CHAPTER IV

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

A few mornings after these events the postman brought a letter for

Goneril. This was such a rare occurrence that she blushed rose red at

the very sight of it and had to walk up and down the terrace several

times before she felt calm enough to read it. Then she went upstairs and

knocked at the door of Madame Petrucci’s room.

“Come in, little bird.”

The old lady, in pink merino and curl-papers, opened the door. Goneril

held up her letter.

“My cousin Jack is coming to Florence, and he is going to walk over to

see me this afternoon. And may he stay to dinner, _cara_ signora?”

“Why, of course, Gonerilla. I am charmed!”

Goneril kissed the old lady, and danced downstairs brimming over with

delight.

Later in the morning Signor Graziano called.

“Will you come out with me, Mees Goneril?” he said. “On my land the

earliest vintage begins to-day.”

“Oh, how nice!” she cried.

“Come, then,” said the signorino, smiling.

“Oh, I can’t come to-day, because of Jack.”

“Jack?”

“My cousin; he may come at any time.”

“Your cousin!” The signorino frowned a little. “Ah, you English,” he

said, “you consider all your cousins brothers and sisters!”

Goneril laughed.

“Is it not so?” he asked, a little anxiously.

“Jack is much nicer than my brothers,” said the young girl.

“And who is he, this Jack?”

“He’s a dear boy,” said Goneril, “and very clever; he is going home for

the Indian civil-service exam; he has been out to Calcutta to see my

father.”

The signorino did not pay any attention to the latter part of this

description, but he appeared to find the beginning very satisfactory.

“So he is only a boy,” he muttered to himself, and went away

comparatively satisfied.

Goneril spent most of the day watching the road from Florence. She might

not walk on the highway, but a steep short cut that joined the main road

at the bottom of the hill was quite at her disposal. She walked up and

down for more than an hour. At last she saw some one on the Florence

road. She walked on quickly. It was the telegraph-boy.

She tore open the envelope and read: “Venice.--Exam. on Wednesday. Start

at once. _Arivederci_.”

It was with very red eyes that Goneril went in to dinner.

“So the cousin hasn’t come?” said Miss Prunty, kindly.

“No; he had to go home at once for his examination.”

“I dare say he’ll come over again soon, my dear,” said that

discriminating lady. She had quite taken Goneril back into her good

graces.

They all sat together in the little parlor after dinner. At eight

o’clock the door-bell rang. It was now seven weeks since Goneril had

blushed with excitement when first she heard that ring, and now she did

not blush.

The signorino entered. He walked very straight and his lips were set. He

came in with the air of one prepared to encounter opposition.

“Mees Goneril,” he said, “will you come out on the terrace?--before it

is too late,” he added, with a savage glance at Miss Prunty.

“Yes,” said Goneril; and they went out together.

“So the cousin did not come?” said the signorino.

“No.”

They went on a little way in silence together. The night was moon-lit

and clear; not a wind stirred the leaves; the sky was like a sapphire,

containing but not shedding light. The late oleanders smelled very

sweet; the moon was so full that one could distinguish the peculiar

grayish-pink of the blossoms.

“It is a lovely night!” said Goneril.

“And a lovely place.”

“Yes.”

Then a bird sang.

“You have been here just eight weeks,” said the signorino.

“I have been very happy.”

He did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said:

“Would you like to live here always?”

“Ah, yes! but that is impossible.”

He took her hand and turned her gently, so that her face was in the

light.

“Dear Mees Goneril, why is it impossible?”

For a moment the young girl did not answer. She blushed very red, and

looked brave.

“Because of Jack!” she said.

“Ah!”

“Nothing is settled,” added the young girl, “but it is no use pretending

not to know.”

“It is no use,” he repeated, very sadly.

And then for a little while they listened to the bird.

“Mees Goneril,” said the signorino at last, “do you know why I brought

you out here?”

“Not at all,” she answered.

It was a minute before he spoke again.

“I am going to Rome to-morrow,” he said, “and I wanted to bid you

good-bye. You will sing to me to-night, as it will be the last time?”

“Oh, I hope not the last time!”

“Yes, yes,” he said, a little testily; “unless--and I pray it may not be

so--unless you ever need the help of an old friend.”

“Dear Signor Graziano!”

“And now you will sing me my ‘Nobil Amore’?”

“I will do anything you like.”

The signorino sighed and looked at her for a minute. Then he led her

into the little parlour, where Madame Petrucci was singing shrilly in

the twilight.

THE BRIGAND’S BRIDE: A TALE OF SOUTHERN ITALY, By Laurence Oliphant

The Italian peninsula during the years 1859, 1860, and 1861 offered a

particularly tempting field for adventure to ardent spirits in search

of excitement; and, attracted partly by my sympathy with the popular

movement, and partly by that simple desire, which gives so much zest to

the life of youth, of risking it on all possible occasions, I had taken

an active part, chiefly as an officious spectator, in all the principal

events of those stirring years. It was in the spring of 1862 that I

found matters beginning to settle down to a degree that threatened

monotony; and with the termination of the winter gaieties at Naples and

the close of the San Carlo, I seriously bethought me of accepting the

offer of a naval friend who was about to engage in blockade-running, and

offered to land me in the Confederate States, when a recrudescence of

activity on the part of the brigand bands in Calabria induced me to turn

my attention in that direction. The first question I had to consider

was, whether I should enjoy myself most by joining the brigands, or the

troops which were engaged in suppressing them. As the former aspired to

a political character, and called themselves patriotic bands fighting

for their church, their country, and their king,--the refugee monarch of

Naples,--one could espouse their cause without exactly laying one’s self

open to the charge of being a bandit; but it was notorious in point of

fact that the bands cared for neither the pope nor the exiled king nor

their annexed country, but committed the most abominable atrocities

in the names of all the three, for the simple purpose of filling their

pockets. I foresaw not only extreme difficulty in being accepted as

a member of the fraternity, more especially as I had hitherto been

identified with the Garibaldians, but also the probability of finding

myself compromised by acts from which my conscience would revolt, and

for which my life would in all likelihood pay the forfeit. On the other

hand, I could think of no friend among the officers of the bersaglieri

and cavalry regiments then engaged in brigand-hunting in the Capitanata

and Basilicata to whom I could apply for an invitation to join them.

Under these circumstances I determined to trust to the chapter of

accidents; and, armed with a knapsack, a sketch-book, and an air-gun,

took my seat one morning in the Foggia diligence, with the vague idea

of getting as near the scene of operations as possible, and seeing

what would turn up. The air-gun was not so much a weapon of offence

or defence as a means of introduction to the inhabitants. It had the

innocent appearance of rather a thick walking-cane, with a little brass

trigger projecting; and in the afternoon I would join the group sitting

in front of the chemist’s, which, for some reason or other, is generally

a sort of open-air club in a small Neapolitan town, or stroll into

the single modest cafe of which it might possibly boast, and toy

abstractedly with the trigger. This, together with my personal

appearance,--for do what I would I could never make myself look like a

Neapolitan,--would be certain to attract attention, and some one bolder

than the rest would make himself the spokesman, and politely ask me

whether the cane in my hand was an umbrella or a fishing-rod; on which

I would amiably reply that it was a gun, and that I should have much

pleasure in exhibiting my skill and the method of its operation to

the assembled company. Then the whole party would follow me to an open

space, and I would call for a pack of cards, and possibly--for I was a

good shot in those days--pink the ace of hearts at fifteen paces. At any

rate, my performances usually called forth plaudits, and this involved a

further interchange of compliments and explanations, and the production

of my sketch-book, which soon procured me the acquaintance of some

ladies, and an invitation as an English artist to the house of some

respectable citizen.

So it happened that, getting out of the diligence before it reached

Foggia, I struck south, and wandered for some days from one little town

to another, being always hospitably entertained, whether there happened

to be an _albergo_ or not, at private houses, seeing in this way more

of the manners and customs of the inhabitants than would have been

otherwise possible, gaining much information as to the haunts of the

brigands, the whereabouts of the troops, and hearing much local gossip

generally. The ignorance of the most respectable classes at this period

was astounding; it has doubtless all changed since. I have been at a

town of two thousand inhabitants, not one of whom took in a newspaper;

the whole population, therefore, was in as profound ignorance of what

was transpiring in the rest of the world as if they had been in Novaia

Zemlia. I have stayed with a mayor who did not know that England was

an island; I have been the guest of a citizen who had never heard of

Scotland, and to whom, therefore, my nationality was an enigma; but

I never met any one--I mean of this same class--who had not heard of

Palmerston. He was a mysterious personage, execrated by the “blacks” and

adored by the “reds.” And I shone with a reflected lustre as the citizen

of a country of which he was the Prime Minister. As a consequence, we

had political discussions, which were protracted far into the night;

for the principal meal of the twenty-four hours was a 10-o’clock-P.M.

supper, at which, after the inevitable macaroni, were many unwholesome

dishes, such as salads made of thistles, cows’ udders, and other

delicacies, which deprived one of all desire for sleep. Notwithstanding

which, we rose early, my hostess and the ladies of the establishment

appearing in the early part of the day in the most extreme deshabille.

Indeed, on one occasion when I was first introduced into the family of a

respectable citizen and shown into my bedroom, I mistook one of the two

females who were making the bed for the servant, and was surprised to

see her hand a little douceur I gave her as an earnest of attention on

her part to the other, with a smile. She soon afterward went to bed: we

all did, from 11 A.M. till about 3 P.M., at which hour I was horrified

to meet her arrayed in silks and satins, and to find that she was the

wife of my host. She kindly took me a drive with her in a carriage and

pair, and with a coachman in livery.

It was by this simple means, and by thus imposing myself upon the

hospitality of these unsophisticated people, that I worked my way, by

slow degrees, chiefly on foot, into the part of the country I desired to

visit; and I trust that I in a measure repaid them for it by the stores

of information which I imparted to them, and of which they stood much in

need, and by little sketches of their homes and the surrounding scenery,

with which I presented them. I was, indeed, dependent in some measure

for hospitality of this description, as I had taken no money with me,

partly because, to tell the truth, I had scarcely got any, and partly

because I was afraid of being robbed by brigands of the little I had.

I therefore eschewed the character of a _milordo Inglese_; but I never

succeeded in dispelling all suspicion that I might not be a nephew of

the Queen, or at least a very near relative of Palmerston in disguise.

It was so natural, seeing what a deep interest both her Majesty and the

Prime Minister took in Italy, that they should send some one incognito

whom they could trust to tell them all about it.

