CHAPTER IV.

As soon as luncheon was over Helena went to dress, and Mrs. Elton and Mary returned to the drawing-room; the latter seated herself in the window, and gazed out abstractedly, until Mrs. Elton said, "What has bewitched Helena, that she should want to go to the Catacombs? They are not much in her line."

Mary answered as near to the truth as she could do without betraying confidence: "Not the least in the world; but if she likes the people who form the party, it does as well as anything else."

"Then it is for the people that she is going, and not for the Catacombs? I thought there must be some such motive. Mr. Caulfield will not be there, I hope. Helena flirts far too much with him. I do not know how far it has gone, but I have told her that there must be an end of it. I would never allow her to accept him! He is not rich enough to marry a girl of her position and fortune, yet she goes on encouraging him and preventing that most eligible Mr. Mainwaring from coming forward, although he evidently likes her."

"But, mamma, are Lena's feelings not to be taken into any account? Perhaps she does not like Mr. Mainwaring, and does like Mr. Caulfield."

"She should check that liking then, when I tell her that I disapprove of it."

"Surely, mamma, the liking may be a stronger one than can be checked so easily, merely because you do not think him rich enough; that is hardly a sufficient reason to induce us to give up one whom we love."

"Love, Mary? I am amazed at you! Have I not always impressed on your mind that a girl properly brought up should never allow herself to love any man until she is regularly engaged to him; and that, too, with the consent of her friends?"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mary; then, blushing at her own vehemence and rudeness, she added quietly, "I beg your pardon, mamma, for speaking so hastily. You know that I am not romantic, but one cannot love or be indifferent at word of command. At first you only laughed at Lena and Mr. Caulfield; now you tell her to give him up all at once, merely because he has not a very large rent-roll: if you can give her a _good_ reason, I am sure she will try to obey you!"

"I really can scarcely believe that it is you who are speaking, Mary--you who, as I thought, understood how completely a girl should have all her feelings under control"--Mary smiled bitterly--"and that the happiest marriages are those formed upon equality of position and fortune, accompanied by mutual respect and calm esteem! I should be very sorry indeed to advocate that a girl should marry a person whom she disliked; but she ought not to take unreasonable dislikes. If a man be good, gentlemanly, and in every way suited to her, is she to dislike and refuse to marry him because, forsooth, she has taken a passing fancy to some ineligible person? And _you_, Mary, defend this! What has come over you? I suppose that you, too, imagine yourself to be in love with some poor esquire, who, in reality, loves your fortune rather than any other thing?"

Mary looked her mother full in the face as she answered, with heightened colour, "I do not love any poor esquire, nor does any poor esquire love me. Lena is more fortunate, if she loves and is beloved: you need not fear for me, I shall never seek to obtain your consent to marry a poor man." She said this in an odd, determined tone, and then continued pleadingly, "But if Lena really cares for Mr. Caulfield, let her be happy in her own way, mamma. He is not rich, it is true, but he has quite enough for a gentleman's condition, and for happiness; and with her fortune there is no reason why she should marry for money."

"I can't say how much you amaze me, Mary; though you do possess a remnant of sense for _yourself_."

"Sense!" replied Mary immediately. "Yes, indeed; but----here is Mrs. Penton! I must call Lena."

"And pray, Mary, if Mr. Caulfield should be one of the party, do not let her be much with him."

Mary left the room without answering; but as she closed the door she murmured to herself, "No, I cannot be a kill-joy!" Then she called out, "Come, Lena, here is the carriage"--a loud ringing of the bell having announced that Mrs. Penton was waiting.

Lena came out of her room busily occupied in getting on a pair of the palest lavender kid gloves: the young lady had small hands, and liked to do them justice.

Mrs. Penton was alone. "Her husband," she said, "had so often seen those places that he did not care to go again;" so away they drove to the Catacomb of St. Calixtus, on the Appian Way.

In the Vigna Ammendola--at the entrance to the Catacomb--our friends loitered for some time waiting for the Cardinal, who, although it was somewhat past the appointed time, had not yet arrived. They found many there before them, but all were strangers except Mr. Caulfield and a Signor Lanzi, both of whom they met near the gate on entering.

Signor Lanzi--as his name denotes--was an Italian, but he had been in England, spoke English with a certain ease, and was particularly fond of showing it off. He was one of Mrs. Penton's most devoted admirers; and, through her, had become rather intimate with Mr. Caulfield and the Eltons.

