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A Heart-Song of To-day by Annie Gregg Savigny

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"You'd better have a surgeon, old fellow, or you'll not fill another
bag this October."

Not until his arm had turned black would he consent; then the surgeon
was called, he looked grave, saying that a great part of the pen had
not been extracted; that ink, pen, and rust had done their work, and
to save his life the arm must be amputated. This the poor fellow
refused to do, saying he would rather die than sever his good right
hand from his body.--If he could not hold a gun, nor ride Titan with
the hounds he would go. He would be sorry to leave Evy, but Posey
could do very well without him, and breathing a prayer for his soul,
Harold, Duke of Wyesdale, was gone.

And now after her year of fashionable mourning, his widow is pluming
herself in colours, and Dame Rumour hath it that the somewhat fair,
slightly faded dowager Duchess having buried her dead, will not say
nay to another wooer. She was, as usual, posing in a corner of her
carriage, and priding herself on her slight, girlish figure; wore no
wraps; looking blue and chilly, for when one was driving the air was
just fresh enough for something warmer than a gown of pale blue silk.

"Why will women go about looking as if Jack Frost had just given them
a chilly embrace?" said Lionel, his gaze dwelling admiringly on
Vaura's warm beauty, arrayed in short, tight-fitting black velvet
jacket, small white plush bonnet, scarlet feathers and scarlet and
white strings tied at one side of her pretty chin.

"The azure heavens framing fair angels; quite a sufficient robing, and
appropriate; oh! grumbler," laughed Vaura.

"She is no amazon, and should wear other than silken armour, _ma
belle_."

"Cupid's darts can easier penetrate," said Vaura, gaily.

"Not through a chilled heart, as compared with a warm one," he
answers, quietly.

"Can one be cold in Italia. I do believe Old Sol pauses over us in his
chariot, and smiles love-warm smiles upon us all," she continued.

"What a shame to see such pretty beasts in harness, Lionel, as those
attached to our landau," observed Lady Esmondet.

"Yes, they are a fine pair and well matched."

"The one with a mane a trifle the longest," said Vaura, "reminds me of
Oriole that I used to ride when a girl at Haughton."

"Yes," said Trevalyon, "I was just going to ask you if you noticed it.
What merry rides those were! what would I not give to (with my dearly
bought experience of life) commence over again from those days."

"I remember feeling quite the woman in the scamper across country with
you and dear uncle in my long habit; neither of you knew how I hated
to don my short frock on my return."

"You were always a charming little hostess; and a few yards more in a
draper's shop, instead of about your ankles detracted nothing from
your charms."

"I did the best I could in taking time by the forelock, to be able to
put in a word or two with your lordship and Uncle Eric; I read old
periodicals and new, ancient history with modern philosophy and
science notes."

"And they have you now, Vaura dear," said her godmother. "A womanly
woman, every inch of you."

"You are partial, dear; yet I did in those days long for an Ovid and a
metamorphosis."

"Do you remember the day I extricated you and Isabel in the Tower?"

"Yes," she said, a warmer rose coming to her cheek, "but my knight
promised to blot that page from his memory.

"And so he endeavoured; but to no purpose."

"My brave knight was also an unmerciful tyrant."

"In the fines he levied," he said, leaning towards her; "they were the
sweetest he ever had."

A soft light came to Vaura's face, as leaning into her corner she gave
herself up to thoughts of the bygone. And she smiled now her woman's
smile in the eyes that were on her face. And yet sighed as she thought
of the jealousy of her boyish lovers of bygone days, for Roland
Douglas and Guy had rebuked her for so often in the tales she wove for
their amusement, having Lion Heart as the favoured knight.

"My girlish days at Haughton Hall were very, very happy," she said,
quietly.

"And yet you would not go back to them and leave the dear present,"
said Lionel, looking into her eyes with his mesmeric look, and holding
her hand tight as he assisted her from the carriage after Lady
Esmondet, at the door of the villa.

"How know you, my brave lion-heart; you belong to those days, but I am
content."

CHAPTER XXX.

WOMAN AGAINST WOMAN.

They had been luxuriating for about four weeks in the art treasures
collected in the Eternal City. Their eyes feasted on so much of
loveliness in gazing upon living marbles and speaking forms on canvas
that Vaura was often moved to a feeling akin to pain as she thought:

"Oh, the pity of it; the pity of it, that the gods among men, living,
breathing men, who created these soul-stiring things should be
themselves dead!"

On returning from a long ride one morning Vaura and Lionel found a gay
party of callers chatting with Lady Esmondet; amongst them was Vaura's
old friend, Robert Douglas. The Duchess of Wyesdale was also there;
come with the avowed purpose of calling upon Lady Esmondet and making
the acquaintance of Miss Vernon, but in reality to see Captain
Trevalyon, whom she had watched for in vain, having expected him to
call since the day they had met on the Corso. But "he cometh not," she
said, was still the burden of her song, so she determined to "beard
the lion in his den," though she would be obliged by so doing to
become acquainted with Miss Vernon, and she was one of those women
who, invariably envious of a more beautiful sister, keep them at arms'
length. She could not but own to herself how beautiful Vaura was. The
men raved of her, and she, the faded little dowager duchess, disliked
her accordingly. She had already outstayed the bounds of politeness,
but being determined to gain her point said, languidly, to her
hostess:

"I really must trespass upon your kindness a little longer, dear Lady
Esmondet, I wish so much to meet Miss Vernon."

So that, as it was late when Vaura and Lionel returned, it came to
pass that Saunders met her mistress at the hall door with a request
from Lady Esmondet that she would come immediately to the morning-room
without waiting to change her habit. So Vaura entered, gay, radiant,
and with a fresh bloom upon her cheek, engendered partly by gentle
caresses of the invigorating air, partly by the warmth in the looks
and words of the handsome man by her side.

She made her way in answer to a look from her god-mother at once to
her side, where the introduction took place.

"Her complexion is very well got up," thought the _petite_ faded
Duchess, as she bowed carelessly, and who had used tints and washes
ever since her sixteenth year. "I wonder whose wash she wears," and
with a conventional word or two she turned with _empressement_ to
Lionel, greeting him warmly, as Vaura crossed the room to where her
old playmate sat, giving only a passing word to acquaintances.

Lady Esmondet thought, as she glanced at the Duchess of Wyesdale,
roused almost to animation in her reception of Captain Trevalyon,
"Lionel is the magnet that has drawn her here; she has not forgotten
her old penchant for him."

On seeing his hostess disengaged a young Frenchman, wearing the red
ribbon of the Legion of Honour, won by a brave act in the Franco-
German war, stepped to her side; he held in his hand a volume he had
been admiring,--views of the lovely lake scenery of the British Isles.

They were soon discanting warmly upon their respective beauties, and
became so interested that Lady Esmondet scarcely noticed that she was
bidding adieu to the fashionable butterflies who had been killing time
in her presence for the last hour or two. At last they are all gone
with the exception of the Duchess, who has risen to make her exit, and
Robert Douglas, who is remaining to luncheon. The Duchess is just
saying to Lionel:

"Oh, you are _sure_ to be here, and you won't refuse _me_, I _know_;
I'd rather be Juliet to your Romeo in my tableaux than--. But, oh,
dear, the others have heard us, and I did so hope it would have been a
little secret between _us_, you know."

And Lady Wyesdale affected a childish look of terror as she turned to
her hostess, saying:

"You won't think us very dreadful, Lady Esmondet?"

"Oh, dear, no; there's nothing dreadful in a pictured love scene."

But in reality she felt annoyed that this silly woman should pretend
to an understanding between Captain Trevalyon and herself.

"And you won't tell Miss Vernon," she continued, beseechingly, "I want
her to be surprised."

Vaura and Rev. Robert had joined the group as Captain Trevalyon was
saying, laughingly,

"I cannot promise you, Lady Wyesdale, I am in Lady Esmondet's hands;
if, as I expect the 12th of January sees her at Haughton Hall, I
cannot possibly be with you, unless my photo in the garb you wish will
suit."

"Of course he will say so before them," thought the Duchess, aloud,
she says tapping him on the arm with her cardcase, "Come to my box at
the Theatre to-night, I want to consult you about something, since
dear Harold died," and a corner of her handkerchief went to her eyes,
"I often feel so alone."

"Thanks, I shall wait upon you as early as possible; to-night I go to
the Quirinal."

"So sorry," and making her adieux she added "I cannot have you."

"Yes, Emmanuel is Victor to-night," said Vaura gaily.

The butler announced luncheon, and Priest Robert gave his arm to Miss
Vernon, saying:

"And that is a woman! how are we of the clergy ever going to waken a
throb of life into the soul of such!"

"Were you in the pulpit at this moment, Robert, I am inclined to think
you would discourse as St. Paul on idle-wandering-about-from-house-to-
house-women; he was severe on my sisterhood,"

"They were not your sisterhood, you have no part with such."

"There would be a double lecture from St. Paul," said Lionel as he
took the end of the table, "could he enter the Russell Club, Regent
Street some day what a Babel of tongues, what tid-bits of gossip would
electrify him."

"Yes," said Robert Douglas, "a men and women's club would scarcely
agree with his views of what our human nature should live for."

"I hear it is extremely difficult for a pretty woman to become a
member of Eve's she is as a rule black-balled; so a fair face does not
always win," said Lionel.

"I think it would be extremely stupid to belong to an exclusively
women's club; so much of gossip would kill me," said Lady Esmondet.

"I don't know," said Vaura, "whether either of you gentlemen are aware
of how by a clever _ruse_ our gay friend Mrs. Eustace Wingfield,
notwithstanding her good looks, became a member of Eve's. She told my
godmother and I of it soon after the occurrence."

"I have never heard of it," said Robert Douglas.

"Pray tell us," said Lionel.

"'Tis a long story," said Vaura, "in fact a three-volume one, but you
shall only have a page or two. Between the President of Eve's the Hon.
Miss Silverthorne and Mrs. Eustace Wingfield, there is an old feud
dating from their school days."

