The Lost Bride, vol. 3

DOCTOR JOHNSON did not call that day, which Aunt Jane declared was a good sign, and I tried to think so too. But the next morning I couldn’t help feeling very anxious for his hitherto daily visit, and we also expected Mr. Mordaunt. So I sat near the window with a book in my hand, listening and looking anxiously along the road to the village.

At last I saw a carriage coming in the distance; it was not the doctor’s gig, nor Mr. Mordaunt’s fly, but a large well-appointed vehicle; and as it approached the door I recognised, by the ducal coronet, that it was the same carriage in which we went to the ball on that eventful night.

Then I saw a lady and two gentlemen get out, and I fancied that some one else remained in it; but I had no time to look again, for it drove quickly off, and Mary opened the door to admit the Duchess, with Mr. Mordaunt and the Duke. I felt rather confused and embarrassed, because I suddenly took it into my head that the other person who remained in the carriage was Carlo, and the question, “Was he well enough to travel?—and was he really going away without my seeing him?” was on the tip of my tongue.

But the Duchess was one of those kind people who possess the valuable faculty of setting everyone at their ease, so she soon engaged my attention pleasantly by her account of Dorina, and how enchanted she was with that beautiful saint. Then she said that the Marchese Spinola was much better. “And,” added she, “he is so anxious to go to his father at Sorrento that I allowed him to take a little drive to-day; and if he bears it without suffering, he is to start on his journey to-morrow. But he has had a most extraordinary escape, and his recovery was, it was feared at first, quite hopeless.”

I inquired whether his mind was not affected, because that was what the doctor at first apprehended.

“Not at all; and I suppose he has been of great use to Mr. Mordaunt about that strange business—your impostor cousin. For I am convinced he is an impostor,” she added, “and so is the Duke; and the matter is going to be well sifted, and I don’t despair of seeing you re-instated in your rights again.”

“How can that be possible?” I said. “But oh! if my father could but be cleared—if the slur they want to cast on my father could but be——”

“It will—it shall—it must!” interrupted the impetuous Mr. Mordaunt.

“Yes,” said the Duchess with a quiet smile, as she saw the Dresden china inkstand vibrate, and the pens dance, from his thump on the table. “And now I have a petition to make, my dear Miss Vivian—it is that you and Miss Stanway will come and take our places at Castle Hall, for the Duke has business which he must not longer neglect. The Gräfinn Dorina must not be left alone; and no one is so well fitted to be her companion at this trying time as yourself. And you are the only relative she has in England; and she had much better remain in the old home of her English ancestors. So I shall send the carriage for you both to-morrow, and see you installed at Castle Hall; then the Duke will take me away in the afternoon. The Count Rossi will go on the following day, for now that the funeral of his poor wife is over, he wishes to return for a time to his old home at Venice—for a time only,” she added, as she saw a disappointed look on my face. “Of course he will marry his own fiancée as soon as Dorina consents, and we will have a splendid wedding, or rather a lovely and picturesque one, for it shall be a real old-fashioned fête, when all the villages for miles round will enjoy it; and I shall come and dance on the green with the old clerk; and the Duke shall dance a minuet de la cour with dear old Mrs. Lacy. How I love that genuine old dame, with her long family histories—you know, I have quite learnt them by heart from her—ever since the Conquest. And that clever rogue Cattarina has been ferreting out something most mysterious, that was even unknown to Mrs. Lacy. I rather like that wicked Cattarina, for she would have gone through fire and water for her mistress, who was—well, never mind, her faults are buried with her, and we will think no ill; but what I mean is, that Cattarina was so fascinated by poor Cunigunda’s exterior charms, that now she has got a mistress as externally charming, and so good withal, I feel sure she ought to make a good and devoted servant. But there is the carriage, luckily, to stop the overflow of my eternal talk, as the Duke calls it. Our horses want exercise,” she added, as she looked out; “and as our invalid is trying to get out, we will leave him and send it back in an hour. Good-bye, and remember to be ready by twelve o’clock to-morrow morning.”

I saw that Carlo had great difficulty in moving, and though supported on each side by Mr. Mordaunt and the Duke, his progress along the little garden walk, which led from the entrance-gate up to the house door, was very slow.

I had full time to notice the look of intense suffering on his pale thin face, and the anxious look in his dark, speaking eyes. The gentlemen lifted him up the steps, and supporting him into the room, and placing him in Aunt Jane’s armchair, they left him alone with me. I hoped Aunt Jane was coming (she had gone with the Duchess to the hall door), but she did not, and I heard the carriage drive off.

“YOU are not glad to see me,” he said, in a low, weak voice. “I knew it was better I should die, and then perhaps you would have thought more kindly of me. And yet I dreaded death, for I felt almost for the first time that I was going to eternal torture. And your indifference——”

“Oh! no, no!” I said, as I approached and took his hand. After that I scarcely knew what we said, but an hour afterwards, when Aunt Jane came into the room, I had quite forgiven his apparent faithlessness, and I saw by Aunt Jane’s face that she was satisfied with the result of our long interview. Yet there was no result, for I was not conscious of having promised anything. I only felt kindly towards him, and felt most deeply for his sufferings.

“The carriage has come back for you, but you are to come and see us again before you leave the country,” I said.

“No, this must be the last time—not later, unless——”

“Unless you resolve not to come,” interrupted Aunt Jane.

“But we must now obey the orders of those who are interested in your fate. The Duke is going to carry you off by force to Lorton Grange, till you are much more fit to travel than you are now; and he has promised to bring you once more to see us at Castle Hall, and then you can bid us an eternal adieu, if you are resolved to leave England for ever. So now cheer up, and don’t look as if all happiness had fled, and that you are doomed to misery for ever and ever. Remember an old homely proverb, ‘It’s never too late to mend.’”

“I wish I could think so,” said Carlo, as he tried to rise from his chair, but fell back exhausted with the effort; and Aunt Jane went to fetch some restorative, after ordering him not to stir, and promising that Mr. Mordaunt and the servant would come and help him into the carriage.

“Am I to come again,” whispered Carlo, while his beseeching eyes looked anxiously into mine for an answer. I said nothing, but my looks probably satisfied him, for his face brightened, and with a voice to which hope seemed to give sudden strength, he added, after a pause,

“Then when I see you next, I shall have a great deal to say, for I hope that Mr. Mordaunt and the Duke are going to make me of some use.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Jane, “I know all about it, and highly approve of your plan; but you must not talk any more now. There, all right, you may kiss her hand, and mine too, if you like, for I admire your old courtier-like air. Good-bye; and get well quickly,” she added, as Mr. Mordaunt and the Duke’s servant came to help him into the carriage.

“Oh! Aunt Jane,” I said, as they drove off, “why did you tell him to kiss my hand?”

“Because I saw it would do him good. Don’t you see that he is still so ill that it seems to me very doubtful whether he will ever recover?—and unless he has some hope, and meets with real kindness, I am certain he will die; and you would be sorry for that, though you did try to look as if you did not care what became of him.”

“Oh! no, I am certain I did not,” I said, while the tears came into my eyes.

“Well, you need not cry about it now, darling, for I know your position was a very difficult one—very, under all the complication of circumstances. For the long and short of it is this (and we should always view things exactly as they are), you considered yourself engaged to him when you came to England, and you fancied that you were in love with him because you had seen no one else you liked as well. Then when you lost your fortune, he seemed to reject you, and this of course you could not forgive. You tried to hate him, and fancied you succeeded. You saw another man, the most fascinating man going, who made love to you as the reigning beauty of the season, and you fancied he adored you, therefore it would have been very ungrateful if you had not returned his love, in spite of the wise warning of Lady Horatia Somerton, and of the old poet, and half a dozen others, some of whom knew of his kind of engagement to another, and that he was an inveterate gambler. Then you suddenly discovered,” she added, after a pause, “that he was loved by your dearest friend Norah, and that you had been the means of inducing him to forget her. All this excitement brought on a most dangerous illness, from the effects of which you are scarcely yet recovered. It has left your mind in a kind of blank, dull state, and you shrink instinctively from emotional or decided feeling; and your bad opinion of Carlo has been confirmed by the rumours you heard, that he was too attentive to Cunigunda. I think these rumours were exaggerated; but I saw what an extraordinary, fascinating syren she was, and that Carlo’s pleasure in her society might be somewhat excused. How irresistibly fascinating she was is proved by Count Rossi having been induced to forget his beautiful betrothed, and marry, after such a short interval, a person who was her very opposite in character. Yet Count Rossi is really a good and most conscientious man, and not nearly so likely to be led away as such a young and untrained person as Carlo is. Your Marchese is by no means perfect, but I fancy I see in his countenance that many fine qualities might be developed, and that under judicious influence he may become quite a different creature.”

“Do you really think so?” said I, with anxious hope.

“I hope so. But as it must depend on you—and I would endeavour not to cause him to despair before he has had time to recover his health, and to give you some proof that the severe shock and illness he has had, may not have been sent in vain.”

“I certainly should not wish to do him any harm, but——”

“But you cannot, of course, make up your mind all of a sudden to—and that is quite natural. You are also surprised that I should thus seem to advocate the cause of one of whom many would disapprove. Perhaps it is surprising, but when you have seen as much of the world, or rather of mankind, you will see that the unfortunate moral or character training of men is so inferior to that of women, and their temptations are often so much greater, that it is wonderful if one in a thousand turns out really well.”

“I do not expect perfection, but I am sure I would rather not marry, unless——”

“Unless you find it, or unless you can feel the kind of wild intoxication of delight Sir Alfred Rivers called forth. But you would not have been happy with him, nor would you have had the power to call forth his best qualities. No one could do that but Norah. You are better suited to draw forth Carlo’s, that I see plainly; and would have the greatest advantage, that of early intimacy, which always helps to create a good influence.”

“IT is a very great advantage,” added Aunt Jane, later in the evening of that day, “to be reminded of early youth. To think of those who loved us, and whom we loved in days when we were comparatively innocent and unsuspicious of evil, has generally a beneficial influence on our character in after-life. There may be many objections to the marriage of cousins, but he is not your first cousin, and I have generally found that they turned out very happily—I mean among those cousins who had been brought up together; and I attribute it chiefly to this reason, that each helps to keep alive in the other’s mind a vivid recollection of early days. That was why I was so glad when you told me of your talk about your childish adventures with Carlo in the cameo boudoir that eventful night.”

By all Aunt Jane said, I fancied that she wished I should become engaged to Carlo; but I did not tell her this, for a strange kind of reserve seemed to spring up, not more towards her than towards myself, if such a thing can be explained. I shrank from analysing my feelings. I did not like to talk or think of him as connected in any way with my own future destiny, yet I wished earnestly to see him again before he left England.

I suppose Aunt Jane perceived this, for she said nothing more about him that day. But the next morning, before we left the Grange for Castle Hall, she told me that Carlo had undertaken the difficult and arduous office of investigating the case of (as she considered) unjust usurpation of my property, by a pretended heir to my uncle; and as soon as he had seen his father at Sorrento, he intended to start for America, and proceed to the place where the mysterious child was said to have been born.

“He is going to tell you of this himself, but I thought it as well you should know it before you see him, that you may know how anxious he is that your father’s character should be vindicated.”

“It is most kind, indeed,” I said, “for that is the object I have most at heart.” But I could not help adding that “I wished there was no fortune to be gained by this vindication:” and the next minute I could have bitten my tongue out for uttering it, for it seemed to imply a doubt of the sincerity of his love or disinterestedness of his efforts.

Aunt Jane saw I was horrified at my implied doubt, so she merely said,

“After such a miraculous recovery as he had, and the look of despair we both saw on his pale face, I do not think it likely that bad motives are mingled with his efforts to be of use.”

And I fully agreed with her, but at the same time I felt puzzled by her evident wish that I should become engaged to him. It suddenly occurred to me that it might be on Norah’s account—that it might facilitate a reconciliation between Sir Alfred and that most injured and ill-used girl. And, oh! if this were the case, I would most willingly make any sacrifice.

“How deeply you are meditating,” she said, after the pause in our conversation while this new idea occurred to me. “Yes, I see by the sudden colour in your cheeks, and bright flash in your eyes, that you think you have read my thoughts; and so you have. But, remember, I should not advise this step if I thought it would be an heroic sacrifice; and you are wondering, too, that I, being such a happy old maid, would not be satisfied with the plan which, at the present moment, seems to you to be right, that you should never marry. You are thinking now that Aunt Jane never found any man who came up to her beau-ideal—therefore, why should you? And all this seems likely; but, my dear, it was not the case, for I did find one, and we were engaged; but he was in the army. He went to India just after our engagement, and——”

“Oh! don’t try to tell me,” I interposed, as I saw the look of intense sorrow on her face, for I remembered hearing a kind of rumour that an officer she was engaged to had been killed in battle, after gaining great renown, just before the time which had been fixed for his return to England, when they were to have been married.

“No, I will not tell you any more,” said Aunt Jane. “I will only try to explain that I think your disposition is even less fitted than mine is for a lonely life, and that I have great hopes that Carlo will become worthy of you—worthy of anyone—after two years’ probation.”

“Well, then let it be so, if I find he really wishes it,” said I; and I suddenly felt as if a great load and responsibility were lifted from my mind.

ON our arrival at Castle Hall we found Dorina very ill, and the Duchess of Dromoland was extremely anxious about her. She had never quite recovered from the effects of her fall, of the news of her father’s death, and the disappointment which her betrothed’s marriage with Cunigunda had caused.

Then the painful scene at Cunigunda’s death-bed seemed to have re-awakened all her powers of suffering, and aroused her out of the state of half-unconsciousness in which she had lived since she took the resolution not to appear, or to allow the reports of her death to be contradicted. More than half her vitality of mind and body seem to have departed in this fearful effort.

Since that night when she and Count Rossi knelt together by the dying Cunigunda, she had not seen him, nor could she be persuaded to quit the strange little apartment in the ruined wing of the old Castle, where she had secretly lived for so many months; but she had at last promised to see him once before he left the Castle, and to come down and live in the house when he had gone.

“There is a naïve decision and simplicity in all she says or does,” said the Duchess to Aunt Jane, “that is most touchingly fascinating. She has such beautiful faith, too, and unwavering trust in the goodness of God, and is so extraordinarily forgiving. When I ventured to say that we all hoped she would fulfil her long-standing engagement to Alphonso, she said, ‘I should wish to try to make him happy if I live, but I am not what I was before.’ Still I hope,” added the Duchess, “that with very great care she may recover. It is chiefly her mind. It seems to me that her beautiful trusting nature has never got over the surprise of finding such wickedness in human nature as must have actuated that extraordinary Cunigunda; but she evidently does not condemn the Count, nor does she wonder at his having been fascinated by her rival. You must try to interest her about all her poor people, and show her the greatness of her responsibilities as possessor of these vast estates. What immense power she has of doing good! I fancied she listened to me more attentively when I tried to impress this upon her than she did to anything else I said. So you must keep it well up, and take her to see all the poor people and the schools as soon as you can get her out at all.”

About a fortnight after our arrival at Castle Hall, the Duke of Dromoland wrote to tell Aunt Jane that he was going to bring the Marchese Spinola the next day, to take leave of us before his departure for Italy.

“I don’t think he is at all fit to travel,” wrote the Duke; “but he is so anxious to go, that we fear it may still more retard his recovery if we were to thwart his wishes. He is in very low spirits, and seems quite broken down, so I hope you will endeavour to do him good; in fact, the only chance I see for his recovery, is the result of his interview with a certain young lady to-morrow. He never speaks to me on the subject, but the Duchess’s quick perception always discovers things of this kind, and she says the future of his life, for evil or good, depends upon his interview, and she is longing most anxiously to hear the result. We both feel sure that there is much good in his natural disposition, but he has been thrown among such a very bad set of people that he has had a poor chance.”

This letter, which Aunt Jane gave me to read, showed plainly the responsibility of my position, and I was still more confirmed in it by the sight of Carlo’s still suffering and most anxious face the next day. He only walked with crutches, and was so thin and pale that I implored him to put off his journey till his recovery was more complete.

But when Aunt Jane left us alone, and I had answered his trembling question, the change in his countenance was marvelous. My consent seemed to instill new life; he declared that he felt well enough to travel all over the world, and now felt sure he should be the means of clearing my father’s character.

“I hope you believe that that is all I wish for. I do not now desire riches, and I should really have more pleasure in becoming a singing-master, or doing anything you thought best to earn a little more than my poor father would be able to allow, in order to add something to the diminished income you now possess.”

I assured him we should have enough for both, if he no longer valued luxury and grandeur; and we determined that if I never regained possession of Langdale Priory we should live with my mother at Sorrento. Count Rossi succeeded in persuading Carlo to remain at Castle Hall till the next day; and he offered to accompany Carlo on his journey to Italy as far as Milan.

We were all glad to hear of this arrangement, and I undertook to persuade Dorina to grant Alphonso an interview the next morning, before they were to start on their journey. I would not mention it to her, till about an hour before the time they were to go, as we feared that the agitation of a prolonged interview might be dangerous. I also feared that if she had any time to think about it, she might shrink from what might appear to be a decisive moment.

I went up into the old turret chamber with some misgiving as to my powers of persuasion; but she quietly said, “I will come into the blue room;” and putting on a long black veil over her head, she took my hand, and I led her down the narrow turret stairs, and through the old secret rooms, till we reached the door which had been so long concealed, and which opened into the blue drawing-room. We found Alphonso there, as if he had expected she would come that way, and having placed her hand in his, I hastily left the room.

I began to think the interview between the lost bride and her formerly betrothed husband must have been satisfactory, for Alphonso came into the hall as the travelling carriage drove up to the door, and he and Carlo both looked far happier than they had done the preceding day; and the Duke jokingly said they did not appear so broken-hearted at leaving us.

But when the carriage drove off, and I watched till it disappeared in the Park woods, I rushed up to my rooms, and was about to indulge in a good cry, when I remembered that Dorina was alone in her turret, and that she must now be brought down, and installed in the comfortable apartments we had all been preparing for her reception. It was called the good Baroness Clotilda’s room: its deep bay windows commanded the most lovely views on two sides; and the adjoining boudoir looked towards the old ruined castle with Cæsar’s Tower, and its projecting oriel window far above.

NOW that I had consented to the engagement with Carlo, my first and greatest object was to communicate the news to Norah; and I also wrote a letter to Sir Alfred—not exactly for the purpose of informing him of it, but with the endeavour to ascertain the state of his feelings with regard to Norah. He had been abroad ever since the last day I saw him in London; and until some arrangements were made about his debts, he could not return to England.

This Mr. Mordaunt was endeavouring to do, and was bestowing much time and labour to effect it at the least possible sacrifice of the fine property the young baronet had inherited from his father. He heard that he was travelling in the East, where Mr. Mordaunt thought he would be less liable to the temptations of gambling than he would be in a European capital.

“But, confound the fellow!” he wrote to Aunt Jane, “we shall never be sure that he won’t lose more till he is safely married to such a girl as Norah; but I suppose she will be too sensible to consent.”

It was very interesting to watch the gradual revival of Dorina’s health and mind, under Aunt Jane’s judicious treatment. She was becoming quite hopeful, and began to enjoy her daily walks and drives to the villages on her property with quite a childlike eagerness.

The renewed buoyancy of spirits, after such unheard-of misfortune and treachery, I attributed to the strong faith she had in her religion, and I began to see that the ennui and distaste of life I had often felt since my illness was entirely owing to my want of faith. I found it so much more difficult to believe in Revelation since I began to think now than I had done in the thoughtless days of youth. I seemed to have grown so old and practical and prosaic. Life in this world seemed so unsatisfactory and full of misery, that I could not understand why a kind Creator placed us in it, unless it was really a state of trial for an eternity hereafter; and I yet found it so difficult to believe in that eternity, or account for the origin of evil; the momentous question of why evil spirits were created, and why sin was allowed, was ever in my mind.

Aunt Jane attributed one of the reasons of my tendency towards unbelief to the strange anomaly of my father and mother being of different faiths; but I am certain it was not, for I never was troubled about details of dogmas. If I could believe in Revelation, that would suffice. I always felt that, if I could acknowledge the Scriptures as my guide, I should be perfectly happy, for they contain every precept and promise that must ensure an eternity of bliss.

