“Well, I don’t know; I gathered it from the way you expressed yourself.”
“Well, I don’t intend any thing of the kind. I simply wish to have occasional looks at her–to get a bow and a smile of recognition when I meet her, and have a few additional recollections to turn over in my thoughts after I have left her forever. Perhaps this seems odd.”
“Oh no, it doesn’t. I quite understand it. A passing smile or a parting sigh is sometimes more precious than any other memory. I know all about it, you know–looks, glances, smiles, sighs, and all that sort of thing, you know.”
“Well, now, old chap, there’s one thing I want you to do for me.”
“Well, what is it?”
“It isn’t much, old fellow. It isn’t much. I simply wish you to visit there.”
“_Me_?–visit _there_? What! me–and visit? Why, my dear fellow, don’t you know how I hate such bother?”
“I know all about that; but, old boy, it’s only for a few weeks I ask it, and for my sake, as a particular favor. I put it in that light.”
“Oh, well, really, dear boy, if you put it in that light, you know, of course, that I’ll do any thing, even if it comes to letting myself be bored to death.”
“Just a visit a day or so.”
“A visit a day!” Hawbury looked aghast.
“It isn’t much to ask, you know,” continued Dacres. “You see my reason is this: I can’t go there myself, as you see, but I hunger to hear about her. I should like to hear how she looks, and what she says, and whether she thinks of me.”
“Oh, come now! look here, my dear fellow, you’re putting it a little too strong. You don’t expect me to go there and talk to her about you, you know. Why, man alive, that’s quite out of my way. I’m not much of a talker at any time; and besides, you know, there’s something distasteful in acting as–as–By Jove! I don’t know what to call it.”
“My dear boy, you don’t understand me. Do you think I’m a sneak? Do you suppose I’d ask you to act as a go-between? Nonsense! I merely ask you to go as a cursory visitor. I don’t want you to breathe my name, or even think of me while you are there.”
“But suppose I make myself too agreeable to the young lady. By Jove! she might think I was paying her attentions, you know.”
“Oh no, no! believe me, you don’t know her. She’s too earnest; she has too much soul to shift and change. Oh no! I feel that she is mine, and that the image of my own miserable self is indelibly impressed upon her heart. Oh no! you don’t know her. If you had heard her thrilling expressions of gratitude, if you had seen the beseeching and pleading looks which she gave me, you would know that she is one of those natures who love once, and once only.”
“Oh, by Jove, now! Come! If that’s the ‘state of the case, why, I’ll go.”
“Thanks, old boy.”
“As a simple visitor.”
“Yes–that’s all.”
“To talk about the weather, and that rot.”
“Yes.”
“And no more.”
“No.”
“Not a word about you.”
“Not a word.”
“No leading questions, and that sort of thing.”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“No hints, no watching, but just as if I went there of my own accord.”
“That’s exactly the thing.”
“Very well; and now, pray, what good is all this going to do to you, my boy?”
“Well, just this; I can talk-to you about her every evening, and you can tell me how she looks, and what she says, and all that sort of thing, you know.”
“By Jove!”
“And you’ll cheer my heart, old fellow.”
“Heavens and earth! old boy, you don’t seem to think that this is going to be no end of a bore.”
“I know it, old man; but then, you know, I’m desperate just now.”
“By Jove!”
And Hawbury, uttering this exclamation, relapsed into silence, and wondered over his friend’s infatuation.
On the following day when Dacres came in he found that Hawbury had kept his word.
“Great bore, old fellow,” said he; “but I did it. The old lady is an old acquaintance, you know. I’m going there to-morrow again. Didn’t see any thing to-day of the child-angel. But it’s no end of a bore, you know.”
CHAPTER XI
FALSE AND FORGETFUL.
The day when Lord Hawbury called on Lady Dalrymple was a very eventful one in his life, and had it not been for a slight peculiarity of his, the immediate result of that visit would have been of a highly important character. This slight peculiarity consisted in the fact that he was short-sighted, and, therefore, on a very critical occasion turned away from that which would have been his greatest joy, although it was full before his gaze.
It happened in this wise:
On the day when Hawbury called, Ethel happened to be sitting by the window, and saw him as he rode up. Now the last time that she had seen him he had a very different appearance–all his hair being burned off, from head and cheeks and chin; and the whiskers which he had when she first met him had been of a different cut from the present appendages. In spite of this she recognized him almost in a moment; and her heart beat fast, and her color came and went, and her hands clutched the window ledge convulsively.
[Illustration: “‘IT’S HE!’ SHE MURMURED.”]
“It’s _he_!” she murmured.
Of course there was only one idea in her mind, and that was that he had heard of her presence in Naples, and had come to call on her.
She sat there without motion, with her head eagerly bent forward, and her eyes fixed upon him. He looked up carelessly as he came along, and with his chin in the air, in a fashion peculiar to him, which, by-the-way, gave a quite unintentional superciliousness to his expression. For an instant his eyes rested upon her, then they moved away, without the slightest recognition, and wandered elsewhere.
Ethel’s heart seemed turned to stone. He had seen her. He had not noticed her. He had fixed his eyes on her and then looked away. Bitter, indeed, was all this to her. To think that after so long a period of waiting–after such hope and watching as hers had been–that this should be the end. She turned away from the window, with a choking sensation in her throat. No one was in the room. She was alone with her thoughts and her tears.
Suddenly her mood changed. A thought came to her which dispelled her gloom. The glance that he had given was too hasty; perhaps he really had not fairly looked at her. No doubt he had come for her, and she would shortly be summoned down.
And now this prospect brought new hope. Light returned to her eyes, and joy to her heart. Yes, she would be summoned. She must prepare herself to encounter his eager gaze. Quickly she stepped to the mirror, hastily she arranged those little details in which consists the charm of a lady’s dress, and severely she scrutinized the face and figure reflected there. The scrutiny was a satisfactory one. Face and figure were perfect; nor was there in the world any thing more graceful and more lovely than the image there, though the one who looked upon it was far too self-distrustful to entertain any such idea as that.
Then she seated herself and waited. The time moved slowly, indeed, as she waited there. After a few minutes she found it impossible to sit any longer. She walked to the door, held it open, and listened. She heard his voice below quite plainly. They had two suits of rooms in the house–the bedrooms up stairs and reception-rooms below. Here Lord Hawbury was, now, within hearing of Ethel. Well she knew that voice. She listened and frowned. The tone was too flippant. He talked like a man without a care–like a butterfly of society–and and that was a class which she scorned. Here he was, keeping her waiting. Here he was, keeping up a hateful clatter of small-talk, while her heart was aching with suspense.
Ethel stood there listening. Minute succeeded to minute. There was no request for her. How strong was the contrast between the cool indifference of the man below, and the feverish impatience of that listener above! A wild impulse came to her to go down, under the pretense of looking for something; then another to go down and out for a walk, so that he might see her. But in either case pride held her back. How could she? Had he not already seen her? Must he not know perfectly well that she was there? No; if he did not call for her she could not go. She could not make advances.
Minute succeeded to minute, and Ethel stood burning with impatience, racked with suspense, a prey to the bitterest feelings. Still no message. Why did he delay? Her heart ached now worse than ever, the choking feeling in her throat returned, and her eyes grew moist. She steadied herself by holding to the door. Her fingers grew white at the tightness of her grasp; eyes and ears were strained in their intent watchfulness over the room below.
Of course the caller below was in a perfect state of ignorance about all this. He had not the remotest idea of that one who now stood so near. He came as a martyr. He came to make a call. It was a thing he detested. It bored him. To a man like him the one thing to be avoided on earth was a bore. To be bored was to his mind the uttermost depth of misfortune. This he had voluntarily accepted. He was being bored, and bored to death.
Certainly no man ever accepted a calamity more gracefully than Hawbury. He was charming, affable, easy, chatty. Of course he was known to Lady Dalrymple. The Dowager could make herself as agreeable as any lady living, except young and beautiful ones. The conversation, therefore, was easy and flowing. Hawbury excelled in this.
Now there are several variations in the great art of expression, and each of these is a minor art by itself. Among these may be enumerated:
First, of course, the art of novel-writing.
Second, the art of writing editorials.
Third, the art of writing paragraphs.
After these come all the arts of oratory, letter-writing, essay-writing, and all that sort of thing, among which there is one to which I wish particularly to call attention, and this is:
The art of small-talk.
Now this art Hawbury had to an extraordinary degree of perfection. He knew how to beat out the faintest shred of an idea into an illimitable surface of small-talk. He never took refuge in the weather. He left that to bunglers and beginners. His resources were of a different character, and were so skillfully managed that he never failed to leave a very agreeable impression. Small-talk! Why, I’ve been in situations sometimes where I would have given the power of writing like Dickens (if I had it) for perfection in this last art.
But this careless, easy, limpid, smooth, natural, pleasant, and agreeable flow of chat was nothing but gall and wormwood to the listener above. She ought to be there. Why was she so slighted? Could it be possible that he would go away without seeing her?
She was soon to know.
She heard him rise. She heard him saunter to the door.
“Thanks, yes. Ha, ha, you’re too kind–really–yes–very happy, you know. To-morrow, is it? Good-morning.”
And with these words he went out.
With pale face and staring eyes Ethel darted back to the window. He did not see her. His back was turned. He mounted his horse and gayly cantered away. For full five minutes Ethel stood,–crouched in the shadow of the window, staring after him, with her dark eyes burning and glowing in the intensity of their gaze. Then she turned away with a bewildered look. Then she locked the door. Then she flung herself upon the sofa, buried her head in her hands, and burst into a convulsive passion of tears. Miserable, indeed, were the thoughts that came now to that poor stricken girl as she lay there prostrate. She had waited long, and hoped fondly, and all her waiting and all her hope had been for this. It was for this that she had been praying–for this that she had so fondly cherished his memory. He had come at last, and he had gone; but for her he had certainly shown nothing save an indifference as profound as it was inexplicable.
