A Daughter of St Peter's. BY JANET C. CONGER. JOHN LOVELL & SON, Trinters. 23 AND 25 St. Nicholas St. (3 Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1889, by Janet C. Conger, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics at Ottawa. « * » ♦ ic • • .• • * It • « ••• « « < »• » .'*. •c" • « : ? ».* ? * f t ^780S8 TO .THE PEOPLE Of THE DOMINION, IN WHOSE ADVANCEMENT, INTELLECTUAL AS WELL AS MATERIAL, SHE TAKES A SINCERE PRIDE, THIS STORY or OTHER CLIMES, THE FIRST FRUIT OF HER PEN, IS INSCRIBED, AS A MODEST CONTRIBUTION TO THE GROWING LITERATURE OF HER COUNTRY, BY ONE WHOSE AMBITION IS TO BE A WORTHY DAUGHTER OF CANADA. PREFACE. The characters in this book — the author's first attempt at novel-writing — are, with a single exception, " of imagina- tion all compact." The author can, however, claim some familiarity with the scenes in which they live their fancied lives ; and she has endeavored to make them think and feel and act in some kind of harmony with surroundings which are, in certain essential features, out of the beaten path of fiction. The central figure of the dramatis persona took shape in her mind while it was under the influence of Religion's grandest shrine in the heart of Catholic Christen- dom. She is sadly conscious that her achievement does not fulfil her aspiration. She knows, notwithstanding the kind encouragement of too indulgent friends, that her work is far from faultless. She can only plead that this is the first child of her invention and hopes that, with all its shortcomings, it may have the good fortune to please that unfailing friend of the unknown and struggling writer, the courteous and benevolent reader. Windsor Hotfx, Montreal, Sept. 3rd, 1889. \ A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER^S. CHAPTER I. The nfelit before Vane Hamilton sailed for Europe, he went to Delmonico's, to have, as he supposed, his last dinner in New York for some years at least. Owing to the recent death of his father, whom he dearly loved, and who was the last link that bound him to his native land, he was in no mood for invit- ing a hilarious send-off, so he said good-bye to his friends as he met them during his week of prepara- tion for his departure. His friends were all "men about town," and old college companions; he was one of them, but not of them, so to speak, as many sad incidents in his life of twenty -seven years had taken the glint of boyish spirits out of him; while his contemporaries still flashed with it, and some with an added glow. He knew very well the effect of a proper send-off by " chums," so the hour of his departure or even the day he had not named. As he sat twisting his closed hands, and observing 4 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. them absently as he did so, no thought of what ex- pressive hands they were entered his mind. He was unconscious of the "sweetness and strength" a hand can denote ; he thought only of his almost solitary position in the world — how different every thing might have been if Clarice had lived and Naomi had been better loved and understooil, while it was in their power to make the poor girl happy, and of his dear dead father and the lovely yc>.ung mother he could scarcely remember, and whom his father never could forget. Vane Hamilton was a strikingly handsome young man, but to tell what made him so would be puz- zling ; his fine, deep-set grey eyes or splendid teeth -^the two striking features of his face. There was a vivid intellectuality about him — a refinement and strength which make men handsome without any regularity of feature or perfection of form. He sighed as he removed his elbows from the table, and took his watch — held by a black ribbon — from his pocket, saying to himself, *' Well, after all this is a dull way of spending the last few hours I have in New York." With all his indescribable air of being perfectly at home — a trait which American men possess more than those of any other nation, — he was supremely sad and dull, and ready to welcome any friend who might come in at the door he was facing. A DAUGHTER OF ST. PET/iR'S. -5 He did not look down the room on ihc same side as he himself s:it, or he would have seen a large, fair, jolly-looking young man reading the "Sporting Times," eagerly devouring the last race news, and indicating his satisfaction or disappointment by the sudden snapping way he would jerk the paper between his hands, or smile audibly. At last he liftctl his eyes from the paper, glanced about him, then rose hastily, and speaking to the waiter at his table, crossed the room, and with both hands outstretciicd and a beaming countenance he warmly grasped Vane Hamilton's, and in a hearty, loud voice exclaimed : " How'do, old chum ? Didn't know you were in town I " *• How are you, Curtis ? only came last night," said Vane. " Is it true that you are going to make an ass of yourself and go to Europe to study art ? " said Curtis. 'Tm going to study art," said Hamilton, "or I think I am. I hope I won't be making an Jtss of myself by so doing," and he laughed. "Let me modify that expression by saying that you're ^donkey \{ you leave New York for art orany- I thing else." / All the time Curtis was speaking he stood with his hands on the back of the chair opposite to Vane. Suddenly Vane exclaimed : 1 6 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER* S. ** Excuse me, Curtis, for not asking you to sit down. Do dine with me, like a good fellow. I'm quite alone, you see, old boy." Then in a sad tone he continued : *' In fact, Curtis, I am all alone in the world now. I don't believe I have a relation." " You have the satisfaction of not being a poor orphan," said Curtis, as he sat upon the chair he had been leaning against. " Money isn't everything, Curtis ! '* " It isn't, eh ! Well, I just wish I had all I wanted or all you have, and I wouldn't be lonely very long." "Why, what would you do. You could'nt buy friends, — relations I mean," said Vane smiling. " Relations be d d ! Who wants relations } They pluck you bare every time ; I only feel sure of the gold in my teeth while I am alive and can bite ! Do you really want to know what I would do if I were you } " " Yes, tell me," said Vane. " Well," said Curtis ; " I'd have a house in Fifth Avenue, and do the intellectual up in fine style ; have reunions for all fads — literature, art, science, and all that ; paint everything in dim aesthetic colors,' and have virtuous loveliness worship at my shrine — that's if I were you. Then I'd have elegant apartments elsewhere, where the 'sound of revelry by night' would be heard, where less virtuous loveliness would A DAUGHTER OF ST, PETER'S. 7 be at my feet — an idyl of wine and women, a paint- ing of bright carmine. Oh, I'd make things hum — yes hum ! " said Curtis, smacking his lips. " 'Pon my word, Curtis, it's almost a pity you have not more money." " Almost! you say; well, 'tis quite a pity you have so much ! Going abroad to study art ! Bah \ why should you study art ? Just stay at home and get some poor devil of an artist fellow to do the work for you — draw the outlines and all that, and you just fill up with