While at school Mrs. Eustace, then May Raynor, was the very
incarnation of fun and mischief, Silverthorne being extremely plain
and severe in style. The Wingfield estate bordered on the school
property. Eustace, prospective heir to his uncle, often ran down from
London, much to the dismay of the lady principal, for he was no end of
a flirt. May Raynor's pretty face attracted him from the first, but
Silverthorne had a soft spot in her heart for him. Jealous of May she
reported her to the principal; for revenge Wingfield cast languishing
glances at Silverthorne in church. She never having had a lover
actually informed the principal that, when he came to her to sue for
her hand, she, as her guardian, was to say him yea. On May being
married and out of the school-room, to her adored, she, Silverthorne,
vowed revenge, if ever in her power, so that, when two seasons ago,
Mr. Wingfield bet May a box, during _la_ Bernhardt _saison_, against
an embroidered dressing gown that she would be black-balled at Eve's,
on Mrs. Clayton proposing her, the president, looking black, declared,
on its being put to the vote on the following afternoon, she should
have her two black balls, Mrs. Clayton informed May. "Now, what shall,
be my card," exclaimed May, "for my bet shall be won. I have it," and
staining her face yellow with green glasses and unbecoming attire, she
attended a woman's right meeting at which her enemy was chairman.
Seated immediately in front of the platform, Miss Silverthorne gloated
over her changed looks. She was made a member. Her enemy saying to
Mrs. Clayton, "How hideous she has become; how he will hate her!"

"What a green-eyed monster is jealousy," said Reverend Robert.

"But our gay friend won her bet and a stare at the Bernhardt, in spite
of everything," laughed Trevalyon.

"But I fancy gay Mrs. Wingfield would not often be found at 'Eves;'
such an army of plain women would be too many for her," said reverend
Douglas.

"Oh! no," said Vaura, taking his arm back to the sunlit morning-room,
"she only goes occasionally to throw a white ball for a pretty woman."

"I have sometimes come across her with Wingfield at the 'Abermarle';
she likes a little bass mixed with the treble of her life," said
Trevalyon.

"She is right," said Vaura, "one would grow weary of continually
piping to the same key."

"Isabel tells me they are very gay at Haughton," said Reverend Robert.

"Incessant revelry seems to be a necessity in the life of Madame,"
said Lady Esmondet.

"Tastes differ, god-mother dear, the wild game of life that suits her
palate would suit ours as badly, as (what she would consider) our tame
game would suit her," saying which she joined Lionel, a little apart
at a table strewn with music which he wished her to select from.

"Do you believe in presentiments _cara mia_?"

"Yes; but I am wondrously content and don't want eyen to think of
presentiments."

"I don't either, _ma chere_," he said, a little sadly, leaning his
elbows on the table, his head for a moment upon them, "but I have one
now that the Fates are putting black threads on their distaff for me."

"Don't look so sorrowful or you will affect me."

"Did you and I live in Pagan times, _ma belle_, I should be tempted to
offer incense at their shrine, so pleasing, that their black threads
would give place to gold and silver."

"Your incense would be flattery; they are but women, what would they
more," she said smilingly.

"There are women, and woman," he said absently, the grave look still
in the eyes resting on her face.

"There is something more than usual troubling you; share it with me,
do, and then you know you will only have half to bear," and for one
moment her soft hand is on his arm, her eyes full of sympathy on his
face.

"It is only a presentiment, _ma belle_," and his hand is laid on hers.

But now there is a tap at the door, and his servant says:

"Telegram from England, sir."

"My presentiment," he says, in same low tone.

"Face it bravely, it is not, I trust, bad news."

"It is," he says gravely, "for I must leave you."

Vaura turned pale, and Lady Esmondet said:

"No bad news I hope, Lionel?"

"Yes, dear friend, it is from Judith, and states that "Uncle Vincent
is no better and wishes to see me," but she does not say at once, or
if there be any danger."

"I am sorry, Sir Vincent is no better, but every cloud has its silver
lining; you may not really be obliged to go; he may rally," she said
kindly.

"Yes, that is true, I shall telegraph my cousin to know if I must go
at once; if not, you will be leaving Italy so soon we may yet journey
together."

"I hope so," continued Lady Esmondet.

"But 'tis hard for her," said Vaura, "a stranger in a strange land;
can I do anything for her, write some of our friends to call upon her,
anything, only tell me, the Claytons, are kind," and she is beside him
in a moment.

"You are very thoughtful, but Judith is extremely self-reliant."

"Do not give way to depression, Trevalyon," said Reverend Douglas;
"our paths cannot all be those of pleasantness."

"Don't go, Robert, I want you to dine with us at seven; only the
Marchmonts."

"Thank you, Lady Esmondet, I shall be with you, but for the present,
_au revoir_ as I have even-song."

"I am grieved at this," said Lionel sadly, "for something tells me I
shall have to go; I have known very little of Uncle Vincent; you are
aware, dear Lady Alice, that he and my poor father were not friendly;
my cousin is independent; and as I said before self-reliant to the
last degree."

"It will not be so hard for her in that case," said Lady Esmondet.

"I am selfish enough to regret we have anyone to dinner, if I am
obliged to leave you on to-morrow."

"I was just thinking so," said Lady Esmondet, "our evenings together
have been perfect, but alas for changes; and Vaura, dear, the landau
is at the door, you know we arranged for a drive."

"Yes, I remember, but let it wait."

"We may not have another opportunity, Lionel, for private converse;
you will write; and Vaura and I shall (D.V.) be at London on the 4th
or 5th; and shall meet you again at Haughton Hall."

"Yes, I shall meet you there," he answered thoughtfully; "my plans are
not yet matured, but I want you to be _certain_ to telegraph me of
your return; I shall meet you at London."

"Fate is cruel to send you away, and at Christmas, but I am forgetting
your poor uncle," said Vaura kindly.

"I shall telegraph of our return without fail, Lionel; and now about
yours to your cousin, had you not best run away and attend to it, we
shall only take a short drive, and be here as soon as you."

"Come with us," said Vaura, "it will save time."

"So it will, and to kill the time I feel that is left to me with you,
would be a Sacrilege."

"What route do you take, Lionel?" enquired his friend.

"You are aware I have a commission for Clayton, at Florence, so must
first go thither, thence to Bologna, then to Turin, Paris, Calais,
Dover and London."

"Shall I ring for Somers, godmother dear, to bring your cloak and
bonnet, while I go and don my wraps?"

"Thank you, yes."

Trevalyon, now going quickly to do his friend's side, said:

"I have but a moment, but I want you to know that this mischief is
brewing for me at the Hall, and it has rapidly fermented; 'society,'
tasting of its bubbles."

"I was sure of it, Lionel, and it is the brew of that woman and Major
Delrose."

"Yes; and their aim is so to damage my reputation that I cannot gain
the woman, and the only one I have ever longed for as my own loved
wife."

"Heaven grant that there machiavelian manoevres may end in failure."

Here the sweet face and small white plush bonnet, scarlet strings and
feathers appear at the door, so a truce to confidentials.

"I shall be so lonely if Fate takes me out of your life even for a
short time," and Vaura's hand is tightly clasped as he assists her
into the landau.

"We shall be lonely also."

"I hope so."

"I must say our lives have been very complete at the villa," said Lady
Esmondet; "our cup of content has been full."

"To the brim;" and his eyes turn at last from Vaura's face as he says,
"you had better drop me here, at the telegraph office while you turn
into the Corso," and stepping from the landau, lifting his hat he was
gone.

"I wonder," said Vaura, "should poor Sir Vincent die, if Miss
Trevalyon will return to New York."

"I am sure of it; Lionel tells me his cousin dislikes English life as
much as she likes that of her ain countree."

Vaura fell into a reverie; after some moments, waking to herself,
said:

"I did not show you the interesting epistle I received from Mrs.
Haughton, in which she says, 'society' hath it that Capt. Trevalyon
rejoices in a 'hidden wife.'"

"A pure invention got up to hurt him."

"But why?" she asked with assumed carelessness.

"Because he is not at a certain woman's feet, she has joined herself
with black Delrose, his enemy of years, is my surmise, and I think the
_denouement_ will prove me correct."

"Poor dear uncle; his life is not an idyl."

"His mistake, Vaura, _ma chere_, is a weight of care to me, that I try
in vain to shake off;" and something very like a tear glistened as she
spoke.

The friends were unusually silent in the drive home. Arrived there
they separated to dress for dinner; Vaura threw herself on her lounge
to rest and think. "Poor, uncle Eric, what a woman he has put on the
shackles of matrimony for; and now her attempt to injure our friend;
poor Lion, my heart is full of pity for you and you do not know it,
because you cannot speak until the "difficulty" is overcome; ah! me,
what a world of lies it is, for that this 'hidden wife,' is a myth,
and an inspiration from Lucifer to Madame, I am quite sure of. But
alas! should their be one grain of truth in the bushel of lies, and
that he cannot prove to 'society's' satisfaction that 'twas only a
grain of youthful folly, that his manhood in its nobility had nothing
to do with it. If he cannot do this, then he will never ask me to be
anything more to him than what I shall always be, his friend; poor
darling, what with his father's grief at his misguided mother's
frailty, he has drank deep of the waters of bitterness; the unruly
member set in motion by scandal, envy, hatred, or malice as motive
power, is more to be dreaded as agent of evil, than dynamite in any
form. But I must ring for Saunders and dress for dinner."

CHAPTER XXXI.

SOCIETY'S VOTARIES SMILE THOUGH THEY DIE.

"Here are some roses, Mademoiselle; the Captain cut them before he
went out and bid me keep them fresh for you."

"Very well, Saunders, I shall wear them this evening; that is, the
yellow ones; put the others in a vase, or give them to me, I shall,
while you get out my ruby velvet; I am pale; it is high waist and no
sleeves; take out my gold ornaments and bracelets--the plain gold
bands; an old lace collar, with roses, shall be my neck-gear; hand me
my vinagrette; I have a slight headache; and please comb my hair
gently, it will be pleasant, yes; that will do."

"Your hair is a fortune to you Mademoiselle, so long and thick."

"Yes, it is, but I like it best because of its fluffiness; it is no
trouble; weatherproof and waterproof.

"So it is, Mademoiselle."

"Now for my gown."

