A Heart-Song of To-day Part 45

"One of your countrymen writes me from your metropolis," taking a letter from his pocket; "I shall read you a line or two: 'Our city will soon be bright with the beauty of fair women, handsome men, superb robings, gay equipages, prancing steeds. Rumour hath it that one of our favourite belles is sunning herself in your land. Don't mar the beauty of our constellation by detaining her with you after the season opens for we must have _la belle_ Vernon.' Would that I had the power, was my thought as I read."

"Your friend exaggerates my poor charms, Signor."

"With so much of beauty to choose from, mademoiselle, London society is critical, and my friend only endorses its verdict."

"Well, Signor, London will have something of weightier matter to decide this coming season than the pa.s.sing beauty of woman. Our parliament have the vote on the war supply, and as Beaconsfield cannot go into the strife empty-handed on the issue of that vote hangs the destiny of many lives."

"Think you the Bright or peace party will be strong enough to prevail?"

"No; England's sons are ever jealous of their country's honour. There is a strong popular feeling against any encroachments by the Russian Bear. Our young officers are ever eager for a chance to distinguish themselves, and our men," she added gaily, "have fists all knuckles, always doubled for a good hard blow."

"Well, it seems to me an expensive undertaking that your bold countrymen meditate. Turkey is lazy and luxurious."

"Yes; not a fit sentinel for a dangerous post; still, what are we to do? We cannot uproot them and plant in their place the trusty Scot or brave Celt; no, we must even pay high wages to bad servants until wiser heads than ours in some future generation devise some better way of guarding our eastern possessions. But our pleasant chat is over, Signor, Lady Esmondet is making her adieux."

"And you leave so soon, Signora; I am jealous of London. May I see you again?"

"Surely, Signor; we go many places to take a last loving glance."

"Give me something definite, I pray you."

"Well, the palace of the Vatican on to-morrow morning. I must have another long look at the painting of the Transfiguration. In the afternoon a drive in the gardens of the Borghesian villa. In the evening the theatre and the exquisite voice of Patti. And now what say you, grave and reverend Signor; will you remember your lesson while I say _au revoir_," and with a gay smile and a warm pressure of the hand from Castenelli Miss Vernon, after saying her farewell to Lady Wyesdale and her daughter, followed her G.o.d-mother to the landau.

"You seem to have enjoyed your chat with Signor Castenelli," said Lady Esmondet, as they drove away; Miss Vernon to pick up Miss Marchmont for even-song at the Church of St. Augustine, Lady Esmondet for home.

"Yes, he is pleasant to me, as most of his countrymen are; there is a fervor about them, with all their languor, that is refres.h.i.+ng after our stoical Briton; I fear me you were not so well placed, the little d.u.c.h.ess seemed to fasten upon you."

"She did, and entertained me with an unceasing catechism as to Lionel's whereabouts, his deeds past and present; seems to fear his cousin, Judith Trevalyon; in fact, plainly shows her old predilection, is as aforetime, alive in her breast; is anxious to know how we became so intimate with him; whether he goes to Haughton Hall; whither the woman your uncle has married has invited her; says she does not leave Rome until the middle of January; wants to know if we shall be there for the Twelfth-night ball; wonders if Lionel will retire for a fas.h.i.+onable six weeks' mourning. Says there is a rumour that he is engaged to half a dozen women, and has a wife and children somewhere; is crazy (to use her own expression) to know if you are, as report says, engaged to Del Castello, etc., etc., and asked me point-blank, if I like dear Mrs. Haughton."

"What a whirl the brain of the slender waist d.u.c.h.ess must be in, and what a bore she was to you; so she also goes to Haughton. Fancy uncle on one side, and Major Delrose, the Rose Cottage people, Mrs.

Meltonbury, Peter Tedril, Hatherton, etc., on the other; Madame well knows how to mix up the brandy c.o.c.ktail and poker of midnight, with sober 9 o'clock whist and old port, but the scales are weightier on one side. But behold the naturalist, waiting at the door with prayer book in hand, ready for her devotions."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

WARM WORDS BRIDGE CRUEL DISTANCE.

Lady Esmondet, Vaura, and Robert Douglas ate their Christmas dinner quietly together. "I shall feel lonely when you leave Rome," said the priest, as he bade them a warm goodnight.

"Naturally, you will miss us; we are almost a part of your old home,"

said Lady Esmondet.

"I have no doubt, Roberto, that the Marchmonts will be very kind to you when we are gone," said Vaura, smilingly.