It must not be supposed that there was anything reprehensible in Mrs. Penton's conduct because we speak of her having admirers. She was what is called a beauty, and was accustomed to be admired and followed. Her husband and herself were on the best of terms, and never seemed to pull in different directions; on the contrary, they appeared fond of one another in a calm sort of way, yet it could not be said that there was anything very ideal in their happiness. It is true, they were not quite a type of union in thought and feeling; perhaps neither of them was capable of such love; nevertheless, theirs was not a lot to be despised, and they were quite content with it, and with each other.

As soon as Mrs. Penton and the Elton girls appeared at the gate the two young men joined them, and they took a few turns up and down the walk leading to the Catacomb. Mary then proposed sitting on the wall near the gate, "as," she said, "they would have walking enough underground, and they had better not tire themselves beforehand;" and there they waited for the Cardinal's arrival.

In a few minutes the sound of carriages was heard; the gate was opened, and in came Cardinal Reisac, and with him three or four priests. Mrs. Penton at once went forward and spoke to his Eminence, being personally acquainted with him. During this interval the gate opened again, and at last Mary's watching was rewarded--Mr. Earnscliffe entered. Mary was nearest to the gate, so he could not avoid speaking to her, and even walking with her, as the Cardinal quickly moved on, and all followed him.

Mary felt that she must not lose this opportunity of saying something to excite Mr. Earnscliffe's curiosity about Flora; he would, she thought, naturally try to hear more, if he were not indifferent to her--and it would be a good test;--so, as they were lighting the tapers, she said, "I hope we shall not have any falls or spraining of ankles to-day. Do you remember Miss Adair's accident at Frascati?"

"Surely I should be the last to forget it, having induced you both to go upon the wet, slippery moss; but she is quite well now, I believe?"

"Quite well; and, report says, going to be married to that rich Mr. Lyne."

"Mr. Lyne!"

"Yes; you know him, don't you? He is very rich, very good, quite a saint, indeed; rather slow, they say; but then poor Flora has no fortune, so it would be an excellent thing for her. But we must not stand here talking about her, or we shall be left behind;" and Mary suddenly became most anxious to follow close to the Cardinal.

A flight of steps leads down from the vineyard into a sort of vestibule, in the walls of which are numerous graves, and in the spaces between rude inscriptions, supposed to have been made by pilgrims who came to visit the last resting-places of the saints and martyrs. The guide went first with a large torch, then the Cardinal, the ecclesiastics, and the lay visitors, each carrying a light. There were about fifteen in all; so they formed rather a long procession in the narrow galleries or passages, where two can hardly walk abreast--not two ladies, certainly, in those days of crinoline.

From the vestibule a long gallery leads to the Chapel of the Popes, and passes by one of the sepulchral chapels which occur at intervals in nearly all these passages. In many of the larger of the crypts or chapels there are altars upon which the Divine Sacrifice was offered during the persecutions of the first centuries, when armed force vainly strove to put down the religion of the Cross inaugurated on Calvary. Long afterwards, when that Cross had established its time-enduring reign in Rome's high places, these crypts were resorted to by the faithful for purposes of devotion, as hallowed places consecrated by the sanctity and martyrdom of those who lay entombed in them.

As soon as the whole party was assembled in the Chapel of the Popes, the Cardinal began to explain the different monuments, and pointed out the graves of the four popes of the third century buried there, according to the inscriptions in Greek characters which are still distinctly to be seen and read by those who understand them.

From the Chapel of the Popes they proceeded to that of St. Cecilia, and thence to the others of less note, the Cardinal explaining the different inscriptions and paintings on the walls of the galleries and chapels.

Perhaps none of these are more interesting than the curious paintings representing the celebration of Mass in those early days of Christianity. The priest turned towards the people with his hands stretched out in blessing; the vestments almost the same as those now used, and numberless details proving the identity of the past with the present. These striking evidences of the early Christian practices had often puzzled Mr. Earnscliffe before. "If such outward ceremonials then existed," he would ask himself, "how can they be a human invention?... Human things pass away; even the greatest dynasties of earth run their course and disappear to give place to new orders of things.... Was immortality to be found here only?"... He could not comprehend it, could not explain or reconcile it to his own mind; but, as he had often done before, he turned aside this train of thought by saying to himself, "It can make no difference how far Christianity in this or that form can be dated; even should it be shown that, as a religion, it was one with that of Moses and the Patriarchs,--a progressive Divine Revelation, first by oral Tradition, then by the written Law of Moses, and now, as they call it, by the Reign of Truth, the dogmas of an Infallible Church; Christianity itself is but one of many pretenders to the governance of mankind."

In the midst of these contending thoughts his mind turned to Flora Adair, and once more he asked himself, "Can she really believe in all this?" Then flashed upon him Mary Elton's words, "She is going to be married to that rich Mr. Lyne." Was it true? He himself had heard her call him "a good-natured bore." He determined to hear more about it, and with this intention he turned to look for Mary Elton, whom he had not seen since they had entered the Catacomb.

