CHAPTER II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She whispered to Mina, "Byron says--

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

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

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

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

"Only o'er the surface" closed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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