FLORA ADAIR;

OR,

Love works Wonders.

BY A. M. DONELAN.

"IN FUNICULIS ADAM TRAHAM EOS, IN VINCULIS CHARITATIS."

Osee xi. 4.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
1867.

[FLORA ADAIR.]

[CHAPTER I.]

In Rome, on a bright sunny morning in the month of March, 186–, two ladies were seated in a drawing-room, the windows of which looked upon the Corso. Mother and daughter they evidently were; and, as they play a prominent part in this story, we may be permitted to devote a short time to describing them.

As a mark of respect to age, we shall give the elder lady precedence. Although she was dressed in black, and seated at a table working, one could judge that her figure was tall and elegant. In her youth she had been a great beauty; yet it could not be said that strong traces of that beauty still lingered over those thin, worn features, for "sorrows, nor few, nor light," had set their mark upon them. But neither time nor grief had destroyed the calm, gentle expression of that countenance, ever ready to light up with a cheerful smile and look happy in the happiness of others. Her character may be expressed in a single word—devotedness. As daughter, sister, wife, and mother, her whole life had been one almost unbroken act of self-sacrifice. Most of those whom she loved had been taken from her while she was still in the bloom of life; her children alone remained. The two elder—a son and a daughter—were married, and therefore, in some degree, lost to her, so that Flora, her second daughter, was the only one really left; and in this, her youngest child, was centred Mrs. Adair's every hope and thought. Their affection was mutual: Flora Adair believed herself to be blessed indeed in her mother.

And now let us turn to the young lady. We are obliged to confess that, although she is considered to be like her mother, it is a resemblance not boasting of much physical beauty. A sad drawback this, doubtless, to a heroine; but, according to the old saying, "what can't be cured must be endured." Her figure, however, was really good; she was about the middle height, with tiny hands and feet, a broad forehead, blue eyes—fairly large and dark—a small but well-formed nose, round cheeks, a large mouth, with a tolerably good, but an over-crowded, range of teeth; a complexion far from bright or clear, and a profusion of dark brown hair brushed off her forehead, and twisted round the back of her head in thick plaits. Such is our heroine's picture—not a very attractive one, it may be said, and of this no one was more fully conscious than Flora Adair herself.

As to her character, she was generally looked upon as cold, and somewhat haughty, yet she was really rather indifferent than haughty; but how often is indifference of manner called haughtiness in the world! Her seeming coldness in a great measure came from a shrinking dread of forcing herself upon others. It is true she cared but little for society, and found a young lady's life weary and objectless; her constant thought was how to make the hours go faster. Had any one asked her why she found them so long, she would probably have borrowed her answer from Shakespeare, and have said—

"Not having that, which, having, makes them short."

Something of all this could be seen in her listless air, as she sat there near the window, not reading, but with a book in her hand, gazing out vacantly, as if to ask, "How shall I get through to-day? Will it be anything more interesting than usual?" Better, perhaps, had it not been so, some would say—better had the blank been left unfilled, as she was now but negatively unhappy, the unhappiness arising from her own disposition, ever yearning for something more, something deeper, than she had yet known; and also because she had not yet learned that "the first principle of wisdom is to be satisfied with that which is;" or "in the state in which she was therewith to be content."

Which is the better lot:—a short spell of deep happiness and after misery, or an even life, unmarked by great joy or great sorrow? Flora Adair would answer, "Give me, were it only for a short time, intense happiness, at any cost; no price is too great for it, or it would be worth nothing!" So that had the choice been offered to her she would have taken the very lot which was destined for her.

There was another member of their little circle, a young lady of about Flora's age, named Lucy Martin, who was travelling with the Adairs, and who was absent for a few days on a visit to some friends at Albano: as she shortly afterwards returned home, it is needless to describe her more fully.

Mrs. Adair looked at her watch, and said, "Half-past ten, Flora; and the Eltons are to call for us at eleven. We had better get ready."

Flora followed her mother out of the room, letting her book fall, rather than placing it, upon the table.

Soon after, the carriage came, and away they drove with their friends to Frascati, where they were to have a croquet match, and an al-fresco dinner given by Mrs. Elton. Their party now consisted of that lady herself, her son and younger daughter, and the Adairs. At the place of rendezvous—the Villa Torlonia—they were to meet the rest of their friends.

It was a soft, balmy day, such as, in the middle of March, can only be enjoyed in Italy; the hot, bright sun tempered by the fresh breeze of early spring, and the air perfumed by the fragrance of the wild flowers, which so abound in southern lands. Out of the Porta San Giovanni and along the Via Tusculum lies the road to Frascati, bounded on one side by the Alban hills, and on the other by the desert Campagna.

The desultory conversation which was carried on during the drive consisted of the usual subjects talked of among strangers in Rome, and during Lent:—"How do you like Rome? What have you seen? Have you obtained tickets for all the ceremonies of Holy Week?" The horrors of crushing at these ceremonies—histories told of ladies having had their veils torn off, their prayer-books dashed from their hands, and, as a climax, fainting—as, on a memorable occasion, when a stalwart English lady called out to the crowd ruthlessly pressing upon a falling victim, "Take her up—take her up! for if she is killed we shall all be shut out from the Cena!"

In the course of the drive, Helena Elton said suddenly to Flora, "Have you happened to meet with a Mr. Earnscliffe who is here now?"

"No. What of him? Is he anything out of the common?"

"Rather," rejoined Miss Helena, who slightly indulged in mild slang, and generally answered in a prolonged, emphasised manner, "rather," when she meant to say "very much," "exceedingly," &c.

"Then tell me something of him. What is he like?" asked Flora.

"Like something very tall, strong, handsome, and aristocratic in appearance; in manner, proud and distant, certainly not a lady-worshipper."

"And very rich," interposed Mrs. Elton. "I knew his parents most intimately, but they both died when he was quite a child, and I had lost sight of the family altogether, until by chance we met him abroad a short time ago. Earnscliffe Court is a magnificent place."

"A capital speculation, Helena," said Flora, with a smile. "Do you enter the lists? As you seem to think the conquest a difficult one, it might be worth a struggle."

"Oh! he is not in my line at all—I should be afraid of him; but if you think so much of the prize you should enter the lists yourself."

"No, no, Helena, I am not so foolish as to risk a defeat for what I do not value; besides, I am neither pretty nor fascinating. How, then, could I catch this modern Childe Harold, as you describe him? Moreover, I hate a bon parti. I shall never marry, unless I meet with one whom I can admire and love beyond all the world!"

The conversation did not seem to please Mrs. Elton, who cut it short by saying, "It is all very well to read about desperate love in novels; but, believe me—and I have seen a great deal of the world—marriages based upon calm respect and affection are far happier than your ardent love matches. You will understand this, dear child, when you are a little older."

Helena shrugged her shoulders, and murmured in an under tone, meant only for Flora's ear, "Oh, have I not heard enough of all this!"

"Well, Mrs. Elton," replied Flora, "I am not such a child after all! I am more than one-and-twenty, and can vouch for it that I will never have anything to say to a marriage based upon 'calm respect and affection!'"

Mrs. Adair—who had remained silent, quietly amused at this animated discussion—now thought that it was going a little too far, and managed to change the conversation.

Shortly afterwards they arrived at the entrance to the Villa Torlonia, where they alighted, and the coachman drove to the hotel in Frascati to await their order to return.

The villa is but a stone's-throw from the town: a magnificent terrace leads to the large, rambling, white building, in which one could well imagine half-a-dozen families living with separate households. The view from the front is grand indeed. Beneath the windows, and across the high road before them, is the Casino, with its pretty gardens; beyond this, and far below, stretches out the great Campagna, and Rome, with her countless domes and steeples gleaming in the sun.

The grounds of the villa are, in their style, very beautiful and extensive, although to our English eyes somewhat stiff and formal, cut up as they are by broad avenues, with their majestic lines of trees. Across the centre, and leading from the grand terrace, a wide opening shows an artificial grotto, cascade, and basin; a flight of covered steps on either side of the abundant stream of falling water winds under this cascade, and leads to a terrace above, from behind which spreads out a beautiful bosquet, the bounds of which are entirely hidden by thick foliage. The outer walls of these steps are so overgrown by luxuriant vegetation as to be completely masked, so that, on approaching, these apertures look like entrances to subterranean caverns.

This picturesque cascade was the place of rendezvous; towards it, therefore, our friends were proceeding, when Charles Elton, who had for a moment or two been watching a figure moving among the trees, exclaimed, "By Jove, there's Earnscliffe!"

"How delightful!" rejoined Mrs. Elton. "Now he cannot avoid making one of our party. Go quickly, Charles, and overtake him: we will follow."

Charles soon captured the retreating Mr. Earnscliffe, who had just seen the Eltons, and was making a desperate, but vain, effort to escape. He could not pretend that he did not hear Charles, so with a tolerably good grace he turned and surrendered.

