*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78577 ***




                            THE LOST BRIDE.

                               VOL. III.




                            THE LOST BRIDE.

                                   BY

                       GEORGIANA LADY CHATTERTON.

                           IN THREE VOLUMES.

                               VOL. III.

                                LONDON:
                    HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
                     13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
                                 1872.

                _The right of Translation is reserved._


                                LONDON:
           PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE,
                    BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET.




                            THE LOST BRIDE.




CHAPTER I.

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.


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.




CHAPTER II.

MY INTERVIEW WITH CARLO.


“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.”




CHAPTER III.

AUNT JANE’S SAGE ADVICE.


“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.




CHAPTER IV.

THE RENEWED ENGAGEMENTS.


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.




CHAPTER V.

I BEGIN TO THINK.


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:

    Ye powers of good
    And powers of ill
    O’erthrow the Rood--
    Deny free-will,
    Say ’tis not odd
    There is no God!
    Evangelist,
    We will resist
    Such foolish stuff
    Writ by a muff.
    Now, pray remark,
    There was no ark,
    And Luke and Mark
    Were in the dark:
    We know more now,
    We well know how
    All men must end
    And never mend:
    All men must die:
    ’Tis all my eye,
    To live again.
    Yet full of pain
    Is this our life
    And full of strife:
    And so say I
    To Hope good-bye,
    For in the main
    This life’s no gain:
    A painful trance
    As thinks young France,
    And boldly saith
    Long life to Death!
    Long life to us
    Who make this fuss,
    And rid mankind
    Of all that’s kind.
    The world will say
    To its last day,
    We made an end
    Of power to mend,
    We said that might
    Through wrong was right;
    That bad was good--
    If understood
    That good was bad,
    If wish you had
    To please yourself
    And seize on pelf.
    Your neighbour’s nought,
    For think you ought
    On number one
    And have some fun,
    If fun can be
    When we can see
    No hope to save
    Beyond the grave.
    This life we love,
    No power above
    No Being bright
    To give us light,
    No spirit near
    To soothe and cheer,
    In Death’s dark hour
    No healing power
    To calm our woes
    In life’s last throes:
    Or help to send,
    For we must end!
    We must not hope
    But only mope,
    For Life is Death
    At our last breath.
    No power to save
    Though we may rave,
    And beg and pray,
    For we must lay
    In the cold tomb,
    Endure the Doom,
    The enlightened age,
    The learned sage,
    The matter-God,
    Decree we’re sod.
    And so to Hope
    Good-bye: we ope
    The grave, and stay
    There, wise men say,
    Decay and rot
    Both sage and sot,
    We live no more
    We rot at core,
    And thus will cry
    Until we die,
    On, Sceptics, on!
    There’s no St. John.




CHAPTER VI.

AND THEN TO DOUBT.


“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.”




CHAPTER VII.

CAN I ATTAIN HOPE AT LAST?


“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.”




CHAPTER VIII.

WILL NORAH AND ALFRED MEET?


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.




CHAPTER IX.

THE DUCHESS OF DROMOLAND.


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.”




CHAPTER X.

THE MYSTERIES OF FASHION, AND YOUNG LADIES WHO HAVE NOTHING TO DO.


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.”




CHAPTER XI.

A JOHN BULL FAMILY ABROAD FOR THE FIRST TIME.


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.




CHAPTER XII.

SIR ALFRED’S NAME IS SEEN IN THE STRANGER’S BOOK AT SAN REMO.


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.




CHAPTER XIII.

CONSOLING EFFECT OF FINE SCENERY.


“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.




CHAPTER XIV.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ROME.


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.”




CHAPTER XV.

THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER WISHES TO ENTER INTO HIGH SOCIETY.


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.”




CHAPTER XVI.

A BALL AT THE D---- PALACE.


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.




CHAPTER XVII.

PLEASANT RECEPTIONS AT THE C---- PALACE.


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!




CHAPTER XVIII.

AN IMPERTINENT QUESTION.


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.”




CHAPTER XIX.

THEY MEET WITH BANDITTI.


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.




CHAPTER XX.

STRANGE STORY OF SILVA, DUKE DE LUNA.


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.




CHAPTER XXI.

NORAH ENDEAVOURS TO SHOW THAT IT IS NOT TOO LATE TO REPENT.


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.




CHAPTER XXII.

A RAY OF MOONLIGHT ON THE BAY OF GAETA.


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.




CHAPTER XXIII.

CATTARINA DOES MISCHIEF.


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.




CHAPTER XXIV.

LADY SELINA VISITS HER ECCENTRIC AUNT IN SALVATOR ROSA’S COUNTRY.


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!--

    “Salute, o Satana! O rebellione!
     O forza vindice della ragione!
     Sacri a te salgano gli inni e i voti;
     Hai vinto il Jeovah dei sacerdoti.”

    “Oh! Satan, hail! all hail, great rebel!
     Thou who of reason art the avenging force!
     Sacred to thee let votive hymns arise,
     For thou the priest’s Jehovah hast o’ercome.”

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.




CHAPTER XXV.

PLEASANT MEETINGS AT SORRENTO.


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.”




CHAPTER XXVI.

A STRANGE FATALITY.


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.




CHAPTER XXVII.

CAN THE MISFORTUNE BE REMEDIED?


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.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

NORAH’S DANGEROUS ILLNESS.


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.




CHAPTER XXIX.

A RETURN TO MYSELF.


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.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHAPTER XXX.

AFTER TEN YEARS.


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.


LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.


FOOTNOTES:

[A] This scene really occurred; the child made use of these exact
words, which were related to me by my dear friend Lady Gifford.

[B] Where we meet with many such comforting passages as the following:--

(Page 108.) “Until we account for the knowledge which an infant has of
his mother, or his nurse, what reason have we to take exception at the
doctrine as strange and difficult, that in the dictate of conscience,
without previous experiences or analogical reasoning, he is able
gradually to perceive the voice, or the echoes of the voice, of a
Master, living, personal, and sovereign?”

(Page 195.) “Again, this intellectual anxiety, which is incompatible
with certitude, shows itself in our running back in our minds to the
arguments on which we came to believe, in not letting our conclusions
alone, in going over and strengthening the evidence, and, as it were,
getting it by heart, as if our highest assent were only an inference.
And such, too, is our unnecessarily declaring that we are certain,
as if to re-assure ourselves, and our appealing to others for their
suffrage in behalf of the truths of which we are so sure; which is like
our asking another whether we are weary or hungry, or have eaten and
drunk to our satisfaction.”

(Page 209.) “Introspection of our intellectual operations is not the
best means for preserving us from intellectual hesitations. To meddle
with the springs of thought and action is really to weaken them; and
as to that argumentation which is the preliminary to certitude, it may
indeed be unavoidable, but, as in the case of other serviceable allies,
it is not so easy to discard it, after it has done its work, as it was
in the first instance to obtain its assistance * * *

“Objections and difficulties tell upon the mind; it may lose its
elasticity, and be unable to throw them off. And thus, even as regards
things which it may be absurd to doubt, we may, in consequence of
some past suggestion of the possibility of error, or of some chance
association to their disadvantage, be teased from time to time, and
hampered by involuntary questionings, as if we were not certain when we
are.”


*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78577 ***