Ethel’s excuse for not appearing at the dinner-table was a severe headache. Her friends insisted on seeing her and ministering to her sufferings. Among other things, they tried to cheer her by telling her of Hawbury. Lady Dalrymple was full of him. She told all about his family, his income, his habits, and his mode of life. She mentioned, with much satisfaction, that he had made inquiries after Minnie, and that she had promised to introduce him to her the next time he called. Upon which he had laughingly insisted on calling the next day. All of which led Lady Dalrymple to conclude that he had seen Minnie somewhere, and had fallen in love with her.
This was the pleasing strain of conversation into which the ladies were led off by Lady Dalrymple. When I say the ladies, I mean Lady Dalrymple and Minnie. Mrs. Willoughby said nothing, except once or twice when she endeavored to give a turn to the conversation, in which she was signally unsuccessful. Lady Dalrymple and Minnie engaged in an animated argument over the interesting subject of Hawbury’s intentions, Minnie taking her stand on the ground of his indifference, the other maintaining the position that he was in love. Minnie declared that she had never seen him. Lady Dalrymple asserted her belief that he had seen her. The latter also asserted that Hawbury would no doubt be a constant visitor, and gave Minnie very sound advice as to the best mode of treating him.
[Illustration: “THEN SHE FLUNG HERSELF UPON THE SOFA.”]
On the following day Hawbury called, and was introduced to Minnie. He chatted with her in his usual style, and Lady Dalrymple was more than ever confirmed in her first belief. He suggested a ride, and the suggestion was taken up.
If any thing had been needed to complete Ethel’s despair it was this second visit and the project of a ride. Mrs. Willoughby was introduced to him; but he took little notice of her, treating her with a kind of reserve that was a little unusual with him. The reason of this was his strong sympathy with his friend, and his detestation of Mrs. Willoughby’s former history. Mrs. Willoughby, however, had to ride with them when they went out, and thus she was thrown a little more into Hawbury’s way.
Ethel never made her appearance. The headaches which she avouched were not pretended. They were real, and accompanied with heartaches that were far more painful. Hawbury never saw her, nor did he ever hear her mentioned. In general he himself kept the conversation in motion; and as he never asked questions, they, of course, had no opportunity to answer. On the other hand, there was no occasion to volunteer any remarks about the number or the character of their party. When he talked it was usually with Lady Dalrymple and Minnie: and with these the conversation turned always upon glittering generalities, and the airy nothings of pleasant gossip. All this, then, will very easily account for the fact that Hawbury, though visiting there constantly, never once saw Ethel, never heard her name mentioned, and had not the faintest idea that she was so near. She, on the other hand, feeling now sure that he was utterly false and completely forgetful, proudly and calmly held aloof, and kept out of his way with the most jealous care, until at last she staid indoors altogether, for fear, if she went out, that she might meet him somewhere. For such a meeting she did not feel sufficiently strong.
Often she thought of quitting Naples and returning to England. Yet, after all, she found a strange comfort in being there. She was near him. She heard his voice every day, and saw his face. That was something. And it was better than absence.
Minnie used always to come to her and pour forth long accounts of Lord Hawbury–how he looked, what he said, what he did, and what he proposed to do. Certainly there was not the faintest approach to love-making, or even sentiment, in Hawbury’s attitude toward Minnie. His words were of the world of small-talk–a world where sentiment and love-making have but little place. Still there was the evident fact of his attentions, which were too frequent to be overlooked.
Hawbury rapidly became the most prominent subject of Minnie’s conversation. She used to prattle away for hours about him. She alluded admiringly to his long whiskers. She thought them “lovely.” She said that he was “awfully nice.” She told Mrs. Willoughby that “he was nicer than any of them; and then, Kitty darling,” she added, “it’s so awfully good of him not to be coming and saving my life, and carrying me on his back down a mountain, like an ogre, and then pretending that he’s my father, you know.
“For you know, Kitty pet, I’ve always longed so awfully to see some really nice person, you know, who wouldn’t go and save my life and bother me. Now he doesn’t seem a bit like proposing. I do _hope_ he won’t. Don’t you, Kitty dearest? It’s so _much_ nicer not to propose. It’s so horrid when they go and propose. And then, you know, I’ve had so much of that sort of thing. So, Kitty, I think he’s really the nicest person that I ever saw, and I really think I’m beginning to like him.”
Far different from these were the conversations which Mrs. Willoughby had with Ethel. She was perfectly familiar with Ethel’s story. It had been confided to her long ago. She alone knew why it was that Ethel had walked untouched through crowds of admirers. The terrible story of her rescue was memorable to her for other reasons; and the one who had taken the prominent part in that rescue could not be without interest for her.
“There is no use, Kitty–no use in talking about it any more,” said Ethel one day, after Mrs. Willoughby had been urging her to show herself. “I can not. I will not. He has forgotten me utterly.”
“Perhaps he has no idea that you are here. He has never seen you.”
“Has he not been in Naples as long as we have? He must have seen me in the streets. He saw Minnie.”
“Do you think it likely that he would come to this house and slight you? If he had forgotten you he would not come here.”
“Oh yes, he would. He comes to see Minnie. He knows I am here, of course. He doesn’t care one atom whether I make my appearance or not. He doesn’t even give me a thought. It’s so long since _that time_ that he has forgotten even my existence. He has been all over the world since then, and has had a hundred adventures. I have been living quietly, cherishing the remembrance of that one thing.”
“Ethel, is it not worth trying? Go down and try him.”
“I can not bear it. I can not look at him. I lose all self-command when he is near. I should make a fool of myself. He would look at me with a smile of pity. Could I endure that? No, Kitty; my weakness must never be known to him.”
“Oh, Ethel, how I wish you could try it!”
“Kitty, just think how utterly I am forgotten. Mark this now. He knows I was at _your_ house. He must remember your name. He wrote to me there, and I answered him from there. He sees you now, and your name must be associated with mine in his memory of me, if he has any. Tell me now, Kitty, has he ever mentioned me? has he ever asked you about me? has he ever made the remotest allusion to me?”
Ethel spoke rapidly and impetuously, and as she spoke she raised herself from the sofa where she was reclining, and turned her large, earnest eyes full upon her friend with anxious and eager watchfulness. Mrs. Willoughby looked back at her with a face full of sadness, and mournfully shook her head.
“You see,” said Ethel, as she sank down again–“you see how true my impression is.”
“I must say,” said Mrs. Willoughby, “that I thought of this before. I fully expected that he would make some inquiry after you. I was so confident in the noble character of the man, both from your story and the description of others, that I could not believe you were right. But you are right, my poor Ethel. I wish I could comfort you, but I can not. Indeed, my dear, not only has he not questioned me about you, but he evidently avoids me. It is not that he is engrossed with Minnie, for he is not so; but he certainly has some reason of his own for avoiding me. Whenever he speaks to me there is an evident effort on his part, and though perfectly courteous, his manner leaves a certain disagreeable impression. Yes, he certainly has some reason for avoiding me.”
“The reason is plain enough,” murmured Ethel. “He wishes to prevent you from speaking about a painful subject, or at least a distasteful one. He keeps you off at a distance by an excess of formality. He will give you no opportunity whatever to introduce any mention of me. And now let me also ask you this–does he ever take any notice of any allusion that may be made to me?”
“I really don’t remember hearing any allusion to you.”
“Oh, that’s scarcely possible! You and Minnie must sometimes have alluded to ‘Ethel.'”
“Well, now that you put it in that light, I do remember hearing Minnie allude to you on several occasions. Once she wondered why ‘Ethel’ did not ride. Again she remarked how ‘Ethel’ would enjoy a particular view.”
“And he heard it?”
“Oh, of course.”
“Then there is not a shadow of a doubt left. He knows I am here. He has forgotten me so totally, and is so completely indifferent, that he comes here and pays attention to another who is in the very same house with me. It is hard. Oh, Kitty, is it not? Is it not bitter? How could I have thought this of _him_?”
A high-hearted girl was Ethel, and a proud one; but at this final confirmation of her worst fears there burst from her a sharp cry, and she buried her face in her hands, and moaned and wept.
CHAPTER XII.
GIRASOLE AGAIN.
One day Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie were out driving. Hawbury was riding by the carriage on the side next Minnie, when suddenly their attention was arrested by a gentleman on horseback who was approaching them at an easy pace, and staring hard at them. Minnie’s hand suddenly grasped her sister’s arm very tightly, while her color came and went rapidly.
“Oh dear!” sighed Mrs. Willoughby.
“Oh, what _shall_ I do?” said Minnie, in a hasty whisper. “Can’t we pretend not to see him?”
“Nonsense, you little goose,” was the reply. “How can you think of such rudeness?”
By this time the gentleman had reached them, and Mrs. Willoughby stopped the carriage, and spoke to him in a tone of gracious suavity, in which there was a sufficient recognition of his claims upon her attention, mingled with a slight hauteur that was intended to act as a check upon his Italian demonstrativeness.
