“I think you take an exaggerated view of what I contemplate,” said

Lothair. “Even with your convictions, it may be an imperfect rite; but

it never can be an injurious one.”

“There can be no compromise on such matters,” said Miss Arundel. “The

Church knows nothing of imperfect rites. They are all perfect, because

they are all divine; any deviation from them is heresy, and fatal. My

convictions on this subject are your convictions; act up to them.”

“I am sure, if thinking of these matters would guide a man right—” said

Lothair, with a sigh, and he stopped.

“Human thought will never guide you; and very justly, when you have for

a guide Divine truth. You are now your own master; go at once to its

fountain-head; go to Rome, and then all your perplexities will vanish,

and forever.”

“I do not see much prospect of my going to Rome,” said Lothair, “at

least at present.”

“Well,” said Miss Arundel, “in a few weeks I hope to be there; and if

so, I hope never to quit it.”

“Do not say that; the future is always unknown.”

“Not yours,” said Miss Arundel. “Whatever you think, you will go to

Rome. Mark my words. I summon you to meet me at Rome.”

CHAPTER 46 There can be little doubt, generally speaking, that it is

more satisfactory to pass Sunday in the country than in town. There

is something in the essential stillness of country-life, which blends

harmoniously with the ordinance of the most divine of our divine laws.

It is pleasant, too, when the congregation breaks up, to greet one’s

neighbors; to say kind words to kind faces; to hear some rural news

profitable to learn, which sometimes enables you to do some good, and

sometimes prevents others from doing some harm. A quiet, domestic walk,

too, in the afternoon, has its pleasures; and so numerous and so various

are the sources of interest in the country, that, though it be Sunday,

there is no reason why your walk should not have an object.

But Sunday in the country, with your house full of visitors, is too

often an exception to this general truth. It is a trial. Your guests

cannot always be at church, and, if they could, would not like it. There

is nothing to interest or amuse them; no sport; no castles or factories

to visit; no adventurous expeditions; no gay music in the morn, and no

light dance in the evening. There is always danger of the day becoming

a course of heavy meals and stupid walks, for the external scene and all

teeming circumstances, natural and human, though full of concern to you,

are to your visitors an insipid blank.

How did Sunday go off at Muriel Towers?

In the first place, there was a special train, which, at an early

hour, took the cardinal and his suite and the St. Jerome family to

Grandchester, where they were awaited with profound expectation. But

the Anglican portion of the guests were not without their share of

ecclesiastical and spiritual excitement, for the bishop was to preach

this day in the chapel of the Towers, a fine and capacious sanctuary of

florid Gothic, and his lordship was a sacerdotal orator of repute.

It had been announced that the breakfast-hour was to be somewhat

earlier. The ladies in general were punctual, and seemed conscious of

some great event impending. The Ladies Flora and Grizell entered with,

each in her hand, a prayer-book of purple velvet, adorned with a decided

cross, the gift of the primus. Lord Culloden, at the request of Lady

Corisande, had consented to their hearing the bishop, which he would not

do himself. He passed his morning in finally examining the guardians’

accounts, the investigation of which he conducted and concluded, during

the rest of the day, with Mr. Putney Giles. Mrs. Campian did not leave

her room. Lord St. Aldegonde came down late, and looked about him with

an uneasy, ill-humored air.

Whether it were the absence of Theodora, or some other cause, he was

brusk, ungracious, scowling, and silent, only nodding to the bishop, who

benignly saluted him, refusing every dish that was offered; then getting

up, and helping himself at the side-table, making a great noise with the

carving instruments, and flouncing down his plate when he resumed his

seat. Nor was his costume correct. All the other gentlemen, though their

usual morning-dresses were sufficiently fantastic—trunk-hose of every

form, stockings bright as paroquets, wondrous shirts, and velvet-coats

of every tint—habited themselves to-day, both as regards form and color,

in a style indicative of the subdued gravity of their feelings. Lord St.

Aldegonde had on his shooting-jacket of brown velvet and a pink-shirt

and no cravat, and his rich brown locks, always, to a certain degree,

neglected, were peculiarly dishevelled.

Hugo Bohun, who was not afraid of him, and was a high-churchman,

being, in religion, and in all other matters, always on the side of the

duchesses, said: “Well, St. Aldegonde, are you going to chapel in that

dress?” But St. Aldegonde would not answer; he gave a snort, and glanced

at Hugo, with the eye of a gladiator.

The meal was over. The bishop was standing near the mantel-piece talking

to the ladies, who were clustered round him; the archdeacon and the

chaplain and some other clergy a little in the background; Lord St.

Aldegonde, who, whether there were a fire or not, always stood with

his back to the fireplace with his hands in his pockets, moved

discourteously among them, assumed his usual position, and listened,

as it were, grimly, for a few moments to their talk; then he suddenly

exclaimed in a loud voice, and with the groan of a rebellious Titan,

“How I hate Sunday!”

“Granville!” exclaimed Lady St. Aldegonde, turning pale. There was a

general shudder.

“I mean in a country-house,” said Lord St. Aldegonde. “Of course, I mean

in a country-house. I do not dislike it when alone, and I do not dislike

it in London. But Sunday in a country-house is infernal.”

“I think it is now time for us to go,” said the bishop, walking away

with dignified reserve, and they all dispersed.

The service was choral and intoned; for, although the Rev. Dionysius

Smylie had not yet had time or opportunity, as was his intention, to

form and train a choir from the household of the Towers, he had secured

from his neighboring parish and other sources external and effective aid

in that respect. The parts of the service were skillfully distributed,

and rarely were a greater number of priests enlisted in a more imposing

manner. A good organ was well played; the singing, as usual, a little

too noisy; there was an anthem and an introit—but no incense, which was

forbidden by the bishop; and, though there were candles on the altar,

they were not permitted to be lighted.

The sermon was most successful; the ladies returned with elate and

animated faces, quite enthusiastic and almost forgetting in their

satisfaction the terrible outrage of Lord St. Aldegonde. He himself had

by this time repented of what he had done, and recovered his temper, and

greeted his wife with a voice and look which indicated to her practised

senses the favorable change.

“Bertha,” he said, “you know I did not mean any thing personal to the

bishop in what I said. I do not like bishops; I think there is no use

in them; but I have no objection to him personally; I think him an

agreeable man; not at all a bore. Just put it right, Bertha. But I tell

you what, Bertha, I cannot go to church here. Lord Culloden does not go,

and he is a very religious man. He is the man I most agree with on these

matters. I am a free-church man, and there is on end of it. I cannot go

this afternoon. I do not approve of the whole thing. It is altogether

against my conscience. What I mean to do, if I can manage it, is to take

a real long walk with the Campians.”

Mrs. Campian appeared at luncheon. The bishop was attentive to her; even

cordial. He was resolved she should not feel he was annoyed by her not

having been a member of his congregation in the morning. Lady Corisande

too had said to him: “I wish so much you would talk to Mrs. Campian;

she is a sweet, noble creature, and so clever! I feel that she might be

brought to view things in the right light.”

“I never know,” said the bishop, “how to deal with these American

ladies. I never can make out what they believe, or what they disbelieve.

It is a sort of confusion between Mrs. Beecher Stowe and the Fifth

Avenue congregation and—Barnum,” he added with a twinkling eye.

The second service was late; the dean preached. The lateness of the hour

permitted the lord-lieutenant and those guests who had arrived only the

previous day to look over the castle, or ramble about the gardens. St.

Aldegonde succeeded in his scheme of a real long walk with the Campians,

which Lothair, bound to listen to the head of his college, was not

permitted to share.

In the evening Signor Mardoni, who had arrived, and Madame Isola Bella,

favored them with what they called sacred music; principally prayers

from operas and a grand Stabat Mater.

Lord Culloden invited Lothair into a farther saloon, where they might

speak without disturbing the performers or the audience.

“I’ll just take advantage, my dear boy,” said Lord Culloden, in a tone

of unusual tenderness, and of Doric accent, “of the absence of these

gentlemen to have a little quiet conversation with you. Though I have

not seen so much of you of late as in old days, I take a great interest

in you, no doubt of that, and I was very pleased to see how good-natured

you were to the girls. You have romped with them when they were little

ones. Now, in a few hours, you will be master of a great inheritance,

and I hope it will profit ye. I have been over the accounts with Mr.

Giles, and I was pleased to hear that you had made yourself properly

acquainted with them in detail. Never you sign any paper without reading

it first, and knowing well what it means. You will have to sign a

release to us if you be satisfied, and that you may easily be. My poor

brother-in-law left you as large an income as may be found on this side

Trent, but I will be bound he would stare if he saw the total of

the whole of your rent-roll, Lothair. Your affairs have been well

administered, though I say it who ought not. But it is not my management

only, or principally, that has done it. It is the progress of the

country, and you owe the country a good deal, and you should never

forget you are born to be a protector of its liberties, civil and

religious. And if the country sticks to free trade, and would enlarge

its currency, and be firm to the Protestant faith, it will, under Divine

Providence, continue to progress.

“And here, my boy, I’ll just say a word, in no disagreeable manner,

about your religious principles. There are a great many stories about,

and perhaps they are not true, and I am sure I hope they are not. If

popery were only just the sign of the cross, and music, and censer-pots,

though I think them all superstitious, I’d be free to leave them alone

if they would leave me. But popery is a much deeper thing than that,

Lothair, and our fathers found it out. They could not stand it, and we

should be a craven crew to stand it now. A man should be master in his

own house. You will be taking a wife, some day; at least it is to be

hoped so; and how will you like one of these monsignores to be walking

into her bedroom, eh; and talking to her alone when he pleases, and

where he pleases; and when you want to consult your wife, which a wise

man should often do, to find there is another mind between hers and

yours? There’s my girls, they are just two young geese, and they have a

hankering after popery, having had a Jesuit in the house. I do not know

what has become of the women. They are for going into a convent, and

they are quite right in that, for if they be papists they will not find

a husband easily in Scotland, I ween.

“And as for you, my boy, they will be telling you that it is only just

this and just that, and there’s no great difference, and what not; but

I tell you that, if once you embrace the scarlet lady, you are a tainted

corpse. You’ll not be able to order your dinner without a priest, and

they will ride your best horses without saying with your leave or by

your leave.”

The concert in time ceased; there was a stir in the room; the Rev.

Dionysius Smylie moved about mysteriously, and ultimately seemed to make

an obeisance before the bishop. It was time for prayers.

“Shall you go?” said Lord St. Aldegonde to Mrs. Campian, by whom he was

sitting.

“I like to pray alone,” she answered.

“As for that,” said Aldegonde, “I am not clear we ought to pray at all,

either in public or private. It seems very arrogant in us to dictate to

an all-wise Creator what we desire.”

“I believe in the efficacy of prayer,” said Theodora.

“And I believe in you,” said St. Aldegonde, after a momentary pause.

CHAPTER 47 On the morrow, the early celebration in the chapel was

numerously attended. The duchess and her daughters, Lady Agramont, and

Mrs. Ardenne, were among the faithful; but what encouraged and gratified

the bishop was, that the laymen, on whom he less relied, were numerously

represented. The lord-lieutenant, Lord Carisbrooke, Lord Montairy,

Bertram, and Hugo Bohun accompanied Lothair to the altar.

After the celebration, Lothair retired to his private apartments. It

was arranged that he was to join his assembled friends at noon, when

he would receive their congratulations, and some deputations from the

county.

At noon, therefore, preparatively preceded by Mr. Putney Giles,

whose thought was never asleep, and whose eye was on every thing, the

guardians, the cardinal, and the Earl of Culloden, waited on Lothair to

accompany him to his assembled friends, and, as it were, launch him into

the world.

