"What do you mean, Phœbe?"
"Only massa, him got too much sense to worship Moder, and saints, and bread and such, but him not got 'nough yet to lub and worship true God, and see how Jesus poor sinner's Saviour. Massa, him very proud and grand, him 'spise lies, him not know truth. Missy know a little truth, and gib it up for lies. Oh very, very sad! Break her own heart some day."
"I'll have you to comfort me then, Phœbe," cried the happy bride-elect.
And she carried her point.
The old black nurse, who in her youth had entered the family of Mr. Geoffry Falconer with his bride, the young widow of an English officer, and her only child, had remained faithful to their service, tended them in sickness and health, and had the chief charge of the elder Mr. Falconer in his last illness. She was privileged to say many things which would not have been permitted from any other person in her position in life, and the only child of the house, the step-daughter of its master, was as dear to her heart as if she had been her own.
To see this admired and courted girl the affiancée of one who, gifted though he was in personal attractions, rank, wealth, and high intellectual powers, was nevertheless a stranger in country and religion, gave poor Phœbe the deepest sorrow she had known in her life of service. In vain, she had opposed it by every argument and entreaty in her power: Mr. and Mrs. Falconer had no scruples on the subject, the spoiled child herself willed it, and in due time, the young Count di V— carried off his Anglo-Indian bride to adorn his home in the proudest of Italian cities.
Standing high in the too fickle regard of his countrymen, expected to uphold the dignities of the class to which by birth he belonged, and the authority of the Pontifical government around which ominous clouds were gathering, the Count became an honoured public servant, and to his house flocked men of all countries, and on all errands, great or small; the visitor for pleasure, the philosopher for inquiry, the adventurer for patronage, the talented for sympathy, the poor for aid; and among them came nameless poets, struggling artists, and even ambitious politicians with many a daring scheme for the elevation of a priest-ridden weary people, beginning to feel that life was intended for something better than running after processions of sacerdotal state, and submitting with superstitious slavery to a usurped authority which ruled complacently over ignorance, beggary, and sloth. Amongst such, the hospitable presence of the Count and Countess radiated light, pleasure, and hope. But not without some danger.
Anything British, even though adopting, so far as external observance went, the Romanism of the only tolerated faith, was watched with jealous eyes, and the young Countess was made to feel the bondage of a tyrannical yoke, at which her husband laughed, and whispered cheerfully that it might make the most of opportunity, for events were pending, and its days were numbered.
For centuries, the wish of Caligula seemed granted, that the Roman people had but one neck; and it lay in the lowest dust, with the Papal foot upon it. The body would never rise from its stupor, so long as that foot was there. How to get rid of it was a problem not easily solved, and men often met in secret and at night, to consider it.
One day, the Count requested with some evident uneasiness that accommodation might be prepared for a guest who would remain the night.