I.

"Buy the respect of the insolent."--_Turkish Proverb._

Down in the old Trastevere quarter of Rome the festa of St. Cecilia

was being celebrated in her church and convent.

The day was in harmony with the memory of the noble Roman lady--a sky

serenely blue, sunshine on fountain and temple ruin, the atmosphere

golden with autumn's richness of coloring. The adjacent narrow streets

were deserted, swept by one of those waves of popular impulse so

characteristic of Italian cities; files of priestly students from the

colleges passed through the gateway, this band clad in black, that one

in scarlet or purple, and formed lines of wavering color in their

transition across the court to the shadowy portico, flanked by the

high, grim, convent wall--that modern reading of St. Cecilia's

martyrdom. High above the surging crowd of devotees and beggars the

campanile soared into the sunny air, outlined against that azure Roman

sky, and sent forth its tinkling peal of summons to vespers, like the

silvery intonation of a benediction.

Two strangers entered the gate, the elder sombre and quiet, the

younger eager and delighted by the spectacle. Their respective

positions were apparent at a glance. Mademoiselle Durand, in her neat

black dress, with her thin sallow face and repressed expression, was a

French governess; the young American girl beside her, richly attired

in blue velvet, was her charge.

"I am a Cecilia, although far from a saint," said the latter, gayly.

"Ah! how one loves to hear about her--the beautiful martyr of

Raphael's pictures! Do you believe she is now singing among the

heavenly choirs up there, mademoiselle?" She paused a moment to

gaze at the sky, the sun-bathed campanile, with a wistfulness

not unfamiliar to her companion, and which she attributed to an

imaginative childhood. "Perhaps the evening bells of Rome are the

echoes of her voice in another world," she added, musingly.

"Come," said mademoiselle, dryly.

"When I am grown up perhaps I will build a convent of St. Cecilia in

America with my own money," continued the girl, meditatively.

Mademoiselle's eyes sparkled; she caressed the hand within her arm.

"Chere enfant! But I forget; it is not your faith."

"My faith? I always go to mass with you; I am not only devout, je suis

bigote," rejoined her pupil.

Then they entered the church. St. Cecilia's statue, wrought in purest

marble, lay revealed beneath the altar on this one day of the year,

when her crypt in the catacomb also blooms with flowers. Transfigured

by the radiance of silver lamps and myriads of tapers, enshrined in

garlands of roses, veiled in clouds of incense, the statue in its

niche lent a charm to the gaudy ornaments of the high altar, and all

the tinsel draperies extending from column to column along the aisle.

On the right a star of light was visible in the miraculous bath-room,

with its dim frescoes and ancient pillars; the nuns flitted behind the

lattice of their gallery.

Mademoiselle, a devout Catholic, knelt at different shrines. Her pupil

also knelt. The music, the chant, the glow of those gilded and crimson

draperies overhead, seen through the wreaths of incense, all blended.

She closed her eyes. She also must pray. For what boon? She smiled

suddenly as she murmured:

"O God, please send my papa to Rome for Christmas-day."

Then she rose to her feet, threaded her way among the ranks of

kneeling students, and mademoiselle found her in the court thrusting

money into the hands of a group of little boys, the true Trasteverini,

with large, liquid eyes.

"We shall be late, I fear," admonished the governess, as they finally

quitted the church.

The young girl, Cecilia Denvil, had insisted on walking to this

particular sanctuary in the Trastevere quarter instead of on the

Pincian Hill. She was both winning and perverse.

At an angle of the crooked streets the window of a shop attracted her

attention. Instantly the shrine of St. Cecilia, with its flowers and

silver lamps, vanished from her mind. The shop was a mere niche in an

old palace wall, brimming over, as it were, into the street, with such

odds and ends as a bit of tapestry, a dark picture, a heap of ancient

books, a tray of coins and medals, an idol fashioned by Chinese skill.

"What is it?" cried Cecilia.

"Only an image," replied mademoiselle.

The object of Cecilia's interest was a figure on a bracket in the shop

window. She darted into the shop, her governess following with a

patient smile. What harm could result from her pupil's chatting with

the old shop-keeper clad in shabby black, with a rusty satin stock

about his neck, and a face tinged yellow by age, as were those of the

dilapidated marble busts ranged above his head in the obscurity of the

shop? Ay, what harm indeed, mademoiselle? If one could read futurity!