Helena, who had candidly acknowledged that she was not going to the Catacombs solely to see them, but to have her eyes gladdened by the sight of a bright, laughing, loving face, and her ears gladdened by the sound of a voice whose tones were music to her, took care to keep in the rear of the party, and condescendingly informed Mr. Caulfield that he might talk to her if he would do so quietly, so as not to attract attention. Sad to say, these irreverent young people only thought of how "jolly" those dark narrow places were, as they found them not at all inconvenient for their pleasant little love passages and whispered conversations. The numerous chapels were certainly rather annoying interruptions, as they were of course obliged to be silent there, and, apparently at least, to attend to the Cardinal's explanations. Yet an ordinary observer could have seen that their eyes were more occupied with each other than with the paintings and monuments so carefully pointed out to them.

As they got back into those "dear" galleries, after visiting one of the chapels, Mr. Caulfield succeeded in getting hold of one of the pretty little hands, about the gloving of which their possessor had been so particular. Perhaps she expected that some such notice might be taken of them; but, be that as it may, Mr. Caulfield had got the little hand prisoner, and pressed it tightly in his own as he said, "Lena,"--he had learned the pet name by which her sister generally called her, and appeared to have a particular affection for it,--"I can't bear this uncertainty any longer; you must let me speak to your dragoness!"

"Harry, you are very impertinent," and the little hand made a feint to get itself free, but it was only a feint. "You must not call mamma my dragoness; I will not allow it, sir; nor must you speak to her unless you want to be off; if you do, rush up early to-morrow morning and request an interview with Mrs. Elton; then formally demand the hand of Miss Helena, her daughter, and be as formally refused. You will be politely begged not to repeat your visit; in other words, you will be forbidden the house; and when you have ranted a little and finally bowed yourself out, your poor victim, Helena, will be sent for to be coldly lectured on her levity and her flirting propensities, and solemnly commanded by her obedience as a child never to see or speak to you again, save as the merest acquaintance. In fine, a distinct _fiat_ would be pronounced against Mr. Caulfield, who does not, perhaps, know how determined a person Mrs. Elton is; but her daughter does know it, and but too well. If you speak to mamma _we_ are done for, Harry."

That "_we_" and that "Harry" sounded very sweetly indeed in Mr. Caulfield's ears, yet he answered indignantly--

"But you don't mean to say that you would submit to all this, Helena?"... He could not afford to call her Lena now, it was not impressive enough. "You are mine by right of conquest, and what authority has your mother to keep you from me?"

"For shame, Harry! has a mother no voice in the disposal of her child? Not that I think a parent should refuse to allow a daughter to marry one whom she loves, unless she had good reason for so doing; nevertheless, I could scarcely marry in defiance of her express command. Harry, do not _brusquer les choses_, and force her to pronounce that command; have a little patience, and time may do a great deal. Mary has promised to use her influence to gain mamma's consent, and she will facilitate my seeing you as much as she can. Is she not a darling, Harry?"

"Yes," he replied, but in a much less enthusiastic tone; then he went on eagerly, "It's all very well for you, Lena, to talk about having patience, and the wonders that time may work; you have a pleasant home, and this darling Mary to pet you; but it is quite otherwise for poor me. There I am, all alone in an hotel, comfortless and miserable, and unable to get out of my head tantalizing visions of the happiness I might enjoy if I could only have my little cricket with me." And there was a very sensible pressure of the imprisoned hand.

"Oh, come now, Harry; it is too absurd to see you trying to do the romantic. You know very well that you go everywhere, and enjoy yourself thoroughly. Who would believe in your sitting at home conjuring up visions, and becoming miserable because you cannot realise them! There is nothing _grandiose_ about _us_, you know. Just imagine our attempting a _grande passion_, and declaring that out of each other's presence the world is but a desert to us! No, no, that is not at all in cricket's line, Harry. All the same----" and her eyes drooped, "I am sure that horrid hotel _is_ very dull and lonely."

Perhaps had there been a convenient turning in the passage to separate them for a moment from the rest of the party, that charming little speech might have been rewarded; but fate was not so propitious. The passage appeared interminably long and straight, so there could not be any warmer expression of gratitude than words could give.

After a few moments Helena said again--"Now, Harry, you are to be very good and quiet, and if you are so, I will give you a reward in the shape of an invitation to our ball on this day week; but perhaps that is too far off. A cricket who goes about chirping from hearth to hearth might, you know, forget."

"How wicked you are, Lena!"