They were assembled at one end of the chief gallery, and in a circle.

Although the deputations would have to advance the whole length of the

chamber, Lothair and his guardians entered from a side apartment. Even

with this assistance he felt very nervous. There was no lack of feeling,

and, among many, of deep feeling, on this occasion, but there was an

equal and a genuine exhibition of ceremony.

The lord-lieutenant was the first person who congratulated Lothair,

though the high-sheriff had pushed forward for that purpose, but, in his

awkward precipitation, he got involved with the train of the Hon. Lady

Clotworthy, who bestowed on him such a withering glance, that he felt

a routed man, and gave up the attempt. There were many kind and some

earnest words. Even St. Aldegonde acknowledged the genius of the

occasion. He was grave, graceful, and dignified, and, addressing

Lothair by his title, he said, “that he hoped he would meet in life that

happiness which he felt confident he deserved.” Theodora said nothing,

though her lips seemed once to move; but she retained for a moment

Lothair’s hand, and the expression of her countenance touched his

innermost heart. Lady Corisande beamed with dazzling beauty. Her

countenance was joyous, radiant; her mien imperial and triumphant. She

gave her hand with graceful alacrity to Lothair, and said in a hushed

tone, but every word of which reached his ear, “One of the happiest

hours of my life was eight o’clock this morning.”

The lord-lieutenant and the county members then retired to the other end

of the gallery, and ushered in the deputation of the magistracy of the

county, congratulating their new brother, for Lothair had just

been appointed to the bench, on his secession to his estates. The

lord-lieutenant himself read the address, to which Lothair replied with

a propriety all acknowledged. Then came the address of the mayor and

corporation of Grandchester, of which city Lothair was hereditary

high-steward; and then that of his tenantry, which was cordial and

characteristic. And here many were under the impression that this

portion of the proceedings would terminate; but it was not so. There had

been some whispering between the bishop and the archdeacon, and the Rev.

Dionysius Smylie had, after conference with his superiors, twice left

the chamber. It seems that the clergy had thought fit to take this

occasion of congratulating Lothair on his great accession and the

proportionate duties which it would fall on him to fulfil. The bishop

approached Lothair and addressed him in a whisper. Lothair seemed

surprised and a little agitated, but apparently bowed assent. Then the

bishop and his staff proceeded to the end of the gallery and introduced

a diocesan deputation, consisting of archdeacons and rural deans, who

presented to Lothair a most uncompromising address, and begged his

acceptance of a bible and prayer-book richly bound, and borne by the

Rev. Dionysius Smylie on a cushion of velvet.

The habitual pallor of the cardinal’s countenance became unusually wan;

the cheek of Clare Arundel was a crimson flush; Monsignore Catesby

bit his lip; Theodora looked with curious seriousness, as if she were

observing the manners of a foreign country; St. Aldegonde snorted, and

pushed his hand through his hair, which had been arranged in unusual

order. The great body of those present, unaware that this deputation was

unexpected, were unmoved.

It was a trial for Lothair, and scarcely a fair one. He was not unequal

to it, and what he said was esteemed, at the moment, by all parties

as satisfactory; though the archdeacon, in secret conclave, afterward

observed that he dwelt more on religion than on the Church, and spoke of

the Church of Christ and not of the Church of England. He thanked them

for their present of volumes, which all must reverence or respect.

While all this was taking place within the Towers, vast bodies of people

were assembling without. Besides the notables of the county and his

tenantry and their families, which drained all the neighboring villages,

Lothair had forwarded several thousand tickets to the mayor

and corporation of Grandchester, for distribution among their

fellow-townsmen, who were invited to dine at Muriel and partake of the

festivities of the day, and trains were hourly arriving with their eager

and happy guests. The gardens were at once open for their unrestricted

pleasure, but at two o’clock, according to the custom of the county

under such circumstances, Lothair held what, in fact, was a levée, or

rather a drawing-room, when every person who possessed a ticket was

permitted, and even invited and expected, to pass through the whole

range of the state apartments of Muriel Towers, and at the same time pay

their respects to, and make the acquaintance of, their lord.

Lothair stood with his chief friends near him, the ladies, however,

seated, and every one passed—farmers and townsmen and honest folk, down

to the stokers of the trains from Grandchester, with whose presence

St. Aldegonde was much pleased, and whom he carefully addressed as they

passed by.

After this great reception they all dined in pavilions in the park—one

thousand tenantry by themselves, and at a fixed hour; the miscellaneous

multitude in a huge crimson tent, very lofty, with many flags, and in

which was served a banquet that never stopped till sunset, so that in

time all might be satisfied; the notables and deputations, with the

guests in the house, lunched in the armory. It was a bright day, and

there was unceasing music.

In the course of the afternoon Lothair visited the pavilions, where his

health was proposed, and pledged—in the first by one of his tenants, and

in the other by a workman, both orators of repute; and he addressed and

thanked his friends. This immense multitude, orderly and joyous, roamed

about the parks and gardens, or danced on a platform which the prescient

experience of Mr. Giles had provided for them in a due locality, and

whiled away the pleasant hours, in expectation a little feverish of the

impending fireworks, which, there was a rumor, were to be on a scale

and in a style of which neither Grandchester nor the county had any

tradition.

“I remember your words at Blenheim,” said Lothair to Theodora. “You

cannot say the present party is founded on the principle of exclusion.”

In the mean time, about six o’clock, Lothair dined in his great hall

with his two hundred guests at a banquet where all the resources of

nature and art seemed called upon to contribute to its luxury and

splendor. The ladies, who had never before dined at a public dinner,

were particularly delighted. They were delighted by the speeches, though

they had very few; they were delighted by the national anthem, all

rising; particularly, they were delighted by “three-times-three, and one

cheer more,” and “hip, hip.” It seemed to their unpractised ears like

a great naval battle, or the end of the world, or any thing else of

unimaginable excitement, tumult, and confusion.

The lord-lieutenant proposed Lothair’s health, and dexterously made

his comparative ignorance of the subject the cause of his attempting

a sketch of what he hoped might be the character of the person whose

health he proposed. Every one intuitively felt the resemblance was

just, and even complete, and Lothair confirmed their kind and sanguine

anticipations by his terse and well-considered reply. His proposition of

the ladies’ healths was a signal that the carriages were ready to take

them, as arranged, to Muriel Mere.

The sun had set in glory over the broad expanse of waters still glowing

in the dying beam; the people were assembled in thousands on the borders

of the lake, in the centre of which was an island with a pavilion.

Fanciful barges and gondolas of various shapes and colors were waiting

for Lothair and his party, to carry them over to the pavilion, where

they found a repast which became the hour and the scene—coffee and ices

and whimsical drinks, which sultanas would sip in Arabian tales. No

sooner were they seated than the sound of music was heard—distant, but

now nearer, till there came floating on the lake, until it rested before

the pavilion, a gigantic shell, larger than the building itself,

but holding in its golden and opal seats Signor Mardoni and all his

orchestra.

Then came a concert rare in itself, but ravishing in the rosy twilight;

and in about half an hour, when the rosy twilight had subsided into

a violet eve, and when the white moon that had only gleamed began

to glitter, the colossal shell again moved on, and Lothair and his

companions, embarking once more in their gondolas, followed it in

procession about the lake. He carried in his own bark the duchess,

Theodora, and the lord-lieutenant, and was rowed by a crew in

Venetian dresses. As he handed Theodora to her seat, the impulse was

irresistible—he pressed her hand to his lips.

Suddenly a rocket rose with a hissing rush from the pavilion. It was

instantly responded to from every quarter of the lake. Then the island

seemed on fire, and the scene of their late festivity became a brilliant

palace, with pediments and columns and statues, bright in the blaze of

colored flame. For half an hour the sky seemed covered with blue lights

and the bursting forms of many-colored stars; golden fountains, like the

eruption of a marine volcano, rose from different parts of the water;

the statued palace on the island changed and became a forest glowing

with green light; and finally a temple of cerulean tint, on which

appeared in huge letters of prismatic color the name of Lothair.

The people cheered, but even the voice of the people was overcome by

troops of rockets rising from every quarter of the lake, and by the

thunder of artillery. When the noise and the smoke had both subsided,

the name of Lothair still legible on the temple but the letters quite

white, it was perceived that on every height for fifty miles round they

had fired a beacon.

CHAPTER 48 The ball at Muriel which followed the concert on the lake

was one of those balls which, it would seem, never would end. All the

preliminary festivities, instead of exhausting the guests of Lothair,

appeared only to have excited them, and rendered them more romantic

and less tolerant of the routine of existence. They danced in the great

gallery, which was brilliant and crowded, and they danced as they dance

in a festive dream, with joy and the enthusiasm of gayety. The fine

ladies would sanction no exclusiveness. They did not confine their

inspiring society, as is sometimes too often the case, to the Brecons

and the Bertrams and the Carisbrookes; they danced fully and freely with

the youth of the county, and felt that in so doing they were honoring

and gratifying their host.

At one o’clock they supped in the armory, which was illuminated for

the first time, and a banquet in a scene so picturesque and resplendent

renovated not merely their physical energies. At four o’clock the

duchess and a few others quietly disappeared, but her daughters

remained, and St. Aldegonde danced endless reels, which was a form in

which he preferred to worship Terpsichore. Perceiving by an open window

that it was dawn, he came up to Lothair and said, “This is a case of

breakfast.”

Happy and frolicsome suggestion! The invitations circulated, and it was

soon known that they were all to gather at the matin meal.

“I am so sorry that her grace has retired,” said Hugo Bohun to Lady

St. Aldegonde, as he fed her with bread and butter, “because she always

likes early breakfasts in the country.”

The sun was shining as the guests of the house retired, and sank into

couches from which it seemed they never could rise again; but, long

after this, the shouts of servants and the scuffle of carriages

intimated that the company in general were not so fortunate and

expeditious in their retirement from the scene; and the fields were all

busy, and even the towns awake, when the great body of the wearied but

delighted wassailers returned from celebrating the majority of Lothair.

In the vast and statesmanlike programme of the festivities of the

week, which had been prepared by Mr and Mrs. Putney Giles, something of

interest and importance had been appropriated to the morrow, but it was

necessary to erase all this; and for a simple reason—no human being on

the morrow morn even appeared—one might say, even stirred. After all

the gay tumult in which even thousands had joined, Muriel Towers on

the morrow presented a scene which only could have been equalled by the

castle in the fairy tale inhabited by the Sleeping Beauty.

At length, about two hours after noon, bells began to sound which were

not always answered. Then a languid household prepared a meal of which

no one for a time partook, till at last a monsignore appeared, and a

rival Anglican or two. Then St. Aldegonde came in with a troop of men

who had been bathing in the mere, and called loudly for kidneys, which

happened to be the only thing not at hand, as is always the case. St.

Aldegonde always required kidneys when he had sat up all night and

bathed. “But the odd thing is,” he said, “you never can get any thing to

eat in these houses. Their infernal cooks spoil every thing. That’s why

I hate staying with Bertha’s people in the north at the end of the year.

What I want in November is a slice of cod and a beefsteak, and by Jove

I never could get them; I was obliged to come to town. If is no joke to

have to travel three hundred miles for a slice of cod and a beefsteak.”

Notwithstanding all this, however, such is the magic of custom, that by

sunset civilization had resumed its reign at Muriel Towers. The party

were assembled before dinner in the saloon, and really looked as fresh

and bright as if the exhausting and tumultuous yesterday had never

happened. The dinner, too, notwithstanding the criticism of St.