The old man, without surprise at the advent of a young girl in blue

velvet, took down the image, and explained to her its history in his

slow, musical, Roman tongue. Even mademoiselle lent an ear of

unwilling fascination to the tale. The little wooden figure, a foot in

height, was San Donato. Behold, signorina mia, the beauty of the face,

the robes tinted a soft rose, with ample gold margin, the aureole and

palm of martyrdom in the hand. In the great Demidoff villa of San

Donato a patron saint was placed in a niche above the portal of

certain suites of apartments, as guardian spirit, by the builder. That

brought good luck. The Russian prince is dead, signorina, and the

nephew heir cast out the saints with quantities of other valuables for

sale. For this reason poor San Donato, patron of the whole place, is

now perched on a shelf in a little shop at Rome.

Cecilia listened with sparkling eyes, and her head a trifle on one

side.

"San Donato shall be my saint," she cried, extending her hands. "Two

hundred francs? I have more in my purse. You need not frown,

mademoiselle; it is my pocket-money from my papa in America, to spend

as I choose. Good-by, signor; I will come to see you again some time."

The old shop-keeper looked after her a moment, then drew from under a

chair a repast of dry bread and an onion, interrupted by the

purchaser.

"After all, San Donato might have brought me luck had I kept him

longer," he muttered, draining the little flask of wine as he sat on

the door-step, and musing with that curious mixture of avarice and

regret at losing a treasure peculiar to the connoisseur.

San Donato was carried along the street by his happy possessor

somewhat in the fashion of a new doll. Mademoiselle hid his light

under a bushel by laying a fold of shawl over his head and aureole.

Cecilia's fancy was captivated by his history even more than by his

pensive face and gorgeous robes. San Donato, deposed from his lofty

estate in the palace of a Russian prince, should preside as guardian

spirit of her home. The image was invested with the gifts of the good

fairy as much as he embodied any religious symbol. _His mission was to

avert evil._ The saint passed to a new shrine without attendant

priests, acolytes, and banners, the swinging of censers, the tinkling

of bells, as in the fine old days before Rome was a modern European

capital. It was not even borne aloft on sailors' shoulders, like the

silver statue of Our Lady at Marseilles, or the miracle-working black

Madonna of Montenero at Leghorn. Instead, San Donato moved under the

arm of a young girl, muffled in a shawl, skirting the bridge, the

quay, the square, now in sunshine, now in shadow, and finally gained

the Piazza di SS. Apostoli. Here he was conducted across a court

adorned with mouldy statues, and vanished up a broad stairway.

On the third story of the palazzo, shorn of its former papal glories,

and yet not degenerated to shabbiness, a door bore the card of Mrs.

Henry Denvil. Governess and pupil entered this apartment, and each

sought her respective chamber. Cecilia tossed aside her hat, placed

the image on the table, and, resting her chin on her hand, gazed at it

steadfastly. San Donato, with his aureole glistening, and holding his

palm branch, seemed to return her scrutiny mildly--even to interpret

her thought. She had never possessed a confidante other than a company

of dolls, now banished as too juvenile companions. "Do you see how it

will be?" she said aloud to the image. "You shall be placed in the

salon, and look down on us all. Nobody will ever banish you again to a

dirty little shop. Perhaps my papa will come over for Christmas. Do

not tell--I begged him to come in my last letter after mademoiselle

had corrected. I do not spell very well in English, you know, while

Jack has forgotten it altogether, mamma says. Jack is at school in

Switzerland, and I have not seen him for two years. He is my brother."

She took up her saint again, and went along the corridor. Her head was

erect, and a soft smile played about her mouth. She peeped into the

salon, drew back, reflected a moment, and entered. This salon

possessed the charm for her of forbidden ground. She was rigidly

banished from it by her mother, who received here much company. Hence

the delight of seeking some niche up high, where San Donato could be

placed. Possibly a gay lady would peer at him through her lorgnette,

and inquire, "Pray, my dear Mrs. Denvil, where did you get that

little statue?"

Mamma would seek _her_ lorgnette, and reply: "A little statue? I rent

the apartment, furnished, of Monsignor N----. The count may know."