As a child I certainly became rather prejudiced against my mother’s faith, or, rather, some professors of it, from reading (strange to say), the Catholic Bishop of Winchester’s (Dr. Milner’s) history of that ancient town. My father loved the place, from having been at school there; and he used to describe the beautiful Cathedral and other old buildings and ruins there so vividly that I quite fancied I saw them with my own eyes. So it was my favourite book—but the Bishop’s description of the corruption of the secular canons who usurped the monastery, was very painful; and one or two of the monks I saw in Italy as a child tended to revive the unfavourable impression.

At this period of my life the greatest suffering I experienced was want of faith in Revelation. If I could have felt convinced of the truth of Revelation, or even of a future state of reward or punishment awarded to us by a superintending Providence, I should have been easily reconciled to all my misfortunes.

The endeavour to do good, to live up to the beautiful precepts of Scripture, or even to believe, as Plato did, in the eventual overcoming of evil by good—of an immortality of happiness in another world, for the enjoyment of which we had prepared ourselves by a conscientious following of the good and the beautiful here below—this would be making good use of all my trials and disappointments; but, alas! the scoffing spirit of the age, the apparent disbelief in Revelation which was (and still more is now) shown in the writings of all the most popular authors, was most infectious.

It is sad to see how much more a spirit of hope and faith in some kind of eventual good is shown by nearly all the ancient heathen writers of Greece than is shown by modern poets, novelists, and so-called philosophers of the present day, although these last have the advantage of a real, or, at all events, written code of morals in Scripture, which is certainly infinitely superior to any of the blundering efforts at hope and goodness of the untaught heathen. I became a regular utilitarian, for I could not think anything signified that would not conduce to eternal happiness.

I will here put down the outline of several conversations with Aunt Jane on these subjects which I had at different times, because they chiefly tended to give me the happy old age I now enjoy. But those readers who do not care to trace the causes of this eventual good, had better skip the chapters.

Aunt Jane, on hearing my foolish complaints, which she said were augmented by my having read many of the German and French writers of the day, broke forth one morning in the following satirical doggrels:

“I BELIEVE,” said Aunt Jane, “that one of the numerous causes of doubt in the truth of Revelation is that we have difficulty in realising the idea of a continuity of perfect happiness. The capacity for joy in some natures is so infinite, yet it is so seldom realised, that we are almost unable to contemplate its fulfilment. Moderate or equally-toned minds can more easily imagine the continuity of the degree of happiness they often, perhaps generally, experience, and, therefore, they seem to be better Christians.”

“Very likely,” said I, “and the music I often hear in my ears is more beautiful than any I ever heard in reality; and the happiness I sometimes causelessly feel is so far beyond my usually depressed sensations, that I have the greatest difficulty in believing that I can ever attain a permanence of such heavenly joy—still less do I feel worthy ever to enjoy it.”

“The strongest natural or internal evidence of the existence and superintendence of a loving God,” said Aunt Jane—“the Being whom Scriptures describe as knowing the very number of the hairs of our head—is the feeling of repose and confidence we sometimes have of being thus cared for at those moments when the world and our best friends seem to desert us, or when we lose them by death or separation. Thank God, I have often been blessed with this apparently miraculous peace and confidence in the existence and goodness of my Maker. Gratitude is the most natural source of love. We cannot love God with all our hearts, as we are commanded to do, unless we feel grateful to Him, and we cannot feel grateful if we allow ourselves to imagine that we deserved more happiness or pleasure than we got. It is imperative to be humble and cheerful, if we wish to love God, or even to believe in Him. No person who indulges in pride and discontent can do so. Nothing,” continued Aunt Jane, after a pause, “preserves us so well from the self-pity, which is often our most depressing misery, as a thorough consciousness of our own unworthiness. It is only when we indulge in a feeling of self-righteousness, such as, ‘Lord, I thank Thee that I am not such as these,’ &c. It is then we most feel the injuries which circumstances, or ill-natured or stupid people, have made us suffer. There is a degree of happiness in thorough humility—i.e., consciousness of sin and error—which I believe many people are not cognizant of; it mitigates the agony of those bitter tears which we allow ourselves to shed when we are ill-treated, and believe we have not deserved the apparent unkindness or ingratitude of friends, or the slights and neglects of those we love. Remorse is a sad suffering, but an absence of it, which leads to self-elation under injustice, is sadder still.”

“Surely,” I said, “unbelief cannot proceed from pride in me? Surely it is that I cannot feel worthy of such great good—such a blessing as eternal spiritual happiness! Oh! how have I prayed to some unseen Power that I might be enabled to see daylight and belief in Revelation. Unceasingly, day and night, and even in my sleep, I sometimes awake suddenly, clasping my hands, and crying in agony for help in my unbelief. It is impossible that pride can prevent my belief, pride—which is certainly often the cause of doubt and rejection of Scripture. Yes, I am full of humility; but that is because I am really bad—thoroughly so. When I look back at all the wrong things I have done, I am quite horrified! Now, I love Norah,” I continued, “chiefly because she is so humble, and because humility is beautiful. It commands admiration. It must be pleasant to see and hear persons who love, or revere, or look up to something ‘better than themselves,’ rather than to see persons who consider themselves the best that can exist. Therefore religious, and even superstitious people are more to be admired than infidel independent ones. I am afraid the excessive tolerance of my father, and the rather silly superstition of my mother, made me too indifferent, in years gone by, to all religion. I shrank from the subject.”

“Those,” replied Aunt Jane, “who are, like Norah, endowed with a natural spirit of harmony, can understand the Christian religion and the Scriptures, even without the aid of either tradition or the teachings of a visible church. The most harmonious Pagan minds whose works have come down to us have been actuated by this truly harmonious spirit. Plato had it in such a high degree that he seemed to have a foretaste of the real doctrines of Scripture, and of the consequent necessity for the Atonement. To those who have not this spirit of harmony the Scripture becomes as discordant and unintelligible as the musical scales do to those bad players who have no musical ear, and consequently make discords: and jumbling, horrible sounds are all they can draw forth. Probably my spirit of harmony led me to imagine that some can attain goodness even without the teaching of the visible Church.”

“Ah! I see what you mean,” I replied. “In meditating on harmony, one certainly finds help to belief.”

“Another ray of hope you will find,” she continued, “by reasoning from the analogy of society. I mean that, when we are in the company of strangers, it is certainly better taste to judge of or speak to them with the kind courtesy which ‘hopeth all things,’ which expects to find some good in them rather than evil. Should some of them even have bad countenances, it is better—better even for those who are not thinking or acting on Christian precepts. It shows better feeling to be kind, and wish, at all events, to discover some good in them. I suppose confirmed infidels or unbelievers would agree with me on this point, because they must probably wish for good instead of evil in their fellow-creatures. Well, on reasoning from analogy, is it not better to think that some good design for our future happiness causes the apparent state of present misery which the majority of mankind suffer—to think that there is a Being who wishes us well? Is this not more likely than their idea that chance, or what they call the Laws of Nature, caused this present suffering in human nature; which of course they must think perfectly useless, unless it tends to some future good to each suffering individual. Does not analogy as well as common sense point towards a superintending Creator, who allows us to suffer and choose our own future lot of endless happiness or misery? We must suppose either the one or the other, that the suffering of this world was given to purify us, and increase our eternal happiness; or that everything has created itself, for the sole purpose of tending to decay, and developing a set of beings which must necessarily suffer in proportion to the increased power and perfection of their nature; for no one can deny that the more intellectual and perfect human nature becomes, the more it must crave for a continuance of happiness, the more its greatest minds must wish for the intellectual enjoyments, unshackled by the necessary sufferings of its body. No one can say that the human body is less liable to suffering than it was in the early periods of the world; on the contrary, it always seems much more liable to suffering in proportion to its greater intellectual development, then as now.”

“JEAN PAUL RICHTER says that many sensitive people feel most depressed at midday in Midsummer, i.e., when the brilliant light and luxuriance of this world are at the full glory of their perfection. Does not this show how unsatisfactory are the best states and capabilities of this world, and how impossible it is to attain perfect happiness here below. Yes,” continued Aunt Jane, “and to think that there are no beings more perfect than ourselves, no higher intelligence than weak sinning mortals—that babies struggle and cry through their painful teething, and old age through its numerous infirmities, all in vain!—that they can never, never enjoy an unalloyed happiness, after all their bodily and mental sufferings, never attain the perfection all the best of us long for. What a prospect! To think that all the high-minded and beautiful teachings of Scripture are all delusions! Well, but if they were even invented by mortals, does not that even show that the mortals who could thus aspire after perfection, and hope for everlasting life, will and must attain it?”

“It seems indeed,” I said, “as if man were the only animal made for suffering—I mean, that the higher his faculties are developed, the greater his capacity for suffering as well as joy. This, and the fact that hope is his chief characteristic, would show that he is destined for a better life than this world can afford. But still the origin of evil is the great stumbling-block to a thinking and inquiring mind—”

“It is,” replied Aunt Jane, “difficult to remember that this probation ought to ensure a higher degree of happiness, if our free will has been rightly directed. Nothing in nature, or literature, or science can solve the enigma of our condition in this beautiful world, except the account given in Scripture. If we can believe that Volume, all the misery and sinfulness of human nature become intelligible. What else can account for our state here below? A set of beings placed in a condition which make them wish and hope for a happiness and perfection which, very certainly, never can in this world be attained. Do not we all,” continued Aunt Jane, “feel that we improve as we grow older in goodness? Do not our aspirations after real happiness—the happiness of goodness and love—become stronger, and therefore we become more fit for eternal happiness? This in spite of bodily decay, loss of hearing or sight, or even of the increased irritability which seems to indicate less amiability; and even the decay of the mental powers of application or study. I am sure we do. And also does not the above prove that we are tending towards immortality, becoming fit to enjoy that state of mind or being which can alone render eternity enjoyable, or even bearable?”

“Yet all old people do not improve,” said I.

“No; but those invariably do who are actuated by the spirit of religion. I grant you that one of the most depressing things to be met with in advancing age is to find old friends changed by what appears to us the worldly or unbelieving bad spirit of the times. To see old friends gradually imbued with the sceptical scoffing and doubting spirit of these days—a spirit which did not outwardly show itself on the countenances of well-bred people of fifty, or more years ago, is very sad.”

I suppose this must have been the fate of susceptible and thinking persons in all ages. It may not prove at all that mankind has become worse, but that different kinds of vices or failings become more or less developed at various periods, and that as we live on, we are more struck with the particular fault which happened not to show itself so much in our youth. Things are very long in operating; and well-born young London faces of the present day are only beginning to take the stamp which the scoffers of Voltaire’s time began to print on the features of mankind. What will remove this fatal and ugly mark?

* * * * * *

One day, when I had been talking of old age, I said, “Originality doubtless increases with age.”

“Yes, it does so,” said Aunt Jane, “and my difference from most other people has increased most inconveniently, and now prevents me from agreeing fully with, or condemning wholly, anyone.”

“I have observed that your faculty for seeing all round, and seeing also the good in everything and everybody, must make you very solitary. So far can I fully agree with you.”

“Not entirely solitary,” said Aunt Jane, “for I can generally, almost always, feel the kindness of God towards me. I feel (particularly when suffering, or in misfortune) that He is loving me and comforting me. We find it so difficult to believe that responsibility (the power to choose evil or good) was given to us in order to attain a higher degree of happiness. Is not this the case?”

“Often,” I said; “and then, again, I find myself wasting whole hours in wondering about the reasons of my unbelief.”

“Loss of time,” said Aunt Jane, “is chiefly that which impedes and retards our acquirement of Faith.”

“Has the loss of time,” I asked, “engendered by the doubt created in my mind by the entering into or studying more fully the doctrine of different churches been really lost, or will it ever lead to better faith and hope?”

“I trust and believe it will.”

“Is it because I am so grasping and covetous,” said I, “that I cannot enjoy the beautiful world in its highest beauty, at those times when my faith in future happiness, i.e., in Revelation and the promises of Scripture, is weak? Ah! how sadly often is my faith weak! I feel so worldly in my religion, so exactly like the so-called worldly lady who is always calculating for the future of herself and family, always thinking of the ends to be gained, so that she never fully enjoys the present.”

“In that point of view I am worldly too,” said Aunt Jane, laughing. “Yes—but don’t interrupt—it is exactly the same, only my anxiety carries me a little further, and, so far from being satisfied with any future advantage in this world, I am still more avariciously craving for future happiness in the next. I am so greedy for this, that nothing—no other hope can satisfy me. Stop. I exaggerate the text, to work out my salvation in fear and trembling, always thinking what God will give me, and those I love, in the next world, and how I shall be with them—whether for ever freed from all remorse and self-reproach. Yes, I am the most calculating—that is, worldly of you all.”

“It must, I think, be a blessing to be calculating and worldly after that fashion,” said I. “But it is rather of a different kind from the unscrupulous cupidity of Mrs. Powdler, in the story you were reading to me yesterday.”

“Ah!” continued Aunt Jane, “what strikes me most in these modern novels is the total absence of any religious sentiment. No one could tell from reading them whether any of the characters were Christians or Jews, or anything else. From this proceeds the low standard—the absence of high and noble sentiment, in the books which are gradually demoralizing our youth. Does it not stand to reason that it must be much better for us to believe that an unseen eye is always watching our thoughts, and seeing more into our hidden motives than even our best friend or keenest enemy can do? How can we dare to cherish hatred, revenge, and malice, if we feel that His eye is upon us? And the effort to be good towards others increases within ourselves that happiness for which we crave, as you will find when you grow older. Because a loving frame of mind is so much happier than a hating state—an amiable heart than a proud one. There is always some of the bitterness of hatred when we feel that we have been injured or ill-treated, or that our friends have not done enough for us. Most certainly ‘Love is the fulfilling of the Law.’”

“It is very difficult,” I said, “to realise an eternity of what one so seldom feels—happiness. I try to be in a thankful state of mind, and most of my prayers are thanksgivings, but I so very seldom feel really happy, that I can scarcely ever imagine an eternity or any length of time of it. In these sad humours I can fully realise all the punishment and torture which await such sinners as myself, but I seem totally unable to believe the beautiful Revelation which promises happiness to those who do their best. I cannot believe that my ‘bad’ could ever have been, or will be, ‘best.’ It must be a mental disease which can thus put faith in one part of immortality, i.e., everlasting torture, and yet have no faith in the beautiful Scriptures, which declare that ‘Blessed are the meek,’ ‘Blessed are those that mourn.’ I can’t see that all the sufferings, bodily and mental, can ever give wicked me the kingdom of heaven. I often think that if in a future life I could obtain a visible certainty that those I love most were enjoying eternal happiness, this certain consciousness of it would be sufficient for me. I mean that, if I were doomed to retain the miserable feeling of remorse, and guilt, and shortcoming which almost incessantly torment me here below in this imperfect world, the consciousness of my loved one’s happiness would make this, my state of misery, bearable. I can so fully realise the justice of my suffering from remorse—in fact, it is more satisfactory when I can feel that what I suffer is caused by my own fault, than the despairing insensibility to sin, the self-pity, or the murmuring pride which visit some of my darkest hours. If eternity could be like what I feel at my bright moments, I should be fully satisfied. I cannot realise that I could ever inherit the joys eternal which are promised to those who love God; for alas! in my dark hours I only really love or realise my fellow-creatures, although I am always praying to the Unseen, and giving Him thanks for all my unmerited blessings. But the conviction through eternity that those I love are happy, even if I am doomed to a consciousness of my own sin and consequent remorse, would be far preferable to the ever-haunting dread I now experience, that there may be no hereafter for them—that all their sufferings, all their patience and goodness may attain no reward!—that all the perfections they have attained through probation and agony would only end in annihilation!—that they should have suffered and striven and prayed in vain! This, of course, shews that my only happy moments are those when I can hope that revelation is true, and the doubt of futurity, or, rather, dread of annihilation, is my almost absorbing misery.”

“It will not be always so,” said Aunt Jane.

“I think—I trust,” I said, “that Almighty God may grant my prayers for faith and hope, because He has (probably in His mercy) given me trials which have not been occasional suffering, but such as I cannot forget even in my dreams.”

WE spent all that Autumn and Winter with Dorina at the Castle Hall, and had the pleasure of seeing her gradually recover her health and spirits. She often heard from Count Rossi, and although she would not consent to the marriage until his year of widowhood was passed, yet she acceded to his request to be allowed to visit us all in the Spring.

She took the greatest interest in my concerns, and eagerly watched for the letters I received from Carlo, telling of his adventures in search of the pretended wife of my uncle, who was said to be still alive, but no one could tell what had become of her.

Both Aunt Jane and Dorina seemed to have more confidence in his ultimate success than I had; but the fact, I believe, was, that I was still so unsettled in my religious belief, that I had not the heart to put faith in any good; and I am ashamed to say that I often found myself mistrusting the disinterested purity of his motives; and, if my father’s character could have been quite vindicated without attaining my property again, it would have made me more confident in Carlo.

Yet, how fondly I loved the old Priory, from the hallowed associations that connected it with my father, cannot be described. The love for that old place had been my strongest and best feeling, and Aunt Jane used sometimes laughingly to say, that I had never been really in love except with Langdale Priory—and to think that it had passed into the hands of such a man as the present possessor! The poor utterly neglected, and an example of every vice given by the inhabitants of the dear old house!

Norah accompanied her father and family to Italy, and I was glad to find they were going to pass some months not far from my mother at Sorrento; but Sir Alfred was still in the East, so we feared that they would not be likely to meet.

My plan, after my engagement to Carlo, had been to go and live with my mother during the two years of his probation; but Aunt Jane persuaded me that I should be of more use at Castle Hall with Dorina; also that as the Chandos family and Norah were going to Italy, and probably to Sorrento, it was better that I should not be there, in case Sir Alfred should resolve to seek an interview with Norah. But I believe her chief reason was that she dreaded the deteriorating influence of the set among which my mother lived, that the society of the frivolous and idle persons round her would retard the progress of my mind, which was only now beginning to think; and she felt sure that my father would have said she was right.

In fact it was his dying wish that I should go to England, and I knew he intended to have taken me to the Priory when I became of age. So I was persuaded to remain with Dorina, and Aunt Jane, who, now being at liberty to be wherever she felt she was of most use since her favourite niece was satisfactorily settled, had also consented to remain at Castle Hall.

THE Duchess of Dromoland often drove over to lunch, to spend a long day with us; and when Dorina became a little stronger, she persuaded us all to go and stay a week with them at Lorton Grange. She promised that there should be no party in the house, and we were to be quite at home, and sit all day up in our rooms if we were not inclined to come down. But she felt sure that the change to a more bracing air, and new and utterly different bedrooms to sleep in, would do us all good.

“If you should be inclined for more society than ours, I will ask some of my dear old fogey neighbours, as Lady Horatia calls them, of whom I am very fond; you know I’m dreadfully vulgar, as Selina Bugginfield calls me, and I like people of all ranks, and never can forget, when I was one of fourteen children, and my father very poor, how much we used to enjoy a day spent with just such regular country neighbours as these. So I wish to give them all the enjoyment we can now so well afford, in gratitude for the pleasure they used to give me. Besides, I think it is very wrong to shut oneself up and neglect one’s country neighbours.”

So we went to Lorton Grange, and found ourselves in the prettiest and most cosy set of little apartments, with a passage leading into them all, which seemed to belong only to ourselves.

“I think you will find these rooms comfortable,” said the Duchess, as she showed us into the first, which was destined for Dorina, “for I make it a point to sleep once a year for a night or two in every spare bedroom in the house, that I may ascertain by real experience that everything is comfortably placed and nothing wanting.”

We certainly found them so, and enjoyed our visit immensely.

I had many pleasant walks and talks with the Duchess, who had, more than any one I ever met with, the faculty of making the person to whom she talked feel as if she were her “première pensée.”

She entered so quickly into one’s character, and seemed to have remedies for all one’s faults and misfortunes. She saw that I had rather more misgivings about Carlo than was quite compatible with perfect happiness; and she also discovered that want of faith in Religion was now my chief misery.