Aldegonde, was first rate, and pleased palates not so simply fastidious

as his own. The bishop and his suite were to depart on the morrow, but

the cardinal was to remain. His eminence talked much to Mrs. Campian, by

whom, from the first, he was much struck. He was aware that she was born

a Roman, and was not surprised that, having married a citizen of the

United States, her sympathies were what are styled liberal; but this

only stimulated his anxious resolution to accomplish her conversion,

both religious and political. He recognized in her a being whose

intelligence, imagination, and grandeur of character, might be of

invaluable service to the Church.

In the evening Monsieur Raphael and his sister, and their colleagues,

gave a representation which was extremely well done. There was no

theatre at Muriel, but Apollonia had felicitously arranged a contiguous

saloon for the occasion, and, as everybody was at ease in an arm-chair,

they all agreed it was preferable to a regular theatre.

On the morrow they were to lunch with the mayor and corporation of

Grandchester, and view some of the principal factories; on the next day

the county gave a dinner to Lothair in their hall, the lord-lieutenant

in the chair; on Friday there was to be a ball at Grandchester given by

the county and city united to celebrate the great local event. It was

whispered that this was to be a considerable affair. There was not an

hour of the week that was not appropriated to some festive ceremony.

It happened on the morning of Friday, the cardinal being alone with

Lothair, transacting some lingering business connected with the

guardianship, and on his legs as he spoke, that he said: “We live

in such a happy tumult here, my dear child, that I have never had an

opportunity of speaking to you on one or two points which interest

me and should not be uninteresting to you. I remember a pleasant

morning-walk we had in the park at Vauxe, when we began a conversation

which we never finished. What say you to a repetition of our stroll?

‘Tis a lovely day, and I dare say we might escape by this window, and

gain some green retreat without any one disturbing us.”

“I am quite of your eminence’s mind,” said Lothair, taking up a

wide-awake, “and I will lead you where it is not likely we shall be

disturbed.”

So, winding their way through the pleasure-grounds, they entered by a

wicket a part of the park where the sunny glades soon wandered among the

tall fern and wild groves of venerable oaks.

“I sometimes feel,” said the cardinal, “that I may have been too

punctilious in avoiding conversation with you on a subject the most

interesting and important to man. But I felt a delicacy in exerting my

influence as a guardian on a subject my relations to which, when your

dear father appointed me to that office, were so different from those

which now exist. But you are now your own master; I can use no control

over you but that influence which the words of truth must always

exercise over an ingenuous mind.”

His eminence paused for a moment and looked at his companion; but

Lothair remained silent, with his eyes fixed upon the ground.

“It has always been a source of satisfaction, I would even say

consolation, to me,” resumed the cardinal, “to know you were a religious

man; that your disposition was reverential, which is the highest order

of temperament, and brings us nearest to the angels. But we live

in times of difficulty and danger—extreme difficulty and danger; a

religious disposition may suffice for youth in the tranquil hour, and he

may find, in due season, his appointed resting-place: but these are days

of imminent peril; the soul requires a sanctuary. Is yours at hand?”

The cardinal paused, and Lothair was obliged to meet a direct appeal.

He said then, after a momentary hesitation: “When you last spoke to

me, sir, on these grave matters, I said I was in a state of great

despondency. My situation now is not so much despondent as perplexed.”

“And I wish you to tell me the nature of your perplexity,” replied the

cardinal, “for there is no anxious embarrassment of mind which Divine

truth cannot disentangle and allay.”

“Well,” said Lothair, “I must say I am often perplexed at the

differences which obtrude themselves between Divine truth and human

knowledge.”

“Those are inevitable,” said the cardinal. “Divine truth being

unchangeable, and human knowledge changing every century; rather, I

should say, every generation.”

“Perhaps, instead of human knowledge, I should have said human

progress,” rejoined Lothair.

“Exactly,” said the cardinal, “but what is progress? Movement. But what

if it be movement in the wrong direction? What if it be a departure from

Divine truth?”

“But I cannot understand why religion should be inconsistent with

civilization,” said Lothair.

“Religion is civilization,” said the cardinal; “the highest: it is a

reclamation of man from savageness by the Almighty. What the world calls

civilization, as distinguished from religion, is a retrograde movement,

and will ultimately lead us back to the barbarism from which we have

escaped. For instance, you talk of progress: what is the chief social

movement of all the countries that three centuries ago separated from

the unity of the Church of Christ? The rejection of the sacrament of

Christian matrimony. The introduction of the law of divorce, which is,

in fact, only a middle term to the abolition of marriage. What does

that mean? The extinction of the home and the household on which God

has rested civilization. If there be no home, the child belongs to the

state, not to the parent. The state educates the child, and without

religion, because the state in a country of progress acknowledges no

religion. For every man is not only to think as he likes, but to write

and to speak as he likes, and to sow with both hands broadcast, where he

will, errors, heresies, and blasphemies, without any authority on earth

to restrain the scattering of this seed of universal desolation. And

this system, which would substitute for domestic sentiment and Divine

belief the unlimited and licentious action of human intellect and human

will, is called progress. What is it but a revolt against God?”

“I am sure I wish there were only one Church and one religion,” said

Lothair.

“There is only one Church and only one religion,” said the cardinal;

“all other forms and phrases are mere phantasms, without root, or

substance, or coherency. Look at that unhappy Germany, once so proud

of its Reformation. What they call the leading journal tells us to-day,

that it is a question there whether four-fifths or three-fourths of the

population believe in Christianity. Some portion of it has already

gone back, I understand, to Number Nip. Look at this unfortunate land,

divided, subdivided, parcelled out in infinite schism, with new oracles

every day, and each more distinguished for the narrowness of his

intellect or the loudness of his lungs; once the land of saints and

scholars, and people in pious pilgrimages, and finding always solace and

support in the divine offices of an ever-present Church, which were a

true though a faint type of the beautiful future that awaited man.

Why, only three centuries of this rebellion against the Most High have

produced throughout the world, on the subject the most important that

man should possess a clear, firm faith, an anarchy of opinion, throwing

out every monstrous and fantastic form, from a caricature of the Greek

philosophy to a revival of fetichism.”

“It is a chaos,” said Lothair, with a sigh.

“From which I wish to save you,” said the cardinal, with some eagerness.

“This is not a time to hesitate. You must be for God, or for Antichrist.

The Church calls upon her children.”

“I am not unfaithful to the Church,” said Lothair, “which was the Church

of my fathers.”

“The Church of England,” said the cardinal. “It was mine. I think of it

ever with tenderness and pity. Parliament made the Church of England,

and Parliament will unmake the Church of England. The Church of England

is not the Church of the English. Its fate is sealed. It will soon

become a sect, and all sects are fantastic. It will adopt new dogmas,

or it will abjure old ones; any thing to distinguish it from the

non-conforming herd in which, nevertheless, it will be its fate to

merge. The only consoling hope is that, when it falls, many of its

children, by the aid of the Blessed Virgin, may return to Christ.”

“What I regret, sir,” said Lothair, “is that the Church of Rome should

have placed itself in antagonism with political liberty. This adds to

the difficulties which the religious cause has to encounter; for it

seems impossible to deny that political freedom is now the sovereign

passion of communities.”

“I cannot admit,” replied the cardinal, “that the Church is in

antagonism with political freedom. On the contrary, in my opinion, there

can be no political freedom which is not founded on Divine authority;

otherwise it can be at the best but a specious phantom of license

inevitably terminating in anarchy. The rights and liberties of the

people of Ireland have no advocates except the Church; because, there,

political freedom is founded on Divine authority; but if you mean by

political freedom the schemes of the illuminati and the freemasons,

which perpetually torture the Continent, all the dark conspiracies of

the secret societies, there, I admit, the Church is in antagonism

with such aspirations after liberty; those aspirations, in fact, are

blasphemy and plunder; and, if the Church were to be destroyed, Europe

would be divided between the atheist and the communist.”

There was a pause; the conversation had unexpectedly arrived at a point

where neither party cared to pursue it. Lothair felt he had said enough;

the cardinal was disappointed with what Lothair had said. His eminence

felt that his late ward was not in that ripe state of probation which he

had fondly anticipated; but, being a man not only of vivid perception,

but also of fertile resource, while he seemed to close the present

conversation, he almost immediately pursued his object by another

combination of means. Noticing an effect of scenery which pleased

him, reminded him of Styria, and so on, he suddenly said: “You should

travel.”

“Well, Bertram wants me to go to Egypt with him,” said Lothair.

“A most interesting country,” said the cardinal, “and well worth

visiting. It is astonishing what a good guide old Herodotus still is in

that land! But you should know something of Europe before you go there.

Egypt is rather a land to end with. A young man should visit the chief

capitals of Europe, especially the seats of learning and the arts. If my

advice were asked by a young man who contemplated travelling on a proper

scale, I should say begin with Rome. Almost all that Europe contains

is derived from Rome. It is always best to go to the fountain-head, to

study the original. The society too, there, is delightful; I know none

equal to it. That, if you please, is civilization—pious and refined. And

the people—all so gifted and so good—so kind, so orderly, so charitable,

so truly virtuous. I believe the Roman people to be the best people that

ever lived, and this too while the secret societies have their foreign

agents in every quarter, trying to corrupt them, but always in vain.

If an act of political violence occurs, you may be sure it is confined

entirely to foreigners.”

“Our friends the St. Jeromes are going to Rome,” said Lothair.

“Well, and that would be pleasant for you. Think seriously of this, my

dear, young friend. I could be of some little service to you if you go

to Rome, which, after all, every man ought to do. I could put you, in

the way of easily becoming acquainted with all the right people, who

would take care that you saw Rome with profit and advantage.”

Just at this moment, in a winding glade, they were met abruptly by a

third person. All seemed rather to start at the sudden rencounter; and

then Lothair eagerly advanced and welcomed the stranger with a proffered

hand.

“This is a most unexpected, but to me most agreeable, meeting,” he said.

“You must now be my guest.”

“That would be a great honor,” said the stranger, “but one I cannot

enjoy. I had to wait at the station a couple of hours or so for my

train, and they told me if I strolled here I. should find some pretty

country. I have been so pleased with it, that I fear I have strolled too

long, and I literally have not an instant at my command,” and he hurried

away.

“Who is that person?” asked the cardinal with some agitation.

“I have not the slightest idea,” said Lothair. “All I know is, he once

saved my life.”

“And all I know is,” said the cardinal, “he once threatened mine.”

“Strange!” said Lothair, and then he rapidly recounted to the cardinal

his adventure at the Fenian meeting.

“Strange!” echoed his eminence.

CHAPTER 49 Mrs. Campian did not appear at luncheon, which was observed

but not noticed. Afterward, while Lothair was making some arrangements

for the amusement of his guests, and contriving that they should fit in

with the chief incident of the day, which was the banquet given to him

by the county, and which it was settled the ladies were not to attend,

the colonel took him aside and said, “I do not think that Theodora will

care to go out to-day.”

“She is not unwell, I hope?”

“Not exactly—but she has had some news, some news of some friends,

which has disturbed her. And, if you will excuse me, I will request your

permission not to attend the dinner to-day, which I had hoped to have

had the honor of doing. But I think our plans must be changed a little.

I almost think we shall not go to Scotland after all.”

“There is not the slightest necessity for your going to the dinner. You

will have plenty to keep you in countenance at home. Lord St. Aldegonde

is not going, nor I fancy any of them. I shall take the duke with me and

Lord Culloden, and, if you do not go, I shall take Mr. Putney Giles.

