“See him—see him at once. Say every thing that I have said, and say

it better. His disposition is with us. Convenience, all political

propriety, counsel and would justify his abstinence. A return to Rome

would seem weak, fitful, capricious, and would prove that his previous

retirement was ill-considered and ill-informed. It would disturb and

alarm Europe. But you have, nevertheless, to fight against great odds.

It is ‘Madre Natura’ against St. Peter’s. Never was the abomination of

the world so active as at present. It is in the very throes of its fell

despair. To save itself it would poison in the Eucharist.”

“And if I fail?” said Colonna.

“You will not fail. On the whole, his interest lies on our side.”

“The sacerdotal influences are very strong there. When the calculation

of interest is fine, a word, a glance, sometimes a sigh, a tear, may

have a fatal effect.”

“All depends upon him,” said Theodora. “If he were to disappear from the

stage, interference would be impossible.”

“But he is on the stage, and apparently will remain.”

“A single life should not stand between Rome and freedom.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Romolo Colonna should go to Paris and free his country.”

CHAPTER 57 When Captain Muriel and his detachment returned to the camp,

they found that the force had been not inconsiderably increased in

their absence, while the tidings of the disposition of the Italian

army brought by the recruits and the deserters from the royal standard,

cherished the hopes of the troops, and stimulated their desire for

action. Theodora had been far more communicative during their journey

back than in that of her departure. She was less absorbed, and had

resumed that serene yet even sympathizing character which was one of

her charms. Without going into detail, she mentioned more than once to

Lothair how relieved she felt by Colonna accepting the mission to

Paris. He was a person of so much influence, she said, and of such great

judgment and resource. She augured the most satisfactory results from

his presence on the main scene of action.

Time passed rapidly at the camp. When a life of constant activity

is combined with routine, the hours fly. Neither letter nor telegram

arrived from Colonna, and neither was expected; and yet. Theodora heard

from him, and even favorably. One day, as she was going the rounds

with her husband, a young soldier, a new recruit, approached her, and,

pressing to his lips a branch of the olive-tree, presented it to her.

On another occasion when she returned to her tent, she found a bunch of

fruit from the same tree, though not quite ripe, which showed that the

cause of peace had not only progressed but had almost matured. All these

communications sustained her sanguine disposition, and, full of happy

confidence, she labored with unceasing and inspiring energy, so that

when the looked-for signal came they might be prepared to obey it; and

rapidly gather the rich fruition of their glorious hopes.

While she was in this mood of mind, a scout arrived from Nerola,

bringing news that a brigade of the French army had positively embarked

at Marseilles, and might be hourly expected at Civita Vecchia. The news

was absolute. The Italian consul at Marseilles had telegraphed to his

government both when the first regiment was on board and when the last

had embarked. Copies of these telegrams had been forwarded instantly by

a secret friend to the volunteers on the southern frontier.

When Theodora heard this news she said nothing, but, turning pale, she

quitted the group round the general and hastened to her own tent. She

told her attendant, the daughter of the custom-house officer at Narni,

and a true child of the mountains, that no one must approach her, not

even Colonel Campian, and the girl sat without the tent at its entrance,

dressed in her many-colored garments, with fiery eyes and square white

teeth, and her dark hair braided with gold coins and covered with a long

white kerchief of perfect cleanliness; and she had a poniard at her side

and a revolver in her hand, and she would have used both weapons sooner

than that her mistress should be disobeyed.

Alone in her tent, Theodora fell upon her knees, and, lifting up her

hands to heaven and bowing her head to the earth, she said: “O God! whom

I have ever worshipped, God of justice and of truth, receive the agony

of my soul!”

And on the earth she remained for hours in despair.

Night came, and it brought no solace, and the day returned, but to her

it brought no light. Theodora was no longer seen. The soul of the camp

seemed extinct. The mien of majesty that ennobled all; the winning smile

that rewarded the rifleman at his practice and the sapper at his toil;

the inciting word that reanimated the recruit and recalled to the

veteran the glories of Sicilian struggles—all vanished—all seemed

spiritless and dull, and the armorer clinked his forge as if he were the

heartless hireling of a king.

In this state of moral discomfiture there was one person who did not

lose his head, and this was the general. Calm, collected, and critical,

he surveyed the situation and indicated the possible contingencies.

“Our best, if not our only, chance,” he said to Colonel Campian, “is

this—that the Italian army now gathered in force upon the frontier

should march to Rome and arrive there before the French. Whatever then

happens, we shall at least get rid of the great imposture, but in all

probability the French and Italians will fight. In that case I shall

join the Savoyards, and in the confusion we may do some business yet.”

“This embarkation,” said the colonel, “explains the gathering of

the Italians on the frontier. They must have foreseen this event at

Florence. They never can submit to another French occupation. It would

upset their throne. The question is, who will be at Rome first.”

“Just so,” said the general; “and as it is an affair upon which all

depends, and is entirely beyond my control, I think I shall now take

a nap.” So saying, he turned into his tent, and, in five minutes, this

brave and exact man, but in whom the muscular development far exceeded

the nervous, was slumbering without a dream.

Civita Vecchia was so near at hand, and the scouts of the general

were so numerous and able, that he soon learned the French had not yet

arrived, and another day elapsed and still no news of the French. But,

on the afternoon of the following day, the startling but authentic

information arrived, that, after the French army having embarked and

remained two days in port, the original orders had been countermanded,

and the troops had absolutely disembarked.

There was a cheer in the camp when the news was known, and Theodora

started from her desolation, surprised that there could be in such a

scene a sound of triumph. Then there was another cheer, and though she

did not move, but remained listening and leaning on her arm, the light

returned to her eyes. The cheer was repeated, and there were steps about

her tent. She caught the voice of Lothair speaking to her attendant, and

adjuring her to tell her mistress immediately that there was good news,

and that the French troops had disembarked. Then he heard her husband

calling Theodora.

The camp became a scene of excitement and festivity which, in general,

only succeeds some signal triumph. The troops lived always in the air,

except in the hours of night, when the atmosphere of the mountains in

the late autumn is dangerous. At present they formed groups and parties

in the vicinity of the tents; there was their gay canteen and there

their humorous kitchen. The man of the Gulf with his rich Venetian

banter and the Sicilian with his scaramouch tricks got on very well with

the gentle and polished Tuscan, and could amuse without offending the

high Roman soul; but there were some quips and cranks and sometimes

some antics which were not always relished by the simpler men from the

islands, and the offended eye of a Corsican sometimes seemed to threaten

“vendetta.”

About sunset, Colonel Campian led forth Theodora. She was in female

attire, and her long hair, restrained only by a fillet, reached nearly

to the ground. Her Olympian brow seemed distended; a phosphoric light

glittered in her Hellenic eyes; a deep pink spot burnt upon each of

those cheeks usually so immaculately fair.

The general and the chief officers gathered round her with their

congratulations, but she would visit all the quarters. She spoke to the

men in all the dialects of that land of many languages. The men of

the Gulf, in general of gigantic stature, dropped their merry Venetian

stories and fell down on their knees and kissed the hem of her garment;

the Scaramouch forgot his tricks, and wept as he would to the Madonna;

Tuscany and Rome made speeches worthy of the Arno and the Forum; and

the Corsicans and the islanders unsheathed their poniards and brandished

them in the air, which is their mode of denoting affectionate devotion.

As the night advanced, the crescent moon glittering above the Apennine,

Theodora, attended by the whole staff, having visited all the troops,

stopped at the chief fire of the camp, and in a voice which might have

maddened nations sang the hymn of Roman liberty, the whole army ranged

in ranks along the valley joining in the solemn and triumphant chorus.

CHAPTER 58 This exaltation of feeling in the camp did not evaporate. All

felt that they were on the eve of some great event, and that the hour

was at hand. And it was in this state of enthusiasm that couriers

arrived with the intelligence that Garibaldi had escaped from Caprera,

that he had reached Nerola in safety, and was in command of the

assembled forces; and that the general was, without loss of time, to

strike his camp, join the main body at a given place, and then march to

Rome.

The breaking-up of the camp was as the breaking-up of a long frost and

the first scent of spring. There was a brightness in every man’s face

and a gay elasticity in all their movements. But when the order of the

day informed them that they must prepare for instant combat, and that in

eight-and-forty hours they would probably be in face of the enemy, the

hearts of the young recruits fluttered with strange excitement, and the

veterans nodded to each other with grim delight.

It was nearly midnight when the troops quitted the valley, through a

defile, in an opposite direction to the pass by which they had entered

it. It was a bright night. Colonel Campian had the command of the

division in advance, which was five hundred strong. After the defile,

the country, though hilly, was comparatively open, and here the advanced

guard was to halt until the artillery and cavalry had effected the

passage, and this was the most laborious and difficult portion of the

march, but all was well considered, and all went right. The artillery

and cavalry, by sunrise, had joined the advanced guard, who were

bivouacking in the rocky plain, and about noon the main columns of the

infantry began to deploy from the heights, and, in a short time, the

whole force was in the field. Soon after this some of the skirmishers,

who had been sent forward, returned, and reported the enemy in force,

and in a strong position, commanding the intended route of the invading

force. On this the general resolved to halt for a few hours, and rest

and refresh the troops, and to recommence their march after sunset,

so that, without effort, they might be in the presence of the enemy by

dawn.

Lothair had been separated from Theodora during this, to him, novel and

exciting scene. She had accompanied her husband, but, when the whole

force advanced in battle array, the general had desired that she should

accompany the staff. They advanced through the night, and by dawn they

were fairly in the open country. In the distance, and in the middle of

the rough and undulating plain, was a round hill with an ancient city,

for it was a bishop’s see, built all about and over it. It would have

looked like a gigantic beehive, had it not been for a long convent on

the summit, flanked by some stone-pines, as we see in the pictures of

Gaspar and Claude.

Between this city and the invading force, though not in a direct line,

was posted the enemy in a strong position; their right wing protected

by one of the mounds common in the plain, and their left backed by an

olive-wood of considerable extent, and which grew on the last rocky

spur of the mountains. They were, therefore, as regards the plain, on

commanding ground. The strength of the two forces was not unequal, and

the papal troops were not to be despised, consisting, among others, of a

detachment of the legion of Antibes and the Zouaves. They had artillery,

which was well posted.

The general surveyed the scene, for which he was not unprepared.

Disposing his troops in positions in which they were as much protected

as possible from the enemy’s fire, he opened upon them a fierce and

continuous cannonade, while he ordered Colonel Campian and eight hundred

men to fall back among the hills, and, following a circuitous path which

had been revealed by a shepherd, gain the spur of the mountains, and

attack the enemy in their rear through the olive-wood. It was calculated

that this movement, if successful, would require about three hours, and

the general, for that period of the time, had to occupy the enemy and

his own troops with what were, in realty, feint attacks.

When the calculated time had elapsed, the general became anxious, and

his glass was never from his eye. He was posted on a convenient ridge,

and the wind, which was high this day from the sea, frequently cleared

the field from the volumes of smoke; so his opportunities of observation

were good. But the three hours passed, and there was no sign of the

approach of Campian, and he ordered Sarano, with his division, to

advance toward the mound and occupy the attention of the right wing of

the enemy; but, very shortly after Lothair had carried this order, and

four hours having elapsed, the general observed some confusion in

the left wing of the enemy, and, instantly countermanding the order,

commanded a general attack in line. The troops charged with enthusiasm,

but they were encountered with a resolution as determined. At first

they carried the mound, broke the enemy’s centre, and were mixed up with

their great guns; but the enemy fiercely rallied, and the invaders were

repulsed. The papal troops retained their position, and their opponents

were in disorder on the plain, and a little dismayed. It was at this

moment that Theodora rushed forward, and, waving a sword in one hand,

and in the other the standard of the republic, exclaimed, “Brothers, to

Rome!”