"Wicked, am I? Then, master cricket, you shan't have an invitation from me, and if you wait till you get one from Mrs. Elton, you'll wait for ever."

"Then the cricket will appear without one."

"Will he indeed! To be handed out by the servants! But I am going to be serious now, and please to be rational for a few minutes and listen to me. The invitations are only to be sent out to-morrow; mamma was not well enough to permit us to send them before; indeed we were beginning to fear that the ball would not come off at all. It would be vain to expect that mamma would send you an invitation, but Mary shall ask you to-day, and when we return home she can say that she has done so, and mamma will not be able to help it then. How good I am to plan all this for you, considering that it is quite indifferent to me whether you are there or not. I hope you are fully sensible of my disinterested goodness towards you, Mr. Caulfield."

"If I had but the opportunity, would I not make you pay for all this, Lena!"

She looked up innocently at him, and asked in a most apparently unconscious tone, "How, Harry?"

What a temptation was that upturned smiling face! and, with a sigh for the _bonne bouche_ which he was obliged to relinquish, he said, "I declare, Lena, it is cruelty to torment a man so; but my time will come----"

She withdrew her hand hurriedly, exclaiming, "Here is a chapel; now we must be demure," and she followed the others with the air of a little Puritan, which tried Harry's gravity sadly.

A glance from Mary told Helena that she had flirted enough for that day, and, not being at all dissatisfied with the day's adventure, she determined to obey the glance; accordingly, as they were leaving the chapel, she glided past Harry, and whispered, "Good-bye, cricket; I am going to talk to Mary."

Poor Cricket looked rather woeful at this intelligence; but there was no help for it, so, making a vain attempt to seize her little hand again, he let her glide away from him.

We left Mr. Earnscliffe looking round for Mary Elton, in order to obtain some information about "that Lyne affair;" and, a moment later, Mary heard a voice beside her saying--

"Well, Miss Elton, are you deeply interested in the Catacombs?"

As she listened to those words, she felt as if a sharp knife were cutting away the hope she had begun to cherish, that he was indifferent to Flora Adair; for she felt certain that it was from the desire to hear more of what she had said about Flora and Mr. Lyne that he came to her. There could be no doubt, she thought, that the Catacombs would otherwise have been far more attractive to him than a conversation with her; nevertheless an answer must be given, and she said, "Not particularly so. I have scarcely read or thought enough about the Catacombs to be greatly interested in them. Indeed, it was to please my sister that I came to-day."

"Your sister! does she then take greater interest in these things than you do? I should hardly have supposed it."

His tone, even more than his words, made her laugh,--the idea of Helena's being interested in the Catacombs for their own sake, was certainly very amusing; so she replied--

"Well, no; Lena is not particularly devoted to antiquarian researches, but she thought it would be a pleasant party, and begged me so earnestly to accompany her that I did not like to refuse."

"Ah! I understand."

A silence ensued, while Mary thought, "Poor man! he does not know how to get at the subject which he is so longing to talk about; he thinks it beneath him to let any one see that he could feel curiosity about a young lady's proceedings, and I have a great mind to make him pay for his dignity, and not help him over the dilemma. This I could do, but that it would defeat my own purpose of crushing any incipient fancy which he may have taken to Flora. Yet how mean it is! Were I but sure that she is really going to marry Mr. Lyne, I should not feel so false as I do now. But what is the use of all this self-reproach? If I am to do it at all there must be no looking back; yet would it not be better to give it up altogether, and let things take their natural course? Yes, it would indeed be truer, nobler, better to do so; but----"

The silence continued, and she walked on like one in a dream; yet there was not much of dreaming in the hard struggle which was going on within her between her better nature and passion. The former had almost triumphed; she felt it was too base to try to rob another--one, too, whom she liked--of a man's love; for, with the quickness of jealousy, she _felt_ that he loved Flora, even unknown to himself. But, whilst good and evil thus hung in the balance, there occurred one of those chances which so often seem to decide a question. She was suddenly roused from her reverie by Mr. Earnscliffe's laying his hand upon her arm and saying--

"Miss Elton, do you not see the flight of steps before you? What a fall you might have had!"

She drew back with a start and looked at him--the good angel was vanquished. That touch upon her arm--that voice--that countenance, to which circumstances lent a momentary interest in her favour, were more than she could withstand. She murmured to herself, "No, I cannot give him up--I will die rather than see him another's." Then she calmly answered, "Thank you, Mr. Earnscliffe; had it not been for you I might indeed have had a bad fall, so _you_ have saved me."

Had he done so? Did it not rather appear to be the contrary? A moment before good was in the ascendant; had she not been thus saved from a fall good might have triumphed, but that saving seemed to give the palm to evil.