The lord-lieutenant will meet us there. I am sorry about Mrs. Campian,

because I know she is not ever put out by little things. May I not see

her in the course of the day? I should be very sorry that the day should

pass over without seeing her.”

“Oh! I dare say she will see you in the course of the day, before you

go.”

“When she likes. I shall not go out to-day; I shall keep in my rooms,

always at her commands. Between ourselves, I shall not be sorry to have

a quiet morning and collect my ideas a little. Speech-making is a new

thing for me. I wish you would tell me what to say to the county.”

Lothair had appropriated to the Campians one of the most convenient and

complete apartments in the castle. It consisted of four chambers, one of

them a saloon which had been fitted up for his mother when she married;

a pretty saloon, hung with pale-green silk, and portraits and scenes

inlaid by Vanloo and Boucher. It was rather late in the afternoon when

Lothair received a message from Theodora in reply to the wish that he

had expressed of seeing her.

When he entered the room, she was not seated; her countenance was

serious. She advanced, and thanked him for wishing to see her, and

regretted she could not receive him at an earlier hour. “I fear it

may have inconvenienced you,” she added; “but my mind has been much

disturbed, and too agitated for conversation.”

“Even now I may be an intruder?”

“No, it is past; on the contrary, I wish to speak to you; indeed, you

are the only person with whom I could speak,” and she sat down.

Her countenance, which was unusually pale when he entered, became

flushed. “It is not a subject for the festive hour of your life,” she

said, “but I cannot resist my fate.”

“Your fate must always interest me,” murmured Lothair.

“Yes; but my fate is the fate of ages and of nations,” said Theodora,

throwing up her head with that tumult of the brow which he had once

before noticed. “Amid the tortures of my spirit at this moment, not the

least is that there is only one person I can appeal to, and he is one to

whom I have no right to make that appeal.”

“If I be that person,” said Lothair, “you have every right, for I am

devoted to you.”

“Yes; but it is not personal devotion that is the qualification needed.

It is not sympathy with me that would authorize such an appeal. It

must be sympathy with a cause, and a cause for which, I fear, you do

not—perhaps I should say you cannot—feel.”

“Why?” said Lothair.

“Why should you feel for my fallen country, who are the proudest

citizen of the proudest of lands? Why should you feel for its debasing

thraldom—you who, in the religious mystification of man, have, at least,

the noble privilege of being a Protestant?”

“You speak of Rome?”

“Yes, of the only thought I have, or ever had. I speak of that country

which first impressed upon the world a general and enduring form of

masculine virtue; the land of liberty, and law, and eloquence, and

military genius, now garrisoned by monks, and governed by a doting

priest.”

“Everybody must be interested about Rome,” said Lothair. “Rome is the

country of the world, and even the doting priest you talk of boasts of

two hundred millions of subjects.”

“If he were at Avignon again, I should not care for his boasts,” said

Theodora. “I do not grudge him his spiritual subjects; I am content to

leave his superstition to Time. Time is no longer slow; his scythe mows

quickly in this age. But when his debasing creeds are palmed off on man

by the authority of our glorious capitol, and the slavery of the human

mind is schemed and carried on in the forum, then, if there be real

Roman blood left—and I thank my Creator there is much—it is time for it

to mount and move,” and she rose and walked up and down the room.

“You have had news from Rome?” said Lothair.

“I have had news from Rome,” she replied, speaking slowly in a deep

voice; and there was a pause.

Then Lothair said: “When you have alluded to these matters before, you

never spoke of them in a sanguine spirit.”

“I have seen the cause triumph,” said Theodora; “the sacred cause of

truth, of justice, of national honor. I have sat at the feet of the

triumvirate of the Roman Republic; men who, for virtue, and genius, and

warlike skill and valor, and every quality that exalts man, were never

surpassed in the olden time—no, not by the Catos and the Scipios; and I

have seen the blood of my own race poured, like a rich vintage, on the

victorious Roman soil; my father fell, who, in stature and in mien, was

a god; and, since then, my beautiful brothers, with shapes to enshrine

in temples; and I have smiled amid the slaughter of my race, for I

believed that Rome was free; and yet all this vanished. How, then, when

we talked, could I be sanguine?”

“And yet you are sanguine now?” said Lothair, with a scrutinizing

glance; and he rose and joined her, leaning slightly on the

mantel-piece.

“There was only one event that could secure the success of our efforts,”

said Theodora, “and that event was so improbable, that I had long

rejected it from calculation. It has happened, and Rome calls upon me to

act.”

“The Papalini are strong,” continued Theodora, after a pause; “they have

been long preparing for the French evacuation; they have a considerable

and disciplined force of janizaries, a powerful artillery, the strong

places of the city. The result of a rising, under such circumstances,

might be more than doubtful; if unsuccessful, to us it would be

disastrous. It is necessary that the Roman States should be invaded, and

the papal army must then quit their capital. We have no fear of them in

the field. Yes,” she added, with energy, “we could sweep them from the

face of the earth!”

“But the army of Italy,” said Lothair, “will that be inert?”

“There it is,” said Theodora. “That has been our stumbling-block. I have

always known that, if ever the French quitted Rome, it would be on the

understanding that the house of Savoy should inherit the noble office

of securing our servitude. He in whom I alone confide would never credit

this; but my information, in this respect, was authentic. However, it

is no longer necessary to discuss the question. News has come, and in no

uncertain shape, that whatever may have been the understanding, under

no circumstances will the Italian army enter the Roman state. We must

strike, therefore, and Rome will be free. But how am I to strike? We

have neither money nor arms. We have only men. I can give them no more,

because I have already given them every thing, except my life, which

is always theirs. As for my husband, who, I may say, wedded me on the

battle-field, so far as wealth was concerned, he was then a prince among

princes, and would pour forth his treasure, and his life, with equal

eagerness. But things have changed since Aspromonte. The struggle in

his own country has entirely deprived him of revenues as great as any

forfeited by their Italian princelings. In fact, it is only by a chance

that he is independent. Had it not been for an excellent man, one of

your great English merchants, who was his agent here, and managed his

affairs, we should have been penniless. His judicious investments of

the superfluity of our income, which, at the time, my husband never even

noticed, have secured for Colonel Campian the means of that

decorous life which he appreciates—but no more. As for myself, these

considerations are nothing. I will not say I should be insensible to a

refined life with refined companions, if the spirit were content and the

heart serene; but I never could fully realize the abstract idea of what

they call wealth; I never could look upon it except as a means to

an end, and my end has generally been military material. Perhaps the

vicissitudes of my life have made me insensible to what are called

reverses of fortune, for, when a child, I remember sleeping on the

moonlit flags of Paris, with no pillow except my tambourine; and I

remember it not without delight. Let us sit down. I feel I am talking in

an excited, injudicious, egotistical, rhapsodical, manner. I thought I

was calm, and I meant to have been clear. But the fact is, I am ashamed

of myself. I am doing a wrong thing, and in a wrong manner. But I have

had a sleepless night, and a day of brooding thought. I meant once to

have asked you to help me, and now I feel that you are the last person

to whom I ought to appeal.”

“In that you are in error,” said Lothair, rising and taking her hand

with an expression of much gravity; “I am the right person for you to

appeal to—the only person.”

“Nay,” said Theodora, and she shook her head.

“For I owe to you a debt that I never can repay,” continued Lothair.

“Had it not been for you, I should have remained what I was when we

first met, a prejudiced, narrow-minded being, with contracted sympathies

and false knowledge, wasting my life on obsolete trifles, and utterly

insensible to the privilege of living in this wondrous age of change and

progress. Why, had it not been for you I should have at this very moment

been lavishing my fortune on an ecclesiastical toy, which I think of

with a blush. There may be—doubtless there are—opinions in which we may

not agree; but in our love of truth and justice there is no difference,

dearest lady. No; though you must have felt that I am not—that no one

could be—insensible to your beauty and infinite charms, still it is your

consummate character that has justly fascinated my thought and heart;

and I have long resolved, were I permitted, to devote to you my fortune

and my life.”

CHAPTER 50 The month of September was considerably advanced when a

cab, evidently from its luggage fresh from the railway, entered the

court-yard of Hexham House, of which the shuttered windows indicated the

absence of its master, the cardinal, then in Italy. But it was evident

that the person who had arrived was expected, for before his servant

could ring the hall-bell the door opened, and a grave-looking domestic

advanced with much deference, and awaited the presence of no less a

personage than Monsignore Berwick.

“We have had a rough passage, good Clifford,” said the great man,

alighting, “but I see you duly received my telegram. You are always

ready.”

“I hope my lord will find it not uncomfortable,” said Clifford. “I have

prepared the little suite which you mentioned, and have been careful

that there should be no outward sign of any one having arrived.”

“And now,” said the monsignore, stopping for a moment in the ball, “here

is a letter which must be instantly delivered, and by a trusty hand,”

and he gave it to Mr. Clifford, who, looking at the direction, nodded

his head and said, “By no one but myself. I will show my lord to his

rooms and depart with this instantly.”

“And bring back a reply,” added the monsignore.

The well-lit room, the cheerful fire, the judicious refection on

a side-table, were all circumstances which usually would have been

agreeable to a wearied traveller, but Monsignore Berwick seemed little

to regard them. Though a man in general superior to care, and master of

thought, his countenance was troubled and pensive even to dejection.

“Even the winds and waves are against us,” he exclaimed, too restless

to be seated, and walking up and down the room with his arms behind

his back. “That such a struggle should fall to my lot! Why was I not a

minister in the days of the Gregorys, the Innocents, even the Leos! But

this is craven. There should be inspiration in peril, and the greatest

where peril is extreme. I am a little upset—with travel and the voyage

and those telegrams not being answered. The good Clifford was wisely

provident,” and he approached the table and took one glass of wine.

“Good! One must never despair in such a cause. And if the worse happens,

it has happened before—and what then? Suppose Avignon over again, or

even Gaeta, or even Paris? So long as we never relinquish our title to

the Eternal City we shall be eternal. But then, some say, our enemies

before were the sovereigns; now it is the people. Is it so? True we have

vanquished kings, and baffled emperors—but the French Republic and the

Roman Republic have alike reigned and ruled in the Vatican, and where

are they? We have lost provinces, but we have also gained them. We have

twelve millions of subjects in the United States of America, and they

will increase like the sands of the sea. Still it is a hideous thing to

have come back, as it were, to the days of the Constable of Bourbon, and

to be contemplating the siege of the Holy See, and massacre and pillage

and ineffable horrors! The papacy may survive such calamities, as it

undoubtedly will, but I shall scarcely figure in history if, under my

influence, such visitations should accrue. If I had only to deal with

men, I would not admit of failure; but when your antagonists are human

thoughts, represented by invisible powers, there is something that might

baffle a Machiavel and appall a Borgia.”

While he was meditating in this vein the door opened, and Mr. Clifford,

with some hasty action and speaking rapidly, exclaimed: “He said he

would be here sooner than myself. His carriage was at the door. I drove

back as soon as possible—and indeed I hear something now in the court,”

and he disappeared.

It was only to usher in, almost immediately, a stately personage in an

evening dress, and wearing a decoration of a high class, who saluted the

monsignore with great cordiality.

“I am engaged to dine with the Prussian ambassador, who has been obliged

to come to town to receive a prince of the blood who is visiting the

dockyards here; but I thought you might be later than you expected, and

I ordered my carriage to be in waiting, so that we have a good little

hour—and I can come on to you again afterward, if that will not do.”