Meantime, I was not surprised, when I came to know the disposition of

the inhabitants, at the success of brigandage. It has never been my

fortune before or since to live among such a timid population. One day

at a large town a leading landed proprietor received notice that if he

did not pay a certain sum in blackmail,--I forget at this distance of

time the exact amount,--his farm or _masseria_ would be robbed. This

farm, which was in fact a handsome country house, was distant about ten

miles from the town. He therefore made an appeal to the citizens that

they should arm themselves and help him to defend his property, as he

had determined not to pay, and had taken steps to be informed as to the

exact date when the attack was to be made in default of payment. More

than three hundred citizens enrolled themselves as willing to turn out

in arms. On the day preceding the attack by the brigands, a rendezvous

was given to these three hundred on the great square for five in the

morning, and thither I accordingly repaired, unable, however, to induce

my host to accompany me, although he had signed as a volunteer. On

reaching the rendezvous, I found the landed proprietor and a friend

who was living with him, and about ten minutes afterward two other

volunteers strolled up. Five was all we could muster out of three

hundred. It was manifestly useless to attempt anything with so small a

force, and no arguments could induce any of the others to turn out; so

the unhappy gentleman had the satisfaction of knowing that the brigands

had punctually pillaged his place, carrying off all his live stock

on the very day and at the very hour they said they would. As for the

inhabitants venturing any distance from town, except under military

escort, such a thing was unknown, and all communication with Naples

was for some time virtually intercepted. I was regarded as a sort of

monomaniac of recklessness because I ventured on a solitary walk of a

mile or two in search of a sketch--an act of no great audacity on my

part, for I had walked through various parts of the country without

seeing a brigand, and found it difficult to realise that there was any

actual danger in strolling a mile from a moderately large town.

Emboldened by impunity, I was tempted one day to follow up a most

romantic glen in search of a sketch, when I came upon a remarkably

handsome peasant girl, driving a donkey before her loaded with wood.

My sudden appearance on the narrow path made the animal shy against

a projecting piece of rock, off which he rebounded to the edge of the

path, which, giving way, precipitated him and his load down the ravine.

He was brought up unhurt against a bush some twenty feet below, the

fagots of wood being scattered in his descent in all directions. For a

moment the girl’s large, fierce eyes flashed upon me with anger; but the

impetuosity with which I went headlong after the donkey, with a view

of repairing my error, and the absurd attempts I made to reverse the

position of his feet, which were in the air, converted her indignation

into a hearty fit of laughter, as, seeing that the animal was apparently

uninjured, she scrambled down to my assistance. By our united efforts

we at last succeeded in hoisting the donkey up to the path, and then I

collected the wood and helped her to load it again--an operation which

involved a frequent meeting of hands and of the eyes, which had now lost

the ferocity that had startled me at first, and seemed getting more soft

and beaming every time I glanced at them, till at last, producing my

sketch-book, I ventured to remark, “Ah, signorina, what a picture you

would make! Now that the ass is loaded, let me draw you before we part,

that I may carry away the recollection of the loveliest woman I have

seen.”

“First draw the donkey,” she replied, “that I may carry away a

recollection of the _galantuomo_ who first upset him over the bank, and

then helped me to load him.”

Smiling at this ambiguous compliment, I gave her the sketch she desired,

and was about to claim my reward, when she abruptly remarked:

“There is not time now; it is getting late, and I must not linger, as

I have still an hour to go before reaching home. How is it that you are

not afraid to be wandering in this solitary glen by yourself? Do you not

know the risks?”

“I have heard of them, but I do not believe in them,” I said; “besides,

I should be poor plunder for robbers.”

“But you have friends, who would pay to ransom you, I suppose, if you

were captured?”

“My life is not worth a hundred scudi to any of them,” I replied,

laughing; “but I am willing to forego the please of drawing you now,

_bellissima_, if you will tell me where you live, and let me come and

paint you there at my leisure.”

“You’re a brave one,” she said, with a little laugh; “there is not

another man in all Ascoli who would dare to pay me a visit without an

escort of twenty soldiers. But I am too grateful for your amiability to

let you run such a risk. _Addio_, Signor Inglese. There are many reasons

why I can’t let you draw my picture, but I am not ungrateful, see!”--and

she offered me her cheek, on which I instantly imprinted a chaste and

fraternal salute.

“Don’t think that you’ve seen the last of me, _carrissima_,” I called

out, as she turned away. “I shall live on the memory of that kiss till I

have an opportunity of repeating it.”

And as I watched her retreating figure with an artist’s eye, I was

struck with its grace and suppleness, combined, as I had observed

while she was helping me to lead the donkey, with an unusual degree of

muscular strength for a woman.

The spot at which this episode had taken place was so romantic that

I determined to make a sketch of it, and the shades of evening were

closing in so fast that they warned me to hurry if I would reach the

town before dark. I had just finished it and was stooping to pick up by

air-gun, when I heard a sudden rush, and before I had time to look up I

was thrown violently forward on my face, and found myself struggling in

the embrace of a powerful grasp, from which I had nearly succeeded in

freeing myself, when the arms which were clasping me were reinforced by

several more pairs, and I felt a rope being passed round my body.

“All right, signors!” I exclaimed. “I yield to superior numbers. You

need not pull so hard; let me get up, and I promise to go with you

quietly.” And by this time I had turned sufficiently on my back to see

that four men were engaged in tying me up.

“Tie his elbows together and let him get up,” said one; “he is not

armed. Here, Giuseppe, carry his stick and paint-box while I feel his

pockets. _Corpo di Baccho!_ twelve bajocchi,” he exclaimed, producing

those copper coins with an air of profound disgust. “It is to be hoped

he is worth more to his friends. Now, young man, trudge, and remember

that the first sign you make of attempting to run away means four

bullets through you.”

As I did not anticipate any real danger, and as a prolonged detention

was a matter of no consequence to a man without an occupation, I

stepped forward with a light heart, rather pleased than otherwise with

anticipations of the brigand’s cave, and turning over in my mind whether

or not I should propose to join the band.

We had walked an hour and it had become dark, when we turned off the

road, up a narrow path that led between rocky sides to a glade, at the

extremity of which, under an overhanging ledge, was a small cottage,

with what seemed to be a patch of garden in front.

“Ho! Anita!” called out the man who appeared to be the leader of the

band; “open! We have brought a friend to supper, who will require a

night’s lodgings.”

An old woman with a light appeared, and over her shoulder, to my

delight, I saw the face I had asked to be allowed to paint so shortly

before. I was about to recognise her with an exclamation, when I saw a

hurried motion of her finger to her lip, which looked a natural gesture

to the casual observer, but which I construed into a sign of prudence.

“Where did you pick him up, Croppo?” she asked, carelessly. “He ought to

be worth something.”

“Just twelve bajocchi,” he answered, with a sneering laugh. “Come,

_amico mio_, you will have to give us the names of some of your

friends.”

“I am tolerably intimate with his Holiness the Pope, and I have a bowing

acquaintance with the King of Naples, whom may God speedily restore

to his own,” I replied, in a light and airy fashion, which seemed

exceedingly to exasperate the man called Croppo.

“Oh, yes, we know all about that; we never catch a man who does not

profess to be a Nero of the deepest dye in order to conciliate our

sympathies. It is just as well that you should understand, my friend,

that all are fish who come into our net. The money of the pope’s friends

is quite as good as the money of Garibaldi’s. You need not hope to put

us off with your Italian friends of any colour; what we want is English

gold--good, solid English gold, and plenty of it.”

“Ah,” said I, with a laugh, “if you did but know, my friend, how long

I have wanted it too! If you could only suggest an Englishman who would

pay you for my life, I would write to him immediately, and we would go

halves in the ransom. Hold!” I said, a bright idea suddenly striking me.

“Suppose I were to write to my government--how would that do?”

Croppo was evidently puzzled; my cheerful and unembarrassed manner

apparently perplexed him. He had a suspicion that I was even capable of

the audacity of making a fool of him, and yet that proposition about the

government rather staggered him; there might be something in it.

“Don’t you think,” he remarked, grimly, “it would add to the effect of

your communication if you were to enclose your own ears in your letter?

I can easily supply them; and if you are not a little more guarded in

your speech you may possibly have to add your tongue.”

“It would not have the slightest effect,” I replied, paying no heed

to his threat; “you don’t know Palmerston as I do. If you wish to get

anything out of him you must be excessively civil. What does he care

about my ears?” And I laughed with such scornful contempt that Croppo

this time felt that he had made a fool of himself, and I observed

the lovely girl behind, while the corners of her mouth twitched with

suppressed laughter, make a sign of caution.

“_Per Dio!_” he exclaimed, jumping up with fury. “Understand, Signor

Inglese, that Croppo is not to be trifled with. I have a summary way of

treating disrespect,” and he drew a long and exceedingly sharp-looking

two-edged knife.

“So you would kill the goose” (“and I certainly am a goose,” I

reflected) “that may lay a golden egg.” But my allusion was lost upon

him, and I saw my charmer touch her forehead significantly, as though to

imply to Croppo that I was weak in the upper story.

“An imbecile without friends and twelve bajocchi in his pocket,” he

muttered, savagely. “Perhaps the night without food will restore his

senses. Come, fool!” and he roughly pushed me into a dark little chamber

adjoining. “Here, Valeria, hold the light.”

So Valeria was the name of the heroine of the donkey episode. As she

held a small oil-lamp aloft I perceived that the room in which I was to

spend the night had more the appearance of a cellar than a chamber; it

had been excavated on two sides from the bank; on the third there was

a small hole about six inches square, apparently communicating with

another room, and on the fourth was the door by which I had entered,

and which opened into the kitchen and general living-room of the

inhabitants. There was a heap of onions running to seed, the fagots of

fire-wood which Valeria had brought that afternoon, and an old cask or

two.

“Won’t you give him some kind of a bed?” she asked Croppo.

“Bah! he can sleep on the onions,” responded that worthy. “If he had

been more civil and intelligent he should have had something to eat. You

three,” he went on, turning to the other men, “sleep in the kitchen,

and watch that the prisoner does not escape. The door has a strong bolt

besides. Come, Valeria.”

And the pair disappeared, leaving me in a dense gloom, strongly pervaded

by an ordour of fungus and decaying onions. Groping into one of the

casks, I found some straw, and spreading it on a piece of plank, I

prepared to pass the night sitting with my back to the driest piece

of wall I could find, which happened to be immediately under the

air-hole--a fortunate circumstance, as the closeness was often stifling.

I had probably been dozing for some time in a sitting position, when I

felt something tickle the top of my head. The idea that it might be a

large spider caused me to start, when, stretching up my hand, it came in

contact with what seemed to be a rag, which I had not observed. Getting

carefully up, I perceived a faint light gleaming through the aperture,

and then saw that a hand was protruded through it, apparently waving the

rag. As I felt instinctively that the hand was Valeria’s, I seized the

finger-tips, which was all I could get hold of, and pressed them to

my lips. They were quickly drawn away, and then the whisper reached my

ears:

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Then eat this,” and she passed me a tin pannikin full of cold macaroni,

which would just go through the opening.

“Dear Valeria,” I said, with my mouth full, “how good and thoughtful you

are!”

“Hush! he’ll hear.”

“Who?”

“Croppo.”

“Where is he?”

“Asleep in the bed just behind me.”