the paint, as the girls do, with only the solid colors on all the beautiful embroidered things their dainty hands make for us. Then get some impecunious art critic to give you a good blow-off and your fortune's made, in art. You could then be a man about town in high feather — a tip-top masher and no mistake — a splendid artist! A great catch! A millionaire and a deuced good fellow ! Art be d " exclaimed Curtis with great vehemence. The listener's face changed from a look of amuse- ment to one of astonishment, but he replied quite pleasantly : " If I were younger and more impressible, your flattery and word painting would fix me in the firma- ment of New York life. But it's too late. I sail tp- morrow. I am not after money or fame; I love the brush for pastime and pleasure, and in following my whim, why, if fame follows it, I won'f say it nay ; but 8 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. I could not prostitute so noble an art to win such doubtful fame as you speak of." *' I don't suppose you could. You know I am apt to speak at random," said Curtis, looking rather ashamed, and his fair face flushing r deep red, then he continued : " I really think you are a fool for your pains though ; if you would leave out that art-studying business, I'd forgive you, and if you were not a human iceberg, you'd stay and taste the sweets of life ; or you'd just go abroad to get rid of some of your surplus cash, have a good time and blow off steam. But you won't do anything — you'll come back ju^t what you have always been, marble-ice I " "Do you think, Curtis, I've lived twenty-six years and never tasted the sweets of life, as you say .'' I suppose you mean love." His face lost its sad expression. " Yes, I do. Is that a fact ? Do tell me all about it," said Curtis, as he placed his elbows on the table, and ran his hands into his plentiful crop of fair hair. " Oh, 'twas short and sweet. * Things violent last not,* you know. My love was violent; so was my adored. It was five years ago ; she was big and fair, and softly sweet. I was twenty- one, three years younger than she and her willing slave, as pliable as warm putty. I thought I could die for her ; but when the dear old governor took ill, and his reason was tot- A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 9 tering and no one but I could balance it, as it were, I found myself between two fires. Either my father or my fair Dulcinea must be ^iven up ; with her the parilnj would be temporary, but with my poor father it would be a last farewell, as his malady was beyond cure. When I told her I must go to Cotsmore, shj flew in a passion — a perfect fury— and said I mu.it not leave New York — you know my father was at our country house up the Hudson — if I did she would have nothing more to do with me; I must not go! The season had just begun, and I was counted upon as her escort. I spoke of an immediate marriage, and we could both go and cheer and nurse the dear old father ; she darted a look of murder at me, and said such bitter words. I asked her to decide what I should do. She counted on my former meekness and slavery, and early the next morning sent me a note saying: If I left New York she would not see me again ; if I preferred my father to her I might go, and forever ; I left for Cotsmore, and telegraphed to her from the next station that I was on my way to my father. Farewell. So ended my dream of young love. Quite a pretty story, isn't it ? " said Hamilton. " Left no scar, eh ? " a>- ked Curtis. " Not a trace ! Since then I have woo'd and almost wedded art. ' Some day I may win fame. * " "A truce to your art and fame. Why do you want to leave such a fair land as this ? There is no lO A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S country in the world where such pleasure can be had. The glorious climate, the genial men, and lovely women! Why, there are no women in the world to compare to ours in beauty and intelligence — and in goodness, too, I guess,** said Curtis. *'You are a better judge than I. To me they will always be a puzzle — one of the mysteries." "Mysteries! Ah, yes, I really will acknowledge woman a mystery — about the only one science can- not fathom. You don't think there are any others beyond the reach of science, do you } ** He turned a quick glance at Vane. There was a slight curl of scorn on Hamilton's lips, but, with a pleasant and halffimused smile, he replied: " Of course I do ; mysteries in nature since the world began, and as great and unfathomable now as at the creation." In surprise, Curtis replied : "You seem a little off, Hamilton. Where's your broad intelligence ? What is a mystery in nature ? " Vane Hamilton gave an amused little laugh as he thought of the righteous claim Curtis might lay to the long ears of a certain animal of the equine family, but he quietly replied : "Why, the milk in the cocoa-nut, two flowers on one stem of different colors — perhaps different shape ; to me, the sweet pea is a study, " With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white.** A DA UGHTER OF ST. PE TER *S. 1 1 " Who can tell how the deep purple, pure white and delicate pink became so harmoniously mingled upon the same small bud, and the pungent delicious fra- grance added ? And here, look at this,^' as he broke an almond apart, finding two kernels inside. " How came this one to be double ? No, no, science will never solve such mysteries. I am fond of the mysterious — of Hermann and the black art even — but the study of a blade of grass is as great a secret as the land beyond the sky, where the little child who has passed into it is wiser than the greatest scholar living." There was a pause, and then Curtis said : " Well, by Jove, Hamilton, I have never thought about such things. I buy a bunch of flowers, take a thoughtless sniff of their perfume, and pass them on to some girl, and that is the end of it, unless I say to myself, 'well, old fellow, there goes another V. or X. Sometimes it is both with an E between them. Now that you are opening my eyes to what an ignoramus I am, I'm more sorry than ever to have you go." Then resuming his gay off-hand manner, he con- tinued : "Well, if you don'' distinguish yourself in art, the least you can do is to bring home a live duchess, and show those blooming English duffers who carry off so many of our fine women, that you can turn the tables on them." 4 He gave 2 guy laagh as Vane replied • .