For it was no other than the Count Girasole, and his eyes glowed with excitement and delight, and his hat was off and as far away from his head as possible, and a thousand emotions contended together for expression upon his swarthy and handsome countenance. As soon as he could speak he poured forth a torrent of exclamations with amazing volubility, in the midst of which his keen black eyes scrutinized very closely the faces of the ladies, and finally turned an interrogative glance upon Hawbury, who sat on his horse regarding the new-comer with a certain mild surprise not unmingled with superciliousness. Hawbury’s chin was in the air, his eyes rested languidly upon the stranger, and his left hand toyed with his left whisker. He really meant no offense whatever. He knew absolutely nothing about the stranger, and had not the slightest intention of giving offense. It was simply a way he had. It was merely the normal attitude of the English swell before he is introduced. As it was, that first glance which Girasole threw at the English lord inspired him with the bitterest hate, which was destined to produce important results afterward.
Mrs. Willoughby was too good-natured and too wise to slight the Count in any way. After introducing the two gentlemen she spoke a few more civil words, and then bowed him away. But Girasole did not at all take the hint. On the contrary, as the carriage started, he turned his horse and rode along with it on the side next Mrs. Willoughby. Hawbury elevated his eyebrows, and stared for an instant, and then went on talking with Minnie. And now Minnie showed much more animation than usual. She was much agitated and excited by this sudden appearance of one whom she hoped to have got rid of, and talked rapidly, and laughed nervously, and was so terrified at the idea that Girasole was near that she was afraid to look at him, but directed all her attention to Hawbury. It was a slight, and Girasole showed that he felt it; but Minnie could not help it. After a time Girasole mastered his feelings, and began an animated conversation with Mrs. Willoughby in very broken English. Girasole’s excitement at Minnie’s slight made him somewhat incoherent, his idioms were Italian rather than English, and his pronunciation was very bad; he also had a fashion of using an Italian word when he did not know the right English one, and so the consequence was that Mrs. Willoughby understood not much more than one-quarter of his remarks.
Mrs. Willoughby did not altogether enjoy this state of things, and so she determined to put an end to it by shortening her drive. She therefore watched for an opportunity to do this so as not to make it seem too marked, and finally reached a place which was suitable. Here the carriage was turned, when, just as it was half-way round, they noticed a horseman approaching. It was Scone Dacres, who had been following them all the time, and who had not expected that the carriage would turn. He was therefore taken completely by surprise, and was close to them before he could collect his thoughts so as to do any thing. To evade them was impossible, and so he rode on. As he approached, the ladies saw his face. It was a face that one would remember afterward. There was on it a profound sadness and dejection, while at the same time the prevailing expression was one of sternness. The ladies both bowed. Scone Dacres raised his hat, and disclosed his broad, massive brow. He did not look at Minnie. His gaze was fixed on Mrs. Willoughby. Her veil was down, and he seemed trying to read her face behind it. As he passed he threw a quick, vivid glance at Girasole. It was not a pleasant glance by any means, and was full of quick, fierce, and insolent scrutiny–a “Who-the-devil-are-you?” glance. It was for but an instant, however, and then he glanced at Mrs. Willoughby again, and then he had passed.
The ladies soon reached their home, and at once retired to Mrs. Willoughby’s room. There Minnie flung herself upon the sofa, and Mrs. Willoughby sat down, with a perplexed face.
“What in the world _are_ we to do?” said she.
“I’m sure _I_ don’t know,” said Minnie. “I _knew_ it was going to be so. I said that he would find me again.”
“He is _so_ annoying.”
“Yes, but, Kitty dear, we can’t be rude to him, you know, for he saved my life. But it’s horrid, and I really begin to feel quite desperate.”
“I certainly will not let him see you. I have made up my mind to that.”
“And oh! how he _will_ be coming and calling, and tease, tease, teasing. Oh dear! I do wonder what Lord Hawbury thought. He looked _so_ amazed. And then–oh, Kitty dear, it was so awfully funny!–did you notice that other man?”
Mrs. Willoughby nodded her head.
“Did you notice how awfully black he looked? He wouldn’t look at me at all. _I_ know why.”
Mrs. Willoughby said nothing.
“He’s awfully jealous. Oh, _I_ know it. I saw it in his face. He was as black as a thunder-cloud. Oh dear! And it’s all about me. Oh, Kitty darling, what _shall_ I do? There will be something dreadful, I know. And how shocking to have it about me. And then the newspapers. They’ll all have it. And the reporters. Oh dear! Kitty, why _don’t_ you say something?”
“Why, Minnie dearest, I really don’t know what to say.”
“But, darling, you must say something. And then that Scone Dacres. I’m more afraid of him than any body. Oh, I know he’s going to _kill_ some one. He is so big. Oh, if _you_ had only been on his back, Kitty darling, and had him run down a steep mountain-side, you’d be as awfully afraid of him as I am. Oh, how I _wish_ Lord Hawbury would drive them off, or somebody do something to save me.”
“Would you rather that Lord Hawbury would stay, or would you like him to go too?”
“Oh dear! I don’t care. If he would only go quietly and nicely, I should like to have him go too, and never, never see a man again except dear papa. And I think it’s a shame. And I don’t see why I should be so persecuted. And I’m tired of staying here. And I don’t want to stay here any more. And, Kitty darling, why shouldn’t we all go to Rome?”
“To Rome?”
“Yes.”
“Would you prefer Rome?” asked Mrs. Willoughby, thoughtfully.
“Well, yes–for several reasons. In the first place, I must go somewhere, and I’d rather go there than any where else. Then, you know, that dear, delightful holy-week will soon be here, and I’m dying to be in Rome.”
“I think it would be better for all of us,” said Mrs. Willoughby, thoughtfully–“for all of us, if we were in Rome.”
“Of course it would, Kitty sweetest, and especially me. Now if I am in Rome, I can pop into a convent whenever I choose.”
“A convent!” exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby, in surprise.
“Oh yes–it’s going to come to that. They’re all so horrid, you know. Besides, it’s getting worse. I got a letter yesterday from Captain Kirby, written to me in England. He didn’t know I was here. He has just arrived at London, and was leaving for our place on what he called the wings of the wind. I expect him here at almost any time. Isn’t it dreadful, Kitty dearest, to have so many? As fast as one goes another comes, and then they all come together; and do you know, darling, it really makes one feel quite dizzy. I’m sure _I_ don’t know what to do. And that’s why I’m thinking of a convent, you know.”
“But you’re not a Catholic.”
“Oh yes, I am, you know. Papa’s an Anglo-Catholic, and I don’t see the difference. Besides, they’re all the time going over to Rome; and why shouldn’t I? I’ll be a novice–that is, you know, I’ll only go for a time, and not take the vows. The more I think of it, the more I see that it’s the only thing there is for me to do.”
“Well, Minnie, I really think so too, and not only for you, but for all of us. There’s Ethel, too; poor dear girl, her health is very miserable, you know. I think a change would do her good.”
“Of course it would; I’ve been talking to her about it. But she won’t hear of leaving Naples. I _wish_ she wouldn’t be so awfully sad.”
“Oh yes; it will certainly be the best thing for dear Ethel, and for you and me and all of us. Then we must be in Rome in holy-week. I wouldn’t miss that for any thing.”
“And then, too, you know, Kitty darling, there’s another thing,” said Minnie, very confidentially, “and it’s very important. In Rome, you know, all the gentlemen are clergymen–only, you know, the clergymen of the Roman Church can’t marry; and so, you know, of course, they can never propose, no matter if they were to save one’s life over and over again. And oh! what a relief that would be to find one’s self among those dear, darling, delightful priests, and no chance of having one’s life saved and having an instant proposal following! It would be _so_ charming.”
Mrs. Willoughby smiled.
“Well, Minnie dearest,” said she, “I really think that we had better decide to go to Rome, and I don’t see any difficulty in the way.”
“The only difficulty that I can see,” said Minnie, “is that I shouldn’t like to hurt their feelings, you know.”
“Their feelings!” repeated her sister, in a doleful voice.
“Yes; but then, you see, some one’s feelings _must_ be hurt eventually, so that lessens one’s responsibility, you know; doesn’t it, Kitty darling?”
While saying this Minnie had risen and gone to the window, with the intention of taking her seat by it. No sooner had she reached the place, however, than she started back, with a low exclamation, and, standing on one side, looked cautiously forth.
“Come here,” she said, in a whisper.
Mrs. Willoughby went over, and Minnie directed her attention to some one outside. It was a gentleman on horseback, who was passing at a slow pace. His head was bent on his breast. Suddenly, as he passed, he raised his head and threw over the house a quick, searching glance. They could see without being seen. They marked the profound sadness that was over his face, and saw the deep disappointment with which his head fell.
“Scone Dacres!” said Minnie, as he passed on. “How _aw_fully sad he is!”
Mrs. Willoughby said nothing.
“But, after all, I don’t believe it’s _me_.”
“Why not?”
“Because he didn’t look at me a bit when he passed to-day. He looked at you, though.”
“Nonsense!”
“Yes, and his face had an _aw_fully hungry look. I know what makes him sad.”
“What?”
“He’s in love with you.”
Mrs. Willoughby stared at Minnie for a moment. Then a short laugh burst from her.
“Child!” she exclaimed, “you have no idea of any thing in the world but falling in love. You will find out some day that there are other feelings than that.”
“But, Kitty dear,” said Minnie, “didn’t you notice something very peculiar about him?”
“What?”
“I noticed it. I had a good look at him. I saw that he fixed his eyes on you with–oh! _such_ a queer look. And he was awfully sad too. He looked as if he would like to seize you and lift you on his horse and carry you off, just like young Lochinvar.”
“Me!” said Mrs. Willoughby, with a strange intonation.
“Yes, you–oh yes; really now.”
“Oh, you little goose, you always think of people rushing after one and carrying one off.”
“Well, I’m sure I’ve had reason to. So many people have always been running after me, and snatching me up as if I were a parcel, and carrying me every where in all sorts of places. And I think it’s too bad, and I really wish they’d stop it. But, Kitty dear–
“What?”