This sight inflamed their faltering hearts, which, after all, were

rather confounded than dismayed. They formed and rallied round her, and

charged with renewed energy at the very moment that Campian had brought

the force of his division on the enemy’s rear. A panic came over the

papal troops, thus doubly assailed, and their rout was complete. They

retreated in the utmost disorder to Viterbo, which they abandoned that

night, and hurried to Rome.

At the last moment, when the victory was no longer doubtful, and all

were in full retreat or in full pursuit, a Zouave, in wantonness, firing

his weapon before he throw it away, sent a random-shot which struck

Theodora, and she fell. Lothair, who had never left her during the

battle, was at her side in a moment, and a soldier, who had also marked

the fatal shot; and, strange to say, so hot and keen was the pursuit,

that, though a moment before they seemed to be in the very thick of the

strife, they almost instantaneously found themselves alone, or rather

with no companions than the wounded near them. She looked at Lothair,

but, at first, could not speak. She seemed stunned, but soon murmured:

“Go! go! you are wanted!”

At this moment the general rode up with some of his staff. His

countenance was elate, and his eye sparkled with fire. But, catching the

figure of Lothair kneeling on the field, he reined in his charger

and said, “What is this?” Then looking more closely, he instantly

dismounted, and muttering to himself, “This mars the victory,” he was at

Theodora’s side.

A slight smile came over her when she recognized the general, and she

faintly pressed his hand, and then said again: “Go, go; you are all

wanted.”

“None of up are wanted. The day is won; we must think of you.”

“Is it won?” she murmured.

“Complete.”

“I die content.”

“Who talks of death?” said the general. “This is a wound, but I have

had some worse. What we must think of now are remedies. I passed an

ambulance this moment. Run for, it,” he said to his aide-de-camp. “We

must stanch the wound at once; but it is only a mile to the city, and

then we shall find every thing, for we were expected. I will ride on,

and there shall be proper attendance ready before you arrive. You will

conduct our friend to the city,” he said to Lothair, “and be of good

courage, as I am.”

CHAPTER 59 The troops were rushing through the gates of the city when

the general rode up. There was a struggling and stifling crowd; cheers

and shrieks. It was that moment of wild fruition, when the master is

neither recognized nor obeyed. It is not easy to take a bone out of

a dog’s mouth; nevertheless, the presence of the general in time

prevailed, something like order was established, and, before the

ambulance could arrive, a guard had been appointed to receive it, and

the ascent to the monastery, where a quarter was prepared, kept clear.

During the progress to the city Theodora never spoke, but she seemed

stunned rather than suffering; and once, when Lothair, who was walking

by her side, caught her glance with his sorrowful and anxious face, she

put forth her hand, and pressed his.

The ascent to the convent was easy, and the advantages of air and

comparative tranquillity which the place offered counterbalanced the

risk of postponing, for a very brief space, the examination of the

wound.

They laid her on their arrival on a large bed, without poles or canopy,

in a lofty whitewashed room of considerable dimensions, clean and airy,

with high, open windows. There was no furniture in the room except a

chair, a table, and a crucifix. Lothair took her in his arms and laid

her on the bed; and the common soldier who had hitherto assisted him, a

giant in stature, with a beard a foot long, stood by the bedside crying

like a child. The chief surgeon almost at the same moment arrived with

an aide-de-camp of the general, and her faithful female attendant, and

in a few minutes her husband, himself wounded and covered with dust.

The surgeon at once requested that all should withdraw except her

devoted maid, and they waited his report without, in that deep sad

silence which will not despair, and yet dares not hope.

When the wound had been examined and probed and dressed, Theodora in a

faint voice said, “Is it desperate?”

“Not desperate,” said the surgeon, “but serious. All depends upon your

perfect tranquility—of mind as well as body.”

“Well I am here and cannot move; and as for my mind, I am not only

serene, but happy.”

“Then we shall get through this,” said the surgeon, encouragingly.

“I do not like you to stay with me,” said Theodora. “There are other

sufferers besides myself.”

“My orders are not to quit you,” said the surgeon, “but I can be of

great use within these walls. I shall return when the restorative has

had its effect. But remember, if I be wanted, I am always here.”

Soon after this Theodora fell into a gentle slumber, and after two hours

woke refreshed. The countenance of the surgeon when he again visited her

was less troubled; it was hopeful.

The day was now beginning to decline; notwithstanding the scenes of

tumult and violence near at hand, all was here silent; and the breeze,

which had been strong during the whole day, but which blew from the sea,

and was very soft, played gratefully upon the pale countenance of the

sufferer. Suddenly she said, “What is that?”

And they answered and said, “We heard nothing.”

“I hear the sound of great guns,” said Theodora.

And they listened, and in a moment both the surgeon and the maid heard

the sound of distant ordnance.

“The liberator is at hand,” said the maid.

“I dare say,” said the surgeon.

“No,” said Theodora, looking distressed. “The sounds do not come from

his direction. Go and see, Dolores; ask, and tell me what are these

sounds.”

The surgeon was sitting by her side, and occasionally touching her

pulse, or wiping the slight foam from her brow, when Dolores returned

and said, “Lady, the sounds are the great guns of Civita Vecchia.”

A deadly change come over the countenance of Theodora, and the surgeon

looked alarmed. He would have given her some restorative, but she

refused it. “No, kind friend,” she said; “it is finished. I have just

received a wound more fatal than the shot in the field this morning. The

French are at Rome. Tell me, kind friend, how long do you think I may

live?”

The surgeon felt her pulse; his look was gloomy. “In such a case as

yours,” he said, “the patient is the best judge.”

“I understand,” she said. “Send, then, at once for my husband.”

He was at hand, for his wound had been dressed in the convent, and he

came to Theodora with his arm in a sling, but with the attempt of a

cheerful visage.

In the mean time, Lothair, after having heard the first, and by no means

hopeless, bulletin of the surgeon, had been obliged to leave the convent

to look after his men, and having seen them in quarters and made his

report to the general, he obtained permission to return to the convent

and ascertain the condition of Theodora. Arrived there, he heard that

she had had refreshing slumber, and that her husband was now with her,

and a ray of hope lighted up the darkness of his soul. He was walking up

and down the refectory of the convent with that sickening restlessness

which attends impending and yet uncertain sorrow, when Colonel Campian

entered the apartment and beckoned to him.

There was an expression in his face which appalled Lothair, and he was

about to inquire after Theodora, when his tongue cleaved to the roof of

his mouth, and he could not speak. The Colonel shook his head, and said

in a low, hollow voice, “She wishes to see you, and alone. Come.”

Theodora was sitting in the bed, propped up by cushions, when Lothair

entered, and, as her wound was internal, there was no evidence of her

sufferings. The distressful expression of her face, when she heard the

great guns of Civita Vecchia, had passed away. It was serious, but it

was serene. She bade her maid leave the chamber, and then she said to

Lothair, “It is the last time I shall speak to you, and I wish that we

should be alone. There is something much on my mind at this moment, and

you can relieve it.”

“Adored being,” murmured Lothair with streaming eyes, “there is no wish

of yours that I will not fulfil.”

“I know your life, for you have told it me, and you are true. I know

your nature; it is gentle and brave, but perhaps too susceptible. I

wished it to be susceptible only of the great and good. Mark me—I have

a vague but strong conviction that there will be another and a more

powerful attempt to gain you to the Church of Rome. If I have ever been

to you, as you have sometimes said, an object of kind thoughts—if not

a fortunate, at least a faithful friend—promise me now, at this hour

of trial, with all the solemnity that becomes the moment, that you will

never enter that communion.”

Lothair would have spoken, but his voice was choked, and he could only

press her hand and bow his head.

“But promise me,” said Theodora.

“I promise,” said Lothair.

“And now,” she said, “embrace me, for I wish that your spirit should be

upon me as mine departs.”

CHAPTER 60 It was a November day in Rome, and the sky was as gloomy

as the heaven of London. The wind moaned through the silent streets,

deserted except by soldiers. The shops were shut, not a civilian or

a priest could be seen. The Corso was occupied by the Swiss Guard and

Zouaves, with artillery ready to sweep it at a moment’s notice. Six

of the city gates were shut and barricaded with barrels full of earth.

Troops and artillery were also posted in several of the principal

piazzas, and on some commanding heights, and St. Peter’s itself was

garrisoned.

And yet these were the arrangements rather of panic than precaution.

The utmost dismay pervaded the council-chamber of the Vatican. Since

the news had arrived of the disembarkation of the French troops at

Marseilles, all hope of interference had expired. It was clear that

Berwick had been ultimately foiled, and his daring spirit and teeming

device were the last hope, as they were the ablest representation,

of Roman audacity and stratagem. The Revolutionary Committee, whose

abiding-place or agents never could be traced or discovered, had

posted every part of the city, during the night, with their manifesto,

announcing that the hour had arrived; an attempt, partially successful,

had been made to blow up the barracks of the Zouaves; and the cardinal

secretary was in possession of information that an insurrection was

immediate, and that the city would be fired in four different quarters.

The pope had escaped from the Vatican to the Castle of St. Angelo, where

he was secure, and where his courage could be sustained by the presence

of the Noble Guard, with their swords always drawn. The six-score of

monsignori, who in their different offices form what is styled the court

of Rome, had either accompanied his holiness, or prudently secreted

themselves in the strongest palaces and convents at their command. Later

in the day news arrived of the escape of Garibaldi from Caprera; he was

said to be marching on the city, and only five-and-twenty miles distant.

There appeared another proclamation from the Revolutionary Committee,

mysteriously posted under the very noses of the guards and police,

postponing the insurrection till the arrival of the liberator.

The papal cause seemed hopeless. There was a general feeling throughout

the city and all classes, that this time it was to be an affair of

Alaric or Genseric, or the Constable of Bourbon; no negotiations, no

compromises, no conventions, but slaughter, havoc, a great judicial

devastation, that was to extirpate all signs and memories of Mediaeval

and Semitic Rome, and restore and renovate the inheritance of the true

offspring of the she-wolf. The very aspect of the place itself was

sinister. Whether it were the dulness of the dark sky, or the frown of

Madre Natura herself, but the old Seven Hills seemed to look askance.

The haughty capitol, impatient of its chapels, sighed once more for

triumphs; and the proud Palatine, remembering the Caesars, glanced with

imperial contempt on the palaces of the papal princelings that, in the

course of ignominious ages, had been constructed out of the exhaustless

womb of its still sovereign ruin. The Jews in their quarter spoke

nothing, but exchanged a curious glance, as if to say, “Has it come at

last? And will they indeed serve her as they served Sion?”

This dreadful day at last passed, followed by as dreadful a night, and

then another day equally gloomy, equally silent, equally panic-stricken.

Even insurrection would have been a relief amid the horrible and wearing

suspense. On the third day the government made some wild arrests of

the wrong persons, and then came out a fresh proclamation from the

Revolutionary Committee, directing the Romans to make no move until the

advanced guard of Garibaldi had appeared upon Monte Mario. About this

time the routed troops of the pope arrived in confusion from Viterbo,

and of course extenuated their discomfiture by exaggerating the strength

of their opponents. According to them, they had encountered not less

than ten thousand men, who now; having joined the still greater force of

Garibaldi, were in full march on the city.