*'\\^'^^' ' . . .. * « *• ■> • • y c < , ' , 13 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S, *' And slight the fair, inteHigent, and perhaps — as you say — good women of New York. What are you thinking about ?" and Hamilton echoed the laugh. "Oh, well, be happy, and God speed you on your way," said Curtis, as he rose to go, putting out his hand to Hamilton. The latter held it while he said: "Good bye, old fellow; spend your time while I'm gone solving mysteries which science has no power over — the meaning of a woman's glance ; the inrush of a pleas- ing emotion ; the outflow of mingled thoughts ; the why of an unbidden hope; the coloring of the sea shells and pebbles. The — well — the milk in the cocoa-nut! Oh, you'll find plenty to think about besides the bright eyes and soft voices of lovely women. Ta! Ta ! " and the}- parted. Hamilton feeling better for the gaiet}'- of Curtis's manner, and Curtis the better of Vane's common sense, and hav- ing something besides horse-racing and questionable , amusements to think about. CHAPTER II. Twenty years before my story opened, Hudson Hamilton's fair young wife died in giving birth to a daughter; leaving three^yQu.ng, children. Vane, just six and ClariciQ^ t"o.ur years pf ^ge, »werv b/)t;h pretty, » »■ < A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S, 13 winsome children, but the infant, for whom the lovely young mother rendered up her precious life, was a plain, timid, shrinking child, who, before she could reason, seemed to feel herself a living reproach. She cost her father so much of love, and happiness, and life that he would not look at the child for months, and then when he could no longer miss see- ing her sometimes, he never gave her more than pass- ing notice, while he lavished all his affections on the two elder children. Little Naomi was given to the care of a colored nurse, who was kind to the child and fond of her, and, until she was twelve years old, most of her time was spent with her nurse, even after she had begun to take lessons from a daily governess. Clarice at sixteen was the image of what her beautiful mother had been at that age, and her increasing likeness to Helen Vane made Hudson Hamilton more than worship the child of his dead love. Vane was his right hand, and father and son were the world to each other. Poor little Naomi adored both Clarice and Vane, and to the sad little sister they were surreptitiously kind, for they knew the father never forgave her the sacrifice of their mother. When Clarice was eighteen she was to be married to one of whom father and brother approved, one whom she dearly loved. 14 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. The engagement had been announced, the wedding day set, and a bright future in sight ; a brilliant match and a happy life were in store for Clarice Hamilton and Oscar Rivers, when the hand of a mightier than man was raised to order otherwise. A grand ball was given in honor of the girl who was soon to be a bride, at which Clarice caught cold, and on the day when she was to be wedded she died. Hudson Hamilton was completly unmanned. Deeper sorrow was never known than that which hung in a thick black cloud over that lovely home. Vane \vas full of anxiety for his father as well as of grief at the loss of his dearly loved sister. No one seemed to think of poor Naomi, whose heart was broken. She went about silently, with colorless cheeks and lips and dry eyes — an image of mute despair — until after the funeral. When all was over and the body taken from her, she sank down in a dead swoon in the darkened drawing-room, on the very spot where the coffin of Clarice had rested, and never recovered conscious- ness until she lay dying two weeks afterwards; then she pressed Vane's hand, saying, in a faint whisper : ** My heart is broken, Vane. Ask Papa to.forgive me for living this long, for ever having lived at all." Death closed her eyes upon a world that to her young life had but rarely brought happiness. After death there came over her features the smile that A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 15 \ Clarice had in life when in her happiest moods ; the ^only time she had ever the least look of her sister. ^ When Hudson Hamilton saw that look of Clarice, he was seized with remorse, and loaded himself witli self-reproach. He had not known this child in life, as it WQ\'^^ and now to find there was in her a trace of his dead wife and Clarice drove him frantic. Vane would not tell his father of Naomi's dying message ; it would have killed him, Hudson Hamilton saw Vane's pale cheeks and sunken eyes, and, fearing another calamity might befall him in the loss of his son, made him take rooms in New York, while he closed their city house and retired to Cotsmore on the banks of the Hudson. Vane was given carte blanche to draw what money he wanted, and told to enjoy himself as much as he could ; that the moment his father wanted him he would be sent for. The sad young heir to a million proved an ea.sj/- prey to the designing fortune-hunter; for Madge Warlock, who was the veteran of four seasons, was just such a belie as to make a lad of twenty-one proud of so great a conquest. Each Sunday he spent with his father who was aging fast ; his memory was going; his thoughts were wandering, and his hair "bleaching ; but he would not let Vane remain with him, nor would he return to New York with his son. Vane was not idle in New York ; he was spending |6 ■ A DAUGHTER OF ST, PETER^S. his days in a neat little studio attached to his apart- ments, and his evenings were devoted to Madge. About three months' time was spent in this way, when the telegram came from his father's valet call- ing him home to Cotsmore. His father's mind was on the wrong side of the balance, Vane could plainly see, and his health was fast failing. Hudson Hamilton was a man of strong fibre, and with breaking heart, tottering mind and weakening body he fought for four years against the avenger Death, with his good and loyal son ever at his side to cheer his rational moments and soothe his obscure ones. At last the fatal blow fell, and Vane was left alone in the world. The days of his deepest sorrow, the moments of his wildest despair, the time of his stony anguish had to be borne alone. Even Madge's selfish regard and false smiles would have been a solace in his woe. There was no one whom he had gathered to himself in love, in these years spent in caring for his father; no woman to give sweet and gentle sympathy. There was the true salt of men's regret, but not the balm of woman's gentle pathos. A DAUGHTER OF HT. PETER'S, i; CHAPTER III. The feelings with which one enters Rome are differ- ent from those with which any other city is approached. What a tumult fills the breast as one nears the Eternal City! It seems like an ecstacy — a plunge into bewilderment. Oh, how strange and yet how familiar it is to those who, from childhood, have pored over the pictured scenes of the city set upon seven hills — the Coliseum, the Forums, the Capitol and St. Peter's ! Ah ! St. Peter's, the vast, the beau- tiful, the grand I One expects to see its dome rising to the sky, but in that disappointment awaits the visitor ; for so large and outspreading is the dome of St. Peter's, that it looks from the distance as though it were the dome of the whole city. 'Tis only when one enters the glorious Basilica that its magnificence is understood, and usually St. Peter's is the first monument of the great city to which the stranger is attracted. But Vane Hamilton had a strange feeling about the Cathedral, and left it until almost the last. He wanted the feeling of Rome to take full possession of him before he passed the portals of its grandest edifice. 