"It fits beautiful, Mademoiselle."

"Yes, I am quite satisfied with it."

And well she may be, for the robe might have grown on the perfect
form, every curve and roundness of figure being followed by the close
clinging velvet; and the arms, bare to the shoulder, fit models for a
sculptor, shone fair as the flesh of a child-blonde against the rich
ruby of the velvet, The perfumed bath had refreshed her, and though a
trifle pale, from heart emotion as to Lionel's probable leave-taking;
her lips always wore a "pretty redness," her eyes had a tender look,
while the fluffy bronze hair had its own beauty as it shaded the brow.

"You are looking charming, _ma chere_," said Lady Esmondet, whom Vaura
met in the hall.

"Thank you, dear, your eyes are partial, I fear."

"No, no, not as you imply."

As they entered the drawing-room, Robert Douglas came from a
comfortable corner where he had been studying a small work of Thomas a
Kempis, which he quietly returned to his pocket saying smiling:

"You see I am here to welcome you; I made myself at home and came here
immediately at the close of even-song."

"We feel complimented that you prefer our society to those very
ecclesiastical looking quarters of yours," said Lady Esmondet.

"And where the ancient fathers look from the walls in wonderment at
the priest of to-day, as he pores over printed records of their bygone
lives."

"Why, Vaura, how did you know that the pictured fathers grace the
walls of my humble retreat?"

"From Isabel."

"Ah, I wondered, for my study is never entered by a strange foot, it
is my rest."

"Is not your rest a misnomer, Robert? for from all I hear, you
literally rest nowhere," inquired Lady Esmondet.

"In my opinion, Lady Esmondet, a priest of the church should never
rest, but always have his armour on, for there is 'so little done, so
much to do.' Thank God we are waking up at last; look at the priest of
to-day (I say it in all humility) as compared with the priest of fifty
years ago."

"True, true," answered Lady Esmondet, "but, don't you think that the
zealous Low Church clergy are doing as much for the human race as you
are?"

"Undoubtedly, for the human race; but not for the church, for their
people often lapse into dissent."

"I don't believe in extremes; I respect the man who is thorough," said
Vaura, seeing that Capt. Trevalyon had entered and seated himself
beside her god-mother, evidently wishing to talk with her, and so, to
help him, taking up the thread of the argument herself.

"But Vaura," said the priest, "don't you think that in the Ritualist,
you have the man who is thorough?"

"Not exactly, he is extreme; the man who is thorough has no uncertain
sound; he neither culls from Rome her vestments, nor from Dissent her
hymns; both Rome and Dissent are thorough, why shouldn't he. But a
truce to argument, a gentleman's trap stops the way," she said
smiling, "is even now at the steps; his back is this way, so I cannot
name him; he talks to his servant, in bottle green livery, who has a
decidedly Hibernian countenance."

"Oh," said Capt. Trevalyon, starting to his feet, "Lady Esmondet, it
must be an Irishman, an acquaintance of mine, Sir Dennis O'Gormon, who
wanted very much to make the acquaintance of the ladies of the villa
Iberia. I had forgotten all about my asking him for to-day."

"It makes no difference, Lionel, 'tis little wonder you forgot such a
small matter in the many more important you have had."

Here a servant announced Sir Denis O'Gormon.

"Ah, O'Gormon, glad to see you. Lady Esmondet, permit me to present to
you Sir Dennis O'Gormon. Miss Vernon allow me to introduce Sir Dennis;
Douglas, I believe you and O'Gormon have met before."

Lady Esmondet and Miss Vernon shook hands with and welcomed their
guest, Lady Esmondet saying graciously, "Any friend of Captain
Trevalyon is always welcome."

"Thank you, Lady Esmondet, but by my faith, Trevalyon's a lucky
fellow, and one whom I have always envied but never more so than now,"
he continued laughingly, "when with all my fascinations I am only
welcomed by two charming women for his sake."

Mrs. Marchmont and Miss Marchmont were now announced. The two ladies
floated in the most approved style towards their hostess, who rose to
welcome them. They were ethereal in every respect, clad in a thin
material of pale green, neck bare and elbow sleeves, and looking more
like sisters than mother and daughter. Sandy of complexion, blue eyed
sharp of feature; the mother having the advantage in flesh, the
daughter being all the angles joined in one.

"I hate a thin woman," was the whispered criticism of Sir Dennis to
Trevalyon, with a suppressed emphasis on the word "hate."

Trevalyon smiled, giving a side glance at Vaura's rounded form, as she
bent gracefully with extended hand in welcome.

"Faith, you may well look in that direction," remarked the Irishman,
detecting him. "She's fair enough to seduce a look from His Holiness
himself."

Here Lady Esmondet introduced Sir Dennis O'Gormon to the Marchmonts;
Trevalyon and Douglas having met them before.

The butler now announced dinner, when Lady Esmondet taking the arm of
Sir Dennis assigned Mrs. Marchmont to Trevalyon, when Douglas handed
in Vaura and Miss Marchmont.

Lady Esmondet found Sir Dennis a pleasant neighbour, who devoted
himself equally to Vaura on his left and to his hostess at the head of
the table. As usual the table was decorated with the rarest of
flowers, which sent forth their delicate perfume from a large stand,
the design of which was an imitation of the famed terraced gardens of
Semiramis: the shrubs and trees represented in miniature by the most
delicate ferns and mosses; the whole a triumph of nature and art.
Choice flowers stood in a tiny bed of moss in front of each person.
Many delicate desert dishes were not only tempting to the palate, but
pleasing to the eye, while the wines in the cellar of the noble Don
Ferdinand were well known and appreciated.

"Del Castello has a snug place here, Lady Esmondet," observed Sir
Dennis.

"Extremely so, Sir Dennis. We are much more comfortably placed by the
kindness of the Marquis than we should have been at an hotel."

"He is a fine generous soul, always remembering that he is not the
only member of the human race," said Sir Dennis (who had met him).

"It is a charming little winter home," said Vaura. "I shall regret to
leave it."

"You won't, I hope, leave for some time yet?"

"Yes; much as we love it," she answered; smiling, "we go north ere
spring has thawed the sceptre out of the frozen hand of winter."

"I am sorry to hear that. But you don't surely go as soon as my friend
Trevalyon?"

Vaura hesitated a moment, not wishing to be a messenger of death at a
dinner table, when Trevalyon came to her aid, cutting Mrs. Marchmont
short in a dissertation on the merits of shaded wool versus plain, by
saying,

"Pardon me, Miss Vernon. I may be obliged, O'Gormon, to leave for
England sooner than I expected; if so, it will be alone."

"One of the penalties of bachelorhood, Trevalyon; by my faith, 'tis a
lonely loneliness."

"I thought most of you glory in the freedom of winging your flight
when you please, without having to say, by your leave," said Vaura,
gaily.

"Not always," said Trevalyon, quietly.

"What do you say, Lady Esmondet. Don't you think a fellow is happier
and less lonely when he cuts bachelor life?"

"Depends on the cards in his hands, and how he plays them, Sir
Dennis," answered his host, laconically.

"True, Lady Esmondet, and if the cards are his, the game is won, the
difficulty over," said Trevalyon, with a glance at Vaura, "and bliss
secured."

"Faith, you're right, Trevalyon."

Here Miss Marchmont's shrill voice was distinctly heard above the
general hum, in animated discussion, saying,

"Oh, I'm sure he comes from the East."

The Rev. Douglas was evidently much amused and disputing the point;
Miss Marchmont continued,

"The dear creature has such a beautiful colour--so bronzed."

"I'll lay any wager 'the dear creature' means a soldier," said
Trevalyon to Vaura.

Vaura smilingly assented.

"A soldier," exclaimed Mrs. Marchmont in horror; "oh no, Capt.
Trevalyon, nothing so naughty; it's Miranda's last pet."

"But we women are given to petting the red-coats, Mrs. Marchmont,"
said Vaura with a laugh in her voice.

"They're too wild for dear Miranda," said Marchmont mater; "the pet
you mean is the last sweet insect you have collected; is it not, my
dear child?" she said, anxious for the fair fame of the owner of the
fine exhibit in elbow and collar bone.

"Yes, mamma, you are right, but I am so sorry Mr. Douglas is not at
one with me; I feel convinced the dear potato bug comes from the east;
he is of brilliant colouring and luxurious habit."

Rev. Robert Douglas laughingly shook his head, and Sir Dennis said:

"Miss Marchmont, you cannot imagine the wager Capt. Trevalyon was
laying when you talked about the 'bronzed beauty;' he wanted some one
to take him up at ten to one you meant a dashing cavalry man, or a
'go-as-he-please' infantry."

"Order! order! O'Gormon," interrupted Trevalyon, laughing.

"Oh! I'm shocked, Capt. Trevalyon," cried Miss Marchmont seriously,
"that my dear potato bug, with all his innocent ways, its care of its
eggs,--."

Here a general laugh went round the table, except from Marchmont
_mere_, who tried in vain to catch the fair Miranda's eye, who
continued bravely, "should be taken for anything so wild as a soldier,
who doesn't do anything so useful. But I must convert you, Mr.
Douglas," she continued, returning to the siege; "it would be such a
sweet study for a clergyman; I shall lend you Cassels' Natural
History, and you must promise to read it for my sake," she said
gushingly.

Meanwhile, Trevalyon tried in vain to catch the drift of conversation
between Vaura and her neighbour, but no, Mrs. Marchmont, though
inwardly afraid of this squire of dames; and of his intellect,
determined to appear at ease, and so talked on the one engrossing idea
of her life; the last conundrum in fancy work, the last fashionable
incongruity in the blending of colours. And poor, victimized Lionel
longed to breathe in Vaura's refreshing breadth of thought; on his
tormentor pausing to recover breath, it was not as balm to a wound to
hear Sir Dennis say pleadingly:

"The gardens of the Collona palace are looking lovely in their tints
of emerald; it will transport me to my loved isle, Miss Vernon, if
you'll walk with me there some day; though our damsels are not fair as
the companion I desire, and her rich beauty would add grace to the
spot."