The members of the papal party who showed the greatest spirit and the

highest courage at this trying conjuncture were the Roman ladies and

their foreign friends. They scraped lint for the troops as incessantly

as they offered prayers to the Virgin. Some of them were trained

nurses, and they were training others to tend the sick and wounded. They

organized a hospital service, and when the wounded arrived from Viterbo,

notwithstanding the rumors of incendiarism and massacre, they came forth

from their homes, and proceeded in companies, with no male attendants

but armed men, to the discharge of their self-appointed public duties.

There were many foreigners in the papal ranks, and the sympathies

and services of the female visitors to Rome were engaged for their

countrymen. Princesses of France and Flanders might be seen by the

tressel-beds of many a suffering soldier of Dauphin and Brabant; but

there were numerous subjects of Queen Victoria in the papal ranks—some

Englishmen, several Scotchmen, and many Irish. For them the English

ladies had organized a special service. Lady St. Jerome, with unflagging

zeal, presided over this department; and the superior of the sisterhood

of mercy, that shrank from no toil and feared no danger in the

fulfilment of those sacred duties of pious patriots, was Miss Arundel.

She was leaning over the bed of one who had been cut down in the

olive-wood by a sabre of Campian’s force, when a peal of artillery

was heard. She thought that her hour had arrived, and the assault had

commenced.

“Most holy Mary!” she exclaimed, “sustain me.”

There was another peal, and it was repeated, and again and again at

regular intervals.

“That is not a battle, it is a salute,” murmured the wounded soldier.

And he was right; it was the voice of the great guns telling that the

French had arrived.

The consternation of the Revolutionary Committee, no longer sustained

by Colonna, absent in France, was complete. Had the advanced guard of

Garibaldi been in sight, it might still have been the wisest course to

rise; but Monte Mario was not yet peopled by them, and an insurrection

against the papal troops, reanimated by the reported arrival of the

French, and increased in numbers by the fugitives from Viterbo, would

have been certainly a rash and probably a hopeless effort. And so, in

the midst of confused and hesitating councils, the first division of the

French force arrived at the gates of Rome, and marched into the gloomy

and silent city.

Since the interference of St. Peter and St. Paul against Alaric, the

papacy had never experienced a more miraculous interposition in its

favor. Shortly after this the wind changed, and the sky became serene;

a sunbeam played on the flashing cross of St. Peter’s; the Pope left the

Castle of Angelo, and returned to the Quirinal; the Noble Guard sheathed

their puissant blades; the six-score of monsignori reappeared in all

their busy haunts and stately offices; and the court of Rome, no longer

despairing of the republic, and with a spirit worthy of the Senate after

Cannae, ordered the whole of its forces into the field to combat its

invaders, with the prudent addition, in order to insure a triumph, of a

brigade of French infantry armed with chassepots.

Garibaldi, who was really at hand, hearing of these events, fell back on

Monte Rotondo, about fifteen miles from the city, and took up a strong

position. He was soon attacked by his opponents, and defeated with

considerable slaughter, and forced to fly. The papal troops returned

to Rome in triumph, but with many wounded. The Roman ladies and their

friends resumed their noble duties with enthusiasm. The ambulances were

apportioned to the different hospitals, and the services of all were

required. Our own countrymen had suffered severely, but the skill

and energy and gentle care of Clare Arundel and her companions only

increased with the greater calls upon their beautiful and sublime

virtue.

A woman came to Miss Arundel and told her that, in one of the

ambulances, was a young man whom they could not make out. He was

severely wounded, and had now swooned; but they had reason to believe he

was an Englishman. Would she see him and speak to him? And she went.

The person who had summoned her was a woman of much beauty, not an

uncommon quality in Rome, and of some majesty of mien, as little rare,

in that city. She was said, at the time when some inquiry was made, to

be Maria Serafina de Angelis, the wife of a tailor in the Ripetta.

The ambulance was in the court-yard of the hospital of the Santissima

Trinita di Pellegrini. The woman pointed to it, and then went away.

There was only one person in the ambulance; the rest had been taken to

the hospital, but he had been left because he was in a swoon, and they

were trying to restore him. Those around the ambulance made room for

Miss Arundel as she approached, and she beheld a young man, covered

with the stains of battle, and severely wounded; but his countenance was

uninjured though insensible. His eyes were closed, and his auburn hair

fell in clusters on his white forehead. The sister of mercy touched the

pulse to ascertain whether there yet was life, but, in the very act,

her own frame became agitated, and the color left her cheek as she

recognized—Lothair.

CHAPTER 61 When Lothair in some degree regained consciousness, he

found himself in bed. The chamber was lofty and dim, and had once been

splendid. Thoughtfulness had invested it with an air of comfort rare

under Italian roofs. The fagots sparkled on the hearth, the light from

the windows was veiled with hangings, and the draughts from the

tall doors guarded against by screens. And by his bedside there were

beautiful flowers, and a crucifix, and a silver bell.

Where was he? He looked up at the velvet canopy above, and then at the

pictures that covered the walls, but there was no familiar aspect. He

remembered nothing since he was shot down in the field of Mentana, and

even that incoherently.

And there had been another battle before that, followed by a catastrophe

still more dreadful. When had all this happened, and where? He tried

to move his bandaged form, but he had no strength, and his mind seemed

weaker than his frame. But he was soon sensible that he was not alone. A

veiled figure gently lifted him, and another one refreshed his pillows.

He spoke, or tried to speak, but one of them pressed her finger to her

shrouded lips, and he willingly relapsed into the silence which he had

hardly strength enough to break.

And sometimes these veiled and gliding ministers brought him sustenance

and sometimes remedies, and he complied with all their suggestions, but

with absolute listlessness; and sometimes a coarser hand interposed, and

sometimes he caught a countenance that was not concealed, but was ever

strange. He had a vague impression that they examined and dressed his

wounds, and arranged his bandages; but whether he really had wounds, and

whether he were or were not bandaged, he hardly knew, and did not care

to know. He was not capable of thought, and memory was an effort under

which he always broke down. Day after day he remained silent and almost

motionless alike in mind and body. He had a vague feeling that, after

some great sorrows, and some great trials, he was in stillness and in

safety; and he had an indefinite mysterious sentiment of gratitude to

some unknown power, that had cherished him in his dark calamities, and

poured balm and oil into his wounds.

It was in this mood of apathy that, one evening, there broke upon his

ear low but beautiful voices performing the evening service of the

Church. His eye glistened, his heart was touched by the vesper spell. He

listened with rapt attention to the sweet and sacred strains, and when

they died away he felt depressed. Would they ever sound again?

Sooner than he could have hoped, for, when he woke in the morning from

his slumbers, which, strange to say, were always disturbed, for the mind

and the memory seemed to work at night though in fearful and exhausting

chaos, the same divine melodies that had soothed him in the eve, now

sounded in the glad and grateful worship of matin praise.

“I have heard the voice of angels,” he murmured to his veiled attendant.

The vesper and the matin hours became at once the epochs of his day. He

was ever thinking of them, and soon was thinking of the feelings which

their beautiful services celebrate and express. His mind seemed no

longer altogether a blank, and the religious sentiment was the first

that returned to his exhausted heart.

“There will be a requiem to-day,” whispered one of his veiled

attendants.

A requiem! a service for the dead; a prayer for their peace and

rest! And who was dead? The bright, the matchless one, the spell and

fascination of his life! Was it possible? Could she be dead, who

seemed vitality in its consummate form? Was there ever such a being as

Theodora? And if there were no Theodora on earth, why should one think

of any thing but heaven?

The sounds came floating down the chamber till they seemed to cluster

round his brain; sometimes solemn, sometimes thrilling, sometimes

the divine pathos melting the human heart with celestial sympathy and

heavenly solace. The tears fell fast from his agitated vision, and he

sank back exhausted, almost insensible, on his pillow.

“The Church has a heart for all our joys and all our sorrows, and for

all our hopes, and all our fears,” whispered a veiled attendant, as she

bathed his temples with fragrant waters.

Though the condition of Lothair had at first seemed desperate, his

youthful and vigorous frame had enabled him to rally, and, with time

and the infinite solicitude which he received, his case was not

without hope. But, though his physical cure was somewhat advanced, the

prostration of his mind seemed susceptible of no relief. The services

of the Church accorded with his depressed condition; they were the only

events of his life, and he cherished them. His attendants now permitted

and even encouraged him to speak; but he seemed entirely incurious and

indifferent. Sometimes they read to him, and he listened, but he

never made remarks. The works which they selected had a religious or

ecclesiastical bias, even while they were imaginative; and it seemed

difficult not to be interested by the ingenious fancy by which it was

worked out, that every thing that was true and sacred in heaven had its

symbol and significance in the qualities and accidents of earth.

After a month passed in this manner, the surgeons having announced that

Lothair might now prepare to rise from his bed, a veiled attendant said

to him one day, “There is a gentleman here who is a friend of yours, and

who would like to see you. And perhaps you would like to see him also

for other reasons, for you must have much to say to God after all that

you have suffered. And he is a most holy man.”

“I have no wish to see any one. Are you sure he is not a stranger?”

asked Lothair.

“He is in the next room,” said the attendant. “He has been here

throughout your illness, conducting our services; often by your bedside

when you were asleep, and always praying for you.”

The veiled attendant drew back and waved her hand, and some one glided

forward, and said in a low, soft voice, “You have not forgotten me?”

And Lothair beheld Monsignore Catesby.

“It is a long time since we met,” said Lothair, looking at him with some

scrutiny, and then all interest died away, and he turned away his vague

and wandering eyes.

“But you know me?”

“I know not where I am, and I but faintly comprehend what has happened,”

murmured Lothair.

“You are among friends,” said the monsignore, in tones of sympathy.

“What has happened,” he added, with an air of mystery, not unmixed with

a certain expression of ecstasy in his glance, “must be reserved for

other times, when you are stronger, and can grapple with such high

themes.”

“How long have I been here?” inquired Lothair, dreamily.

“It is a month since the Annunciation.”

“What Annunciation?”

“Hush!” said the monsignore, and he raised his finger to his lip. “We

must not talk of these things—at least at present. No doubt, the same

blessed person that saved you from the jaws of death is at this moment

guarding over your recovery and guiding it; but we do not deserve, nor

does the Church expect, perpetual miracles. We must avail ourselves,

under Divine sanction, of the beneficent tendencies of Nature; and in

your case her operations must not be disturbed at this moment by any

excitement, except, indeed, the glow of gratitude for celestial aid, and

the inward joy which must permeate the being of any one who feels that

he is among the most favored of men.”

From this time Monsignore Catesby scarcely ever quitted Lothair.

He hailed Lothair in the morn, and parted from him at night with a

blessing; and in the interval Catesby devoted his whole life, and

the inexhaustible resources of his fine and skilled intelligence,

to alleviate or amuse the existence of his companion. Sometimes he

conversed with Lothair, adroitly taking the chief burden of the talk;

and yet, whether it were bright narrative or lively dissertation, never

seeming to lecture or hold forth, but relieving the monologue, when

expedient, by an interesting inquiry, which he was always ready in due

time to answer himself, or softening the instruction by the playfulness

of his mind and manner. Sometimes he read to Lothair, and attuned the

mind of his charge to the true spiritual note by melting passages

from Kempis or Chrysostom. Then he would bring a portfolio of wondrous

drawings by the mediaeval masters, of saints and seraphs, and accustom

the eye and thought of Lothair to the forms and fancies of the court of

heaven.

