre_ Osmondo." The lay-brother said he would inquire, and showed
them into the parlour.
It was already so dark that they could see but indistinctly, and
suddenly it appeared to dawn upon Miss Lecky that it was somewhat of an
unseemly hour for a visit to a monastery. Mina and Flora could hardly
suppress their laughter at the thought that the old lady should only
then have arrived at the knowledge of that long evident fact.
Just then the door opened, and in came Father Osmond. He shook hands
with Mina, who introduced her friends, and laughingly apologised for
the lateness of their visit, saying that as they were passing at the
foot of the hill, and Miss Lecky was so anxious to see the church
before she left Rome, they had ventured to call at that hour, fearing
they would have no other opportunity.
Father Osmond was a tall, fat, good-natured-looking Irishman,
with ruddy cheeks and laughing blue eyes. He answered, in a rich
brogue, "Shure inough, Miss Blake, I'd niver doubt you to be me
counthry-woman--to come and see a place in the dark; but as you are
here, I suppose I must bring you into the church, and thry if a candle
will help you to see Sassoferrato's sweet Virgin."
"Thank you," replied Mina, as they followed him to the church door,
where he begged them to wait a moment while he went to get a candle.
He quickly returned, with a lighted one in his hand, and led them
to the chapel where is Sassoferrato's beautiful Madonna, a picture
unsurpassed, perhaps, in sweetness of expression, by any in Rome.
The scene was indeed a strange one; the large dark church, with the
glimmer of a small lamp in one of the side chapels the three female
figures standing there, staring up at the picture, and the Dominican
in his white habit moving the candle from side to side. The girls were
keenly alive to it, and the twinkle in Father Osmond's eye showed that
he too was not insensible to its absurdity. At last he said--
"Well, Miss Lecky, I think you'd do as well to come some _day_ to see
the church, for shure you can't judge of anything by this miserable
candlelight."
"You are right," she answered; "I must manage to come some day to see
the church, and have a look at this beautiful picture. Now we had
better think of getting home."
Father Osmond led the way back to the reception-room, and said he would
call the lay-brother to let them out, adding, "Your carriage is at the
door, I suppose."
"No," replied Miss Lecky,--the girls did not trust themselves to
speak,--"the driver asked us to walk up; the hill, he said, was so very
steep for the horses."
"You don't mean to say that you came up by yourselves! Shure thin I
don't know how you'll iver git down again! Why this hill is so lonely
and dangerous a place after nightfall that one of the lay-brothers
would not go out alone, and you three ladies are going to walk down
alone as late as this! No, that can't be!"
The spirit of mischief must have taken possession of the two girls,
for, as they saw poor Miss Lecky grow pale with terror, and heard her
exclaim, "Oh! Father Osmond, what shall we do?" they laughed outright.
Father Osmond looked at them with a half-amused, half-impatient
expression, and said, "It is all very well to laugh, young ladies, but
may be it's the wrong side of your mouth you'd laugh if you walked down
that hill alone to-night. But that you'll not do. Shure I couldn't
sleep aisy in me bed for thinking of what might happen to you. I'll go
and get somebody to go down with you." So saying he left the room. Poor
Miss Lecky expressed the most ardent wishes that they had never left
the carriage, and that they were safe back in it again, and the young
ladies tried to regain a little gravity.
In a few minutes Father Osmond came back and said that the man who
took care of the garden would take a lantern and see them safe to the
carriage. They thanked Father Osmond warmly for all his kindness, and
as Mina shook hands with him she begged him in a low voice to excuse
this wild freak of theirs, and forgive all their laughing.
"You're young, me children, you're young, and shure it's not meself
that would find fault with you for being merry; long may you remain
so;--and now, good-night, and may God bless you both."
They followed Miss Lecky, who was impatiently waiting for them at the
door, and trying to make out something of what the man with the lantern
was saying, which, as she knew very little Italian, seemed rather a
hopeless task; and she looked as much afraid of him as of anything
else. In truth, he was rather a formidable-looking personage, with his
tall, gaunt figure wrapped up in a long dark cloak, a large slouched
hat covering his brows so that nothing of his face could be seen but
two fierce black eyes, and a profusion of dark hair. He did indeed look
rather bandit-like.
As the girls came out he said, "_Andiamo presto, Signorine_," and
started off at a brisk pace with the lantern. Mina could not resist the
temptation of drawing out poor old Lecky's fear of their protector, and
giving Flora a sign to follow the lead, she said, "Don't you think,
Miss Lecky, that the man looks to be a very suspicious character?
Suppose he was to be an accomplice of those dangerous people we hear
of, and that, when we are half way down the hill, they should dart out
from some dark corner! He might pretend that he was frightened by their
number, and run away, leaving us in their hands."
"But surely you don't think the fathers would employ such a person, do
you?"
"Of course not, if they knew it," said Flora, gravely; "but you know
Italians are so cunning that they easily deceive poor monks, and _that_
man certainly is like the descriptions which we read of bandits."
"Well, do you know," began Miss Lecky, in a trembling tone, "it
struck me as soon as I saw him, but I did not like to say anything,
fearing----"
"What's that!" interrupted Mina, as a low whistle was heard; "it is the
signal perhaps!"
"My God! there they are!" exclaimed the poor old lady, as she
convulsively caught hold of Flora's arm, "and he is speaking to the
leader. Oh! let us run away!"
Mina laughed aloud, Flora at the same time trying to keep from
following her example, and to calm poor Miss Lecky's fears by telling
her that it was only a flock of goats, and the terrible leader a
peaceable herdsman, with his crook, to whom their attendant spoke a
few words.
Miss Lecky, as we have already learned, was a good-humoured creature,
so she laughed heartily at her own mistake, and said she was so
ridiculously short-sighted that she could not distinguish anything at a
distance; but how she wished they were safe in the carriage!
The girls felt that it would be carrying a joke to ill-nature to teaze
her any more, so they changed their tone, and began to reassure her by
telling her that they were nearly at the foot of the hill, and then
all cause of fear would be at an end. It was almost too much for them
to keep from bursting into fits of laughter at the thought of the poor
goats and their herdsman being taken for a party of bandits with their
leader.
At length they reached the end of their walk, without any further
adventures than passing now and then dark-looking individuals enveloped
in cloaks, who stared curiously at them, but went on their way without
speaking. The girls, however, _did_ afterwards admit that it would not
have been pleasant for them to have been alone.
The moment when they came in sight of the carriage Miss Lecky made a
rush towards it, and got in. Mina thanked their cavalier and gave him
a couple of pauls, when he took off his hat, courteously wished them
_buon viaggio e felice notte_, and returned to the convent.
They told the coachman to drive back fast to the Piazza di Venezia,
and when they got home they found Mrs. Blake expecting them rather
anxiously, as it was so late. As Mina had said, she appeared delighted
to see Flora, and told them that tea would be ready for them in a
moment.
Mina hoped that there was plenty of good substantial eatables,
particularly for poor Flora, who had not dined; but Flora declared that
she did not deserve to be pitied, since she had enjoyed the drive far
more than she would have enjoyed dinner.
A little after nine Miss Lecky left Flora at her home. As soon as she
got into the drawing-room she threw herself into an armchair, and then
proceeded to give an account of their adventures.