"Come, come, Sir Dennis, no flattery, I am jealous for the beauty of
those gardens, and do not want to hear, even in jest, my poor looks
would add to their charm," she answered gaily, and evading his
question.

Here Lady Esmondet, feeling for Lionel's torture, catching Mrs.
Marchmont's eye, rose from the table, leaving the gentlemen to discuss
the merits of bottles of no plebeian length of neck.

"How sweetly English the fire in the grate looks," observed Mrs.
Marchmont.

"Yes, it does; but while at home we really require it to keep away
cold, here it is more to remind us of the warm sun gone to rest," said
Lady Esmondet.

"There's no doubt the dear Spaniard, the Marquis Del Castello, has an
eye for luxurious comfort," said Vaura, as she sank into the corner of
a _tete-a-tete_ sofa and fell into a reverie of Lionel's probable
leave-taking.

While Mrs. Marchmont seated herself in an Elizabethan chair, Miranda
placing herself on a footstool by her side and laying her head with
its thin sandy curls on her knee.

"What a child you are still, Miranda," said her mother, sentimentally,
as she fondled the high cheek-bone.

"You are quite companions," said Lady Esmondet.

"We are bosom friends; more than sisters since the departure of my
dear husband."

"Mr. Marchmont has been dead some time, I believe."

"Yes, some twelve years; but, dear Lady Esmondet, Miranda will tell
you that I always speak of dear Charles as departed, gone before; more
as if he had gone out to buy me some new fancy work, you know; the
word 'dead' upsets my nerves so," and the sandy head drooped and a
hand was laid on the forehead.

"Yes; dear mamma has such refined feelings."

"Yes," said her hostess, absently, for she heard a messenger arrive, a
tap at the door of the dining-room, and knew the message was for the
temporary master of the house, an answer to his telegram, and wished
the Marchmonts back to their own quarters, so that the complete little
trio were alone; but she is forgetting Madame Grundy, so says:

"I believe you intend wintering in Italy."

"Yes, we have rented Rose Cottage to a friend of Mrs. Haughton's, a
Major Delrose, late of the --th Lancers."

"Oh, it's _your_ cottage he has rented," said Lady Esmondet, awaking
to interest.

"Yes; Major Delrose took an awful fancy to it, and Mrs. Haughton, dear
thing, took a good deal of trouble in making our arrangements; neither
Miranda or myself are strong."

"Strong! What an odious word to apply to us. It smells of milk and
milk-maids; we would be uninteresting without our pet ailments."

"Excuse me, my child, I know a zephyr could waft us away."

"Pull-backs would be rather in the way of the onward movement of the
zephyr, don't you think?" inquired Vaura, ironically, and glancing at
the figure of the speaker, who with her daughter wore, at the
instigation of Mrs. Haughton (who laughed with her men friends at the
objects they were), skin-tight chamois under-clothing, and with only
one narrow underskirt beneath the dress, express the figure so that
nothing is left to imagination.

"Ah! Miss Vernon, don't be severe; Mrs. Haughton, dear thing, says you
have no pet sins, but if you will only wear tights, I shall send in my
own name for them," she said coaxingly.

"_Merci_! madame," said Vaura lightly, "but Worth has not yet told me
my pleasure in life would be enhanced by the encasing of my body in
tights, so I shall content myself with myself, as you see me."

"I'm so sorry you won't."

"Yes; but I believe I interrupted you; you were saying something about
Mrs. Haughton having kindly smoothed away difficulties in the way of
your wintering in Italy;" this she said roused to interest for her
uncle's sake, "and this Major Delrose, how was he mixed up with Mrs.
Haughton?"

"Oh! yes, Miss Vernon, the dear tights put everything else out of my
head; well, as I was saying, Major Delrose longed to be near the Hall,
and as the Colonel does not take to him, you see he is a little
attentive to Mrs. Haughton, and the dear thing likes him, dear Charles
was just like the Colonel, if men have handsome wives they don't like
men to admire them; so Mrs. Haughton, dear thing, hit upon this plan,
and they both arranged it with us one day they were in, and we were
not strong, I mean we were delicate, so we remain as long as the Major
wants Rose cottage, then we go to London to my sister, Mrs.
Meltonbury, for the season."

"Ah! I understand, quite a friendly arrangement," answered Vaura, a
trifle sarcastically. Here a diversion was caused by the entrance of
the gentlemen.

The fair Miranda raised her sandy head from her mother's knee and
looked languishingly at the priest, who smiled as he took a seat
beside her.

"I am so glad we have you in Rome during our stay," observed Mrs.
Marchmont, gushingly, "you will be such company for Miranda while I am
embroidering; the sweet child was saying she should so much like to go
to you for confession."

"Confessing! who is confessing?" said Sir Dennis, as he entered,
"faith for once I would not say no to playing priest where there is a
lovely penitent to shrive," and he glanced at Vaura and was making for
the sofa beside her, but Lionel with one long step gained their mutual
goal, saying:

"Priest Douglas will not allow you to entrench upon his preserves,
O'Gorman."

"Faith! you wouldn't either," said the Irishman with a side glance at
the sofa.

"But tell me," continued Trevalyon, "confess, reverent Father, dost
thou at confession bestow the gentle kiss of reconciliation?"

"You should not disclose the secrets of the confessional, Robert,"
said Lady Esmondet, coming to his aid.

"No! trust me," answered Robert, and Miss Marchmont hung her head and
blushed.

"It would be a pleasant little _denouement_ when the penitent was a
pretty woman," said Trevalyon laughingly.

"_A propos_ of the confessional, did any of you ever come under the
torture of that modern Inquisition, the 'Confession Book?'" said
Vaura.

"Yes, yes," cried the gentlemen simultaneously.

"Oh! don't denounce them, Miss Vernon," exclaimed Miss Marchmont
pathetically. "I could not exist without mine; it is so interesting to
read aloud from at a picnic, tennis party, or five o'clock tea.
Indeed, my confession book was one of the chief sources of pleasure at
Rose Cottage, wasn't it, mamma?" and she stroked her mother's hand
caressingly.

"It was, Miranda; and Miss Vernon must promise to write down all her
secrets in your book on her return to England; Blanche Tompkins has it
in charge; you will promise to write, Miss Vernon, won't you?" and the
thin lips were pursed into a smile.

"The saints forbid," laughed Vaura, "that I should put the surgical
knife, as it were, to my heart, and lay bare all its latent workings
for the express delectation of five o'clock teas--and women!"

"Oh! do, dear Miss Vernon," said Miss Marchmont coaxingly, "your heart
would be so interesting."

The gentlemen laughed.

"Nearly as much so as the potato bug," said Vaura in an undertone to
Trevalyon; aloud, she said gaily:

"No, I rebel, and most solemnly affirm, that, as you tell me Mrs.
Haughton says I cultivate no pet sins, and as she is your oracle, I
abide by her decision; with no pet sins, what could I say? that, as to
colours, Worth supplies me. That, though I be ostracised by Mrs.
Grundy, I still have the courage left in me to affirm that I don't and
won't climb the dizzy heights or flights, to pour incense on that
shrine alone. And that, were I on the rack, I should gasp forth that
the woman who invented torture-books has not my heart-felt love."

"Hear! hear!" said O'Gormon, clapping his hands, "'when found, make a
note on,' Miss Marchmont, and you have Miss Vernon's confession."

"Yes now I should never have thought of that; you Irish think like
lightning; let me see if I can recall what Miss Vernon said," and the
sandy locks are thrown backwards as the blue eyes dwell on the painted
ceiling.

"But, Miss Marchmont," said Trevalyon, in pretended earnest, "it would
be unorthodox, and spoil your book, unless you extract a promise from
Miss Vernon, only to pour incense at the feet of the brilliant Earl."

"Oh certainly, thank you, Capt. Trevalyon; pardon me, Miss Vernon,"
cried the owner of the torture-book, in great dismay, "excuse me, but
everyone contributing to my book, must admire the dear Earl more than
anyone departed or with us (Gladstone after, if you wish); of course,"
she added apologetically, "one does not care to remember he has Jewish
blood, yet against that fact is, that he has never eaten pork, such a
nasty, vulgar meat."

"Remember, Miranda sweet, that Miss Vernon, having spent so much of
her life in France, cannot perhaps know that it is the fashion to
worship the Earl."

"From Earl Beaconsfield to music is a long look, but let us take it,"
said Lady Esmondet; "Miss Marchmont, will you sing for us?"

As Miranda asked Rev. Robert what it should be, Vaura said in an
undertone to Trevalyon:

"I do admire the clever Earl immensely, and not only because it is the
decree of the god of fashion."

"I wish we had the evening to ourselves," he murmured, "what do you
think of the Irishman?"

"He is lavish of the superlative degree; is good-hearted as his race;
and for the time being, feels intensely," she answered.

Miss Marchmont, now asking her mother to join her in the duet, "Come
where my love lies dreaming," they glided arm in arm to the piano, and
now Miss Marchmont implored of some one to come where her love lay
dreaming, in a shrill treble, while her mother repeated the request in
a very fair alto.

O'Gormon challenged Vaura to a game at chess.

Lionel fell into a brown study of his future plans to undo the
mischief done by a woman's tongue. The poor fellow often glanced at
Vaura in all her loveliness, and a pain came to his heart as he
looked, for he thought of how he was leaving her, not knowing if she
loved him, and with other men about her; and of how, with the torture
that he might lose her weighing him down, he was going out from her
alone to find Sister Magdalen, and see if she would openly reveal all.
She had been reticent and guarded for years, and he was not in a mood
to hope much.

But now he hears the clear voice of Vaura cry, "checkmate," and
O'Gormon leads her to the piano.

Vaura gave them a gem of Mozart's, then some gay opera airs, then, in
response to their pleading for some song, gave "Il Bacio," in her full
rich tones.

Sir Dennis stood by the piano and looked his admiration.

"You seem fond of music, Sir Dennis," said the fair musician, as she
leisurely turned over the music with him in search for a song from
"Traviata."

"Fond of it! I adore it, and sometimes the musician."