One day, Lothair, having risen from his bed for the first time, and

lying on a sofa in an adjoining chamber to that in which he had been

so long confined, the monsignore seated himself by the side of Lothair,

and, opening a portfolio, took out a drawing and held it before Lothair,

observing his countenance with a glance of peculiar scrutiny.

“Well!” said Catesby, after some little pause, as if awaiting a remark

from his companion.

“‘Tis beautiful!” said Lothair. “Is it by Raffaelle?”

“No; by Fra Bartolomeo. But the countenance, do you remember ever having

met such a one?”

Lothair shook his head. Catesby took out another drawing, the same

subject, the Blessed Virgin. “By Giulio,” said the monsignore, and he

watched the face of Lothair, but it was listless.

Then he showed Lothair another, and another, and another. At last he

held before him one which was really by Raffaelle, and by which Lothair

was evidently much moved. His eye lit up, a blush suffused his pale

cheek, he took the drawing himself, and held it before his gaze with a

trembling hand.

“Yes I remember this,” he murmured, for it was one of those faces of

Greek beauty which the great painter not infrequently caught up at Rome.

The monsignore looked gently round and waved his hand, and immediately

arose the hymn to the Virgin in subdued strains of exquisite melody.

On the next morning, when Lothair woke, he found on the table, by his

side, the drawing of the Virgin in a sliding frame.

About this time the monsignore began to accustom Lothair to leave his

apartment, and, as he was not yet permitted to walk, Catesby introduced

what he called an English chair, in which Lothair was enabled to survey

a little the place which had been to him a refuge and a home. It seemed

a building of vast size, raised round an inner court with arcades

and windows, and, in the higher story where he resided, an apparently

endless number of chambers and galleries. One morning, in their

perambulations, the monsignore unlocked the door of a covered way which

had no light but from a lamp which guided their passage. The opposite

door at the end of this covered way opened into a church, but one of a

character different from any which Lothair had yet entered.

It had been raised during the latter of the sixteenth century by

Vignola, when, under the influence of the great Pagan revival, the

Christian church began to assume the character of an Olympian temple. A

central painted cupola of large but exquisite proportions, supported

by pilasters with gilded capitals, and angels of white marble springing

from golden brackets; walls incrusted with rare materials of every tint,

and altars supported by serpentine columns of agate and alabaster;

a blaze of pictures, and statues, and precious stones, and precious

metals, denoted one of the chief temples of the sacred brotherhood of

Jesus, raised when the great order had recognized that the views of

primitive and mediaeval Christianity, founded on the humility of man,

were not in accordance with the age of confidence in human energy, in

which they were destined to rise, and which they were determined to

direct.

Guided by Catesby, and leaning on a staff, Lothair gained a gorgeous

side chapel in which mass was celebrating; the air was rich with

incense, and all heaven seemed to open in the ministrations of a

seraphic choir. Crushed by his great calamities, both physical and

moral, Lothair sometimes felt that he could now be content if the rest

of his life could flow away amid this celestial fragrance and these

gushing sounds of heavenly melody. And absorbed in these feelings it was

not immediately observed by him that on the altar, behind the dazzling

blaze of tapers, was a picture of the Virgin, and identically the same

countenance as that he had recognized with emotion in the drawing of

Raffaelle.

It revived perplexing memories which agitated him, thoughts on which

it seemed his brain had not now strength enough to dwell, and yet with

which it now seemed inevitable for him to grapple. The congregation

was not very numerous, and, when it broke up, several of them lingered

behind and whispered to the monsignore, and then, after a little time,

Catesby approached Lothair and said: “There are some here who would

wish to kiss your hand, or even touch the hem of your garments. It is

troublesome, but natural, considering all that has occurred and that

this is the first time, perhaps, that they have met any one who has been

so favored.”

“Favored!” said Lothair; “Am I favored? It seems to me I am the most

forlorn of men—if even I am that.”

“Hush!” said the monsignore, “we must not talk of these things at

present;” and he motioned to some, who approached and contemplated

Lothair with blended curiosity and reverence.

These visits of Lothair to the beautiful church of the Jesuits became

of daily occurrence, and often happened several times on the same

day; indeed they formed the only incident which seemed to break his

listlessness. He became interested in the change and variety of the

services, in the persons and characters of the officiating priests. The

soft manners of these fathers, their intelligence in the performance of

their offices, their obliging carriage, and the unaffected concern

with which all he said or did seemed to inspire them, won upon him

unconsciously. The church had become his world; and his sympathies, if

he still had sympathies, seemed confined to those within its walls.

In the mean time his physical advancement though slow was gradual and

had hitherto never been arrested. He could even walk a little alone,

though artificially supported, and ramble about the halls and galleries

full of a prodigious quantity of pictures, from the days of Raffael

Sanzio to those of Raffael Mengs.

“The doctors think now we might try a little drive,” said the monsignore

one morning. “The rains have ceased and refreshed every thing. To-day

is like the burst of spring;” and, when Lothair seemed to shudder at

the idea of facing any thing like the external world, the monsignore

suggested immediately that they should go out in a close carriage, which

they finally entered in the huge quadrangle of the building. Lothair

was so nervous that he pulled down even the blind of his window; and the

monsignore, who always humored him, half pulled down his own.

Their progress seemed through a silent land, and they could hardly be

traversing streets. Then the ascent became a little precipitous, and

then the carriage stopped, and the monsignore said: “Here is a solitary

spot. We shall meet no one. The view is charming, and the air is soft.”

And he placed his hand gently on the arm of Lothair, and, as it were,

drew him out of the carriage.

The sun was bright, and the sky was bland. There was something in the

breath of Nature that was delightful. The scent of violets was worth

all the incense in the world; all the splendid marbles and priestly

vestments seemed hard and cold when compared with the glorious colors

of the cactus and the wild forms of the golden and gigantic aloes.

The Favonian breeze played on the brow of this beautiful hill, and the

exquisite palm-trees, while they bowed their rustling heads, answered in

responsive chorus to the antiphon of Nature.

The dreary look that had been so long imprinted on the face of Lothair

melted away.

“‘Tis well that we came, is it not?” said Catesby; “and now we will

seat ourselves.” Below and before them, on an undulating site, a city

of palaces and churches spread out its august form, enclosing within its

ample walls sometimes a wilderness of classic ruins—column, and arch,

and theatre—sometimes the umbrageous spread of princely gardens. A

winding and turbid river divided the city in unequal parts, in one of

which there rose a vast and glorious temple, crowned with a dome of

almost superhuman size and skill, on which the favorite sign of heaven

flashed with triumphant truth.

The expression of relief which, for a moment, had reposed on the face of

Lothair, left it when he said, in an agitated voice, “I at length behold

Rome!”

CHAPTER 62 This recognition of Rome by Lothair evinced not only a

consciousness of locality, but an interest in it not before exhibited;

and the monsignore soon after seized the opportunity of drawing the mind

of his companion to the past, and feeling how far he now realized the

occurrences that immediately preceded his arrival in the city. But

Lothair would not dwell on them. “I wish to think of nothing,” he said,

“that happened before I entered this city: all I desire now is to know

those to whom I am indebted for my preservation in a condition that

seemed hopeless.”

“There is nothing hopeless with Divine aid,” said the monsignore; “but,

humanly speaking, you are indebted for your preservation to English

friends, long and intimately cherished. It is under their roof that you

dwell, the Agostini palace, tenanted by Lord St. Jerome.”

“Lord St. Jerome!” murmured Lothair to himself.

“And the ladies of his house are those who, only with some slight

assistance from my poor self, tended you throughout your most desperate

state, and when we sometimes almost feared that mind and body were alike

wrecked.”

“I have a dream of angels,” said Lothair; “and sometimes I listened to

heavenly voices that I seemed to have heard before.”

“I am sure you have not forgotten the ladies of that house?” said

Catesby, watching his countenance.

“No; one of them summoned me to meet her at Rome,” murmured Lothair,

“and I am here.”

“That summons was divine,” said Catesby, “and only the herald of the

great event that was ordained and has since occurred. In this holy city,

Miss Arundel must ever count as the most sanctified of her sex.”

Lothair lapsed into silence, which subsequently appeared to be

meditation, for, when the carriage stopped, and the monsignore assisted

him to alight, he said, “I must see Lord St. Jerome.”

And, in the afternoon, with due and preparatory announcement, Lord St.

Jerome waited on Lothair. The monsignore ushered him into the chamber,

and, though he left them as it were alone, never quitted it. He watched

them conversing, while he seemed to be arranging books and flowers; he

hovered over the conference, dropping down on them at a critical moment,

when the words became either languid or embarrassing. Lord St. Jerome

was a hearty man, simple and high-bred. He addressed Lothair with all

his former kindness, but with some degree of reserve, and even a dash

of ceremony. Lothair was not insensible to the alteration in his manner,

but could ascribe it to many causes. He was himself resolved to make

an effort, when Lord St. Jerome arose to depart, and expressed the

intention of Lady St. Jerome to wait on him on the morrow. “No, my dear

lord,” said Lothair; “to-morrow I make my first visit, and it shall be

to my best friends. I would try to come this evening, but they will not

be alone; and I must see them alone if it be only once.”

This visit of the morrow rather pressed on the nervous system of

Lothair. It was no slight enterprise, and called up many recollections.

He brooded over his engagement during the whole evening, and his night

was disturbed. His memory, long in a state of apathy, or curbed and

controlled into indifference, seemed endowed with unnatural vitality,

reproducing the history of his past life in rapid and exhausting tumult.

All its scenes rose before him—Brentham, and Vauxe, and, Muriel—and

closing with one absorbing spot, which, for a long time, it avoided,

and in which all merged and ended—Belmont. Then came that anguish of the

heart, which none can feel but those who in the youth of life have lost

some one infinitely fascinating and dear, and the wild query why he,

too, had not fallen on the fatal plain which had entombed all the hope

and inspiration of his existence.

The interview was not so trying an incident as Lothair anticipated, as

often under such circumstances occurs. Miss Arundel was not present;

and, in the second place, although Lothair could not at first be

insensible to a change in the manner of Lady St. Jerome, as well as

in that of her lord, exhibiting as it did a degree of deference and

ceremony which with her toward him were quite unusual, still the genial,

gushing nature of this lively and enthusiastic woman, full of sympathy,

soon asserted itself, and her heart was overflowing with sorrow for all

his sufferings and gratitude for his escape.

“And, after all,” she said, “every thing must have been ordained; and,

without these trials, and even calamities, that great event could not

have been brought about which must make all hail you as the most favored

of men.”

Lothair stared with a look of perplexity, and then said: “If I be the

most favored of men, it is only because two angelic beings have deigned

to minister to me in my sorrow, with a sweet devotion I can never

forget, and, alas! can never repay.”

CHAPTER 63 Lothair was not destined to meet Clare Arundel alone or only

in the presence of her family. He had acceded, after a short time, to

the wish of Lady St. Jerome, and the advice of Monsignore Catesby, to

wait on her in the evening, when Lady St. Jerome was always at home and

never alone. Her rooms were the privileged resort of the very cream of

Roman society and of those English who, like herself, had returned to

the Roman Church. An Italian palace supplied an excellent occasion for

the display of the peculiar genius of our countrywomen to make a place

habitable. Beautiful carpets, baskets of flowers and cases of ferns,

and chairs which you could sit upon, tables covered with an infinity of

toys—sparkling, useful, and fantastic—huge silken screens of rich color,

and a profusion of light, produced a scene of combined comfort and

brilliancy which made every one social who entered it, and seemed to

give a bright and graceful turn even to the careless remarks of ordinary

gossip.

