As soon as luncheon was over Helena went to dress, and Mrs. Elton and
Mary returned to the drawing-room; the latter seated herself in the
window, and gazed out abstractedly, until Mrs. Elton said, "What has
bewitched Helena, that she should want to go to the Catacombs? They are
not much in her line."
Mary answered as near to the truth as she could do without betraying
confidence: "Not the least in the world; but if she likes the people
who form the party, it does as well as anything else."
"Then it is for the people that she is going, and not for the
Catacombs? I thought there must be some such motive. Mr. Caulfield will
not be there, I hope. Helena flirts far too much with him. I do not
know how far it has gone, but I have told her that there must be an end
of it. I would never allow her to accept him! He is not rich enough to
marry a girl of her position and fortune, yet she goes on encouraging
him and preventing that most eligible Mr. Mainwaring from coming
forward, although he evidently likes her."
"But, mamma, are Lena's feelings not to be taken into any account?
Perhaps she does not like Mr. Mainwaring, and does like Mr. Caulfield."
"She should check that liking then, when I tell her that I disapprove
of it."
"Surely, mamma, the liking may be a stronger one than can be checked so
easily, merely because you do not think him rich enough; that is hardly
a sufficient reason to induce us to give up one whom we love."
"Love, Mary? I am amazed at you! Have I not always impressed on your
mind that a girl properly brought up should never allow herself to love
any man until she is regularly engaged to him; and that, too, with the
consent of her friends?"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mary; then, blushing at her own vehemence and
rudeness, she added quietly, "I beg your pardon, mamma, for speaking
so hastily. You know that I am not romantic, but one cannot love or be
indifferent at word of command. At first you only laughed at Lena and
Mr. Caulfield; now you tell her to give him up all at once, merely
because he has not a very large rent-roll: if you can give her a _good_
reason, I am sure she will try to obey you!"
"I really can scarcely believe that it is you who are speaking,
Mary--you who, as I thought, understood how completely a girl should
have all her feelings under control"--Mary smiled bitterly--"and that
the happiest marriages are those formed upon equality of position and
fortune, accompanied by mutual respect and calm esteem! I should be
very sorry indeed to advocate that a girl should marry a person whom
she disliked; but she ought not to take unreasonable dislikes. If a man
be good, gentlemanly, and in every way suited to her, is she to dislike
and refuse to marry him because, forsooth, she has taken a passing
fancy to some ineligible person? And _you_, Mary, defend this! What has
come over you? I suppose that you, too, imagine yourself to be in love
with some poor esquire, who, in reality, loves your fortune rather than
any other thing?"
Mary looked her mother full in the face as she answered, with
heightened colour, "I do not love any poor esquire, nor does any poor
esquire love me. Lena is more fortunate, if she loves and is beloved:
you need not fear for me, I shall never seek to obtain your consent to
marry a poor man." She said this in an odd, determined tone, and then
continued pleadingly, "But if Lena really cares for Mr. Caulfield, let
her be happy in her own way, mamma. He is not rich, it is true, but he
has quite enough for a gentleman's condition, and for happiness; and
with her fortune there is no reason why she should marry for money."
"I can't say how much you amaze me, Mary; though you do possess a
remnant of sense for _yourself_."
"Sense!" replied Mary immediately. "Yes, indeed; but----here is Mrs.
Penton! I must call Lena."
"And pray, Mary, if Mr. Caulfield should be one of the party, do not
let her be much with him."
Mary left the room without answering; but as she closed the door she
murmured to herself, "No, I cannot be a kill-joy!" Then she called out,
"Come, Lena, here is the carriage"--a loud ringing of the bell having
announced that Mrs. Penton was waiting.
Lena came out of her room busily occupied in getting on a pair of the
palest lavender kid gloves: the young lady had small hands, and liked
to do them justice.
Mrs. Penton was alone. "Her husband," she said, "had so often seen
those places that he did not care to go again;" so away they drove to
the Catacomb of St. Calixtus, on the Appian Way.
In the Vigna Ammendola--at the entrance to the Catacomb--our friends
loitered for some time waiting for the Cardinal, who, although it was
somewhat past the appointed time, had not yet arrived. They found many
there before them, but all were strangers except Mr. Caulfield and a
Signor Lanzi, both of whom they met near the gate on entering.