“About this Scone Dacres. Don’t you really think there’s something very peculiarly sad, and very delightfully interesting and pathetic, and all that sort of thing, in his poor dear old face?”
“I think Scone Dacres has suffered a great deal,” said Mrs. Willoughby, in a thoughtful tone. “But come now. Let us go to Ethel. She’s lonely.”
Soon after they joined the other ladies, and talked over the project of going to Rome. Lady Dalrymple offered no objection; indeed, so far as she had any choice, she preferred it. She was quite willing at all times to do whatever the rest proposed, and also was not without some curiosity as to the proceedings during holy-week. Ethel offered no objections either. She had fallen into a state of profound melancholy, from which nothing now could rouse her, and so she listened listlessly to the discussion about the subject. Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie had the most to say on this point, and offered the chief reasons for going; and thus it was finally decided to take their departure, and to start as soon as possible.
Meanwhile Girasole had his own thoughts and experiences. He had already, some time before, been conscious that his attentions were not wanted, but it was only on the part of the other ladies that he noticed any repugnance to himself. On Minnie’s part he had not seen any. In spite of their graciousness and their desire not to hurt his feelings, they had not been able to avoid showing that, while they felt grateful for his heroism in the rescue of Minnie, they could not think of giving her to him. They had manoeuvred well enough to get rid of him, but Girasole had also manoeuvred on his part to find them again. He had fallen off from them at first when he saw that they were determined on effecting this; but after allowing a sufficient time to elapse, he had no difficulty in tracking them, and finding them at Naples, as we have seen.
But here he made one or two discoveries.
One was that Minnie already had an accepted lover in the person of Lord Hawbury. The lofty superciliousness of the British nobleman seemed to Girasole to be the natural result of his position, and it seemed the attitude of the successful lover toward the rejected suitor.
The other discovery was that Minnie herself was more pleased with the attentions of the English lord than with his own. This was now evident, and he could not help perceiving that his difficulties were far more formidable from the presence of such a rival.
But Girasole was not easily daunted. In the first place, he had unbounded confidence in his own fascinations; in the second place, he believed that he had a claim on Minnie that no other could equal, in the fact that he had saved her life; in the third place, apart from the question of love, he believed her to be a prize of no common value, whose English gold would be welcome indeed to his Italian need and greed; while, finally, the bitter hate with which Lord Hawbury had inspired him gave an additional zest to the pursuit, and made him follow after Minnie with fresh ardor.
Once or twice after this he called upon them. On the first occasion only Lady Dalrymple was visible. On the second, none of the ladies were at home. He was baffled, but not discouraged. Returning from his call, he met Minnie and Mrs. Willoughby. Hawbury was with them, riding beside Minnie. The ladies bowed, and Girasole, as before, coolly turned his horse and rode by the carriage, talking with Mrs. Willoughby, and trying to throw at Minnie what he intended to be impassioned glances. But Minnie would not look at him. Of course she was frightened as usual, and grew excited, and, as before, talked with unusual animation to Hawbury. Thus she overdid it altogether, and more than ever confirmed Girasole in the opinion that she and Hawbury were affianced.
Two days after this Girasole called again.
A bitter disappointment was in store for him.
They were not there–they had gone.
Eagerly he inquired where.
“To Rome,” was the reply.
[Illustration: “‘TO ROME!’ HE MUTTERED, BETWEEN HIS SET TEETH.”]
“To Rome!” he muttered, between his set teeth; and mounting his horse hurriedly, he rode away.
He was not one to be daunted. He had set a certain task before himself, and could not easily be turned aside. He thought bitterly of the ingratitude with which he had been treated. He brought before his mind the “stony British stare,” the supercilious smile, and the impertinent and insulting expression of Hawbury’s face as he sat on his saddle, with his chin up, stroking his whiskers, and surveyed him for the first time. All these things combined to stimulate the hate as well as the love of Girasole. He felt that he himself was not one who could be lightly dismissed, and determined that they should learn this.
CHAPTER XIII.
VAIN REMONSTRANCES.
Hawbury had immolated himself for as much as half a dozen times to gratify Dacres. He had sacrificed himself over and over upon the altar of friendship, and had allowed himself to be bored to death because Dacres so wished it. The whole number of his calls was in reality only about five or six; but that number, to one of his taste and temperament, seemed positively enormous, and represented an immense amount of human suffering.
One day, upon reaching his quarters, after one of these calls, he found Dacres there, making himself, as usual, very much at home.
“Well, my dear fellow,” said Hawbury, cheerfully, “how waves the flag now? Are you hauling it down, or are you standing to your guns? Toss over the cigars, and give an account of yourself.”
“Do you know any thing about law, Hawbury?” was Dacres’s answer.
“Law?”
“Yes.”
“No, not much. But what in the world makes you ask such a question as that? Law! No–not I.”
“Well, there’s a point that I should like to ask somebody about.”
“Why not get a lawyer?”
“An Italian lawyer’s no use.”
“Well, English lawyers are to be found. I dare say there are twenty within five minutes’ distance of this place.”
“Oh, I don’t want to bother. I only wanted to ask some one’s opinion in a general way.”
“Well, what’s the point?”
“Why this,” said Dacres, after a little hesitation. “You’ve heard of outlawry?”
“Should think I had–Robin Hood and his merry men, Lincoln green, Sherwood Forest, and all that sort of thing, you know. But what the mischief sets you thinking about Robin Hood?”
“Oh, I don’t mean that rot. I mean real outlawry–when a fellow’s in debt, you know.”
“Well?”
“Well; if he goes out of the country, and stays away a certain number of years, the debt’s outlawed, you know.”
“The deuce it is! Is it, though? _I’ve_ been in debt, but I always managed to pull through without getting so far. But that’s convenient for some fellows too.”
“I’m a little muddy about it, but I’ve heard something to this effect. I think the time is seven years. If the debt is not acknowledged during the interval, it’s outlawed. And now, ‘pon my life, my dear fellow, I really don’t know but that I’ve jumbled up some fragments of English law with American. I felt that I was muddy, and so I thought I’d ask you.”
“Don’t know any more about it than about the antediluvians.”
“It’s an important point, and I should like to have it looked up.”
“Well, get a lawyer here; half London is on the Continent. But still, my dear fellow, I don’t see what you’re driving at. You’re not in debt?”
“No–this isn’t debt; but it struck me that this might possibly apply to other kinds of contracts.”
“Oh!”
“Yes.”
“How–such as what, for instance?”
“Well, you see, I thought, you know, that all contracts might be included under it; and so I thought that if seven years or so annulled all contracts, it might have some effect, you know, upon–the–the–the marriage contract, you know.”
At this Hawbury started up, stared at Dacres, gave a loud whistle, and then exclaimed,
“By Jove!”
“I may be mistaken,” said Dacres, modestly.
“Mistaken? Why, old chap, you’re mad. Marriage? Good Lord! don’t you know nothing can abrogate that? Of course, in case of crime, one can get a divorce; but there is no other way. Seven years? By Jove! A good idea that. Why, man, if that were so, the kingdom would be depopulated. Husbands running off from wives, and wives from husbands, to pass the required seven years abroad. By Jove! You see, too, there’s another thing, my boy. Marriage is a sacrament, and you’ve not only got to untie the civil knot, but the clerical one, my boy. No, no; there’s no help for it. You gave your word, old chap, ’till death do us part,’ and you’re in for it.”
At this Dacres said nothing; it appeared to dispel his project from his mind. He relapsed into a sullen sort of gloom, and remained so for some time. At last he spoke:
“Hawbury!”
“Well?”
“Have you found out who that fellow is?”
“What fellow?”
“Why that yellow Italian that goes prowling around after my wife.”
“Oh yes; I heard something or other today.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it seems that he saved her life, or something of that sort.”
“Saved her life!” Dacres started. “How? where? Cool, too!”
“Oh, on the Alps somewhere.”
“On the Alps! saved her life! Come now, I like that,” said Dacres, with bitter intonation. Aha! don’t I know her? I warrant you she contrived all that. Oh, she’s deep! But how did it happen? Did you hear?”
“Well, I didn’t hear any thing very definite. It was something about a precipice. It was Lady Dalrymple that told me. It seems she was knocked over a precipice by an avalanche.”
“Was what? Knocked where? Over a precipice? By a what–an avalanche? Good Lord! I don’t believe it. I swear I don’t. She invented it all. It’s some of her infernal humbug. She slid off over the snow, so as to get him to go after her. Oh, don’t I know her and her ways!”
“Well, come now, old man, you shouldn’t be too hard on her. You never said that flirtation was one of her faults.”
“Well, neither it was; but, as she is a demon, she’s capable of any thing; and now she has sobered down, and all her vices have taken this turn. Oh yes. I know her. No more storms now–no rage, no fury—all quiet and sly. Flirtation! Ha, ha! That’s the word. And my wife! And going about the country, tumbling over precipices, with devilish handsome Italians going down to save her life! Ha, ha, ha! I like that!”
“See here, old boy, I swear you’re too suspicious. Come now. You’re going too far. If she chooses, she may trump up the same charge against you and the child-angel at Vesuvius. Come now, old boy, be just. You can afford to. Your wife may be a fiend in human form; and if you insist upon it, I’ve nothing to say. But this last notion of yours is nothing but the most wretched absurdity. It’s worse. It’s lunacy.”
“Well, well,” said Dacres, in a milder tone; “perhaps she didn’t contrive it. But then, you know,” he added, “it’s just as good for her. She gets the Italian. Ha, ha, ha!”
His laugh was forced, feverish, and unnatural. Hawbury didn’t like it, and tried to change the subject.