18 A DA UGIITER OF S T. PE TER 'S. He vvnnclcrcd through the Foriinr? : scanned every Tiook of the Palatine, letting his itnajpnation run wild in picturinjj the life of the C^iisars. l! e tragedies, romances and comedies of their day, the exquisite refinement of their revcnjje. A certain lloman em- press wept when she heard the eloquent i)lcadings of an innocent man before the tribunal of the Kmperor, but whispered to tho lunperor not to let the prisoner escape with his Hfe for she wanted his land. One banquets a rival, and when the feast is in its highest flood of pleasure, the gentle shower of violets and roses begins to fall, and continues until the rival is smothered to death. These scenes come to one's mind when the spot is visited. Then that strange Campagna, with an outline as level as the sea, and its carpet of brown earth so soft and fine that a peasant's cart-wheels, moving over it, fill the space between earth and sky with a dun colored cloud of dust! The first Sunday Vane spent in Rome he went to the Pincio to hear the band play and see the beauty of the town. All were strangers to him, but never- theless he followed the motley crowd to hear the singing of the nuns in the Trinitd de' Monti. Those sweet, sad, despairing voices — how memory recalls every note ! The singing over, Vane Hamilton returned to his hotel, saying to himself: A DAUCIITER OF ST. PETER'S, 19 "To-morrow I shall go to St. Peter's — what can it be that drags mc there and then holds me back ? I can't understand this conflict of emotions. I'd really be ashrmed to tell anyone I've been so long in Rome and so often to the Coliseum and never to St. Peter's. My fate must be awaiting me there," He had already obtained permission to copy a Guido in the Villa Borghesc, and had not seen the interior of St. Peter's. Next day, as Vane Hamilton passed through the noble court with its splashing fountains, and reached the wide flight of steps in front of the Basilica, he turned his back upon the entrance, and looked down the grand approach to the church. The half-circles of columns on either side, with the fountains flashing ill the sunbeams, gave him a thrill of delight^ and as he turned again to enter the church, he involuntarily for an instant bent his knee upon the top step and bowed his head. He rose and walked quickly to the right. Lifting the heavy padded curtain he entered, and moving to the centre, stood looking in awe and wonder about him, a wonder that increases with each visit, an awe that grows upon one. Then he said to himself: '' St. Peter's at last I " Silently he made a circle of the great edifice, look- ing up into the mighty dome, and at the figures of gigantic size which by their great height are diaiin- ao A DAUGHTER OF r^T. PETER'S. 'shcd, SO that the pen in the hand of St. Luke, which is seven feet long, looks of ordinary size. The cupola is magnificent, enchanting, soul-expanding, nr.d reveals the sublimity of the immortal architect, v.'ho was great for any age. Vane started at the left f/om the entrance, and paused at each of the chapels, monuments and statues — those chapels which would serve as independent churches, so large and splendid are they. Even their magnitude does not make one realize the full extent of the great Basilica. One must look at an ordinary human creature, standing alone in one of the vast aisles or in proximity to statue or monument, to realize the amplitude of the whole. Vane was enchanted. " My daily walk must be here," said he, as he came upon the bronze statue of St. Peter, set upon a pedestal so high that only a v/oman of good height can reach to kiss the toe, now reduced to a mere scale from the touch of generations of devotees. At sight of this, Vane revolted and wonderea that such a ficfure could excite so much devotion. He re- called almost with incredulity that, at sight of it, a. celebrated divine had been moved to tears that, as he said, had rolled down his cheeks " like rain from heaven." On the day of the Jubilee of Pius IX. this statue was attired in fviU rich Pontifical robes, — a ghastly A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 21 • sight, one "would think — and the toe was kissed by tljousands and tens of thousands. Being an artist, Vane enjoyed most the fine mosaics — that of the T-ansfiguration from Raphael, having occupied ten men for nine years. In tlie Baptistery, which is tlie last chapel on the left, is the mosaic of the Baptism of our Saviour by Maratta. This seemed to have a particular charm for Vane, and he looked long and earnestly at it. He had yet to see the glorious painting from which it is copied — -and which is in the church of St. Maria dcgli Angeli. The next day he paid another visit to St. Peter's. He did not go near the bronze Pope this time but followed the handsome En;;lish Cardinal, who was holding service from chapel to chapel, and looked in amazement upon the ceremony of constant robing and disrobing, wondering at the same time what the Cardinal thought of it himself. He fancied he was not the only one who understood not a word of the Latin service, intoned in the deep rich voice of the fine soldierly Cardinal. Understanding it or not, the sound of that splendid voice was a pleasure to him, and the sight of that majestic divine a delight to an artist's eye. When the office was over, Vane took a glance around, and found himself again before the Maratta. He had stood but a moment looking at the picture, 22 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. when a little hunchback came up close to him, took a look at the picture with a pair of small, bright, bead-like eyes, then turned and walked back to a marble font a few yards off, and stooping down, kissed the stones near it, and then the pedestal above the sacred spot of his devotion. When Vane saw this, he said to himself, " That ugly, old bronze St. Peter hasn't it all his own way after all." The Cathedral looked deserted, as Vane passed out. A sudden thought induced him to return and see if it really was so. He went to the right and ncaring the bronze Pope mentally greeted him with '' I like you better now, old man, seeing that there's something to share with you the devotee's caresses." Then continu- ing his way, he came upon a chapel with at least three hundred people witnessing vesper service. He concluded it must be true, as he had often heard, that "ten thousand soldiers could be scattered about St. Peter's and not seen." On Wednesday he kept away, but Thursday an irresistible impulse seized him to go again, and at half-past four in the afternoon he was standing at the right of the high altar from the door — the left to one looking down from the altar. On the opposite side was the figure of a kneeling girl, — apparently, from her dress, a peasant. On her head was a white lace mantilla, tied loosely under her chin like a small shawl or kerchief, such as is worn by the native women. At the back of this kneeling girl A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 23 stood an American woman with the corner of the lace in her ungloved hand. Vane saw visions of a peasant weeping over the mutilation of her proud handiwork, and thinking of the relic-hunting propensities of his countrywomen, determined to save