Clearly, San Donato deserved a place of honor, and the salon alone was

sufficiently good for him. Cecilia traversed the room slowly, seeking

a shrine. The place was dark and silent; draperies of sombre damask

shrouded the windows and doorways; chandeliers of Venetian glass

swayed down from the vaulted ceiling like garlands of pale, frozen

flowers; the floor was of polished, inlaid woods; the bronze and green

tints of the wall were relieved by gilded cornices and columns bearing

the shield of the count's ancestors. All was stately, impressive, if a

trifle tarnished; and the effect of patrician elegance, everywhere

apparent, was heightened by an occasional portrait--a Martellini in

cavalier hat, with an angel bearing heavenward the family emblem, a

hammer; a Martellini as a nun, with long, pale fingers clasped over a

rosary.

Cecilia had not completed her survey when she was startled by the

tinkle of a bell and the approach of visitors. One glance assured her

that egress by means of the door was cut off. She darted behind a sofa

in the corner beside the window. Here she crouched on the floor,

holding San Donato in her arms, and laughed silently. She did not fear

to confront these guests. Who then? She dreaded the flash of her own

mother's eye. Yes, indeed, her pretty mamma had ceased to love her,

banished her more and more from her presence, made sharp or dry

responses to her prattle. Cecilia sighed inaudibly as she crouched

there. Hark! The visitors approached the window; she could touch one

by extending her arm from her hiding-place. Who were they? Oh, some of

her mamma's gentlemen friends lounging in for an afternoon call. They

spoke in a low, rapid tone, and their conversation only reached her

because of her propinquity.

Birds of prey sometimes pass over the blooming valleys, the waving

grain sown with wild flowers, the dove-cote beneath the cottage eaves,

uttering their harsh, discordant cries while on the wing.

The English voice, hoarse and deep: "It promises to be a slow

season--awfully dull. No English coming out this year, I hear. Have

you recently made the acquaintance of--la belle Americaine?"

The French voice, clear and crisp in utterance: "Yes, last week, at

the Spanish Embassy. She is really chic, mon ami."

The English voice: "Her dinners are not at all bad. Lots of money, you

know, and the count manages the whole establishment, from renting her

the apartment of his uncle the Monsignor N---- to selecting the

governess of the daughter and the _chef_. Ha! ha! ha!"

The French voice: "Ah, the Count Martellini! And monsieur the husband

is at home in America making the money, I suppose. Mon Dieu! How those

men over yonder trust their wives! A charming arrangement for the

count."

The English voice: "Have you heard the latest rumor? They are actually

going off together to the Nile after Christmas. A party is proposed,

and that sort of thing, but every one knows that it will result in a

dahabeeh to the cataract. Vive l'amour!"

The French voice, changing to a louder key: "Ah, madame is looking so

charming to-day!"

Then a soft rustling of silken draperies over the polished floor

announced the entrance of Mrs. Denvil, amiable greetings were

exchanged, and the gentlemen became deferential and courteous in

manner. Buy the respect of the insolent, by all means!

All the same, two birds of prey had wheeled in heavy and sluggish

flight over the valley where the grain ripened and the poppies

bloomed, uttering their discordant, mocking cry.

Cecilia crouched behind the sofa, bewildered and astonished. What did

they mean? She grew hot and cold, her heart throbbed violently, she

clinched her little hand. Why had these wicked creatures come here to

sing their dreary duet? How their tone changed when the hostess

appeared! She experienced the swift, intense indignation of youth at

hypocrisy, ignorant that these voices would sound the same notes in

every house to which they gained admission, after the manner of

society. Instinct taught her they alluded to her own mother, before

the allusion to the Nile voyage, of which she had already heard. Her

mamma and the count were going, with some friends, up the Nile after

Christmas. Why might not she go also? Her lips quivered resentfully.

Only that morning she had found the count in the aviary, petting the

birds; she had wound her arms about his neck, and said, "Oh, how

beautiful you are! When I have grown as tall and handsome as a woman

can be I shall marry you."

The count had showered kisses on her fair hair, and pinched her cheek

in his caressing way.

"We need not wait long, carina," he had replied.

Then mamma had appeared on the threshold, a bright spot on each cheek,

and that new flash in her eye.