“Oh, by-the-way,” said he, “you needn’t have any further trouble about any of them. You don’t seem inclined to take any definite action, so the action will be taken for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that they are all going to leave Naples.”
“To leave Naples!”
Dacres uttered this in a voice of grief and surprise which astonished Hawbury and touched him.
“Yes,” he said. “You know they’ve been here long enough. They want to see Rome. Holy-week, you know. No end of excitement. Illumination of St. Peter’s, and all that sort of thing, you know.”
Dacres relapsed into sombre silence. For more than half an hour he did not say a word. Hawbury respected his mood, and watched him with something approaching to anxiety.
“Hawbury,” said he at last.
“Well, old man?”
“I’m going to Rome.”
“You–to Rome!”
“Yes, me, to Rome.”
“Oh, nonsense! See here, old boy. You’d really better not, you know. Break it up. You can’t do any thing.”
“I’m going to Rome,” repeated Dacres, stolidly. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“But, really,” remonstrated Hawbury. “See here now, my dear fellow; look here, you know. By Jove! you don’t consider, really.”
“Oh yes, I do. I know every thing; I consider every thing.”
“But what good will it do?”
“It won’t do any good; but it may prevent some evil.”
“Nothing but evil can ever come of it.”
“Oh, no evil need necessarily come of it.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Hawbury, who began to be excited. “Really, my dear fellow, you don’t think. You see you can’t gain any thing. She’s surrounded by friends, you know. She never can be yours, you know. There’s a great gulf between you, and all that sort of thing, you know.”
“Yes,” repeated Dacres, catching his last words–“yes, a great gulf, as deep as the bottomless abyss, never to be traversed, where she stands on one side, and I on the other, and between us hate, deep and pitiless hate, undying, eternal!”
“Then, by Jove! my dear fellow, what’s the use of trying to fight against it? You can’t do any thing. If this were Indiana, now, or even New York, I wouldn’t say any thing, you know; but you know an Indiana divorce wouldn’t do _you_ any good. Her friends wouldn’t take you on those terms–and she wouldn’t. Not she, by Jove!”
“I _must_ go. I must follow her,” continued Dacres. “The sight of her has roused a devil within me that I thought was laid. I’m a changed man, Hawbury.”
“I should think so, by Jove!”
“A changed man,” continued Dacres. “Oh, Heavens, what power there is in a face! What terrific influence it has over a man! Here am I; a few days ago I was a free man; now I am a slave. But, by Heaven! I’ll follow her to the world’s end. She shall not shake me off. She thinks to be happy without me. She shall not. I will silently follow as an avenging fate. I can not have her, and no one else shall. The same cursed fate that severs her from me shall keep her away from others. If I am lonely and an exile, she shall not be as happy as she expects. I shall not be the only one to suffer.”
“See here, by Jove!” cried Hawbury. “Really. You’re going too far, my dear boy, you know. You are, really. Come now. This is just like a Surrey theatre, you know. You’re really raving. Why, my poor old boy, you _must_ give her up. You can’t do any thing. You daren’t call on her. You’re tied hand and foot. You may worship her here, and rave about your child-angel till you’re black in the face, but you never can see her; and as to all this about stopping her from marrying any other person, that’s all rot and bosh. What do you suppose any other man would care for your nonsensical ravings? Lonely and an exile! Why, man, she’ll be married and done for in three months.”
“You don’t understand me,” said Dacres, dryly.
“I’m glad that I don’t; but it’s no wonder, old man, for really you were quite incoherent.”
“And so they’re going to Rome,” said Dacres. “Well, they’ll find that I’m not to be shaken off so easily.”
“Come now, old man, you _must_ give up that.”
“And I, suppose,” continued Dacres, with a sneer, “our handsome, dark-eyed little Italian cavalier is going with us. Ha, ha, ha! He’s at the house all the time, no doubt.”
“Well, yes; he was there once.”
“Ah! of course–quite devoted.”
“Oh yes; but don’t be afraid. It was not to the child-angel. She appears to avoid him. That’s really quite evident. It’s an apparent aversion on her part.”
Dacres drew a long breath.
“Oh,” said he; “and so I suppose it’s not _her_ that _he_ goes after. I did not suppose that it was. Oh no. There’s another one–more piquant, you know–ha, ha!–a devoted lover–saved her life–quite devoted–and she sits and accepts his attentions. Yet she’s seen me, and knows that I’m watching her. Don’t she know _me_? Does she want any further proof of what I am ready to do? The ruins of Dacres Grange should serve her for life. She tempts fate when she carries on her gallantries and her Italian cicisbeism under the eyes of Scone Dacres. It’ll end bad. By Heaven, it will!”
Scone Dacres breathed hard, and, raising his head, turned upon Hawbury a pair of eyes whose glow seemed of fire.
“Bad!” he repeated, crashing his fist on the table. “Bad, by Heaven!”
Hawbury looked at him earnestly.
“My dear boy,” said he, “you’re getting too excited. Be cool. Really, I don’t believe you know what you’re saying. I don’t understand what you mean. Haven’t the faintest idea what you’re driving at. You’re making ferocious threats against some people, but, for my life, I don’t know who they are. Hadn’t you better try to speak so that a fellow can understand the general drift, at least, of what you say?”
“Well, then, you understand this much–I’m going to Rome.”
“I’m sorry for it, old boy.”
“And see here, Hawbury, I want you to come with me.”
“Me? What for?”
“Well, I want you. I may have need of you.”
As Dacres said this his face assumed so dark and gloomy an expression that Hawbury began to think that there was something serious in all this menace.
“‘Pon my life,” said he, “my dear boy, I really don’t think you’re in a fit state to be allowed to go by yourself. You look quite desperate. I wish I could make you give up this infernal Roman notion.”
“I’m going to Rome!” repeated Dacres, resolutely.
Hawbury looked at him.
“You’ll come, Hawbury, won’t you?”
“Why, confound it all, of course. I’m afraid you’ll do something rash, old man, and you’ll have to have me to stand between you and harm.”
“Oh, don’t be concerned about me,” said Dacres. “I only want to watch her, and see what her little game is. I want to look at her in the midst of her happiness. She’s most infernally beautiful, too; hasn’t added a year or a day to her face; more lovely than ever; more beautiful than she was even when I first saw her. And there’s a softness about her that she never had before. Where the deuce did she get that? Good idea of hers, too, to cultivate the soft style. And there’s sadness in her face, too. Can it be real? By Heavens! if I thought it could be real I’d–but pooh! what insanity! It’s her art. There never was such cunning. She cultivates the soft, sad style so as to attract lovers–lovers–who adore her–who save her life–who become her obedient slaves! Oh yes; and I–what am I? Why they get together and laugh at me; they giggle; they snicker–“
“Confound it all, man, what are you going on at that rate for?” interrupted Hawbury. “Are you taking leave of your senses altogether? By Jove, old man, you’d better give up this Roman journey.”
“No, I’ll keep at it.”
“What for? Confound it! I don’t see your object.”
“My object? Why, I mean to follow her. I can’t give her up. I won’t give her up. I’ll follow her. She shall see me every where. I’ll follow her. She sha’n’t go any where without seeing me on her track. She shall see that she is mine. She shall know that she’s got a master. She shall find herself cut off from that butterfly life which she hopes to enter. I’ll be her fate, and she shall know it.”
“By Jove!” cried Hawbury. “What the deuce is all this about? Are you mad, or what? Look here, old boy, you’re utterly beyond me, you know. What the mischief do you mean? Whom are you going to follow? Whose fate are you going to be? Whose track are you talking about?”
“Who?” cried Dacres. “Why, my wife!”
As he said this he struck his fist violently on the table.
“The deuce!” exclaimed Hawbury, staring at him; after which he added, thoughtfully, “by Jove!”
Not much more was said. Dacres sat in silence for a long time, breathing hard, and puffing violently at his cigar. Hawbury said nothing to interrupt his meditation. After an hour or so Dacres tramped off in silence, and Hawbury was left to meditate over the situation.
And this was the result of his meditations.
He saw that Dacres was greatly excited, and had changed completely from his old self. His state of mind seemed actually dangerous. There was an evil gleam in his eyes that looked like madness. What made it more perplexing still was the new revulsion of feeling that now was manifest. It was not so much love for the child-angel as bitter and venomous hate for his wife. The gentler feeling had given place to the sterner one. It might have been possible to attempt an argument against the indulgence of the former; but what could words avail against revenge? And now there was rising in the soul of Dacres an evident thirst for vengeance, the result of those injuries which had been carried in his heart and brooded over for years. The sight of his wife had evidently kindled all this. If she had not come across his path he might have forgotten all; but she had come, and all was revived. She had come, too, in a shape which was adapted in the highest degree to stimulate all the passion of Dacres’s soul–young, beautiful, fascinating, elegant, refined, rich, honored, courted, and happy. Upon such a being as this the homeless wanderer, the outcast, looked, and his soul seemed turned to fire as he gazed. Was it any wonder?
All this Hawbury thought, and with full sympathy for his injured friend. He saw also that Dacres could not be trusted by himself. Some catastrophe would be sure to occur. He determined, therefore, to accompany his friend, so as to do what he could to avert the calamity which he dreaded.
And this was the reason why he went with Dacres to Rome.
As for Dacres, he seemed to be animated by but one motive, which he expressed over and over again:
“She stood between me and my child-angel, and so will I stand between her and her Italian!”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE ZOUAVE OFFICER.