Lady St. Jerome rose the moment her eye caught the entry of Lothair,

and, advancing, received him with an air of ceremony, mixed, however,

with an expression of personal devotion which was distressing to him,

and singularly contrasted with the easy and genial receptions that he

remembered at Vauxe. Then Lady St. Jerome led Lothair to her

companion whom she had just quitted, and presented him to the Princess

Tarpeia-Cinque Cento, a dame in whose veins, it was said, flowed both

consular and pontifical blood of the rarest tint.

The Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento was the greatest lady in Rome; had

still vast possessions—palaces and villas and vineyards and broad farms.

Notwithstanding all that had occurred, she still looked upon the kings

and emperors of the world as the mere servants of the pope, and on the

old Roman nobility as still the conscript fathers of the world. Her

other characteristic was superstition. So she was most distinguished

by an irrepressible haughtiness and an illimitable credulity. The only

softening circumstance was that, being in the hands of the Jesuits, her

religion did not assume an ascetic or gloomy character. She was fond

of society, and liked to show her wondrous jewels, which were still

unrivalled, although she had presented his holiness in his troubles with

a tiara of diamonds.

There were rumors that the Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento had on

occasions treated even the highest nobility of England with a certain

indifference; and all agreed that to laymen, however distinguished,

her highness was not prone too easily to relax. But, in the present

instance, it is difficult to convey a due conception of the graciousness

of her demeanor when Lothair bent before her. She appeared even

agitated, almost rose from her seat, and blushed through her rouge. Lady

St. Jerome, guiding Lothair into her vacant seat, walked away.

“We shall never forget what you have done for us,” said the princess to

Lothair.

“I have done nothing,” said Lothair, with a surprised air.

“Ali, that is so like gifted beings like you,” said the princess. “They

never will think they have done any thing, even were they to save the

world.”

“You are too gracious, princess,” said Lothair; “I have no claims to

esteem which all must so value.”

“Who has, if you have not?” rejoined the princess. “Yes, it is to you,

and to you alone, that we must look. I am very impartial in what I say,

for, to be frank, I have not been of those who believed that the great

champion would rise without the patrimony of St. Peter. I am ashamed to

say that I have even looked with jealousy on the energy that has been

shown by individuals in other countries; but I now confess that I was

in error. I cannot resist this manifestation. It was a privilege to

have lived when it happened. All that we can do now is to cherish your

favored life.”

“You are too kind, madam,” murmured the perplexed Lothair.

“I have done nothing,” rejoined the princess, “and am ashamed that I

have done nothing. But it is well for you, at this season, to be at

Rome; and you cannot be better, I am sure, than under this roof. But,

when the spring breaks, I hope you will honor me, by accepting for your

use a villa which I have at Albano, and which, at that season, has many

charms.”

There were other Roman ladies in the room only inferior in rank and

importance to the Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento; and in the course of

the evening, at their earnest request, they were made acquainted with

Lothair, for it cannot be said he was presented to them. These ladies,

generally so calm, would not wait for the ordinary ceremony of life,

but, as he approached to be introduced, sank to the ground with the

obeisance offered only to royalty.

There were some cardinals in the apartment and several monsignori.

Catesby was there in close attendance on a pretty English countess, who

had just “gone over.” Her husband had been at first very much distressed

at the event, and tore himself from the severe duties of the House of

Lords, in the hope that he might yet arrive in time at Rome to save

her soul. But he was too late; and, strange to say, being of a domestic

turn, and disliking family dissensions, he remained at Rome during the

rest of the session, and finally “went over” himself.

Later in the evening arrived his eminence, Cardinal Berwick, for our

friend had gained, and bravely gained, the great object of a churchman’s

ambition, and which even our Laud was thinking at one time of accepting,

although he was to remain a firm Anglican. In the death-struggle between

the Church and the secret societies, Berwick had been the victor, and no

one in the Sacred College more truly deserved the scarlet hat.

His eminence had a reverence of radiant devotion for the Princess

Tarpeia-Cinque Cento, a glance of friendship for Lady St. Jerome—for

all, a courtly and benignant smile; but, when he recognized Lothair,

he started forward, seized and retained his hand, and then seemed

speechless with emotion. “Ah! my comrade in the great struggle!” he at

length exclaimed; “this is, indeed, a pleasure—and to see you here!”

Early in the evening, while Lothair was sitting by the side of the

princess, his eye had wandered round the room, not unsuccessfully, in

search of Miss Arundel; and, when he was free, he would immediately have

approached her, but she was in conversation with a Roman prince. Then,

when she was for a moment free, he was himself engaged; and, at last,

he had to quit abruptly a cardinal of taste, who was describing to him a

statue just discovered in the baths of Diocletian, in order to seize the

occasion that again offered itself.

Her manner was constrained when he addressed her, but she gave him her

hand, which he pressed to his lips. Looking deeply into her violet eyes,

he said: “You summoned me to meet you at Rome; I am here.”

“And I summoned you to other things,” she answered, at first with

hesitation and a blush; but then, as if rallying herself to the

performance of a duty too high to allow of personal embarrassment,

she added: “all of which you will perform, as becomes one favored by

Heaven.”

“I have been favored by you,” said Lothair, speaking low and hurriedly;

“to whom I owe my life, and more than my life. Yes,” he continued, “this

is not the scene I would have chosen to express my gratitude to you

for all that you have done for me, and my admiration of your sublime

virtues; but I can no longer repress the feelings of my heart, though

their utterance be as inadequate as your deeds have been transcendent.”

“I was but the instrument of a higher power.”

“We are all instruments of a higher power, but the instruments chosen

are always choice.”

“Ay, there it is!” said Miss Arundel; “and that is what I rejoice you

feel. For it is impossible that such a selection could have been made,

as in your case, without your being reserved for great results.”

“I am but a shattered actor for great results,” said Lothair, shaking

his head.

“You have had trials,” said Miss Arundel, “so had St. Ignatius, so

had St. Francis, and great temptations; but these are the tests of

character, of will, of spiritual power—the fine gold is searched. All

things that have happened have tended and have been ordained to one end,

and that was to make you the champion of the Church of which you are now

more than the child.”

“More than the child?”

“Indeed I think so. However, this is hardly the place and occasion

to dwell on such matters; and, indeed, I know your friends—my friends

equally—are desirous that your convalescence should not be unnecessarily

disturbed by what must be, however delightful, still agitating thoughts;

but you touched yourself unexpectedly on the theme, and, at any rate,

you will pardon one who has the inconvenient quality of having only one

thought.”

“Whatever you say or think must always interest me.”

“You are kind to say so. I suppose you know that our cardinal, Cardinal

Grandison, will be here in a few days?”

CHAPTER 64 Although the reception of Lothair by his old friends and by

the leaders of the Roman world was in the highest degree flattering,

there was something in its tone which was perplexing to him and

ambiguous. Could they be ignorant of his Italian antecedents?

Impossible. Miss Arundel had admitted, or rather declared, that he had

experienced great trials, and, even temptations. She could only allude

to what had occurred since their parting in England. But all this was

now looked upon as satisfactory, because it was ordained, and tended to

one end; and what was that end? His devotion to the Church of Rome, of

which they admitted he was not formally a child.

It was true that his chief companion was a priest, and that he passed a

great portion of his life within the walls of a church. But the priest

was his familiar friend in England, who in a foreign land had nursed

him with devotion in a desperate illness; and, although in the great

calamities, physical and moral, that had overwhelmed him, he had found

solace in the beautiful services of a religion which he respected, no

one for a moment had taken advantage of this mood of his suffering and

enfeebled mind to entrap him into controversy, or to betray him into

admissions that he might afterward consider precipitate and immature.

Indeed, nothing could be more delicate than the conduct of the Jesuit

fathers throughout his communications with them. They seemed sincerely

gratified that a suffering fellow creature should find even temporary

consolation within their fair and consecrated structure; their voices

modulated with sympathy; their glances gushed with fraternal affection;

their affectionate politeness contrived, in a thousand slight instances,

the selection of a mass, the arrangement of a picture, the loan of a

book, to contribute to the interesting or elegant distraction of his

forlorn and brooding being.

And yet Lothair began to feel uneasy, and his uneasiness increased

proportionately as his health improved. He sometimes thought that he

should like to make an effort and get about a little in the world, but

he was very weak, and without any of the resources to which he had been

accustomed throughout life. He had no servants of his own, no carriages,

no man of business, no banker; and when at last he tried to bring

himself to write to Mr. Putney Giles—a painful task—Monsignore Catesby

offered to undertake his whole correspondence for him, and announced

that his medical attendants had declared that he must under no

circumstances whatever attempt at present to write a letter. Hitherto he

had been without money, which was lavishly supplied for his physicians

and other wants; and he would have been without clothes if the

most fashionable tailor in Rome, a German, had not been in frequent

attendance on him under the direction of Monsignore Catesby, who, in

fact, had organized his wardrobe as he did every thing else.

Somehow or other Lothair never seemed alone. When he woke in the morning

the monsignore was frequently kneeling before an oratory in his room,

and if by any chance Lothair was wanting at Lady St. Jerome’s reception,

Father Coleman, who was now on a visit to the family, would look in

and pass the evening with him, as men who keep a gaming-table find

it discreet occasionally to change the dealer. It is a huge and even

stupendous pile—that Palazzo Agostini, and yet Lothair never tried

to thread his way through its vestibules and galleries, or attempt a

reconnaissance of its endless chambers, without some monsignore or other

gliding up quite propos and relieving him from the dulness of solitary

existence during the rest of his promenade.

Lothair was relieved by hearing that his former guardian, Cardinal

Grandison, was daily expected at Rome; and he revolved in his mind

whether he should not speak to his eminence generally on the system of

his life, which he felt now required some modification. In the interval,

however, no change did occur. Lothair attended every day the services

of the church, and every evening the receptions of Lady St. Jerome;

and between the discharge of these two duties he took a drive with

a priest—sometimes with more than one, but always most agreeable

men—generally in the environs of the city, or visited a convent, or a

villa, some beautiful gardens, or a gallery of works of art.

It was at Lady St. Jerome’s that Lothair met his former guardian. The

cardinal had only arrived in the morning. His manner to Lothair was

affectionate. He retained Lothair’s hand and pressed it with his pale,

thin fingers; his attenuated countenance blazed for a moment with a

divine light.

“I have long wished to see you, sir,” said Lothair, “and much wish to

talk with you.”

“I can hear nothing from you nor of you but what must be most pleasing

to me,” said the cardinal.

“I wish I could believe that,” said Lothair.

The cardinal caressed him; put his arm round Lothair’s neck and said,

“There is no time like the present. Let us walk together in this

gallery,” and they withdrew naturally from the immediate scene.

“You know all that has happened, I dare say,” said Lothair with

embarrassment and with a sigh, “since we parted in England, sir.”

“All,” said the cardinal. “It has been a most striking and merciful

dispensation.”