"A double tax on your powers of adoring," said Vaura, gaily, as Sir
Dennis placed the song before her, but though her notes were clear and
sweet as a bird's, her heart was sad at the thought of the parting
between Lionel and herself, and just now she had no sympathy with the
free-from-care spirit of the song "Gaily Thro' Life I Wander."

During the song Capt. Trevalyon was summoned from the room. It is a
telegram, and runs thus:

"THE LANGHAM HOTEL,
"LONDON, England, Dec. 24th.

"My father cannot live, and wishes to see you. Physician says come at
once." JUDITH TREVALYON.

"Capt. Trevalyon,
"Villa Iberia, Rome, Italy."

"Sims, this telegram calls me to England. You say there is an express
at midnight. It is now 10.30, go at once and take some necessary
refreshment; pack my luggage, leaving out my travelling gear; get your
own box, and have them conveyed to the depot, express them through to
London, to the Langham, and be ready to leave with me by the midnight
train; and don't forget Mars."

"Yes sir; and what time, sir, shall I order the trap to take you to
the _depot_, sir?"

"At 11.30 sharp, Sims."

"Yes, sir."

Captain Trevalyon hurried back to the salons just as Vaura finished
her song. He made his way to Lady Esmondet, in order to get a word in
her ear, as Sir Dennis monopolised Vaura; but Mrs. Marchmont was full
of a new folding screen Mrs. Haughton had ordered from London.

"The dear thing wanted something novel, so had the three 'Graces'
painted on a sky-blue plush ground, suspended in the air; over them
(as it were) hangs an open umbrella in rose-pink; oh! it's too lovely
for anything, Lady Esmondet; you will be entranced when you see it,
Captain Trevalyon," and she folded her hands and turned her pale blue
eyes upwards.

To Captain Trevalyon's relief, Vaura asked him to sing something, and
seeing it was hopeless just now, to have a word with Lady Esmondet, he
hoped when his song was over and their glass of champagne drank, there
would be a general exodus ere it was time for him to leave; so he
moved towards the piano, and playing his own accompaniment, sang one
of Moore's melodies, "Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour."

Vaura sat at a small table near the piano. Sir Dennis, with the
sanguineness of his race, thought she was interested in his chit-chat
and in a book of Italian views, but her thoughts were with Lionel, for
she caught his eye, and "minds run in grooves," and he knew that she
under stood, his silent farewell; she felt her heart ache, and would
have risen and gone to him, but "men may suffer and women may weep,"
but the conventionalities must be attended to, or the mighty god,
society, stares and frowns; and so Lionel sung parting words to the
woman he loved, and to his friend; and surely Moore would have been
moved to tears had he heard the depth of feeling thrown into his
words. When he was singing, the silver chimes softly rang eleven
o'clock, so knowing he had no time to lose, he quietly left the room.

Vaura's heart throbbed quickly for she thought, "he has gone."

But the Marchmonts, much to her relief and Lady Esmondet, saying they
must "really tear themselves away," a rather prolonged leave-taking
took place between Reverend Robert Douglas and Miss Marchmont, into
which Mrs. Marchmont was drawn.

"Well, I don't know, Miranda sweet," she says, "that I can promise to
take you to St. Augustine service tomorrow afternoon. I am going to
high mass at St. Peter's, and shall be fatigued."

Vaura, who was standing near, listening to O'Gormon's adieux, and
anxious to do anything to hasten their leave-taking, said quickly:

"I shall likely go, and shall call at your hotel for Miss Marchmont."

Miss Marchmont was gushing in her thanks.

"Oh! don't forget, Miss Vernon, I wouldn't miss hearing Mr. Douglas
intone the service for worlds."

"The creature, not the creator," thought Vaura. But now at last the
guests have departed and the friends are alone.

Lionel sees them go from the garden walk which he is pacing up and
down, ready to go and waiting for the trap. He has gone out urged by
conflicting emotions, head aching, and in the air hoping to gain calm.
It is now 11.15; fifteen minutes yet. "If I could only see her alone."

Fortune favours him, for Lady Esmondet having heard from Saunders
(while Vaura is engaged with the Marchmonts) that Captain Trevalyon is
about somewhere, as he does not go until eleven thirty, taking in the
situation, tells Vaura to go to the _salons_ for a little while and
she will join her after she gives some directions to her maid.

So Vaura returns and, wishing to be quite alone before Lady Esmondet
joins her, steps into the conservatory, but there her sense of
loneliness is so complete, that she returns to the _salon_ immediately
adjoining, and drawing the heavy brocade curtains dividing it from the
others, she feels that she can give herself up to thoughts of Lionel;
she knows now that he is gone; she would give worlds to have him by
her side; she throws herself onto a lounge with her great white arms
in a favourite attitude thrown above her head. But in the moment of
her entrance into the conservatory, Lionel had seen her from the
garden and came in noiselessly to make sure; she is alone, and he is
now gazing at her through the glass door; her bosom heaves, her flower
face is lovely in its transparent soft paleness, and her eyelids are
wet with the tear-drops she will not let fall, her lips move and he
opens the door on its noiseless hinges, she says softly:

"Oh, darling, why did you go?" and she throws herself on her side and
buries her face in her arms. Now Lionel fearing to hear the wheels of
the trap to take him away, makes a noise with the door as if he had
only come, and so Vaura thinks as she starts to a sitting posture and
her heart beats wildly as she says, putting both hands to her side,
"Oh, you are not gone, I am so glad."

"But I am going, and in a few minutes, Vaura darling," and he seated
himself beside her; "you must know I love you with the whole pent-up
love of my life," and his arm was round her. "You know, darling, I
told you of a difficulty and I did not mean to speak until it was
removed, but my heart has ached and I am so unmanned I have not known
sometimes what to do or how to bear up; I have been in torture,
darling, lest other men should win your love. Oh! my love, my
beautiful darling, say you will not give your heart to another, that
you will wait until I can plead my cause."

"I shall wait, dear Lionel."

"God, is it so, darling, darling?" and the soft hand was pressed and
the lovely head was drawn to his breast and the rose-mouth was kissed
again and again.

"There, that will do, won't it, Lionel, for to-night; we have waited
so long," and the large grey eyes with their warm love-light, looked
into the tired blue of the eyes so near her own now with a great
passionate love looking from them.

"Darling love," and his cheek was on hers, "I feel so full of bliss
and content, and my nerves all throbbing, I don't think I can ever let
you go; oh, you don't know how I love you. I used to boast of my
strength with women beauty; but with you in my arms, heaven, what
bliss! Vaura, darling, I feel half delirious; and yet a full rich joy
in living and loving could not turn a man's brain."

And now the hall bell is pulled furiously; Vaura starts up and to her
feet.

"Put your soft arms around my neck, darling, and give me a good-bye
kiss; it will be a talisman from evil and help me through my lonely
travels."

And her arms are clasped tightly round his neck, and his head bends
down to the sweet lips.

"Good-bye, dearest Lion," and the eyes rest on his and she whispers,
"I am not sorry I came back alone to the _salons_."

"My love; how can I leave you."

"You must."

And Lady Esmondet calls and Lionel hurries to the ball, and with a
tight hand-clasp with his friend and a whispered, "I shall and most
conquer my enemies."

"You will, Lionel."

And Lady Esmondet knew by the light in his eyes that he had spoken and
she was glad.

Having promised Vaura to join her she now turned her steps towards the
_salons_, but thinking, "No, she will not want me to-night," retraced
her steps to her own room; and while her maid disrobed her, the lonely
woman thought: "What a perfect union theirs will be; both handsome,
gifted, and with much gold, for I shall settle L3,000 per annum on
Vaura. Sir Vincent will do something for dear Lionel. Ah, me; what I
have missed in my wedded life, I who could have loved a husband of my
own choice so fondly, so truly. Eric, Eric, you alone would have made
me happy; but I am growing old, I am looking back; it is folly. Alice
Esmondet, you must not give way to melancholy, life is sweet to you
even if you are not a winner of all good in life's game--. Give me a
few drops of red lavender, Somers; there, that will do; now leave me
and go to rest."

Vaura's whole being was filled with such intense happiness as she sank
into a corner of the sofa where Lionel had found her a short time
before that she would not move and so perhaps break the spell.

Emotional natures will know how she felt; as one does on waking from a
dream of the night, so rich, so full of sweetness, so full of
delicious languor one does not move a muscle lest the sensation pass.

At last she moves with a great sigh. "My darling, mine," she thought,
"and he loves me; come back to me, Lion," and the great fair arms were
clasped at the back of her head, then thrown down to the knees, and
the hands go together, while a smile, oh, how sweet and tender, comes
to the mouth, and the eyes are wet with their warmth and feeling.

"I'm glad you spoke before the 'difficulty,' is overcome, for if you
can never undo it you will know that I always loved you. Men who would
have satisfied most women have wooed me in vain. And now could any one
of them who have charged me with cruelty see me. Yes, dearest Lion, I
am every inch a woman and am subdued at last, and longing, longing,
dear heart, to feel your arms about me and see the light in your
mesmeric eyes. I have been waiting for you so long, love; come back to
me, for I cannot do without the sweet, grave smile, the look from the
tired eyes. Do you know, darling, as you are whirling away to northern
climes that I am dreaming the hours away thinking of you; it is one
o'clock, love, good night."

And Vaura, in all her loveliness, and full of a dreamy languor, went
to her chamber. Saunders heard the light step in the silent household
and followed her mistress.

"You must be sleepy, Saunders; put away my robe, lace, and jewels, and
go."

"I am not tired, Mademoiselle; I have just had a nap in the house-
keeper's room; you'd best let me run the comb through your hair,
Mademoiselle."

"Very well, Saunders, but be quick; I am tired."

"The household are sorry, Miss, that the Captain is away; we were
proud to have such a handsome master, and so free-handed; but it
wasn't for what the Captain gave; it was his own kind ways, and we'll
be wishing his servant back too, Mademoiselle; he was so merry. But
his master was so kind, Sims could but be happy."

"Even the hirelings love him," thought her mistress; aloud she says:

"I am quite sure Capt. Trevalyon was a kind master, Saunders, and
Sims was a faithful servant, and looked the essence of good humour.
Good-night, you can go now,"

"Good-night, ma'am; what time shall I call you for your bath, ma'am?"