"Where on earth were you going so fast?" said Charles, nearly out of breath. "Here is my mother, who is determined on making you join our party!"

"Indeed!" accompanied by anything but a look of pleasure.

Mrs. Elton advanced to meet him with outstretched hands. "How charming to find you here, Mr. Earnscliffe; you cannot well refuse to join us, see the croquet, and partake of a cold dinner. I would have written to invite you, but that I so feared a refusal, feeling certain that you would not think our croquet party worth the loss of a day from Rome's immortal ruins. I do so wish I could prevail upon you to accompany us to some of them; how delightful it would be to have such a guide!"

"Pray be undeceived, Mrs. Elton; I should be but a very poor guide for you; believe me, 'Murray' would be much more instructive, and would enable you to talk far more learnedly about those things than I could."

Was there not a covert sneer in those words? The lady, however, did not see it, or appeared not to do so. As a possible husband for one of her daughters, many things must be pardoned in him which would not be passed over in a poor younger son. She replied with a smile, "Well, we can arrange that at some other time; for the present, having caught you here, we may of course count upon your remaining with us." Taking his answer for granted, she continued, "Allow me to present my friends, Mrs. and Miss Adair." Mr. Earnscliffe bowed to the Adairs, shook hands with Helena, and then walked on with Mrs. Elton towards the cascade.

Mrs. Elton opened the conversation with that very original question, "How do you like Rome, Mr. Earnscliffe?"

"In what way do you mean?—as she was once, the mistress of the world, and her people a nation of kings; or as she is now, the decrepid representative of all the superstitions of bygone ages?"

Mrs. Elton laughed approvingly; but Flora, who was walking close behind with Charles Elton, said, in a slightly subdued tone, "See what prejudice will do! I do wonder how persons, otherwise noble and generous, can say such things simply for the pleasure of abusing what they do not understand, and therefore dislike!"

"Oh! Miss Adair, he might have heard you," exclaimed Charles Elton.

"N'importe!" said Flora, with an impatient shrug of her shoulders.

Almost at the same moment, Mr. Earnscliffe, who, notwithstanding Mrs. Elton's efforts to drown Flora's voice, had heard every word, turned and bowed to her, saying, with rather a scornful smile, "Bravo, Miss Adair, you are quite an apostle, and I, according to you, am something very like a simpleton!"

"I did not say that," she answered, blushing; "it would have been rude and untrue; but, were you to think of it, I am sure you will admit that what I did say is true."

He smiled, returned to Mrs. Elton, and said, "Adair!—a Scotch name?"

"An Irish name, also; my friends are Irish."

"Indeed, one might have guessed it, from the spirit of the young lady's observations."

"Mamma," interrupted Helena, "there they are all at the cascade waiting for us; and I see Thomas, too, with the croquet boxes."

"Well, my dear, we are going to them; don't be impatient."

This injunction was given in vain. Helena had already darted off to her friends at the cascade. They consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Penton,—both young; the lady, tall, slight, and dark,—very elegant, but apparently haughty, and evidently accustomed to be admired; the gentleman, a large and rather an unwieldy figure, with a sandy complexion, and a heavy, although good expression of countenance; Mary Elton, Helena's sister, and somewhat like her, but in manner as grave and sedate as the other was gay and thoughtless; Mr. Mainwaring, and Mr. Caulfield,—the latter, a good-looking, bright, laughing Irishman; the former, an Englishman, and particularly grave and solemn.

Helena was received with marked pleasure. Her great liveliness made her a general favourite. She was soon in deep conversation with Mary and the gentlemen about the selection of the croquet ground, while the Pentons turned to greet the others who had just come up.

Mrs. Elton announced, in a delighted tone, that they had been fortunate enough to meet and capture Mr. Earnscliffe. "What an addition to our party, is it not, Mary?" turning to her eldest daughter.

"Yes," Mary replied, quickly; "we are all, I am sure, very happy to see Mr. Earnscliffe. Does he condescend to play croquet?"

"I have never played," said he; "but I have seen people knocking balls about with things like long-handled mallets. That is croquet, I believe?"

"Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe," exclaimed Helena, "what a description to give of playing croquet! But whatever you may think of it, I find it very jolly fun, and mean to lose no time before setting to work."

"To play, you mean, Miss Elton!" said a voice behind her; and on turning round she found that Mr. Caulfield was the corrector, whereupon she at once gaily attacked him.

"I never heard of such audacity, Mr. Caulfield; you, a Hibernian, to venture to correct me, a true Briton, in the use of my own language! Take care that you don't get a defeat at croquet for this!"

"I am sure it will not be your fault, Miss Elton, if I do not"—in an aside, meant only for her ear—"But have you not conquered already, though not, perhaps, at croquet?"

She got a little red, and said quickly, "This is all waste of time! Mary, you said you had seen a place that would do beautifully for us; so, lead on. I will go and see that Thomas has all the things right."

Mary did as she was desired, while her sprightly sister, followed by Mr. Caulfield, ran back to the servant to see that all was in order.

Helena and her companion were enjoying themselves greatly, if loud laughter is a sign of enjoyment. At length they came running after the others to a broad grassy alley, bordered and overhung by wide-spreading trees. This was the place which Mary had spoken of, and, fortunately, it met with Helena's approval. "Oh, yes, Mary, this will do, capitally," she said; "and there is shade, too, under these trees. Mark out the ground, place the arches and the balls, and give me a croquet-stick!"

"Yes, miss," replied Thomas, who seemed quite an adept at arranging the playground. Having done this to his young mistress's satisfaction, he approached Mrs. Elton and asked where the dinner was to be laid.

"It is true, we have not chosen where we shall dine. Caroline," to Mrs. Adair, "will you come with me and seek a nice place for our repast, while the young people begin their game? We can trust them to Mrs. Penton's chaperoning for a few moments, although she is too young and too pretty for such a post."

Mrs. Penton laughed, and said, "You may very safely trust them to me, and I will give you a good account of my stewardship when you return. So you may go in peace."

Mr. Caulfield, who helped Helena to arrange the game, now struck his "mallet," as Mr. Earnscliffe had named it, three times on one of the balls in order to attract attention; and called out, "Who will play? Will you, Mrs. Penton?"

"Not just yet. I will sit down and look on for the present; later, perhaps, I may take a turn."

"Then the players are, the Misses Elton, Miss Adair, Penton, Mainwaring, Elton?"

"Nay," interrupted Charles, "I am quite unable to play to-day."

"Mr. Earnscliffe?" continued Mr. Caulfield, inquiringly.

"I know nothing of the game, and I should not like to make my first essay among such proficients as, I presume, you all are."

"Then there only remains my humble self to make up the party. Now for the division; you ladies should draw lots for choosing sides."

"I dare say Flora is as willing as I am to yield this to Helena," said Mary. "If so, we need not take the trouble of drawing lots."

Flora smiled assent, when Helena exclaimed, "Very green of you both. However, it is your affair, not mine; and as I am decidedly the gainer by it, I ought not to object. First, then, I choose Flora; secondly, Mr. Mainwaring. I leave Mary to manage Mr. Penton and Mr. Caulfield; no easy matter, I can answer for it, with regard to the latter gentleman."

"How cruel not to choose me as one of your subjects," he said in a light tone, yet looking a little annoyed.

"Choose you for a subject! Not for worlds. I shall delight in croqueting you; and this, of course, I could not do if you were on my side. But as my enemy, you shall be well croqueted!" and as her foot rested upon one of the balls near her, she looked laughingly at him, and struck the ball lightly with her "mallet."

The elder ladies now returned; the gentlemen placed stools for them near to Mrs. Penton; and, after some jesting about the conduct of her charge during their absence, the game commenced.

For a considerable time the contest continued with varied success, Helena and Mr. Caulfield seeming to think more of croqueting each other than of anything else, so that they were frequently called to order by their respective sides. Flora had become quite animated, and intent on victory, if only to disappoint Mr. Penton, who said, when they were beginning, "Oh! our party is certain to win, two gentlemen and a lady against two ladies and one gentleman. I really think we might give them odds!" a suggestion which was indignantly spurned by the players of the opposite side, who declared that skill and not strength was the thing required, and, therefore, they had not the slightest fear of losing. Flora devoted all her energies to making good the boast, and she was well seconded by Mr. Mainwaring, whose steady, cautious game counteracted Helena's wild, though at times brilliant, play.