Whatever trouble Ethel had experienced at Naples from her conviction that Hawbury was false was increased and, if possible, intensified by the discovery that he had followed them to Rome. His true motives for this could not possibly be known to her, so she, of course, concluded that it was his infatuation for Minnie, and his determination to win her for himself. She felt confident that he knew that she belonged to the party, but was so utterly indifferent to her that he completely ignored her, and had not sufficient interest in her to ask the commonest question about her. All this, of course, only confirmed her previous opinion, and it also deepened her melancholy. One additional effect it also had, and that was to deprive her of any pleasure that might be had from drives about Rome. She felt a morbid dread of meeting him somewhere; she did not yet feel able to encounter him; she could not trust herself; she felt sure that if she saw him she would lose all self-control, and make an exhibition of humiliating weakness. The dread of this was sufficient to detain her at home; and so she remained indoors, a prisoner, refusing her liberty, brooding over her troubles, and striving to acquire that indifference to him which she believed he had toward her. Now going about was the very thing which would have alleviated her woes, but this was the very thing that she was unwilling to do; nor could any persuasion shake her resolve.
One day Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie were out driving, and in passing through a street they encountered a crowd in front of one of the churches. Another crowd was inside, and, as something was going on, they stopped the carriage and sat looking. The Swiss Guards were there in their picturesque costume, and the cardinals in their scarlet robes and scarlet coaches, and military officers of high rank, and carriages of the Roman aristocracy filled with beautiful ladies. Something of importance was going on, the nature of which they did not know. A little knot of Englishmen stood near; and from their remarks the ladies gathered that this was the Church of the Jesuits, and that the Pope in person was going to perform high-mass, and afterward hold a reception.
Soon there arose a murmur and a bustle among the crowd, which was succeeded by a deep stillness. The Swiss Guards drove the throng to either side, and a passage-way was thus formed through the people to the church. A carriage drove up in great state. In this was seated an elderly gentleman in rich pontifical robes. He had a mild and gentle face, upon which was a sweet and winning smile. No face is more attractive than that of Pio Nono.
“Oh, look!” cried Minnie; “that must be the Pope. Oh, what a darling!”
Mrs. Willoughby, however, was looking elsewhere.
“Minnie,” said she.
“What, Kitty dear?”
“Are you acquainted with any Zouave officer?”
“Zouave officer! Why, no; what put such a thing as that into your head, you old silly?”
“Because there’s a Zouave officer over there in the crowd who has been staring fixedly at us ever since we came up, and trying to make signals, and it’s my opinion he’s signaling to you. Look at him; he’s over there on the top of the steps.”
“I won’t look,” said Minnie, pettishly. “How do I know who he is? I declare I’m afraid to look at any body. He’ll be coming and saving my life.”
“I’m sure this man is an old acquaintance.”
“Nonsense! how can he be?”
“It may be Captain Kirby.”
“How silly! Why, Captain Kirby is in the Rifles.”
“Perhaps he is dressed this way just for amusement. Look at him.”
“Now, Kitty, I think you’re unkind. You _know_ I don’t want to look at him; I don’t want to see him. I don’t care who he is–the great, big, ugly, old horrid! And if you say any thing more, I’ll go home.”
Mrs. Willoughby was about to say something, but her attention and Minnie’s, and that of every one else, was suddenly diverted to another quarter.
Among the crowd they had noticed a tall man, very thin, with a lean, cadaverous face, and long, lanky, rusty black hair. He wore a white necktie, and a suit of rusty black clothes. He also held a large umbrella in his hand, which he kept carefully up out of the way of the crowd. This figure was a conspicuous one, even in that crowd, and the ladies had noticed it at the very first.
As the Pope drove up they saw this long, slim, thin, cadaverous man, in his suit of rusty black, edging his way through the crowd, so as to get nearer, until at length he stood immediately behind the line of Swiss Guards, who were keeping the crowd back, and forming a passageway for the Pope. Meanwhile his Holiness was advancing through the crowd. He reached out his hand, and smiled and bowed and murmured a blessing over them. At last his carriage stopped. The door was opened, and several attendants prepared to receive the Pope and assist him out.
At that instant the tall, slim stranger pushed forward his sallow head, with its long, lanky, and rusty black hair, between two Swiss Guards, and tried to squeeze between them. The Swiss at first stood motionless, and the stranger had actually succeeded in getting about half-way through. He was immediately in front of his Holiness, and staring at him with all his might. His Holiness saw this very peculiar face, and was so surprised that he uttered an involuntary exclamation, and stopped short in his descent.
The stranger stopped short too, and quite involuntarily also. For the Swiss Guards, irritated by his pertinacity, and seeing the Pope’s gesture, turned suddenly, and two of them grasped the stranger by his coat collar.
It was, of course, an extremely undignified attitude for the Swiss Guards, whose position is simply an ornamental one. Nothing but the most unparalleled outrage to their dignity could have moved them to this. So unusual a display of energy, however, did not last long. A few persons in citizens’ clothes darted forward from among the crowd, and secured the stranger; while the Swiss, seeing who they were, resumed their erect, rigid, and ornamental attitude. The Pope found no longer any obstacle, and resumed his descent. For a moment the stranger had created a wide-spread consternation in the breasts of all the different and very numerous classes of men who composed that crowd. The arrest was the signal for a murmur of voices, among which the ladies heard those of the knot of Englishmen who stood near.
“It’s some Garibaldian,” said they.
And this was the general sentiment.
Several hours after this they were at home, and a caller was announced. It was the Baron Atramonte.
“Atramonte!” said Lady Dalrymple. “Who is that? We’re not at home, of course. Atramonte! Some of these Italian nobles. Really, I think we have seen enough of them. Who is he, Kitty?”
“I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea. I never heard of him in my life.”
“We’re not at home, of course. It’s a singular way, and surely can not be Roman fashion. It’s not civilized fashion. But the Continental nobility are _so_ odd.”
In a few minutes the servant, who had been dispatched to say, “Not at home,” returned with the statement that the Baron wished particularly to see Miss Fay on urgent business.
[Illustration: “TWO OF THEM GRASPED THE STRANGER BY HIS COAT COLLAR.”]
At this extraordinary message Lady Dalrymple and Mrs. Willoughby looked first at one another, and then at Minnie, in amazement.
“I’m sure _I_ don’t know any thing about him,” said Minnie. “They _always_ tease me so. Oh, do go and see who he is, and send him away–please! Oh, do, please, Dowdy dear!”
“Well, I suppose I had better see the person,” said Lady Dalrymple, good-naturedly. “There must be some mistake. How is he dressed?” she asked the servant. “Is he a military gentleman? Most of them seem to belong to the army.”
“Yes, my lady. Zouave dress, my lady.”
At this Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie looked at one another. Lady Dalrymple went away; and as no other was present, Ethel being, as usual, in her room, Mrs. Willoughby sighed and said,
“I thought that man must know you.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know him,” said Minnie. “I never knew a Zouave officer in my life.”
“It may be Captain Kirby, under an assumed name and a disguise.”
“Oh no, it isn’t. I don’t believe he would be such a perfect–monster. Oh dear! It’s somebody, though. It must be. And he wants me. Oh, what _shall_ I do?”
“Nonsense! You need not go. Aunty will see him, and send him off.”
“Oh, I do so hope he’ll go; but I’m afraid he won’t.”
After a short time Lady Dalrymple returned.
“Really,” said she, “this is a most extraordinary person. He speaks English, but not at all like an Englishman. I don’t know who he is. He calls himself a Baron, but he doesn’t seem to be a foreigner. I’m puzzled.”
“I hope he’s gone,” said Mrs. Willoughby.
“No–that’s the worst of it. He won’t go. He says he must see Minnie, and he won’t tell his errand. I told him that he could not see you, but that I would tell you what he wanted, and that you were not at home. And what do you think he said?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Dowdy dear.”
“Why, he said he had nothing to do, and would wait till you came back. And he took his seat in a way that showed that he meant to wait. Really, I’m quite at a loss what to do. You’ll have to see him, Kitty dear.”
“What a strange person!” said Mrs. Willoughby. “It’s _so_ rude. And don’t you know what he is? How do you know he isn’t an Italian?”
“Oh, his English, you know. He speaks it perfectly, but not like an Englishman, you know, nor like a Scotchman either, or an Irishman. I wonder whether he may not be an American?”
At this Minnie started.
“Oh dear!” she said.
“What’s the matter, darling?”
“An American! Oh dear! what _will_ become of me!”
“Why,” said Lady Dalrymple, “do you know him, then, after all?”
“Oh, I’m _so_ afraid that I know him!”
“Who is it, dear?”
“Oh, Dowdy! Oh, Kitty!”
“What’s the matter?”
“It must be that man. Oh, was there _ever_ such a trouble–“
“Really, Minnie dearest, you are allowing yourself to get too agitated. Who _is_ this person?”
“He–he’s–an–American.”
“An American? Why, I just said that I thought he might be one. I didn’t know that you were acquainted with any.”
“Oh yes; I did get acquainted with some in–in Canada.”
“Oh; and is this man a Canadian?”
“No, Dowdy darling; only an American.”
“Well, if he’s a friend of yours, I suppose you know something about him. But how singular it is that you have so completely forgotten his name. Atramonte? Why, I’m sure it’s a _very_ singular name for an American gentleman–at least it seems so to me–but I don’t know much about them, you know. Tell me, darling, who is he?”
“He–he saved my life.”
“What! saved your life? Why, my precious child, what _are_ you talking about? It was the Italian that saved your life, you know, not this one.”
“Oh, but he did too,” said Minnie, despairingly. “I couldn’t help it. He would do it. Papa was washed away. I wish they all wouldn’t be so horrid.”
Lady Dalrymple looked in an equally despairing manner at Mrs. Willoughby.
“What is it, Kitty dear? _Is_ the child insane, or what does she mean? How could this person have saved her life?”