"At half-past nine."

"Yes, ma'am."

And the white _robe de nuit_ is on, and this sweet woman glances at
the mirror, and smiles at the fair face with the bright brown curls on
the brow, the throat as fair as the soft robe of muslin, all a mystery
of embroidery and shapely clingingness.

CHAPTER XXXII.

TREVALYON GONE, VAURA KILLS TIME.

Christmas Day, the birth-day of Christ, dawned fair, beautiful, and
bright, and was ushered in by many a peal of sweet sounding bells.

The heavenly east was so gloriously bright as old Sol mounted upwards,
as to cause many a devout Roman (as he wended his steps to worship the
Creator, at the altar, in one or other temple whose doors stood wide
open, admitting a gleam of sunlight onto the figure of the sleeping
babe, and the adoring faces of the worshippers, to cause him) to
imagine as he gazed upward, that the heavenly Host caused all this
flood of light in the warm, glorious east, by their smiles of approval
at man's attempt to adore.

Vaura woke from a late sleep as Saunders tapped at the door; slumber
had only come to her by sweet snatches during the hours of the night;
but she lay happy in the dreamy quiet; and the face of the man she
loved was ever before her. On waking, as her maid knocked, her first
feeling was that something was wanting; that something had gone out of
her daily life, and she gave a long deep sigh. Then the sweet sense,
that she was loved, came to her; not that the knowledge of this man's
love was just come to her--she had known it for some time, but they
had both reached that stage when mutual pledges of love were craved
for, and which to fill their whole being with the fulness of content,
with the fulness of a satisfied bliss, had become a necessity.

The first thing that met her eye on rising, were a few crushed flowers
on the seat of her favourite chair. Tied around the stalks was a
delicate point-lace handkerchief; on the tiny square of muslin was
written, in the handwriting she knew so well, Vaura Vernon; among the
blossoms were a few written words:

"My heart aches at leaving you without a word of farewell My brain is
in a whirl. I feel as though I shall go mad if you give your love to
another; save me by writing me. Writing! how cold. God help me!--Your
LIONEL."

Capt. Trevalyon, not thinking to see Vaura, had, before going into the
garden, gone to her boudoir, and placed this mute farewell on her
chair.

"Now my darling knows," she thought as she pressed them to her lips.

There were warm Christmas greetings exchanged between the two women
friends, on meeting in the breakfast room. When the servants were
released from duty, duty, Lady Esmondet said:

"Dear Lionel has left us something to remember him, at least for
to-day, Vaura, _ma chere_, see here," and she held up two vinaigrettes
she had been admiring; on the cover to the stopper of one was the name
"Alice Esmondet," on the other, "Vaura Vernon." Both bottles were
small and both gold; on one side of Vaura's were the words, "I am
weary waiting, L. T.," in very small letters, while a tiny wreath of
forget-me-nots encircled the words; blue stones, inlaid, formed the
flowers; round each was a slip of paper--with the words: "With love
and Christmas wishes, from Lionel Trevalyon. For the crush at St.
Peter's."

"Kind and thoughtful, for we shall feel his gift refreshing in the
crowd," said Lady Esmondet.

"Poor dear, far away; we shall miss him on this bright Christmas
morn," said Vaura, as she read the words, "I am weary waiting."

"But I am forgetting my gift to you, and one from dear Uncle Eric,"
and Vaura took from a small box a lovely locket, on one side was a
miniature copy of Haughton; on the other the lovely face of the giver.
"And this from Uncle for you came to me on yesterday;" and Vaura
presented a photo of Col. Haughton.

"How sweet it is to be remembered, Vaura, and it's a good likeness of
your dear uncle. And here is a gift from myself, a mere bagatelle, but
I hope you will like it," and she handed Vaura an acknowledgement from
Worth of an order for a ball-dress, to be at Haughton Hall on the 5th
January, 1878.

"Thanks, god-mother mine, your thoughts are always of some one other
than of Alice Esmondet."

"Not at all, dear."

"I shall be glad to return to England now," and there was a tender
light in Vaura's eyes; "that is, dear god-mother, if you have laid up
a sufficient store of strength."

"I have, _ma chere_, and if the revelry at Haughton isn't too much, I
shall be able not only to stand, but enjoy the season; I feel very
strong, and had I had a happy life--I mean, dear, had I married where
my heart was--all would have been right; this 'eating out the heart
alone' is not good for one. I have taken all the tricks I could, and
made the most of the cards in my hand, but they have not been to my
liking."

"My hand shall follow my heart," said Vaura, earnestly; "how I wish
yours had, dear."

"Yes, it has been hard for me; but Fate, the dealer, is giving you
good cards."

"How think you, godmother; is the game ours?"

"You will win."

"How did you know?" she said, softly, coming over to Lady Esmondet,
and stooping to kiss her.

"By the great light in his eyes when he bade me adieu, and the
heart-shine in your own; it has been the wish, of my life lately; God
is giving you a paradise in life, dear."

"He is."

"This plot to damage Lionel's reputation is a something too mean,"
said Lady Esmondet indignantly; "in Mrs. Clayton's last letter to me
she asks me to 'decline to receive him, unless he publicly
acknowledges his hidden wife;' she says, though 'the women still will
pet him, their husbands are down upon him;' she further says, 'Clayton
says he has no right to run loose with a hidden wife somewhere;' she
says it has been in two or three papers. I declare, Vaura, if it were
not for the feeling I have that we shall be a comfort to your uncle, I
do not care to go to Haughton."

"Poor Lionel," said Vaura, thoughtfully, "he has got himself into a
wasp's nest. Suppose we don't stay at Haughton, excepting for the
ball, then go quietly to your town house."

"Yes, dear, as we pass through London I shall give orders that my
house be in readiness any day to receive us; so, dear, if after we
stay for a short visit we find it a bore, we shall go up."

"And be voted Goths and Vandals for showing our faces before the
season opens; and Mrs. Grundy says 'Come;' what slaves we are!" said
Vaura.

Now there is a tap at the door, and a servant enters with
contributions from the post.

"Any orders, your ladyship?"

"Yes, the landau is to be at the door to take us to St. Peter's in an
hour; at the close of mass we shall drive to the Duchess of Wyesdale,
with whom we lunch; further orders there. And here, Barnes," continued
Lady Esmondet, taking out her purse, "distribute this gold to the
household, excepting to Somers and Saunders, whom I shall attend to
personally; and see that no poor go empty-handed from the villa on
this, the Day of Days."

"Thank you, your ladyship, you are very kind, and we all wish you and
Mademoiselle a good Christmas."

"Thank you, Barnes."

"The man in bottle-green livery coming to the door," said Vaura, as
she left the breakfast-table, "is servant to our friend of Erin."

In a few moments Saunders brought her mistress a beautiful bouquet,
with the card of Sir Dennis, on which was written, "A merry Christmas
to Miss Vernon."

"What think you of the Irishman?" asked Lady Esmondet.

"Oh, I hardly know; he is a great good-natured creature; if his heart
be proportioned to the rest of his frame, the future Lady O'Gormon
will require to be intensely lovable."

"The cards are quite artistic this year," said Lady Esmondet; "but of
yours, I think the one from poor Marie Perrault the most
_recherchee_."

"She encloses me a few lines; poor girl, she makes a great fuss over
the few bits of gold I sent her. I have just read a letter from Mrs.
Wingfield; after a good deal of chit-chat she says: We are staying at
the Lord Elton's place, Surrey, and are quite lively over the
Trevalyon's 'Hidden Wife' story; the men are mad that he runs loose,
while they are held in bondage with the fetters that he should be held
in also. I declare, god-mother dear, one is inclined to think envy is
the motive power that rules the human family."

"Indeed, yes; envy, hatred and malice are a prosperous firm who will
not fail for want of capital."

"This Major Delrose, that the Marchmonts named, must be a sworn enemy
of poor dear Lionel?"

"He is, and of years."

"Ah! an intuitive feeling told me so; and at Rose Cottage; and the
woodland at the outskirts of our grounds hides it from the Hall; and a
man and woman could meet and plot unobserved; but, god-mother mine,
let us away to dress; the first bells are sounding their sweet musical
invitation, and I shall try to forget Mrs. Haughton; for, among
Christ's gifts to men, I perhaps have not valued that most excellent
gift of charity."

Vaura is first robed, but Lady Esmondet enters the hall from her
boudoir in a few moments. They are now in the landau, and rapidly
driven to that most stately of modern sanctuaries, a type in its
magnificent architecture and strength of the pride, riches, and unity
of the wonderful system it represents.

Vaura wears a robe of seal brown velvet and tight jacket of seal fur,
a small _ecru_ velvet bonnet with scarlet geraniums among the lace.

Lady Esmondet wishes Lionel could see the sweet face, and the far-away
look in the great expressive eyes. The vast building was crowded to
the doors; the singing of mass grand to sublimity, and "the holy
organ's rolling sound was felt on roof and floor," its vibrations
thrilling the hearts of the worshippers. The majestic grandeur of the
interior of this stately edifice, with its many altars, was on this
holy festival, enhanced by many beautiful decorations, chaste in
design and of costly value. Rare gems, vessels of gold, and vessels of
silver, the gifts of princes, sparkled on altars of perfect
workmanship, while beauteous flowers raised their heads from priceless
vases, trying in vain, with their sweet odour to drown the fumes of
incense, wafted from the censor in the hands of the acolytes.

High mass being concluded, Lady Esmondet, with Vaura, slowly emerged
from the sacred edifice. O'Gormon and a young Italian attached to the
Quirinal having waited for them at the door, conducted them to their
landau, when with warm Christmas greetings they parted to meat for
lunch with the Duchess of Wyesdale. On reaching their destination they
found their slender waisted hostess, with her daughter, the Lady
Eveline Northingdon, with a few English and Italian notabilities,
assembled in the _salons_. The Duchess looked blank on seeing that
Capt. Trevalyon was not in attendance; for to tell the truth, she had
only invited Lady Esmondet and Miss Vernon because she could not very
well bid Trevalyon to lunch and ignore his hostess.