Towards the end of the game the excitement grew very great; four had gained the goal, and all now turned on Mr. Caulfield and Helena; she had only the last arch to make, and he had two arches, but it was his turn to play; so, if he could manage to send his ball straight through the two arches, and on to the starting-point, the game would be his. His ball was badly placed, however, in a diagonal line from the first arch, so that it would require great skill to make it pass through that and go straight to the other; yet he sometimes made very skilful hits, and it was a moment of intense interest to his adversaries. He struck the ball; but, instead of sending it through the first arch, it grazed the side of it and stopped short. This gave Helena a fair opportunity for trying to croquet him; the safe play was not to do it, but to make the last arch at once and ensure the game, yet it was a strong temptation—how charming for Helena to send his ball far away and distance him! On the other hand, it was of course possible that she might not croquet him well, and then the chances were that he would win. She looked at her partners as if to ask permission to risk the game.

"Very well," said Flora, smiling; "on your head be it if we lose!"

"How can you give your sanction to such recklessness, Miss Adair?" exclaimed Mr. Mainwaring. "Pray, Miss Elton, consider for a moment; if you will play rationally we are sure to win, but if you persist in croqueting we shall probably lose—at least we should deserve it."

"Just the contrary! 'Nothing venture nothing win.' Oh! how can a man be so cautious? It is a blessing for you, Mr. Mainwaring, that you are not a lover of mine, or I should play such pranks to rouse you into something like rashness as would 'make the angels weep.' Hurrah, then, for daring and a good croquet! Now, Mr. Caulfield!" and with an ominous shake of the head she raised her "mallet" to strike, amidst much laughter at her attack upon poor Mr. Mainwaring, who, although he did his best to join in the merriment at his own expense, evidently winced under it. Down came the mallet with a sharp ring upon her own ball, on which her foot was firmly planted, and away bounded the other to the very end of the last line of arches.

"Bravo! bravo, Miss Elton!" arose from all sides, as she stood looking triumphantly at Mr. Mainwaring, and saying, "Now, Mr. Caution, I shall not only win the game for you, but distance one of our adversaries!"

"Not so fast, if you please, Miss Helena," interposed Mr. Caulfield. "I might save my distance yet."

"Might! but you are not equal to it, fair sir; only do play quickly, I am all impatience to hear our side proclaimed victorious, after Mr. Penton's contemptuous boast that his side could afford to give us odds, because, forsooth, it numbers two of the precious male sex, and ours has only one of them! But, to the proof; we are losing time!"

Mr. Caulfield made a good attempt at saving his distance, but he failed; so Helena came in in full triumph, amidst loud acclamations.

Mrs. Elton immediately proposed that they should take a stroll before their repast, which was ordered for two o'clock. If they were to drive back by Grotto Ferrata, she said, they must start, at latest, by four.

"But," objected Helena, "we have had but one game of croquet; and Mrs. Penton and Mr. Earnscliffe have not played at all! Poor Charles cannot; so it is not a matter of any interest for him."

"As for me, Helena, foregoing a game will not render me tout à fait desolée; and I think I may answer too for Mr. Earnscliffe." He bowed, and Mrs. Penton continued, "So it would be a pity to lose the beautiful drive by Grotto Ferrata for the sake of another round of croquet. It is much better to follow Mrs. Elton's suggestion."

The young lady saw that there was nothing to be done but to submit, whilst her mother said, "Come, Helena, let Thomas carry away those things. We are going to walk." And they all went on, excepting Helena, Flora, and Mr. Caulfield; the two latter waiting for Helena, as she lingered, looking, with an expression of comic resignation, at Thomas "bagging the balls," as she expressed it; then, turning away, she said with a sigh, "It is too bad not to give poor crestfallen Mr. Caulfield a chance of revenge!"

"Shure and niver mind, cushla machree," he answered, imitating the brogue of the Irish peasantry. "I'll have it some other time. Whin did you iver know an Irishman be bate in ginerosity?"

"May I ask, Mr. Caulfield, if you Irish call revenge 'ginerosity?'" she exclaimed in a mocking tone; then she added, more seriously, "Please to let us get on quickly, or we shall lose our friends; and oh, Flora, what a lecture we should get for separating ourselves from the rest!"

The party was soon overtaken; and Flora observed, to her great amusement, that Mrs. Elton had succeeded in getting Mary and Mr. Earnscliffe together.

For about half-an-hour they wandered about the grounds, when Mrs. Elton led the way to their al fresco banqueting-hall—a grassy plateau, so surrounded by trees as to be shaded from the afternoon sun; and here the servants had laid out the dinner.

They had spread a tablecloth, fastened down by pegs; in the centre were baskets of flowers and fruits, surrounded by tempting sweet dishes, and next by the more substantial delicacies. Mrs. Elton had planned this pic-nic, priding herself justly on her catering for these occasions. In this case her task was comparatively an easy one, as Spillman—the Gunter of Rome—had a branch establishment at Frascati, whence the feast was supplied.

"Really this is quite a banquet of pleasure!" said Mrs. Penton; "all the delicacies of a grand dinner, without its heat, boredom, and ceremony. We certainly owe you a vote of thanks, Mrs. Elton!"

"Well," replied Mrs. Elton, with a complacent smile, "I do think that Spillman has carried out my orders very fairly; and the most acceptable vote of thanks you can award me is to let me see you do justice to the repast; so let us begin at once; the ground must serve for seats. I told Thomas to bring all the shawls from the carriages in case any one should like to make cushions of them."

For some time the principal sound to be heard was the clatter of knives and forks. Gradually this grew fainter, and was succeeded by the clatter of tongues. Champagne was freely quaffed, healths were drunk, and much laughter was excited by Mr. Caulfield, who rose and made a speech,—such as only an Irishman could make, with credit to himself—concluding it by asserting that his highest ambition was to be permitted the honour of proposing a toast to Miss Helena Elton, as the queen of croquet players, and by expressing a hope that she would return thanks for the toast herself. He remained standing, with his glass in his hand; and when the laughter had subsided a little, Helena, looking round the table, said, "I appeal to you all: can a gentleman refuse to act as a lady's deputy in returning thanks, if she requests him to do so for her?"

The answer was unanimous: "Certainly not?"

"Then, Mr. Caulfield," said she, with a graceful bow to him, "I hope you will do me the favour to return thanks for the toast which is about to be drunk in my honour!"

With one accord the gentlemen rose, applauding her, and claiming the toast. Mr. Caulfield made a profound inclination to Helena, and after a few more flowery words, proposed the toast, proclaiming her "the queen of croquet players and repartee." It was drunk with great enthusiasm; and all sat down, not excepting Mr. Caulfield, who seemed quite unconscious of the wondering looks directed towards him. After a few moments, however, he stood up again, and commenced with the utmost gravity:—

"Ladies and gentlemen,—I rise to return thanks to the gentleman who gave the last toast, which we all drank with such unusual pleasure. Miss Helena Elton has done me the honour of calling upon me to act as her deputy on this occasion, an honour I so highly appreciate that I consider myself more favoured by fortune than any gentleman in this worshipful company, save the one who had the happiness of proposing a toast so admirably adapted to my fair client." He was interrupted by calls of "hear, hear," "bravo," and much laughter; and after continuing for some time in an amusing strain, he sat down "amidst loud applause."

To Mrs. Elton it seemed as if the hilarity would never end. At length she said, "I am very sorry to interrupt your enjoyment, but we must think of getting home. And see how the day has changed! I do not think it will be wise to extend our drive by Grotto Ferrata."

But the younger portion of the company would not hear of any danger from change of weather; true, there was a black cloud in the direction of the town, but it would probably drift away, they said, and, at all events, there would only be a shower, which, as Helena (who was in wild spirits) declared, would but add to the beauty of their drive through the fine old wood of Grotto Ferrata. The green of the trees would look so bright and fresh, sparkling with rain-drops. She could not conceive any necessity for haste, or for shortening their drive home. Mrs. Elton persisted in thinking that there was immediate danger of rain, and suggested that they should seek refuge in the cascade steps, where, at least, they would find shelter. In this, too, she was over-ruled; all consented, however, to have the carriages ordered. There was a little more drinking of wine, eating of fruit, laughing, and merry talk, when, suddenly, a large drop of rain fell upon the table-cloth, followed by another and another, dropping slowly and heavily,

"One by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower."

The gentlemen started to their feet, helped up the ladies, urging them to run quickly to the cascade steps, as it was evident that there was heavy rain approaching.

Helena looked a little discomfited as she caught her mother's reproachful glance fixed upon her; but she carried it off with a laugh, and "Well! it will only be a shower. You'll see that I shall be right after all!"

"Come, come," called out Mr. Penton; "you ladies must wrap yourselves up in whatever shawls there are, and get to shelter as fast as possible, or you will be drenched with rain. In the meantime, I will go to the hotel and send any other wrappings that I can find. You will be sure to take cold if you sit there upon those damp steps."

"Why can't you send one of Spillman's men, George?" said his wife.

"My dear, don't you see that they have already as much as they can possibly do to get those things away before the storm comes on?"

"Oh, as you like, my dear George; I only wished to save you trouble," languidly replied Mrs. Penton.