“How do you come to be in his bedroom?”

“Because I’m his wife.”

“Oh!” A long pause, during which I collapsed upon my straw seat, and

swallowed macaroni thoughtfully. As the result of my meditations,

“Valeria, _carissima_!”

“Hush! Yes.”

“Can’t you get me out of this infernal den?”

“Perhaps, if they all three sleep in the kitchen; at present one is

awake. Watch for my signal, and if they all three sleep I will manage to

slip the bolt. Then you must give me time to get back into bed, and when

you hear me snore you may make the attempt. They are all three sleeping

on the floor, so be very careful where you tread; I will also leave the

front door a little open, so that you can slip through without noise.”

“Dearest Valeria!”

“Hush! Yes.”

“Hand me that cane--it is my fishing-rod, you know--through this hole;

you can leave the sketch-book and paint-box under the tree that the

donkey fell against; I will call for them some day soon. And, Valeria,

don’t you think we could make our lips meet through this beastly hole?”

“Impossible. There’s my hand; heavens! Croppo would murder me if he

knew. Now keep quiet till I give the signal. Oh, do let go my hand!”

“Remember, Valeria, _bellissima, carissima_, whatever happens, that I

love you.”

But I don’t think she heard this, and I went and sat on the onions,

because I could see the hole better and the smell of them kept me awake.

It was at least two hours after this that the faint light appeared at

the hole in the wall and a hand was pushed through. I rushed at the

finger-tips.

“Here’s your fishing-rod,” she said, when I had released them and she

had passed me my air-gun. “Now be very careful how you tread. There is

one asleep across the door, but you can open it about two feet. Then

step over him; then make for a gleam of moonlight that comes through the

crack of the front door, open it very gently, and slip out. _Addio, caro

Inglese_; mind you wait till you hear me snoring.”

Then she lingered, and I heard a sigh.

“What is it, sweet Valeria?” and I covered her hand with kisses.

“I wish Croppo had blue eyes like you.”

This was murmured so softly that I may have been mistaken, but I’m

nearly sure that was what she said; then she drew softly away, and two

minutes afterward I heard her snoring. As the first sound issued from

her lovely nostrils I stealthily approached the door, gently pushed

it open, stealthily stepped over a space which I trusted cleared the

recumbent figure that I could not see, cleared him, stole gently on for

the streak of moonlight, trod squarely on something that seemed like an

outstretched hand, for it gave under my pressure and produced a yell,

felt that I must now rush for my life, dashed the door open, and down

the path with four yelling ruffians at my heels. I was a pretty good

runner, but the moon was behind a cloud and the way was rocky; moreover,

there must have been a short cut I did not know, for one of my pursuers

gained upon me with unaccountable rapidity--he appeared suddenly within

ten yards of my heels. The others were at least a hundred yards behind.

I had nothing for it but to turn round, let him almost run against the

muzzle of my air-gun, pull the trigger, and see him fall in his tracks.

It was the work of a second, but it checked my pursuers. They had heard

no noise, but they found something that they did not bargain for, and

lingered a moment; then, they took up the chase with redoubled fury. But

I had too good a start; and where the path joined the main road, instead

of turning down toward the town as they expected I would, I dodged round

in the opposite direction, the uncertain light this time favouring me,

and I heard their footsteps and their curses dying away on the wrong

track. Nevertheless I ran on at full speed, and it was not till the day

was dawning that I began to feel safe and relax my efforts. The sun had

been up an hour when I reached a small town, and the little _locanda_

was just opening for the day when I entered it, thankful for a hot cup

of coffee and a dirty little room, with a dirtier bed, where I could

sleep off the fatigue and excitement of the night. I was strolling

down almost the only street in the afternoon when I met a couple of

carabineers riding into it, and shortly after encountered the whole

troop, to my great delight in command of an intimate friend whom I had

left a month before in Naples.

“Ah, _caro mio_,” he exclaimed, when he saw me, “well met! What on earth

are you doing here? Looking for those brigands you were so anxious to

find when you left Naples? Considering that you are in the heart of

their country, you should not have much difficulty in gratifying your

curiosity.”

“I have had an adventure or two,” I replied, carelessly. “Indeed, that

is partly the reason you find me here. I was just thinking how I could

get safely back to Ascoli, when your welcome escort appeared; for I

suppose you are going there and will let me take advantage of it.”

“Only too delighted; and you can tell me your adventures. Let us dine

together to-night, and I will find you a horse to ride on with us in the

morning.”

I am afraid my account of the episode with which I have acquainted the

reader was not strictly accurate in all its details, as I did not wish

to bring down my military friends on poor Valeria; so I skipped all

allusion to her and my detention in her home, merely saying that I had

had a scuffle with brigands and had been fortunate enough to escape

under cover of the night. As we passed it next morning I recognised the

path which led up to Valeria’s cottage, and shortly after observed that

young woman herself coming up the glen.

“Holloa!” I said, with great presence of mind, as she drew near, “my

lovely model, I declare! Just you ride on, old fellow, while I stop and

ask her when she can come and sit to me again.”

“You artists are sad rogues; what chances your profession must give

you!” remarked my companion, as he cast an admiring glance on Valeria

and rode discreetly on.

“There is nothing to be afraid of, lovely Valeria,” I said, in a low

tone, as I lingered behind; “be sure I will never betray either your or

your rascally--hem! I mean your excellent Croppo. By the by, was that

man much hurt that I was obliged to trip up?”

“Hurt! Santa Maria! he is dead, with a bullet through his heart. Croppo

says it must have been magic, for he had searched you and he knew you

were not armed, and he was within a hundred yards of you when poor Pippo

fell, and he heard no sound.”

“Croppo is not far wrong,” I said, glad of the opportunity thus offered

of imposing on the ignorance and credulity of the natives. “He seemed

surprised that he could not frighten me the other night. Tell him he was

much more in my power than I was in his, dear Valeria,” I added, looking

tenderly into his eyes. “I didn’t want to alarm you; that was the reason

I let him off so easily; but I may not be so merciful next time. Now,

sweetest, that kiss you owe me, and which the wall prevented your giving

me the other night.” She held up her face with the innocence of a child

as I stooped from my saddle.

“I shall never see you again, Signor Inglese,” she said, with a sigh;

“for Croppo says it is not safe, after what happened the night before

last, to stay another hour. Indeed, he went off yesterday, leaving me

orders to follow to-day; but I went first to put your sketch-book under

the bush where the donkey fell, and where you will find it.”

It took us another minute or two to part after this; and when I had

ridden away I turned to look back, and there was Valeria gazing after

me. “Positively,” I reflected, “I am over head and ears in love with the

girl, and I believe she is with me. I ought to have nipped my feelings

in the bud when she told me she was his wife; but then he is a brigand,

who threatened both my ears and my tongue, to say nothing of my life.

To what extent is the domestic happiness of such a ruffian to be

respected?” And I went on splitting the moral straws suggested by this

train of thought until I had recovered my sketch-book and overtaken my

escort, with whom I rode triumphantly back into Ascoli, where my absence

had been the cause of much anxiety and my fate was even then being

eagerly discussed. My friends with whom I usually sat round the

chemist’s door were much exercised by the reserve which I manifested in

reply to the fire of cross-examination to which I was subjected for the

next few days; and English eccentricity, which was proverbial even in

this secluded town, received a fresh illustration in the light and airy

manner with which I treated a capture and escape from brigands, which

I regarded with such indifference that I could not be induced even to

condescend to details. “It was a mere scuffle; there were only four;

and, being an Englishman, I polished them all off with the ‘box,’”

and I closed my fist and struck a scientific attitude of self-defence,

branching off into a learned disquisition on the pugilistic art, which

filled my hearers with respect and amazement. From this time forward the

sentiment with which I regarded my air-gun underwent a change. When a

friend had made me a present of it a year before I regarded it in the

light of a toy and rather resented the gift as too juvenile. “I wonder

he did not give me a kite or a hoop,” I mentally reflected. Then I

had found it useful among Italians, who are a trifling people and like

playthings; but now that it had saved my life and sent a bullet through

a man’s heart, I no longer entertained the same feeling of contempt

for it. Not again would I make light of it--this potent engine of

destruction which had procured me the character of being a magician. I

would hide it from human gaze and cherish it as a sort of fetich. So I

bought a walking-stick and an umbrella, and strapped it up with them,

wrapped in my plaid; and when, shortly after, an unexpected remittance

from an aunt supplied me with money enough to buy a horse from one of

the officers of my friend’s regiment, which soon after arrived, and I

accepted their invitation to accompany them on their brigand-hunting

expeditions, not one of them knew that I had such a weapon as an air-gun

in my possession.

Our _modus operandi_ on these occasions was as follows: On receiving

information from some proprietor that the brigands were threatening his

property,--it was impossible to get intelligence from the peasantry,

for they were all in league with the brigands; indeed, they all took a

holiday from regular work and joined a band for a few weeks from time to

time,--we proceeded, with a force sufficiently strong to cope with the

supposed strength of the band, to the farm in question. The bands were

all mounted, and averaged from 200 to 400 men each. It was calculated

that upward of 2000 men were thus engaged in harrying the country, and

this enabled the Neri to talk of the king’s forces engaged in legitimate

warfare against those of Victor Emmanuel. Riding over the vast plains

of Capitanata, we would discern against the sky outline the figure of a

solitary horseman. This we knew to be a picket. Then there was no time

to be lost, and away we would go for him helter-skelter across the

plain; he would instantly gallop in on the main body, probably occupying

a _masseria_. If they thought they were strong enough they would show

fight. If not they would take to their heels in the direction of the

mountains, with us in full cry after them. If they were hardly pressed

they would scatter, and we were obliged to do the same, and the

result would be that the swiftest horsemen might possibly effect a few

captures. It was an exciting species of warfare, partaking a good deal

more of the character of a hunting-field than of cavalry skirmishing.

Sometimes, where the ground was hilly, we had bersaglieri with us, and

as the brigands took to the mountains the warfare assumed a different

character. Sometimes, in default of these active little troops, we took

local volunteers, whom we found a very poor substitute. On more than

one occasion when we came upon the brigands in a farm they thought

themselves sufficiently strong to hold it against us, and once the

cowardice of the volunteers was amusingly illustrated. The band was

estimated at about 200, and we had 100 volunteers and a detachment of 50

cavalry. On coming under the fire of the brigands the cavalry captain,

who was in command, ordered the volunteers to charge, intending when

they had dislodged the enemy to ride him down on the open; but the

volunteer officer did not repeat the word and stood stock-still, his men

all imitating his example.

“Charge! I say,” shouted the cavalry captain, “why don’t you charge? I

believe you’re afraid!”

“_E vero_,” said the captain of volunteers, shrugging his shoulders.

“Here, take my horse--you’re only fit to be a groom; and you, men,

dismount and let these cowards hold your horses, while you follow me.”