“It is because you have had too much time at your disposal,” she said, one day, “and so few positive and plain duties. My life has been, on the contrary, so full of plain necessary duties—my path was always so unmistakably plain before my eyes—the endeavour to fill each day as it ought to be has been so satisfactory, that I had no time for vague speculations or misgivings—first as a poor girl, to help my father and numerous sisters in the difficult task of high-born poverty; and then, after marrying my cousin, the dear John Bull Duke, to help him to use and dispose of his great riches in the manner he—we both willed, for we are wonderfully alike—two such thoroughly English people.”

“Yet how different your positions before marriage must have been! Was he not always rich?”

“Yes; he has had great trials and temptations—a long minority, with no parents to guide or advise him, or even an effectual guardian; and he passed as Duke through school and college life—successfully, upon the whole,” she added, after a short pause; while her usually sunny face assumed rather a solemn look. “But when he proposed to me on his one-and-twentieth birthday, I did not despair of him, although you seem to have doubted your betrothed Marchese. I gave him two years’ probation before I would even promise to accept him.”

“What an awful time of suspense these two years must have been!”

“They were indeed; and all the more because I acted in this instance contrary to my father’s express wishes and advice, for he remarked that it was wrong of me to subject such a great parti as he was to all the dangers and fascinations of the great world; but I maintained that unless his love for me was sufficiently strong to keep him faithful and stand the trial, I should never possess sufficient influence over him to ensure his happiness and my own; and I was such an odd little thing at nineteen, the eldest of six sisters and five brothers, with no mother since the birth of my youngest sister, so I became extraordinarily independent, and, as the Duke calls it, self-sufficing—not self-sufficient, I hope, for I hate to be alone. Luckily—very luckily, for there are the children all bearing down upon us; and I must now regularly play with them. What is it to be?” she asked, as the eldest girl of about twelve years old bounded up, with a large silk handkerchief in her hand. “Oh! blind man’s buff. Well, then, I’ll be blind man—or will you, Miss Vivian?”

“Oh! Miss Vivian,” said Lady Julia, “for she is so nice and tall; and—and I should think she looks as if she could run and skip about half as quick again as mamma does.”

“Well, come into the lower grass terrace—you will spoil the rose-trees on this one.”

We were all soon in the height of the play—the three girls and two fine strong little boys hovering round me, catching at my dress, and shouting in my ears, but for a long time eluding all my attempts to catch one of them.

“Oh! here comes Miss Springgrass and Mrs. Gaysford! How delightful!” I heard one of the young voices exclaim. “Come down—come down here! Now, Miss Vivian, pray catch dear Mrs. Gaysford—she is so large you can’t fail, and she makes such a capital blind-man!”

Mrs. Gaysford, whom I had not before seen, but who I knew was one of those kind-hearted neighbours called by Lady Horatia “the old fogies,” soon allowed herself to be caught. At least, I caught hold of some ringlets, which remained in my hand, amid peals of youthful laughter; and when the handkerchief was removed from my eyes, the first object I saw was a brown, good-humoured face, surmounted by a skull-cap, on which I immediately began to place the front which had come off in my hands.

“It is a great shame!” said the Duchess, with a graver face than I had yet seen her wear.

“You are very wrong to laugh, children, for if Mrs. Gaysford was not so very good and kind, it would have made her and all of us very uncomfortable. Remember, Julia, for you are old enough to know better now, you must grow old if you live, and just ask yourself how you would like to expose your head in that kind of way if you had the very common misfortune to lose your hair.”

“No, I am sure I should not like it,” said Lady Julia, with a penitent look, “not at all; I should not be able to bear it half as well as dear Mrs. Gaysford does;” and she reverently kissed the old brown hand which Mrs. Gaysford kindly held out in token of forgiveness.

All the other children came up and did the same, and humbly begged pardon for their thoughtless impertinence.

“All right,” said the old lady; “now only take care of my new bonnet; there, put it up on the top of that statue, and then tie the handkerchief tight over my curls, or I shall peep, and catch that little rogue, Lord Lorton. Yes, the old lady will catch the young Marquis.”

THE Duchess talked to me the next day, during our walk, about Norah, and expressed her hopes she and Sir Alfred Rivers would eventually be happy.

“I was not aware that you ever knew her,” I said with surprise, while I became conscious of blushing most disagreeably.

“Yes; and I have often since reproached myself for not telling you the whole history in London, when I could see that you were doing so much mischief to her and yourself. I was very angry with you, and sorry that I did not ask for an interview, and have uttered my thoughts. It never answers to think unkindly or be angry with a person without telling them so, I am certain. But I was unfortunately so busy taking my sisters about, and making up parties for them, that I neglected the other half of my duties. I ought to have been aware of the extreme danger of your position—and his too,” she added, after looking at me with a kind of half angry admiration—“for you, too, are a most dangerous person.”

“But you think Norah would really be happy with him?” said I, in a kind of blundering endeavour to direct her attention from my agitated face. “And would you in her case have subjected Sir Alfred to the two years’ probation which you inflicted on the Duke?”

“No; I should not have advised it in her case; for (perhaps it may sound extraordinary in your ears), but the fact is, Sir Alfred, who is only a Baronet, and who has not one quarter of the fortune inherited by the Duke, was placed in a much more perilous condition in our fastidious London or English world than the Duke was. Sir Alfred has genius, and the most extraordinary fascination and charm I ever met with, and you know that our present great world worships charm far more than rank or riches. I suppose you heard that the Duchess of —— was excluded from Almack’s one season because she was vulgar-looking? This kind of admiration for the charm that genius often gives is pre-eminently the feature of the present day, and I fear it will not last very long. I say fear, because, with all our vices and crimes, this is our best feature, and it will, I fear, be succeeded by more worldly views—the worship, probably, of wealth and material, or rather unintellectual advantages.”

“Then Sir Alfred was placed on a higher pinnacle in the world than even your handsome young Duke. Yet how very, very good—yes, and charming, too, he is,” I added, after a pause.

“To you who know him well, and respect his fine qualities; but we have no genius, either of us—we are nothing more than humdrum plodders through our everyday prosaic duties.”

“Prosaic!” I cried, “indeed, you call making such a pleasant home, such happy people all round you! To produce such harmonious delight there must be some genius.”

“No, only good training, a religious carrying out of the old French proverb, ‘Noblesse oblige.’ In other and older words, to love one’s neighbour as oneself; for this simple act, or rather custom, no genius is required. But I have not fully explained to you why Sir Alfred’s position in the London world was so much more trying than that of the Duke. It was chiefly because it subjected him to more genuine love and adoration from all the fascinating women, both married and single. Several hitherto happy wives fell so fatally in love with him that their happiness was almost destroyed; and some who at first only were instigated by vanity, in their wish to captivate a young king of fashion, fell victims to his charm, and, to the surprise of themselves, and everybody else, found that they really possessed hearts. If you had been aware,” continued the Duchess, “of his real position, you would have been much more proud of having brought him to your feet. I never trembled for him and poor Norah till I saw the effect you produced on his feelings, and I am ashamed to say that the first night at D—— House I was rather glad, for he had been getting most disagreeably entangled by that pretty little flirt, Lady Selina Bugginfield, a very dangerous little woman. She has really been his evil genius ever since his first entrance into the world, and she is the most persevering and most mischievous little person I ever met with. You know she was staying with the poor Countess Cunigunda all the time she was at the Castle Hall, and I was very nearly sending in an excuse to the fête, because I thought she ought not to be tolerated in this county; but the Duke very wisely said that, as we could not avoid meeting her in London, it would be no use to refuse the invitation on that account; and I wanted to see you, too, not dreaming that poor Cunigunda would have had the face to leave you out—though, of course, Lady Selina would not have let you come, if she could help it.”

“No; I always saw that she disliked me extremely, and I never could understand why. During the first dance with Sir Alfred, I found her large eyes glaring like coals of fire with a kind of intense hatred as I passed her in the waltz; but there were several others in London who seemed equally to dislike me. I really was, at that time, so absorbed and excited that I seemed to have no time or inclination to speculate on the causes of this dislike and disapproval.”

“No; I saw that too—I saw that you were thoroughly simple and unsophisticated, and that was why I pitied and wished to save you, if possible, from a destiny—a result in which you could only have done mischief.”

“That is very true; and you really appreciated that wonderful Norah so justly as to think her influence, had she then consented to the marriage when he wished—you really thought she would have counteracted all the fascinations of that strange London world?”

“Yes, because I did not think, if he had married her then, he would have ever entered into it—not in the same kind of way; she would have succeeded in getting him to take an interest in his large property, and in the enjoyment of doing good, and in being actively employed in country life. Luckily, she is not one of the modern young ladies, who do nothing, and have nothing to do. Some of the most hopelessly depressing things I ever read (because they show the helpless perversity of human nature as strongly as the description of the world before the Flood) are those by-way-of-being-hopeful articles on “Young Ladies of the Period” in some of the papers or magazines. They have also confirmed my opinion as to the total loss of originality, and the servile subjection to fashion, which characterise the present time. A young lady with opulent parents, having received the usual education, describes herself at eighteen as being totally unable to amuse or interest herself profitably or innocently in any way. For her the much-coveted leisure-time to read and digest a well-stored library—time to enjoy the beauties of nature and art—time to visit the poor, and perhaps even relieve their wants—time to teach and humanize the hundreds of utterly ignorant, starving, and neglected children about our streets—time to amuse friends or invalid relations with any interesting matters which may have been picked up in the course of reading or visiting—time to study, if that way inclined—time to cultivate the art of music or painting—this treasure of time, which the most cultivated find too short, and those rich in everything else would gladly buy, which passes, never to return, and leaves traces never to be effaced—this is the treasure which the young lady of the period knows not what to do with, and can put to no useful account.

“This acknowledgment, if sincere, is the severest satire upon her individual self that has ever yet been penned. For, in fact, a young lady born of opulent parents is in the most enviable position of any human being for the profitable enjoyment and use of all this world can afford, both for herself and others—of all that is most delightful and preparatory for eternal happiness—she who now pities herself, and is excused and pitied by others, because she fancies she has nothing to do! The race of young ladies seems to have lost all originality, all powers of self-help. They not only copy and exaggerate all the ugly changes and extremes of fashion, but feel that they can do nothing else but copy its vices, and then fondly imagine that all this might have been remedied if they had received what they fancy would have been a better education—that is, had they been examined in the books and subjects set down in the Ladies’ College!

“One of the most learned women I ever met with was completely self-educated—dear Lady M. F——; and several other friends, who were much the best educated persons I ever met with, were all self-taught, and had peculiar disadvantages in the way of instruction in their youth. Now I can imagine that a few silly young ladies could be found who really fancy that they cannot amuse themselves innocently and profitably without copying the exaggerations which we now call ‘fast.’ But what I do not understand is, that a grave and sapient writer in a Magazine should be found to echo their silly cry, and help them to invert the whole case, quarrel with their bread and butter, and help to convince them of the hopelessness of their ‘hard lot,’ which can only be remedied by repairing to a College, or by having received a different kind of education. Yet I do not see many of the books mentioned for examination, in any language, that could help them much to innocent and profitable happiness in the blessed lot in which God has, in his extreme bounty, placed them. Plato would be about the best, which might indeed, if rightly read, help them to profitable self-development and happiness. But I cannot wonder that ignorant young ladies should regard their blessed lot as ‘hopeless,’ when a grave writer in reviews can condole with them in such a wrong-headed and hopeless-of-any-good spirit. Shame upon them who thus pander to vice!—for vice it must be to preach ingratitude for a blessed life of competency and leisure.”

I afterwards repeated these remarks of the Duchess to Aunt Jane, and she fully agreed, adding—

“Can they not see that almost every chapter in Scripture gives all the precepts necessary for self-education? If we could ‘love our neighbours as ourselves,’ this unselfish love would give us all that is necessary for daily employment and happiness. A real wish and endeavour to make all around us happy must render us so ourselves, if we pursue it constantly and energetically; and we can have no Colleges or list of examination-books for this simple but all-important act.

“If we love our neighbours as ourselves, we should never want to outshine them, nor do or wish anything that is not conducive to their happiness; each person would bring a ready-made sermon of hope into every society, or ball-room, or concert. No fear of any vicious self-indulgence where love for others rather than ourselves is the paramount feeling in our hearts. We should have Sisters of Mercy in every society and dinner-party we entered.

“In order really to amuse and make others happy, we should have cultivated every talent, and the memory which nature has given us. It would make us become in some measure like the most witty and polished French women of the old period; not from a wish to shine, but solely to amuse and comfort and give holy hope to others as they pass through a life where all must have many trials in this probationary world.

“This sentiment—love of others as ourselves,” continued Aunt Jane, “can be the only cure for the vices of girls or men in this or any other period. But unfortunately the suggestion of the hopeless advice to young ladies is probably written by an unbeliever in Scripture, which is the case with too many of the leading and successful writers and oracular advice-givers of the present day. A total want of religion is the cause of all the mischief and unhappiness both in young ladies and popular writers; and until they can believe in the inspired nature of the most salutary advice ever given to human nature, they can never find a true remedy for any misery or vice. For the spread of unbelief during the last sixty years, among all classes, is greater than most people are aware of. And this unbelief destroys first hope, and then innocent joy. Look at the multitude of pretty and ugly women and men in a crowd, and see whether the expression of hope on their faces is not much less discernible than it formerly was.”

I could not but assent to this; and then Aunt Jane said,

“If you observe accurately human nature, you will see that hope is the strongest sentiment of the human mind, and this alone would seem to point to a future state. I cannot imagine that by any process of reasoning it would be right to follow Renan’s advice, and ‘stifle’ our strongest instinct and quality. Besides, hope leads far more to good than bad. The hope of being free from self-reproach must tend to love others.”

“Does not,” I said, “your system tend to prevent or diminish the full enjoyment of the present? I can imagine that to you, who are always suffering so sadly from bodily ill-health, hope must be everything. I suppose it is hope of future happiness which makes you always appear so bright and happy?”

“Of course it is,” she said. “But yet I admire extremely those who do enjoy the present. I like to see its cheering effect on the countenance, indicating generally, as it does, a pure and innocent mind.”

WE heard from Norah that great preparations had been going on at Chandos Mount for their tour; and none of the party ever having been abroad before, they fancied every kind of thing was required for their comfort in foreign hotels.

An experienced courier, Signor Valentino, was engaged, who strongly advised that they should engage Cattarina Diabelli as their travelling ladysmaid. But it seemed that Cattarina considered that she had been a kind of travelling companion to the celebrated beauty, Countess Rossi, and only assisted at her Court toilettes, therefore she could not undertake a place with such an unknown person as Mrs. Chandos. She would, however, condescend so to demean herself, if her former underling, Mrs. Spinnyfit, was also engaged as acting ladysmaid.

The all-seeing Signor Valentino also discovered that Miss Rumble, the governess, from her John-Bull tastes, would prove rather troublesome, and suggested that a foreigner would be better. But Mrs. Chandos had become very much attached to the good homely woman, and rebelled at any change; so she persuaded the rather reluctant governess to remain and encounter the evils of being obliged to eat frogs, sleep in damp beds, and encounter the various ills which in those days were much dreaded in a first visit to foreign parts. And Miss Rumble began to consider herself a martyr to duty and affection to her mistress and pupils. She had fortunately a good knowledge of French, or rather of its literature; but she spoke the language with a most decided English accent and idiom, and knew very little Italian. They took with them every kind of so-called portable conveniences, which, proving to be great incumbrances, were gradually given away on the road, or purposely left behind.

Norah’s greatest anxiety was for her father’s comfort, for he had never quite recovered from his dangerous illness, and consequently suffered from all the little rubs and inconveniences which even Signor Valentino’s choice of the best inns could not avert; but she was able so fully to enjoy the interesting or beautiful scenes through which they passed, that she often succeeded in kindling his admiration, and thereby inducing him to forget his sufferings.

And when they slept at places which did not possess any particular beauty or historical interest, she amused him by describing the blunders made by Mrs. Spinnyfit, or the children’s nurse, a loud-voiced Dorsetshire woman, who fancied that by pronouncing her own vernacular very strongly in the ears of the French waiters and maids, she would be able to make them understand her wants.

As they went through part of Germany, Miss Rumble, who did not know a word of German, thought it a good opportunity to learn the language, and by the aid of a dictionary, always asked for anything in German, and the result was often very amusing. Mrs. Chandos too thought it a very wise plan, and often aided the governess to look out for the word she wanted. The result at Coblentz was that they asked the waiter to bring the bill by using the word Schnabel, “the beak or bill of a bird;” and Miss Rumble gravely informed her neighbour at the table-d’hote at Swalbach, that she had been out that morning and had got very drunk!—meaning that she had got wet through with the rain.

They travelled in two carriages. Mrs. Chandos and the children in an open landau went first, and Mr. Chandos preferred the travelling chariot where he could lie down, and with no one inside but Norah, who always contrived to soothe and cheer his spirits; in the box behind, that she might fully enjoy the scenery, sat Miss Rumble and, to take care of her, the English footman.

In the last stage between their halting-place of the night before and Schaffhausen, they met with a strange accident. The four horses and two whip-cracking postilions who were driving the chariot, were dashing down a steep hill at a great rate, when, with a sudden jerk, the rumble came off and fell on the dusty road. As the ground was soft, neither of the occupants was much hurt, but all their efforts to stop the carriage was unavailing. In vain they shouted and screamed and ran; in a few minutes the carriage had totally disappeared. What was to be done? Miss Rumble knew it was a long stage, for she always studied the handbook, and they could not have come half way. They walked down the hill, leaving, of course, the rumble in the middle of the dusty road, but no town or village could be seen.

Unfortunately Miss Rumble had taken a very long walk before they started that day, for she was a most conscientious and indefatigable sight-seer, and she was so tried that she had been (though she never confessed this), fast asleep at the time of her fall. So, after walking a mile or two, she sat down in mute despair, and resolved to wait till Mr. Chandos had arrived at Schaffhausen, when, of course, they would discover what had happened, and would send some conveyance back for them.

They were to have made their early dinner at Schauffhausen, and John, suffering from the cravings of hunger—which seems to be the usual state of most English servants abroad, where they often complain of being cut down to four meals a day, and “never getting no real good victuals to eat”—suggested that he should walk on till he reached some town or village where an inn could be found.

But Miss Rumble wisely remarked that he would not be able to make his wants understood without help, so the compassionate lady offered to try and go on. But the sun was hot, and there was no shade, and moreover, they soon came to a place where the road diverged, and there was nothing to indicate which of the two led to Schauffhausen.

Miss Rumble drew out her guide-book map, and looked at the sun and the shadows, and, after due consideration, resolved to try the one on the right. This wound round the side of a hill, and they soon afterwards came in sight of a small town or village at the bottom of it. The sight revived their drooping courage, and they pushed on till they entered the street, and saw a kind of cook-shop or kitchen belonging to an inn, where a large man in white, with a high night-cap on his head, was vigorously employed in beating up a soufflé.

Miss Rumble addressed him in French, and, in order to make her efforts more intelligible, took hold of a piece of bread and pointed to her mouth. Her appearance was probably not prepossessing, being covered with dust, and her bonnet smashed with the tumble, and her dress much disordered. Evidently the large cook did not like her appearance, and was not disposed to grant the request which he did not understand.

Upon which she took another piece of bread and gave it to John, which so exasperated the red-faced artist that he made an effort to seize it out of her hand. This was more than John could stand, so he began to abuse the man in English, and shook his doubled-up fist nearer the cook’s face than that gentleman liked. In return he gave John a blow with his wisp.

John was much the smallest of the two, but he was not wanting in pluck, so he tucked up his sleeves in boxing fashion, and dealt the artist such a well-directed blow as to knock him down among his own pots and pans, upsetting the precious soufflé, the well-beaten eggs, and other savoury ingredients, over the cook’s red face and white attire.

In the meantime a crowd had collected at the door, and cries of Polizei, or, as John afterwards described to his edified friends, “Polly’s eye,” were heard. Miss Rumble was on the point of fainting, but there was not time, for she found herself seized on and walked off to the Herr Mayor, amid the shouts of the mob. In vain she protested in French and English, and in a few unintelligible words of German, against this outrage, vociferating, “Mr. Chandos, Miss Chandos, Schaffhausen accident, Hotel Goldne Krone—Schaffhausen!”

Fortunately for Miss Rumble and her companion, the Mayor before whom they were carried spoke French, and she gradually made him understand the whole case; whereupon he promised to send a messenger to Mr. Chandos, at the Goldne Krone, Schauffhausen, to apprise him of her dilemma.