As they hastened to the cascade, the large drops fell faster and faster; then they suddenly ceased. The quickness with which thunder-storms come on in southern climes is proverbial. Less than an hour before, the sun was shining brightly in an azure sky, and a light breeze gave freshness to the air. Now, that azure sky was all overcast; the air was heavy and sultry; there was a dead stillness all around; and the very leaves of the trees seemed to be weighed down, drooping under some unseen pressure. It was indeed the lull before the storm.

Hardly had they got into shelter, and Mr. Penton, accompanied by Charles Elton, had started for the hotel, when there arose a hurricane of wind,—whistling, tearing through the trees, waving the largest and strongest of them in its wild grasp, like the merest reeds; whirling into clouds the gravel of the walks, and rushing with unchecked fury through the covered passages wherein our party had taken refuge. Then, back again it came with unabated vigour; and across the black, lowering sky darted a vivid flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a clap of thunder which seemed to burst over the cascade.

It is curious to watch how differently a violent thunder-storm affects people, and ladies in particular. Many make themselves quite foolish on such occasions, indulging in the most silly demonstrations of terror, clinging to each other, hiding their faces, uttering little shrieks to manifest their fears; others, although evidently frightened, have the good sense to remain quiet, and, if they are pious, begin to pray; others, again, seem to take delight in it,—it excites them,—they watch its course with riveted attention, and become lost, so to say, in admiration of its grand yet awful beauty; looking as if they would fain say, with the poet,

"Let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,
A portion of the tempest and of thee!"

Among our friends there were examples of the three classes. Mrs. Penton and Helena were of the first; Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Adair, and Mary, of the second; and Flora, of the third. She left the rest, and mounted to the opening at the top, where she stood leaning against the wall, watching the storm. The lightning flashed, the thunder rolled and burst over her, and there she stood alone for some time, until she was startled by a voice close behind her, saying—

"Miss Adair is, I see, not only an apostle, but also a braver of storms; quite free from feminine weakness both in speech and action."

She looked round and saw Mr. Earnscliffe, whose words seemed to jar upon her ear; yet there was nothing in them at which she could take offence, so she answered—

"I do not think I am a coward in any sense of the word, and I would brave the storm were there any reason for doing so; but now there is none, and standing here is not braving it. Why you say 'braver of storms,' I know not. I merely came here because it is pleasanter to feel the wind blowing against one and see the vivid lightning than to sit below on a damp step in a dark passage, listening to senseless exclamations of fear."

"In which you do not share?"

"Certainly not."

"Well then, was I not right in calling you a braver of storms?"

At this moment the sky opened and sent forth a bright forked streak of light, which darted in a serpent-like form through the air, and struck straight into the ground beneath them; with it came the deafening thunder, and, as it died away rumbling in the distance, he said, looking fixedly at her—

"Are you still quite free from fear?"

"From fear—yes; but it was a grand, a solemn sight,—one that none could witness without feeling their own littleness and helplessness; yet we know that no harm can reach us without the consent of Him who rules the storms."

"Yet these storms are very dangerous!" he replied.

"Visible danger does but bring the idea of death more forcibly before us, therefore it always seems to me that all should preserve their calmness in moments like these; not Christians only, but even fatalists,—those because they know that they must submit to the will of God and should make the only preparation then in their power; these, because they think it vain to cry out against fate. It is said that every one finds it difficult to part with life, but I do not believe it. I am sure it is often more difficult to be resigned to live than to be resigned to die!"

"It is!" was the emphatic answer; but as Flora turned to look at him, she saw his lip curling with the same contemptuous smile which she had seen in the morning, and, getting very red, she said—

"Now you are ridiculing me; how foolish it was of me to speak in this way, and to a man! We never know when you are talking seriously, or only drawing us out in order to laugh at us."

"This is not half so difficult for you as it is for us to know when women are true or false," he retorted quickly; but, seeing her look of wonder, he at once added—

"Pardon me. I did not mean to offend you; experience teaches us hard lessons! Still I will try to believe with Byron,

"That two, or one, are almost what they seem,
That goodness is no dream, and happiness no name."

"We have got into rather a gloomy train of conversation," said Flora. "Let us change it to something else, or to silence if you prefer it."

He did remain silent, but the expression of his face was so changed, so softened, that Flora wondered why she had ever thought it stern.

The storm appeared to be abating; the rain had almost ceased, but there were still occasional flashes of lightning, and the thunder murmured in the distance; it was evident that the weather was not settled. Mary came up to say that they were to go at once, as the carriages were ready and it was thought better to make no delay, for heavy rain would probably come on again.

Mr. Earnscliffe awoke from his fit of abstraction and said—

"Quite right, the sooner we start the better; but first come out and look at the cascade; all is so bright and fresh. It is very delightful after the oppressive sultriness which preceded the storm. We can cross over and go down by the opposite flight of steps."

The girls followed him and stood for a moment looking at the waters falling into the basin underneath. As they were turning away Flora's foot slipped upon the wet moss, and she would have fallen had she not caught hold of Mary's arm, who exclaimed—

"I hope you are not hurt, Flora!"

"What is it?" asked Mr. Earnscliffe, turning back quickly.

"I slipped," replied Flora, "and my ankle pains me slightly. I dare say it will be over in a moment."

"Not a sprain, I hope, Miss Adair," he said, looking anxiously at her; "if so, how shall I forgive myself for being the cause of it? I see you are in pain; pray take my arm, it will give you more support than Miss Elton's."

"There is nothing to forgive or to be annoyed about" (taking his arm); "even if my ankle should be sprained, it is not your fault. I might have slipped anywhere else!"

"Nay, had it not been for me you would not have walked upon stones covered with wet moss; I cannot avoid blaming myself!"

Helena's voice was now heard calling, "Mary! Flora! what can you be about? Mamma is so impatient to be off; we are going, come on quickly!"

Mary turned to Flora: "Can you get down? or will you wait a little, and I or Mr. Earnscliffe will go and tell them?"

"I would rather go at once; and, with Mr. Earnscliffe's kind help, I shall get down the steps very well."

"Then let me really be of some assistance to you; lean heavily on me." And with the greatest care he helped her down the steps.

"Thank you," she said, as they reached the flat ground below; "it was so kind of you to let me lean on you as I did; now, I think, I can get on alone, and need not encumber you any longer." She drew away her arm from his.

"It was anything but an encumbrance, Miss Adair," and he smiled as she had scarcely thought he could smile; "to help you was a most pleasing reparation for the mischief I have caused. Do take my arm again!"

"Yes, I will do so, though not to give you a means of making reparation, since there is nothing to do that for, but because I find that I cannot walk as well as I thought I could. And now let us try to overtake the others."

As soon as they reached the party Helena exclaimed, "Flora, what is the matter? You look so pale!"

"I have sprained my ankle, I believe, and it hurts me a little."

"Quel malheur! Then you will not be able to dance to-night. A loss to you gentlemen, I can tell you. Flora was pronounced to be the best dancer at the Wiltons' ball!"

"We are all aware of Miss Adair's superior dancing," rejoined Mr. Caulfield, "except perhaps Mr. Earnscliffe; and, being her countryman, as the painter before a celebrated masterpiece said, 'anch' io son pittore!' I can say, 'I, too, am Irish!'"

"But," said Flora, laughing, "there is a slight difference between the two arts. One of my mistresses at school remarked, on hearing dancing praised, 'Yes, dancing is certainly a great accomplishment; dogs can be taught to do it so well!' We have yet to learn that dogs can be taught to paint."

To poor Flora's great comfort, the gate and the carriages beyond it now came in sight. Mrs. Adair and Mrs. Elton were already seated. As the former saw Flora limping and leaning on Mr. Earnscliffe's arm, she said, "My child, what has happened?" Flora answered that she had hurt her ankle a little, and then she got into the carriage, kindly and skilfully helped by Mr. Earnscliffe, who, as he shook hands with Mrs. Adair, asked permission to call on the next day to inquire after the invalid, which request was of course granted. Mrs. Elton pressed him to come to them in the evening; he refused politely, but firmly; accepting, however, Mrs. Penton's offer of a seat in their carriage back to Rome.

And so ended the croquet party at Frascati.

[CHAPTER II.]

Easter Tuesday had arrived, and all the excitement of Easter in Rome was over. Our friends had joined in the grand ceremonies of Holy Week; they had heard the silver trumpets sound forth the Alleluias on Easter morn, and on the evening of the same great day they had looked upon the glorious illumination of San Pietro; on the next day they had seen the girandola, or fireworks, on the Pincio; and Easter, with all its festivities, had become bygone things.