“A little hour with us is a long hour with other people,” said the

monsignore, “because we are friends and can speak without windings. You

are a true friend to the Holy See; you have proved it. We are in great

trouble and need of aid.”

“I hear that things are not altogether as we could wish,” said the

gentleman in an evening dress; “but I hope, and should think, only

annoyances.”

“Dangers,” said Berwick, “and great.”

“How so?”

“Well, we have invasion threatening us without and insurrection within,”

said Berwick. “We might, though it is doubtful, successfully encounter

one of these perils, but their united action must be fatal.”

“All this has come suddenly,” said the gentleman. “In the summer you

had no fear, and our people wrote to us that we might be perfectly

tranquil.”

“Just so,” said Berwick. “If we had met a month ago, I should have

told you the same thing. A month ago the revolution seemed lifeless,

penniless; without a future, without a resource. They had no money, no

credit, no men. At present, quietly but regularly, they are assembling

by thousands on our frontiers; thy have to our knowledge received two

large consignments of small arms, and apparently have unlimited credit

with the trade, both in Birmingham and Liége; they have even artillery;

every thing is paid for in coin or in good bills—and, worst of all, they

have a man, the most consummate soldier in Europe. I thought he was

at New York, and was in hopes he would never have recrossed the

Atlantic—but I know that he passed through Florence a fortnight ago, and

I have seen a man who says he spoke to him at Narni.”

“The Italian government must stop all this,” said the gentleman.

“They do not stop it,” said Berwick. “The government of his holiness

has made every representation to them: we have placed in their hands

indubitable evidence of the illegal proceedings that are taking place

and of the internal dangers we experience in consequence of their

exterior movements. But they do nothing: it is even believed that the

royal troops are joining the insurgents, and Garibaldi is spouting with

impunity in every balcony of Florence.”

“You may depend upon it that our government is making strong

representations to the government of Florence.”

“I come from Paris and elsewhere,” said Berwick, with animation and

perhaps a degree of impatience. “I have seen everybody there, and I have

heard every thing. It is not representations that are wanted from your

government; it is something of a different kind.”

“But if you have seen everybody at Paris and heard every thing, how can

I help you?”

“By acting upon the government here. A word from you to the English

minister would have great weight at this juncture. Queen Victoria is

interested in the maintenance of the papal throne. Her Catholic subjects

are counted by millions. The influence of his holiness has been hitherto

exercised against the Fenians. France would interfere, if she was sure

the step would not be disapproved by England.”

“Interfere!” said the gentleman. “Our return to Rome almost before

we have paid our laundresses’ bills in the Eternal City would be a

diplomatic scandal.”

“A diplomatic scandal would be preferable to a European revolution.”

“Suppose we were to have both?” and the gentleman drew his chair near

the fire.

“I am convinced that a want of firmness now,” said Berwick, “would lead

to inconceivable calamities for all of us.”

“Let us understand each other, my very dear friend Berwick,” said his

companion, and he threw his arm over the back of his chair and looked

the Roman full in his face. “You say you have been at Paris and

elsewhere, and have seen everybody and heard every thing?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Something has happened to us also during the last month, and as

unexpectedly as to yourselves.”

“The secret societies? Yes, he spoke to me on that very point, and

fully. ‘Tis strange, but is only, in my opinion, an additional argument

in favor of crushing the evil influence.”

“Well, that he must decide. But the facts are startling. A month ago the

secret societies in France were only a name; they existed only in the

memory of the police, and almost as a tradition. At present we know that

they are in complete organization, and what is most strange is that the

prefects write they have information that the Mary-Anne associations,

which are essentially republican and are scattered about the provinces,

are all revived, and are astir. Mary-Anne, as you know, was the red name

for the republic years ago, and there always was a sort of myth that

these societies had been founded by a woman. Of course that is all

nonsense, but they keep it up; it affects the public imagination, and

my government has undoubted evidence that the word of command has gone

round to all these societies that Mary-Anne has; returned and will issue

her orders, which must be obeyed.”

“The Church is stronger, and especially in the provinces, than the

Mary-Anne societies,” said Berwick.

“I hope so,” said his friend; “but you see, my dear monsignore, the

question with us is not so simple as you put It. The secret societies

will not tolerate another Roman interference, to say nothing of the

diplomatic hubbub, which we might, if necessary, defy; but what if,

taking advantage of the general indignation, your new kingdom of Italy

may seize the golden opportunity of making a popular reputation, and

declare herself the champion of national independence against the

interference of the foreigner? My friend, we tread on delicate ground.”

“If Rome falls, not an existing dynasty in Europe will survive five

years,” said Berwick.

“It may be so,” said his companion, but with no expression of

incredulity. “You know how consistently and anxiously I have always

labored to support the authority of the Holy See, and to maintain its

territorial position as the guarantee of its independence; but Fate has

decided against us. I cannot indulge in the belief that his holiness

will ever regain his lost provinces; a capital without a country is an

apparent anomaly, which I fear will always embarrass us. We can treat

the possession as the capital of Christendom, but, alas! all the world

are not as good Christians as ourselves, and Christendom is a country

no longer marked out in the map of the world. I wish,” continued the

gentleman in a tone almost coaxing—“I wish we could devise some plan

which, humanly speaking, would secure to his holiness the possession

of his holy throne forever. I wish I could induce you to consider more

favorably that suggestion, that his holiness should content himself with

the ancient city, and, in possession of St. Peter’s and the Vatican,

leave the rest of Rome to the vulgar cares and the mundane anxieties

of the transient generation. Yes,” he added with energy, “if, my dear

Berwick, you could see your way to this, or something like this, I think

even now and at once, I could venture to undertake that the emperor, my

master, would soon put an end to all these disturbances and dangers, and

that—”

“Non possumus,” said Berwick, sternly stopping him; “sooner than that

Attila, the Constable of Bourbon, or the blasphemous orgies of the Red

Republic! After all, it is the Church against the secret societies.

They are the only two strong things in Europe, and will survive kings,

emperors, or parliaments.”

At this moment there was a tap at the door, and, bidden to enter, Mr.

Clifford presented himself with a sealed paper, for the gentleman in

evening dress. “Your secretary, sir, brought this, which he said must be

given you before you went to the ambassador.”

“‘Tis well,” said the gentleman, and he rose, and with a countenance of

some excitement read the paper, which contained a telegram; and then he

said: “This, I think, will help us out of our immediate difficulties,

my dear monsignore. Rattazzi has behaved like a man of sense, and has

arrested Garibaldi. But you do not seem, my friend, as pleased as I

should have anticipated.”

“Garibaldi has been arrested before,” said Berwick.

“Well, well, I am hopeful; but I must go to my dinner. I will see you

again tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 51 The continuous gathering of what, in popular language, were

styled the Garibaldi Volunteers, on the southern border of the papal

territory in the autumn of 1867, was not the only or perhaps the

greatest danger which then threatened the Holy See, though the one which

most attracted its alarmed attention. The considerable numbers in which

this assemblage was suddenly occurring; the fact that the son of the

Liberator had already taken its command, and only as the precursor of

his formidable sire; the accredited rumor that Ghirelli at the head of a

purely Roman legion was daily expected to join the frontier force; that

Nicotera was stirring in the old Neapolitan kingdom, while the

Liberator himself at Florence and in other parts of Tuscany was even

ostentatiously, certainly with impunity, preaching the new crusade and

using all his irresistible influence with the populace to excite their

sympathies and to stimulate their energy, might well justify the extreme

apprehension of the court of Rome. And yet dangers at least equal, and

almost as close, were at the same time preparing unnoticed and unknown.

In the mountainous range between Fiascone and Viterbo, contiguous to

the sea, is a valley surrounded by chains of steep and barren hills, but

which is watered by a torrent scarcely dry, even in summer; so that

the valley itself, which is not inconsiderable in its breadth, is never

without verdure, while almost a forest of brushwood formed of shrubs,

which in England we should consider rare, bounds the natural turf and

ascends sometimes to no inconsiderable height the nearest hills.

Into this valley, toward the middle of September, there defiled one

afternoon through a narrow pass a band of about fifty men, all armed,

and conducting a cavalcade or rather a caravan of mules laden with

munitions of war and other stores. When they had gained the centre

of the valley and a general halt was accomplished, their commander,

accompanied by one who was apparently an officer, surveyed all the

points of the locality; and, when their companions had rested and

refreshed themselves, they gave the necessary orders for the preparation

of a camp. The turf already afforded a sufficient area for their present

wants, but it was announced that on the morrow they must commence

clearing the brushwood. In the mean time, one of the liveliest scenes

of military life soon rapidly developed itself: the canvas houses

were pitched, the sentries appointed, the videttes established. The

commissariat was limited to bread and olives, and generally the running

stream, varied sometimes by coffee, and always consoled by tobacco.

On the third day, amid their cheerful though by no means light labors, a

second caravan arrived, evidently expected and heartily welcomed. Then,

in another eight-and-forty hours, smaller bodies of men seemed to drop

down from the hills, generally without stores, but always armed. Then

men came from neighboring islands in open boats, and one morning a

considerable detachment crossed the water from Corsica. So that at the

end of a week or ten days there was an armed force of several hundred

men in this once silent valley, now a scene of constant stir and

continual animation, for some one or something was always arriving, and

from every quarter; men and arms and stores crept in from every wild

pass of the mountains and every little rocky harbor of the coast.

About this time, while the officer in command was reviewing a

considerable portion of the troops, the rest laboring in still clearing

the brushwood and establishing the many works incidental to a camp, half

a dozen horsemen were seen descending the mountain-pass by which the

original body had entered the valley. A scout had preceded them, and

the troops with enthusiasm awaited the arrival of that leader, a message

from whose magic name had summoned them to this secluded rendezvous from

many a distant state and city. Unruffled, but with an inspiring fire in

his pleased keen eye, that general answered their devoted salute, whom

hitherto we have known by his travelling name of Captain Bruges.

It was only toward the end of the preceding month that he had resolved

to take the field; but the organization of the secret societies is

so complete that he knew he could always almost instantly secure the

assembling of a picked force in a particular place. The telegraph

circulated its mystic messages to every part of France and Italy and

Belgium, and to some old friends not so conveniently at hand, but who he

doubted not would arrive in due time for action. He himself had employed

the interval in forwarding all necessary supplies, and he had passed

through Florence in order that he might confer with the great spirit of

Italian movement and plan with him the impending campaign.

After he had passed in review the troops, the general, with the officers

of his staff who had accompanied him, visited on foot every part of

the camp. Several of the men he recognized by name; to all of them he

addressed some inspiring word; a memory of combats in which they had

fought together, or happy allusions to adventures if romantic peril;

some question which indicated that local knowledge which is magical

for those who are away from home; mixed with all this, sharp, clear

inquiries as to the business of the hour, which proved the master of

detail, severe in discipline, but never deficient in sympathy for his

troops.

After sunset, enveloped in their cloaks, the general and his companions,

the party increased by the officers who had been in command previous to

his arrival, smoked their cigars round the camp-fire.

“Well, Sarano,” said the general, “I will look over your muster-roll

to-morrow, but I should suppose I may count on a thousand rifles or so.

I want three, and we shall get them. The great man would have supplied

them me at once, but I will not have boys. He must send those on to

Menotti. I told him: ‘I am not a man of genius; I do not pretend to

conquer kingdoms with boys. Give me old soldiers, men who have served

a couple of campaigns, and been seasoned with four-and-twenty months of

camp-life, and I will not disgrace you or myself.’”

“We have had no news from the other place for a long time,” said Sarano.

“How is it?”