“Then I need not dwell upon it,” said Lothair, “and naturally it would

be most painful. What I wish particularly to speak to you about is my

position under this roof. What I owe to those who dwell under it no

language can describe, and no efforts on my part, and they shall be

unceasing, can repay. But I think the time has come when I ought no

longer to trespass on their affectionate devotion, though, when I allude

to the topic, they seem to misinterpret the motives which influence me,

and to be pained rather than relieved by my suggestions. I cannot bear

being looked upon as ungrateful, when in fact I am devoted to them. I

think, sir, you might help me in putting all this right.”

“If it be necessary,” said the cardinal; “but I apprehend you

misconceive them. When I last left Rome you were very ill, but Lady St.

Jerome and others have written to me almost daily about you, during my

absence, so that I am familiar with all that has occurred, and quite

cognizant of their feelings. Rest assured that, toward yourself, they

are exactly what they ought to be and what you would desire.”

“Well, I am glad,” said Lothair, “that you are acquainted with every

thing that has happened, for you can put them right if it be necessary;

but I sometimes cannot help fancying that they are under some false

impression both as to my conduct and my convictions.”

“Not in the slightest,” said the cardinal, “trust me, my dear friend,

for that. They know everything and appreciate everything; and, great

as, no doubt, have been your sufferings, feel that every thing has been

ordained for the best; that the hand of the Almighty has been visible

throughout all these strange events; that His Church was never

more clearly built upon a rock than at this moment; that this great

manifestation will revive, and even restore, the faith of Christendom;

and that you yourself must be looked upon as one of the most favored of

men.”

“Everybody says that,” said Lothair, rather peevishly.

“And everybody feels it,” said the cardinal.

“Well, to revert to lesser points,” said Lothair, “I do not say I want

to return to England, for I dread returning to England, and do not

know whether I shall ever go back there; and at any rate I doubt not

my health at present is unequal to the effort; but I should like some

change in my mode of life. I will not say it is too much controlled,

for nothing seems ever done without first consulting me; but, somehow

or other, we are always in the same groove. I wish to see more of the

world; I wish to see Rome, and the people of Rome. I wish to see and do

many things which, if I mention, it would seem to hurt the feelings of

others, and my own are misconceived, but, if mentioned by you, all would

probably be different.”

“I understand you, my dear young friend, my child, I will still say,”

said the cardinal. “Nothing can be more reasonable than what you

suggest. No doubt our friends may be a little too anxious about you, but

they are the best people in the world. You appear to me to be quite well

enough now to make more exertion than hitherto they have thought you

capable of. They see you every day, and cannot judge so well of you as

I who have been absent. I will charge myself to effect all your wishes.

And we will begin by my taking you out to-morrow and your driving with

me about the city. I will show you Rome and the Roman people.”

Accordingly, on the morrow, Cardinal Grandison and his late pupil

visited together Rome and the Romans. And first of all Lothair was

presented to the cardinal-prefect of the Propaganda, who presides over

the ecclesiastical affairs of every country in which the Roman Church

has a mission, and that includes every land between the Arctic and the

Southern Pole. This glimpse of the organized correspondence with both

the Americas, all Asia, all Africa, all Australia, and many European

countries, carried on by a countless staff of clerks in one of the most

capacious buildings in the world, was calculated to impress the visitor

with a due idea of the extensive authority of the Roman Pontiff. This

institution, greater, according to the cardinal, than any which existed

in ancient Rome, was to propagate the faith, the purity of which the

next establishment they visited was to maintain. According to Cardinal

Grandison, there never was a body the character of which had been

so wilfully and so malignantly misrepresented as that of the Roman

Inquisition. Its true object is reformation not punishment and therefore

pardon was sure to follow the admission of error. True it was there

were revolting stories afloat, for which there was undoubtedly some

foundation, though their exaggeration and malice were evident, of the

ruthless conduct of the Inquisition; but these details were entirely

confined to Spain, and were the consequences not of the principles of

the Holy Office, but of the Spanish race, poisoned by Moorish and Jewish

blood, or by long contact with those inhuman infidels. Had it not been

for the Inquisition organizing and directing the mitigating influences

of the Church, Spain would have been a land of wild beasts; and even in

quite modern times it was the Holy Office at Rome which always stepped

forward to protect the persecuted, and, by the power of appeal

from Madrid to Rome, saved the lives of those who were unjustly or

extravagantly accused.

“The real business, however, of the Holy Office now,” continued the

cardinal, “is in reality only doctrinal; and there is something truly

sublime—essentially divine, I would say—in this idea of an old man, like

the Holy Father, himself the object of ceaseless persecution by all

the children of Satan, never for a moment relaxing his heaven-inspired

efforts to maintain the purity of the faith once delivered to the

saints, and at the same time to propagate it throughout the whole world,

so that there should be no land on which the sun shines that should not

afford means of salvation to suffering man. Yes, the Propaganda and the

Inquisition alone are sufficient to vindicate the sacred claims of

Rome. Compared with them, mere secular and human institutions, however

exalted, sink into insignificance.”

These excursions with the cardinal were not only repeated, but became

almost of daily occurrence. The cardinal took Lothair with him in his

visits of business, and introduced him to the eminent characters of the

city. Some of these priests were illustrious scholars or votaries of

science, whose names were quoted with respect and as authority in the

circles of cosmopolitan philosophy. Then there were other institutions

at Rome, which the cardinal snatched occasions to visit, and which,

if not so awfully venerable as the Propaganda and the Inquisition,

nevertheless testified to the advanced civilization of Rome and the

Romans, and the enlightened administration of the Holy Father. According

to Cardinal Grandison, all the great modern improvements in the

administration of hospitals and prisons originated in the eternal city;

scientific ventilation, popular lavatories, the cellular or silent

system, the reformatory. And yet these were nothing compared with

the achievements of the Pontifical Government in education. In short,

complete popular education only existed at Rome. Its schools were more

numerous even than its fountains. Gratuitous instruction originated

with the ecclesiastics; and from the night-school to the university here

might be found the perfect type.

“I really believe,” said the cardinal, “that a more virtuous, a more

religious, a more happy and contented people than the Romans never

existed. They could all be kept in order with the police of one of your

counties. True it is, the Holy Father is obliged to garrison the city

with twelve thousand men of arms, but not against the Romans, not

against his own subjects. It is the secret societies of atheism who

have established their lodges in this city, entirely consisting of

foreigners, that render these lamentable precautions necessary. They

will not rest until they have extirpated the religious principle from

the soul of man, and until they have reduced him to the condition

of wild beasts. But they will fail, as they failed the other day, as

Sennacherib failed. These men may conquer zouaves and cuirassiers, but

they cannot fight against Saint Michael and all the angels. They may do

mischief, they may aggravate and prolong the misery of man, but they are

doomed to entire and eternal failure.”

CHAPTER 65 Lady St. Jerome was much interested in the accounts which the

cardinal and Lothair gave her of their excursions in the city and their

visits.

“It is very true,” she said, “I never knew such good people; and they

ought to be so favored by Heaven, and leading a life which, if any thing

earthly can, must give them, however faint, some foretaste of our

joys hereafter. Did your eminence visit the Pellegrini?” This was the

hospital, where Miss Arundel had found Lothair.

The cardinal looked grave. “No,” he replied. “My object was to secure

for our young friend some interesting but not agitating distraction from

certain ideas which, however admirable and transcendently important,

are nevertheless too high and profound to permit their constant

contemplation with impunity to our infirm natures. Besides,” he added,

in a lower, but still distinct tone, “I was myself unwilling to visit

in a mere casual manner the scene of what I must consider the greatest

event of this century.”

“But you have been there?” inquired Lady St. Jerome.

His eminence crossed himself.

In the course of the evening Monsignore Catesby told Lothair that a

grand service was about to be celebrated in the church of St. George:

thanks were to be offered to the Blessed Virgin by Miss Arundel for the

miraculous mercy vouchsafed to her in saving the life of a countryman,

Lothair. “All her friends will make a point of being there,” added the

monsignore, “even the Protestants and some Russians. Miss Arundel was

very unwilling at first to fulfil this office, but the Holy Father has

commanded it. I know that nothing will induce her to ask you to attend;

and yet, if I were you, I would turn it over in your mind. I know she

said that she would sooner that you were present than all her English

friends together. However, you can think about it. One likes to do what

is proper.”

One does; and yet it is difficult. Sometimes, in doing what we think

proper, we get into irremediable scrapes; and often, what we hold to be

proper, society in its caprice resolves to be highly improper.

Lady St. Jerome had wished Lothair to see Tivoli, and they were all

consulting together when they might go there. Lord St. Jerome who,

besides his hunters, had his drag at Rome, wanted to drive them to the

place. Lothair sat opposite Miss Arundel, gazing on her beauty. It was

like being at Vauxe again. And yet a great deal had happened since they

were at Vauxe; and what? So far as they two were concerned, nothing but

what should create or confirm relations of confidence and affection.

Whatever may have been the influence of others on his existence, hers

at least had been one of infinite benignity. She had saved his life; she

had cherished it. She had raised him from the lowest depth of physical

and moral prostration to health and comparative serenity. If at Vauxe he

had beheld her with admiration, had listened with fascinated interest to

the fervid expression of her saintly thoughts, and the large purposes of

her heroic mind, all these feelings were naturally heightened now when

he had witnessed her lofty and consecrated spirit in action, and when

that action in his own case had only been exercised for his ineffable

advantage.

“Your uncle cannot go to-morrow,” continued Lady St. Jerome, “and on

Thursday I am engaged.”

“And on Friday—,” said Miss Arundel, hesitating.

“We are all engaged,” said Lady St. Jerome.

“I should hardly wish to go out before Friday anywhere,” said Miss

Arundel, speaking to her aunt, and in a lower tone.

Friday was the day on which the thanksgiving service was to be

celebrated in the Jesuit church of St. George of Cappadocia. Lothair

knew this well enough and was embarrassed: a thanksgiving for the mercy

vouchsafed to Miss Arundel in saving the life of a fellow-countryman, an

that fellow-countryman not present! All her Protestant friends would be

there, and some Russians. And he not there! It seemed, on his part,

the most ungracious and intolerable conduct. And he knew that she would

prefer his presence to that of all her acquaintances together. It was

more than ungracious on his part; it was ungrateful, almost inhuman.

Lothair sat silent, and stupid, and stiff, and dissatisfied with

himself. Once or twice he tried to speak, but his tongue would not move,

or his throat was not clear. And, if he had spoken, he would only have

made some trifling and awkward remark. In his mind’s eye he saw, gliding

about him, the veiled figure of his sick-room, and he recalled with

clearness the unceasing and angelic tenderness of which at the time he

seemed hardly conscious.

Miss Arundel had risen and had proceeded some way down the room to a

cabinet where she was accustomed to place her work. Suddenly Lothair

rose and followed her. “Miss Arundel!” he said, and she looked round,

hardly stopping when he had reached her. “Miss Arundel, I hope you will

permit me to be present at the celebration on Friday?”

She turned round quickly, extending, even eagerly, her hand with

mantling cheek. Her eyes glittered with celestial fire. The words

hurried from her palpitating lips: “And support me,” she said, “for I

need support.”

In the evening reception, Monsignore Catesby approached Father Coleman.

“It is done,” he said, with a look of saintly triumph. “It is done at

last. He will not only be present, but he will support her. There are

yet eight-and-forty hours to elapse. Can any thing happen to defeat us?

It would seem not; yet, when so much is at stake, one is fearful. He

must never be out of our sight; not a human being must approach him.”

“I think we can manage that,” said Father Coleman.