this unconscious girl some tears. As he passed round to the group he was watch- ing, he thought of the tale he had heard of the mutilation of the drapery about the bed of Mary, Queen of Scots. The rings he had seen with settings of granite or red marble, hacked from the supposed tomb of Juliet at Verona, and, worse than all, the oft beheading of Washington at Westminster Abbey. As he passed near the kneeling girl, his shadow fell in front of her, and she raised her head. Such a vision of sweet young loveliness ! When her eyes met Vane's, an electric thrill of delight filled his whole being. Then, as if by magic, the little hunchback, whom he had watched with idle curiosity two days before, appeared and placed himself between Vane and the kneeling figure. Vane was brought back to earth by the look of scorn shot at him from those beady, rat-like eyes, and felt compelled to move away. Instinct seemed to lead him to his favorite picture, and there he found the lady who looked so longingly at the lace. He was curious about the girl, and wished to hear what this American lady would say about her. They stood looking at the picture, Vane still 24 / DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. thinking of the Italian girl, when the lady impulsively exclaimed : " Lovely ! Perfectly beautiful ! " He replied as if the words had implied a question to him : ** Yes, very lovely." " Oh ! Ah ! I didn't mean " faltered she. *' Pardon me, Madam 5 I meant no offence. The air of this place seems so like Heaven that one forgets one is not where more ceremony is required." ** You are an American, I believe.-'" " Yes, Madam." "Well, I'm Mrs. Martin from Washington. My husband and son are with me at the Hotel Bristol. They have put tkeir foot down on pictures and churches, and I had to come here alone to-day." " You saw more than pictures and a church to interest you to-day, did you not .<* That girl whose lace you admired so much had lovely eyes." "Oh! had she.? I didn't see her eyes;" and, as she flashed a quick glance at Vane's fine orbs, she continued : " One can see lovely eyes every day, but such lace is the heirloom of a Royal house. Yet I'm sure she is only one of the people, and I hope she came by that lace honestly." "She certainly would not be wearing it so openly if she had not the right to do so," said Vane, feeling nettled, he knew not why. Then he continued : " Is it really very fine ? " A DAUGHTER OF ST, PETER'S. 35 " Very fine ! Why it's that exquisite Venetian point. The art of making it has been lost for years and years — perhaps a hundred thousand or so. Here I am talking to you all this time and don't even l:no\v your name. Isn't it funny how people frater- nize away from home } " said she. '' I am Vane Hamilton, of New York." ** I hope I won't forget. I never remember any one of New York but ' Mr. Barnes,' " and she laughed. "That you may not forget me, I give you my card, Mrs. Martin. You'll remember me now, won't you.?" "Yes, unless I lose your card. Oh, dear! I must go now. Good-bye." Vane followed Mrs. Martin from the Baptistery and was turning towards the high altar when he ob- served the girl with the lace mantilla, and her strange companion, the hunchback, going in the direction of the Baptistery. He moved away that he might watch them unobserved. She went straight to the font and rested against it while she looked earnestly at the picture of our Saviour's baptism. She stood upon the very spot her companion had kissed, and while she gazed upon the picture before her the hunchback gazed upon her. At last she turned to him, and touching his bushy, dark hair, said in a kind, gentle voice : " Buono Beppo." At the touch he turned to her with the look of a t6 A DAUGHTER OF ST, PETER'S. helpless pleased infant, and seizing her hand he kissed it passionately. As Vane saw them moving down the aisle towards the exit, he hastened on and, going outside, watched for them; but if they came he did not see them. How could they have escaped him ? He could not remember being off guard as it were, and now the closing hour had come and he had, with all his vig- ilance, missed seeing again this unknown creature who had aroused such a strange interest and curiosity in him. CHAPTER IV. When Vane reached the Piazza di Spagna on his way to his hotel — a point he usually gained from any direc- tion in the late afternoon — he saw an old lady in one of the small, single cabs common to the place, whom he had noticed frequently at the table d^hote at his hotel. Somehow he fancied she was a i:haracter in her way from the suppressed laughter which seemed to surround her end of the table. She had with her a son — who looked no more than twenty years old — and his fair young bride. This young couple seemed callously indifferent to their surroundings. The bride was always languid and tired ; the bridegroom either smoking cigarettes or walking iu the Corso or A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 27 Via Nazionale. The mother was ever alert, not that she appreciated her surroundings more than her children, but she wanted to buy things, that she might say she got them in Rome. She had usually for guide an American priest, and with him she visited jewelers, silk vendors and picture dealers. They spent much time in the reception- room of the hotel in close conversation, and it was naturally concluded that Mrs. Norman was of her companion's faith, and had come to Rome on some religious mission. But such was not the case, Mrs. Norman had crossed the Atlantic in the sameship with Father Lauder, and he made but little headway in converting her, for her mind was more centred on things mundane than spiritual. She was, however, diplomatic enough to listen with evident interest to all he had to say, as she cherished the ambition of being presented to the Pope, which had now become a rarer privilege than in former years. Vane wandered aimlessly about the Piazza, taking no note of time, until at last he was awakened to the fact that he was almost alone. Taking a look at his watch, he exclaimed : " A quarter-past seven and a good twenty minutes' walk to the hotel ! What have I been thinking about r ■ ♦ Aye, what, indeed } A pair of brown eyes peer- ing out at him from every window he looked in, a8 A DAUGHTER 0I< ST. PETER'S, looking up at him from the waters of the fountain, gazing down at him from the column and tlie figures at its base. He was haunted, in fact, by those soft, licj[uid, beaming eyes. He walked on, up the Piazza steps, along the Via Sistina, then to the Via Nazionale and the Quirinale Hotel, and before the door stood the cab with Mrs. Norman looking about her in a dazed kind of way. As soon as she caught sight of Vane, she said to him with a flurried manner : " Ain't this i?