Before we proceed we surely ought to ask how Flora Adair had got over her accident at Frascati. On the day after it happened Mr. Earnscliffe called, as he had said, to inquire for her; and, considering himself in some degree as the cause of the mishap, he was quite distressed to find that it was so serious as to give her a good deal of pain, and keep her from walking for some time. It was so tiresome, he said, to be obliged to lie upon a sofa in such lovely weather—and in Rome, too! Would that he could do anything to make amends for the mischief he had caused!

He exerted himself to the utmost to amuse and interest her during the time of his visit; and so well did he succeed, that before he left her she had become quite animated, and seemed to have forgotten her ailment. When he stood up to take leave, he said, "I hope, Mrs. Adair, that you will allow me to call again to see how the invalid progresses?"

"Certainly, we shall always be happy to see you, and, now that Flora cannot go out, society is particularly desirable for her. The interest of conversation will make her forget her suffering—for a time, at least."

"Thank you! Then I shall indeed avail myself of your permission; I shall be so glad to think that I can in any degree lessen, even for half an hour, the weariness of that imprisonment of which, I must repeat, I feel I am the remote cause."

Thus he went constantly, and Flora found a charm in conversing with him which she had never known before. They often disagreed and looked at things each from a different point of view, yet their way of thinking seemed the same; there was sympathy even where they least appeared to agree. As she recovered, and when the excitement of Easter was over, she began to feel the blank caused by the cessation of those long and looked-for visits. There remained nothing to expect from day to day with hope and pleasure. She enjoyed his society as she had never enjoyed that of any other person, and did not at all like the prospect of being obliged to do without it, or indeed without much of it, for the future.

There are women who centre every delight in the object of their affections, and this, to a certain degree, even in friendship; but in love alone is it fully shown. To love, for such, is to centre everything in the beloved; they have no fits of great ardour followed by calmness—theirs is one unbroken act of love. Should there be no obstacles to their love, it is to them a source of happiness undreamed of by many, for their world is full. They have attained happiness, as far as it can be attained on earth from earthly things—for the human heart is made for the Infinite, and nothing finite can ever fully satisfy it. These do not stop to calculate whether loving another will be for their own advantage; they call that, egotism—the very opposite of love. "Non amate Dio per voi" is for them the expression of perfect love; and is not the love of God the model, ay, and the motor too, of all true human love? When love is pure and disinterested it wants not its due reward, but it obtains so much the greater recompense the less it seeks.

But should such obstacles arise, should they be separated from the object of their love, their misery is correspondingly great. Like a native of some sunny clime banished in the noonday of life to a northern land, clouded in chilly mists, it is vain to surround him with all that should cheer his heart; vain to strive—how tenderly soever it may be—to beguile his weariness; he pines for the beloved sun of other days, and sighs hopelessly for the glowing brightness of his home. So is the sun of their life beclouded,—he who was their sun, he who threw a halo over all, is gone; the chilly mist is ever upon their hearts, and they know in this life something of that terrible torture—the pain of loss.

But another pang is often reserved for them, and it is of all the most bitter; it comes when they have to choose between love and conscience, and when, in obeying the dictates of the latter, they have to bear the reproach of not loving truly, whilst, as they know but too well, they love so fully that few understand or realise it. To feel all this, and yet to be powerless to prove their love, is torture so great that they must indeed be watched over from above if they get safely through the ordeal.

Flora Adair thought and dreamed of the truest love to be found on earth, and without it life seemed to her but a sunless sojourn. Could she but have soared high enough so to love God, without the intervention of any creature, how great would have been her happiness! No struggle, no doubting, no separation possible! To this, however, she felt unequal,—she rested on a less lofty height, yet it was still a height, since all love, in order, is homage to God!

Was this great enjoyment of Mr. Earnscliffe's society the dawning of her dream of day? We can only answer that she herself did not so think about it; she only felt that he pleased her more than any other had ever done, and that she wished her ankle had not got well so quickly, that she might still have had the pleasure of meeting him frequently.

To dissipate the weariness which she felt to be stealing upon her, she proposed to her mother and Lucy to go to the Blakes, as Mina Blake had said something about going on that day to the novitiate house of one of the teaching Orders, to see Madame Ely, an old and intimate friend of theirs, who was an inmate of that convent, and had asked if they would like to go also. Flora said that she would be delighted to meet Madame Ely again in order to see if the warm poetic South had softened that apt pupil of the frigid discipline of her Order, or if she were still the same icy being as before in their northern climes. Mrs. Adair agreed to the proposal, but Lucy declined, pleading that she had a pretty novel and would rather stay at home to finish it than go to see such a prim old lady as Flora described Madame Ely to be. Accordingly, Lucy was left to her novel, and Mrs. Adair and Flora set off for the Piazza di Venezia, where the Blakes lived.

Of "the Blakes" there were only the mother and daughter then in Rome, Mr. Blake had not been able to accompany his wife and their only child, Mina, to Italy. Mrs. Blake was very lady-like, clever, and agreeable. Mina and Flora had been school companions and were great friends; there were some traits of similarity between the two girls—both were habitually reserved and undemonstrative in manner, although enthusiastic enough when they liked any one very much; but they were not easily attracted, and their apparent indifference made them somewhat unpopular.

The arrival of the Adairs was greeted by many expressions of pleasure, especially from Mina, who exclaimed, "Oh, Flora! I am so glad that you have come, because you and Mrs. Adair will, perhaps, join Miss Lecky and me in going to the convent,—you remember I spoke of it the other day. Mamma has got a cold and cannot come, so I was in despair at the prospect of an afternoon's drive tête-à-tête with old Lecky. We are to go to the Doria Villa afterwards—do come."

"I shall be delighted," answered Flora; "and mamma, will you not come also?"

Mrs. Adair assented, and Mina said she would go and get ready, as they were to call at the hotel for "old Lecky" at four, and it was then half-past three. She soon returned dressed for the expedition, and the Adairs took leave of Mrs. Blake. When they reached the Piazza they called one of the open carriages which are so common in Rome, and drove to the Hotel d'Amerique, where Miss Lecky was staying. She did not keep them waiting many minutes, so they reached the convent a little after four.

They were shown into a small square room, the walls of which were white-washed; rows of cane chairs and a table in the centre completed its furniture. There was a glass door standing open leading into a garden which looked so fresh and green in the bright sunshine that Mina said it would be a blessed change from that little cold, prim room; she hoped that Madame Ely would ask them to walk in it, so that they might mount the rising ground at the back and see from it the celebrated view of Rome. This hope, however, was not destined to be gratified by Madame Ely, who made her appearance just as Mina ceased speaking. She was tall and slight, with finely cut, sharp features, dark brown piercing eyes, thin lips, and a firmly closed mouth; she looked as rigid as ever, and her manner was as freezing. Flora saw at a glance that not even Italian suns had succeeded in melting that block of ice.

She whispered to Mina, "Byron says—

'The deepest ice which ever froze,
Can only o'er the surface close;'

but I scarcely think he could say so here, as he would see some which had frozen far beneath the surface, or else there never was anything to freeze over: perhaps it is so."

During the conversation with Mrs. Adair, Madame Ely named a Madame Hird, whom, as it turned out, Mrs. Adair had known very well. She now expressed a wish to see her, which request was granted, and Madame Hird came down.

She was the very opposite of Madame Ely—short in stature and of drooping carriage; she had small, delicate features, soft blue eyes with a most gentle expression, and, if she also was somewhat cold, it was merely a conventual coldness,—it could easily be seen that, in her, the ice had indeed

"Only o'er the surface" closed.

She remembered Mrs. Adair quite well, and they talked of former days and old acquaintances till Mrs. Adair thought it was time to say adieu, and she asked Madame Hird if they could take any commands for her to Paris, or indeed to Ireland, whither they were eventually going.

"I thank you, no," she answered; but after a momentary pause she continued, "Yet you could indeed do me a great service, if it would not be asking too much. It is to take charge of a little protégée of mine as far as Paris,—instead of protégée I should rather have said one who has been particularly recommended to my care by a dear friend, Madame de St. Severan, a countrywoman, but, as her name proclaims, married to a Frenchman, Colonel de St. Severan."

Mrs. Adair said she would be most happy to oblige her old friend Madame Hird.

"Well, then," answered the latter, "you must allow me to hand over to you a sketch of my little charge's history, which Madame de St. Severan sent to me. You can take it with you and read it at your leisure; then come again and tell me if you are still willing to take charge of Marie. She is the daughter of an Arab chief,—but all that you will see in Madame de St. Severan's account of her. I will go and fetch it."

She left the room, but returned quickly with the packet. Mrs. Adair thanked her for it, said they would call again in a few days, and then the whole party stood up to take their leave.

When they got to the door, Mrs. Adair said, "Come, Flora, we must get home as quickly as possible; it is already past five."

"Oh, Mrs. Adair," exclaimed Mina, "please not to take Flora away; let her take a drive with us and spend the evening; you know mamma is always delighted to have her, and as Miss Lecky lives in your neighbourhood, she can see her home."