Among the lookers-on there was a man with a deep scar on his forehead, who spoke to Miss Rumble in English, and offered to be the messenger, if the Herr would employ him. The delighted governess took out her purse and offered him some money, and promised more if he would be her guide; for she was not sure that Mr. Chandos intended to sleep there, and she was anxious not to detain the family longer than was necessary.

“I think I seed that ’ere chap afore somewhere,” said John, when the man had started, “but, for the life o’ me, I can’t tell where; but his’n ain’t a face to forget, nor it ain’t one I’d like to meet in a narrow lane on a dark night, if I’d money in my pocket.”

“Oh! my goodness, John, then perhaps he will pocket my pound, and never come back,” said Miss Rumble; and, turning back, she suggested to the Herr that another messenger had better be despatched.

“Certainly, if Madame wished; but he thought, as a compatriot, that Madame was satisfied with him.”

But another was not easy to be found at the moment, and while they were searching for one a carriage drove up, with the Englishman on the box, and Mr. Valentino inside. The affair was soon settled, and the delighted Miss Rumble took her place inside the little open carriage by Signor Valentino.

But that experienced gentleman was not satisfied to leave the rumble which they had left, or rather which had left them, on the hill, so they drove back to the spot. There they found the rumble, though it had meanwhile been moved to the side of the road, and a seat-box, containing Cattarina Diabelli’s things, had been taken away.

As they met no one on the road, and no town was nearer than the one from which they had just come, Signor Valentino thought it better to proceed at once to Schauffhausen, and set the police there to make a search for the missing box, which had evidently been stolen.

WHEN they arrived at the Goldne Krone, and informed Mademoiselle Diabelli of the loss of her box, she broke forth into the most piteous lamentations, and declared that everything she valued most in the world was in that “Baule;” her jewels, her best dresses, all the presents that ever belonged to her family in Italy, her new silk, all the splendid presents given to her by her late “adored mistress,” the Countess Rossi. Oh! she should never recover the loss of that box!

Signor Valentino, to whom nothing ever seemed impossible, declared that she need not disarrange herself, for it would certainly be recovered. The Polizei were excellent, and he never had the misfortune to lose anything for any of his maestri. However, for this once Signor Valentino was not successful; the box was never recovered, and Cattarina, who declared she had also lost all her money in it, made such piteous appeals to Mr. Chandos and her mistress, that they most kindly gave her a large sum as a compensation for what she had lost. But the new silk dress which she had declared was in it, Norah fancied she afterwards saw in one of the other boxes, and she came to the conclusion that Cattarina had exaggerated very much in her piteous statements, more particularly as she observed that when they were at Genoa, and other places, where it was the fashion to get filigree silver ornaments and other things to take home as presents, Cattarina always made an appeal to Mrs. Chandos, that she had lost some in that “maledetto baule” from her former tour, which she was taking as a present to her sister at Naples. And in all these cases Mrs. Chandos most kindly gave her the money to buy more, and replace these said-to-be lost goods.

Mr. Chandos had intended to cross the Simplon, and enter Italy by the Lago Maggiore; but Mrs. Chandos, who had never travelled in a mountainous country before, became so frightened at the idea of the precipices, that he altered his plan, and they resolved to go round by Avignon to Nice, and then along the Cornice to Genoa. Mrs. Chandos comforted herself with the idea that there would be no snow there; still the accounts she had heard of a three-days’ journey along the brink of a precipice terrified her extremely. But she was a good walker, and as Mr. Chandos wished to proceed slowly, in order to enjoy more fully the splendid scenery, she thought she should be able to walk nearly the whole way.

Signor Valentino cautioned them that, if they made the journey last more than three days, they would be obliged to stop at places where the inns were very bad. And so they found them; but still the enjoyment of travelling among such lovely scenery fully compensated for the discomforts they encountered.

They remained for some days at St. Remo, where the first sight of those beautiful palm-trees seem to transport one into another and more lovely world. Just before they left it, Norah happened to look at the Strangers’ Book, and was startled to see the name of Sir Alfred Rivers, with a date of only a fortnight before, on his way from Nice to Genoa. The page swam before her eyes, and she hastily turned away, to hide the blushes which she was conscious rushed to her cheeks; but her little sister Hetty exclaimed, “What is it that makes Norah look so happy?” and running up to the book, read over aloud a number of names, and, amongst others, that of Lady Selina Bugginfield.

“What an odd name!” said the child; “and it is next to——”

Hetty stopped suddenly, for now she remembered hearing something about him and her dear sister, so she was discreet enough to say no more, though it had occurred to her that the sight of Sir Alfred’s name might have caused the blushes and happy look on her sister’s face.

But, on hearing the name of Lady Selina Bugginfield, Norah looked again at the book, and she saw that it was the same date as that of Sir Alfred, and also coming from and going to the same place. And then she turned so pale that little Hetty, who was eagerly watching her face, became quite frightened.

“Darling Norah,” said she, “come out of the sunshine; the heat is making you quite ill,” said the child, as, putting her arm round her sister’s waist, she tried to draw her away from the Strangers’ Book, which seemed to have had such an exciting effect.

It was true, Norah’s worst fears were aroused, for she well knew that Lady Selina Bugginfield had always been Sir Alfred’s evil genius ever since he left College.

“FROM Nice to Genoa! Then Sir Alfred had lately passed through all this lovely scenery,” thought Norah, as she gazed with still more interest and admiration on the ever-varying scenes. She knew that he had real genius for art, and sketched with great ease and quickness. Had he drawn that old convent on that hill, or that lovely Porto Maurizio? or was Lady Selina Bugginfield really with him?—who, Norah felt sure, was utterly indifferent to the beauty of the scenery.

“Strange that he should be fascinated by her—strange that I cannot understand that he could ever really care for anyone but Constance Vivian, and that I can quite understand and quite forgive—yes, quite,” she thought, as the tears started to her eyes.

“But you enjoy all this beauty, don’t you, dear Norah?” asked little Hetty, who had been watching her sister with more interest than ever since the adventure of the Strangers’ Book.

“Oh yes, I do indeed, and am most grateful that we are allowed to pass through such lovely scenery. It will give us a store of happiness—of happy pictures that will last all our lives.”

“And yet I, too, feel sometimes it almost makes me cry,” said the child, partly with the vague idea of excusing her sister for crying, and partly because, from her similar organisation, she felt the beauty so strongly that her nerves were likewise excited.

No one of the party had seen Sir Alfred’s name in the book except those two sisters and Signor Valentino, who always made it his business to read all the names.

From his gossiping turn of mind, he was generally well acquainted with the secret histories of most remarkable Englishmen. He had also seen Lady Selina’s name, and as he once escorted her to Italy, he happened to know more about her than most people did. “Cospetto!” was uttered with an Italian shrug of the shoulder, followed by a half-uttered—“Eh! che volete?” He also knew that Sir Alfred had wished to marry his young lady, Miss Norah, but he had never heard why the marriage had never come off. He thought it must be that she loved somebody else better, and felt most curious to know who that somebody was.

“’Tis a great pity,” he thought, “for Sir Alfred is a fine gentleman; and though volage, was too good to fall into the snares of Lady Selina—” for whom he had imbibed a great aversion.

“To Genoa! What a pity we travel so slow!” he said, half aloud, as he walked by the little open carriage in which Mr. Chandos was driving down a steep hill. “I do fear the good rooms I ordered at the Croce di Malta at Genoa will be taken if we are so long on the road; and the Signor will be very uncomfortable if we are obliged to put up at another hotel.”

“What can we do?” inquired Mr. Chandos.

“Could not the Signor and Miss Chandos go on with me quick, and let all de other folks come at their leisure?—and so we secure de good rooms for all.”

“Not a bad plan,” said Mr. Chandos—“that is, if Mrs. Chandos would like it.”

On being appealed to, and the matter explained to her, Mrs. Chandos declared she was quite willing that they should go on and secure the rooms, for they hoped to have a long rest in Genoa, when she might recover from the fatigue of her walking-journey.

So they engaged four horses at the next stage, and Mr. Chandos with Norah proceeded in his travelling-chariot, with Hetty and Cattarina behind; while Signor Valentino rode on in front, to ensure horses along the road, and have everything ready for their reception at the Croce di Malta.

“Now perhaps we arrive in time,” he thought, as he spurred on his horses triumphantly, “and see what that black-eyed Lady Selina is about.”

“The Signora would like to dine at the table-d’-hôte, I do think,” said he at the stage before Genoa. “You will find it very amusing, and quite comme il faut.”

“Very well, we will try it for once, and see how we like it. Shall we, Norah?”

“Yes—no—yes, papa, if you like. Yes,” she added, more decisively, after a pause, as she turned away to look at the view.

“Ha! she saw his name too,” thought the quick-eyed Valentino, “therefore she say yes, and then no, and then yes again. Perhaps after all we shall have a match,” he added with glee, as he spurred his horse, “and cut out that Lady Selina Bugginfield.”

It was one of those glorious evenings which show the peculiar colouring of Mediterranean scenery to the greatest advantage; and as Norah and her father approached Genoa, the deep blue sea, with the reflection of the splendid palaces and shipping in the bay, the amphitheatre of picturesque buildings on rocky heights among orange groves and terraced gardens, with the mountainous peaks above, formed one of the most beautiful pictures she had yet seen. And now they enter the streets of palaces, and pass the Balbi, Brignole, and Marcello Durazzo Palaces, catching glimpses of the splendid white marble staircase and inner court of the latter as they drive slowly along. Soon they reached the Croce di Malta, where the smirking Signor Valentino is ready to help Mr. Chandos out, with the assurance that he has secured the best rooms in the hotel, and they are shown to a set of splendid apartments looking out on the bay.

“Yes, dey are beautiful rooms,” said Valentino, “and dat view is de finest in the world except the Bay of Napoli. ’Twas lucky I arrive just as Milord Sir Alfred Rivers was departing out of these ver’ rooms, and I secure dem at vonce.”

“Sir Alfred Rivers!” exclaimed Mr. Chandos, with surprise. “I thought he was travelling in the East.”

And he involuntarily turned to look at Norah, to see what impression this announcement would produce on her; but Hetty’s and Valentino’s eyes were also directed towards her, and poor Norah felt that her blushes must have been seen by them, so she stepped quickly out on the balcony, and leaning on the parapet, seemed to be absorbed in admiration of the view.

But she did not remain long there, for hearing Valentino’s voice still in conversation with her father, she suddenly returned, and asked him whether these apartments were not very expensive.

“Ha! c’est selon, for Signori, who must be well lodged, we must pay high; and Genoa is a ver’ dear city. I do suppose dey be tree Napoleons de day.”

“But we are a large party. Does a single gentleman require all these rooms?”

“Oh! no; but Sir Alfred travel vid Lord and Lady Spendfast, and de Lady de Bargainfield.”

Norah’s chief object in making this inquiry was that she feared Sir Alfred was deeply in debt, and she felt annoyed that he should incur the useless expense of such luxurious rooms. She was somewhat relieved to learn that he had not engaged them for himself, and that he was accompanied by others besides Lady Selina.

She had known something of Lady Spendfast before that lady married, and had been favourably impressed by her (although she was a cousin of Lady Selina), and she had heard with regret that she had accepted a very extravagant young peer, who, after a long minority, had succeeded to an immense fortune, and, from his career at Oxford, was said to be totally unfitted to make a good use of his riches.

“Ah! Lady Spendfast,” said Mr. Chandos, “she was here, was she? And where are they going, I wonder? I should like to see her again. We liked her, Norah, did we not? She was Julia, was she not, with the long black ringlets?”

“Yes. She was the fourth of seven sisters.”

“Ah! yes; and Lady Selina was one of seven. That’s the worst of those large families of poor peer’s daughters—they seem to accept the first rich man that turns up. Poor Bugginfield!—I pitied him, for he was really a good sort of fellow. And then they lived quite separate, I suppose, for he was really a good country gentleman, and attended to his county business. But what is this?—look, Norah, here’s a sketch of that lovely Porto Maurizio, from the point you wished so much to take a view from.”

A masterly sketch lay on a marble table between the windows; and as Norah examined it with great delight, she felt sure it was one of Sir Alfred’s.

“Then he did admire and fully enjoy the scenery,” she thought, with a feeling of great relief, as she held the sketch in a good light, and gazed on it to her heart’s content.

AFTER spending a fortnight at Genoa, they proceeded along the beautiful Riviera, by Spezia, to Florence and Rome, without meeting anywhere with the names of Sir Alfred and his party, although little Hetty looked with great curiosity in all the strangers’ books as they went along.

To some kind of invalids the first appearance of Rome is extremely depressing; and Mr. Chandos was one of them. The riches and poverty are so extreme, the division between luxurious splendour and squalid dirt is so narrow, the wild gaiety of one set contrasts so vividly with the extreme devotion of another, the extreme of ignorance and the extreme of learning—all these opposites are more clearly marked in Rome than in any other place I ever was in, and consequently the effect on the nerves is anything but harmonious. And in illness we long above all things for harmony. Strong contrasts clash on one’s nerves; we feel more inclined to be miserable from being unable to enter into and join any of the extreme parties: the gravity of the learned antiquaries, who pursue their researches with such astonishing zeal among the débris of ancient buildings, or the frivolity of would-be sight-seers, who “do” Rome fundamentally all the morning, and enter into every kind of dissipation all the evening.

There is less repose, less real enjoyment to be seen on people’s faces in Rome than anywhere, except, perhaps, Paris. At that time Padre Ventura was the great preacher, and one of the things “to be done” was to go and hear the man who was said to have made so many converts.

Most people seem to be seized with some extreme mania when they come to Rome. Those who scarcely thought of looking at a picture before, or who know not a Cuyp from a Titian, begin to hold their hands up on the wrong side of their eyes (to shade the light where it does not come), and talk artistically about the merits of different masters. Young ladies who never mounted a horse before, are suddenly seized with the mania of making up riding-parties all over the Campagna. Towards Easter, people who never cared before to go into a Catholic church must needs “do” the whole round of the services, morning, noon, and night, of all the churches in Rome, standing for hours outside the door of the Sistine Chapel, in order to get a place as soon as it is opened.

The Chandoses found that Lord and Lady Spendfast and Lady Selina Bugginfield were at Rome, and in the same hotel, but it did not seem that Sir Alfred was with them. Mr. Chandos was too ill to enter into society, and as Norah did not evince any wish to do so, Mrs. Chandos seemed very glad to remain at home in the evenings; so they did not leave any of the letters of introduction which the Duchess of Dromoland had induced them to take. However, as soon as Lady Spendfast learnt they were in the hotel, she asked to be allowed to make them a visit, and seemed much pleased to meet Norah again. But she did not look happy, although she professed to enjoy Rome and all its doings extremely. She expressed the greatest horror and dismay when she heard that the Chandoses did not intend to enter into the delightful society of Rome, adding—

“It is the most intellectual in the world, too; it would exactly suit Miss Chandos. It would be quite a sin to shut her up; besides, I know the Duchess of Dromoland gave you introductions to houses that we would all give our eyes to enter. I know Lady Selina Bugginfield is quite in despair because she cannot get into the D—— set. But don’t say I told you so,” she added, with a frightened look. “Now there’s to be a ball at the D—— Palace next Monday,” she continued, “the best and most exclusive of all: and the Princess D—— is a great friend of the Duchess of Dromoland, so you are sure to be asked there. It will be the best ball in the Winter, and Norah and you, too,” she added, as she looked admiringly in Mrs. Chandos’s pretty face, “would make quite a sensation there, if you would only go.”

In vain they both protested that they did not wish it. Lady Spendfast still more energetically said,

“Mrs. Chandos, I wonder how you can give up the world in this kind of way; why, I do believe you have never taken up the position Mr. Chandos’s wife ought to have done since you married; and with your beauty and his old family connections, you might have become quite a lady of fashion.”

“Oh! I really——”

“Stop, I will have my say,” interrupted the resolute little lady. “Now, let me ask what was the use of throwing away all your great riches on a poor man, even though he has a good claim to an old peerage, if you did not mean to make use of his position. Why, you might as well have married some handsome young cousin of your own—a rich tinker or button-maker.”

“Oh, really—pray don’t!” said Mrs. Chandos, who began to be quite nervous at Lady Spendfast’s tirade, although it afterwards struck her that there was a good deal of truth in it; and she added, after a pause,

“You know Mr. Chandos has been dangerously ill, and we came abroad only to ensure his convalesence in a warmer climate?”

“Very true; but he would probably have gone to bed before you and your daughter go out, and——”

“But I really do not wish it,” said Norah, who was much annoyed at Lady Spendfast’s total want of tact, although she knew it proceeded from stupidity, and that she was by no means an ill-natured person; on the contrary, she was always willing to do a good-natured act, if it did not give her much trouble, or involve any personal sacrifice.

“Well, of course you must both do as you like, but I suppose you will like to do what everyone must do in Rome—the Vatican by torchlight. We are going in a party there to-morrow night, and I hope you will join it; and, by-the-by, what a pity you were not here last week—you would have met an old friend;” and as she looked full in Norah’s face, added, “Perhaps you might have prevented his strange disappearance. There, I think you know whom I mean,” she said, after a due inspection of Norah’s face; “and had you heard that he disappeared most mysteriously all of a sudden? No! you have heard nothing. Well, we all went a party to Tivoli and to the villa; and Sir Alfred, as usual, wanted to make a sketch from some distant point of view. So he started off with his sketch-book out towards the Abruzzi, and never came back. We waited and searched and called, and no Sir Alfred was to be found, and we thought he must have returned to Rome by another route, but he never arrived, and nobody has ever heard of him since.”

“How very extraordinary!” said Mrs. Chandos; “and did he leave no direction?”

“Nothing; he had no servant, but his things are all safe in the room he had, and we are expecting to hear every day—that is, if he is not murdered by the banditti——”

“Have the police been informed?” inquired Mrs. Chandos.

“Everything has been done by the Consul and Mr. Jones, but no traces of him can be discovered. They fancy he may be making a walking tour among the mountains; and I hope that is the case, for he was very unhappy and dissatisfied with his life. I hope he has not put an end to himself—that is what I dread most.”

“No, no, I am only in fun,” she added, as she hastily rose, and walked towards the window, for she was really sorry to see the effect her thoughtless words had on Norah. “Pray forgive me, dear Norah, you know I was always very silly, and sure to say the wrong thing. You told me so yourself one day at Brightsfield.”

“Yes, I did,” said Norah; “but there is really nothing to forgive now, and we will ask papa about your kind proposal to see the Vatican by torchlight. Perhaps, if the hour will not be late, he may like to venture there himself, for he told us the statues by torchlight are so wonderfully beautiful.”

“That’s right; and I’ll say good-bye, and will look in to-morrow morning and hear your decision about the torchlight.” And, as she shook hands with Mrs. Chandos, she said, “I hope you will think better about your most valuable letters of introduction.”

MRS. CHANDOS mused profoundly after the lively little lady had gone. She began to wonder why she had so contentedly given up the intention she certainly had when she married of becoming a great lady. She saw now that it was partly because she felt herself to be so different from all the persons into whose intimate society she was thrown after her marriage.

They seemed surprised at so many little things she had been taught at the finishing-school to do. Even the choice of her words, and the way of speaking she had been so strictly enjoined to adopt, were so different from their own ways, that they seemed to startle them. All this had made her less impatient to enter into general society than she had hitherto been. And then came Mr. Chandos’s illness, and she had begun to love and admire him far more than she ever expected to have done, and she found herself consulting his wishes, and wishing sincerely to make him happy.

All this had caused her worldliness to lie dormant, but it was by no means extinguished, and she kept thinking, with some regret, that she could not go to a party which even that great lady Selina “would give her eyes to go to”—the Lady Selina Bugginfield, whose fame as a lady of the highest fashion was talked of even at her finishing-school—her deportment-master having emphasized his directions for getting into a carriage by saying, “Lady Selina Bugginfield puts her hand so on the door, and turns her head gracefully so.”

And now to think that she herself could be welcomed at a ball from which this great Lady Selina was excluded—she, the daughter of a man who came to Birmingham as a youth of eighteen, with only sixpence in his pocket, and whose mother had begun life as a ladysmaid! It was a tempting thought, and she began to ask herself whether, after all, Lady Spendfast’s advice ought to be rejected, and, as a duty to herself, and, indeed, to Mr. Chandos’s girls, and to her own little baby, such opportunities of entering the great world ought not to be refused.