Signor Lanzi--as his name denotes--was an Italian, but he had been in
England, spoke English with a certain ease, and was particularly fond
of showing it off. He was one of Mrs. Penton's most devoted admirers;
and, through her, had become rather intimate with Mr. Caulfield and the
Eltons.
It must not be supposed that there was anything reprehensible in Mrs.
Penton's conduct because we speak of her having admirers. She was what
is called a beauty, and was accustomed to be admired and followed. Her
husband and herself were on the best of terms, and never seemed to
pull in different directions; on the contrary, they appeared fond of
one another in a calm sort of way, yet it could not be said that there
was anything very ideal in their happiness. It is true, they were not
quite a type of union in thought and feeling; perhaps neither of them
was capable of such love; nevertheless, theirs was not a lot to be
despised, and they were quite content with it, and with each other.
As soon as Mrs. Penton and the Elton girls appeared at the gate the two
young men joined them, and they took a few turns up and down the walk
leading to the Catacomb. Mary then proposed sitting on the wall near
the gate, "as," she said, "they would have walking enough underground,
and they had better not tire themselves beforehand;" and there they
waited for the Cardinal's arrival.
In a few minutes the sound of carriages was heard; the gate was opened,
and in came Cardinal Reisac, and with him three or four priests. Mrs.
Penton at once went forward and spoke to his Eminence, being personally
acquainted with him. During this interval the gate opened again, and at
last Mary's watching was rewarded--Mr. Earnscliffe entered. Mary was
nearest to the gate, so he could not avoid speaking to her, and even
walking with her, as the Cardinal quickly moved on, and all followed
him.
Mary felt that she must not lose this opportunity of saying something
to excite Mr. Earnscliffe's curiosity about Flora; he would, she
thought, naturally try to hear more, if he were not indifferent to
her--and it would be a good test;--so, as they were lighting the
tapers, she said, "I hope we shall not have any falls or spraining of
ankles to-day. Do you remember Miss Adair's accident at Frascati?"
"Surely I should be the last to forget it, having induced you both to
go upon the wet, slippery moss; but she is quite well now, I believe?"
"Quite well; and, report says, going to be married to that rich Mr.
Lyne."
"Mr. Lyne!"
"Yes; you know him, don't you? He is very rich, very good, quite a
saint, indeed; rather slow, they say; but then poor Flora has no
fortune, so it would be an excellent thing for her. But we must not
stand here talking about her, or we shall be left behind;" and Mary
suddenly became most anxious to follow close to the Cardinal.
A flight of steps leads down from the vineyard into a sort of
vestibule, in the walls of which are numerous graves, and in the spaces
between rude inscriptions, supposed to have been made by pilgrims
who came to visit the last resting-places of the saints and martyrs.
The guide went first with a large torch, then the Cardinal, the
ecclesiastics, and the lay visitors, each carrying a light. There were
about fifteen in all; so they formed rather a long procession in the
narrow galleries or passages, where two can hardly walk abreast--not
two ladies, certainly, in those days of crinoline.
From the vestibule a long gallery leads to the Chapel of the Popes,
and passes by one of the sepulchral chapels which occur at intervals
in nearly all these passages. In many of the larger of the crypts or
chapels there are altars upon which the Divine Sacrifice was offered
during the persecutions of the first centuries, when armed force vainly
strove to put down the religion of the Cross inaugurated on Calvary.
Long afterwards, when that Cross had established its time-enduring
reign in Rome's high places, these crypts were resorted to by the
faithful for purposes of devotion, as hallowed places consecrated by
the sanctity and martyrdom of those who lay entombed in them.
As soon as the whole party was assembled in the Chapel of the Popes,
the Cardinal began to explain the different monuments, and pointed
out the graves of the four popes of the third century buried there,
according to the inscriptions in Greek characters which are still
distinctly to be seen and read by those who understand them.
From the Chapel of the Popes they proceeded to that of St. Cecilia,
and thence to the others of less note, the Cardinal explaining the
different inscriptions and paintings on the walls of the galleries and
chapels.