//;' hotel, mister ? " Vane assisted her to alight, saying, "Yes, Madam, it is. You have had a long drive. I saw you in the Piazza di Spagna two hours ago." " Law sakes! " with a gasp, "I guess I have, but I'm here now, thank goodness." When she was sure she was safe on the ground — for she stamped one foot after another on the pave- ment — she opened a little hand-bag she was carrying and taking a handful of silver from it, she held it out to the driver to help himself. Vane gently placed his hand in front of the silver and asked the driver some questions which Mrs. Norman did not seem to understand ; then turning to her, he said : '^ How much were you to pay this man ? " " Pay him ! why, I've done nothin' but pay him all day, it seems to me." A DAUGHTER OF ST. TETER'S. 29 Vane then turned to the man and said : "Come here to-morrow mornin<; at nine, and tell me how much this lad}'' has paid you, and I will settle with you." _ : ^■ The cabby drove off and 'tis needless to say did not return. * , In the vestibule of the hotel, young Norman met his mother with frowns and censure. The table d hotc dinner was over, but at the and of one of the long tables, covers were laid for four, and when Vane reached the dining-room, the Normans had just sat down. Mrs. Norman, senior, was flushed and still excited, and Vane noticed what a pretty woman she was still though a matron of fifty years or more. She had delicate features and good eyes, with a kind, sympa- thetic expression. She greeted Vane with a smile, saying : " I'd like to know your name, you was so good to me to-night." Vane smilingly gave his name, remarking, " One good turn deservesanother, so I must have your name." " Certainly ; my name is Mrs. Norman, and this is my son, Jonathan, and his wife, Marthy." The son frowned and said, in a querulous tone, "Mother, why do you persist in calling me Jona- than ; why don't you call me Jack } " "Oh, I alius forget; well now, Jona — no, Jack, 30 A DAUGHTER OF ST, PETER'S. — well Jonathan, why don't you bow to Mr. Hamil- ton, didn't I introduce you proper ? " Then Jonathan remembered his manners, and gave the usual greeting, also thanking Vane for his kind- ness to his mother. Marthy merely bowed. Vane felt, as he looked at that effeminate, dudish, undergrown young man, what an affliction his name must be. Jonathan's hair was light brown, and parted down the centre ; he had light blue eyes, delicate, womanish hands, white and small, and on the third finger of the left hand he wore a large seal ring. Martha was a pretty, fair, delicate little creature of perhaps eighteen years of age, with an amiable, languid expression. As soon as the introduction was over, Mrs. Nor- man said, turning to her son : ** Johna — Jack," and she smiled over at Vane, "I went to the Fattykin to see about that sick- office — you know I said I would." She meant sar- cophagus. Jonathan, who always carried a frown on his face, looked daggers at his mother, and giving himself a nervous, impatient twist in his chair, he exclaimed : " Now, for heaven's sake, what did you do that for } '' "Wall, I wanted to be satisfied about the thing. When I got all the way up them long steps with the queerest rigged-out soldiers in green and yallar, I thought the Pope was havin' a circus, but I see other folks goin' up, so I jess follered. Thinks I to myself. A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S, 3I I'll do jess what they docs and I'll get along all right. When we got to the gate-keeper, I took out that ticket Father Lauder give me and handed it to him, and I got in without any bother. I see lots of sickoffices there, but there warn't one so fine as lioneyparte's. I see a man who has something to say to every one most, so I jess asked him how much he thought one would cost, and he said he'd find out. I guess he was English. He come back and said the Pope wouldn't sell none of them — then asked me if I wanted to see or know anything more, and I said no, for I somehow didn't like him. Then he said I must pay him five francs." " No wonder," said Jonathan, " anyone who wanted to buy anything from the Vatican ought to be made to pay for thinking they could do it." " Do you think I couldn't buy all them old things if I wanted to ? " said Mrs. Norman with spirit. " No you couldn't, nor all the Government of the whole United States couldn't buy 'em," said Jonathan, with an air of superiority. Vane was more amused than he dare allow his face to disclose. All his sympathy was with Mrs. Norman, and he could not bear to see her so sat upon. They were all silent for some time ; then voung Mrs. Norman whispered something to Jonathan and the two young people left the room, leaving Mrs. 3a A DAUGHTER OF ST, PETER'S. Norman and Vane alone. When the door was closed upon thcni, Mrs. Norman gave vent to her pent up feelings. "Law sakes! what a dreadful thing larnin' is for some folks! Jonathan aint been no sort o* comfort to me since I tole him if he would only pass right through college — Harvard — he need never do a stroke of work or earn a penny, cause I'd have enough fur us all, and he ain't done nothing but look glum ever sense. He was in love with Marthy Hollins, and I said * marry her,' thinkin' he'd brighten up, but he hain't. I dursn't tell them about the time I had to-day, but I'll tell you. Shall I tell you t " " Of course, if it's no secret," said Vane, with a merry twinkle in his eye. * " 'Taint no secret, course not — but Jonathan won't let me talk no more nor his father did, but his father didn't shut me up glum," and tears came to her eyes and in her voice. " No, his father jess said to nie when we was out together, * Now, Sebincy, all you has to do is to look pretty, no one can be more so, and like a good little woman, don't offer any remarks ; ' and then he would come to me at times and tell me I was the beauty of the party. That's not the way Jonathan does," and she wiped a falling tear as she continued : '* My father had a large timber farm in Illynoy, and I was the only child left when Henry Norman came to teach school near our farm and part A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 33 of the time boarded with us. We was hard workin* folks, but every one said I was a purty gal," and she blushed as she said it. " Henry fell in love with me right off, and nothin' would do buC we must get married. When my father died we went to live in Springfield, and Henry had a good school there ; he tried to learn me something too, but there was no use. I couldn't goto school, and jess when he was a givin' me a lesson the baby would cry, or I'd have to set bread, or do somcthin', then he quit and said, 'you are a good, nice, pretty woman, Sebiney, and if you don't talk people won't know you had no edica- tion.' Soon people came round wantin' to buy them timber lands, and Henry sold them for seven hundred thousand dollars and started a bank in St. Louis. Tiicrc we was the top of the heap ! Henry he's been * here lots of times, and alius wanted to bring me, hut jess then I couldn't leave the children, and I've only got two left. Mary Jane she married Kunnel Hoopaw, and he's jess as good and kind to me as he ken be. They was with us as far as Venus, but was afraid of Roman fever and didn't come on. Well now this ain't what I started out to tell you, was it } " " I don't really know, Mrs. Norman ; but it's all very interesting," replied Vane, giving her a kindly look and smiling at her. *^ I wanted to tell you about to-day, and that cabby. Do