“Well enough. They are in the mountains about Nerola, in a position not

very unlike this; numerically strong, for Nicotera has joined them, and

Ghirelli with the Roman Legion is at hand. They must be quiet till the

great man joins them; I am told they are restless. There has been too

much noise about the whole business. Had they been as mum as you have

been, we should not have had all these representations from France and

these threatened difficulties from that quarter. The Papalini would have

complained and remonstrated, and Rattazzi could have conscientiously

assured the people at Paris that they were dealing with exaggerations

and bugbears; the very existence of the frontier force would have become

a controversy, and, while the newspapers were proving it was a myth, we

should have been in the Vatican.”

“And when shall we be there, general?”

“I do not want to move for a month. By that time I shall have two

thousand five hundred or three thousand of my old comrades, and the

great man will have put his boys in trim. Both bodies must leave their

mountains at the same time, join in the open country, and march to

Rome.”

As the night advanced, several of the party rose and left the

camp-fire—some to their tents, some to their duties. Two of the staff

remained with the general.

“I am disappointed and uneasy that we have not heard from Paris,” said

one of them.

“I am disappointed,” said the general, “but not uneasy; she never makes

a mistake.”

“The risk was too great,” rejoined the speaker in a depressed tone.

“I do not see that,” said the general. “What is the risk? Who could

possibly suspect the lady’s maid of the Princess of Tivoli! I am told

that the princess has become quite a favorite at the Tuileries.”

“They say that the police is not so well informed as it used to be;

nevertheless, I confess I should be much happier were she sitting round

this camp-fire.”

“Courage!” said the general. “I do not believe in many things, but I do

believe in the divine Theodora. What say you, Captain Muriel? I hope you

are not offended by my criticism of young soldiers. You are the youngest

in our band, but you have good military stuff in you, and will be soon

seasoned.”

“I feel I serve under a master of the art,” replied Lothair, “and will

not take the gloomy view of Colonel Campian about our best friend,

though I share all his disappointment. It seems to me that detection is

impossible. I am sure that I could not have recognized her when I handed

the princess into her carriage.”

“The step was absolutely necessary,” said the general; “no one could be

trusted but herself—no other person has the influence. All our danger is

from France. The Italian troops will never cross the frontier to attack

us, rest assured of that. I have proof of it. And it is most difficult,

almost impossible, for the French to return. There never would have been

an idea of such a step, if there had been a little more discretion at

Florence, less of those manifestoes and speeches from balconies. But we

must not criticise one who is above criticism. Without him we could do

nothing, and when he stamps his foot men rise from the earth. I will go

the rounds; come with me, Captain Muriel. Colonel, I order you to your

tent; you are a veteran—the only one among us, at least on the staff,

who was wounded at Aspromonte.”

CHAPTER 52 The life of Lothair had been so strange and exciting since he

quitted Muriel Towers that he had found little time for that reflection

in which he was once so prone to indulge. Perhaps he shrank from it. If

he wanted an easy distraction from self-criticism it may be a convenient

refuge from the scruples, or even the pangs, of conscience—it was

profusely supplied by the startling affairs of which he formed a part,

the singular characters with whom he was placed in contact, the risk and

responsibility which seemed suddenly to have encompassed him with their

ever-stimulating influence, and, lastly, by the novelty of foreign

travel, which, even under ordinary circumstances, has a tendency to

rouse and stir up even ordinary men.

So long as Theodora was his companion in their counsels, and he was

listening to her deep plans and daring suggestions, enforced by that

calm enthusiasm which was not the least powerful of her commanding

spells, it is not perhaps surprising that he should have yielded without

an effort to her bewitching ascendancy. But when they had separated, and

she had embarked on that perilous enterprise of personally conferring

with the chiefs of those secret societies of France, which had been

fancifully baptized by her popular name, and had nurtured her tradition

as a religious faith, it might have been supposed that Lothair, left to

himself, might have recurred to the earlier sentiments of his youth. But

he was not left to himself. He was left with her injunctions, and

the spirit of the oracle, though the divinity was no longer visible,

pervaded his mind and life.

Lothair was to accompany the general as one of his aides-de-camp, and

he was to meet Theodora again on what was contemplated as the field

of memorable actions. Theodora had wisely calculated on the influence,

beneficial in her view, which the character of a man like the general

would exercise over Lothair. This consummate military leader, though he

had pursued a daring career, and was a man of strong convictions, was

distinguished by an almost unerring judgment, and a mastery of method

rarely surpassed. Though he was without imagination or sentiment, there

were occasions on which he had shown he was not deficient in a becoming

sympathy, and he had a rapid and correct perception of character. He was

a thoroughly honest man, and, in the course of a life of great trial and

vicissitude, even envenomed foes had never impeached his pure integrity.

For the rest, he was unselfish, but severe in discipline, inflexible,

and even ruthless in the fulfilment of his purpose. A certain simplicity

of speech and conduct, and a disinterestedness which, even in little

things, was constantly exhibiting itself, gave to his character even

charm, and rendered personal intercourse with him highly agreeable.

In the countless arrangements which had to be made, Lothair was never

wearied in recognizing and admiring the prescience and precision of his

chief; and when the day had died, and for a moment they had ceased from

their labors, or were travelling together, often through the night,

Lothair found in the conversation of his companion, artless and

unrestrained, a wonderful fund of knowledge both of men and things, and

that, too, in very different climes and countries.

The camp in the Apennines was not favorable to useless reverie. Lothair

found unceasing and deeply-interesting occupation in his numerous and

novel duties; and, if his thoughts for a moment wandered beyond the

barren peaks around him, they were attracted and engrossed by one

subject—and that was, naturally, Theodora. From her they had

heard nothing since her departure, except a mysterious, though not

discouraging, telegram which was given to them by Colonel Campian when

he had joined them at Florence. It was difficult not to feel anxious

about her, though the general would never admit the possibility of her

personal danger.

In this state of affairs, a week having elapsed since his arrival at

the camp, Lothair, who had been visiting the outposts, was summoned one

morning by an orderly to the tent of the general. That personage was

on his legs when Lothair entered it, and was dictating to an officer

writing at a table.

“You ought to know my military secretary,” said the general, as Lothair

entered, “and therefore I will introduce you.”

Lothair was commencing a suitable reverence of recognition as the

secretary raised his head to receive it, when he suddenly stopped,

changed color, and for a moment seemed to lose himself, and then

murmured, “Is it possible?”

It was indeed Theodora: clothed in male attire, she seemed a stripling.

“Quite possible,” she said, “and all is well. But I found it a longer

business than I had counted on. You see, there are so many new persons

who knew me only by tradition, but with whom it was necessary I should

personally confer. And I had more difficulty, just now, in getting

through Florence than I had anticipated. The Papalini and the French

are both worrying our allies in that city about the gathering on the

southern frontier, and there is a sort of examination, true or false, I

will not aver, of all who depart. However, I managed to pass with some

soldiers’ wives who were carrying fruit as far as Narni, and there I met

an old comrade of Aspromonte, who is a custom-officer now, but true

to the good cause, and he, and his daughter, who is with me, helped me

through every thing, and so I am with my dear friends again.”

After some slight conversation in this vein, Theodora entered into a

detailed narrative of her proceedings, and gave to them her views of the

condition of affairs.

“By one thing, above all others,” she said, “I am impressed, and that

is, the unprecedented efforts which Rome is making to obtain the return

of the French. There never was such influence exercised, such distinct

offers made, such prospects intimated. You may prepare yourself for any

thing; a papal coronation, a family pontiff—I could hardly say a King of

Rome, though he has been reminded of that royal fact. Our friends

have acted with equal energy and with perfect temper. The heads of the

societies have met in council, and resolved that, if France will refuse

to interfere, no domestic disturbance shall be attempted during this

reign, and they have communicated this resolution to headquarters. He

trusts them; he knows they are honest men. They did something like this

before the Italian War, when he hesitated about heading the army from

the fear of domestic revolution. Anxious to recover the freedom of

Italy, they apprized him that, if he personally entered the field,

they would undertake to insure tranquillity at home. The engagement was

scrupulously fulfilled. When I left Paris all looked well, but affairs

require the utmost vigilance and courage. It is a mighty struggle; it

is a struggle between the Church and the secret societies; and it is a

death-struggle.”

CHAPTER 53 During the week that elapsed after the arrival of Theodora at

the camp, many recruits, and considerable supplies of military stores,

reached the valley. Theodora really acted as secretary to the general,

and her labors were not light. Though Lothair was frequently in her

presence, they were, never, or rarely, alone, and, when they conversed

together, her talk was of details. The scouts, too, had brought

information, which might have been expected, that their rendezvous was

no longer a secret at Rome. The garrison of the neighboring town

of Viterbo had, therefore, been increased, and there was even the

commencement of an intrenched camp in the vicinity of that place, to

be garrisoned by a detachment of the legion of Antibes and other good

troops, so that any junction between the general and Garibaldi, if

contemplated, should not be easily effected.

In the mean time, the life of the camp was busy. The daily drill and

exercise of two thousand men was not a slight affair, and the constant

changes in orders which the arrival of bodies of recruits occasioned,

rendered this primary duty more difficult; the office of quartermaster

required the utmost resource and temper; the commissariat, which, from

the nature of the country, could depend little upon forage, demanded

extreme husbandry and forbearance. But, perhaps, no labors were more

severe than those of the armorers, the clink of whose instruments

resounded unceasingly in the valley. And yet such is the magic of

method, when directed by a master-mind, that the whole went on with the

regularity and precision of machinery. More than two thousand armed

men, all of whom had been accustomed to an irregular, some to a lawless,

life, were as docile as children; animated, in general, by what they

deemed a sacred cause, and led by a chief whom they universally alike

adored and feared.

Among these wild warriors, Theodora, delicate and fragile, but with a

mien of majesty, moved, like the spirit of some other world, and was

viewed by them with admiration not unmixed with awe. Veterans round

the camp-fire, had told to the new recruits her deeds of prowess

and devotion; how triumphantly she had charged at Voltorno, and how

heroically she had borne their standard when they were betrayed at fatal

Aspromonte.

The sun had sunk behind the mountains, but was still high in the western

heaven, when a mounted lancer was observed descending a distant pass

into the valley. The general and his staff had not long commenced their

principal meal of the day, of which the disappearance of the sun

behind the peak was the accustomed signal. This permitted them, without

inconvenience, to take their simple repast in the open, but still warm,

air. Theodora was seated between the general and her husband, and her

eye was the first that caught the figure of the distant but descending

stranger.

“What is that?” she asked.

The general, immediately using his telescope, after a moment’s

examination, said: “A lancer of the royal guard.”

All eyes were now fixed upon the movements of the horseman. He had

descended the winding steep, and now was tracking the craggy path which

led into the plain. As he reached the precinct of the camp, he was

challenged, but not detained. Nearer and nearer he approached, and it

was evident, from his uniform, that the conjecture of his character by

the general was correct.

“A deserter from the guard,” whispered Colonel Campian, to Lothair.

The horseman was conducted by an officer to the presence of the

commander. When that presence was reached, the lancer, still silent,

slowly lowered his tall weapon, and offered the general the dispatch

which was fastened to the head of his spear.

Every eye was on the countenance of their chief as he perused the

missive, but that countenance was always inscrutable. It was observed,

however, that he read the paper twice. Looking up, the general said, to

the officer: “See that the bearer is well quartered.—This is for you,”

he added in a low voice to Theodora, and he gave her an enclosure; “read

it quietly, and then come into my tent.”

Theodora read the letter, and quietly; though, without the preparatory

hint, it might have been difficult to have concealed her emotion.