“That’s just what distracts me,” said Minnie. “They all do it. Every single person comes and saves my life. And now I suppose I must go down and see this person.”
“Well, really, since you say he saved your life, perhaps it would be as well not to be uncivil,” said Lady Dalrymple; “but, at the same time, he seems to me to act in a very extraordinary manner. And he calls himself a Baron. Do they have nobles in America?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Dowdy dear. I never knew that he was a Baron. He may have been the son of some American Baron; and–and–I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Nonsense, Minnie dear,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “This man’s title is a foreign one. He probably obtained it in Italy or Spain, or perhaps Mexico. I think they have titles in Mexico, though I really don’t know.”
“Why, of course, one isn’t expected to know any thing about America,” said Lady Dalrymple. “I can mention quite a number of English statesmen, members of the cabinet, and others, who don’t know any more about America than I do.”
“Do you really intend to go down yourself and see him, Minnie dear?” asked Mrs. Willoughby.
“How can I help it? What am I to do? I must go, Kitty darling. He is so very positive, and–and he insists so. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, you know; and I really think there is nothing for me to do but to go. What do you think about it, Dowdy dear?” and she appealed to her aunt.
“Well, Minnie, my child, I think it would be best not to be unkind or uncivil, since he saved your life.”
Upon this Minnie accompanied her sister to see the visitor.
Mrs. Willoughby entered the room first, and Minnie was close behind her, as though she sought protection from some unknown peril. On entering the room they saw a man dressed in Zouave uniform. His hair was cropped short; he wore a mustache and no beard; his features were regular and handsome; while a pair of fine dark eyes were looking earnestly at the door, and the face and the eyes had the expression of one who is triumphantly awaiting the result of some agreeable surprise. Mrs. Willoughby at once recognized the stranger as the Zouave officer who had stared at them near the Church of the Jesuits. She advanced with lady-like grace toward him, when suddenly he stepped hastily past her, without taking any notice of her, and catching Minnie in his arms, he kissed her several times.
Mrs. Willoughby started back in horror.
Minnie did not resist, nor did she scream, or faint, or do any thing. She only looked a little confused, and managed to extricate herself, after which she took a seat as far away as she could, putting her sister between her and the Zouave. But the Zouave’s joy was full, and he didn’t appear to notice it. He settled himself in a chair, and laughed loud in his happiness.
“Only to think of it,” said he. “Why, I had no more idea of your being here, Minnie, than _Victory_. Well, here you see me. Only been here a couple of months or so. You got my last favor, of course? And ain’t you regular knocked up to see me a Baron? Yes, a Baron–a real, live Baron! I’ll tell you all about it. You see I was here two or three years ago–the time of Mentana–and fought on the Pope’s side. Odd thing, too, wasn’t it, for an American? But so it was. Well, they promoted me, and wanted me to stay. But I couldn’t fix it. I had business off home, and was on my way there the time of the shipwreck. Well, I’ve been dodgin’ all round every where since then, but never forgettin’ little Min, mind you, and at last I found myself here, all right. I’d been speculatin’ in wines and raisins, and just dropped in here to take pot-luck with some old Zouave friends, when, darn me! if they didn’t make me stay. It seems there’s squally times ahead. They wanted a live man. They knew I was that live man. They offered me any thing I wanted. They offered me the title of Baron Atramonte. That knocked me, I tell you. Says I, I’m your man. So now you see me Baron Atramonte, captain in the Papal Zouaves, ready to go where glory waits me–but fonder than ever of little Min. Oh, I tell you what, I ain’t a bit of a brag, but I’m _some_ here. The men think I’m a little the tallest lot in the shape of a commander they ever _did_ see. When I’m in Rome I do as the Romans do, and so I let fly at them a speech every now and then. Why, I’ve gone through nearly the whole ‘National Speaker’ by this time. I’ve given them Marcellus’s speech to the mob, Brutus’s to the Romans, and Antony’s over Caesar’s dead body. I tried a bit of Cicero against Catiline, but I couldn’t remember it very well. You know it, of course. _Quousque tandem_, you know.”
[Illustration: “CATCHING MINNIE IN HIS ARMS, HE KISSED HER SEVERAL TIMES.”]
“Well, Min, how goes it?” he continued. “This _is_ jolly; and, what’s more, it’s real good in you–darn me if it ain’t! I knew you’d be regularly struck up all of a heap when you heard of me as a Baron, but I really didn’t think you’d come all the way here to see me. And you do look stunning! You do beat all! And this lady? You haven’t introduced me, you know.”
The Baron rose, and looked expectantly at Mrs. Willoughby, and then at Minnie. The latter faltered forth some words, among which the Baron caught the names Mrs. Willoughby and Rufus K. Gunn, the latter name pronounced, with the middle initial and all, in a queer, prim way.
“Mrs. Willoughby–ah!–Min’s sister, I presume. Well, I’m pleased to see you, ma’am. Do you know, ma’am, I have reason to remember your name? It’s associated with the brightest hours of my life. It was in your parlor, ma’am, that I first obtained Min’s promise of her hand. Your hand, madam.”
And, stooping down, he grasped Mrs. Willoughby’s hand, which was not extended, and wrung it so hard that she actually gave a little shriek.
“For my part, ma’am,” he continued, “I’m not ashamed of my name–not a mite. It’s a good, honest name; but being as the Holy Father’s gone and made me a noble, I prefer being addressed by my title. All Americans are above titles. They despise them. But being in Rome, you see, we must do as the Romans do; and so you needn’t know me as Rufus K. Gunn, but as the Baron Atramonte. As for you, Min–you and I won’t stand on ceremony–you may call me ‘Roof,’ or any other name you fancy. I would suggest some pet name–something a little loving, you know.”
In the midst of all this, which was poured forth with extreme volubility, the servant came and handed a card.
“Count Girasole.”
* * * * *
[Illustration: “HAWBURY, AS I’M A LIVING SINNER!”]
CHAPTER XV.
THE AMERICAN BARON.
At any other time Mrs. Willoughby would perhaps have manoeuvred Minnie out of the room; but on the present occasion the advent of the Italian was an inexpressible relief. Mrs. Willoughby was not prepared for a scene like this. The manners, the language, and the acts of Rufus K. Gunn had filled her with simple horror. She was actually bewildered, and her presence of mind was utterly gone. As for Minnie, she was quite helpless, and sat, looking frightened. The Baron Atramonte might have been one of the excellent of the earth–he might have been brave and loyal and just and true and tender, but his manner was one to which they were unaccustomed, and consequently Mrs. Willoughby was quite overcome.
The arrival of Girasole, therefore, was greeted by her with joy. She at once rose to meet him, and could not help infusing into her greeting a warmth which she had never shown him before. Girasole’s handsome eyes sparkled with delight, and when Mrs. Willoughby pointedly made way for him to seat himself next to Minnie his cup of joy was full. Mrs. Willoughby’s only idea at that moment was to throw some obstacle between Minnie and that “dreadful person” who claimed her as his own, and had taken such shocking liberties. She did not know that Girasole was in Rome, and now accepted his arrival at that opportune moment as something little less than providential.
And now, actuated still by the idea of throwing further obstacles between Minnie and the Baron, she herself went over to the latter, and began a series of polite remarks about the weather and about Rome; while Girasole, eager to avail himself of his unexpected privilege, conversed with Minnie in a low voice in his broken English.
This arrangement was certainly not very agreeable to the Baron. His flow of spirits seemed to be checked at once, and his volubility ceased. He made only monosyllabic answers to Mrs. Willoughby’s remarks, and his eyes kept wandering, over beyond her to Minnie, and scrutinizing the Italian who was thus monopolizing her at the very moment when he was beginning to have a “realizing sense” of her presence. He looked puzzled. He could not understand it at all. He felt that some wrong was done by somebody. He fell into an ungracious mood. He hated the Italian who had thus come between him and his happiness, and who chatted with Minnie, in his abominable broken English, just like an old acquaintance. He couldn’t understand it. He felt an unpleasant restraint thrown over him, and began to meditate a departure, and a call at some more favorable time later in the evening. But he wanted to have a few more words with “Min,” and so he tried to “sit out” the Italian.
But the Italian was as determined as the American. It was the first chance that he had had to get a word with Minnie since he was in Milan, and he was eager to avail himself of it. Mrs. Willoughby, on her part, having thus discomfited the Baron, was not unmindful of the other danger; so she moved her seat to a position near enough to overlook and check Girasole, and then resumed those formal, chilling, heartless, but perfectly polite remarks which she had been administering to the Baron since Girasole’s arrival.
At length Mrs. Willoughby began to be dreadfully bored, and groaned in spirit over the situation in which Minnie had placed herself, and racked her brains to find some way of retreat from these two determined lovers, who thus set at naught the usages of society for their own convenience. She grew indignant. She wondered if they would _ever_ go. She wondered if it were not possible to engage the Count and the Baron in a conversation by themselves, and, under cover of it, withdraw. Finally she began to think whether she would not be justified in being rude to them, since they were so inconsiderate. She thought over this, and was rapidly coming to the decision that some act of rudeness was her only hope, when, to her immense relief, the servant entered and announced Lord Hawbury.
The entrance of the welcome guest into the room where the unwelcome ones were seated was to Mrs. Willoughby like light in a dark place. To Minnie also it brought immense relief in her difficult position. The ladies rose, and were about to greet the new-comer, when, to their amazement, the Baron sprang forward, caught Lord Hawbury’s hand, and wrung it over and over again with the most astonishing vehemence.