And, jumping from his horse, the gallant fellow, followed by his men,

charged the building, from which a hot fire was playing upon them, sword

in hand. In less than a quarter of an hour the brigands were scampering,

some on foot and some on horseback, out of the farm buildings, followed

by a few stray and harmless shots from such of the volunteers as had

their hands free. We lost three men killed and five wounded in this

little skirmish, and killed six of the brigands, besides making a dozen

prisoners. When I say “we” I mean my companions, for, having no weapon,

I had discreetly remained with the volunteers. The scene of this gallant

exploit was on the classic battle-field of Cannae. This captain, who was

not the friend I had joined the day after my brigand adventure, was a

most plucky and dashing cavalry officer, and was well seconded by his

men, who were all Piedmontese and of a very different temperament from

the Neapolitans. On one occasion a band of 250 brigands waited for us on

the top of a small hill, never dreaming that we should charge up it with

the odds five to one against us; but we did, and after firing a volley

at us, which emptied a couple of saddles, they broke and fled when we

were about twenty yards from them. Then began one of the most exciting

scurries across country it was ever my fortune to be engaged in. The

brigands scattered--so did we; and I found myself with two troopers in

chase of a pair of bandits, one of whom seemed to be the chief of the

band. A small stream wound through the plain, which we dashed across.

Just beyond was a tributary ditch, which would have been considered a

fair jump in the hunting-field: both brigands took it in splendid style.

The hindmost was not ten yards ahead of the leading trooper, who came

a cropper; on which the brigand reined up, fired a pistol-shot into the

prostrate horse and man, and was off; but the delay cost him dear. The

other trooper, who was a little ahead of me, got safely over. I followed

suit. In another moment he had fired his carabine into the brigand’s

horse, and down they both came by the run. We instantly reined up, for

I saw there was no chance of overtaking the remaining brigand, and the

trooper was in the act of cutting down the man as he struggled to his

feet, when to my horror I recognised the lovely features of--Valeria.

“Stay, man!” I shouted, throwing myself from my horse. “It’s a woman!

touch her if you dare!” And then, seeing the man’s eye gleam with

indignation, I added, “Brave soldiers, such as you have proved yourself

to be, do not kill women; though your traducers say you do, do not

give them cause to speak truth. I will be responsible for this woman’s

safety. Here, to make it sure you had better strap us together.” I

piqued myself exceedingly on this happy inspiration, whereby I secured

an arm-in-arm walk, of a peculiar kind, it is true, with Valeria; and

indeed my readiness to sacrifice myself seemed rather to astonish the

soldier, who hesitated. However, his comrade, whose horse had been shot

in the ditch, now came up, and seconded my proposal as I offered him a

mount on mine.

“How on earth am I to let you escape, dear Valeria?” I whispered, giving

her a sort of affectionate nudge; the position of our arms prevented my

squeezing hers as I could have wished, and the two troopers kept behind

us, watching us, I thought, suspiciously.

“It is quite impossible now--don’t attempt it,” she answered; “perhaps

there may be an opportunity later.”

“Was that Croppo who got away?” I asked.

“Yes. He could not get his cowardly men to stand on that hill.”

“What a bother those men are behind, dearest! Let me pretend to scratch

my nose with this hand that is tied to yours, which I can thus bring to

my lips.”

I accomplished this manoeuvre rather neatly, but parties now came

straggling in from other directions, and I was obliged to give up

whispering and become circumspect. They all seemed rather astonished

at our group, and the captain laughed heartily as he rode up and called

out, “Who have you got tied to you there, _caro mio_?”

“Croppo’s wife. I had her tied to me for fear she should escape;

besides, she is not bad-looking.”

“What a prize!” he exclaimed. “We have made a tolerable haul this

time--twenty prisoners in all, among them the priest of the band. Our

colonel has just arrived, so I am in luck; he will be delighted. See the

prisoners are being brought up to him now; but you had better remount

and present yours in a less singular fashion.”

When we reached the colonel we found him examining the priest. His

breviary contained various interesting notes written on some of the

fly-leaves.

For instance:

“Administered extreme unction to A----, shot by Croppo’s order; my share

ten scudi.

“Ditto, ditto, to R----, hung by Croppo’s order, my share two scudi.

“Ditto, ditto, to S----, roasted by Croppo’s order to make him name

an agent to bring his ransom; overdone by mistake, and died, so got

nothing.

“Ditto, ditto, to P----, executed by the knife by Croppo’s order for

disobedience.

“M---- and F---- and D----, three new members, joined to-day; confessed

them, and received the usual fees.”

He was a dark, beetle-browed-looking ruffian, this holy man; and the

colonel, when he had finished examining his book of prayer and crime,

tossed it to me, saying, “There! that will show your friends in England

the kind of politicians we make war against. Ha! what have we here?

This is more serious.” And he unfolded a piece of paper which had been

concealed in the breast of the priest. “This contains a little valuable

information,” he added, with a grim smile. “Nobody like priests and

women for carrying about political secrets, so you may have made a

valuable capture,” and he turned to where I stood with Valeria; “let her

be carefully searched.”

Now the colonel was a very pompous man, and the document he had just

discovered on the priest added to his sense of self-importance. When,

therefore, a large, carefully folded paper was produced from the

neighbourhood of Valeria’s lovely bosom his eyes sparkled with

admiration. “Ho, ho!” he exclaimed, as he clutched it eagerly, “the plot

is thickening!” And he spread out triumphantly, before he had himself

seen what it was, the exquisitely drawn portrait of a donkey. There was

a suppressed titter, which exploded into a shout when the bystanders

looked into the colonel’s indignant face. I only was affected

differently as my gaze fell upon this touching evidence of dear

Valeria’s love for me, and I glanced at her tenderly. “This has a

deeper significance than you think for,” said the colonel, looking round

angrily. “Croppo’s wife does not carefully secrete a drawing like that

on her person for nothing. See, it is done by no common artist. It means

something, and must be preserved.”

“It may have a biblical reference to the state of Italy. You remember

Issachar was likened to an ass between two burdens. In that case it

probably emanated from Rome,” I remarked; but nobody seemed to see the

point of the allusion, and the observation fell flat.

That night I dined with the colonel, and after dinner I persuaded him to

let me visit Valeria in prison, as I wished to take the portrait of the

wife of the celebrated brigand chief. I thanked my stars that my friend

who had seen her when we met in the glen was away on duty with his

detachment and could not testify to our former acquaintance.

My meeting with Valeria on this occasion was too touching and full of

tender passages to be of any general interest. Valeria told me that she

was still a bride, that she had only been married a few months, and that

she had been compelled to become Croppo’s wife against her choice, as

the brigand’s will was too powerful to be resisted; but that, though

he was jealous and attached to her, he was stern and cruel, and, so far

from winning her love since her marriage, he had rather estranged it

by his fits of passion and ferocity. As may be imagined, the portrait,

which was really very successful, took some time in execution, the more

especially as we had to discuss the possibilities of Valeria’s escape.

“We are going to be transferred to-morrow to the prison at Foggia,” she

said. “If while we were passing through the market-place a disturbance

of some sort could be created, as it is market-day and all the country

people know me and are my friends, a rescue might be attempted. I know

how to arrange for that, only they must see some chance of success.”

A bright thought suddenly struck me; it was suggested by a trick I had

played shortly after my arrival in Italy.

“You know I am something of a magician, Valeria; you have had proof of

that. If I create a disturbance by magic to-morrow when you are passing

through the market-place, you won’t stay to wonder what is the cause of

the confusion, but instantly take advantage of it to escape.”

“Trust me for that, _caro mio_.”

“And if you escape when shall we meet again?”

“I am known too well now to risk another meeting. I shall be in hiding

with Croppo, where it will be impossible for you to find me, nor while

he lives could I ever dare to think of leaving him; but I shall never

forget you,”--and she pressed my hands to her lips,--“though I shall no

longer have the picture of the donkey to remember you by.”

“See, here’s my photograph; that will be better,” said I, feeling a

little annoyed--foolishly, I admit. Then we strained each other to our

respective hearts and parted. Now it so happened that my room in the

_lacanda_ in which I was lodging overlooked the market-place. Here at

ten o’clock in the morning I posted myself; for that was the hour, as

I had been careful to ascertain, when the prisoners were to start for

Foggia. I opened the window about three inches and fixed it there; I

took out my gun, put eight balls in it, and looked down upon the square.

It was crowded with the country people in their bright-coloured costumes

chaffering over their produce. I looked above them to the tall campanile

of the church which filled one side of the square. I receded a step and

adjusted my gun on the ledge of the window to my satisfaction. I then

looked down the street in which the prison was situated, and which

debouched on the square, and awaited events. At ten minutes past ten I

saw the soldiers at the door of the prison form up, and then I knew that

the twenty prisoners of whom they formed the escort were starting; but

the moment they began to move I fired at the big bell in the campanile,

which responded with a loud clang. All the people in the square looked

up. As the prisoners entered the square, which they had begun to cross

in its whole breadth, I fired again and again. The bell banged twice,

and the people began to buzz about. “Now,” I thought, “I must let the

old bell have it.” By the time five more balls had struck the bell

with a resounding din the whole square was in commotion. A miracle was

evidently in progress or the campanile was bewitched. People began

to run hither and thither; all the soldiers forming the escort gaped

open-mouthed at the steeple as the clangour continued. As soon as the

last shot had been fired I looked down into the square and saw all this,

and I saw that the prisoners were attempting to escape, and in more

than one instance had succeeded, for the soldiers began to scatter in

pursuit, and the country people to form themselves into impeding crowds

as though by accident; but nowhere could I see Valeria. When I was

quite sure she had escaped I went down and joined the crowd. I saw three

prisoners captured and brought back, and when I asked the officer in

command how many had escaped he said three--Croppo’s wife, the priest,

and another.

When I met my cavalry friends at dinner that evening it was amusing to

hear them speculate upon the remarkable occurrence which had, in fact,

upset the wits of the whole town. Priests and vergers and sacristans

had visited the campanile, and one of them had brought away a flattened

piece of lead, which looked as if it might have been a bullet; but the

suggestion that eight bullets could have hit the bell in succession

without anybody hearing a sound was treated with ridicule. I believe the

bell was subsequently exorcised with holy water. I was afraid to remain

with the regiment with my air-gun after this, lest some one should

discover it and unravel the mystery; besides, I felt a sort of traitor

to the brave friends who had so generously offered me their hospitality;

so I invented urgent private affairs which demanded my immediate return

to Naples, and on the morning of my departure found myself embraced by

all the officers of the regiment from the colonel downward, who in the

fervour of their kisses thrust sixteen waxed moustache-points against my

cheeks.

About eighteen months after this I heard of the capture and execution

of Croppo, and I knew that Valeria was free; but I had unexpectedly

inherited a property and was engaged to be married. I am now a country

gentleman with a large family. My sanctum is stocked with various

mementos of my youthful adventures, but none awakens in me such

thrilling memories as are excited by the breviary of the brigand priest

and the portrait of the brigand’s bride.