Norah stood at the window for some moments after Lady Spendfast had gone, thinking most anxiously of the probable or improbable fate of Sir Alfred; but her mind was too well trained to remain long absorbed in her own peculiar fears, and she suddenly remembered that Lady Spendfast’s thoughtless talk about the great world might have taken some fatal hold on her young and inexperienced step-mother.

So she came and knelt down by her side, and put her arm round her slender waist, and said,

“I hope you do not think that we ought to go to those parties, dear mamma. Although of course it is natural that you should wish to see something of general society,” she added, after a short pause, as she perceived a decidedly discontented look in her fair young face. “Yet I doubt whether——”

“Oh! no, I don’t wish to go. You know, I was not brought up as you were; and I should be sure to do or say something wrong.”

“No, indeed you would not. It is solely on papa’s account that I would not wish that we should go.”

“And you don’t care about it, I know,” said Mrs. Chandos, in a melancholy tone. “You have always lived in it, and so there could be nothing new to see. But you know I never was at a ball in my life, except at Birmingham, and that was in my own set—quite different.”

“Therefore you think that you would like to see a real great ball, among great people. It is a most natural wish, and I will consult papa, if——”

“No, no—don’t do that, dear Norah. Don’t let me be foolish. You know I always look up to you; and I try so to copy you.”

While this conversation had been taking place, Mr. Chandos was sunning himself on the Pincio with Hetty, and some of the younger children, who, in the full glee of youthful enjoyment, were running about, or playing at hide-and-seek among the orange and cypress trees. Norah knew where he was, and after a little more talk with her stepmother, she put on her bonnet, and mounted the steps at the back of the hotel, which led up to the beautiful gardens on the Pincio.

She found him sitting on one of the benches which commanded that splendid view over Rome and St. Peter’s, and the blue Campagna beyond, lovely, but to some minds intensely melancholy.

A glorious sight to others, this battlefield of the world, the place which has had such influence for good and evil over civilized mankind for so many, many centuries. These see only the conquests and successes of a civilizing power; while others are impressed by the struggles and defeats—ruin, desolation, and decay.

Norah was too full of present anxieties at this moment to have any thought for the past, so she walked quickly to the sheltered seat, where she hoped to find her father. Little Hetty was talking to him eagerly, and from the child’s agitated face, and her father’s sad look, she fancied that the strange news about Sir Alfred must have reached them.

She was not mistaken. Signor Valentino had soon learnt the fact of the Baronet’s disappearance, and had told Cattarina, who informed Miss Hetty of it during the sort of little Italian lesson she gave that young lady every morning.

On seeing Norah approach, the tactful little girl immediately joined the others in their play, and led them to a different part of the garden, that the father and elder sister might be undisturbed.

Norah would not allow him to dwell long upon the painful subject of Sir Alfred’s mysterious disappearance, when nothing could be done, but proceeded to relate the conversation they had lately had with Lady Spendfast, as she wished that her father should advise what course it would be best to pursue.

“You think she has rather a hankering to see a little more of life. No wonder, poor child; and it was foolish of me——”

“No, no, that is not the way to look at it,” interrupted Norah. “You acted for the best—for all of us. She is very good, and becomes more devoted to you every day.”

“But you think it will be better that she should see the world a little, dear Norah? If so, you must of course go out with her; you certainly will not like that, particularly at the present moment of real anxiety, for it is impossible not to feel that he may have put an end to himself.”

A shudder passed over her at the idea, and she became deadly pale.

She said in a firm voice, “It can make no difference to me: I must of course feel anxious, and—but it will not be worse at the D—— fête than if I were shut up in my own room, and it may satisfy and please mamma to see that she can at any time enter into good society; but I don’t expect she will be so fascinated by it as to become worldly, or wish often to leave you alone.”

“Yet she is very pretty, Norah; the fresh fair sunny beauty and youth which is admired so much in these southern lands.”

“Yes, I know that; but——”

“But still you seem to think it advisable?”

“Yes, if you do.”

“Well, then, order the carriage this afternoon, and we will all three drive with the letters, and leave them at the different palaces.”

“And you—will you go with us to see the Vatican by torchlight, as Lady Spendfast wishes? How pleased the little resolute blundering lady will be to have carried her point!”

After luncheon they drove to various palaces and embassies, and left their letters and cards. Then Mr. Chandos suggested that the dresses his wife and Norah had might not be quite fresh enough to wear at such great parties as Lady Spendfast had described, so they went to the dressmaker she had recommended, and Mr. Chandos helped them to choose some new dresses, observing that at all events he should have the pleasure of seeing them in their ball dresses before they started.

Mrs. Chandos was deeply touched at the kind way in which he entered into the details of her dress, and at his approval of her unexpressed wish to attend the fêtes; and when the invitations arrived, and when she and Norah were dressed in the becoming attire he had chosen, the tears started to her eyes as she wished him good night.

“All right; now go and enjoy yourselves,” he said, “and you will be able to amuse me with an account of it all to-morrow.”

A BALL in one of those splendid old Roman Palaces is certainly no ordinary sight. The choice pictures, the vast suite of magnificent rooms, and, last not least, the beauty and stately gracefulness of Italian ladies and handsome men, who look as if they had stepped out of pictures of Vandyck and Velasquez, can be seen nowhere else.

Lady Spendfast introduced them triumphantly to most of the remarkable people, and was good-natured enough really to enjoy the sight of the great admiration her protégées excited.

It was provoking, she thought, that they would not dance, but she made up for this deprivation by dancing every set herself, and commenting with all her partners on their dresses, and on the misfortune of not being able to prevail on that bellissima bionda Mrs. Chandos to dance, nor the graciosa ragazzina, bella si e così gentile, ma un po’ preoccupata, as some of the Roman Princes had said.

There is something very fascinating in the manners and air of old families in most countries, and, as there is perhaps less remaining of this kind of haute noblesse fascination in England, one is more struck with it in other places. Norah was extremely pleased with the languid gracefulness of manner, and the kind-hearted enjoyment of a dolce far niente expression in the long dark and earnest eyes of the beautiful Romans.

There was also a good sprinkling of the old French set among them, and she admired the pretty contrast of their engaging and sprightly youthful-minded looks to the more solemn grandeur and stateliness of the Italians. With the exception of a few, she did not think that the English set appeared to advantage, and she wished that her country might have been represented by some of her old acquaintances. “But then they prefer to stay at home,” was her internal comment.

Mrs. Chandos was both pleased and puzzled. She seemed to be greeted with extreme kindness by persons she had never seen before. The kind of smooth civility and reposeful expression of their faces, their slow and gliding step, formed such a striking contrast to the rough jerkiness, quick movements, and bold or defiant expression visible on even the “genteelest” among her own original set.

“Why, Norah, they don’t seem to think half so much of their own importance as—” she was going to say, “the people at our own county balls.” “There, look at that lovely creature with the diamond sort of crown. I suppose she is some great lady, yet she has such a look of humility—as if she would kneel down and wash one’s feet.”

“That she probably does when the pilgrims come; and very likely she has been attending on some poor patient at the hospital this very day, for I think she is the Princess C——, who, I know, does an immense deal of good among the poor.”

“She is the most beautiful person I ever saw,” said Mrs. Chandos. “Do you know, dear Norah, I get quite puzzled, for some of them are so like the beautiful pictures on the walls, that I seem scarcely to know which is which. I mean that the pictures there look even more alive than some of the people, and I cannot help thinking that the living people are standing in the frames—not even frames—ornaments on the wall, with real figures let into them.”

“I am very glad we came,” said Norah, who saw with great delight that Mrs. Chandos was enjoying the new impression given to her by the scene more than the evident tokens of admiration she excited.

“That is a very handsome man, too. What a splendid nation the Italian is! He has just been dancing with Lady Spendfast.”

“I think he is a Spaniard,” said Norah. “His accent was not Italian, I heard, as he passed by.”

The next moment Lady Spendfast brought him up, and introduced the handsome stranger as the Duke of Luna. He was much disappointed when he found that neither of the ladies would dance; but he persuaded Mrs. Chandos to let him be allowed to escort her into the supper-room; and another gentleman, Prince C——, to whom Norah had been before introduced, offered his arm, and she followed her mother into the supper-room. He talked to Norah very pleasantly, and then in the course of conversation asked if she was acquainted with that most fascinating English gentleman, Sir Alfred Rivers.

“Ah! you know him well, I see—pardon me, mademoiselle. It was a most strange and sad event. But I have my thoughts about it. I do not think he is lost or murdered—no, no.”

“What do you think?”

“Well, there is a certain lady who torments him; she follows him everywhere, and I fancy he wanted to get away ‘out of her clutch,’ as you call it in England.”

“Who was it?” inquired Norah. “Is she here to-night?”

“No, she is not, and—but perhaps she may be a friend of yours, so I had better hold my tongue.”

“An English lady—small, with large dark eyes, and an Italian look?”

“Just so—the very picture! She is no friend of yours? I am glad of it, for she does not show your country to advantage; and now I see that you understand his wish to get away from her—and perhaps it was the easiest way. He would have a pleasant journey on foot, perhaps, to Naples, through the Abruzzi, and he will make no end of beautiful views. What a genius he has, and what a voice!—we have no better tenor in Italy!”

“Yes, he has great genius,” said Norah, who was most grateful to Prince C—— for his hopeful ideas; but there was something in her manner that showed the tactful Italian that he had better talk to her on some other subject, so he said—

“Your young mother is very beautiful; does your father like that she should go to balls without him?”

“This is actually her first ball since she married, and he wished her to see something of foreign society.”

“That dangerous Duke of Luna admires her very much, I see.”

“Is he dangerous?—and why?”

“Because he is very handsome, and so clever, and so——”

Norah looked in the direction of his eyes, for she had been separated from her mother by the crowd at the door. She now saw that the Duke was talking most eagerly, and his splendid eyes expressed but too plainly the admiration she excited.

“Do you know him well?” inquired Norah.

“I meet him very often, and I see the what you call the ‘havoc’ he does among the young and inexperienced ladies—married ladies,” he added. “Yes, and quite young mesdemoiselles; but I see you know much more of the world, and have thought and felt very much for your age; but your mother there knows nothing at all, so I advise you to keep your kind thoughtful eye upon her. You know I am an old married man, and so can give advice. And here comes my beautiful wife, and you must allow me to introduce you to her.”

It was the lady with the diamond kind of crown, whom they had admired so much in the early part of the evening, and Norah was delighted to find that she was the Princess C——, of whom she had often heard, and also to find that she was the wife of that most agreeable Prince C——.

She could only speak Italian, but Norah was a good linguist, so they got on very well; and by way of breaking up the tête-à-tête between Mrs. Chandos and the Duke of Luna, she asked to be allowed to present her mother to the Princess.

“Con gran’ piacere,” she said, in a most harmonious voice, and they all three went over to the other side of the table. They seemed to arrive there at the right moment, for Norah saw by the sudden movement, and the tell-tale glowing cheeks of Mrs. Chandos, that the Duke had gone too far.

“Oh, I am so glad you are come, dear Norah; pray let us go home now, we have had quite enough—have we not?”

“Yes, whenever you like; but look, here is the very lady whom you admired so much come to be introduced to you—the Princess of C——.”

Mrs. Chandos soon forgot her annoyance in the smiles and pretty-sounding words addressed to her by the Princess. She knew very little of Italian, but was able to understand those kindly-meant and beautiful words that sounded in her ears as musical as if sung by Grisi.

Meanwhile, Norah saw that the Duke de Luna’s splendid eyes looked daggers at Prince C——, and he attempted to offer his arm to Mrs. Chandos, to conduct her from the table.

“Oh! no; we are going away—are we not, Norah?” she said, as she resolutely took hold of her daughter’s arm.

“Then shall I have the honour of calling your carriage?”

“Thank you,” said Norah, who thought it better not to make a scene; “we shall be much obliged if you will.”

The Duke bowed, with a sullen look, as Norah and her companion withdrew.

“Very well done,” whispered Prince C—— in her ear—“much better not affront him. I was afraid your pretty mother was getting rather too angry. Remember, those fine gentlemen must be kept at a little distance at first, otherwise they presume on the inexperience of such a young married lady as she is. Yes, you must take her home, for I see she is getting quite hysterical, in spite of my wife’s endeavours to soothe. I see she is endeavouring to explain that we should be glad to see you all at our weekly receptions; and she has also a smaller morning one of intimate friends every Tuesday, to which we hope your father may be persuaded to come. He would meet some of our savants and our great geologist, Monsignore S——, and our celebrated astronomer, Signor S——.”

Norah said she was certain her father would be delighted, if he felt well enough.

“I do not think our handsome Spanish grandee will return,” said Prince C——, after a few minutes’ conversation, “so I will go and get your carriage; or perhaps you had better both come with me to the farther room,” he added, as he saw Mrs. Chandos’s great anxiety to get home.

As they passed through the ball-room, they saw the Duke of Luna waltzing with Lady Spendfast, much to the relief of Mrs. Chandos, who was apprehensive of being handed into the carriage by the formidable Duke.

AS soon as they were seated in the carriage, Mrs. Chandos expressed almost hysterically her delight in having got away safely, and was rather surprised when Norah remarked that she was very glad that they went to the ball, and explained to her mother that it would be always easy to avoid the kind of annoyance she had been subjected to by the Duke’s forwardness; and she pointed out the pleasure which her father might derive from meeting some celebrated people in such an easy way as they were likely to do at Prince C——’s.

She was right, for during the next month of their sojourn in Rome, they saw a great deal of the best Roman society; for at Prince C——’s they met some relations of my mother’s, of the Spinola and Donati families, who, from scarcely mingling at all with the English, preserve the old Italian manner and customs more in their original state.

Norah was much surprised at the great contrast between the men and the ladies of these families, most of the gentlemen being well educated, and many, particularly the princes and monsignori, celebrated for their learning or genius; while the ladies, though very kind-hearted and good-natured, seemed extraordinarily ignorant. In fact, two of the lovely princesses could scarcely read or write, yet they did not seem to be annoyed by this comparatively unintellectual state, and fully enjoyed their dolce far niente.

Norah was particularly interested by a young cousin of my mother’s, Bianca Countess Donati. She was a lovely Neapolitan, and had married at sixteen a widower with a grown-up family. The marriage had been made up before she left the convent, or had even seen her intended.

Bianca had been well trained, and in some degree well educated; and it never occurred to her to make any objection, although she was somewhat disappointed in the appearance of her betrothed.

The Count Donati was a clever man, but bad-tempered, and inclined to be jealous; and his sons and daughters did not approve of his second marriage. So the young wife had not led a very happy life, and her chief comfort was derived from her own little child, a girl of five years old. She fancied that her own ignorance prevented her husband from enjoying her society as much as he seemed to do that of many of the English ladies, at parties to which she with her step-daughters was not invited.

Count Donati was not rich enough to entertain at home, but as he liked to go into general society, he compounded the matter by not taking his wife out with him. Norah found that Bianca was most desirous to acquire some knowledge, and very anxious to know how I, Constance Vivian, contrived to get on amongst English ladies with the different education she knew I had received in my youth at Sorrento.

Norah endeavoured to put her in the way of learning languages, and assisted her in the choice of books, as she was much touched at her wish to become more companionable to a husband who seemed so indifferent to her charms.

For in a degree she had the same charm which Norah herself possessed, and resembled her in her longing to attain a high standard of perfection, and in the charitable feeling with which she regarded the faults of others. Her husband was very intemperate in his language, and poor Bianca was often pained to see the impression his bad words made on her little girl.

Norah was amused and pleased one day when they were all walking on the Pincio with Bianca and her child, and her own little sister, to discover the original and touching expedient the Countess had thought of to counteract the effect, and yet to excuse the bad language of her husband in the mind of his little child.

Cattarina was walking with the children that day, and one of them did something which excited her bad temper, whereupon she began abusing the little fellow in bad language. Bianca’s little girl, overhearing the words, called out,

“Ah, quelle son parole cattive, non si devono dirli.”

Cattarina turned upon her with flashing eyes, and reminded the child that her own father often made use of such words.

“Ah, sì,” said the little thing, looking up at her with her large, melancholy eyes. “Ah sì, ma queste son parole che lui solo[A] puo dire; è padre mio, ed Iddio lo perdonera in lui, perche preghiamo sempre per lui.”

Cattarina had the bad taste to burst into a loud laugh, and led two of the children off to a distant part of the garden. Norah explained to the wondering Countess that she was only their travelling maid, who had been highly recommended, but she was evidently unfit to be their instructor in Italian, although she had a very good accent.

They afterwards found that Cattarina was quite one of the modern liberali, and had lost all faith in her own religion, and, acquiring no other, had fallen into total disbelief, or rather into the devil-worship expressed in some lines which have been praised in one of the leading English reviews, composed by a modern Italian poet!

THE Chandos family remained at Rome longer than they originally intended, as it seemed to suit Mr. Chandos, and he was able to enjoy some of the sights, as well as the quiet kind of society into which they had so fortunately entered.

Norah often heard of Lady Selina Bugginfield, and her doings, from Lady Spendfast, but she never met her but once. It was at the Vatican, and the fine lady came up and shook hands with Norah, and gravely asked whether she had heard any news of Sir Alfred.

“No? Well, I suppose he must have been murdered by the Abruzzi bandits. But have you written to England to inquire? Does not his uncle, Mr. Mordaunt, know anything of him; or your young friend, the beauty of last season, who turned his head so wonderfully? What does she say about it?”

Mrs. Chandos, who had never seen Lady Selina before, did not even know who she was; and, although these questions were partly addressed to her, yet she felt this impertinence of the stranger’s tone and manner so keenly that she was at a loss what answer to make.

Norah saw her puzzled embarrassment, and though she was annoyed at Lady Selina’s rudeness, she could not help being half-amused at her effrontery, and a smile was on her face as she gave a calm and civil answer to the string of questions.

“Oh! you don’t mind it, I see. You are quite indifferent to the fate of the man to whom you were said to be attached. Then I suppose you would not care to have the beautiful sketches he made on our journey along the Cornice? And I was going to offer you some, if you like to come to my rooms and choose them.”

“If Sir Alfred gave them to you,” said Norah, “I do not wish to deprive you of any.”

“Ah! you would not accept them from me, I see.”

At this moment the Duke de Luna came up, who seemed to belong to her party, for, after making a stiff bow to Mrs. Chandos and Norah, he held out his arm to Lady Selina, and they went on to the next room.

“Was that really Lady Selina Bugginfield?” inquired Mrs. Chandos, as soon as they were out of hearing. “What a strangely-impertinent woman! How could she say such things to you? And how wonderfully composed you remained! You did not even look angry; and yet I saw that you frightened her. Her eyes sank so beneath your steady, civil look.”

“Poor Lady Selina!” said Norah. “She has had great disadvantages. I daresay I should have been quite as bad, or worse, if I had been as badly brought up.”

But, in spite of her apparent cheerfulness, or, as Lady Selina interpreted it, indifference, Norah could not help feeling more and more anxious about Sir Alfred’s fate. This anxiety—the idea that he really had been murdered—of course tended to make her more lenient to his faults, and something of her old feeling of admiration began to revive.

The following week they left Rome, and as there was no railroad in those days, they enjoyed the beautiful scenery on the road to Naples. They travelled vetturino, as it was less fatiguing; and Norah was delighted at the midday halt in some of the quaint old towns, which enabled her to sketch, and see so much of the country.

The road beyond the Pontine Marshes was said to be infested by banditti, and they were advised at Terracina to have an escort as far as Mola di Gaeta. To this Mr. Chandos consented, although he did not put much faith either in the prevalence of banditti, or the efficiency of any escort in case of an attack.

Cattarina, however, declared that she was very much frightened, because the last family she travelled with were attacked by banditti between Terracina and Forli, and robbed of all the money and jewels they possessed; and she had told John and Mrs. Spinnyfit such fearful stories that they were quite pale and trembling at the idea of going among such dangers.

Miss Rumble, too, and the nurse, were anything but easy in their minds. But the vetturini laughed at their fears, and declared that they had “taken Signori safe through many, many times. All the same, it may be better to have an escort.”