Then, after a short pause, she rose, and the general, requesting his

companions not to disturb themselves, joined her, and they proceeded in

silence to his tent.

“He is arrested,” said the general when they had entered it, “and taken

to Alessandria, where he is a close prisoner. ‘Tis a blow, but I am more

grieved than surprised.”

This was the arrest of Garibaldi at Sinigaglia by the Italian

government, which had been communicated at Hexham House to Monsignore

Berwick by his evening visitor.

“How will it affect operations in the field?” inquired Theodora.

“According to this dispatch, in no degree. Our original plan is to be

pursued, and acted upon the moment we are ready. That should be in a

fortnight, or perhaps three weeks. Menotti is to take the command on the

southern frontier. Well, it may prevent jealousies. I think I shall send

Sarano there to reconnoitre; he is well both with Nicotera and Ghirelli,

and may keep things straight.”

“But there are other affairs besides operations in the field,” said

Theodora, “and scarcely less critical. Read this,” and she gave him the

enclosure, which ran in these words:

“The general will tell thee what has happened. Have no fear for that.

All will go right. It will not alter our plans a bunch of grapes. Be

perfectly easy about this country. No Italian soldier will ever cross

the frontier except to combat the French. Write that on thy heart. Are

other things as well? Other places? My advices are bad. All the prelates

are on their knees to him—with blessings on their lips and curses in

their pockets. Archbishop of Paris is as bad as any. Berwick is at

Biarritz—an inexhaustible intriguer; the only priest I fear. I hear

from one who never misled me that the Polhes brigade has orders to be

in readiness. The Mary-Anne societies are not strong enough for the

situation—too local; he listens to them, but he has given no pledge.

We must go deeper. ‘Tis an affair of ‘Madre Natura.’ Thou must see

Colonna.”

“Colonna is at Rome,” said the general, “and cannot be spared. He is

acting president of the National Committee, and has enough upon his

hands.”

“I must see him,” said Theodora.

“I had hoped I had heard the last of the ‘Madre Natura,’” said the

general with an air of discontent.

“And the Neapolitans hope they have heard the last of the eruptions

of their mountain,” said Theodora; “but the necessities of things are

sterner stuff than the hopes of men.”

“Its last effort appalled and outraged Europe,” said the general.

“Its last effort forced the French into Italy, and has freed the country

from the Alps to the Adriatic,” rejoined Theodora.

“If the great man had only been as quiet as we have been,” said the

general, lighting a cigar, “we might have been in Rome by this time.”

“If the great man had been quiet, we should not have had a volunteer in

our valley,” said Theodora. “My faith in him is implicit; he has been

right in every thing, and has never failed except when he has been

betrayed. I see no hope for Rome except in his convictions and energy.

I do not wish to die, and feel I have devoted my life only to secure

the triumph of Savoyards who have sold their own country, and of priests

whose impostures have degraded mine.”

“Ah! those priests!” exclaimed the general. “I really do not much care

for any thing else. They say the Savoyard is not a bad comrade, and at

any rate he can charge like a soldier. But those priests? I fluttered

them once! Why did I spare any? Why did I not burn down St. Peter’s? I

proposed it, but Mirandola, with his history and his love of art and all

that old furniture, would reserve it for a temple of the true God and

for the glory of Europe! Fine results we have accomplished! And now

we are here, hardly knowing where we are, and, as it appears, hardly

knowing what to do.”

“Not so, dear general,” said Theodora. “Where we are is the threshold

of Rome, and if we are wise we shall soon cross it. This arrest of our

great friend is a misfortune, but not an irredeemable one. I thoroughly

credit what he says about the Italian troops. Rest assured he knows what

he is talking about; they will never cross the frontier against us. The

danger is from another land. But there will be no peril if we are prompt

and firm. Clear your mind of all these dark feelings about the ‘Madre

Natura.’ All that we require is that the most powerful and the most

secret association in Europe should ratify what the local societies of

France have already intimated. It will be enough. Send for Colonna, and

leave the rest to me.”

CHAPTER 54 The “Madre Natura” is the oldest, the most powerful, and the

most occult, of the secret societies of Italy. Its mythic origin reaches

the era of paganism, and it is not impossible that it may have been

founded by some of the despoiled professors of the ancient faith. As

time advanced, the brotherhood assumed many outward forms, according to

the varying spirit of the age: sometimes they were freemasons, sometimes

they were soldiers, sometimes artists, sometimes men of letters. But

whether their external representation were a lodge, a commandery, a

studio, or an academy, their inward purpose was ever the same; and that

was to cherish the memory, and, if possible, to secure the restoration

of the Roman Republic, and to expel from the Aryan settlement of Romulus

the creeds and sovereignty of what they styled the Semitic invasion.

The “Madre Natura” have a tradition that one of the most celebrated of

the popes was admitted to their fraternity as Cardinal del Medici, and

that when he ascended the throne, mainly through their labors, he

was called upon to cooperate in the fulfilment of the great idea. An

individual who, in his youth, has been the member of a secret society,

and subsequently ascends a throne, may find himself in an embarrassing

position. This, however, according to the tradition, which there is

some documentary ground to accredit, was not the perplexing lot of his

holiness Pope Leo X. His tastes and convictions were in entire unison

with his early engagements, and it is believed that he took an early and

no unwilling opportunity of submitting to the conclave a proposition to

consider whether it were not both expedient and practicable to return to

the ancient faith, for which their temples had been originally erected.

The chief tenet of the society of “Madre Natura” is denoted by its name.

They could conceive nothing more benignant and more beautiful, more

provident and more powerful, more essentially divine, than that system

of creative order to which they owed their being, and in which it

was their privilege to exist. But they differed from other schools of

philosophy that have held this faith, in this singular particular:

they recognize the inability of the Latin race to pursue the worship of

Nature in an abstract spirit, and they desired to revive those exquisite

personifications of the abounding qualities of the mighty mother which

the Aryan genius had bequeathed to the admiration of man. Parthenope was

again to rule at Naples instead of Januarius, and starveling saints and

winking madonnas were to restore their usurped altars to the god of the

silver bow and the radiant daughter of the foaming wave.

Although the society of “Madre Natura” themselves accepted the

allegorical interpretation which the Neo-Platonists had placed upon

the pagan creeds during the first ages of Christianity, they could

not suppose that the populace could ever comprehend an exposition so

refined, not to say so fanciful. They guarded, therefore, against the

corruptions and abuses of the religion of Nature by the entire abolition

of the priestly order, and in the principle that every man should be his

own priest they believed they had found the necessary security.

As it was evident that the arrest of Garibaldi could not be kept secret,

the general thought it most prudent to be himself the herald of its

occurrence, which he announced to the troops in a manner as little

discouraging as he could devise. It was difficult to extenuate the

consequences of so great a blow, but they were assured that it was not a

catastrophe, and would not in the slightest degree affect the execution

of the plans previously resolved on. Two or three days later some

increase of confidence was occasioned by the authentic intelligence that

Garibaldi had been removed from his stern imprisonment at Alessandria,

and conveyed to his island-home, Caprera, though still a prisoner.

About this time, the general said to Lothair: “My secretary has occasion

to go on an expedition. I shall send a small detachment of cavalry with

her, and you will be at its head. She has requested that her husband

should have this office, but that is impossible; I cannot spare my best

officer. It is your first command, and, though I hope it will involve no

great difficulty, there is no command that does not require courage and

discretion. The distance is not very great, and so long as you are in

the mountains you will probably be safe; but in leaving this range and

gaining the southern Apennines, which is your point of arrival, you will

have to cross the open country. I do not hear the Papalini are in force

there; I believe they have concentrated themselves at Rome, and about

Viterbo. If you meet any scouts and reconnoitring parties, you will be

able to give a good account of them, and probably they will be as little

anxious to encounter you as you to meet them. But we must be prepared

for every thing, and you may be threatened by the enemy in force;

in that case you will cross the Italian frontier, in the immediate

neighborhood of which you will keep during the passage of the open

country, and surrender yourselves and your arms to the authorities. They

will not be very severe; but, at whatever cost and whatever may be the

odds, Theodora must never be a prisoner to the Papalini. You will depart

to-morrow at dawn.”

There is nothing so animating, so invigorating alike to the body and

soul, so truly delicious, as travelling among mountains in the early

hours of day. The freshness of Nature falls upon a responsive frame,

and the nobility of the scene discards the petty thoughts that pester

ordinary life. So felt Captain Muriel, as with every military precaution

he conducted his little troop and his precious charge among the winding

passes of the Apennines; at first dim in the matin twilight, then soft

with incipient day, then coruscating with golden flashes. Sometimes

they descended from the austere heights into the sylvan intricacies

of chestnut-forests, amid the rush of waters and the fragrant stir of

ancient trees; and, then again ascending to lofty summits, ranges of

interminable hills, gray or green, expanded before them, with ever and

anon a glimpse of plains, and sometimes the splendor and the odor of the

sea.

Theodora rode a mule, which had been presented to the general by

some admirer. It was an animal of remarkable beauty and intelligence,

perfectly aware, apparently, of the importance of its present trust, and

proud of its rich accoutrements, its padded saddle of crimson velvet,

and its silver bells. A couple of troopers formed the advanced guard,

and the same number at a certain distance furnished the rear. The body

of the detachment, fifteen strong, with the sumpter-mules, generally

followed Theodora, by whose side, whenever the way permitted, rode their

commander. Since he left England Lothair had never been so much with

Theodora. What struck him most now, as indeed previously at the camp,

was that she never alluded to the past. For her there would seem to be

no Muriel Towers, no Belmont, no England. You would have supposed that

she had been born in the Apennines and had never quitted them. All her

conversation was details, political or military. Not that her manner

was changed to Lothair. It was not only as kind as before, but it was

sometimes unusually and even unnecessary tender, as if she reproached

herself for the too frequent and too evident self-engrossment of her

thoughts, and wished to intimate to him that, though her brain were

absorbed, her heart was still gentle and true.

Two hours after noon they halted in a green nook, near a beautiful

cascade that descended in a mist down a sylvan cleft, and poured its

pellucid stream, for their delightful use, into a natural basin of

marble. The men picketed their horses, and their corporal, who was a man

of the country and their guide, distributed their rations. All vied with

each other in administering to the comfort and convenience of Theodora,

and Lothair hovered about her as a bee about a flower, but she was

silent, which he wished to impute to fatigue. But she said she was not

at all fatigued, indeed quite fresh. Before they resumed their

journey he could not refrain from observing on the beauty of their

resting-place. She assented with a pleasing nod, and then resuming

her accustomed abstraction she said: “The more I think, the more I am

convinced that the battle is not to be fought in this country, but in

France.”

After one more ascent, and that comparatively a gentle one, it was

evident that they were gradually emerging from the mountainous region.

Their course since their halting lay through a spur of the chief chain

they had hitherto pursued, and a little after sunset they arrived at

a farm-house, which the corporal informed his captain was the intended

quarter of Theodora for the night, as the horses could proceed no

farther without rest. At dawn they were to resume their way, and soon to

cross the open country, where danger, if any, was to be anticipated.

The farmer was frightened when he was summoned from his house by a party

of armed men; but having some good ducats given him in advance, and

being assured they were all Christians, he took heart and labored to do

what they desired. Theodora duly found herself in becoming quarters, and

a sentry was mounted at her residence. The troopers, who had been quite

content to wrap themselves in their cloaks and pass the night in

the air, were pleased to find no despicable accommodation in the

out-buildings of the farm, and still more with the proffered vintage of

their host. As for Lothair, he enveloped himself in his mantle and threw

himself on a bed of sacks, with a truss of Indian corn for his pillow,

and, though he began by musing over Theodora, in a few minutes he was

immersed in that profound and dreamless sleep which a life of action and

mountain-air combined can alone secure.