When they had descended those steps Mary said, "Now, Mr. Earnscliffe, I am going to ask a favour of you; and one which, I hope, you will not refuse to grant."

He had quite resumed his cold indifferent manner as he answered--

"Let me hear the request, for I can make no guess as to what I can possibly have it in my power to grant or refuse you."

"Undoubtedly it is in your power to grant it; whether you _will_ do so is another matter. We are to have some friends with us on Friday, this day week, and mamma would be so pleased if you will come also."

"Friday?--let me see----"

"Do not try to improvise an engagement, or say, 'Parties are not much in my way.' I know that it is so; but surely for once you might condescend to come; particularly as we are going away on the following Monday, so that--by us, at least--you could not be importuned any more. We shall have some good music, of which I know that you are fond." And now to throw out her bait without letting it appear that she thought it was one: "And--only I suppose you would not care about that--you would have an opportunity of seeing Flora Adair perfectly recovered from her sprain, for our evening is to wind up with a dance, and, as you heard at Frascati, she is a great dancer. Mr. Lyne will also be there, so we shall see how he plays the lover's part."

She had watched him narrowly while she spoke, and saw by the change of his countenance that the bait had taken, and so she was not deceived as to the motive of his accepting when he replied--

"Asked thus as a favour and a farewell, I cannot do otherwise than say in the recognised form, 'I shall be most happy to accept Mrs. Elton's kind invitation.'"

"Very well, then, it is agreed that you will come. Of course you will receive a formal invitation, but you need not answer it, as I shall tell mamma that you have already accepted. And now, Mr. Earnscliffe, as you are almost an _habitué_ of these underground regions, perhaps you can tell me if we have nearly _done_ them?"

"Well, I have not been paying much attention, but from the time we have been here"--looking at his watch--"I should say yes. I see we are coming to a chapel, probably that of St. Cornelius, which is generally the last."

It was the chapel of St. Cornelius, as he had said, and there it was that Helena received the glance from Mary, which she rightly understood to be an intimation that her flirting had better come to an end for that day. When they were once more in the passage, Helena succeeded in getting close to her sister and whispered, "You are an angel, Mary!"

"Don't be silly, Lena," answered Mary, almost roughly. Perhaps the being called an angel just then, when she knew how much the reverse of it she was, irritated her.

"But you are indeed an angel, and I know you will carry your angelic sisterly charity a little farther by asking Harry to our ball; then, when you tell mamma that you _have_ asked him, it will be too late for her to object. You will ask him, Mary, will you not?"

"Yes," was the curt reply; and she added, "And now do be quiet; surely you have talked enough to-day."

"Not nearly enough, you dear _dame Sagesse_. I am quite ready to begin again."

"Then I beg you will not do so; and be pleased, Lena, to give up that absurd habit of calling me such names as angel and _Sagesse_--you ought to know how inapplicable those terms are to me, and they annoy me."

Helena began a warm denial of this, but Mary interrupted her by saying, "That's enough, Lena; do cease talking--my head aches. Thank goodness, I see the daylight, so I suppose we shall soon get into the open air again!"

No wonder that her head ached and that she longed for rest, even for the rest of lying back silently in the carriage.

A few minutes more and they were in the vineyard, enjoying the warm rays of the sun, which still shone brightly in the clear blue sky.

Mrs. Penton, having kissed the Cardinal's ring, received his blessing, and thanked him for all his kindness, bade him farewell, and turning to her own party, said--

"Will either of you three gentlemen take the vacant seat in the carriage? We are going to take a turn on the Pincio." She looked at Mr. Earnscliffe, but he answered--

"Thank you, Mrs. Penton; I think I must have a walk in this clear fresh air, after the darkness and damp of the Catacombs."

"Then Signor Lanzi, may we hope that _he_ will escort us?"

"To escort la Signora Penton is alway de most high honour for me; but I did ride here, also la signora must have de goodness to allow me to accompany her on horse."

Mrs. Penton bowed, and smiled slightly as she said, "Well, Mr. Caulfield, I left you for the last as you are the youngest; what say you to coming with us?"

"That I shall be delighted to go with you, Mrs. Penton."

"With my company, rather, _non è vero_, Mr. Caulfield? And now let us start; it is late enough as it is."

Mr. Earnscliffe accompanied them to the carriage; and, as he took leave of Mary, she said, "Remember Friday night." He bowed, and, raising his hat, left them.

Mary immediately turned, and asked Mr. Caulfield and Signor Lanzi for the same night. They accepted; and Signor Lanzi having mounted his horse, the party proceeded to the Pincio, and thence to their respective homes.