CHAPTER XI.

DISENCHANTMENT.

"MISSY, dear missy, she not listen to poor ole Phœbe any more?" said the faithful old nurse, sighing over a fair girl who was looking coaxingly into her face, and stroking the iron-grey hair neatly under her turban.

"Well, you foolish old woman, it is of no use to listen to you. You are to listen to me, and hear that mamma is willing to spare you to go with me, and you are to be willing to go. Now, Phœbe, you consent? You wouldn't send me away alone to strangers and strange servants in a strange land, you know."

"Missy got Massa Count, house and fine tings, 'ligion and all," said Phœbe sorrowfully.

"But, according to your view of the value of my new possessions, there is the stronger reason for putting yourself into the bargain," said the young lady playfully; "besides, Phœbe, you know you changed your religion."

"Hadn't got none, missy; Phœbe heathen and know noting. Good missionary tell about de Lord Jesus, and Phœbe come to b'lieve in Him. Den Phœbe got 'ligion, and nebber, nebber lose it again."

"Well of course the Count believes in Him, and so do I, and so it is no change after all."

"But what him b'lieve? Only dat de Lord a little chile, allays in moder's arms, doing what him telled. But de Bible Lord Jesus a man; He say, 'All power in hebben and earth given to me,' not my moder. Oh how she be grieved when she hear what de popes does with her. Dey forget she say to servants, 'What He saith unto you, do it,' and dey don't do it. Oh He no more her babe, but glorified Lord in hebben, Son of de Father, Saviour for you."

"Well, now, Phœbe, suppose I win the Count, after letting him win me?"

"Ah, missy, 'spects massa Count don't care noting 'bout it; me tink him not b'lieve too much."

"What do you mean, Phœbe?"

"Only massa, him got too much sense to worship Moder, and saints, and bread and such, but him not got 'nough yet to lub and worship true God, and see how Jesus poor sinner's Saviour. Massa, him very proud and grand, him 'spise lies, him not know truth. Missy know a little truth, and gib it up for lies. Oh very, very sad! Break her own heart some day."

"I'll have you to comfort me then, Phœbe," cried the happy bride-elect.

And she carried her point.

The old black nurse, who in her youth had entered the family of Mr. Geoffry Falconer with his bride, the young widow of an English officer, and her only child, had remained faithful to their service, tended them in sickness and health, and had the chief charge of the elder Mr. Falconer in his last illness. She was privileged to say many things which would not have been permitted from any other person in her position in life, and the only child of the house, the step-daughter of its master, was as dear to her heart as if she had been her own.

To see this admired and courted girl the affiancée of one who, gifted though he was in personal attractions, rank, wealth, and high intellectual powers, was nevertheless a stranger in country and religion, gave poor Phœbe the deepest sorrow she had known in her life of service. In vain, she had opposed it by every argument and entreaty in her power: Mr. and Mrs. Falconer had no scruples on the subject, the spoiled child herself willed it, and in due time, the young Count di V— carried off his Anglo-Indian bride to adorn his home in the proudest of Italian cities.

Standing high in the too fickle regard of his countrymen, expected to uphold the dignities of the class to which by birth he belonged, and the authority of the Pontifical government around which ominous clouds were gathering, the Count became an honoured public servant, and to his house flocked men of all countries, and on all errands, great or small; the visitor for pleasure, the philosopher for inquiry, the adventurer for patronage, the talented for sympathy, the poor for aid; and among them came nameless poets, struggling artists, and even ambitious politicians with many a daring scheme for the elevation of a priest-ridden weary people, beginning to feel that life was intended for something better than running after processions of sacerdotal state, and submitting with superstitious slavery to a usurped authority which ruled complacently over ignorance, beggary, and sloth. Amongst such, the hospitable presence of the Count and Countess radiated light, pleasure, and hope. But not without some danger.

Anything British, even though adopting, so far as external observance went, the Romanism of the only tolerated faith, was watched with jealous eyes, and the young Countess was made to feel the bondage of a tyrannical yoke, at which her husband laughed, and whispered cheerfully that it might make the most of opportunity, for events were pending, and its days were numbered.