you know, I couldn't remember this 2^ 34 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. hotel, we've been at so many ! He jabbered 'talian at mc, or French, or some gibberish and I said ' hotel ! hotel!' and he didn't move; then I tried to think and said Alleymanjay, I know that is the name of one, and didn't he drive me right to a saloon and two waiters came out and tried to make me go in, and I had to give them aU some money before he would move. Then he turned to me and said * alley,' and I said * we,' and I believe we went to every hotel in Rome, and I had to pay at every one. Then I said to myself our hotel had a queer name, and the queer caught me, and when I said queer-in-alley he allied right up here and wanted more money. If it hadn't been for the Pope and the Fatty kin I wouldn't a' knowd where I was." She seemed now to see the comical side and laughed over her adventures, and Vane laughed with her ; then he asked her what pleased her most in Rome. "I'spose St. Peter's Church, but I only want to have it to say that I was presented to the Pope. Then I'm ready to leave this musty old place, I 'spcct it jess suited Henry, 'cause Fm sure he know'd all about everything. He took home lots of arts; he got a little Sammy, a kneelin one, nicer'n that one in the Fattykin and a Venice do Meddyshoes, that is like day before night, side of the grand one I seen in Italy ; why this'n is all patched and mended up. Henry used to say, ' Well, Sabiney, if you don't 'pre- A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 35 ciate art for it's own sake, you know how to take care of ihem things' ; for I wouldn't let dust and dirt stay- on any of his statoos." Hamilton could only listen and feel amused, and when they rose from their seats, he noticed what n hi'-tr^sorne figure, in a well-fitting dress, Mrs. Nor- man had, and with an excited flush in her healthful cheeks, she was still a pretty woman. She turned to him and said, " Be you goin' to stay long here ? " " I cannot tell — indefinitely ; I am an artist and came here to paint." " Do tell ! Well, when you want to sell a picture, just let me know, and I'm on hand to buy it. YouVe been so kind to me, I'd like to have one of your paintings." Vane thanked her as he said good-night, and thought with a smile and an inwardly satisfied feel- ing, that all the world was not selfish or ungrateful, for here was this woman expressing gratitude for a slight act of politeness, and notwithstanding her want of education, what tact she exhibited in her way of offering assistance, for she evidently thought lie was a struggling artist. ^6 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. CHAPTER V. As early as people were admitted, Vane was at the Villa Borghese next morning, and set earnestly to work copying a Guido — a portrait of a Borghese. Suddenly, as though a strange thought had struck him, he threw his brush impatiently from him, say- ing to himself, " I call myself an artist and come here to copy! I am no artist, if I cannot conceive and work to perfection an ideal picture. I may not be a Guido Reni to paint many styles, but I shall paint a Vane Hamilton picture. Ha ! ha ! ! / astonish the world —a good joke," and he laughed aloud, forgetting where he was. His laugh echoed through the empty rooms, and brought the attendant in wonder to his side. Vane looked up at the shivering old man, who was twisting his little skull cap round and round on his bald head, as if to warm it ; and seeing the look of wonder and enquiry on his face. Vane pointed to what he had sketched and laughed again. The old man thought the joke lay somewhere about the picture, so nodded his head as if he understood all and passed on. " This poor old Borghese must go on to comple- A DA UGHTER OF ST. PETER 'S, 37 tion ; then I must '''"stinguish myself," said Vane, as he plied the brush industriously. When he came to the eyes with their straight brows and oval shape, set even with the surface of the cheek, he stopped. " I cannot go those eyes," he said, and he outlined a round full eye, with arched brows and drooping full fringed eyelids. Loungers and painters began to come in. These in couples would look at the copy, then at Vane, nudge each other, and smilingly pass on. Artists would see the copy, then the study, give a knowing whistle and go to their own work. Vane, unconscious of this silent criticism, put his whole soul into the work, nor stopped until he had brightened the head of an old Borghese prince with the eyes of the girl he had seen at St. Peter's. Then somewhat after the manner of Michel Angelo, when he had completed his great statue of Moses, in Rome, and his no less remarkable one of David in Florence, whom he bade speak, Vane said to those eyes : , ^ *'Turn your gaze on me, and me alone." *' Those eyes whose light seem'd rather given To be adored than to adore — Such eyes as may have look'd from Heaven, But ne'er were raised to it before." When he had finished painting her eyes, the inter- est in his work was gone. " I cannot touch that can- vas again to-day," he said, and he put away all his painting materials and walked through the rooms, watching the other painters. 38 DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. Those who had passed him at his work looked up at him with a knowing smile. " How genial," he thought, " these brother artists are becoming ; it is all owing to this genial southern climate," for they were mostly Italians and Romans. On the two occasions when he had seen the hunch- back at St. Peter's, it was about the hour of four, and as he was evidently the companion of his unknown enchantress, Vane resolved to wait until that hour, then go again to the Basilica. How long the time would seem until then ! He shook himself together as it were, for he felt that there was something wrong. " A man of my age to come to Rome with a settled purpose — Rome, the place I have longed to see, where every foot of earth is classic ground, and allow a pair of beautiful eyes in the face of a pretty peasant girl, whose lover perhaps is that hideous little hunchback, to disturb my reason in this way ! Be a man, Vane Hamilton ; not an ass, as Curtis might now say," said he to himself, as he left the Villa Bor- ghese to make his way to the church of Santa IMaria degli Angeli, which is now a gallery of very large pictures ; most of them from St. Peter's where their places have been filled by Mosaic copies. Here he looked with a special interest on the Saviour's Baptism by Maratta. Vane walked through this magnificent church, so A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 39 lofty, light and clean — kept so, probably, by the Carthusian monks, — with its high columns of ancient Egyptian granite and the meridian hne across its marble floor, put there nearly two centuries ago. One finds in nearly every Roman church some legend to doubt the truth of, and here one meets the astonishing story of Cardinal Albergati, who turned bread into coal to convince the German Emperor he had divine authority. Would that some cardinal to- day had power to turn something less valuable than bread into