CHAPTER 66 The Jesuit church of St. George of Cappadocia was situate in

one of the finest piazzas of Rome. It was surrounded with arcades, and

in its centre the most beautiful fountain of the city spouted forth its

streams to an amazing height, and in forms of graceful fancy. On Friday

morning the arcades were festooned with tapestry and hangings of crimson

velvet and gold. Every part was crowded, and all the rank and fashion

and power of Rome seemed to be there assembling. There had been once

some intention on the part of the Holy Father to be present, but a

slight indisposition had rendered that not desirable. His holiness,

however, had ordered a company of his halberdiers to attend, and the

ground was kept by those wonderful guards in the dress of the middle

ages—halberds and ruffs, and white plumes, and party-colored coats, a

match for our beef-eaters. Carriages with scarlet umbrellas on the box,

and each with three serving-men behind, denoted the presence of the

cardinals in force. They were usually brilliant equipages, being

sufficiently new, or sufficiently new purchases, Garibaldi and the late

commanding officer of Lothair having burnt most of the ancient coaches

in the time of the Roman republics twenty years before. From each

carriage an eminence descended with his scarlet cap and his purple train

borne by two attendants. The Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento was there,

and most of the Roman princes and princesses, and dukes, and duchesses.

It seemed that the whole court of Rome was there—monsignori and prelates

without end. Some of their dresses, and those of the generals of the

orders, appropriately varied the general effect, for the ladies were all

in black, their heads covered only with black veils.

Monsignore Catesby had arranged with Lothair that they should enter the

church by their usual private way, and Lothair therefore was not in any

degree prepared for the sight which awaited him on his entrance into it.

The church was crowded; not a chair nor a tribune vacant. There was a

suppressed gossip going on as in a public place before a performance

begins, much fluttering of fans, some snuff taken, and many sugar-plums.

“Where shall we find a place?” said Lothair.

“They expect us in the sacristy,” said the monsignore.

The sacristy of the Jesuit church of St. George of Cappadocia might have

served for the ballroom of a palace. It was lofty, and proportionately

spacious, with a grooved ceiling painted with all the court of heaven.

Above the broad and richly-gilt cornice floated a company of seraphim

that might have figured as the Cupids of Albano. The apartment was

crowded, for there and in some adjoining chambers were assembled

the cardinals and prelates, and all the distinguished or official

characters, who, in a few minutes, were about to form a procession of

almost unequal splendor and sanctity, and which was to parade the whole

body of the church.

Lothair felt nervous; an indefinable depression came over him, as on the

morning of a contest when a candidate enters his crowded committee-room.

Considerable personages, bowing, approached to address him—the Cardinal

Prefect of the Propaganda, the Cardinal Assessor of the Holy Office,

the Cardinal Pro-Datario, and the Cardinal Vicar of Rome. Monsignori the

Secretary of Briefs to Princes and the Master of the Apostolic Palace

were presented to him. Had this been a conclave, and Lothair the future

pope, it would have been impossible to have treated him with more

consideration than he experienced. They assured him that they looked

upon this day as one of the most interesting in their lives, and the

importance of which to the Church could not be overrated. All this

somewhat encouraged him, and he was more himself when a certain general

stir, and the entrance of individuals from adjoining apartments,

intimated that the proceedings were about to commence. It seemed

difficult to marshal so considerable and so stately an assemblage,

but those who had the management of affairs were experienced in such

matters. The acolytes and the thurifers fell into their places; there

seemed no end of banners and large golden crosses; great was the company

of the prelates—a long purple line, some only in cassocks, some in

robes, and mitred; then came a new banner of the Blessed Virgin, which

excited intense interest, and every eye was strained to catch the

pictured scene. After this banner, amid frequent incense, walked two

of the most beautiful children in Rome, dressed as angels with golden

wings; the boy bearing a rose of Jericho, the girl a lily. After these,

as was understood, dressed in black and veiled, walked six ladies, who

were said to be daughters of the noblest houses of England, and then a

single form with a veil touching the ground.

“Here we must go,” said Monsignore Catesby to Lothair, and he gently

but irresistibly pushed him into his place. “You know you promised to

support her. You had better take this,” he said, thrusting a lighted

taper into his hand; “it is usual, and one should never be singular.”

So they walked on, followed by the Roman princes, bearing a splendid

baldachin. And then came the pomp of the cardinals, each with his

train-bearers, exhibiting with the skill of artists the splendor of

their violet robes.

As the head of the procession emerged from the sacristy into the church,

three organs and a choir, to which all the Roman churches had lent their

choicest voices, burst into the Te Deum. Round the church and to all the

chapels, and then up the noble nave, the majestic procession moved, and

then, the gates of the holy place opening, the cardinals entered and

seated themselves, their train-bearers crouching at their knees, the

prelates grouped themselves, and the banners and crosses were ranged in

the distance, except the new banner of the Virgin, which seemed to hang

over the altar. The Holy One seemed to be in what was recently a field

of battle, and was addressing a beautiful maiden in the dress of a

Sister of Mercy.

“This is your place,” said Monsignore Catesby, and he pushed Lothair

into a prominent position.

The service was long, but, sustained by exquisite music, celestial

perfumes, and the graceful movements of priests in resplendent dresses

continually changing, it could not be said to be wearisome. When all was

over, Monsignore Catesby said to Lothair, “I think we had better return

by the public way; it seems expected.”

It was not easy to leave the church. Lothair was detained, and received

the congratulations of the Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento and many

others. The crowd, much excited by the carriages of the cardinals, had

not diminished when they came forth, and they were obliged to linger

some little time upon the steps, the monsignore making difficulties when

Lothair more than once proposed to advance.

“I think we may go now,” said Catesby, and they descended into the

piazza. Immediately many persons in this immediate neighborhood fell

upon their knees, many asked a blessing from Lothair, and some rushed

forward to kiss the hem of his garment.

CHAPTER 67 The Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento gave an entertainment in

the evening in honor of “the great event.” Italian palaces are so vast,

are so ill-adapted to the moderate establishments of modern tones, that

their grand style in general only impresses those who visit them with a

feeling of disappointment and even mortification. The meagre retinue are

almost invisible as they creep about the corridors and galleries, and

linger in the sequence of lofty chambers. These should be filled with

crowds of serving-men and groups of splendid retainers. They were built

for the days when a great man was obliged to have a great following;

and when the safety of his person, as well as the success of his career,

depended on the number and the lustre of his train.

The palace of the Princess Tarpeia was the most celebrated in Rome, one

of the most ancient, and certainly the most beautiful. She dwelt in it

in a manner not unworthy of her consular blood and her modern income.

To-night her guests were received by a long line of foot-servants in

showy liveries, and bearing the badge of her house, while in every

convenient spot pages and gentlemen-ushers, in courtly dress, guided the

guests to their place of destination. The palace blazed with light, and

showed to advantage the thousand pictures which, it is said, were there

enshrined, and the long galleries full of the pale statues of Grecian

gods and goddesses, and the busts of the former rulers of Rome and

the Romans. The atmosphere was fragrant with rare odors, and music was

heard, amid the fall of fountains, in the dim but fancifully-illumined

gardens.

The princess herself wore all those famous jewels which had been spared

by all the Goths from the days of Brennus to those of Garibaldi, and on

her bosom reposed the celebrated transparent cameo of Augustus, which

Caesar himself is said to have presented to Livia, and which Benvenuto

Cellini had set in a framework of Cupids and rubies. If the weight of

her magnificence were sometimes distressing, she had the consolation of

being supported by the arm of Lothair.

Two young Roman princes, members of the Guarda Nobile, discussed the

situation.

“The English here say,” said one, “that he is their richest man.”

“And very noble, too,” said the other.

“Certainly, truly noble—a kind of cousin of the queen.”

“This great event must have an effect upon all their nobility. I cannot

doubt they will all return to the Holy Father.”

“They would if they were not afraid of having to restore their church

lands. But they would be much more happy if Rome were again the capital

of the world.”

“No shadow of doubt. I wonder if this young prince will hunt in the

Campagna?”

“All Englishmen hunt.”

“I make no doubt he rides well, and has famous horses, and will

sometimes lend us one. I am glad his soul is saved.”

“Yes; it is well, when the Blessed Virgin interferes, it should be in

favor of princes. When princes become good Christians, it is an example.

It does good. And this man will give an impulse to our opera, which

wants it, and, as you say, he will have many horses.”

In the course of the evening, Miss Arundel, with a beaming face, but of

deep expression, said to Lothair: “I could tell you some good news,

had I not promised the cardinal that he should communicate it to you

himself. He will see you to-morrow. Although it does not affect me

personally, it will be to me the happiest event that ever occurred,

except, of course, one.”

“What can she mean?” thought Lothair. But at that moment Cardinal

Berwick approached him, and Miss Arundel glided away.

Father Coleman attended Lothair home to the Agostini Palace, and when

they parted said, with much emphasis, “I must congratulate you once more

on the great event.”

On the following morning, Lothair found on his table a number of the

Roman journal published that day. It was customary to place it there,

but in general he only glanced at it, and scarcely that. On the present

occasion his own name caught immediately his eye. It figured in a

long account of the celebration of the preceding day. It was with a

continually changing countenance, now scarlet, now pallid as death;

with a palpitating heart, a trembling hand, a cold perspiration, and, at

length, a disordered vision, that Lothair read the whole of an article,

of which we now give a summary:

“Rome was congratulated on the service of yesterday, which celebrated

the greatest event of this century. And it came to pass in this wise.

It seems that a young English noble of the highest rank, family, and

fortune” (and here the name and titles of Lothair were accurately

given), “like many of the scions of the illustrious and influential

families of Britain, was impelled by an irresistible motive to enlist

as a volunteer in the service of the pope, when the Holy Father was

recently-attacked by the secret societies of atheism. This gallant

and gifted youth, after prodigies of valor and devotion, had fallen at

Mentana in the sacred cause, and was given up for lost. The day after

the battle, when the ambulances laden with the wounded were hourly

arriving at Rome from the field, an English lady, daughter of an

illustrious house, celebrated throughout centuries for its devotion to

the Holy See, and who during the present awful trial had never ceased in

her efforts to support the cause of Christianity, was employed, as was

her wont, in offices of charity, and was tending, with her companion

sisters, her wounded countrymen at the Hospital La Consolazione, in the

new ward which has been recently added to that establishment by the Holy

Father.

“While she was leaning over one of the beds, she felt a gentle and

peculiar pressure on her shoulder, and, looking round, beheld a most

beautiful woman, with a countenance of singular sweetness and yet

majesty. And the visitor said: ‘You are attending to those English who

believe in the Virgin Mary. Now at the Hospital Santissima Trinita di

Pellegrini there is in an ambulance a young Englishman apparently dead,

but who will not die if you go to him immediately and say you came in

the name of the Virgin.’

“The influence of the stranger was so irresistible that the young

English lady, attended by a nurse and one of the porters of La

Consolazione, repaired instantly to the Di Pellegrini, and there they

found in the court-yard, as they had been told, an ambulance, in form

and color and equipment unlike any ambulance used by the papal troops,

and in the ambulance the senseless body of a youth, who was recognized

by the English lady as her young and gallant countryman. She claimed

him in the name of the Blessed Virgin, and, after due remedies, was

permitted to take him at once to his noble relatives, who lived in the

Palazzo Agostini.