Perhaps none of these are more interesting than the curious
paintings representing the celebration of Mass in those early days
of Christianity. The priest turned towards the people with his hands
stretched out in blessing; the vestments almost the same as those now
used, and numberless details proving the identity of the past with the
present. These striking evidences of the early Christian practices had
often puzzled Mr. Earnscliffe before. "If such outward ceremonials then
existed," he would ask himself, "how can they be a human invention?...
Human things pass away; even the greatest dynasties of earth run their
course and disappear to give place to new orders of things.... Was
immortality to be found here only?"... He could not comprehend it,
could not explain or reconcile it to his own mind; but, as he had
often done before, he turned aside this train of thought by saying to
himself, "It can make no difference how far Christianity in this or
that form can be dated; even should it be shown that, as a religion, it
was one with that of Moses and the Patriarchs,--a progressive Divine
Revelation, first by oral Tradition, then by the written Law of Moses,
and now, as they call it, by the Reign of Truth, the dogmas of an
Infallible Church; Christianity itself is but one of many pretenders
to the governance of mankind."
In the midst of these contending thoughts his mind turned to Flora
Adair, and once more he asked himself, "Can she really believe in all
this?" Then flashed upon him Mary Elton's words, "She is going to be
married to that rich Mr. Lyne." Was it true? He himself had heard her
call him "a good-natured bore." He determined to hear more about it,
and with this intention he turned to look for Mary Elton, whom he had
not seen since they had entered the Catacomb.
Helena, who had candidly acknowledged that she was not going to the
Catacombs solely to see them, but to have her eyes gladdened by the
sight of a bright, laughing, loving face, and her ears gladdened by the
sound of a voice whose tones were music to her, took care to keep in
the rear of the party, and condescendingly informed Mr. Caulfield that
he might talk to her if he would do so quietly, so as not to attract
attention. Sad to say, these irreverent young people only thought of
how "jolly" those dark narrow places were, as they found them not at
all inconvenient for their pleasant little love passages and whispered
conversations. The numerous chapels were certainly rather annoying
interruptions, as they were of course obliged to be silent there, and,
apparently at least, to attend to the Cardinal's explanations. Yet an
ordinary observer could have seen that their eyes were more occupied
with each other than with the paintings and monuments so carefully
pointed out to them.
As they got back into those "dear" galleries, after visiting one of the
chapels, Mr. Caulfield succeeded in getting hold of one of the pretty
little hands, about the gloving of which their possessor had been so
particular. Perhaps she expected that some such notice might be taken
of them; but, be that as it may, Mr. Caulfield had got the little hand
prisoner, and pressed it tightly in his own as he said, "Lena,"--he
had learned the pet name by which her sister generally called her, and
appeared to have a particular affection for it,--"I can't bear this
uncertainty any longer; you must let me speak to your dragoness!"
"Harry, you are very impertinent," and the little hand made a feint to
get itself free, but it was only a feint. "You must not call mamma my
dragoness; I will not allow it, sir; nor must you speak to her unless
you want to be off; if you do, rush up early to-morrow morning and
request an interview with Mrs. Elton; then formally demand the hand
of Miss Helena, her daughter, and be as formally refused. You will
be politely begged not to repeat your visit; in other words, you will
be forbidden the house; and when you have ranted a little and finally
bowed yourself out, your poor victim, Helena, will be sent for to
be coldly lectured on her levity and her flirting propensities, and
solemnly commanded by her obedience as a child never to see or speak to
you again, save as the merest acquaintance. In fine, a distinct _fiat_
would be pronounced against Mr. Caulfield, who does not, perhaps, know
how determined a person Mrs. Elton is; but her daughter does know it,
and but too well. If you speak to mamma _we_ are done for, Harry."
That "_we_" and that "Harry" sounded very sweetly indeed in Mr.
Caulfield's ears, yet he answered indignantly--
"But you don't mean to say that you would submit to all this,
Helena?"... He could not afford to call her Lena now, it was not
impressive enough. "You are mine by right of conquest, and what
authority has your mother to keep you from me?"
"For shame, Harry! has a mother no voice in the disposal of her
child? Not that I think a parent should refuse to allow a daughter to
marry one whom she loves, unless she had good reason for so doing;
nevertheless, I could scarcely marry in defiance of her express
command. Harry, do not _brusquer les choses_, and force her to
pronounce that command; have a little patience, and time may do a great
deal. Mary has promised to use her influence to gain mamma's consent,
and she will facilitate my seeing you as much as she can. Is she not a
darling, Harry?"