For though he had only given her a few careless flatteries, they were
her food; still he had looked into her eyes and smiled. It was only a
way he had, but she was a silly little woman, and vain, telling
herself that in the old days she was sure he loved her hopelessly, but
the Duke then lived, and British law was in the way, a woman could not
marry more than one man at one time. She little knew that the mighty
eagle, as he soars to his home in the mountain heights, with his bold
glance wooing the sun, would as soon love the puny night hawk as would
Lionel Trevalyon waste his heart's strongest feelings on such a frail
butterfly as Posey Wyesdale.

So, now, on the _entree_ of our friends without Trevalyon the Duchess,
as she greeted them, called out in her thin treble,

"Where's my truant cavalier? You have never come without him? That
would be too cruel."

"We have; simply because he has left Rome and Italy."

"Left Rome without bidding me _adieu_," screamed Posey, "how cruel!
Eveline, ring for my drops; the shock makes me feel quite faint. Tell
me how, and why, Lady Esmondet?"

"His uncle, Sir Vincent was dying,--is now probably over the border."

"To a death-bed! how unfortunate! What shall I do without him for my
tableaux?" she was moved to tears--for the tableaux.

"What a pity the mighty Angel of Death would not stay his hand even
for the tableaux of an English Duchess!" said Lady Esmondet, with
veiled cynicism.

"Yes, I think he was very cruel," sobbed the Duchess.

"Never mind, mamma," said Eveline, soothingly "Some one else can take
his place, and perhaps Capt. Trevalyon will now be a baronet, and that
will be so nice. You like him, so it will make it all right."

"So it will," said Posey, drying her eyes, "if it's so, is it, Lady
Esmondet?"

"Yes, Lady Wyesdale, Capt. Trevalyon succeeds to the baronetcy."

Lady Esmondet's remark was carried with different variations to the
end of the _salon_, where Vaura sat. She was immediately besieged with
questions.

"What is this rumour, Miss Vernon," asked an Englishman; "is Trevalyon
to be raised to the peerage?"

"For his looks of an Adonis and many fascinations," cried one.

"No, for his many _affaires de coeur_," laughed another.

"Or that his 'hidden wife' is coming forth," said a London man, who
read the news.

"More likely for some knightly act, by his Queen rewarded," echoed a
soft-voiced Italian.

"Or his vote is promised for the war supply," said the London man.

"_Carita, carita_!" said Vaura, laughingly, and turning to the London
man, "You forget the party motto, 'no bribery,' Mr. Howard, and if you
all lend an ear, I shall tell you that instead of a peerage, our
friend, as far as I know, is plain Capt. Trevalyon."

"Heresy, Miss Vernon, for he is not 'plain,' and you women will have
it that he is a peer in our age."

"A peerless way of putting it, Mr. Howard," laughed Vaura.

"Luncheon is served, my lady," said the butler.

"Somebody take in everybody," said the Duchess. "We always go to
luncheon _sans ceremonie_."

And so fate willed Signor Castenelli (the young Italian who had
accompanied them to the landau) to Vaura. The table was gay with
Sevres china and _majolica_ ware, but the viands were poor and scanty,
and the victuals few and far between. One man of healthy appetite
could easily have laid bare dishes that had been prepared for seven,
when five morning callers having been invited to remain, so lessened
the _morceau_ for each guest. The Duchess having decided on getting
all her wardrobe from the magic scissors of Worth, had determined to
retrench in the matter of wines, etc., not putting faith in the adage
that "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"Believe me," she would say to her butterfly friends, "I know men's
tastes, and they would rather feast their eyes than their stomachs."

You may be very wise, Posey Wyesdale, but trust me, a man has no eyes
for either you or your gown, if after a long ride or much calling he
finally, in an evil hour, succumbs to your invitation to lunch and you
give him a mouthful of chicken and one slice of wafer-like bread and
butter, the mighty whole washed down with a cup of weak tea or thin
wine; rather would he (curled darling though he be) return to the
primitive custom of his forefathers and feed the inner man at the
much-despised mid-day dinner on steaming slices of venison or beef,
while he slaked his thirst in a bumper of British beer. But as
O'Gormon said to Castenelli, on dining with him on that same evening:
"Faith, all that was on the table of Lady Wyesdale wouldn't add to the
hips of a grasshopper."

"No, a fellow wouldn't have to try your larding system to get himself
into waltzing shape; did your little. English duchess cater for him,"
had laughed Castenelli.

But let us return to the Duchess of Wyesdale and her guests.

It seemed to Lady Esmondet, who was seated near her hostess, who plied
her with questions as to Captain Trevalyon's whereabouts and possible
doings, an insufferable bore to be there. To Vaura, who was more
pleasantly placed; it seemed as though a few sentences were said, a
few mouthfuls eaten, and the feast over.

"How is your noble king; Signor Castenelli," inquired Vaura.

"Our beauteous flowers will not bloom, nor our sweet-song birds sing
another summer for him; my heart weeps as I say it, Signora."

"Yes; he is a fit king for so fair a land, and I sincerely trust for
your sake and Italy, your fears will not be realized. The gentle Pius
IX. is also stricken down."

"Yes, Signora, but our Holy Father's loss could be more easily
replaced than that of our beloved temporal sovereign."

"Yes; a few solitary closetings of the Cardinals, a few ballots taken,
a few volumes of smoke, and the Pope lives again."

"You like my city, Signora?"

"I love it. Ah! how much have you here to enoble, to refine, to
educate; what great souls have expanded in an atmosphere laden with
the breath of a long, never-dying line of poets, orators, sculptors
and painters. Yes, Signor Castenelli, it is a noble heritage to be
Roman-born."

"Thanks, Signora Vernon, for your gracious tribute to my country. But
alas, we are fast becoming inoculated with the progressive spirit of
the age; the American is among us."

"You should extol him, Signor Castenelli, it is the fashion with us to
welcome him, his note-book and his gold."

"He is too energetic for me," said the Italian, as Vaura taking his
arm followed others to the salons and from the feast.

"He is a man of his time; you and I, Signor, are old-fashioned in
regretting that many of the old land-marks are doomed; the spirit of
the age is insatiable and his votaries are never idle in sacrificing
in his honour, and if we'd be happy we must not weep. I confess I
regret that your historic, not over clean, but picturesque Jews
quarter, the Ghetto, is to give place to your new palace of justice;
it is rather an incongruity (to me) that it should rise as if from the
ashes of hearth-stones round which in days of yore figures sat to whom
justice had been very imperfectly meted out."

"True, true, Signora Vernon, and I don't like to see them all go, and
your sympathy is sweet. The American is a giant in his time; but we
are not as they, he is literally a man of to-day; he has to be always
in a hurry to make his name tell. We have done all that, but he is
wrong to say we are dreamers," and his eyes flashed; "our blood is as
full of fire as in the days of the Gracchi, the Caesars."

"Theirs was a grand age, but ours is gay, and could we be promoted
backwards, I fear me," she added gaily, "we would long for our
telephone, our electric light, our novels, our mutual club life, our
great Worth, our lounging chairs, and many other pet luxuries."

"True, Signora," answered Castenelli, in the same tone, "and I can
answer for myself; were a _belle_ of those days to step from the
canvas for my approval, I should tell her to sleep on, and give place
to her more beautiful and gay sister of my own day."

"In the name of the butterflies of to-day, I thank you," said Vaura
gaily.

"How long do you grace Rome with your presence?"

"One short week and a day, Signor; and I shall not leave your sun-warm
Italia without regret, replete as it is with so much that charms the
mind and senses, none so soulless I hope, but would feel as I shall on
bidding adieu to one of the choicest gardens Dame Nature revels in."

"Why leave us so soon?"

"Fate wills it, and there are home revels to which we are bid, and the
crush of the season after, where we shall only see our wings glisten
by Edisons or the now doomed gas-shine, for fog reigns supreme in the
day-time, and poor old Sol is hid from us."

"London belles would shine by their own beauty even in Egyptian
darkness."

For the Italian took pleasure in the beauty of the fair woman beside
him, her expressive face changing as some word touched her heart, or
again gay, reflecting a nature ever ready to respond in sympathy with
the feeling of those who pleased her.

"One of your countrymen writes me from your metropolis," taking a
letter from his pocket; "I shall read you a line or two: 'Our city
will soon be bright with the beauty of fair women, handsome men,
superb robings, gay equipages, prancing steeds. Rumour hath it that
one of our favourite belles is sunning herself in your land. Don't mar
the beauty of our constellation by detaining her with you after the
season opens for we must have _la belle_ Vernon.' Would that I had the
power, was my thought as I read."

"Your friend exaggerates my poor charms, Signor."

"With so much of beauty to choose from, mademoiselle, London society
is critical, and my friend only endorses its verdict."

"Well, Signor, London will have something of weightier matter to
decide this coming season than the passing beauty of woman. Our
parliament have the vote on the war supply, and as Beaconsfield cannot
go into the strife empty-handed on the issue of that vote hangs the
destiny of many lives."

"Think you the Bright or peace party will be strong enough to
prevail?"

"No; England's sons are ever jealous of their country's honour. There
is a strong popular feeling against any encroachments by the Russian
Bear. Our young officers are ever eager for a chance to distinguish
themselves, and our men," she added gaily, "have fists all knuckles,
always doubled for a good hard blow."

"Well, it seems to me an expensive undertaking that your bold
countrymen meditate. Turkey is lazy and luxurious."

"Yes; not a fit sentinel for a dangerous post; still, what are we to
do? We cannot uproot them and plant in their place the trusty Scot or
brave Celt; no, we must even pay high wages to bad servants until
wiser heads than ours in some future generation devise some better way
of guarding our eastern possessions. But our pleasant chat is over,
Signor, Lady Esmondet is making her adieux."

"And you leave so soon, Signora; I am jealous of London. May I see you
again?"

"Surely, Signor; we go many places to take a last loving glance."

"Give me something definite, I pray you."

"Well, the palace of the Vatican on to-morrow morning. I must have
another long look at the painting of the Transfiguration. In the
afternoon a drive in the gardens of the Borghesian villa. In the
evening the theatre and the exquisite voice of Patti. And now what say
you, grave and reverend Signor; will you remember your lesson while I
say _au revoir_," and with a gay smile and a warm pressure of the hand
from Castenelli Miss Vernon, after saying her farewell to Lady
Wyesdale and her daughter, followed her god-mother to the landau.