"But she has not dined, child, and you have!"

Mina looked imploringly at Flora and glanced with dismay at Miss Lecky. Flora understood the mute appeal, and said—

"Really, mamma, I could not eat any dinner as I made such a very good luncheon, therefore that need not keep me from going with Mina!"

"And we shall have a 'thick tea' when we get home," added Mina; "so, Mrs. Adair, you will not be so cruel as to refuse to let her come with us;—but why will you not come also?"

"Oh! I am too rational to leave my dinner for a drive; besides, Lucy would be waiting for us. I must go home, but if my fair daughter chooses to go without her dinner she may do so."

"I thank you so much, Mrs. Adair," answered Mina: "but you will let us take you home?"

"Indeed I can allow no such thing,—it would make you far too late for the Villa Doria. I will say good-bye, now; and, Flora, pray come home in good time."

"You may depend upon my leaving her at home in good time, Mrs. Adair; I never stay out late," said Miss Lecky.

Just then one of the little open carriages passed; Mrs. Adair called it and drove home; the other three ladies then started for the Villa Doria.

But we have not yet presented Miss Lecky to the reader,—she has only been heard of as "old Lecky." It is true she was no longer young or interesting, yet a few words must be said, not of her appearance so much as of her character. She was, then, a desperate saint and a church-haunter, but, at the same time, indefatigable in running about to all the profane sights. In the galleries of painting and statuary she evinced the most rigid modesty in turning away her head and looking down when any undraped figure—of which there is no lack in Italian galleries—caught her eye, and this to the great amusement of the girls, who, whenever they went with her to any of these places, took the greatest delight in pointing out to her on the catalogue objects which were particularly to be observed, and afterwards watching the poor old lady's start of horror at such representations; being short-sighted, moreover, she did not see anything until she was quite near to it. For the rest she was a good-natured, kind-hearted old creature, yet a little wearisome withal to our young friends.

As they drove to the Villa Doria the task of entertaining her fell principally upon Mina, as her mother's friend and guest. Flora sat silently enjoying the delicious Italian evening; she might have been accused of looking a little abstracted, as, with eyes apparently fixed on vacancy, she leaned back in the carriage. Perhaps there were floating before them visions of other and yet more delicious evenings, when she lay upon a sofa near an open window and listened to a voice and words very different from old Lecky's!

They drove out of the Porta San Pancrazio, a little distance beyond which are the grounds of the Doria Pamfili Villa, one of the most extensive and park-like places to be found on the Continent, and although somewhat disfigured by avenues, terraces, and fountains, it is an enchanting spot, especially in the gorgeous Roman spring-time.

Such it was on the evening when our party entered its gates. Had they come to see the fashionable world it was rather late; already the carriages were disappearing, for the sun was declining rapidly towards its setting in the west, and the Romans are far too careful of their health to brave the dangerous half-hour which, it is said, precedes and follows sunset. Our friends, however, did not come to see the monde, and the lateness of the hour only enhanced the beauty of the grounds. As for the health question, the young ladies simply ignored it, and Miss Lecky probably did not know anything about it, or she would not have been so recklessly indifferent to it as her companions were.

One of the chief objects of interest is the Columbarium. Perhaps, for the advantage of our readers who have not been to Rome and have not studied Murray, we ought to say that Columbarium is a name given to certain sepulchral buildings from their likeness to a modern pigeon-house with its tiers of little niches; and in these were deposited in former days urns containing the ashes of the dead, whose names are inscribed on marble tablets above. In one of the Columbaria on the Appian Way there is a curious record placed by a lady over the ashes of a favourite dog; his portrait accompanies the inscription, and he is designated as the delight—"delicium"—of his mistress!...

The Columbarium in the grounds of the Villa Doria consists of one large chamber and several smaller ones; it contains a great number of urns, but few inscriptions, and none of any great interest, so the inspection of it detained our friends only for a few minutes. They then drove to the monument erected by Prince Doria to the memory of the French who fell there in the year 1849, when General Oudinot forced Garibaldi and his Republicans from the Casino and grounds, where they had taken up a strong position. It is situated at the end of one of the great avenues of evergreen oaks, and is an octagonal temple, supported by four columns of white marble, on which is placed a statue of the Blessed Virgin, and on the pedestal are the names of those who fell in defence of the Villa. This is a beautiful object seen from the other end of the avenue,—the white marble contrasting so well with the dark green of the majestic oaks.

It was now high time for them to think of returning, as the gates of the villa were about to be closed; but the evening was still so lovely that Mina declared it would be a sin to go home so soon. Miss Lecky agreed with her, and asked if there were any church which they could see on their way back. Mina answered, "Yes, Santa Sabina; we shall pass close to the Bocca della Verità, which is very near to it; one of the fathers of the Dominican convent is my cousin, so I can ask to see him."

Miss Lecky said that she would be delighted to go, as she had never seen that church. Mina whispered to Flora that she would not see much of it, unless she had cat's eyes and could see in the dark; but it was a good joke to storm the convent after the Ave Maria, and astonish the monks by the sight of three women at that hour.

Accordingly they drove to Santa Sabina, or rather, to the foot of Mount Aventine, on the summit of which it stands. The driver begged them to walk up as "the hill was so steep," and, the light fading, he was afraid that his horses might stumble and fall on their way down; so they got out and went up on foot, the carriage waiting below for them.

On reaching the convent they rang at the door, which was quickly opened by a lay-brother, who looked wonder-struck on seeing the three ladies. Mina ignored the look of surprise, and calmly asked if she could see "il Padre Osmondo." The lay-brother said he would inquire, and showed them into the parlour.

It was already so dark that they could see but indistinctly, and suddenly it appeared to dawn upon Miss Lecky that it was somewhat of an unseemly hour for a visit to a monastery. Mina and Flora could hardly suppress their laughter at the thought that the old lady should only then have arrived at the knowledge of that long evident fact.

Just then the door opened, and in came Father Osmond. He shook hands with Mina, who introduced her friends, and laughingly apologised for the lateness of their visit, saying that as they were passing at the foot of the hill, and Miss Lecky was so anxious to see the church before she left Rome, they had ventured to call at that hour, fearing they would have no other opportunity.

Father Osmond was a tall, fat, good-natured-looking Irishman, with ruddy cheeks and laughing blue eyes. He answered, in a rich brogue, "Shure inough, Miss Blake, I'd niver doubt you to be me counthry-woman—to come and see a place in the dark; but as you are here, I suppose I must bring you into the church, and thry if a candle will help you to see Sassoferrato's sweet Virgin."

"Thank you," replied Mina, as they followed him to the church door, where he begged them to wait a moment while he went to get a candle. He quickly returned, with a lighted one in his hand, and led them to the chapel where is Sassoferrato's beautiful Madonna, a picture unsurpassed, perhaps, in sweetness of expression, by any in Rome.

The scene was indeed a strange one; the large dark church, with the glimmer of a small lamp in one of the side chapels the three female figures standing there, staring up at the picture, and the Dominican in his white habit moving the candle from side to side. The girls were keenly alive to it, and the twinkle in Father Osmond's eye showed that he too was not insensible to its absurdity. At last he said—

"Well, Miss Lecky, I think you'd do as well to come some day to see the church, for shure you can't judge of anything by this miserable candlelight."

"You are right," she answered; "I must manage to come some day to see the church, and have a look at this beautiful picture. Now we had better think of getting home."

Father Osmond led the way back to the reception-room, and said he would call the lay-brother to let them out, adding, "Your carriage is at the door, I suppose."

"No," replied Miss Lecky,—the girls did not trust themselves to speak,—"the driver asked us to walk up; the hill, he said, was so very steep for the horses."

"You don't mean to say that you came up by yourselves! Shure thin I don't know how you'll iver git down again! Why this hill is so lonely and dangerous a place after nightfall that one of the lay-brothers would not go out alone, and you three ladies are going to walk down alone as late as this! No, that can't be!"

The spirit of mischief must have taken possession of the two girls, for, as they saw poor Miss Lecky grow pale with terror, and heard her exclaim, "Oh! Father Osmond, what shall we do?" they laughed outright.

Father Osmond looked at them with a half-amused, half-impatient expression, and said, "It is all very well to laugh, young ladies, but may be it's the wrong side of your mouth you'd laugh if you walked down that hill alone to-night. But that you'll not do. Shure I couldn't sleep aisy in me bed for thinking of what might happen to you. I'll go and get somebody to go down with you." So saying he left the room. Poor Miss Lecky expressed the most ardent wishes that they had never left the carriage, and that they were safe back in it again, and the young ladies tried to regain a little gravity.