For centuries, the wish of Caligula seemed granted, that the Roman people had but one neck; and it lay in the lowest dust, with the Papal foot upon it. The body would never rise from its stupor, so long as that foot was there. How to get rid of it was a problem not easily solved, and men often met in secret and at night, to consider it.

One day, the Count requested with some evident uneasiness that accommodation might be prepared for a guest who would remain the night.

"I cannot avoid this, Lena," he said; "but I wish he had sought other quarters. If you could invite some stranger to divide attention at dinner, it would be well, but no one of our visiting circle, on any account."

"I can arrange it easily," replied the Countess, "so be not troubled. I will ask the young English artist, to whom you know some civility is due, and you can promise him access to those works of art which he desires to study."

"Excellent, my little prime minister," said the Count. "Your artist will know nothing, and pictures and painting will supply a fund of conversation."

"Who are we going to entertain, signor?" asked his wife, indifferently.

"Only one General Carlotté, who has been absent for some years, and is passing through Rome. He wished to renew acquaintance with me, and however inconvenient, I cannot refuse hospitality."

"Surely not; we will not make him a trouble, so clear your brow, dear husband mine, and we will devote ourselves to the arts forthwith. Here is the address of my—what shall I call this young Englishman? Cousin, or what? Why no relation after all, I believe. But I suppose my step-father must have owned him, so we must do the same."

"And, Lena, nothing of the General to anyone. It is nobody's business but his own."

"And we will make it very pleasant business while it lasts," said Lena, playfully. "I am curious to see some of your old friends, and mean to make him compliment you on your choice of a new one."

"I don't need any opinions upon that point, my own sweet wife," said the Count, as he tenderly bade her farewell. But a sudden thought knitted his brow ere he reached the street, and rankled painfully at his heart. "Oh, to be free, free from this hated system! Why not give up all, and live where no such shadow darkens domestic life? Yet it may pass away. Patience and hope!"

At dinner, the young Englishman satisfactorily filled his place, for the General was silent and reserved, and seemed to baffle the efforts of the hostess to entertain him. Once only, on some allusion to a despotic act on the part of the Pontiff, his eyes flashed fire, and his breast heaved with pent-up feeling; but the Count was instructing the artist concerning the valuable studies to which he should have access, and trusted it was unnoticed.

At the moment of parting, however, won by the frank and easy bearing of his young English guest, the Count said kindly,—

"Are you Catholic or Protestant?"

"Protestant, decidedly."

"Remain so," said the Count, emphatically. Thenceforth he was a frequent and welcome visitor, enjoying advantages in the classic capital which only the Count's rank and influence could secure to a foreigner; warned however to be chary of expressing opinions that might excite jealousy where political intrigues were rousing suspicion on the part of the government.

One evening, the Countess returned early and discomposed from an entertainment where her husband had promised to meet her, and he had not appeared.

She tossed off her jewels and sat down by her baby's cradle, watching Phœbe's busy fingers engaged on some work.

"Phœbe," she said, "do you know I feel as if there is something wrong: he never disappointed me before; he always sends a note or message if he is detained. What can it be?"

"Dear missy, hab patience. P'raps him call away sudden. No time to send note."

"Phœbe, I have been so happy with him. Do you remember saying when I was going to change my religion for his sake, that it would break my heart some day?"

"Yes; bery well 'member dat. It was de 'ligion, not massa, me tink ob. Why, missy 'member now?"

"I don't know, excepting that your prophecy has not come to pass yet; but, Phœbe, I don't like the religion, and the more I see of it, the more stupid it seems. That ridiculous bambino, and the box of old bones, to be worshipped and bowed down to! Do they think we are idiots to be moved by such trumpery?"

Phœbe raised her eyes to her mistress's face in sheer astonishment.

"You may be surprised, Phœbe, and I don't know what possesses me to talk so, but I feel cross and disagreeable, and I have been thinking of these things, for how can I bring up my child to believe in such folly?"

"Ah," thought Phœbe to herself, "heart-break beginning now. Poor dear missy!"

"I wonder they don't invent something more sensible than these everlasting shows and processions," continued the Countess.

"Ah, they got de sensible ting behind de back ob dem. Don't missy see? Keep de eyes and ears amuse with shows, dat not feel de grip on dere souls and conscience. De priest know what deys about well 'nough. Got fast hold ob secret thoughts, got all, make go any ways dey choose."