MRS. GENERAL TALBOYS, by Anthony Trollope

Why Mrs. General Talboys first made up her mind to pass the winter of

1859 at Rome I never clearly understood. To myself she explained her

purposes soon after her arrival at the Eternal City, by declaring, in

her own enthusiastic manner, that she was inspired by a burning desire

to drink fresh at the still living fountains of classical poetry and

sentiment. But I always thought that there was something more than this

in it. Classical poetry and sentiment were doubtless very dear to her,

but so also, I imagine, were the substantial comforts of Hardover Lodge,

the general’s house in Berkshire; and I do not think that she would

have emigrated for the winter had there not been some slight domestic

misunderstanding. Let this, however, be fully made clear--that such

misunderstanding, if it existed, must have been simply an affair of

temper. No impropriety of conduct has, I am very sure, ever been imputed

to the lady. The general, as all the world knows, is hot; and Mrs.

Talboys, when the sweet rivers of her enthusiasm are unfed by congenial

waters, can, I believe, make herself disagreeable.

But be this as it may, in November, 1859, Mrs. Talboys came among

us English at Rome, and soon succeeded in obtaining for herself a

comfortable footing in our society. We all thought her more remarkable

for her mental attributes than for physical perfection, but nevertheless

she was in her own way a sightly woman. She had no special brilliance,

either of eye or complexion, such as would produce sudden flames in

susceptible hearts, nor did she seem to demand instant homage by the

form and step of a goddess; but we found her to be a good-looking woman

of some thirty or thirty-three years of age, with soft, peach-like

cheeks,--rather too like those of a cherub,--with sparkling eyes which

were hardly large enough, with good teeth, a white forehead, a dimpled

chin, and a full bust. Such outwardly was Mrs. General Talboys. The

description of the inward woman is the purport to which these few pages

will be devoted.

There are two qualities to which the best of mankind are much subject,

which are nearly related to each other, and as to which the world has

not yet decided whether they are to be classed among the good or evil

attributes of our nature. Men and women are under the influence of them

both, but men oftenest undergo the former, and women the latter. They

are ambition and enthusiasm. Now Mrs. Talboys was an enthusiastic woman.

As to ambition, generally as the world agrees with Mark Antony in

stigmatising it as a grievous fault, I am myself clear that it is a

virtue; but with ambition at present we have no concern. Enthusiasm

also, as I think, leans to virtue’s side, or, at least, if it be a

fault, of all faults it is the prettiest. But then, to partake at all of

virtue or even to be in any degree pretty, the enthusiasm must be true.

Bad coin is known from good by the ring of it, and so is bad enthusiasm.

Let the coiner be ever so clever at his art, in the coining of

enthusiasm the sound of true gold can never be imparted to the false

metal; and I doubt whether the cleverest she in the world can make false

enthusiasm palatable to the taste of man; to the taste of any woman the

enthusiasm of another woman is never very palatable.

We understood at Rome that Mrs. Talboys had a considerable family,--four

or five children, we were told,--but she brought with her only one

daughter, a little girl about twelve years of age. She had torn herself

asunder, as she told me, from the younger nurslings of her heart, and

had left them to the care of a devoted female attendant, whose love was

all but maternal. And then she said a word or two about the general in

terms which made me almost think that this quasi-maternal love extended

itself beyond the children. The idea, however, was a mistaken one,

arising from the strength of her language, to which I was then

unaccustomed. I have since become aware that nothing can be more

decorous than old Mrs. Upton, the excellent head nurse at Hardover

Lodge; and no gentleman more discreet in his conduct than General

Talboys.

And I may as well here declare also that there could be no more virtuous

woman than the general’s wife. Her marriage vow was to her paramount to

all other vows and bonds whatever. The general’s honour was quite safe

when he sent her off to Rome by herself, and he no doubt knew that it

was so. _Illi robur et oes triplex_, of which I believe no weapons of

any assailant could get the better. But nevertheless we used to fancy

that she had no repugnance to impropriety in other women--to what the

world generally calls impropriety. Invincibly attached herself to

the marriage tie, she would constantly speak of it as by no means

necessarily binding on others; and virtuous herself as any griffin

of propriety, she constantly patronised, at any rate, the theory of

infidelity in her neighbours. She was very eager in denouncing the

prejudices of the English world, declaring that she found existence

among them to be no longer possible for herself. She was hot against the

stern unforgiveness of British matrons, and equally eager in reprobating

the stiff conventionalities of a religion in which she said that none

of its votaries had faith, though they all allowed themselves to be

enslaved.

We had at that time a small set at Rome consisting chiefly of English

and Americans, who habitually met at one another’s rooms, and spent many

of our evening hours in discussing Italian politics. We were, most

of us, painters, poets, novelists, or sculptors--perhaps I should say

would-be painters, poets, novelists, and sculptors, aspirants hoping

to become some day recognised; and among us Mrs. Talboys took her place

naturally enough on account of a very pretty taste she had for painting.

I do not know that she ever originated anything that was grand, but she

made some nice copies and was fond, at any rate, of art conversation.

She wrote essays too, which she showed in confidence to various

gentlemen, and had some idea of taking lessons in modelling.

In all our circle Conrad Mackinnon, an American, was perhaps the person

most qualified to be styled its leader. He was one who absolutely did

gain his living, and an ample living too, by his pen, and was regarded

on all sides as a literary lion, justified by success in roaring at any

tone he might please. His usual roar was not exactly that of a sucking

dove or a nightingale, but it was a good-humoured roar, not very

offensive to any man and apparently acceptable enough to some ladies. He

was a big, burly man, near to fifty, as I suppose, somewhat awkward in

his gait, and somewhat loud in his laugh. But though nigh to fifty, and

thus ungainly, he liked to be smiled on by pretty women, and liked,

as some said, to be flattered by them also. If so he should have

been happy, for the ladies at Rome at that time made much of Conrad

Mackinnon.

Of Mrs. Mackinnon no one did make very much, and yet she was one of the

sweetest, dearest, quietest little creatures that ever made glad a

man’s fireside. She was exquisitely pretty, always in good humour,

never stupid, self-denying to a fault, and yet she was generally in

the background. She would seldom come forward of her own will, but was

contented to sit behind her teapot and hear Mackinnon do his roaring. He

was certainly much given to what the world at Rome called flirting, but

this did not in the least annoy her. She was twenty years his

junior, and yet she never flirted with any one. Women would tell

her--good-natured friends--how Mackinnon went on, but she received such

tidings as an excellent joke, observing that he had always done the

same, and no doubt always would until he was ninety. I do believe that

she was a happy woman, and yet I used to think that she should have been

happier. There is, however, no knowing the inside of another man’s house

or reading the riddles of another man’s joy and sorrow.

We had also there another lion,--a lion cub,--entitled to roar a little,

and of him also I must say something. Charles O’Brien was a young man

about twenty-five years of age, who had sent out from his studio in the

preceding year a certain bust supposed by his admirers to be unsurpassed

by any effort of ancient or modern genius. I am no judge of sculpture,

and will not therefore pronounce an opinion, but many who considered

themselves to be judges declared that it was a “goodish head and

shoulders” and nothing more. I merely mention the fact, as it was on the

strength of that head and shoulders that O’Brien separated himself from

a throng of others such as himself in Rome, walked solitary during the

days, and threw himself at the feet of various ladies when the days were

over. He had ridden on the shoulders of his bust into a prominent place

in our circle, and there encountered much feminine admiration--from Mrs.

General Talboys and others.

Some eighteen or twenty of us used to meet every Sunday evening in

Mrs. Mackinnon’s drawing-room. Many of us, indeed, were in the habit

of seeing one another daily and of visiting together the haunts in

Rome which are best loved by art-loving strangers; but here in this

drawing-room we were sure to come together, and here before the end of

November Mrs. Talboys might always be found, not in any accustomed seat,

but moving about the room as the different male mental attractions of

our society might chance to move themselves. She was at first greatly

taken by Mackinnon, who also was, I think, a little stirred by her

admiration, though he stoutly denied the charge. She became, however,

very dear to us all before she left us, and certainly we owed to her our

love, for she added infinitely to the joys of our winter.

“I have come here to refresh myself,” she said to Mackinnon one

evening--to Mackinnon and myself, for we were standing together.

“Shall I get you tea?” said I.

“And will you have something to eat?” Mackinnon asked.

“No, no, no,” she answered. “Tea, yes; but for heaven’s sake let nothing

solid dispel the associations of such a meeting as this!”

“I thought you might have dined early,” said Mackinnon. Now Mackinnon

was a man whose own dinner was very dear to him. I have seen him become

hasty and unpleasant, even under the pillars of the Forum, when he

thought that the party were placing his fish in jeopardy by their desire

to linger there too long.

“Early! Yes--no; I know not when it was. One dines and sleeps in

obedience to that dull clay which weighs down so generally the particle

of our spirit; but the clay may sometimes be forgotten; here I can

always forget it.”

“I thought you asked for refreshment,” I said. She only looked at me,

whose small attempts at prose composition had up to that time been

altogether unsuccessful, and then addressed herself to reply to

Mackinnon.

“It is the air which we breathe that fills our lungs and gives us

life and light; it is that which refreshes us if pure or sinks us into

stagnation if it be foul. Let me for a while inhale the breath of an

invigorating literature. Sit down, Mr. Mackinnon; I have a question that

I must put to you.” And then she succeeded in carrying him off into a

corner. As far as I could see he went willingly enough at that time,

though he soon became averse to any long retirement in company with Mrs.

Talboys.

We none of us quite understood what were her exact ideas on the subject

of revealed religion. Somebody, I think, had told her that there were

among us one or two whose opinions were not exactly orthodox according

to the doctrines of the established English church. If so she was

determined to show us that she also was advanced beyond the prejudices

of an old and dry school of theology. “I have thrown down all the

barriers of religion,” she said to poor Mrs. Mackinnon, “and am looking

for the sentiments of a pure Christianity.”

“Thrown down all the barriers of religion!” said Mrs. Mackinnon, in a

tone of horror which was not appreciated.

“Indeed, yes,” said Mrs. Talboys, with an exulting voice. “Are not the

days for such trammels gone by?”

“But yet you hold by Christianity?”

“A pure Christianity, unstained by blood and perjury, by hypocrisy and

verbose genuflection. Can I not worship and say my prayers among

the clouds?” And she pointed to the lofty ceiling and the handsome

chandelier.

“But Ida goes to church,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. Ida Talboys was her

daughter. Now it may be observed that many who throw down the barriers

of religion, so far as those barriers may affect themselves, still

maintain them on behalf of their children. “Yes,” said Mrs. Talboys;

“dear Ida! her soft spirit is not yet adapted to receive the perfect

truth. We are obliged to govern children by the strength of their

prejudices.” And then she moved away, for it was seldom that Mrs.

Talboys remained long in conversation with any lady.