“After a short time much conversation began to circulate about this

incident. The family wished to testify their gratitude to the individual

whose information had led to the recovery of the body, and subsequently

of the life of their relation; but all that they could at first learn

at La Consolazione was, that the porter believed the woman was Maria

Serafina di Angelis, the handsome wife of a tailor in the Strada di

Ripetta. But it was soon shown that this could not be true, for it was

proved that, on the day in question, Maria Serafina di Angelis was on a

visit to a friend at La Riccia; and, in the second place, that she did

not bear the slightest resemblance to the stranger who had given the

news. Moreover, the porter of the gate being required to state why he

had admitted any stranger without the accustomed order, denied that he

had so done; that he was in his lodge and the gates were locked, and the

stranger had passed through without his knowledge.

“Two priests were descending the stairs when the stranger came upon

them, and they were so struck by the peculiarity of her carriage, that

they turned round and looked at her, and clearly observed at the back of

her head a sort of halo. She was out of their sight when they made this

observation, but in consequence of it they made inquiries of the porter

of the gate, and remained in the court-yard till she returned.

“This she did a few minutes before the English lady and her attendants

came down, as they had been detained by the preparation of some bandages

and other remedies, without which they never moved. The porter of the

gate having his attention called to the circumstance by the priests,

was most careful in his observations as to the halo, and described it

as most distinct. The priests then followed the stranger, who proceeded

down a long and solitary street, made up in a great degree of garden and

convent walls, and without a turning. They observed her stop and speak

to two or three children, and then, though there was no house to enter

and no street to turn into, she vanished.

“When they had reached the children they found each of them holding in

its hand a beautiful flower. It seems the lady had given the boy a rose

of Jericho, and to his sister a white and golden lily. Inquiring whether

she had spoken to them, they answered that she had said, ‘Let these

flowers be kept in remembrance of me; they will never fade.’ And truly,

though months had elapsed, these flowers had never failed, and, after

the procession of yesterday, they were placed under crystal in the

chapel of the Blessed Virgin in the Jesuit Church of St. George of

Cappadocia, and may be seen every day, and will be seen forever in

primeval freshness.

“This is the truthful account of what really occurred with respect to

this memorable event, and as it was ascertained by a consulta of the

Holy Office, presided over by the cardinal prefect himself. The Holy

Office is most severe in its inquisition of the truth, and, though it

well knows that the Divine presence never leaves His Church, it is most

scrupulous in its investigations whenever any miraculous interposition

is alleged. It was entirely by its exertions that the somewhat

inconsistent and unsatisfactory evidence of the porter of the gate, in

the first instance, was explained, cleared, and established; the whole

chain of evidence worked out; all idle gossip and mere rumors rejected;

and the evidence obtained of above twenty witnesses of all ranks

of life, some of them members of the learned profession, and others

military officers of undoubted honor and veracity, who witnessed the

first appearance of the stranger at the Pellegrini and the undoubted

fact of the halo playing round her temples.

“The consulta of the Holy Office could only draw one inference,

sanctioned by the Holy Father himself, as to the character of the

personage who thus deigned to appear; and interpose; and no wonder that,

in the great function of yesterday, the eyes of all Rome were fixed upon

Lothair as the most favored of living men.”

He himself now felt as one sinking into an unfathomable abyss. The

despair came over him that involves a man engaged in a hopeless contest

with a remorseless power. All his life during the last year passed

rushingly across his mind. He recalled the wiles that had been employed

to induce him to attend a function in a Jesuits’ chapel, in an obscure

nook of London; the same agencies had been employed there; then, as now,

the influence of Clare Arundel had been introduced to sway him when all

others had failed. Belmont had saved him then. There was no Belmont now.

The last words of Theodora murmured in his ear like the awful voice of

a distant sea. They were the diapason of all the thought and feeling of

that profound and passionate spirit.

That seemed only a petty plot in London, and he had since sometimes

smiled when he remembered how it had been baffled. Shallow apprehension!

The petty plot was only part of a great and unceasing and triumphant

conspiracy, and the obscure and inferior agencies which he had been rash

enough to deride had consummated their commanded purpose in the eyes of

all Europe, and with the aid of the great powers of the world.

He felt all the indignation natural to a sincere and high-spirited man,

who finds that he has been befooled by those whom he has trusted; but,

summoning all his powers to extricate himself from his desolate dilemma,

he found himself without resource. What public declaration on his part

could alter the undeniable fact, now circulating throughout the world,

that in the supernatural scene of yesterday he was the willing and the

principal actor? Unquestionably he had been very imprudent, not only

in that instance, but in his habitual visits to the church; he felt all

that now. But he was torn and shattered, infinitely distressed, both in

body and in mind; weak and miserable; and he thought he was leaning

on angelic hearts, when he found himself in the embrace of spirits of

another sphere.

In what a position of unexampled pain did he not now find himself! To

feel it your duty to quit the faith in which you have been bred must

involve an awful pang; but to be a renegade without the consolation

of conscience, against your sense, against your will, alike for

no celestial hope and no earthly object—this was agony mixed with

self-contempt.

He remembered what Lady Corisande had once said to him about those who

quitted their native church for the Roman communion. What would she say

now? He marked in imagination the cloud of sorrow on her imperial brow

and the scorn of her curled lip.

Whatever happened, he could never return to England—at least for

many years, when all the things and persons he cared for would have

disappeared or changed, which is worse; and then what would be the use

of returning? He would go to America, or Australia, or the Indian Ocean,

or the interior of Africa; but even in all these places, according to

the correspondence of the Propaganda, he would find Roman priests, and

active priests. He felt himself a lost man; not free from faults in this

matter, but punished beyond his errors. But this is the fate of men who

think they can struggle successfully with a supernatural power.

A servant opened a door and said, in a loud voice, that, with his

permission, his eminence, the English cardinal, would wait on him.

CHAPTER 68 It is proverbial to what drowning men will cling. Lothair, in

his utter hopelessness, made a distinction between the cardinal and the

conspirators. The cardinal had been absent from Rome during the greater

portion of the residence of Lothair in that city. The cardinal was his

father’s friend, an English gentleman, with an English education, once

an Anglican, a man of the world, a man of honor, a good, kind-hearted

man. Lothair explained the apparent and occasional cooperation of his

eminence with the others, by their making use of him without a due

consciousness of their purpose on his part. Lothair remembered how

delicately his former guardian had always treated the subject of

religion in their conversations. The announcement of his visit,

instead of aggravating the distresses of Lothair, seemed, as all these

considerations rapidly occurred to him, almost to impart a ray of hope.

“I see,” said the cardinal, as he entered serene and graceful as usual,

and glancing at the table, “that you have been reading the account of

our great act of yesterday.”

“Yes; and I have been reading it,” said Lothair, reddening, “with

indignation; with alarm; I should add, with disgust.”

“How is this?” said the cardinal, feeling or affecting surprise.

“It is a tissue of falsehood and imposture,” continued Lothair; “and I

will take care that my opinion is known of it.”

“Do nothing rashly,” said the cardinal. “This is an official journal,

and I have reason to believe that nothing appears in it which is not

drawn up, or well considered, by truly pious men.”

“You yourself, sir, must know,” continued Lothair, “that the whole of

this statement is founded on falsehood.”

“Indeed, I should be sorry to believe,” said the cardinal, “that there

was a particle of misstatement, or even exaggeration, either in the base

or the superstructure of the narrative.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Lothair. “Why, take the very first allegation,

that I fell at Mentana, fighting in the ranks of the Holy Father.

Everyone knows that I fell fighting against him, and that I was almost

slain by one of his chassepots. It is notorious; and though, as a matter

of taste, I have not obtruded the fact in the society in which I have

been recently living, I have never attempted to conceal it, and have not

the slightest doubt that it must be as familiar to every member of that

society as to your eminence.”

“I know there are two narratives of your relations with the battle of

Mentana,” observed the cardinal, quietly. “The one accepted as authentic

is that which appears in this journal; the other account, which can only

be traced to yourself, bears no doubt a somewhat different character;

but considering that it is in the highest degree improbable, and

that there is not a tittle of confirmatory or collateral evidence to

extenuate its absolute unlikelihood, I hardly think you are justified

in using, with reference to the statement in this article, the harsh

expression, which I am persuaded, on reflection, you will feel you have

hastily used.”

“I think,” said Lothair, with a kindling eye and a burning cheek, “that

I am the best judge of what I did at Mentana.”

“Well, well,” said the cardinal, with dulcet calmness, “you naturally

think so; but you must remember you have been very ill, my dear young

friend, and laboring under much excitement. If I were you—and I speak

as your friend, I hope your best one—I would not dwell too much on this

fancy of yours about the battle of Mentana. I would myself always deal

tenderly with a fixed idea: harsh attempts to terminate hallucination

are seldom successful. Nevertheless, in the case of a public event, a

matter of fact, if a man finds that he is of one opinion, and all

orders of society of another, he should not be encouraged to dwell on a

perverted view; he should be gradually weaned from it.”

“You amaze me!” said Lothair.

“Not at all,” said the cardinal. “I am sure you will benefit by my

advice. And you must already perceive that, assuming the interpretation

which the world without exception places on your conduct in the field to

be the just one, there really is not a single circumstance in the whole

of this interesting and important statement, the accuracy of which you

yourself would for a moment dispute.”

“What is there said about me at Mentana makes me doubt of all the rest,”

said Lothair.

“Well, we will not dwell on Mentana,” said the cardinal, with a sweet

smile; “I have treated of that point. Your case is by no means an

uncommon one. It will wear off with returning health. King George IV

believed that he was at the battle of Waterloo, and indeed commanded

there; and his friends were at one time a little alarmed; but Knighton,

who was a sensible man, said, ‘His majesty has only to leave off

Curacao, and rest assured he will gain no more victories.’ The rest of

this statement, which is to-day officially communicated to the whole

world, and which in its results will probably be not less important even

than the celebration of the centenary of St. Peter, is established by

evidence so incontestable—by witnesses so numerous, so various—in all

the circumstances and accidents of testimony so satisfactory—I may

say so irresistible, that controversy on this head would be a mere

impertinence and waste of time.”

“I am not convinced,” said Lothair.

“Hush!” said the cardinal; “the freaks of your own mind about personal

incidents, however lamentable, may be viewed with indulgence—at least

for a time. But you cannot be permitted to doubt of the rest. You must

be convinced, and on reflection you will be convinced. Remember, sir,

where you are. You are in the centre of Christendom, where truth, and

where alone truth resides. Divine authority has perused this paper and

approved it. It is published for the joy and satisfaction of two

hundred millions of Christians, and for the salvation of all those who,

unhappily for themselves, are not yet converted to the faith. It

records the most memorable event of this century. Our Blessed Lady has

personally appeared to her votaries before during that period, but

never at Rome. Wisely and well she has worked in villages and among the

illiterate as at the beginning did her Divine Son. But the time is now

ripe for terminating the infidelity of the world. In the eternal city,

amid all its matchless learning and profound theology, in the sight of

thousands, this great act has been accomplished, in a manner which can

admit of no doubt, and which can lead to no controversy. Some of the

most notorious atheists of Rome have already solicited to be admitted

to the offices of the Church; the secret societies have received their

deathblow; I look to the alienation of England as virtually over. I am

panting to see you return to the home of your fathers, and re-conquer it

for the Church in the name of the Lord God of Sabaoth. Never was a

man in a greater position since Godfrey or Ignatius. The eyes of all

Christendom are upon you as the most favored of men, and you stand there

like Saint Thomas.”

“Perhaps he was as bewildered as I am,” said Lothair.