In a few minutes Father Osmond came back and said that the man who took care of the garden would take a lantern and see them safe to the carriage. They thanked Father Osmond warmly for all his kindness, and as Mina shook hands with him she begged him in a low voice to excuse this wild freak of theirs, and forgive all their laughing.

"You're young, me children, you're young, and shure it's not meself that would find fault with you for being merry; long may you remain so;—and now, good-night, and may God bless you both."

They followed Miss Lecky, who was impatiently waiting for them at the door, and trying to make out something of what the man with the lantern was saying, which, as she knew very little Italian, seemed rather a hopeless task; and she looked as much afraid of him as of anything else. In truth, he was rather a formidable-looking personage, with his tall, gaunt figure wrapped up in a long dark cloak, a large slouched hat covering his brows so that nothing of his face could be seen but two fierce black eyes, and a profusion of dark hair. He did indeed look rather bandit-like.

As the girls came out he said, "Andiamo presto, Signorine," and started off at a brisk pace with the lantern. Mina could not resist the temptation of drawing out poor old Lecky's fear of their protector, and giving Flora a sign to follow the lead, she said, "Don't you think, Miss Lecky, that the man looks to be a very suspicious character? Suppose he was to be an accomplice of those dangerous people we hear of, and that, when we are half way down the hill, they should dart out from some dark corner! He might pretend that he was frightened by their number, and run away, leaving us in their hands."

"But surely you don't think the fathers would employ such a person, do you?"

"Of course not, if they knew it," said Flora, gravely; "but you know Italians are so cunning that they easily deceive poor monks, and that man certainly is like the descriptions which we read of bandits."

"Well, do you know," began Miss Lecky, in a trembling tone, "it struck me as soon as I saw him, but I did not like to say anything, fearing——"

"What's that!" interrupted Mina, as a low whistle was heard; "it is the signal perhaps!"

"My God! there they are!" exclaimed the poor old lady, as she convulsively caught hold of Flora's arm, "and he is speaking to the leader. Oh! let us run away!"

Mina laughed aloud, Flora at the same time trying to keep from following her example, and to calm poor Miss Lecky's fears by telling her that it was only a flock of goats, and the terrible leader a peaceable herdsman, with his crook, to whom their attendant spoke a few words.

Miss Lecky, as we have already learned, was a good-humoured creature, so she laughed heartily at her own mistake, and said she was so ridiculously short-sighted that she could not distinguish anything at a distance; but how she wished they were safe in the carriage!

The girls felt that it would be carrying a joke to ill-nature to teaze her any more, so they changed their tone, and began to reassure her by telling her that they were nearly at the foot of the hill, and then all cause of fear would be at an end. It was almost too much for them to keep from bursting into fits of laughter at the thought of the poor goats and their herdsman being taken for a party of bandits with their leader.

At length they reached the end of their walk, without any further adventures than passing now and then dark-looking individuals enveloped in cloaks, who stared curiously at them, but went on their way without speaking. The girls, however, did afterwards admit that it would not have been pleasant for them to have been alone.

The moment when they came in sight of the carriage Miss Lecky made a rush towards it, and got in. Mina thanked their cavalier and gave him a couple of pauls, when he took off his hat, courteously wished them buon viaggio e felice notte, and returned to the convent.

They told the coachman to drive back fast to the Piazza di Venezia, and when they got home they found Mrs. Blake expecting them rather anxiously, as it was so late. As Mina had said, she appeared delighted to see Flora, and told them that tea would be ready for them in a moment.

Mina hoped that there was plenty of good substantial eatables, particularly for poor Flora, who had not dined; but Flora declared that she did not deserve to be pitied, since she had enjoyed the drive far more than she would have enjoyed dinner.

A little after nine Miss Lecky left Flora at her home. As soon as she got into the drawing-room she threw herself into an armchair, and then proceeded to give an account of their adventures.

[CHAPTER III.]

We must now turn our attention to some of our other friends of the croquet party, and especially to one about whom, as we have already seen, Flora Adair's thoughts were not a little occupied, namely, Mr. Earnscliffe, in order to endeavour to learn something of his appearance and his mode of life.

He lived in the Piazza di Trajana, in a handsome and thoroughly Italian apartment on the second floor—or, as it is more properly called, secondo piano—of a house situated at the lower end of the Piazza, nearly opposite to the church of Santa Maria di Loretto.

He was seated in an armchair by a table covered with books and writing materials,—to all appearance he had been reading. His tall and strongly-built form seemed made for activity and energy, and in keeping therewith was the well-shaped hand, which rested upon the arm of his chair,—a hand full of vigour, one of those which show at a glance that its support could be trusted to in any trial or danger. His brown, yet almost auburn, hair was brushed off from a high forehead, but one marked with many a line,—too many for a man of six-and-thirty. Byron speaks of

"Those furrows which the burning share
Of sorrow ploughs untimely there;"

and so, perhaps, was it with Mr. Earnscliffe. His large blue eyes had a strangely stern expression in them, "pour les doux yeux bleus," but at times, when moved by even a momentary feeling of enthusiasm, there beamed in them a winning softness which looked far more natural to him than that strange sternness. It may be, however, that this was

"A light of other days."

His slightly aquiline nose, and his somewhat full lips closed firmly over an unbroken and even range of strong teeth, and his firm and resolute mouth betokened an ardent, passionate nature. A beard and moustache, of nearly the same colour as his hair, covered the lower part of his face, which was naturally fair, but somewhat bronzed by southern suns.

He was dressed in a dark morning suit, without any recherche; but in a peasant's costume there would have been that same air of ease and high breeding which so strikingly distinguished him,—that distinction of nature which no outward adornment of wealth or fashion, or even birth with all its advantages, could give. "It is the soul," says the great Christian doctor and philosopher, "which is the form of the body and which gives its beauty to it."

We have heard from Mrs. Elton that Mr. Earnscliffe was rich. Why then did he live in this unfashionable quarter? Probably because it was unfashionable, and out of the way of his sight-seeing, gaiety-hunting country people, who congregate about the Corso and the Piazza di Spagna; probably also because in the Piazza di Trajana, where the houses look down upon the remains of that once magnificent Forum and the unrivalled column which still stands there, he lived in some degree in the Rome of old, "the mistress of the world, whose people were a nation of kings," as he had said on that day at Frascati, and not in the modern Rome, which to his clouded vision appeared so despicable.

If the pride of human reason, which was so strong in him, would have permitted him to endeavour to pierce that cloud, he would have seen how much more glorious is her diadem now than it then was. Then her sovereignty rested on material force alone,—she was the capital of the peoples whom she had conquered for her Cæsars by the force of arms, and her government was the lower one—the government of power; now her sovereignty is a moral sovereignty,—she is the capital of Christendom, of the nations which she has won to God by the power of persuasion, and her government is the highest of all—the government of love! But these things were hidden from Mr. Earnscliffe,—he "did not believe, and therefore he could not understand."

Upon the table beside him lay Nibbi's "Roma Antica e Moderna," "Les Catacombes de Rome," by Louis Perret, an open volume of Plato, Bulwer's "Zanoni" and "Godolphin." It was a small but somewhat miscellaneous collection, and formed a fair index to the mind of him who sat in the armchair. There were few men who had read or thought more than he had done in his own way; but the more he read and the more he thought, the more baseless everything seemed to him. At times he would sit with an open volume beside him, and, ceasing to read, bitterly ask himself what he gained by all his study and thought? It only isolated him, he would say, from the generality of people, and left him tossing without a rudder upon the unstable waters of human opinion, to which there seemed to be no attainable shore.... Yet the shore was close to him, only he would not see it.

There had just risen up before him a vision of years long past and gone, when he dreamed of love, of the unutterable delight of conferring happiness upon another; and for a moment his blue eyes regained their natural soft expression—but for a moment only; the next it had passed away; and throwing his head back impatiently, as if he would shake off

"Those spectres whom no exorcism can bind,"

he exclaimed, "What nonsense all this is! Do I not know by experience the hollowness of love? The best of women are but the best of actresses—for they are all so more or less—and would I sigh again for aught so worthless? A thousand times, no. I made my choice long ago; I determined to be self-sufficing, true and virtuous for my own sake, and to prove what man can be of himself alone! Ay, Plato," and he drew the book towards him, "thou art my best friend, my only master! But even thou dost not teach enough! Yet come, thou canst teach me more than any other!" And, with the old stern look in his face, he began to read again.

Will his proud spirit of self-reliance, his iron will, ever be humbled? Will he ever learn to kiss the rod under which he writhes? If so, it must indeed be after a deadly struggle with his mortal enemy, himself.