Mackinnon, I believe, soon became tired of her. He liked her flattery,

and at first declared that she was clever and nice, but her niceness was

too purely celestial to satisfy his mundane tastes. Mackinnon himself

can revel among the clouds in his own writings, and can leave us

sometimes in doubt whether he ever means to come back to earth, but when

his foot is on terra firma he loves to feel the earthy substratum which

supports his weight. With women he likes a hand that can remain an

unnecessary moment within his own, an eye that can glisten with the

sparkle of champagne, a heart weak enough to make its owner’s arm

tremble within his own beneath the moonlight gloom of the Colosseum

arches. A dash of sentiment the while makes all these things the

sweeter, but the sentiment alone will not suffice for him. Mrs. Talboys

did, I believe, drink her glass of champagne, as do other ladies, but

with her it had no such pleasing effect. It loosened only her tongue,

but never her eyes. Her arm, I think, never trembled and her hand never

lingered. The general was always safe, and happy perhaps in his solitary

safety.

It so happened that we had unfortunately among us two artists who had

quarrelled with their wives. O’Brien, whom I have before mentioned, was

one of them. In his case I believe him to have been almost as free from

blame as a man can be whose marriage was in itself a fault. However, he

had a wife in Ireland some ten years older than himself, and though he

might sometimes almost forget the fact, his friends and neighbours were

well aware of it. In the other case the whole fault probably was with

the husband. He was an ill-tempered, bad-hearted man, clever enough,

but without principle; and he was continually guilty of the great sin

of speaking evil of the woman whose name he should have been anxious to

protect. In both cases our friend, Mrs. Talboys, took a warm interest,

and in each of them she sympathised with the present husband against the

absent wife.

Of the consolation which she offered in the latter instance we used to

hear something from Mackinnon. He would repeat to his wife and to me

and my wife the conversations which she had with him. “Poor Brown!” she

would say; “I pity him with my very heart’s blood.”

“You are aware that he has comforted himself in his desolation,”

Mackinnon replied.

“I know very well to what you allude. I think I may say that I

am conversant with all the circumstances of this heart-blighting

sacrifice.” Mrs. Talboys was apt to boast of the thorough confidence

reposed in her by all those in whom she took an interest. “Yes, he has

sought such comfort in another love as the hard cruel world would allow

him.”

“Or perhaps something more than that,” said Mackinnon. “He has a family

here in Rome, you know; two little babies.”

“I know it, I know it,” she said; “cherub angels!” And as she spoke she

looked up into the ugly face of Marcus Aurelius, for they were standing

at the moment under the figure of the great horseman on the Campidoglio.

“I have seen them, and they are children of innocence. If all the blood

of all the Howards ran in their veins it could not make their birth more

noble!”

“Not if the father and mother of all the Howards had never been

married,” said Mackinnon.

“What! that from you, Mr. Mackinnon!” said Mrs. Talboys, turning her

back with energy upon the equestrian statue and looking up into the

faces first of Pollux and then of Castor, as though from them she might

gain some inspiration on the subject, which Marcus Aurelius in his

coldness had denied to her. “From you, who have so nobly claimed for

mankind the divine attributes of free action! From you, who have taught

my mind to soar above the petty bonds which one man in his littleness

contrives for the subjection of his brother. Mackinnon--you who are so

great!” And she now looked up into his face. “Mackinnon, unsay those

words.”

“They _are_ illegitimate,” said he, “and if there was any landed

property--”

“Landed property! and that from an American!”

“The children are English, you know.”

“Landed property! The time will shortly come--ay, and I see it

coming--when that hateful word shall be expunged from the calendar,

when landed property shall be no more. What! shall the free soul of a

God-born man submit itself for ever to such trammels as that? Shall

we never escape from the clay which so long has manacled the subtler

particles of the divine spirit? Ay, yes, Mackinnon!” and then she took

him by the arm, and led him to the top of the huge steps which lead down

from the Campidoglio into the streets of modern Rome. “Look down upon

that countless multitude.” Mackinnon looked down, and saw three groups

of French soldiers, with three or four little men in each group; he saw

also a couple of dirty friars, and three priests very slowly beginning

the side ascent to the church of the Ara Coeli. “Look down upon that

countless multitude,” said Mrs. Talboys, and she stretched her arms

out over the half-deserted city. “They are escaping now from those

trammels--now, now--now that I am speaking.”

“They have escaped long ago from all such trammels as that of landed

property,” said Mackinnon.

“Ay, and from all terrestrial bonds,” she continued, not

exactly remarking the pith of his last observation; “from bonds

quasi-terrestrial and quasi-celestial. The full-formed limbs of the

present age, running with quick streams of generous blood, will no

longer bear the ligatures which past time have woven for the decrepit.

Look down upon that multitude, Mackinnon; they shall all be free.” And

then, still clutching him by the arm and still standing at the top of

those stairs, she gave forth her prophecy with the fury of a sibyl.

“They shall all be free. O Rome, thou eternal one! thou who hast bowed

thy neck to imperial pride and priestly craft, thou who has suffered

sorely even to this hour, from Nero down to Pio Nono, the days of thine

oppression are over. Gone from thy enfranchised ways for ever is the

clang of the praetorian cohorts and the more odious drone of meddling

monks!” And yet, as Mackinnon observed, there still stood the dirty

friars and the small French soldiers, and there still toiled the slow

priests, wending their tedious way up to the church of the Ara Coeli.

But that was the mundane view of the matter, a view not regarded by Mrs.

Talboys in her ecstasy. “O Italia,” she continued, “O Italia una, one

and indivisible in thy rights, and indivisible also in thy wrongs! to us

is it given to see the accomplishment of thy glory. A people shall arise

around thine altars greater in the annals of the world than thy Scipios,

thy Gracchi, or thy Caesars. Not in torrents of blood or with screams

of bereaved mothers shall thy new triumphs be stained; but mind shall

dominate over matter, and, doomed together with popes and Bourbons, with

cardinals, diplomatists, and police spies, ignorance and prejudice shall

be driven from thy smiling terraces. And then Rome shall again become

the fair capital of the fairest region of Europe. Hither shall flock the

artisans of the world, crowding into thy marts all that God and man can

give. Wealth, beauty, and innocence shall meet in thy streets--”

“There will be a considerable change before that takes place,” said

Mackinnon.

“There shall be a considerable change,” she answered. “Mackinnon, to

thee it is given to read the signs of the time; and hast thou not read?

Why have the fields of Magenta and Solferino been piled with the corpses

of dying heroes? Why have the waters of the Mincio run red with the

blood of martyrs? That Italy might be united and Rome immortal. Here,

standing on the Capitolium of the ancient city, I say that it shall be

so; and thou, Mackinnon, who hearest me knowest that my words are true.”

There was not then in Rome--I may almost say there was not in Italy--an

Englishman or an American who did not wish well to the cause for which

Italy was and is still contending, as also there is hardly one who does

not now regard that cause as well-nigh triumphant; but nevertheless

it was almost impossible to sympathise with Mrs. Talboys. As Mackinnon

said, she flew so high that there was no comfort in flying with her.

“Well,” said he, “Brown and the rest of them are down below. Shall we go

and join them?”

“Poor Brown! How was it that in speaking of his troubles we were led on

to this heart-stirring theme? Yes, I have seen them, the sweet angels;

and I tell you also that I have seen their mother. I insisted on going

to her when I heard her history from him.”

“And what was she like, Mrs. Talboys?”

“Well, education has done more for some of us than for others, and there

are those from whose morals and sentiments we might thankfully draw a

lesson, whose manners and outward gestures are not such as custom has

made agreeable to us. You, I know, can understand that. I have seen her,

and feel sure that she is pure in heart and high in principle. Has she

not sacrificed herself, and is not self-sacrifice the surest guarantee

for true nobility of character? Would Mrs. Mackinnon object to my

bringing them together?”

Mackinnon was obliged to declare that he thought his wife would object,

and from that time forth he and Mrs. Talboys ceased to be very close

in their friendship. She still came to the house every Sunday evening,

still refreshed herself at the fountains of his literary rills, but her

special prophecies from henceforth were poured into other ears; and it

so happened that O’Brien now became her chief ally. I do not remember

that she troubled herself much further with the cherub angels or with

their mother, and I am inclined to think that, taking up warmly as she

did the story of O’Brien’s matrimonial wrongs, she forgot the little

history of the Browns. Be that as it may, Mrs. Talboys and O’Brien now

became strictly confidential, and she would enlarge by the half-hour

together on the miseries of her friend’s position to any one whom she

could get to hear her.

“I’ll tell you what, Fanny,” Mackinnon said to his wife one day--to his

wife and to mine, for we were all together--“we shall have a row in

the house if we don’t take care. O’Brien will be making love to Mrs.

Talboys.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Mackinnon; “you are always thinking that somebody

is going to make love to some one.”

“Somebody always is,” said he.

“She’s old enough to be his mother,” said Mrs. Mackinnon.

“What does that matter to an Irishman?” said Mackinnon. “Besides, I

doubt if there is more than five years’ difference between them.”

“There must be more than that,” said my wife. “Ida Talboys is twelve, I

know, and I am not quite sure that Ida is the eldest.”

“If she had a son in the Guards it would make no difference,” said

Mackinnon. “There are men who consider themselves bound to make love to

a woman under certain circumstances, let the age of the lady be what it

may. O’Brien is such a one; and if she sympathises with him much oftener

he will mistake the matter and go down on his knees. You ought to put

him on his guard,” he said, addressing himself to his wife.

“Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” said she; “if they are two fools

they must, like other fools, pay the price of their folly.” As a rule

there could be no softer creature than Mrs. Mackinnon, but it seemed to

me that her tenderness never extended itself in the direction of Mrs.

Talboys.

Just at this time, toward the end, that is, of November, we made a

party to visit the tombs which lie along the Appian Way beyond that

most beautiful of all sepulchres, the tomb of Cecilia Metella. It was a

delicious day, and we had driven along this road for a couple of miles

beyond the walls of the city, enjoying the most lovely view which the

neighborhood of Rome affords, looking over the wondrous ruins of the old

aqueducts up toward Tivoli and Palestrina. Of all the environs of Rome

this is, on a fair day, the most enchanting; and here perhaps, among a

world of tombs, thoughts and almost memories of the old, old days come

upon one with the greatest force. The grandeur of Rome is best seen and

understood from beneath the walls of the Colosseum, and its beauty

among the pillars of the Forum and the arches of the Sacred Way; but

its history and fall become more palpable to the mind and more clearly

realised out here among the tombs, where the eyes rest upon the

mountains, whose shades were cool to the old Romans as to us, than

anywhere within the walls of the city. Here we look out at the same

Tivoli and the same Praeneste glittering in the sunshine, embowered

among the far-off valleys, which were dear to them; and the blue

mountains have not crumbled away into ruins. Within Rome itself we can

see nothing as they saw it.