"You are too old for such nonsense, Cecilia. Go back to mademoiselle

directly," she had said, in her dry tones.

Cecilia had departed, crest-fallen, mortified, with some vague

remembrance of a father who had not thus dismissed her. To be sure,

the count had sent her, later in the day, a gift of bonbons as

atonement for mamma's snubbing--one of those white satin boots,

mounted on a gilded rink skate, from Spillman's, in the Via Condotti.

_He_ was never cross, only a big playfellow, all amiability, little

clever tricks, frolic, easily tyrannized over, and serenely content

to spin balls or sift cards all day long for a child's amusement. They

had known him two or three years; he was their oldest friend abroad;

he came and went at all hours. The count was a great gentleman, too,

of princely lineage, easy, graceful, and elegant. How kind he was to

interest himself in the Denvils, when they were strangers in a foreign

land! The young girl had ample leisure for these reflections in her

hiding-place. She whispered to the image, demanding what it thought of

these croakers. The world was so beautiful, and people so kind. Then

the two visitors were replaced by a bevy of ladies, and amid the

rustlings of more silken draperies on the floor and the taps of heeled

shoes, Cecilia heard her mother exclaim:

"What a horrid man! I am always relieved when he departs, and yet one

meets him everywhere. He told me that frightful scandal about Lady

B---- (and no doubt it is true, unfortunately) as if he enjoyed the

recital."

A moment before Mrs. Denvil had said:

"Going so soon, Major Kettledrum? I am always delighted to see you."

Now the sofa creaked beneath the weight of two dowagers.

"How soon they lose their republican simplicity over here!" said one,

sipping a cup of tea.

"Oh, and they say the husband in America would not be presentable--a

common sort of man; a carpenter, I believe," retorted the other.

"Hush! A little more sugar, dear Mrs. Denvil. Thanks."

Finally the rustling of dresses and murmur of voices ceased; Cecilia

crept out of her retreat unperceived. She no longer sought a niche

for San Donato in the salon. It seemed to her that the statue did

not belong there. Mademoiselle had a headache; Cecilia ate her

supper alone. Heaven had given her the precious gift of a thoughtful

consideration for others. She took her own cologne flask to

mademoiselle's room and bathed the sufferer's temples.

"Mademoiselle, did St. Cecilia despise the world?"

"Surely. She was a holy woman."

"Are there any living like her now?"

"God knows," said mademoiselle, with a little bitterness.

Cecilia kissed her governess, and closed the door softly. Her mood was

a strange one. She no longer feared her mother. Something had escaped

from her nature, as if she had been touched by fire. It was that

subtle, perishable essence of being--childhood.

"I will play that I am a ghost, and walk through all the rooms," she

said to herself.

Mrs. Denvil found her standing in her dressing-room, calmly regarding

her, as she made her toilet for a ball at the Quirinal Palace.

"Why are you not in bed? It is ten o'clock," she said.

Cecilia made no reply. She was gazing at the picture reflected in

the cheval-glass of a very pretty woman in cream-tinted satin robe

scarcely retained on her dimpled shoulders by a strap, diamonds and

pearls twinkling about her throat and in her hair. The face of the

mother, round, soft, with small weak chin and bright eyes, appeared

more youthful than that of her child at the moment. The dressing-room

was littered with a rainbow of colors, wraps, dresses, cashmere,

laces, and jewelry. It smelled of mingled perfumes and singed hair.

Beauty, the poodle, lay coiled up in a tiny white ball on a velvet

cushion. How fashionable had Mrs. Denvil become! She never drove out

or received company without Beauty tucked under her left arm. At

length the daughter inquired in an odd, abrupt way: "Is it very

delightful to attend so many balls?"

Mrs. Denvil laughed nervously and adjusted a bracelet.

"I attend very few balls, my dear. You will like the dancing, I dare

say, when you come out as a young lady." Her tone was propitiatory,

even deprecating.

Cecilia did not smile.

"Why does not papa live here with us?" she pursued, steadily, after a

pause.

Mrs. Denvil was a weak woman; she moved uneasily, then took refuge in

maternal dignity.

"I am in Europe to educate Jack and yourself. Papa and I make the

sacrifice of being separated for your good, and that you may acquire

the foreign languages," she explained, in an injured tone.