"You don't suppose I am such a slave as that, Phœbe, and I'm sure the Count is not."

"Maybe chain not show yet, missy. Hope she cast it off fore it cut in poor weak flesh. Massa him allays not b'lieve too much in dis 'ligion."

"I suppose you mean that he is not a good Catholic, but I don't care whether he is or not, so long as he is good and kind to me. I expect we can both get to heaven without the help of the priests."

"Bless de Lord, hear missy say dat; but dat not 'nough. Must hab de Great High Priest de Lord Jesus Christ; Him make de way all alone. Him take poor sinner's hand and say 'I will nebber leave thee nor forsake thee.'"

"Phœbe," cried the Countess, after a long silence, "I can't bear this any longer. Oh! Where is my husband?"

Phœbe did her loving best to comfort her young mistress, while a servant was despatched to inquire at the offices where the Count attended for public business; but no information could be obtained. He had been there in the day, but had left as usual.

"There might be secret business," the man suggested.

This was a glimmer of hope, and the anxious wife yielded at last to Phœbe's entreaty that she would try to sleep; but servants sat up, and the lights burned all the night.

Morning came, and the Countess was up, restlessly pacing the rooms.

"Phœbe," she said, "I want you to go to the Piazzi di— and find the young English artist; he may know if the Count had any intention of absence."

"Missy tell him name. Plenty English artists maybe 'bout ole city."

"Mr. Falconer,—Guy Falconer, I mean. Didn't I tell you that a young man was introduced to the Count lately by letter from England, and that he is nephew (I think) to my step-father?"

"No, ole Phœbe nebber hear dis. What him be to de ole man dat die?"

"Grandson, of course. He is poor, it seems, and wants to study painting. My husband likes him, and has shown him paintings that are seldom to be seen by strangers. Now, Phœbe, go and find him. I dare say he is up and at work, and certainly will help us if he can."

"Falconer,—Massa Guy," repeated the black nurse to herself. "Bery curous. Phœbe nebber hear dis afore, but bless de Lord she hear it now."

But it was not so very "curous," seeing that Phœbe's chief charge lay in the nursery, and that she never asked questions about visitors, nor interfered with the other servants.

Though she never entered any of the churches, and had as much respect for the Pope as for Juggernaut, she had much keen observation, and with her infant charge had traversed the city and found out many of its scenes of interest, so that without any great difficulty, she traced her way to the lodgings of the English artist.

The maître d'hôtel was surly and uncommunicative. Signor Anglais was gone, he could not tell where; it was hard to lose a lodger who paid punctually, and gave little trouble, but he knew nothing more.

Phœbe did not believe him; but, bowed out, and the door shut upon her, she could do no more in the way of cross-examination.

As she slowly retraced her steps along the silent street, a poor ragged looking boy followed her, and without looking into her face, said in low broken English as he passed,—

"You want kind Englis' gentleman? He teach Pierre, and let him clena palette."

"Whar he be, chile? What you know 'bout him?"

"He all safe, Madame Blackamoor. Pierre help him to escape, all safe," and he nodded with infinite self-complacency.

"Tell whar him be, you chile?" cried Phœbe, laying her firm hand on the boy's old coat-collar.

But he was too lithesome for her; quick as lightning, he twisted himself out of the coat, which was considerably too large, besides sundry dilapidation which helped the peeling process, and leaving it in her hand, ran off with a merry laugh.

Phœbe dropped the rag and began to run after him, but her dignity returned to her aid in time to prevent a ludicrous exhibition of her locomotive powers, and the certainty of ignominious defeat.

She shrewdly surmised that the coat, old as it was, and superfluous its dimensions, might nevertheless be valuable to its owner, and that the boy would presently be peeping round to recover it; so she stood by it for a few minutes, and was rewarded by the sight of him again.

Beckoning him forward, she showed a small coin, but he made no attempt to take it, and as he picked up his garment, said quietly,—

"Are you friend to Englishman?"

"Yes; I give you dis and more if you take me to him."

"I daren't now: come at dark, and bring him something to eat."