“Hawbury, as I’m a living sinner! Thunderation! Where did you come from? Good again! Darn it all, Hawbury, this is real good! And how well you look! _How_ are you? All right, and right side up? Who’d have thought it? It ain’t you, really, now, is it? Darn me if I ever was so astonished in my life! You’re the last man I’d have expected. Yes, _Sir_. You may bet high on that.”
“Ah, really,” said Hawbury, “my dear fellow! Flattered, I’m sure. And how goes it with you? Deuced odd place to find you, old boy. And I’m deuced glad to see you, you know, and all that sort of thing.”
And he wrung the Baron’s hand quite as heartily as the other wrung his; and the expression on his face was of as much cordiality and pleasure as that upon the face of the other. Then Hawbury greeted the ladies, and apologized by stating that the Baron was a very old and tried friend, whom he had not seen for years; which intelligence surprised Mrs. Willoughby greatly, and brought a faint ray of something like peace to poor Minnie.
The ladies were not imprisoned much longer. Girasole threw a black look at Lord Hawbury, and retreated. After a few moments’ chat Hawbury also retired, and made the Baron go with him. And the Baron went without any urging. He insisted, however, on shaking hands heartily with both of the ladies, especially Minnie, whose poor little hand he nearly crushed into a pulp; and to the latter he whispered the consoling assurance that he would come to see her on the following day. After which he followed his friend out.
Then he took Hawbury over to his own quarters, and Hawbury made himself very much at home in a rocking-chair, which the Baron regarded as the pride and joy and glory of his room.
“By Jove!” cried Hawbury. “This is deuced odd, do you know, old chap; and I can’t imagine how the mischief you got here!”
This led to long explanations, and a long conversation, which was protracted far into the night, to the immense enjoyment of both of the friends.
The Baron was, as Lord Hawbury had said, an old friend. He had become acquainted with him many years before upon the prairies of America, near the Rocky Mountains. The Baron had rescued him from Indians, by whom he had been entrapped, and the two friends had wandered far over those regions, enduring perils, fighting enemies, and roughing it in general. This rough life had made each one’s better nature visible to the other, and had led to the formation of a friendship full of mutual appreciation of the other’s best qualities. Now it is just possible that if they had not known one another, Hawbury might have thought the Baron a boor, and the Baron might have called Hawbury a “thundering snob;” but as it was, the possible boor and the possible snob each thought the other one of the finest fellows in the world.
“But you’re not a Roman Catholic,” said Hawbury, as the Baron explained his position among the Zouaves.
“What’s the odds? All’s fish that comes to their net. To get an office in the Church may require a profession of faith, but we’re not so particular in the army. I take the oath, and they let me go. Besides, I have Roman Catholic leanings.”
“Roman Catholic leanings?”
“Yes; I like the Pope. He’s a fine man, Sir–a fine man. I regard that man more like a father than any thing else. There isn’t one of us but would lay down our lives for that old gentleman.”
“But you never go to confession, and you’re not a member of the Church.”
“No; but then I’m a member of the army, and I have long chats with some of the English-speaking priests. There are some first-rate fellows among them, too. Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t see much of a leaning in all that.”
“Leaning? Why, it’s all leaning. Why, look here. I remember the time when I was a grim, true-blue Puritan. Well, I ain’t that now. I used to think the Pope was the Beast of the ‘Pocalypse. Well, now I think he’s the finest old gentleman I ever saw. I didn’t use to go to Catholic chapel. Well, now I’m there often, and I rather kind o’ like it. Besides, I’m ready to argue with them all day and all night, and what more can they expect from a fighting man?
“You see, after our war I got my hand in, and couldn’t stop fighting. The Indians wouldn’t do–too much throat-cutting and savagery. So I came over here, took a fancy to the Pope, enlisted, was at Mentana, fit there, got promoted, went home, couldn’t stand it, and here I am, back again; though how long I’m going to be here is more’n I can tell. The fact is, I feel kind of onsettled.”
“Why so?”
“Oh, it’s an aggravating place, at the best.”
“How?”
“There’s such an everlasting waste of resources–such tarnation bad management. Fact is, I’ve noted that it’s always the case wherever you trust ministers to do business. They’re sure to make a mess of it. I’ve known lots of cases. Why, that’s always the way with us. Look at our stock-companies of any kind, our religious societies, and our publishing houses–wherever they get a ministerial committee, the whole concern goes to blazes. I _know_ that.
“Yes, _Sir_. Now that’s the case here. Here’s a fine country. Why, round this here city there’s a country, Sir, that, if properly managed, might beat any of our prairies–and look at it.
“Then, again, they complain of poverty. Why, I can tell you, from my own observation, that they’ve got enough capital locked up, lying useless, in this here city, to regenerate it all, and put it on its feet. This capital wants to be utilized. It’s been lying too long without paying interest. It’s time that it stopped. Why, I tell you what it is, if they were to sell out what they have here lying idle, and realize, they’d get enough money to form an endowment fund for the Pope and his court so big that his Holiness and every official in the place might get salaries all round out of the interest that would enable them to live like–well, I was going to say like princes, but there’s a lot of princes in Rome that live so shabby that the comparison ain’t worth nothing.
“Why, see here, now,” continued the Baron, warming with his theme, which seemed to be a congenial one; “just look here; see the position of this Roman court. They can actually levy taxes on the whole world. Voluntary contributions, Sir, are a wonderful power. Think of our missionary societies–our Sabbath-school organizations in the States. Think of the wealth, the activity, and the action of all our great charitable, philanthropic, and religious bodies. What supports them all? Voluntary contributions. Now what I mean to say is this–I mean to say that if a proper organization was arranged here, they could get annual receipts from the whole round globe that would make the Pope the richest man on it. Why, in that case Rothschild wouldn’t be a circumstance. The Pope might go into banking himself, and control the markets of the world. But no. There’s a lot of ministers here, and they haven’t any head for it. I wish they’d give me a chance. I’d make things spin.
“Then, again, they’ve got other things here that’s ruining them. There’s too much repression, and that don’t do for the immortal mind. My idea is that every man was created free and equal, and has a right to do just as he darn pleases; but you can’t beat that into the heads of the governing class here. No, Sir. The fact is, what Rome wants is a republic. It’ll come, too, some day. The great mistake of his Holiness’s life is that he didn’t put himself at the head of the movement in ’48. He had the chance, but he got frightened, and backed down. Whereas if he had been a real, live Yankee, now–if he had been like some of our Western parsons–he’d have put himself on the tiptop of the highest wave, and gone in. Why, he could have had all Italy at his right hand by this time, instead of having it all against him. There’s where he made his little mistake. If I were Pope I’d fight the enemy with their own weapons. I’d accept the situation. I’d go in head over heels for a republic. I’d have Rome the capital, myself president, Garibaldi commander-in-chief, Mazzini secretary of state–a man, Sir, that can lick even Bill Seward himself in a regular, old-fashioned, tonguey, subtile, diplomatic note. And in that case, with a few live men at the head of affairs, where would Victor Emanuel be? Emphatically, nowhere!
“Why, Sir,” continued the Baron, “I’d engage to take this city as it is, and the office of Pope, and run the whole Roman Catholic Church, till it knocked out all opposition by the simple and natural process of absorbing all opponents. We want a republic here in Rome. We want freedom, Sir. Where is the Church making its greatest triumphs to-day? In the States, Sir. If the Catholic Church made itself free and liberal and go-ahead; if it kept up with the times; if it was imbued with the spirit of progress, and pitched aside all old-fashioned traditions–why, I tell you, Sir, it would be a little the tallest organization on this green globe of ours. Yes, _Sir!_”
While Hawbury and the Baron were thus engaged in high discourse, Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie were engaged in discourses of a less elevated but more engrossing character.
After the ladies had escaped they went up stairs. Lady Dalrymple had retired some time before to her own room, and they had the apartment to themselves. Minnie flung herself into a chair and looked bewildered; Mrs. Willoughby took another chair opposite, and said nothing for a long time.
“Well,” said Minnie at last, “you needn’t be so cross, Kitty; I didn’t bring him here.”
“Cross!” said her sister; “I’m not cross.”
“Well, you’re showing temper, at any rate; and you know you are, and I think it very unkind in you, when I have so much to trouble me.”
“Why, really, Minnie darling, I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me what you think of him, and all that sort of thing? You _might_, you know.”
“Think of him!” repeated Mrs. Willoughby, elevating her eyebrows.
“Yes, think of him; and you needn’t go and make faces about him, at any rate.”
“Did I make faces? Well, dear,” said Mrs. Willoughby, patiently, “I’ll tell you what I think of him. I’m afraid of him.”
“Well, then,” said Minnie, in a tone of triumph, “now you know how I feel. Suppose he saved your life, and then came in his awfully boisterous way to see you; and got you alone, and began that way, and really quite overwhelmed you, you know; and then, when you were really almost stunned, suppose he went and proposed to you? Now, then!”
And Minnie ended this question with the air of one who could not be answered, and knew it.
“He’s awful–perfectly awful!” said Mrs. Willoughby. “And the way he treated you! It was _so_ shocking.”
“I know; and that’s just the horrid way he _always_ does,” said Minnie, in a plaintive tone. “I’m sure _I_ don’t know what to do with him. And then he’s Lord Hawbury’s friend. So what _are_ we to do?”
[Illustration: “LOOK AT THE MAN!”]
“I don’t know, unless we leave Rome at once.”
“But I don’t _want_ to leave Rome,” said Minnie. “I hate being chased away from places by people–and they’d be sure to follow me, you know–and I don’t know what to do. And oh, Kitty darling, I’ve just thought of something. It would be so nice. What do you think of it?”
“What is it?”
“Why, this. You know the Pope?”
“No, I don’t.”