Cecilia's eyebrows contracted.

"Are there no good schools or governesses, then, in America?"

"Go to bed, you impertinent child!" said Mrs. Denvil, sharply.

She was ruffled, embarrassed, strangely disturbed, by the curious

scrutiny of her daughter. She would have kissed her but for that last

question. Really it was too much to be asked if there were no schools

in America! She gave Cecilia a little tap with her fan, and floated

away, a lovely vision of glistening satin and jewels, enveloped in an

opera cloak, to be presented to the Princess Margherita.

The self-elected ghost was free to roam through the whole apartment,

to shed a few tears, and finally return to the small chamber

containing San Donato. She had intended to tell her mother about the

image, but the confidence had remained frozen on her lips. She did not

go to bed. She was lonely, miserable, and disquieted. What would her

mother have said if she knew of the hiding behind the sofa in the

salon? Cecilia now rested her arms on the table, and gazed at the

little wooden figure. Never had any toy possessed equal interest to

her.

Suddenly a great light filled the room, and San Donato vanished. She

searched for the lost treasure in dismay, and beheld him enter the

door. O, great and glorious San Donato! O, serene and holy San

Donato! spurning the guise of the old shop, a thing of wood, and

appearing to a lonely, neglected child as a swift, strong angel, with

unfolded wings, in all thy wondrous celestial beauty! Cecilia fell on

her knees, not daring to lift her eyes to the golden pinions, the head

crowned with its aureole of martyrdom; but the glorious shape raised

her, the door and walls of her chamber vanished, and with a giddy rush

through the dark night, which deprived her of breath, she found

herself standing on a globe, a world, upheld by her guardian, as the

soul stands in Guido Reni's picture of the Capitol. Her raiment was

also white and glistening; great pearls clasped her throat and wrists.

She was gravely chidden for touching these in wonder, and then she saw

other shapes, resembling San Donato, passing rank behind rank in the

clouds.

"These through great affliction came, but they never swerved from

duty. Are you afraid?" His voice was like the chimes up in St.

Cecilia's campanile ringing for vespers.

"Duty? What does it mean?" cried Cecilia, opening her eyes.

The image stood on the table, and the candle was flaring low in the

socket. Her arms were stiff, her body cold--hours must have elapsed.

She shivered, a sob burst from her throat, and she sought her bed.

Mrs. Denvil returned from her ball at that moment. The dressing-room

had been restored to order by the sleepy maid. The lady drew a slip

of perfumed note-paper from her glove. Her eyes were very bright, her

lips parched. The note implored her, in the most flowery Italian, to

consent to the Nile voyage, as the Countess di Moccoli would also go

in that case. Mrs. Denvil laughed her carefully acquired little laugh

of studied indifference, and glanced at herself in the mirror. She

was not too old to be admired, although her daughter was fifteen.

The dream of Alfredo, Count Martellini, was to make a Nile voyage

in her company. People would talk, of course. People always talk

scandal about somebody. The pretty woman, with her insatiable vanity,

was already drifting on a rapid current from which there was no

escape. Well, she was not alone. All the gay ladies and men of her

acquaintance were also afloat on the same perilous stream. By and by

they would reach the Niagara brink; then, with a dash and a plunge,

all would be over. The end? They would have lived, drained the goblet,

and flung it away. When it is fashionable to exaggerate sentiment

in every phase, women of Mrs. Denvil's type, fond of luxury and

extravagance, intoxicated with dissipation in foreign cities, do not

place themselves in the rear ranks.

She tore the note into bits, and smiled again in the mirror. A pale

light passed over the glass surface, blue and ghostly; the reflected

face grew haggard; patches of rouge stood out on the cheeks; dark

shadows gathered beneath the eyes; even the careful coiffure was

dishevelled; a stain of wine was visible on the satin gown; powder

became glaringly apparent on the dimpled shoulder. The enemy was dawn

of a day destined to mark the crisis in Augusta Denvil's life. She

shrank from it, without knowing why, and drew the heavy curtains.