"Yes, she will be good to a lonely priest," he answered absently; then recovering himself, "but I should not say lonely; have I not the Church."

As a footman fastened the hall-door after the Rev. Robert, Vaura said:

"The Church will soon not be sufficient to fill up his life; at least the naturalist will make him feel so."

"How differently _cher_ Roland would range himself," said Lady Esmondet, thinking of his hopeless love for Vaura; "that girl with her bugs and beetles, her sandy locks and sharp elbows, would drive him distracted. I wonder what affinity Robert can have with such an one."

"Why doth he love her? 'Curious fool, be still; is human love the growth of human will?' saith the poet. So, G.o.d-mother dear, for aught we can say, they must e'en join the legion of impossible unions. But we are both weary, and had best to bed and sleep or dreams."

"Yes, 'tis late; good night, dear; we have both missed Lionel to-day."

"We have; he little dreams how much."

And as Vaura's robes were unfastened, and the deft fingers of her maid made her comfortable for the night, a tall figure and handsome face, tawny moustache, shading lips sweet yet firm in expression, tired eyes that were generally grave, but could flash or be tenderly loving, rose before her.

"'Twas only last night," she though, as she laid her soft cheek on the pillow, "he was with us, and I feel as though we had been parted for ages; and he suffers by all these rumours; and my dearest is in a tangled web of difficulty and I am not near to give him my sympathy, and poor dear uncle is not happy either; and it's a woman's work, but this making of moans is unnatural to me; I must make Time fly, and when I am once in England, my aim shall be to make those two men regain their old happiness; good-night, Lionel, I am weary to see your face again, to hear your words of love and feel your arms about me, for the sweet feeling that I belong to you seems only a dream; come back, come."

The following day the programme of which Vaura had spoken to Castenelli, was gone through. But as Vaura wished just now that the days would quickly join themselves to the great past, we shall not linger; but say, that on nearing the painting of the Transfiguration, a figure caught her eye, it was that of the young Italian Castenelli, who, with the dark rich colouring, clear cut features and soft brown eyes that Roman blood gives, looked as though he might have stepped from the canvas on the wall.

The painting in its glorious beauty held them in silent admiration for some time. Vaura drew a long breath as she turned away, saying:

"The man who painted the figure of the Christ in its G.o.d-like sanct.i.ty of expression, must have been inspired. What a volume of sermons it preaches!"

As the Italian had tickets of admission to the Tower of St. Peter's, Vaura decided to make the ascent. The double walls of the dome are pa.s.sed through as quickly as possible, as Vaura's time is short. But the view from the top! who can describe it? Not I; my pen falls lifeless; it would take a Moore to sing of; a Byron to immortalise; a Longfellow, a Whittier or a Tennyson to make an idyl of; it has sent artists wild; the eye rests lovingly on the hill-crests of the Sabine, Volscian and Albano on the one side, then turns to the city with its temples, its palaces, the historic past showing in their very stones.

Then the Coliseum and the Forum, each speaking their own story; then the eye turns to the winding Tiber; and finally rests on the deep calm waters of the violet Mediterranean in the far away.

"Ah, Signor Castenelli, it is too much for one day; 'tis no wonder the Italian is a poet. You dwell in a maze of beauty in nature and art.

Dame nature with you wears such a rich warm dress; 'tis little wonder your canvas, aye, and your own faces show such sun-warm tints."

"You should dwell with us, Signora; you feel the poetry of our land."

On parting from the Italian he tendered to Vaura for herself and Lady Esmondet his box at the theatre, as being more favourably situated than the only one Captain Trevalyon had been able to procure, and at Vaura's invitation he dined at the villa Iberia, escorting them afterwards to hear the wonderful voice of Patti.

On the morning of the 28th a telegram arrived from Lionel which read as follows:

"To Lady Esmondet.

"Villa Iberia, Rome, Italy.

"Sir Vincent Trevalyon died at 11 p.m. the 27th inst. Shall write to-day.

"LIONEL TREVALYON, "The Langham, London, England.

"28th December, 1877."

"Poor Sir Vincent gone. And so generations pa.s.s. When death bowls out one man another takes the bat; so now Captain is Sir Lionel Trevalyon," said Lady Esmondet, as she read the telegram.

"Yes. None shall triumph for a whole life long, for death is one and the Fates are three," said Vaura.

On the 30th came from Lionel two letters, extracts from which we shall give.