He did not go much into society, and rather avoided that of ladies, although he could make himself most pleasing to them when he chose to do so, as indeed he had proved in regard to Flora Adair. His sense of justice was unusually strong, and therefore it was that he had broken through his rule of rarely visiting by going so often to the Adairs; he considered it as a sort of moral debt to render the time of Flora's imprisonment as little wearisome as possible, having been, as he said, the remote cause of her accident. As that obligation was now over, he tried to persuade himself that he was delighted at it; yet many things which had happened during their conversations were constantly recurring to him; he wished he had said this, or that,—something, in short, which he had not said. He thought, moreover, that he should like to be able to study Flora Adair more closely, but merely to find her out, as no doubt she was an actress like the rest of her sex. He was generous too, ever ready to give money to relieve others, and, notwithstanding his assumed stoicism, his tell-tale eyes would light up with a passing glow whenever he felt that he had been the means of doing good to a suffering creature, or given any pleasure to others. To his servants he was a kind master, although habitually reserved and distant, but never to them was he proud and scornful, as he often was to his equals. For the rest, his character must develop itself. We shall not now be astonished at acts of apparent inconsistency caused by that perpetual warfare between the two natures, the real and the acquired. Thus flashes of the enthusiastic spirit of his youth would every now and then dart athwart the sombre hues of the philosopher and fatalist of later years.

On this day there certainly seemed to be something very wrong with Mr. Earnscliffe, for he could not as usual, by the mere force of his will, fix his attention to the book before him. Closing it with a jerk, he said to himself, "What on earth has come over me? What has called up so many memories which I thought buried for ever—memories of days when I was not the cold lonely being I now am? Have I not found out the hollowness of all things? Have I not sought in vain for proofs even of the Creator's goodness, about which one hears so much cant? I can see only human beings endowed with sensitive powers, and thrown into the world for the greater part to be tortured, and all left without any certain guide, the sport of their own wayward minds! And then, indeed, people talk about the consolations of religion! What are those consolations? What is religion? A helpless human being in the bright morning of this deceptive life is suddenly struck down by a blow which not only strikes at him, but at his faith in all goodness and truth; he turns to religion and asks for its consolations, and religion turns out to be a collection of rules and maxims laid down by one or more men of different sects, who call themselves ministers of God, and its consolations are certain texts of Scripture interpreted by them as they please, each giving a different meaning, whilst they are united in nothing save in hating and attacking the oldest and most dominant of their creeds: and this perhaps is the best feature about them, as it proves that even they have an instinctive horror of deceit and superstition. À propos, I wonder how Flora Adair believes in it; for although she too is an actress, she is capable of thinking. However, I believe it is supposed to be right for ladies to be religious. Ah! that's it, is it? Yet she did seem to speak from conviction at Frascati. I wish I could unravel her! She would be rather a new and interesting study,—she takes a different rôle from young ladies in general. I don't know that it would be a bad plan to try to unearth her,—it would be something new to think about, at all events; so, young lady, if you come in my way I shall try to find out all the dessous les cartes. As for religions, I am surely not going to fall back to thinking about them and seeking that ignis fatuus, certainty! Reason is the only power which I can recognise, and Plato is Reason's highest, noblest disciple. How is it, then, that to-day I cannot find in him food to satisfy—nay, he never satisfies—but to stay the mind's craving? Well, it seems to be an unsolvable riddle. I only know that I cannot solve it; so, for dream-land! Bulwer is a good magician, and however unreal may be the visions which he conjures up, it is a relief to forget one's self in them even for a time."

He threw himself back into his chair and took up "Godolphin," which he opened at about the middle of the volume. His eyes grew bright, and a slight colour came into his face as he read. Was it his only goddess, Reason, which thus moved him? We will leave it to those of our readers who know "Godolphin,"—and who does not?—to answer the question for themselves.

Having discovered as much of Mr. Earnscliffe as we can now see, we will transport ourselves to a more fashionable quarter—to the Via Babuino—where the Eltons lived.

Their apartment differed essentially from Mr. Earnscliffe's; his was Italian, theirs was English in everything,—an English servant opened the door and ushered visitors into a handsome drawing-room luxuriously furnished à l'Anglaise, with a rich soft carpet, couches, and lounging chairs of various kinds. Mrs. Elton was still in her room; being an invalid, she seldom made her appearance much before one o'clock, and it had but just struck twelve.

Mary Elton was seated at a table, writing; her younger sister, Helena, lolling rather gracefully on a sofa, with a novel in her hand, from which, however, her thoughts seemed to wander not a little, and her restless eyes were fixed oftener on her sister than on the page before her. She seemed to be meditating—if such a word could ever be applied justly to one who was so thoughtless and impulsive—something in regard to Mary, and she shrugged her shoulders impatiently as she watched the incessant motion of her sister's pen and her close attention to what she was doing.

We must not pass over in silence the appearance of these two young ladies, who were said, indeed, to be very much admired. Mary's figure was tall, rather full and stately; she moved quietly and with a certain degree of dignity; while Helena was not much above the middle height, and slighter than her sister; there was a careless grace, too, in her quick, restless movements, which was very attractive. Never were there greater contrasts, in appearance as in all the rest, than these two sisters. They had both red—some called it auburn—hair, but in truth it was scarcely auburn; both had brilliantly fair complexions and hazel eyes, but there the resemblance ceased. Mary's eyes were large and round; they looked at one with a calm, steady gaze; they could burn at times, and when they did, it was with no mere flash, but a fierce steady flame. Helena's were smaller and more almond-shaped,—sparkling, dancing, laughing eyes they were indeed! Mary had a broad and rather high forehead, a straight, almost Grecian, nose and a well-cut but large mouth. Helena's forehead was low and very narrow, her nose was slightly retroussé, and her mouth small, with red pouting lips. The expression of one of these faces was constantly changing; that of the other was habitually calm and thoughtful,—a face which changed but seldom, but when it did change it was no April sunshine, or cloud, or summer storm that passed over it.

Helena could bear the monotonous scratching of Mary's pen no longer, and exclaimed, "For goodness' sake, Mary, do stop writing, and give up looking so intensely interested in that stupid letter to our saint of an aunt! I know it must bore you dreadfully!"

"Because you are bored yourself, Helena; is it not so? But mamma wishes this letter to go to-day, so I must write it, in any case."

"Yes, of course, you dear delightful child; but there is plenty of time, and I want you to talk to me now. Tell me, are you coming to the Catacombs this afternoon? You know that we have tickets, and can join a party of which Cardinal de Reisac is to be the cicerone."

"The Catacombs? No! What could have put such an idea into your head? Surely you are not thinking of going?"

"Surely I am, though!"

"And, in the name of all that is wonderful, for what? You would not tell me that such a madcap as you are can care to go poking about in those damp underground passages, listening to an old Cardinal's fabulous legends of this Roman nonsense? A little poetic association with the past is very telling for them, no doubt; but you are never going for all this, Helena?"

"No, not I! But, my precious matter-of-fact sister, can you not imagine any one going to the Catacombs for any other motive than that of seeing them and listening to tiresome old histories? 'Poking about in those damp underground passages,' as you most irreverently designate visiting the last home of the saints, the persecuted, the martyrs!"

Mary could not help smiling as Helena went on with mock gravity. "Venturing to repeat your profane mode of speaking, my dear Mary, I beg to say that 'poking about in those damp underground passages' might be made very pleasant indeed, and one might hear there something far more agreeable than the twaddling of a reverend monsignore."

"Pray be sensible, if you can, Helena. I suppose you have discovered that Mr. Caulfield is to be of the party, and that is, no doubt, your motive for going."

"With your usual wisdom you have divined it, O 'most potent, grave, and reverend' lady!"

"How silly you are! But I am sure I don't know why you have told me your motive for going, since you know it is one of which I cannot approve. It would be mistaken kindness, indeed, were I to encourage you in this wild fancy which you have taken for Mr. Caulfield. You will not be allowed to marry him, therefore all these meetings will but make you unhappy!"

"Most admirably reasoned! Only you seem to ignore the existence of that tender passion called love, which is not remarkable for its obedience to reason, as far as I know. I love Harry Caulfield, so the mischief—if mischief it be—is done; therefore, whether I am allowed to marry him or not, it is too late to think of saving me from unhappiness by preventing me from seeing him. Now listen to me, Mary, and I will be as serious as you like; I repeat I love him,—not perhaps in the way that Flora Adair——" (a strange expression passed over Mary's face as this name was uttered; Helena's quick eye caught it, but she continued without making any observation) "and her friend Mina Blake talk about,—a feeling into which everything is merged, concentrated into the one thought, can I make him happy? How amused I have been when listening to them; you know they say that a woman's happiness consists not in the least in doing what she likes, but in the happiness of the man she loves! Where they learnt such notions I cannot conceive!"

"Nor can I see what their ideas on the subject can have to do with your reasons for making me your confidant, which was what I wished to know."

"Nothing on earth, most lawyer-like of young ladies; but I could not help telling you en passant how Flora and her friend talk about love." Had Helena really no other motive for bringing in Flora's name?