"You seem to have enjoyed your chat with Signor Castenelli," said Lady
Esmondet, as they drove away; Miss Vernon to pick up Miss Marchmont
for even-song at the Church of St. Augustine, Lady Esmondet for home.

"Yes, he is pleasant to me, as most of his countrymen are; there is a
fervor about them, with all their languor, that is refreshing after
our stoical Briton; I fear me you were not so well placed, the little
Duchess seemed to fasten upon you."

"She did, and entertained me with an unceasing catechism as to
Lionel's whereabouts, his deeds past and present; seems to fear his
cousin, Judith Trevalyon; in fact, plainly shows her old predilection,
is as aforetime, alive in her breast; is anxious to know how we became
so intimate with him; whether he goes to Haughton Hall; whither the
woman your uncle has married has invited her; says she does not leave
Rome until the middle of January; wants to know if we shall be there
for the Twelfth-night ball; wonders if Lionel will retire for a
fashionable six weeks' mourning. Says there is a rumour that he is
engaged to half a dozen women, and has a wife and children somewhere;
is crazy (to use her own expression) to know if you are, as report
says, engaged to Del Castello, etc., etc., and asked me point-blank,
if I like dear Mrs. Haughton."

"What a whirl the brain of the slender waist Duchess must be in, and
what a bore she was to you; so she also goes to Haughton. Fancy uncle
on one side, and Major Delrose, the Rose Cottage people, Mrs.
Meltonbury, Peter Tedril, Hatherton, etc., on the other; Madame well
knows how to mix up the brandy cocktail and poker of midnight, with
sober 9 o'clock whist and old port, but the scales are weightier on
one side. But behold the naturalist, waiting at the door with prayer
book in hand, ready for her devotions."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

WARM WORDS BRIDGE CRUEL DISTANCE.

Lady Esmondet, Vaura, and Robert Douglas ate their Christmas dinner
quietly together. "I shall feel lonely when you leave Rome," said the
priest, as he bade them a warm goodnight.

"Naturally, you will miss us; we are almost a part of your old home,"
said Lady Esmondet.

"I have no doubt, Roberto, that the Marchmonts will be very kind to
you when we are gone," said Vaura, smilingly.

"Yes, she will be good to a lonely priest," he answered absently; then
recovering himself, "but I should not say lonely; have I not the
Church."

As a footman fastened the hall-door after the Rev. Robert, Vaura said:

"The Church will soon not be sufficient to fill up his life; at least
the naturalist will make him feel so."

"How differently _cher_ Roland would range himself," said Lady
Esmondet, thinking of his hopeless love for Vaura; "that girl with her
bugs and beetles, her sandy locks and sharp elbows, would drive him
distracted. I wonder what affinity Robert can have with such an one."

"Why doth he love her? 'Curious fool, be still; is human love the
growth of human will?' saith the poet. So, god-mother dear, for aught
we can say, they must e'en join the legion of impossible unions. But
we are both weary, and had best to bed and sleep or dreams."

"Yes, 'tis late; good night, dear; we have both missed Lionel to-day."

"We have; he little dreams how much."

And as Vaura's robes were unfastened, and the deft fingers of her maid
made her comfortable for the night, a tall figure and handsome face,
tawny moustache, shading lips sweet yet firm in expression, tired eyes
that were generally grave, but could flash or be tenderly loving, rose
before her.

"'Twas only last night," she though, as she laid her soft cheek on the
pillow, "he was with us, and I feel as though we had been parted for
ages; and he suffers by all these rumours; and my dearest is in a
tangled web of difficulty and I am not near to give him my sympathy,
and poor dear uncle is not happy either; and it's a woman's work, but
this making of moans is unnatural to me; I must make Time fly, and
when I am once in England, my aim shall be to make those two men
regain their old happiness; good-night, Lionel, I am weary to see your
face again, to hear your words of love and feel your arms about me,
for the sweet feeling that I belong to you seems only a dream; come
back, come."

The following day the programme of which Vaura had spoken to
Castenelli, was gone through. But as Vaura wished just now that the
days would quickly join themselves to the great past, we shall not
linger; but say, that on nearing the painting of the Transfiguration,
a figure caught her eye, it was that of the young Italian Castenelli,
who, with the dark rich colouring, clear cut features and soft brown
eyes that Roman blood gives, looked as though he might have stepped
from the canvas on the wall.

The painting in its glorious beauty held them in silent admiration for
some time. Vaura drew a long breath as she turned away, saying:

"The man who painted the figure of the Christ in its God-like sanctity
of expression, must have been inspired. What a volume of sermons it
preaches!"

As the Italian had tickets of admission to the Tower of St. Peter's,
Vaura decided to make the ascent. The double walls of the dome are
passed through as quickly as possible, as Vaura's time is short. But
the view from the top! who can describe it? Not I; my pen falls
lifeless; it would take a Moore to sing of; a Byron to immortalise; a
Longfellow, a Whittier or a Tennyson to make an idyl of; it has sent
artists wild; the eye rests lovingly on the hill-crests of the Sabine,
Volscian and Albano on the one side, then turns to the city with its
temples, its palaces, the historic past showing in their very stones.
Then the Coliseum and the Forum, each speaking their own story; then
the eye turns to the winding Tiber; and finally rests on the deep calm
waters of the violet Mediterranean in the far away.

"Ah, Signor Castenelli, it is too much for one day; 'tis no wonder the
Italian is a poet. You dwell in a maze of beauty in nature and art.
Dame nature with you wears such a rich warm dress; 'tis little wonder
your canvas, aye, and your own faces show such sun-warm tints."

"You should dwell with us, Signora; you feel the poetry of our land."

On parting from the Italian he tendered to Vaura for herself and Lady
Esmondet his box at the theatre, as being more favourably situated
than the only one Captain Trevalyon had been able to procure, and at
Vaura's invitation he dined at the villa Iberia, escorting them
afterwards to hear the wonderful voice of Patti.

On the morning of the 28th a telegram arrived from Lionel which read
as follows:

"To Lady Esmondet.
"Villa Iberia, Rome, Italy.

"Sir Vincent Trevalyon died at 11 p.m. the 27th inst. Shall write
to-day.

"LIONEL TREVALYON,
"The Langham, London, England.
"28th December, 1877."

"Poor Sir Vincent gone. And so generations pass. When death bowls out
one man another takes the bat; so now Captain is Sir Lionel
Trevalyon," said Lady Esmondet, as she read the telegram.

"Yes. None shall triumph for a whole life long, for death is one and
the Fates are three," said Vaura.

On the 30th came from Lionel two letters, extracts from which we shall
give.

"DEAR LADY ESMONDET,--

"Every moment of my time is occupied, but know you will be interested
in my doings, so drop you a line. My cousin with my lawyer and self
read the will. By it my uncle bequeaths to me $500,000 in gold. I was
surprised at his generosity. The whole of his fortune would be mine if
I and Judith could marry; that would not suit either of us as we are
totally unsuited to each other. Judith leaves by steamer The Queen for
New York on the 1st January. My poor uncle lived for three hours after
my arrival. He was in great pain, suffering from Bright's disease, but
brain clear; seemed to cling to me; he told me he wished I could
persuade Judith to marry me and try and make her more womanly and live
at my place in the north; but God forbid that our lives should be
linked together. What a contrast she is to Vaura. Should Judith ever
be guilty of giving up her freedom it will be to a man who admires the
divided skirt, etc., etc."

EXTRACTS FROM LIONEL'S TO VAURA.

"....Yes, darling, the words I have written, what are their worth in
telling you of my great love for you! You don't know how I hunger to
look again into your warm, expressive eyes, to hold you to my heart.
If you were only with me, my love, I should drink so freely of your
tender sympathy, that with it as a tonic to my weary waiting heart, I
could go forth into the midst of the news-mongers, into the nest of
wasps, and conquer and untangle the web of difficulty in a few short
days. But you, alas! are far away, and I have only a few minutes of
past bliss to feed on when I kissed your sweet lips, when you made
life a paradise by leaning your dear head on my breast. My love, my
love, I cannot be long without you. You must come to me whether I can
prove to society, with its shams, that Mrs. Grundy has lied in giving
me a hidden wife or no; you must come to be my own love, no matter who
says nay. My heart, my heart, you are mine; mine by right of the
subjection the fetters you have placed me in, and woven for me. Mine
by right, for you have taken my boasted strength from me. Mine, mine,
no matter what the world may say. My life, my love, write to me; I am
half delirious. I am in torture; full of jealous fears less you may
forget me. I regret once and again that I left you. Remember, darling,
I shall be always jealous, for I know the magnetic force of your
charms. I am mad, I know I am, when I think you are so far, such
'lengths of miles' from me. Ask Lady Esmondet to come on at once and
stay a day or two at her house here (it is well warmed--I have been to
see) in pity to the man you have slain, and who loves you past all you
can know; love, come. I am doing all I can, my own, to conquer the
difficulty; I have already been to the offices of our great daily, and
one editor apologized, saying the news of my 'hidden wife' was a
temptation to him in the 'silly season.' For heaven's sake, my heart's
darling, don't let anything you may hear against me turn your heart
from me. The very thought of such a triumph for Mrs. Grundy in her
_role_ of social astronomer, as she sits in her watch tower, telescope
in hand, turns my brain. My heart aches for a letter, for though my
written words seem to me cold; I shall devour yours, simply as coming
from your pen. Come to me quick, my love; I must have a letter and I
must have you. In a stationer's to-day I saw a photo of you in a case
with those of Mrs. Cornwallis West, Langtry and Wheeler, there were
just the four; you all sold, my darling, at five shillings each. The
stationer said, condescendingly, 'that you would all bring a higher
figure, but he merely wished to educate the masses to a high standard
of beauty. His monetary benefit was quite a minor consideration.' The
fellow's manner amused me; but you see, love, that the future Lady
Trevalyon in thus educating the masses reigns in the heart of mankind,

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