Five o'clock on the Pincian Hill, with the setting sun casting its

ruddy rays over the city spires and roofs. The band was playing, the

carriages wending slowly up the drive, the children darting about the

flower beds, where the fountain sparkled. Mrs. Denvil's maroon

liveries and spirited horses had already made the circuit, the lady in

pale turquoise blue betraying none of the fatigue of dawn, and

receiving complacently that homage of admiration which Italy never

fails to bestow on an attractive woman in a fine equipage. The

Countess di Moccoli had left her own phaeton for a seat beside Mrs.

Denvil--an attention the most gratifying in public--to discuss the

Nile voyage. Also the Count Martellini, in faultless attire, a jasmine

blossom in his buttonhole, and yellow gloves, having assisted at this

exchange, had consented to take a seat opposite the two ladies. He

seldom drove with Mrs. Denvil. The count punctiliously observed

appearances. He did not dislike the circulation of a rumor which

elected him as the devoted cavalier of the rich American lady--a

position which kept other men at a distance.

Cecilia darted forward from a sheltered path and laid her hand on the

carriage door. Her look was troubled and perplexed. Suspicion had

taken no positive form in her mind; she was merely striving to read

San Donato's message, which had haunted her memory all day: "These

through great affliction came, but they never swerved from duty. Are

you afraid?"

"Mamma, come home with me!" she cried, clinging to the door.

"You here, Cecilia!" the mother exclaimed.

"Yes; come home," she reiterated.

"You must sit beside me and take a drive instead," interposed the

count, quick to avert a scene.

"No; do not touch _me_," said Cecilia, her large eyes flashing.

"Jealousy," thought the Countess di Moccoli.

Mrs. Denvil shook her finger playfully at the intruder, and resumed

her conversation. She supposed mademoiselle was back among the trees.

Mademoiselle was at home; Cecilia had run away from her to follow her

mamma. This was the girl's reading of San Donato's message. She drew

back, hurt and offended. She had failed. The slight childish form

crossed to the parapet, and stood there, looking down on the Piazza

del Popolo, where the pedestrians were dwarfed to pigmies. She thought

of her absent father, who represented ever an earthly providence to

her, by reason of mademoiselle's admonition, the supply of pin-money,

and the letters she wrote under dictation. She idealized this distant

yet benign influence. Behind her the crowd increased, the music rose

and fell, the carriages moved rapidly past each other in a maze of

wheels. On the horizon the red ball of a sun dipped, shedding a

tremulous rosy mist over St. Peter's dome.

Cecilia turned, saw her mother's landau again approaching, yielded to

a childish impulse, and ran toward it, repenting of her rudeness to

the count. He had always been so gentle, so tender with her, from the

first. Her eyes were fixed on the maroon liveries; she strove to

attract the count's notice, approached the brink of gliding vehicles,

then her foot slipped on the freshly sprinkled gravel; she fell, and

the carriage passed over her.

A little heap lay in the road; other horses were reined in furiously,

not to trample on it as well. The American lady had run over her own

child. That blood-curdling shriek of horror! that jolt on a soft

yielding substance was the passage of her wheels on her flesh, the

additional weight of stout Countess di Moccoli and of Count Martellini

aiding, if possible, in crushing out a fragile existence.

Later the count was confronted by a white stricken woman. He was full

of sympathy and pity for his playmate; tears stood in his beautiful

eyes.

"Leave us alone!" she said, fiercely, even wildly.

The count shrugged his shoulders, frowned, and departed. Palpable

injustice in the capricious creature woman. He was a philosopher, and

appeared at a diplomatic reception that evening. Matters might have

been worse. As a sentimentalist he had made as much love as he dared

to a pretty married woman whose husband was absent, while she was

manifestly flattered by his attentions. Practically speaking, he as an

impoverished noble had reaped advantage from his place as habitue of

the circle of a rich American in a land where a nice percentage exists

on custom. He had directed the money of Henry Denvil into those

channels of expenditure which would benefit himself by skilful advice.

The Nile voyage would set the world wholly at defiance.

Stout, good-natured Countess di Moccoli also appeared at the

diplomatic reception that evening, and we may rest assured no mention

was made of a young girl having been run over at the Pincio in the

gilded salons where both moved. One does not mention illness and death

in gilded salons, amid the ripple of music and laughter. One frequents

these resorts to forget, if possible, such grim and ghastly realities.

Thus closed the 23d of November, 18--.