CHAPTER 55 The open country extending from the Apennines to the very

gates of Rome, and which they had now to cross, was in general a

desert; a plain clothed with a coarse vegetation, and undulating with an

interminable series of low and uncouth mounds, without any of the grace

of form which always attends the disposition of Nature. Nature had not

created them. They were the offspring of man and time, and of their

rival powers of destruction. Ages of civilization were engulfed in this

drear expanse. They were the tombs of empires and the sepulchres

of contending races. The Campagna proper has at least the grace of

aqueducts to break its monotony, and everywhere the cerulean spell of

distance; but in this grim solitude antiquity has left only the memory

of its violence and crimes, and nothing is beautiful except the sky.

The orders of the general to direct their course as much as possible

in the vicinity of the Italian frontier, though it lengthened their

journey, somewhat mitigated its dreariness, and an hour after noon,

after traversing some flinty fields, they observed in the distance an

olive-wood, beneath the pale shade of which, and among whose twisted

branches and contorted roots, they had contemplated finding a

halting-place. But here the advanced guard observed already an

encampment, and one of them rode back to report the discovery.

A needless alarm; for, after a due reconnoissance, they were ascertained

to be friends—a band of patriots about to join the general in his

encampment among the mountains. They reported that a division of the

Italian army was assembled in force upon the frontier, but that several

regiments had already signified to their commanders that they would not

fight against Garibaldi or his friends. They confirmed also the news

that the great leader himself was a prisoner at Caprera; that, although,

his son Menotti by his command had withdrawn from Nerola, his force

was really increased by the junction of Ghirelli and the Roman legion,

twelve hundred strong, and that five hundred riflemen would join the

general in the course of the week.

A little before sunset they had completed the passage of the open

country, and had entered the opposite branch of the Apennines, which

they had long observed in the distance. After wandering among some rocky

ground, they entered a defile amid hills covered with ilex, and thence

emerging found themselves in a valley of some expanse and considerable

cultivation; bright crops, vineyards in which the vine was married to

the elm, orchards full of fruit, and groves of olive; in the distance

blue hills that were becoming dark in the twilight, and in the centre of

the plain, upon a gentle and wooded elevation, a vast file of building,

the exact character of which at this hour it was difficult to recognize,

for, even as Theodora mentioned to Lothair that they now beheld the

object of their journey, the twilight seemed to vanish and the stars

glistened in the dark heavens.

Though the building seemed so near, it was yet a considerable time

before they reached the wooded hill, and, though its ascent was easy,

it was night before they halted in face of a huge gate flanked by high

stone walls. A single light in one of the windows of the vast pile which

it enclosed was the only evidence of human habitation.

The corporal sounded a bugle, and immediately the light moved and noises

were heard—the opening of the hall-doors, and then the sudden flame of

torches, and the advent of many feet. The great gate slowly opened,

and a steward and several serving-men appeared. The steward addressed

Theodora and Lothair, and invited them to dismount and enter what now

appeared to be a garden with statues and terraces and fountains and

rows of cypress, its infinite dilapidation not being recognizable in

the deceptive hour; and he informed the escort that their quarters were

prepared for them, to which they were at once attended. Guiding their

captain and his charge, they soon approached a double flight of steps,

and, ascending, reached the main terrace from which the building

immediately rose. It was, in truth, a castle of the middle ages, on

which a Roman prince, at the commencement of the last century, had

engrafted the character of one of those vast and ornate villas then

the mode, but its original character still asserted itself, and,

notwithstanding its Tuscan basement and its Ionic pilasters, its rich

pediments and delicate volutes, in the distant landscape it still seemed

a fortress in the commanding position which became the residence of a

feudal chief.

They entered, through a Palladian vestibule, a hall which they felt

must be of huge dimensions, though with the aid of a single torch it was

impossible to trace its limits, either of extent or of elevation. Then

bowing before them, and lighting as it were their immediate steps, the

steward guided them down a long and lofty corridor, which led to the

entrance of several chambers, all vast, with little furniture, but their

wells covered with pictures. At length he opened a door and ushered them

into a saloon, which was in itself bright and glowing, but of which the

lively air was heightened by its contrast with the preceding scene. It

was lofty, and hung with faded satin in gilded panels still bright. An

ancient chandelier of Venetian crystal hung illumined from the painted

ceiling, and on the silver dogs of the marble hearth a fresh block of

cedar had just been thrown and blazed with aromatic light.

A lady came forward and embraced Theodora, and then greeted Lothair with

cordiality. “We must dine to-day even later than you do in London,”

said the Princess of Tivoli, “but we have been expecting you these two

hours.” Then she drew Theodora aside, and said, “He is here; but

you must be tired, my best beloved. As some wise man said: ‘Business

to-morrow.’”

“No, no,” said Theodora; “now, now,—I am never tired. The only thing

that exhausts me is suspense.”

“It shall be so. At present I will take you away to shake the dust off

your armor, and, Serafino, attend to Captain Muriel.”

CHAPTER 56 When they assembled again in the saloon there was an addition

to their party in the person of a gentleman of distinguished appearance.

His age could hardly have much exceeded that of thirty, but time had

agitated his truly Roman countenance, one which we now find only in

consular and imperial busts, or in the chance visage of a Roman shepherd

or a Neapolitan bandit. He was a shade above the middle height, with a

frame of well-knit symmetry. His proud head was proudly placed on broad

shoulders, and neither time nor indulgence had marred his slender

waist. His dark-brown hair was short and hyacinthine, close to his white

forehead, and naturally showing his small ears. He wore no whiskers, and

his mustache was limited to the centre of his upper lip.

When Theodora entered and offered him her hand he pressed it to his lips

with gravity and proud homage, and then their hostess said: “Captain

Muriel, let me present you to a prince who will not bear his titles, and

whom, therefore, I must call by his name—Romolo Colonna.”

The large folding-doors, richly painted and gilt, though dim from

neglect and time, and sustained by columns of precious marbles, were

suddenly opened and revealed another saloon, in which was a round table

brightly lighted, and to which the princess invited her friends.

Their conversation at dinner was lively and sustained; the travels of

the last two days formed a natural part and were apposite to commence

with, but they were soon engrossed in the great subject of their lives;

and Colonna, who had left Rome only four-and-twenty hours, gave them

interesting details of the critical condition of that capital. When the

repast was concluded the princess rose, and, accompanied by Lothair,

reentered the saloon, but Theodora and Colonna lingered behind, and,

finally seating themselves at the farthest end of the apartment in which

they had dined, became engaged in earnest conversation.

“You have seen a great deal since we first met at Belmont,” said the

princess to Lothair.

“It seems to me now,” said Lothair, “that I knew as much of life then as

I did of the stars above us, about whose purposes and fortunes I used to

puzzle myself.”

“And might have remained in that ignorance. The great majority of men

exist but do not live—like Italy in the last century. The power of

the passions, the force of the will, the creative energy of the

imagination—these make life, and reveal to us a world of which the

million are entirely ignorant You have been fortunate in your youth

to have become acquainted with a great woman. It develops all a man’s

powers, and gives him a thousand talents.”

“I often think,” said Lothair, “that I have neither powers nor talents,

but am drifting without an orbit.”

“Into infinite space,” said the princess. “Well, one might do worse than

that. But it is not so. In the long-run your nature will prevail, and

you will fulfil your organic purpose; but you will accomplish your

ends with a completeness which can only be secured by the culture and

development you are now experiencing.”

“And what is my nature?” said Lothair. “I wish you would tell me.”

“Has not the divine Theodora told you?”

“She has told me many things, but not that.”

“How, then, could I know,” said the princess, “if she has not discovered

it?”

“But perhaps she has discovered it,” said Lothair.

“Oh! then she would tell you,” said the princess, “for she is the soul

of truth.”

“But she is also the soul of kindness, and she might wish to spare my

feelings.”

“Well, that is very modest, and I dare say not affected. For there is no

man, however gifted, even however conceited, who has any real confidence

in himself until he has acted.”

“Well, we shall soon act,” said Lothair, “and then I. suppose I shall

know my nature.”

“In time,” said the princess, “and with the continued inspiration of

friendship.”

“But you too are a great friend of Theodora?”

“Although a woman. I see you are laughing at female friendships, and,

generally speaking, there is foundation for the general sneer. I will

own, for my part, I have every female weakness, and in excess. I

am vain, I am curious, I am jealous, and I am envious; but I adore

Theodora. I reconcile my feelings toward her and my disposition in this

way. It is not friendship—it is worship. And indeed there are moments

when I sometimes think she is one of those beautiful divinities that

we once worshipped in this land, and who, when they listened to our

prayers, at least vouchsafed that our country should not be the terrible

wilderness that you crossed this day.”

In the mean time Colonna, with folded arms and eyes fixed on the ground,

was listening to Theodora.

“Thus you see,” she continued, “it comes to this—Rome can only be freed

by the Romans. He looks upon the secret societies of his own country as

he does upon universal suffrage—a wild beast, and dangerous, but which

may be watched and tamed and managed by the police. He listens, but he

plays with them. He temporizes. At the bottom of his heart, his Italian

blood despises the Gauls. It must be something deeper and more touching

than this. Rome must appeal to him, and in the ineffable name.”

“It has been uttered before,” said Colonna, looking up at his companion,

“and—” And he hesitated.

“And in vain you would say,” said Theodora. “Not so. There was a

martyrdom, but the blood of Felice baptized the new birth of Italian

life. But I am not thinking of bloodshed. Had it not been for the double

intrigues of the Savoyards it need not then have been shed. We bear him

no ill-will—at least not now—and we can make great offers. Make them.

The revolution in Gaul is ever a mimicry of Italian thought and life.

Their great affair of the last century, which they have so marred and

muddied, would never have occurred had it not been for Tuscan reform;

1848 was the echo of our societies; and the Seine will never be

disturbed if the Tiber flows unruffled. Let him consent to Roman

freedom, and ‘Madre Natura’ will guarantee him against Lutetian

barricades.”

“It is only the offer of Mary-Anne in another form,” said Colonna.

“Guarantee the dynasty,” said Theodora. “There is the point. He can

trust us. Emperors and kings break treaties without remorse, but he

knows that what is registered by the most ancient power in the world is

sacred.”

“Can republicans guarantee dynasties?” said Colonna, shaking his head.

“Why, what is a dynasty, when we are dealing with eternal things?

The casualties of life compared with infinite space? Rome is eternal.

Centuries of the most degrading and foreign priestcraft—enervating

rites brought in by Helliogabalus and the Syrian emperors—have failed

to destroy her. Dynasties! Why, even in our dark servitude we have

seen Merovingian and Carlovingian kings, and Capets, and Valois, and

Bourbons, and now Bonapartes. They have disappeared, and will disappear

like Orgetorix and the dynasties of the time of Caesar. What we want is

Rome free. Do not you see that everything has been preparing for that

event? This monstrous masquerade of United Italy—what is it but an

initiatory ceremony, to prove that Italy without Rome is a series of

provinces? Establish the Roman republic, and the Roman race will, as

before, conquer them in detail. And, when the Italians are thus really

united, what will become of the Gauls? Why, the first Bonaparte said

that if Italy were really united the Gauls would have no chance. And he

was a good judge of such things.”

“What would you have me do, then?” said Colonna.