SO the two carriages started from Terracina that afternoon, accompanied by three mounted guards. The dress of these men was very picturesque; but Norah did not much like the expression of their handsome faces. Cattarina seemed to recognise an old friend in one of them, and she had a long talk with him as they drove slowly up the hills.

It was one of those fine days in February which are particularly delightful in Southern Italy. The chestnut woods through which the road passed were beginning to be tinged with green, and formed a lovely contrast to the dark hues of the pines and cypresses.

As they approached Forli, the road was so steep that Mrs. Chandos wished to walk up the hill, so they all got out, except Mr. Chandos; and Norah was glad to have the enjoyment of the splendid scenery prolonged.

But Mrs. Chandos soon repented of having given way to her fears of an overturn, when a shot was heard, and they saw the trooper who rode at the head of their escort fall from his horse, and lie apparently dead on the road. Two more shots were fired, and then four men, evidently bandits, emerged from the wood, and seized the horses’ heads of both carriages; while a fifth came up to the window, and holding his pistol at Mr. Chandos’s head, demanded all the money and valuables the party possessed.

Norah was at his side in a moment, and seized on his arm, while she with the utmost coolness explained that if they would not hurt her father, they should be well paid.

“Ah! va bene,” said the bandit, who apparently admired Norah’s courage and coolness. “Va bene, ma fa presto,” said the man, as the screams of the rest of the party began to resound through the echoing valley, upon which he ordered the other bandits to stop their mouths and bandage their eyes.

Miss Rumble made a most vigorous resistance; but Mrs. Spinnyfit fainted into the arms of the bandit who proceeded to bandage her eyes.

Cattarina made a violent show of resistance and outcry at first, but soon submitted to the same ignominious treatment. Mrs. Chandos had followed Norah, and clung to her as if for protection, and endeavoured to keep herself from fainting, while she instinctively felt that their only hope was in the young girl’s coolness and tact. In the meantime Mr. Chandos took out all the money he had in his pocket.

“Ah, non basta,” said the man, and expressed that unless they would give everything they possessed quickly he would be obliged to use force.

“Oh, then, do, dear Norah, give them the box down. Mr. Chandos, pray do give them the box,” said Mrs. Chandos, as she pointed to a small despatch box inside the carriage, which she knew contained their most valuable jewels.

“Ah, si, va bene; dammi questa scatola.”

Norah tried to turn away the man’s attention, and said that the most valuable things were in the other carriage.

“Ah no, la signora dice che son qui,” he said, as he rudely pushed forward and proceeded to rummage the carriage and look under the seat. Norah knew that amongst their jewels, which were of great value, there were some family miniatures, set round with diamonds, and these miniatures no money could replace. She therefore regretted much that her mother’s fears had made her betray their whereabouts to the bandits, but she saw resistance was useless. Soon the man found the box, and as the lock, which was very strong, resisted his efforts to break it open, he said:

“La chiave, presto.”

Mr. Chandos took off a gold chain, to which the key was attached, and gave it to the man. Still Norah, who could not bear the idea of parting with her mother’s and grandmother’s miniatures, resolved to explain her reasons, and offered to send a further payment if he would allow them to redeem some of the contents of the box.

“Vedremo,” he said, as he proceeded to examine the brilliant treasures. But though Norah fancied that the head of the party would have agreed to her terms, the others insisted on having all. She then saw it was hopeless, and Mr. Chandos advised that no further efforts should be made. But as Norah saw how deeply he regretted losing these precious memorials, she looked anxiously round to see if the other two guards of the escort could not give any help.

They were nowhere to be seen, but she fancied that she could discern a cloud of dust at the bottom of the hill. The men were so engaged in examining and seizing upon their pray, and quarrelling about the division of it, that they did not perceive the dust nor hear the tramp of horses, which she, the next minute, distinctly heard coming up the hill.

Clinging to the hope of a rescue, she made some further objections, and again appealed to their feelings, and made energetic entreaties that they would not take the miniatures. She managed to get hold of the one of her mother; she held it firmly in her hand, and appealed to the bandit’s love for his own mother, while she contrived to place herself so as to obstruct their view down the hill; and then, as the advancing sounds drew nearer, she suddenly gave a most piercing shriek.

The next moment a shot was heard, and one of the bandits, who held the horse’s head, fell down, while the other turned from the carriage door to look from whence the shot proceeded. They were not long in discovering, and before they had time to recover from their surprise, they were surrounded by four well-armed men.

The chief bandit fired off his pistol, and made a vigorous resistance, but he was soon disarmed, and his hands tied behind his back. Then the person who seemed to have taken the lead in this unexpected rescue advanced towards Norah, and, to her great surprise, she recognised the Duke of Luna.

When Mrs. Chandos discovered who it was, she became completely puzzled, and began to fear that he was heading another party of bandits, and expressed her fears to her husband and Norah in piteous terms. The Duke, who spoke very good English, was much amused, and assured her that he was not in league with any bandits; on the contrary, he and a party of friends were resolved, in travelling this road, to ride well-armed, and, if possible, capture the celebrated Gasparone, “which we have done,” he added, with a triumphant smile, “but we must first empty his pockets, and return to your party all he has taken.”

But this was not quite so easy as the Duke had expected, for, as he was in the act of handing some of the valuables to Mr. Chandos, a shot was fired from the wood, which struck the Duke’s right arm, and a large body of bandits emerged from the thick trees and surrounded the whole party. Still the Duke and his friends made a most determined resistance, and Norah contrived to gather up all the jewels, miniatures, and money taken from Gasparone, while shots were being fired all round. She then helped her now really fainting mother into the carriage, and then got in herself, and pulled up the wooden blinds, with her father’s assistance. It was a moment of horrible suspense, for, if the Duke’s party did not succeed in putting their antagonists to flight, the enraged brigands would probably proceed to extremities, and murder some of the party. Mr. Chandos looked out at the little back window, for his anxiety about his children in the other carriage was intense.

“The thieves seem to be retreating again, I hope,” he said; “and here comes Valentino at last—I wonder what he did with himself all the time of the scuffle?”

“All right,” said the courier’s always cheerful voice at the window—“you may let de blind down now. No more fear, only the Duke of Luna is badly wounded, and we must try to put him in one of de carriages, for he cannot ride.”

“Has Gasparone escaped?”

“Si, Signor, he contrived to undo the cords when the others were fighting, and off he went; but he got no booty, everyting quite safe,” he added, with an air of triumph, as if it had been entirely owing to his own brave vigilance—“no Signor of mine ever lost anyting, as I assured the Signori before.”

On hearing that the Duke was badly wounded, Mr. Chandos ordered Valentino to ride on to Mola, and despatch a doctor as quickly as possible; and then he and Norah got out and went to see the poor Duke, who was lying on the bank, quite unable to move, and the blood was running from a wound on the side of his head. His companions were looking at him in helpless consternation, two of them also having received slight wounds; for there had been a sharp fight by the Duke’s party, against more than double their number, and, of course, then everyone was most anxious to leave this dangerous spot, and proceed on the way to Mola di Gaeta.

Mr. Chandos and his daughter were very good doctors, for they had always been accustomed to visit the poor people of their large village, so he immediately bound up the wounds, with the help of little Hetty, while Norah got some restoratives to pour down his throat. Then he was lifted into the large berline, and placed so that he could lie down; and Mr. Chandos and his two daughters accompanied him, for they were now the only useful ones of the party, Mrs. Chandos being in a state of hysterics, as well as the maid and governess; while the children, who had not been able to comprehend the scene at all, were still crying most piteously.

The postilion, who seemed to have been the first victim of the bandit’s attack, was found to be quite unhurt, although he had continued to cry out that he was “morto ed amazato!” for some time after he was raised from the ground. He now mounted his horse doggedly, by Valentino’s orders, and the carriages drove on. The wounded Duke had great difficulty in speaking, but he endeavoured to express by looks his gratitude for their kind efforts to alleviate his sufferings. Mr. Chandos, who had never heard of him, and did not now even know his name, was deeply struck by his handsome features, and the patient and grateful expression of his splendid eyes.

Norah at once saw the favourable impression produced on her father by his appearance. At first she shrank from introducing him by name, lest her mother might have spoken about the annoyance she had felt at his admiration; nor did she like to remind the poor sufferer of a scene which she fancied he would, in his present state, be pained to remember.

It seemed almost as if he had read her thoughts, for at the last stage going out to Gaeta, he mentioned that he had met Mrs. Chandos and herself at Princess D——’s; and as he said so, she saw the blush mount to his pale cheeks, and a painful expression of remorse overspread his countenance. Mr. Chandos saw it, and was puzzled, for his wife had not mentioned the Duke’s name, so that he knew of no cause for the pained look. Norah was so glad to witness it, that she began to talk much more kindly to the poor sufferer, for she knew that his recovery from such dangerous wounds must depend upon his spirits being kept up.

During the remainder of the drive, both she and her father used the best endeavours to amuse him, and make him forget his sufferings; and when they drove up at the hotel door, he expressed an earnest wish that he might have the pleasure of seeing them again.

“We certainly shall not desert you; we shall not be so ungrateful as to desert the man who has been the means of saving our valuables, and probably also our lives, till he is out of danger,” said Mr. Chandos.

THEY found the doctor waiting at the door of the hotel at Mola di Gaeta, for he had not been able to find any horses to take him on the road to Forli. He helped Valentino to carry the Duke into a room on the ground-floor, looking into the garden, from whence was the loveliest view in all Italy. Mr. Chandos saw the sufferer laid on the bed near the window, and then left him in the doctor’s hands, who promised to come and inform him how the Duke was as soon as he had examined the wounds.

The other carriage had arrived first, and they found Mrs. Chandos and the rest of the party in a set of luxurious rooms on the next floor, commanding the same lovely view. Mrs. Chandos was still very ill and nervous, and very much puzzled to know how it happened that the Duke of Luna, of all people in the world, had chanced to appear just at that moment. She also reproached herself when she found that her husband and his daughters were actually shut up in the carriage with him. She regretted that she had not told Mr. Chandos of the Duke’s impertinence to her at the ball.

Her first impulse had been to tell him as soon as she got safe home, on the night of the D—— Palace ball, but he was asleep, and she remembered that Norah, and that beautiful Princess C——, had not seemed to be so deeply impressed with the heinousness of his offence; so her second determination had been to say nothing about it, for it might only make her husband angry or annoyed.

On their arrival at the hotel, Mrs. Chandos was surprised to see the great anxiety they evinced about the Duke, for Mr. Chandos could think and talk of nothing else. He inquired of the landlord about the capabilities of the Italian doctor, and expressed a wish to send at once to Naples for an English physician who lived there.

The landlord declared that Dr. Mangello was most able and conscientious, that many English families had approved of his treatment, and he felt sure that if the case was a difficult one, he would be certain to ask for assistance. A few minutes after this conversation Dr. Mangello knocked at the door, and, with a face of alarm, begged that another doctor should be sent for immediately. He had extracted one ball successfully, but he found there was another in a very dangerous place, and he could not venture to operate without the sanction of a first-rate surgeon.

On hearing this, Valentino offered to ride off immediately to Naples, and, if possible, bring back Dr. Nelson before the next morning. Dr. Mangello then expressed a hope that Mr. Chandos and the young lady would go down and sit with his patient after they had dined, as he was in a most desponding state of mind, and was possessed with the idea that he should not live through the night.

“He seems to have no hope, either in this world or the next; no faith, I fear,” said Dr. Mangello, with an anxious and pained look, which Mr. Chandos and his daughter both observed, and which tended to give them confidence in the doctor’s good feeling.

He was obliged to go and see another patient, but would return in an hour or two, and bring a nurse to attend upon the Duke through the night.

Norah happened to have heard rumours of some strange events which had befallen the Spanish grandee in his early youth, before she saw him for the first time at Princess D——’s ball; and when she heard him speak Spanish to a lady who was standing near her, and saw his extraordinarily handsome face, she immediately fancied that it was the Duke de Luna.

The romantic story of his early life had, in fact, been related to her by Sir Alfred Rivers several years ago, and when she heard that he was in Rome, it reminded her of the strange history. The details of it were partly confirmed by Countess Donati, whose grandmother was a Spaniard, and had been educated in the same convent with the Duke’s mother.

Norah had been glad to hear her version of it, as it showed the Duke’s character to less disadvantage than the current report which was afloat in the world.

Before they went down to see the Duke that evening, Norah related to her father and Mrs. Chandos what she had heard, as she thought, if now the sufferer were really in danger, her father could be of more use if he knew his history.

Silva, Duke de Luna, was the second son of a rich and powerful grandee, and in early childhood he and his elder brother were betrothed to two sisters—nieces of his mother. Silva’s intended was the eldest of the sisters, Clotilda, and heiress to very large estates; while Bianca, the youngest, was affianced to the eldest, Luna. By this means it was intended that both brothers should inherit princely fortunes, and all the vast possessions would be kept in the same family.

The children were all brought up together, until the brothers went to the University; and on their return home after their education was finished, they found their two fiancées still living in the Luna Palace with their father, for the sisters’ parents were dead. Bianca, the younger sister, had grown up to be far the most beautiful of the two; and Silva de Luna, unfortunately for himself and the whole family, fell in love with his brother’s betrothed; and his love was of the true Spanish kind—vehement and all-powerful, and, what was still worse, unluckily it was returned.

Don Silva did not discover this at first, and Countess Donati mentioned that he endeavoured to keep his faith with the elder sister for some weeks after his return. But about a month before the day fixed for the two marriages, Don Silva met Bianca by chance one evening in the palace gardens, unattended by her usually inseparable duenna.

It was the only time since their early childhood that he had seen her alone. The opportunity was irresistible, and under the moonlit orange-groves of Granada he declared his love. Donna Bianca endeavoured to remind him that she was his brother’s betrothed; but her words were contradicted by her beautiful eyes and the blushes on her glowing cheeks.

He saw that her heart was his, and, unable any longer to control his feelings, he pressed her in his arms. The next moment his brother’s voice was heard, and a fearful scene ensued. Some reports were to the effect that the brothers fought on the spot, and that the eldest, Don Fernando, was badly wounded, and that Bianca ran into the house shrieking for help. The result seemed to be that Don Fernando immediately left home and joined the army in Cuba, where he was soon afterwards killed in some engagement. The two sisters retired into a convent, for poor Bianca found that Clorinda was broken-hearted at the desertion of her betrothed. So Bianca resolved to sacrifice her love for her sister’s sake, and they both took the veil on the very day which had been fixed for their bridal.

Don Silva was said to have been deeply attached to his brother before the fatal love for the wrong sister nearly extinguished all his better feelings, and when the news of Don Fernando’s untimely end arrived, the anguish of remorse for having been the cause of his brother’s death became unbearable. He sought every kind of distraction that could afford a temporary forgetfulness, and plunged into dissipation and gambling. He visited all the great European capitals in search of change and amusement, totally neglecting his father and all the duties of his high position.

At last the news of his father’s dangerous illness reached him during a gay Winter season in Paris; and a letter from the family doctor and priest implored him to return home, and see his father before his death. He went, but he only arrived in time to attend the old Duke’s funeral; and afterwards he became more reckless and broken-hearted than ever. He quitted his ancestral home and great possessions, and had never returned there since.

Mr. Chandos was deeply touched at the history; and he gathered some hopes from it that the Duke’s present suffering and dangerous state might be the means of awakening the better feelings of his nature, and lead to ultimate peace, if not happiness.

WHEN Mr. Chandos and his daughter went, by Dr. Mangello’s request, down to the Duke’s room, they found him almost insensible. He had been raving wildly a few minutes before in Spanish, which the doctor did not understand; and he hoped that perhaps the others might be able to make out his meaning. He now lay with his eyes closed, but his brow was contracted, and his pale features expressed extreme agony.

“Speak to him, if you can, in Spanish, as it may induce him to express the trouble of his mind,” whispered Dr. Mangello to Mr. Chandos. But the Duke seemed to have heard his words, for he opened his eyes, and when he saw Norah standing near, he said in English,

“It is of no use—I am lost for ever. There is no hope. I am grateful—most grateful,” he added, after a pause, “for your kindness; but if you knew all, you——”

“I do know all,” interrupted Norah. And then she endeavoured to show him that he should hope for pardon of whatever sins he might have committed, if he would now pray for mercy.

“Of what avail are such prayers as mine? No, I have no faith.”

“But you believe that the prayers of others can avail, and others wish and pray for your salvation?”

“Ah! how can you tell that? I know they do not—I am nothing to those angels.”

“They pray for you night and day.”

“What—what can you know?”

“I know that those whom you have most wronged are praying for you. The Countess Donati told me so.”

“Ha! and can they forgive? And can they still care what becomes of me?”

“Certainly they do; as the Saviour, to whose service they have devoted their lives, cares for you—the Saviour who died to save sinners; the same who declared that He came to call not the righteous, but sinners to repentance.”

“Where did you hear that? Is it in our Scriptures?”

“Yes; and in ours.”

Then Norah repeated several texts which came into her head at the moment, as being most comforting and hope-inspiring; and she explained that they were exactly the same as in the Douai Bible, which was used by his Church; for, during a visit she made to her cousins in Ireland, she made exact notes of the difference between them.

“And do you think I can be saved? For you hold a different faith from the one I once believed.”

“I do; and I think that there is less difference than you suppose. But surely you ought to see a priest.”

“No. I have no faith in priests. I have learnt to despise my Church, and never sought any better.”

“You must not despise it. I, as a Protestant, advise you most urgently to send at once for a priest, and confess—scrupulously confess to him all you have done wrong at any time.”

“And receive the last sacraments,” said the Duke, “and then die.”

“Whether you live or die, you may still find peace and obtain forgiveness; you may be happy in this world and the next, only confess all in real humility and penitence. Let me now send, I implore you.”

He gave a reluctant assent, and the overjoyed doctor, who was a conscientious man, ran himself for Father Anselmo.

Norah saw the fearful struggle in the Duke’s mind—a positive revival of old hallowed associations of ideas contending against the acquired scepticism and proud contempt of all religion which a long intercourse with the world, among some of the worst of mankind, had developed to a fearful degree. Norah waited and prayed by the side of his sofa in silence, till Father Anselmo came.

She then took his hand for a moment, and looked back on him with a beaming and hopeful smile as she accompanied her father from the room.

THERE is more truth in De la Rochefoucauld’s maxim than we are often willing to allow—“Dans l’adversité de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous déplaît pas.” I mean that a source of consolation may be legitimately derived from witnessing their errors.

Nothing could be stronger than Norah’s feeling of compassion for the suffering Duke, yet when she compared his fate and the effect disappointment had had in subjecting him to the deteriorating influence of the worst portions of mankind, she felt obliged to make more excuses for the errors of Sir Alfred Rivers.

It was true he had met with no such misfortunes as those which had befallen the Duke, yet Sir Alfred had plunged into dissipation, and had been induced to act quite contrary to the high standard which she knew he once hoped to attain. Certainly she had refused to become positively engaged to him, but that ought not to have made him plunge so recklessly into the world of fashion.

Yet he too was most fascinating in his way, and quite as handsome as the Duke, and she saw that they had both fallen victims to the effect their own great charms exercised on others. In London and Paris, Vienna and Rome, the Duke had been the fêted idol of society. This she had heard, and from the effect such kind of idolatry had had on Sir Alfred, she well knew its baneful temptations.

Hence the extreme kindness of her manner during the interview which led to his consenting to see Father Anselmo, and hence also a softened kind of feeling towards Sir Alfred.

As she stood at her window that night, and looked on the moonlit sea, her prayers for Sir Alfred, perhaps even her love and her longing to see him once more, were stronger than ever. While these thoughts and prayers occupied her mind, her eye rested on the silvery moonbeams as they gleamed from the shore of the garden below to the distant promontory of Mola di Gaeta; and as she looked, a little boat, with the broad lateen sails, crossed the line of light and approached the shore.

“Oh! if he were in that boat,” she thought, with a vivid kind of longing and strange presentiment that it might be possible. And she watched for some time, for there was but little wind, and its progress was slow.