"Stop, chile. Be any oder one dere too?"

"No, nobody more," said the boy.

And Phœbe returned home in great disappointment.

But so impressed was the Countess with the conviction that the English artist would be able to give some information of her husband, that she insisted on accompanying Phœbe to the rendezvous.

So the two eager women, the black one and the white, were found by master Pierre in punctual attendance, and provided with some little delicacies for the appetite of the fugitive.

He led the way through several winding lanes and broken paths until they came to a sort of cavity among the ancient ruins, formed by fallen pillars and shattered arches, and peering in round the pedestal of a column, he suddenly whispered,—

"Ladies, Signor."

Guy Falconer started up amazed at such unexpected visitors, and the imploring voice of the Countess for news of her husband, increased his perplexity concerning his own personal affairs.

It appeared that, while absorbed in the study of some exquisite paintings in an apartment of the Vatican, to which the influence of the Count di V— had introduced him, a strange officer, lounging about, entered into conversation, described the meaning of certain symbolic devices, and added in a lower tone,—

"You know many a story is told in symbols, like language in flowers. A dagger sent to one would indicate danger and self-defence, a cord suggests penance, a feather advises flight. There are times when plainer language is inopportune, and when strangers in our city are not careful with whom they dine."

Guy looked up instantly, but the speaker was carelessly lounging away. He had scarcely reached his lodging, ere Pierre, his young temporary errand boy, and often guide to localities he wished to find, presented himself with a peacock's feather in his hand.

"Signor," said he, "a noble captain sends this specimen of the plumage he was describing to you!"

"Watched and warned!" thought his astonished master.

And he went on to say briefly how Pierre had led him to his present concealment, and had ascertained that his rooms and luggage had been searched, his portfolio and sketches scattered about, and his maître d'hôtel thrown into violent alarm at the idea of having entertained a suspicious character.

"There is evident connection," concluded Guy, "between the three circumstances: the presence of the General at your house that day, the disappearance of the Count, and the warning to myself. Let us hope that the Count also received a feather."

"Why suspect wrong from the visit of the General?" asked the Countess. "Who could give information concerning him? No one in the house, but the Count himself, had ever seen him before."

"I have never alluded in any way to the circumstance," said Guy; "but Pierre tells me that the Government has spies everywhere, and no one is free even in his own house, in Rome."

"Boy, are you free to do as you will?" asked the Countess quickly of Pierre, who stood near.

"I am poor and low, lady," said Pierre, "and can escape notice, but I will be wholly free some day. My father was English," he added proudly.

"Find out something of my husband, and I will reward you well. Will you try, and quickly?"

"I will, lady," said the boy. "Give me a note to him, and if he is in Rome, I will bring you his answer. Let your black woman seek me outside your palace with it before day-break!"

"And money,—will you have money also?"

"Money does much: it opens doors and gives messages. Yes, lady, I know those who have some love for the sight of it, and will do good or bad for the sake of it."

"And what is your purpose for yourself, Guy Falconer?" asked the Countess. "It would not serve you to take shelter at any house of mine."

"I purpose keeping concealed for a while, and then renewing my studies, if safe; quitting the city, if not—but I must be guided by circumstances, and Pierre, whom I like and trust."

"And de good Lord who guide dem all," said Phœbe.

"True," said Guy; "I do not forget to ask Him."

"Bless de Lord, den you be all right, nebber fear."

Pierre guided the visitors into the best way home, and returned to his master to do what he could for his comfort, and wait until it should be time to meet Phœbe and the note.

"There was news to-day," he said, "of some scheme just found out, to set Rome free of so many cardinals and priests, but the Count is too great to be in it."

Guy thought of the General, and the tone of some remarks he had heard in conversation with the Count, and felt little doubt himself that suspicion had fallen upon him, and that he had been arrested secretly. For himself, he felt no particular uneasiness, though annoyed at the interruption of his work, and waste of precious time.

Wrapped in a warm cloak and travelling rug, secured by the forethought of Pierre, and with his head leaning against a marble pedestal that might once have borne a triumph of forgotten skill, Guy fell asleep, and dreamed of home.

