Perhaps none of these are more interesting than the curious paintings representing the celebration of Mass in those early days of Christianity. The priest turned towards the people with his hands stretched out in blessing; the vestments almost the same as those now used, and numberless details proving the identity of the past with the present. These striking evidences of the early Christian practices had often puzzled Mr. Earnscliffe before. "If such outward ceremonials then existed," he would ask himself, "how can they be a human invention?... Human things pass away; even the greatest dynasties of earth run their course and disappear to give place to new orders of things.... Was immortality to be found here only?"... He could not comprehend it, could not explain or reconcile it to his own mind; but, as he had often done before, he turned aside this train of thought by saying to himself, "It can make no difference how far Christianity in this or that form can be dated; even should it be shown that, as a religion, it was one with that of Moses and the Patriarchs,—a progressive Divine Revelation, first by oral Tradition, then by the written Law of Moses, and now, as they call it, by the Reign of Truth, the dogmas of an Infallible Church; Christianity itself is but one of many pretenders to the governance of mankind."
In the midst of these contending thoughts his mind turned to Flora Adair, and once more he asked himself, "Can she really believe in all this?" Then flashed upon him Mary Elton's words, "She is going to be married to that rich Mr. Lyne." Was it true? He himself had heard her call him "a good-natured bore." He determined to hear more about it, and with this intention he turned to look for Mary Elton, whom he had not seen since they had entered the Catacomb.
Helena, who had candidly acknowledged that she was not going to the Catacombs solely to see them, but to have her eyes gladdened by the sight of a bright, laughing, loving face, and her ears gladdened by the sound of a voice whose tones were music to her, took care to keep in the rear of the party, and condescendingly informed Mr. Caulfield that he might talk to her if he would do so quietly, so as not to attract attention. Sad to say, these irreverent young people only thought of how "jolly" those dark narrow places were, as they found them not at all inconvenient for their pleasant little love passages and whispered conversations. The numerous chapels were certainly rather annoying interruptions, as they were of course obliged to be silent there, and, apparently at least, to attend to the Cardinal's explanations. Yet an ordinary observer could have seen that their eyes were more occupied with each other than with the paintings and monuments so carefully pointed out to them.
As they got back into those "dear" galleries, after visiting one of the chapels, Mr. Caulfield succeeded in getting hold of one of the pretty little hands, about the gloving of which their possessor had been so particular. Perhaps she expected that some such notice might be taken of them; but, be that as it may, Mr. Caulfield had got the little hand prisoner, and pressed it tightly in his own as he said, "Lena,"—he had learned the pet name by which her sister generally called her, and appeared to have a particular affection for it,—"I can't bear this uncertainty any longer; you must let me speak to your dragoness!"
"Harry, you are very impertinent," and the little hand made a feint to get itself free, but it was only a feint. "You must not call mamma my dragoness; I will not allow it, sir; nor must you speak to her unless you want to be off; if you do, rush up early to-morrow morning and request an interview with Mrs. Elton; then formally demand the hand of Miss Helena, her daughter, and be as formally refused. You will be politely begged not to repeat your visit; in other words, you will be forbidden the house; and when you have ranted a little and finally bowed yourself out, your poor victim, Helena, will be sent for to be coldly lectured on her levity and her flirting propensities, and solemnly commanded by her obedience as a child never to see or speak to you again, save as the merest acquaintance. In fine, a distinct fiat would be pronounced against Mr. Caulfield, who does not, perhaps, know how determined a person Mrs. Elton is; but her daughter does know it, and but too well. If you speak to mamma we are done for, Harry."
That "we" and that "Harry" sounded very sweetly indeed in Mr. Caulfield's ears, yet he answered indignantly—
"But you don't mean to say that you would submit to all this, Helena?"... He could not afford to call her Lena now, it was not impressive enough. "You are mine by right of conquest, and what authority has your mother to keep you from me?"
"For shame, Harry! has a mother no voice in the disposal of her child? Not that I think a parent should refuse to allow a daughter to marry one whom she loves, unless she had good reason for so doing; nevertheless, I could scarcely marry in defiance of her express command. Harry, do not brusquer les choses, and force her to pronounce that command; have a little patience, and time may do a great deal. Mary has promised to use her influence to gain mamma's consent, and she will facilitate my seeing you as much as she can. Is she not a darling, Harry?"
"Yes," he replied, but in a much less enthusiastic tone; then he went on eagerly, "It's all very well for you, Lena, to talk about having patience, and the wonders that time may work; you have a pleasant home, and this darling Mary to pet you; but it is quite otherwise for poor me. There I am, all alone in an hotel, comfortless and miserable, and unable to get out of my head tantalizing visions of the happiness I might enjoy if I could only have my little cricket with me." And there was a very sensible pressure of the imprisoned hand.
"Oh, come now, Harry; it is too absurd to see you trying to do the romantic. You know very well that you go everywhere, and enjoy yourself thoroughly. Who would believe in your sitting at home conjuring up visions, and becoming miserable because you cannot realise them! There is nothing grandiose about us, you know. Just imagine our attempting a grande passion, and declaring that out of each other's presence the world is but a desert to us! No, no, that is not at all in cricket's line, Harry. All the same——" and her eyes drooped, "I am sure that horrid hotel is very dull and lonely."