At last it touched the shore about the middle of the bay, and she thought that she could distinguish some figures landing. She ran for an opera-glass which they used for looking at distant scenery, and then she distinctly saw four men near the boat. One was much taller than the others, and there was something in this one’s walk which resembled his. Oh! could it be? The next minute they all disappeared behind the trees on the shore. She watched for some time, in hopes they might emerge from the wood. They did not appear again; but as they had turned in the direction of the road to the hotel, she hoped they might possibly be coming into the town.

She went to bed, but found it impossible to sleep, and about an hour afterwards she heard some bell ring, and fancied it might be an arrival. Again all was silent, and she remembered that Valentino said that every room was full, and that several families had been obliged to put up at the other hotel, or pursue their journey to the next town. But it might have been Sir Alfred, who may have inquired for rooms, and he might possibly hear that she was there; and then? She would not trust herself to ask any more questions, but resolved to be strong-minded and go to sleep, otherwise she would be unable to help her father, or be of any use to the suffering Duke de Luna.

But, however strong the mind, it was not easily lulled to sleep after a day of such extraordinary excitement; and then her dreams were full of vivid realities, in which hope predominated, and she awoke with a feeling of vague happiness and wonder at what produced it.

“He must have come,” she thought, as she remembered the tall figure on the distant moonlit road; and then a pang of self-reproach at the elation of her spirits reminded her of the suffering Duke in the room underneath.

She began to dress quickly, that she might go and inquire about him; but before she had finished Cattarina came into her room, and told her that the Duke was in great danger—that the doctor and the priest had never left him all night, and they were afraid he would die before the arrival of Valentino with the English doctor.

“I know he would like to see the Signorina,” she added, with an odd kind of expression in her large eyes, which Norah did not like, for she had often observed it when the girl was saying what was not true. Yet in this case it seemed natural—that perhaps the poor sufferer might like to see any one who could speak of hope, and sympathise with his misery.

So she went to her father’s room, and found that he was already dressed, and was intending to go and inquire whether he could be of use. So they both went downstairs, and Doctor Mangello met them at the door, and begged they would come into his patient’s room.

“His mind is much more tranquil,” he whispered, “and he wishes to thank the Signorina for her kindness, and for having persuaded him to see Father Anselmo. But,” he added, in a still lower tone, “I fear there is but little chance of his recovery.”

As they were about to enter the room, a light carriage dashed up to the hotel door, and out jumped Valentino, followed by a grave but pleasant-looking old man, Doctor Nelson. He was at once taken into the sick-room, and the father and daughter remained outside, anxiously awaiting the report he could give of the sufferer.

The place where they stood was one of those large ante-rooms, or inner halls, peculiar to Italian houses, which seem to open in all directions. Some of the windows opened on the garden, and the doors on passages which ran through the house, and led to the street entrance. Norah saw that Cattarina came in for a moment at one of the distant doors, as if she were looking for some one, and then disappeared along the passages to the principal entrance.

Again Norah saw that odd expression on her face; she fancied that the wily creature was intent on some mischief. After waiting for some minutes near the door, Norah fancied that her father would be tired, and persuaded him to sit down on a bench which was near the window that looked on the road.

Soon afterwards a travelling-carriage drove up, and they saw that it contained the Spendfasts, and Lady Selina Bugginfield. They saw the master of the hotel go out, and also Valentino; and he probably explained that there was no room, for they did not get out of the carriage, although a long talk ensued, and Mr. Chandos observed that the courier was probably relating their adventures with the banditti, and describing the poor Duke’s dangerous state, for they were full of gesticulation expressive of horror and dismay.

At last the carriage drove off in the direction of another hotel to which the master had pointed.

“Could that have been Sir Alfred last night; and was he possibly at that very hotel to which Lady Selina, his evil genius, was going?” thought Norah, with sudden dismay. Cattarina was gone out in that direction—she might have gone to see some friend at the other hotel, for she always seemed to know everybody, and the hotel people always appeared delighted to see her; and Lady Selina, too, had been a great friend of her late mistress, the Countess Rossi.

NORAH’S judgment of physiognomy had not deceived her in any way with regard to Cattarina, for she was bent on mischief.

The wily woman had perceived, from the beginning of their tour, that Miss Chandos saw through her, in spite of all the arts by which she often gained the good-will, and sometimes even the warm affections of many people. It is a strange fact that the common or usual characteristic of the Italian character is great simplicity; but when this is the reverse, their artfulness, and the patience with which they work vengeance upon those who incur their displeasure, is very striking.

It so happened that she had a quarrel with Valentino the night before, because she could not make him believe that she had lost some valuables by the banditti, after he had triumphantly maintained to Mr. Chandos that no padroni of his had ever lost any of their property when they were under his charge.

Signor Valentino was by no means a bad man, as couriers go, and beyond a turn for gossip, and making money within (somewhat stretched) honest limits, there was no harm in him. However, all he had said at different times disclosed more of Norah’s, and Sir Alfred’s, and my (Constance Vivian’s) history, than he would have told had he been fully aware of Cattarina’s mischief-making propensities, or imagined that she had imbibed the strongest possible hatred for the “bella Signora Norina,” as he called his young lady, whom he particularly admired, and whose happiness he sincerely wished for.

It so happened that Cattarina had some intimate friends or relations at a third-rate hotel in Gaeta; thither she went after her quarrel with Valentino the preceding evening, and found a gay marriage fête in progress, so she remained there in great glee half the night. In the middle of it some strangers arrived, who excited her interest, for she fancied that two of them were not what they seemed to be; and, as she watched them closely, she made a discovery. She then contrived to see where the strangers were lodged, and overheard the taller of the two saying that they should start early the following morning. After that she had a long tête-à-tête with a son of the hotel-keeper, who was a great admirer of hers, and the result was a promise on his part that her wishes should be punctually carried out.

When Norah saw her leave their hotel in the morning, Cattarina went first to the scene of her gaieties of the preceding evening; and, on the way, she met the travelling carriage containing the Spendfasts and Lady Selina, and she contrived to make herself seen by them, although they were driving very quickly. She had expected they would travel in this direction soon, and was particularly glad to see them arrive now, and concluded that they would put up at the Hotel de Russie, as there was no room at the best. Having watched some minutes to ascertain that they were taken in there, after the fruitless attempt at the Angleterre, she proceeded with her walk, and had an interview with her young admirer.

The news he gave her seemed to be satisfactory, for she thanked him warmly, and said she would call again before they left Gaeta, and hoped if they remained for several days he would have more to tell. She informed him that she was now hurrying off to see a lady who would pay him well for the trouble, and gladly recompense any loss he might incur. She then proceeded, with gleaming eyes and triumphant step, to the “Russie,” and asked to see Lady Selina Bugginfield. They had a long interview, and her ladyship seemed so much pleased with her that she gave Cattarina a valuable emerald ring.

But what Lady Selina heard from the maid induced her to alter her own plans, and instead of remaining with the Spendfasts, she determined to start at once for Caserta, “having heard,” she said, “that an old English lady who lived there was very ill, and wished to see her.” But she would not think of taking the Spendfasts so out of the way; she would meet them at Naples in a few days. Horses were ordered immediately, and Lady Selina, with her own maid and man, proceeded on the road to Caserta.

After leaving the “Russie,” Cattarina hurried off to her own hotel, for it suddenly occurred to her that if the poor Duke should unfortunately die, her padrone would not remain there, but would probably wish to proceed to Naples. She devoutly hoped he would not die, for, besides having a great admiration for the handsome and generous Duke, his recovery, rather than his death, would best help the success of her plans.

“He may live—the ball has been extracted,” was the answer to her eager inquiry on reaching the hotel.

“And was her padrone and the young lady with him now?”

“Yes, they were in his room, for the doctor was gone to rest after having been up all night, and they were watching by the sufferer’s bedside.”

“Va bene,” she said, with a triumphant smile, as she went up to see after the children and her padrona.

THERE is a tract of country not far from Naples which is but little visited by the usual set of tourists, although some artists and admirers of Salvator Rosa venture among those scenes which he loved to paint. It is said to be infested by banditti, yet an eccentric English lady had bought an old house between La Cava and Caserta, and had lived for several years very happily amid the splendid scenery.

She generally came into Naples during the coldest part of the Winter, for there was no fireplace in any part of her large house except the kitchen. She was an old maid, of the strong-minded and independent kind, who advocated liberty, and had no faith in any religion. She was aunt to Lady Selina Bugginfield, and a great admirer of her beautiful niece, whose faults she scarcely saw; or, if she did, she attributed them to energy and contempt for the conventionalities of (as she said) a rotten society.

Mrs. Pocklingden was one of that numerous class of persons who admire and encourage the so-called liberalism which disposes of other people’s property, and declares that “La Propriété c’est le Vol.” But I much doubt whether any of these people would like to be deprived of their own—to give up their houses or money, or even their pet arm-chair. The want of common sense in those who advocate these communist principles, and who have anything to lose, passes comprehension! Yet what pseudo-clever speeches are made, and written, tending towards this very socialism, in most of the leading papers. Praise was given by some of them to the author of the following impious lines!—

To this out-of-the-way spot Lady Selina was now bending her steps by a cross mountain road from Caserta. She quitted the carriage at the latter place, and engaged mules to carry herself and servants, with a guide recommended by Cattarina. It was a fine bright day, and she found the journey very pleasant.

Her aunt, Miss Pockingden, was delightfully surprised to see her. It was most fortunate, she said, that she had not started for Naples, as she had thought of doing the day before; and now the weather was warmer, and with a good scaldino in the drawing-room, they would be very comfortable.

Lady Selina had often been there before, for a day or two, but on the present occasion she found it so pleasant, and enjoyed the excursions they made in the romantically beautiful country so much, that she made up her mind to pass a week or more with her “dear amusing eccentric aunt.” The Spendfasts had arrived at Naples, and entered into all the gaieties of that place; and they wondered at Lady Selina’s preference for a villeggiatura life that cold season of the year.

During this time the Chandos party still remained at Mola di Gaeta, as their presence was of real use to the Duke, and Norah’s and her father’s cheering society did, as the doctor declared, more good to the sufferer than any of his remedies. Norah had not heard of Lady Selina’s separation from the Spendfasts, and she was therefore much surprised when, a week afterwards, she received a letter from Lady Spendfast, complaining that she missed her cousin very much, and that it was so stupid of her to remain with that mad aunt of hers at her château up in the mountains, where she must be perished with the cold. “So provoking,” she wrote, “because she knows the great people here so much better than we do, therefore it is so shameful of her to desert us just at the beginning of our stay; and there is to be a Court held on Tuesday next, too. I really think she is as mad as her aunt, that odious Miss Pockingden, who I verily believe is in league with the banditti, and the carbonari, or some of the dreadful secret societies.”

These, and many other complaints, were made in Lady Spendfast’s long letter, which ended with a fervent hope that Norah would bring her handsome Duke to Naples as soon as possible, as their romantic adventures and miraculous escapes were the talk of all Naples, and their arrival would make quite a sensation. The King and the beautiful Princesses were longing to see her and the Duke, and said it was the most romantic story they had ever heard.

This letter annoyed Norah more than she liked to acknowledge, and filled her with a vague kind of dread, of what she knew not, but each time she read it over she felt more puzzled. It seemed so unlike the idea she had formed of Lady Selina’s character to go and bury herself amid romantic scenery with an old aunt, just as the gaieties of Naples were at their height. Could she have heard that Sir Alfred was in these wild regions?

There seemed no other solution to the mystery. But how could she have heard that Sir Alfred was likely to be there? All this time she had often observed Cattarina’s eyes looking at her with a sinister expression, and she began to think that the wily Italian knew something about it.

She showed the letter to her father, but he was more impressed by the provoking idea of the sensation which Lady Spendfast said would be created when they arrived at Naples, and he therefore suggested that they should go straight to Sorrento, and not remain in Naples till later; and this plan he thought would be best also for the Duke, as the climate and quiet of Sorrento would conduce to his recovery.

Norah was very much interested in the invalid, but she was not such an enthusiastic admirer of him as her father had become—so had Mrs. Chandos, and so had little Hetty, and the children. They were fascinated by his agreeability, and the gratitude he evinced for their kindness. And they were all enchanted at the idea of going to that lovely Sorrento which he had described to them in such glowing colours, for he had passed several months there some years ago. He had been a great traveller, and the stories he told them of his adventures in the East, and on the Nile, and in America, interested and amused them all; and the children enjoyed, above all things, the evenings they were allowed to spend in his room.

THE Duc de Luna was not yet able to walk, but Doctor Nelson considered that change of scene might be beneficial, if Mr. Chandos and his family would go with him; therefore, a comfortable travelling-carriage was engaged for the Duke, and the whole party started for Sorrento.

Mr. Chandos had ascertained that a large villa was to be had there, in a beautiful spot near the seashore, not far from Mrs. Vivian’s house, and Valentino was despatched to engage it and see that it was fit for their reception. In order to make short days’ journeys, they stopped the first night at Capua, and the next at Castellamare, only stopping an hour at Naples on the way.

On their arrival at Sorrento, they found, to the great surprise and the delight of all the family except Mrs. Chandos, that Lady Horatia Somerton had just taken a house there. Her little girl, Brownie, had been very ill, and she was advised to try a southern climate; and most of her friends wondered that a so-called gay lady had not chosen Naples, instead of such a quiet place as Sorrento. But she explained, as if half ashamed of choosing a dull place, that she thought it would be better for Brownie, and that she would be able to attend more to her; and now there was no chance of being dull, as Norah and her father were there, and the dear little Hetty, who would be such a delightful companion for Brownie; and that most handsome and fascinating of Dukes, who had passed two London seasons under her protection.

“Yes, protection, my dear,” she repeated to Norah, “for I helped to keep him out of the worst gambling set. I did indeed; and now that he has been so dangerously ill, and has had such a miraculous escape, I hope you will be able to reform him. Do you know, I am getting quite good. I am becoming devote, as Madame de R—— said, when she was getting tired of the world, or the world was getting tired of her. And then the beautiful Contessa Vivian—that wonderful girl Constance’s mother—thrives so on her devotions, and looks so young and lovely, that it makes one in love with her religion. But what a contrast she is to her daughter in all except her extraordinary beauty!”

This was said by Lady Horatia to Norah the morning after their arrival, when she called on the new-comer, and found Norah in the garden in front of the Villa Palmiero. She would not go in to see the rest of the party till she had taken Norah to one of the shady seats at the end of the terrace, and had drawn from her an account of all that had happened since she came to London last season to nurse her friend with infectious fever.

Norah did not tell her much in words, but the quick-witted lady soon made out the exact state of the case. She had heard of Sir Alfred’s mysterious disappearance, and when Norah told her what Prince D—— said about him and Lady Selina, she felt sure that the Prince was right.

“And you think you saw him land in the moonlight at Gaeta?—and the next day Lady Selina went off to that mad aunt of hers among the mountains? Depend upon it, she has heard something of him, and she is the most mischievously persevering person I ever met with. And you still care a little for Sir Alfred? I see you do. That fascinating Duke has not—darling, don’t look so miserable and angry. I am sure it would be very natural. Sir Alfred behaved so shamefully. Ah, that is little Hetty, is it?” she said, as the child ran bounding down the terrace towards them. “Now, then, I will go in and see the others—you are all here together—well, there is plenty of room—I suppose the Duke has a suite of rooms to himself?”

“Yes, my father acceded to his earnest wish that he should remain with us till he had quite recovered; and the doctor was most anxious, too, that he should; but—”

“Ah, yes, there is a but,” added Lady Horatia, as they entered the house; “well, we shall see; your new mother improves, I suppose,” she whispered, as they crossed the entrance-hall.

Mrs. Chandos had never seen Lady Horatia, but from all she had heard before her marriage of the great lady, she had always dreaded meeting her, and, above all, being introduced to her. She was upstairs with the children when she heard Lady Horatia’s name announced, and she ran to the glass to see if her dress was properly arranged, and her hair in some degree of order, for her baby had been playing with it.

While her trembling fingers were trying to remedy the mischief, Norah came to the rescue, and not only put it to rights, but begged that she would bring down the baby, as Lady Horatia was dying to see it; “it is dressed quite nicely enough.”

This idea was a great relief to Mrs. Chandos, for she was never so happy, or thought so little about herself, as when people were admiring her baby.

Norah was fully aware of this, and also of her dread of Lady Horatia, so she tried, as they went downstairs, to convince her that she would really like Lady Horatia very much.

“Ah, but she will not like me,” said Mrs. Chandos, in a despondent tone.

“Yes, that she will; and she will, besides, be enchanted with that lovely baby.”

At first, after they entered the room, Mrs. Chandos could see nothing but her child, but she felt her hand was taken, not shaken, but held for a moment with a gentle pressure, which soothed her nerves; and then a voice, which said the single words, “I am very glad to see you at last,” sounded most cheeringly sincere.

Then she ventured to look up, and saw Lady Horatia’s beautiful face and speaking eyes turned towards her with an approving smile of welcome. The baby was taken from her arms, and Lady Horatia danced and admired and talked to it with a kind of homely heartiness which surprised and delighted the young mother, and made her forget that this was really the formidable great London lady, the bugbear of her imagination.

“How proud you must be of the darling child, Mr. Chandos!” she said, turning to the father. “I really think it will be the handsomest of all your children—not even excepting my beautiful Norah.”

THE gardens of the Villa Palmiero sloped down in terraces and orange groves to the water’s edge, and extended on one side some way along the coast. At one end there was a diminutive bay, surrounded by steep rocks, which shut out the garden from that of the next villa.

The Chandos family had not yet explored their beautiful walks, and Lady Horatia, who knew the place well, was the first to introduce them to the treasures of varied scenery they possessed in their own grounds. The Duke was wheeled down in a chair by Hetty and one of her little brothers; and Brownie, who had been sent for by her mother, joined the party and went bounding along before to show the way. The Duke was so enchanted with the view from the little bay and its shady recesses, that he declared that his sitting-room should be under the cliff, or in the cave near the rock, where a little stream ran down from the heights, and, forming a cascade at the entrance, gave the air a delicious freshness.

The children were so delighted at the idea that they insisted upon running up to the house immediately to bring down a table and chairs, and the Duke’s and Norah’s favourite books; and Hetty said she should bring hers, and the Duke must give her his daily lesson in Spanish there.

Norah had known that language a little before, and during these last weeks she learnt a great deal more; for she saw that it interested the sufferer to make the beautiful old literature of his country known to her, and to draw forth her admiration for the best passages in Lope de Vega, Calderon, and other authors.

“I suppose,” said Lady Horatia, who was amused at the enthusiasm of the party, “I suppose you will pass most of your time down here; and remember, at sunset the view is perfectly enchanting, the colouring of Vesuvius and Naples, with those beautiful islands of Capri and Ischia; you will of course paint a lovely picture of it.”

This Norah soon attempted to do; and while she was making the sketch that afternoon, the Duke read aloud for her some poems of Lope de Vega. The children had brought down her drawing materials, and she thought they were playing about among the orange trees near. But it so happened that they had all gone up to the house, and Norah was so absorbed in her sketch, and in listening to the beautiful poems, that she did not miss them.

There was a word in the poem she did not quite understand, and looking away from her drawing, she leant over the book he held to see the passage. At that moment she heard the sound of oars: a boat became visible as it entered the little bay, close to the spot where they were sitting. There was only one person in it, and when he saw the Duke and Norah he suddenly stood up, and she recognised Sir Alfred Rivers.

There was a mixture of surprise and contempt, anger and indifference, on his face as he raised his hat with a ceremonious bow; and without saying anything he resumed his oars, and rowed quickly out of sight.

“Alfred! dear Alfred!” said Norah, as she ran to the other side of the bay to see if his boat could be discerned from thence. “Oh! why would he not stop?” she thought, with a vague feeling of disappointment and dread. “Then he really wishes to shun me,” was the after, and most painful conviction.

The Duke had watched her with great anxiety, for though he was acquainted with Sir Alfred, he had never heard his name coupled with hers; and as he saw the look of dejection she vainly endeavoured to conceal as she walked back, a painful suspicion was awakened in his mind, for to his own great surprise he had made the discovery, soon after the adventure with the banditti, that he loved her.

Yes, he loved her with a purer and much more sober, true affection than the wild passion which had been awakened for his brother’s betrothed. And now, in this moment of bitter disappointment, he could not resist the impulse to declare his love, while at the same time he acknowledged to himself his conviction that it was hopeless.