His sweet mother with loving smile and gentle word; his sister, or rather sisters, Maude and Evelyn, with their bright companionship and never-failing sympathy; the fatherly interest of the generous Squire, and the watchful care of the grateful mistress of The Moat, all played conspicuous parts in the mental drama; and over the sleeper's fine young face wafted an occasional smile of apparent pleasure and content, which she who stood looking upon him in the grey light of early morning would not hasten to disturb.

But there must be a waking time, and breakfast time, before black Phœbe would begin to talk, and she had carefully provided supplies which she insisted on seeing enjoyed before even answering his inquiries of the state of the Countess.

"Bery sore heart, heavy and sad, and no dear Lord to lean it on," she said, pitifully. "Do Massa Falconer know 'bout de Son ob God?"

"Yes," said Guy. "'I know that my Redeemer liveth,' and if it were not for the risk of attracting unwelcome notice, you and I would sing a morning hymn to His praise."

"Bery good; ole Phœbe glad. But now, why massa come to dis city whar nobody honour de Lord, all full ob silly tings and shows, and call it 'ligion?"

"Only because there are beautiful studies for those who want to paint well."

"Hum! What for massa want paint well?"

"I am poor, and have to earn my bread," said Guy, colouring.

"Nebber shame for dat. All right. But what make him so poor?" persisted Phœbe.

"You would not understand if I were to tell you," said Guy, slightly vexed.

"Do me deal ob good to know," said Phœbe, calmly. "Massa, please tell ole Phœbe."

"It was only that our family estate has passed into other hands, and an allowance out of it, which used to come to my mother, has ceased. It's right enough, I suppose. No one could prevent it, and no one has any right to complain."

"Don't know dat," said Phœbe, as if talking to herself. "Why dem stop dat 'lowance?"

"There was no provision for its continuance; it was only the arrangement of my grandfather, and ceased with his life."

"Hum! Please God keep ole Phœbe 'live, she make dem pay up."

"What are you talking about?" asked Guy, rather inclined to laugh at the black woman's lucubrations.

But to her, it was evidently no laughing matter.

"Will Massa Guy tell real why not go out ob dis city when him warned? What his people at home bid him do?"

"They would wish me to go, I daresay," said Guy; "but I cannot at present."

"Got empty purse, maybe?" said Phœbe, coolly.

"Suppose it is so, you strange old probe,—what is it to you?" exclaimed Guy, impatiently. "I choose to wait for my next remittance; I will not ask anyone for money."

"Nebber fear, Massa Guy. Trust ole Phœbe, and mind what she say. Me, dis bery ole black 'ooman, nurse ole Massa Falconer on him dying bed. He trust poor Phœbe more dan some, and make her read de Englis' writing. Den him gib her dis," and she drew from her bosom a little black silk bag, "and him say like dis: 'Phœbe, if ebber you hear ob a chile of Guy Falconer in trouble or want, you make him get dis, and it help him one little. You wait, and maybe some day you get to England, and you find if de widow ob my son Guy get her right share out of de 'state, or her chil'en. If so it be, den all right, you burn dis pocket-book. But if it be not so, you gib dis book to de widow or her chile, and dey see it help to prove dere right. Don't want do nobody no harm, but must do de right. Now, Phœbe, you be wise and patient, and see what to do.'"

"And if we were not in want, and had our rights, what then, Phœbe?" asked Guy, after listening attentively.

"Didn't he tell?—Den burn de book."

"Yes; but look here!" And opening the little pocket-book which he had drawn from its silken cover, several bank-notes appeared.

"Nebber mind; all right. Massa not poor now, but go away safe dis bery night."

"Tell me truly, Phœbe. If we had not needed it, what then was to be done with this money?"

"Poor ole massa, him let Phœbe do what she like; den she gib it to good missionary to tell 'bout de Lord Jesus. Now see why me come with poor missy to Rome. Find dear chile here just at right time. Bless de dear Lord, He do eberyting well!" And folding her hands, she rose from the block of stone, and stood for a few moments in silent reverence.

And if ever Guy felt thankful, it was then; for alone, suspected, and a fugitive in a strange city, and that city Rome, it was hard to be penniless also.

But he could not leave without some information of the Count, and also some help from trusty Pierre, and for this he must wait at least till night fall.

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