"Yes," he replied, but in a much less enthusiastic tone; then he went
on eagerly, "It's all very well for you, Lena, to talk about having
patience, and the wonders that time may work; you have a pleasant home,
and this darling Mary to pet you; but it is quite otherwise for poor
me. There I am, all alone in an hotel, comfortless and miserable, and
unable to get out of my head tantalizing visions of the happiness I
might enjoy if I could only have my little cricket with me." And there
was a very sensible pressure of the imprisoned hand.
"Oh, come now, Harry; it is too absurd to see you trying to do the
romantic. You know very well that you go everywhere, and enjoy yourself
thoroughly. Who would believe in your sitting at home conjuring up
visions, and becoming miserable because you cannot realise them!
There is nothing _grandiose_ about _us_, you know. Just imagine our
attempting a _grande passion_, and declaring that out of each other's
presence the world is but a desert to us! No, no, that is not at all
in cricket's line, Harry. All the same----" and her eyes drooped, "I am
sure that horrid hotel _is_ very dull and lonely."
Perhaps had there been a convenient turning in the passage to separate
them for a moment from the rest of the party, that charming little
speech might have been rewarded; but fate was not so propitious. The
passage appeared interminably long and straight, so there could not be
any warmer expression of gratitude than words could give.
After a few moments Helena said again--"Now, Harry, you are to be very
good and quiet, and if you are so, I will give you a reward in the
shape of an invitation to our ball on this day week; but perhaps that
is too far off. A cricket who goes about chirping from hearth to hearth
might, you know, forget."
"How wicked you are, Lena!"
"Wicked, am I? Then, master cricket, you shan't have an invitation from
me, and if you wait till you get one from Mrs. Elton, you'll wait for
ever."
"Then the cricket will appear without one."
"Will he indeed! To be handed out by the servants! But I am going to be
serious now, and please to be rational for a few minutes and listen to
me. The invitations are only to be sent out to-morrow; mamma was not
well enough to permit us to send them before; indeed we were beginning
to fear that the ball would not come off at all. It would be vain to
expect that mamma would send you an invitation, but Mary shall ask you
to-day, and when we return home she can say that she has done so, and
mamma will not be able to help it then. How good I am to plan all this
for you, considering that it is quite indifferent to me whether you
are there or not. I hope you are fully sensible of my disinterested
goodness towards you, Mr. Caulfield."
"If I had but the opportunity, would I not make you pay for all this,
Lena!"
She looked up innocently at him, and asked in a most apparently
unconscious tone, "How, Harry?"
What a temptation was that upturned smiling face! and, with a sigh
for the _bonne bouche_ which he was obliged to relinquish, he said,
"I declare, Lena, it is cruelty to torment a man so; but my time will
come----"
She withdrew her hand hurriedly, exclaiming, "Here is a chapel; now we
must be demure," and she followed the others with the air of a little
Puritan, which tried Harry's gravity sadly.
A glance from Mary told Helena that she had flirted enough for that
day, and, not being at all dissatisfied with the day's adventure, she
determined to obey the glance; accordingly, as they were leaving the
chapel, she glided past Harry, and whispered, "Good-bye, cricket; I am
going to talk to Mary."
Poor Cricket looked rather woeful at this intelligence; but there was
no help for it, so, making a vain attempt to seize her little hand
again, he let her glide away from him.
We left Mr. Earnscliffe looking round for Mary Elton, in order to
obtain some information about "that Lyne affair;" and, a moment later,
Mary heard a voice beside her saying--
"Well, Miss Elton, are you deeply interested in the Catacombs?"
As she listened to those words, she felt as if a sharp knife were
cutting away the hope she had begun to cherish, that he was indifferent
to Flora Adair; for she felt certain that it was from the desire to
hear more of what she had said about Flora and Mr. Lyne that he came
to her. There could be no doubt, she thought, that the Catacombs would
otherwise have been far more attractive to him than a conversation
with her; nevertheless an answer must be given, and she said, "Not
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.