Norah was horror-struck at his words, and endeavoured to convince him that he was deceiving himself, and that he was only grateful to her for the little attention shown to him; and then thought it better to tell him the whole history of her intimacy with Sir Alfred, and ended by declaring that, though it was probable they should never marry, yet she could never care for anyone else.

This he fully believed when he called to mind the expression of her face as she said the word Alfred, and the look of despairing disappointment as he went away so suddenly.

When she had endeavoured to explain to him her whole history, not omitting his meeting with and his engagement to me, she mechanically took down her easel and put up her paints, for she felt that it had been very wrong to be alone with him there.

At that moment it was a great relief to see Lady Horatia and little Brownie coming down the terrace walks. As she approached near, Lady Horatia saw that there had been some exciting scene; and when Norah told her that Sir Alfred had been rowing in close to the shore, she understood it all at once.

“And you have told the Duke all?” she inquired. “I thought so—I thought you would—quite right. Now, then, take Brownie up to the house, and I will have a little talk with the Duke, for I must say he looks very unhappy, and it is sad to suffer in mind before he has entirely recovered from his wounds.”

Lady Horatia had then a long conversation with the Duke, and it resulted in a determination which she announced that evening to Norah, with whom she had a private interview in her own room.

THE great lady began, saying,

“Now, my dear, you know that to a worldly woman like me you must appear to be a great fool. You wish—I know you do—to throw away—you have, in fact, refused the greatest match in all Europe that a subject could make: an immense fortune and princely race, the crême de la crême represented by the handsomest of men;—and all this because you are so foolishly constant to a man who engaged himself to another person, and threw you over! Stop! don’t interrupt me. You will try to excuse Sir Alfred by saying that it was an exceptional case—that you yourself were so captivated by that wicked, yes, wicked girl, that you can quite excuse the fascination she exercised over him. Yes, for you told the Duke as much. But, mind, I am not going to scold; I only want you to see yourself plainly, and then I will endeavour to help. To me it is certain that Lady Selina found him somewhere, and has been regaling his ears with an account of all you have done for the wounded Duke; how you obtained such a wonderful influence over him as to make him send for a confessor—how you sat up by his bedside, attending upon him afterwards. Hearing all this, and probably a great deal more, he was fully prepared to believe that you really are engaged to the Duke; and now having seen you together in the little lonely bay, he is, of course, quite convinced. Don’t look so miserable, it may—it shall be remedied!”

“Not so easily, I am afraid,” said Norah; “and then how foolish I have been! But it never occurred to me that the Duke would forget the beautiful Bianca—so very sad, so very foolish!”

“Never mind that, it always does a man good to fall in love with a worthy object, whether he attain it or not. And now I’ll tell you what I am going to do for you—in spite of my worldliness. I shall go off to-morrow morning on the road to that mad Miss Pockingden’s, though I am dreadfully afraid of the banditti. The old woman has always liked me—which is not complimentary, for she hates good people; and I shall find out what Lady Selina has been doing—whether she is still remaining with her aunt or not—and I shall try to get hold of Sir Alfred, and enlighten his mind.”

“Oh, but don’t——”

“Don’t tell him you still care for him is what you were going to say; perhaps not, but I shall say what I think best when the time comes—that is, if he has not entirely disappeared again. But now, you must take good care of Brownie; you must have her to sleep with you here while I am gone, and if——”

“You shall not run this risk,” said Norah—“I will not consent; besides, nothing could be done, for it seems to me very unlikely that Sir Alfred would return to that place in the mountains, if there is any truth in Prince C——’s idea that he left Rome in that mysterious manner to get away from Lady Selina. Besides, even if I knew he was really likely to be there, nothing would induce me to consent to your journey—alone, too!”

Lady Horatia was very determined, and, having once made up her mind, she had persuaded herself that the expedition would really be very pleasant. But Norah had a still stronger will, and would not hear of it; and she endeavoured to prove to Lady Horatia, and to herself, that Sir Alfred must learn some day that she was not engaged to the Duke, and, in the meantime, she must be patient.

“Yes, and your short life has been a long, long exercise of patience in every way,” said Lady Horatia. “But I feel in some degree responsible for the trial and disappointment caused by that provoking Constance.”

“You thought her more wicked than she was, I know,” said Norah; “but I have learnt, in my ‘life of patience,’ as you call it, that it answers better, even in a worldly point of view, to give people credit for good qualities, rather than bad. You mean that you are responsible, because you did not tell Constance that first evening, when Sir Alfred was fascinated by her—that you did not at once tell her about me. You thought there was so much bad in her that the knowledge of it would make her more anxious to secure his affection.”

“How do you know that?”

“Only because I thought it must have been the case, and because poor Constance was so completely untrained and impulsive, that she was likely to mislead your judgment.”

“In other words, you supposed that an old experienced woman of the world like myself knew less of human nature than a young girl like you, who have seen scarcely anything of the world. It is true, nevertheless; and the reason is that you draw your precepts from a much higher source—you act really on the precepts of Scripture, and gather your philosophy and knowledge of mankind from the highest source. Oh! how I wish you would help me to train Brownie in the same way!”

“Brownie is very good, and she will take a great deal of trouble with herself; but you must not go away and leave her on such a wild-goose chase among banditti.”

Norah continued to persuade Lady Horatia, by every possible argument, to give up the plan; and at last she consented to do so, chiefly because another plan had suggested itself to her lively imagination, of which she said nothing at present.

NORAH often wrote to us during the Winter, and contrived to keep us pretty much au courant of all that happened to her; and these letters, and the more detailed account I afterwards received from her and others, enabled me to relate what occurred in the last few chapters. But after the letter which described the scene in the Bay of Sorrento, and Sir Alfred’s sudden appearance, no letters arrived, and we heard nothing from her or any of the family for more than three weeks.

We were beginning to be alarmed at her silence, when the Duchess of Dromoland happened to drive over to spend the day. She had received a letter from Lady Horatia Somerton the preceding evening, telling her that Norah was very ill.

The strange meeting with Sir Alfred in the Bay of Sorrento, and the subsequent scene with the poor Duke de Luna, seemed to have brought on a kind of nervous fever, which alarmed her father and all those who loved the dear girl.

The Duke was still suffering extremely—in fact, the disappointment of his hopes retarded his recovery, but he had left Sorrento the very day afterwards. He went first to Naples, and passed most of his mornings in the Villa Reale Gardens, or driving on the promenades, or the most frequented roads in the neighbourhood.

His health and spirits would not allow him to go into society, but he saw many old friends and acquaintances; and he informed several of the most intimate, who lamented to witness his sufferings, that his low spirits were caused by the refusal of Miss Chandos. They had all heard of his romantic attack on the banditti, and of his intimacy with the Chandos family in consequence; and great was the wonderment when the result of his proposal was made known. After remaining about a fortnight at Naples, he started for Pæstum, and made a détour to visit Salvator Rosa’s country, and pass a few days with Miss Pockingden at her castle in the mountains.

He had known her at Naples two years before, and though no contrast could be greater than that of an ugly rough old Englishwoman and the handsome and refined-looking Spanish grandee, they had become great friends, and he had been much amused at her energetic attempts to make a rebel and a red republican of him.

Lady Horatia went on to say that she had some hope that the Duke would be able to ascertain what had become of Sir Alfred—in fact, he was resolved to do so; and as soon as he had recovered sufficiently to be able to mount his horse, he would search among the mountains, or follow him to any foreign country, if they could ascertain that he had left Italy. The Duke declared to Lady Horatia that he should never rest till he had seen Sir Alfred, and given an exact account of all that occurred since he first met Miss Chandos.

“I have given him authority to say more,” wrote Lady Horatia; “but do not let this come round to Norah’s ears, or she will be furious with me. Poor child! it is very sad to see her suffer so resignedly; but she always appears so cheerful when her father or sisters are by, that I believe no one but myself and little Brownie have any idea how much she suffers. I am going to write to Constance in a few days, for I saw that Norah is not in a fit state to write, and I have persuaded her not to try. So you may as well drive over to Castle Hall, and tell them some of the contents of this letter.”

She then expressed a wish to hear from the Duchess some news of us, and whether anything had been heard of Carlo since he left England.

I HAD received several letters from Carlo, and they were very pleasant and satisfactory, except that, as yet, he had not succeeded in finding any clue to the whereabouts of the poor woman who was said to be the widow of my uncle. But he fancied, from several reports which reached his ears, that she had not died.

“So there will be another lost bride to be found, I suppose,” said Aunt Jane. “Well, you will both be very happy without your inheritance, if she should turn up, and prove at last to have been really a bride—very happy, if you can succeed in acquiring a real firm faith in Revelation.”

I was reading various books at that time, by Aunt Jane’s advice, and those I found most useful in helping me to acquire true faith were Butler’s “Analogy,” and, later, Dr. Newman’s “Grammar of Assent,”[B] and his early sermons, and Montalembert’s “Monks of the West;” and for evidences of the immortality of the soul, I found Plato and Paul Richter’s work very conclusive.

But at times I still was much perplexed; and when suffering from those paroxysms of unbelief, I felt as if I were doomed to listen incessantly to the chord of the seventh, with an agonized longing to resolve it into the key-note, and attain the contentment of perfected harmony. And this everlasting seventh was always mingled with the sound of more or less fearful discords. Yet I could sometimes feel quite comforted even when suffering the bitter pangs of remorse, because they convinced me that, if I were not a responsible being, and destined for eternity, I should not suffer from such pangs. And then what a comfort to think that, Revelation being true, we must inherit the blessings promised to the meek and poor in spirit; for we cannot be crushed by remorse without feeling meek, and humble, and poor, and worthless.

“It seems to me that I fearfully love the world and the things of the world,” I once told Aunt Jane. “I am such an animal in my love for what we call nature, even in its commonest and most homely aspects—hedges, trees, fields, the sky, the birds, the air, and stars and moon by night, as well as glorious sunrise or evening coloured clouds. I sometimes feel that my beau-ideal of future bliss would be to be transformed into a kind of permanent butterfly or bird, if I could acquire the faculty of ministering to the wants of suffering mortals, and bringing comfort and pleasant thoughts to them. To alleviate their sufferings, and yet have the power to hover amid wild flowers on sunny banks part of the day, with the spirits of dear friends who are gone before—a sort of spiritual Sister of Mercy, without being encumbered by a body liable to pain or fatigue. How very human and grovelling this must appear to those who are by grace imbued with such devotional spirits as to make perpetual adoration of God, of an Unseen Being, the chief pleasure and object of their lives. And yet people who are usually called worldly—those, I mean, who are principally occupied in the advancement of their worldly position—are still less comprehensible to me than the devotional ones are.”

“I can imagine this,” said Aunt Jane. “I cannot understand having any forgetfulness of the future after death. From earliest childhood I have been accustomed to die daily—to face the hereafter—to be almost solely occupied with speculations, or wonderment, or hopes about it. The short space of this life has always seemed to me as nothing—the end was always present. All my readings had this object—to be satisfied by ‘some sure and certain hope.’ But I suppose this strong innate spirit of enjoyment in the common and apparently most innocent pleasures of life—a pleasure which I sedulously taught myself to cultivate as a refuge from bodily pain and malaise, to which I have always been subject, has perhaps prevented that kind of high devotional feeling which some persons seem absorbed with, and find their greatest delight in. My mind lives always in a prayerful form of thanksgiving—fervent thankfulness to the Unseen Being—thankful because I felt so conscious of sin—of never being able to act up to the high standard of duty which I felt was right—a keen suffering from remorse, and consciousness that I required to suffer in order to fit me for a purer, higher state, and a great satisfaction in all the Scriptures.

“The comfort of them, when I could fully believe that they were authentic, was immense; and even in moments of doubt, when I could not believe that they are of divine (not human) origin, the precepts they inculcate gave me great pleasure. To look at and feel anything good gives me the same kind of real enjoyment that it seemed to give Plato and other cultivated ancient writers, because it gives us hope of eventual and eternal happiness.”

“Yes,” said I, “but, alas! with me I confess it must always be a hope, for, if I look closely upon the Cross, and contemplate the sufferings of our Blessed Saviour, His sufferings acquire a kind of permanent, ever-existing, present reality, which pains me fearfully. I cannot contemplate them as past. To me it is as if He went on suffering there still, to atone for all the present wickedness of human beings. I am pervaded always with the conviction of the present sinful state of human beings, and the corruption of human nature. Is this stupidity, or what, that seems to incapacitate me from being able to comprehend the present enjoyment some people feel from the constant adoration of the Cross, and painful parts of our religion?—and is it that they can always feel that it is past, although they keep looking at the figure of our Lord in agony? Is it that their bodies are so much healthier than mine that they can afford better to contemplate all suffering, without being wholly depressed and crushed by it?”

“I cannot tell how that is,” she said: “but I fancy that those devout minds have a corresponding perception of our Lord’s glory, and of His joy in saving sinners; and therefore these three perceptions blend harmoniously, like the dark and light colours of the rainbow, forming a perfect whole—the purple hue of his suffering, the crimson fervour of His Divine love, the golden radiance of His eternal joy! Remember what Jean Paul Richter somewhere says—‘Weak eyes cannot bear darkness any better than they can extreme of light.’ But,” she added, “I can quite understand the doubts from which you have often been suffering, and which are beautifully described in a poem of Roden Noel’s, ‘To whom shall we go?’ You have no idea of the trouble and difficulty my sister always found in believing in Revelation, and how all visible churches, which are often expressions of exaggerated texts of Scripture, have tended to increase her difficulties. And yet these very Churches, with all their apparent differences, to my mind tend to prove the truth of those Scriptures from which they all derive their faith. But, surely you have attained belief in our immortality—that this suffering world, or, rather, our suffering in it, will help us to everlasting joy? Because we become more and more formed for eternal joy the longer we live, if we have duly cultivated a taste for what is good. I feel now that my decaying body, in spite of increasing sufferings, contains a mind more fitted to enjoy happiness than it did when young and healthy. This alone ought to convince me that I am tending towards that happiness, and that it can only be perfected after I have got rid of this suffering body by death. If you do not yet feel this, I am sure you will in time. The miserable moments when I could not feel this hope were perfect agony, and I cannot think that such a mind as yours could be satisfied without hope. It would make me very sad if I thought you could.”

These and other words of dear Aunt Jane lingered in my memory for years after they were spoken, and in moments of despondency and grief her bright clear eyes and hopeful words seemed again more vivid than even when her bodily presence was with me on earth.

I doubt not that her prayers have helped me to attain that peace which, thank God, I now enjoy; and I trust that all the suffering and the weary, who read these pages, may be aided, by some poor words of mine, as I was by her words and example, to seek for happiness and rest in the same unfailing source of light, and hope, and joy.

A DANGEROUS illness interrupted my writing in the last chapter, and various circumstances prevented me from continuing it. Latterly I had become so absorbed in the startling present that I seemed to forget the past. The sad war, and the still sadder outbreak of materialism and threatened destruction of all the better portion of the human race: the war of evil against good—the endeavour to root out all veneration for anything superior to self—self in its worst form, and this endeavour fostered and encouraged by men of intellect! To see how few people have been really impressed by the horrors of Paris burning and the innocent massacred—how few have taken to heart the rebellion against God, and all good and holy things! All this has upset my old mind, and perplexed my heart with horror and dismay.

But now I feel that my years or days must soon end, and I will shortly relate the events which followed those described in the last chapter.

At last a letter arrived from Carlo, dated C——. He had hoped to find there some traces of the woman’s family who was said to have married my uncle, but all he could ascertain was that they had left the place two years before, and were supposed to be gone to New York. He, however, had made two discoveries about the family, and learnt the name of a married sister, which he hoped might be of use.

He also found out that a poor woman who came from the village of Castle Hall had lived in the same house, and left it with the married sister.

Carlo was much disappointed at not having heard from the man who called himself Joe Naylor, for that strange individual promised either to go himself, or send a letter to some people who would help Carlo to discover the truth. He much feared that the man who called himself Sir H. Vivian had tampered with Joe, either by purchasing his aid or silence with some large bribe. He intended now to go in search of this sister, who had married a shoemaker called Stephen Adams, and had gone, it was reported, to live at——. There was a postscript to the letter written three days later, which contained some important news.

Carlo had taken the wise precaution to have a good copy made of my uncle’s portrait, which Mr. Mordaunt fortunately possessed, and was, everyone said, an excellent likeness of the handsome man. Carlo had also gone to Langdale Priory before he left England, or rather to the little inn at the village near, on purpose to try to get a sight of the usurper and my worthy guardian, Mr. H. Mordaunt. He wandered about among the beautiful woods in the park for two days, sketching some of the old oaks; and he contrived, unseen by the owner and Mr. Mordaunt, to take very good likenesses of them as they passed along the road not far off. Carlo had a great turn for drawing likenesses and caricatures, and when he showed his drawing afterwards to Mr. Mordaunt, he pronounced the likeness to be perfect.

On reaching C——, his first visit had been to the place where Sir Charles’s marriage was said to have been celebrated; but the clergyman who lived there in the year 18—was dead, and a fire had destroyed that part of the church where the registers were kept. On further inquiries he heard that the registers were supposed to have been saved, and that this old clergyman’s son might possibly know what had become of them. This gentleman, Mr. Hayworth, lived about two days’ journey from the place, so he resolved to go there before he undertook the longer expedition. The postscript was written from Mr. Hayworth’s house. He knew nothing of the registers of——, but on hearing Sir Henry Vivian’s name, he said that he remembered his marriage, for it occurred on his return home from school, and on passing by the church on his way home, he saw a wedding was going on, and heard that an English baronet was being married to a beautiful Canadian girl. Carlo then asked if he remembered the gentleman’s face, and said he did perfectly, for it was a very remarkable one. He described the features as “handsome; but the expression was anything but pleasant; and his black eyes had a most sinister look.”

This description did not at all resemble the portrait, for my uncle had light hair and blue eyes, and the expression of his well-formed features was peculiarly kind and loveable.

Carlo then showed him the likeness of Sir Henry, and Mr. Hayworth said most decidedly that was not the man he saw.

“But that is very like him,” he added, as he caught sight of the sketches Carlo had done of Mr. H. Mordaunt and the impostor. “These are both like Sir Henry,” he added, as he looked at the likeness with a puzzled air. “The old one is most like; but then it is only twenty-five years ago, and he must then have been about the age of the younger of these two. They must be father and son,” he added, “I should think.”

Carlo explained to him that they were only distantly related; and as Mr. Hayworth seemed a very intelligent man, with a good, honest-looking face, Carlo told him the whole story. He seemed to take a deep interest in it, and he promised to have a search instituted for the missing registers, which he thought might possibly have been rescued; but as the fire did not occur during his father’s life, and his family had left the place long before, he knew nothing about them at that moment.

It would fill volumes if I were to relate the various adventures which befel Carlo in his further search for evidence against the impostor who had obtained possession of my property. The remainder, too, of Norah’s history, the Duc de Luna’s energetic efforts to discover what had become of Sir Alfred Rivers, and his eventual success, would fill a good-sized volume.

With regard to myself, suffice it to say that Carlo succeeded in proving beyond all doubt that the man passed off by Mr. Henry Mordaunt as the rightful heir to my uncle’s property was in reality his own illegitimate son, and no sooner were they both confronted with the fact than they fled from England, and never troubled us again.

Our Mr. Mordaunt was, I need hardly say, very vociferous in his commendations of Carlo’s cleverness in having unravelled the mystery, and damaged, I understand, several articles of furniture by the energetic thumps he gave them in describing the particulars to various friends and acquaintances.

A year and a half after Cunigunda’s death, Aunt Jane and I attended the joyful wedding of Dorina and Count Rossi. The old chapel, which had been turned into a banqueting-room at Castle Hall, was restored to its original use, and there the marriage was celebrated.

Three years later, there were two marriages in the parish on the same day, and a splended fête was given to the neighbours, poor and rich, by Dorina. Norah was married to Sir Alfred Rivers, in the old village church at ten o’clock, and I acted as one of her bridesmaids in the dress of a bride. We all then proceeded to Castle Hall, where I was united to Carlo in the restored chapel, according to the form of faith in which he had been brought up. Of course we spent our honeymoon at my father’s house, Langdale Priory, where we have passed the chief part of our happy lives.

THE END.

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LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.