Our party consisted of some dozen or fifteen persons, and, as a hamper

with luncheon in it had been left on the grassy slope at the base of

the tomb of Cecilia Metella, the expedition had in it something of the

nature of a picnic. Mrs. Talboys was of course with us, and Ida Talboys.

O’Brien also was there. The hamper had been prepared in Mrs. Mackinnon’s

room under the immediate eye of Mackinnon himself, and they therefore

were regarded as the dominant spirits of the party. My wife was leagued

with Mrs. Mackinnon, as was usually the case; and there seemed to be a

general opinion, among those who were closely in confidence together,

that something would happen in the O’Brien-Talboys matter. The two had

been inseparable on the previous evening, for Mrs. Talboys had been

urging on the young Irishman her counsels respecting his domestic

troubles. Sir Cresswell Cresswell, she had told him, was his refuge.

“Why should his soul submit to bonds which the world had now declared to

be intolerable? Divorce was not now the privilege of the dissolute rich.

Spirits which were incompatible need no longer be compelled to fret

beneath the same couples.” In short, she had recommended him to go

to England and get rid of his wife, as she would with a little

encouragement have recommended any man to get rid of anything. I am sure

that, had she been skilfully brought on to the subject, she might have

been induced to pronounce a verdict against such ligatures for the body

as coats, waistcoats, and trousers. Her aspirations for freedom ignored

all bounds, and in theory there were no barriers which she was not

willing to demolish.

Poor O’Brien, as we all now began to see, had taken the matter amiss.

He had offered to make a bust of Mrs. Talboys, and she had consented,

expressing a wish that it might find a place among those who had devoted

themselves to the enfranchisement of their fellow-creatures. I really

think she had but little of a woman’s customary personal vanity. I know

she had an idea that her eye was lighted up in her warmer moments by

some special fire, that sparks of liberty shone round her brow, and that

her bosom heaved with glorious aspirations; but all these feelings had

reference to her inner genius, not to any outward beauty. But O’Brien

misunderstood the woman, and thought it necessary to gaze into her face

and sigh as though his heart were breaking. Indeed, he declared to a

young friend that Mrs. Talboys was perfect in her style of beauty, and

began the bust with this idea. It was gradually becoming clear to us

all that he would bring himself to grief; but in such a matter who can

caution a man?

Mrs. Mackinnon had contrived to separate them in making the carriage

arrangements on this day, but this only added fuel to the fire which was

now burning within O’Brien’s bosom. I believe that he really did love

her in his easy, eager, susceptible Irish way. That he would get over

the little episode without any serious injury to his heart no one

doubted; but then what would occur when the declaration was made? How

would Mrs. Talboys bear it?

“She deserves it,” said Mrs. Mackinnon.

“And twice as much,” my wife added. Why is it that women are so spiteful

to one another?

Early in the day Mrs. Talboys clambered up to the top of a tomb, and

made a little speech, holding a parasol over her head. Beneath her feet,

she said, reposed the ashes of some bloated senator, some glutton of

the empire, who had swallowed into his maw the provision necessary for

a tribe. Old Rome had fallen through such selfishness as that, but

new Rome would not forget the lesson. All this was very well, and then

O’Brien helped her down; but after this there was no separating them.

For her own part, she would sooner have had Mackinnon at her elbow; but

Mackinnon now had found some other elbow. “Enough of that was as good

as a feast,” he had said to his wife. And therefore Mrs. Talboys, quite

unconscious of evil, allowed herself to be engrossed by O’Brien.

And then, about three o’clock, we returned to the hamper. Luncheon under

such circumstances always means dinner, and we arranged ourselves for a

very comfortable meal. To those who know the tomb of Cecilia Metella

no description of the scene is necessary, and to those who do not no

description will convey a fair idea of its reality. It is itself a large

low tower of great diameter, but of beautiful proportion, standing far

outside the city, close on to the side of the old Roman way. It has been

embattled on the top by some latter-day baron in order that it might be

used for protection to the castle which has been built on and attached

to it. If I remember rightly, this was done by one of the Frangipani,

and a very lovely ruin he has made of it. I know no castellated old

tumble-down residence in Italy more picturesque than this baronial

adjunct to the old Roman tomb, or which better tallies with the ideas

engendered within our minds by Mrs. Radcliffe and “The Mysteries of

Udolpho.” It lies along the road, protected on the side of the city by

the proud sepulchre of the Roman matron, and up to the long ruined walls

of the back of the building stretches a grassy slope, at the bottom of

which are the remains of an old Roman circus. Beyond that is the long,

thin, graceful line of the Claudian aqueduct, with Soracte in the

distance to the left, and Tivoli, Palestrina, and Frascati lying among

the hills which bound the view. That Frangipani baron was in the right

of it, and I hope he got the value of his money out of the residence

which he built for himself. I doubt, however, that he did but little

good to those who lived in his close neighbourhood.

We had a very comfortable little banquet seated on the broken lumps of

stone which lie about under the walls of the tomb. I wonder whether the

shade of Cecilia Metella was looking down upon us. We have heard much

of her in these latter days, and yet we know nothing about her, nor can

conceive why she was honoured with a bigger tomb than any other Roman

matron. There were those then among our party who believed that she

might still come back among us, and, with due assistance from some

cognate susceptible spirit, explain to us the cause of her widowed

husband’s liberality. Alas, alas! if we may judge of the Romans by

ourselves the true reason for such sepulchral grandeur would redound

little to the credit of the lady Cecilia Metella herself or to that of

Crassus, her bereaved and desolate lord.

She did not come among us on the occasion of this banquet, possibly

because we had no tables there to turn in preparation for her presence;

but had she done so, she could not have been more eloquent of things of

the other world than was Mrs. Talboys. I have said that Mrs. Talboys’s

eye never glanced more brightly after a glass of champagne, but I am

inclined to think that on this occasion it may have done so. O’Brien

enacted Ganymede, and was perhaps more liberal than other latter-day

Ganymedes to whose services Mrs. Talboys had been accustomed. Let it

not, however, be suspected by any one that she exceeded the limits of a

discreet joyousness. By no means! The generous wine penetrated,

perhaps, to some inner cells of her heart, and brought forth thoughts in

sparkling words which otherwise might have remained concealed; but there

was nothing in what she thought or spoke calculated to give umbrage

either to an anchoret or to a vestal. A word or two she said or sung

about the flowing bowl, and once she called for Falernian; but beyond

this her converse was chiefly of the rights of man and the weakness of

women, of the iron ages that were past, and of the golden time that was

to come.

She called a toast and drank to the hopes of the latter historians of

the nineteenth century. Then it was that she bade O’Brien “fill high

the bowl with Samian wine.” The Irishman took her at her word, and she

raised the bumper and waved it over her head before she put it to her

lips. I am bound to declare that she did not spill a drop. “The true

‘Falernian grape,’” she said, as she deposited the empty beaker on

the grass beneath her elbow. Viler champagne I do not think I ever

swallowed; but it was the theory of the wine, not its palpable body

present there, as it were in the flesh, which inspired her. There was

really something grand about her on that occasion, and her enthusiasm

almost amounted to reality.

Mackinnon was amused, and encouraged her, as I must confess did I also.

Mrs. Mackinnon made useless little signs to her husband, really fearing

that the Falernian would do its good offices too thoroughly. My wife,

getting me apart as I walked round the circle distributing viands,

remarked that “the woman was a fool and would disgrace herself.” But I

observed that after the disposal of that bumper she worshipped the rosy

god in theory only, and therefore saw no occasion to interfere. “Come,

Bacchus,” she said, “and come, Silenus, if thou wilt; I know that ye

are hovering round the graves of your departed favourites. And ye, too,

nymphs of Egeria,” and she pointed to the classic grove which was

all but close to us as we sat there. “In olden days ye did not always

despise the abodes of men. But why should we invoke the presence of the

gods--we who can become godlike ourselves! We ourselves are the deities

of the present age. For us shall the tables be spread with ambrosia, for

us shall the nectar flow.”

Upon the whole it was a very good fooling--for a while; and as soon as

we were tired of it we arose from our seats and began to stroll about

the place. It was beginning to be a little dusk and somewhat cool, but

the evening air was pleasant, and the ladies, putting on their shawls,

did not seem inclined at once to get into the carriages. At any rate,

Mrs. Talboys was not so inclined, for she started down the hill toward

the long low wall of the old Roman circus at the bottom, and O’Brien,

close at her elbow, started with her.

“Ida, my dear, you had better remain here,” she said to her daughter;

“you will be tired if you come as far as we are going.”

“Oh no, mamma, I shall not,” said Ida; “you get tired much quicker than

I do.”

“Oh yes, you will; besides, I do not wish you to come.” There was an end

of it for Ida, and Mrs. Talboys and O’Brien walked off together, while

we all looked into one another’s faces.

“It would be a charity to go with them,” said Mackinnon.

“Do you be charitable then,” said his wife.

“It should be a lady,” said he.

“It is a pity that the mother of the spotless cherubim is not here for

the occasion,” said she. “I hardly think that any one less gifted

will undertake such a self-sacrifice.” Any attempt of the kind would,

however, now have been too late, for they were already at the bottom of

the hill. O’Brien had certainly drunk freely of the pernicious contents

of those long-necked bottles, and, though no one could fairly accuse him

of being tipsy, nevertheless that which might have made others drunk had

made him bold, and he dared to do perhaps more than might become a man.

If under any circumstances he could be fool enough to make an avowal of

love to Mrs. Talboys he might be expected, as we all thought, to do it

now.

We watched them as they made for a gap in the wall which led through

into the large enclosed space of the old circus. It had been an arena

for chariot games, and they had gone down with the avowed purpose

of searching where might have been the meta and ascertaining how the

drivers could have turned when at their full speed. For a while we had

heard their voices, or rather her voice especially. “The heart of a man,

O’Brien, should suffice for all emergencies,” we had heard her say. She

had assumed a strange habit of calling men by their simple names, as men

address one another. When she did this to Mackinnon, who was much older

than herself, we had been all amused by it, and other ladies of our

party had taken to call him “Mackinnon” when Mrs. Talboys was not by;

but we had felt the comedy to be less safe with O’Brien, especially when

on one occasion we heard him address her as Arabella. She did not seem

to be in any way struck by his doing so, and we supposed therefore that

it had become frequent between them. What reply he made at the moment

about the heart of a man I do not know, and then in a few minutes they

disappeared through the gap in the wall.

None of us followed them, although it would have seemed the most natural

thing in the world to do so had nothing out of the way been expected. As

it was, we remained there round the tomb quizzing the little foibles of

our dear friend and hoping that O’Brien would be quick in what he was

doing. That he would undoubtedly get a slap in the face, metaphorically,

we all felt certain, for none of us doubted the rigid propriety of the

lady’s intentions. Some of us strolled into the buildings and some of us

got out on to the road, but we all of us were thinking that O’Brien

was very slow a considerable time before we saw Mrs. Talboys reappear

through the gap.

At last, however, she was there, and we at once saw that she was alone.

She came on, breasting the hill with quick steps, and when she drew near

we could see that there was a frown as of injured majesty on her brow.

Mackinnon and his wife went forward to meet her. If she were really in

trouble it would be fitting in some way to assist her, and of all women

Mrs. Mackinnon was the last to see another woman suffer from ill usage

without attempting to aid her. “I certainly never liked her,” Mrs.

Mackinnon said afterward, “but I was bound to go and hear her tale when

she really had a tale to tell.”

And Mrs. Talboys now had a tale to tell--if she chose to tell it. The

ladies of our party declared afterward that she would have acted more

wisely had she kept to herself both O’Brien’s words to her and her

answer. “She was well able to take care of herself,” Mrs. Mackinnon

said; “and after all the silly man had taken an answer when he got it.”

Not, however, that O’Brien had taken his answer quite immediately, as

far as I could understand from what we heard of the matter afterward.

At the present moment Mrs. Talboys came up the rising ground all alone

and at a quick pace. “The man has insulted me,” she said aloud, as

well as her panting breath would allow her, and as soon as she was near

enough to Mrs. Mackinnon to speak to her.

“I am sorry for that,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. “I suppose he has taken a

little too much wine.”

“No; it was a premeditated insult. The base-hearted churl has failed to

understand the meaning of true, honest sympathy.”

“He will forget all about it when he is sober,” said Mackinnon, meaning

to comfort her.

“What care I what he remembers or what he forgets?” she said, turning

upon poor Mackinnon indignantly. “You men grovel so in your ideas--”

(“And yet,” as Mackinnon said afterward, “she had been telling me that I

was a fool for the last three weeks.”) “You men grovel so in your ideas

that you cannot understand the feelings of a true-hearted woman. What

can his forgetfulness or his remembrance be to me? Must not I remember

this insult? Is it possible that I should forget it?”

Mr. and Mrs. Mackinnon only had gone forward to meet her, but

nevertheless she spoke so loud that all heard her who were still

clustered round the spot on which we had dined.

“What has become of Mr. O’Brien?” a lady whispered to me.

I had a field-glass with me, and, looking round, I saw his hat as he was

walking inside the walls of the circus in the direction toward the city.

“And very foolish he must feel,” said the lady.

“No doubt he is used to it,” said another.

“But considering her age, you know,” said the first, who might have been

perhaps three years younger than Mrs. Talboys, and who was not herself

averse to the excitement of a moderate flirtation. But then why should

she have been averse, seeing that she had not as yet become subject to

the will of any imperial lord?

“He would have felt much more foolish,” said the third, “if she had

listened to what he said to her.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the second; “nobody would have known anything

about it then, and in a few weeks they would have gradually become tired

of each other in the ordinary way.”

But in the meantime Mrs. Talboys was among us. There had been no attempt

at secrecy, and she was still loudly inveighing against the grovelling

propensities of men. “That’s quite true, Mrs. Talboys,” said one of the

elder ladies; “but then women are not always so careful as they should

be. Of course I do not mean to say that there has been any fault on your

part.”

“Fault on my part! Of course there has been fault on my part. No one can

make any mistake without fault to some extent. I took him to be a man of

sense, and he is a fool. Go to Naples indeed.”

“Did he want you to go to Naples?” asked Mrs. Mackinnon.

“Yes; that was what he suggested. We were to leave by the train for

Civita Vecchia at six to-morrow morning, and catch the steamer which

leaves Leghorn to-night. Don’t tell me of wine. He was prepared for it!”

And she looked round about on us with an air of injured majesty in her

face which was almost insupportable.

“I wonder whether he took the tickets overnight,” said Mackinnon.

“Naples!” she said, as though now speaking exclusively to herself, “the

only ground in Italy which has as yet made no struggle on behalf of

freedom--a fitting residence for such a dastard!”

“You would have found it very pleasant at this season,” said the

unmarried lady who was three years her junior.

My wife had taken Ida out of the way when the first complaining note

from Mrs. Talboys had been heard ascending the hill. But now, when

matters began gradually to become quiescent, she brought her back,

suggesting as she did so that they might begin to think of returning.

“It is getting very cold, Ida dear, is it not?” said she.

“But where is Mr. O’Brien?” said Ida.

“He has fled--as poltroons always fly,” said Mrs. Talboys. I believe

in my heart that she would have been glad to have had him there in the

middle of the circle, and to have triumphed over him publicly among us

all. No feeling of shame would have kept her silent for a moment.

“Fled!” said Ida, looking up into her mother’s face.

“Yes, fled, my child.” And she seized her daughter in her arms, and

pressed her closely to her bosom. “Cowards always fly.”

“Is Mr. O’Brien a coward?” Ida asked.

“Yes, a coward, a very coward! And he has fled before the glance of an

honest woman’s eye. Come, Mrs. Mackinnon, shall we go back to the city?

I am sorry that the amusement of the day should have received this

check.” And she walked forward to the carriage and took her place in it

with an air that showed that she was proud of the way in which she had

conducted herself.

“She is a little conceited about it after all,” said that unmarried

lady. “If poor Mr. O’Brien had not shown so much premature anxiety

with reference to that little journey to Naples, things might have gone

quietly after all.”

But the unmarried lady was wrong in her judgment. Mrs. Talboys was

proud and conceited in the matter, but not proud of having excited

the admiration of her Irish lover. She was proud of her own subsequent

conduct, and gave herself credit for coming out strongly as the

noble-minded matron. “I believe she thinks,” said Mrs. Mackinnon, “that

her virtue is quite Spartan and unique; and if she remains in Rome

she’ll boast of it through the whole winter.”

“If she does, she may be certain that O’Brien will do the same,” said

Mackinnon. “And in spite of his having fled from the field, it is

upon the cards that he may get the best of it. Mrs. Talboys is a very

excellent woman. She has proved her excellence beyond a doubt. But

nevertheless she is susceptible of ridicule.”

We all felt a little anxiety to hear O’Brien’s account of the matter,

and after having deposited the ladies at their homes Mackinnon and I

went off to his lodgings. At first he was denied to us, but after a

while we got his servant to acknowledge that he was at home, and then we

made our way up to his studio. We found him seated behind a half-formed

model, or rather a mere lump of clay punched into something resembling

the shape of a head, with a pipe in his mouth and a bit of stick in his

hand. He was pretending to work, though we both knew that it was out of

the question that he should do anything in his present frame of mind.

“I think I heard my servant tell you that I was not at home,” said he.

“Yes, he did,” said Mackinnon, “and would have sworn it too if we would

have let him. Come, don’t pretend to be surly.”

“I am very busy, Mr. Mackinnon.”

“Completing your head of Mrs. Talboys, I suppose, before you start for

Naples.”

“You don’t mean to say that she has told you all about it?” And he

turned away from his work, and looked up into our faces with a comical

expression, half of fun and half of despair.

“Every word of it,” said I. “When you want a lady to travel with you

never ask her to get up so early in winter.”

“But, O’Brien, how could you be such an ass?” said Mackinnon. “As it

has turned out, there is no very great harm done. You have insulted a

respectable middle-aged woman, the mother of a family and the wife of a

general officer, and there is an end of it--unless, indeed, the general

officer should come out from England to call you to account.”

“He is welcome,” said O’Brien haughtily.

“No doubt, my dear fellow,” said Mackinnon; “that would be a dignified

and pleasant ending to the affair. But what I want to know is this: what

would you have done if she had agreed to go?”

“He never calculated on the possibility of such a contingency,” said I.

“By heavens, then, I thought she would like it,” said he.

“And to oblige her you were content to sacrifice yourself,” said

Mackinnon.

“Well, that was just it. What the deuce is a fellow to do when a woman

goes on in that way? She told me down there, upon the old race-course,

you know, that matrimonial bonds were made for fools and slaves. What

was I to suppose that she meant by that? But, to make all sure, I asked

her what sort of a fellow the general was. ‘Dear old man,’ she said,

clasping her hands together. ‘He might, you know, have been my father.’

‘I wish he were,’ said I, ‘because then you’d be free.’ ‘I am free,’

said she, stamping on the ground, and looking up at me so much as to say

that she cared for no one. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘accept all that is left of

the heart of Wenceslaus O’Brien,’ and I threw myself before her in her

path. ‘Hand,’ said I, ‘I have none to give, but the blood which runs red

through my veins is descended from a double line of kings.’ I said that

because she is always fond of riding a high horse. I had gotten close

under the wall so that none of you should see me from the tower.”

“And what answer did she make?” said Mackinnon.

“Why, she was pleased as Punch--gave me both her hands and declared

that we would be friends for ever. It is my belief, Mackinnon, that that

woman never heard anything of the kind before. The general, no doubt,

did it by letter.”

“And how was it that she changed her mind?”

“Why, I got up, put my arm round her waist, and told her that we would

be off to Naples. I’m blessed if she didn’t give me a knock in the

ribs that nearly sent me backward. She took my breath away, so that I

couldn’t speak to her.”

“And then----”

“Oh, there was nothing more. Of course I saw how it was. So she walked

off one way and I the other. On the whole, I consider that I am well out

of it.”

“And so do I,” said Mackinnon, very gravely. “But if you will allow me

to give you my advice, I would suggest that it would be well to avoid

such mistakes in future.”

“Upon my word,” said O’Brien, excusing himself, “I don’t know what a man

is to do under such circumstances. I give you my honour that I did it

all to oblige her.”

We then decided that Mackinnon should convey to the injured lady the

humble apology of her late admirer. It was settled that no detailed

excuses should be made. It should be left to her to consider whether the

deed which had been done might have been occasioned by wine or by the

folly of a moment, or by her own indiscreet enthusiasm. No one but

the two were present when the message was given, and therefore we were

obliged to trust to Mackinnon’s accuracy for an account of it.

She stood on very high ground indeed, he said, at first refusing to hear

anything that he had to say on the matter. The foolish young man, she

declared, was below her anger and below her contempt.

“He is not the first Irishman that has been made indiscreet by beauty,”

said Mackinnon.

“A truce to that,” she replied, waving her hand with an air of assumed

majesty. “The incident, contemptible as it is, has been unpleasant to

me. It will necessitate my withdrawal from Rome.”

“Oh no, Mrs. Talboys; that will be making too much of him.”

“The greatest hero that lives,” she answered, “may have his house made

uninhabitable by a very small insect.” Mackinnon swore that those were

her own words. Consequently a sobriquet was attached to O’Brien of which

he by no means approved, and from that day we always called Mrs. Talboys

“the hero.”

Mackinnon prevailed at last with her, and she did not leave Rome. She

was even induced to send a message to O’Brien conveying her forgiveness.

They shook hands together with great eclat in Mrs. Mackinnon’s

drawing-room; but I do not suppose that she ever again offered to him

sympathy on the score of his matrimonial troubles.

End of Project Gutenberg’s Stories By English Authors: Italy, by Various