coal ! In the Santa Maria degli Angcli there is the chapel of Beato Niccolo Albergati. - The cloisters here were designed by Michel An- gclo, who also planted the cypress trees about them. In Rome, no matter where one turns, one meets with remarkable art treasures, which are the work of the indefatigably industrious and artistic hand, the emanation of the mighty mind, of the immortal Michel Angelo — equally renowned for architecture, painting and statuary. Why Vane visited the Santa Maria degli Angeli this morning, only his own disturbed mind could tell. At high noon, he found himself once more in the Basilica, first at the high altar, then at the Baptis- tery. For a moment he let all thoughts of the image that haunted him vanish from his mind. The sentiment ot the grandeur surrounding him 40 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. took possession of him, and again he was filled with the enthusiasm that marked his first visit. With an artist's appreciation of the beautiful, he found his enthusiasm increased rather than (as in his last visit he had been tempted to think) diminished. One of the wonders of the world, he felt it was so grand, so sub- lime, that it appealed to every virtuous sense. Here the penitent came for forgiveness, the sorrowing for comfort, the happy for enhanced pleasure, the painter, the sculptor, and the scholar for inspiration and food for thought. Light, beauty and richness of color . et the eye on every side in the mighty fabric. Could anything be grander or more sublime .'' Still in the Eternal City, St. Peter's is not the only wonder. The very dust we stir up under our feet is turning a page in a history which is crowded with remarkable events, for underneath our feet are ever crumbling the remains of wondrous treasures of art — the very dust that is floating in the air is the wearing out of some splen- did monument of man's handiwork, wrought, perhaps, to honor some pagan god, or some god-like pagan. Those wonders are ever appearing to the seeing eye.* We left Vane contemplating his surroundings with :f: In 1882 was witnessed the exhuming of the walls of a large hall in connection with the l^aths of Agrippa, where a frieze of excellent work and in good preservation was found, with columns and other remains. These were almost, if not quite, under the Pantheon, which was erected, B. C 26 : but was consecrated as a Christian church early in the seventh centur)'. It is, therefore, reasonable to believe that the temple underneath had been forgotten at the time of the building of the fajjtheoii. A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 4I an awe and admiration felt only within those sacred walls. The fascination of the glorious whole had ♦^aken resistless hold of his sertses. While he stood wrapt in thoughts that were soaring upwards, he was brought to earth by the exclamation of one of a group of passers-by. "I declare! it's two now, and we have only one hour to see all this big place ! " said the voice. " Here," thought Vane, " is some one wanting to prolong time, while I am wishing to hasten it." He looked at his watch, and learning the time, decided to spend the next two hours in the Vatican. He ascended the Scala Regia and went direct to the Sistine Chapel. " How indescribable is this, the most perfect of Angelo's work," said Vane to himself. " Can it be that those cornices and columns are only painted and those figures not living human creatures, revealing the emotions of their hearts in their faces ; the grief, the despair, the rage of the condemned ; the relief from dread and suspense ; the gratitude, the transport of the pardoned ? How sublime ! " and he drew a long breath. " Ah ! my friend, Michel Angelo, your life was too full of hard work for sentiment, or your figures of women and children would not all have been so muscular and heavy-limbed. The world and I forgive you, for where you fail to be beautiful you are grand ! No woman's love has been at work with your brush, or brought confusion to your brain." 42 A DAUGirTF.R OF ST. PETER'S. He stood now facing the door that he might watch the faces of the people entering, to decide if life could better portray expression than the frescoes of the great artist. They came in groups, then couples, then singly. The strong-minded maiden of uncertain age, noting with a long pencil in her Baedeker what interested her most ; the maiden neophyte and verdant youth, look- ing more at each other than anything else ; the rush- ing man who has only time for a hasty glance, but who expects to read it up when he gets home; and the eccentric old-fashioned English woma% to be s>q.qx\ alone and everywhere, dowdily dressed in mawkish grey and pale blue, with many flounces and lace • gew-gaws, and silver jewelry, often carrying with her a camp-stool, hand-bag, opera glasses, and knitted shawl, the whiteness of which, like her youth, has long departed. CHAPTER VI. At four o'clock sharp Vane was back in St. Peter's, and going near the high altar, half concealed himself as he rested against the statue of St. Veronica to await the coming of his enchantress. About twenty minutes after four he saw her approach with her strange companion, the hunchback, who smiled up at one of the sweepers of the Basilica as he gently patted the dwarf upon the breast. A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 43 They approached the high altar and crossing them- selves as they bowed, they reverently knelt and bent their heads in devout prayer. As Vane looked upon them, that sweet vision of young loveliness and that youthful monster, he said to himself: "If each of them is the antithesis of the other; they have, at least, a religion in common." He wondered if he could be induced to embrace their belief. He decided in the negative. Since he had come to Rome, he thought the city and the churches were dedicated rather to Popes than to God, and, like Martin Luther, he would leave it with less reverence for the Church than when he entered it. Its miracles and legends were to him delightful fairy tales. He did not question the people's belief in them, but he recalled with assent the expressive shrug of the monk's shoulders when he was asked if he believed the story of the wooden doll finding its way back by night to the Chapel of the Manger. This hideous little wooden image, which is covered with jewels pinned to its clothing by admiring and believ- ing pilgrims, is supposed to work miracles, has ser- vants of its own and a carriage, and drives out in state; the passing peasants kneeling as it goes by. Vane divided his thoughts between the kneeling girl and the bronze canopy resting on the gilded columns over the high altar, and wondered why the 44 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. Pantheon should have been robbed to make them. '•But then," thought he, "'tis the same with all the churches here, — a game of give and take." After twenty minutes of silent prayer, those two kneeling figures rose, and Vane, still unobserved by them, watched them as they passed quite close to him and went from one altar to another, kneeling but a moment at each — not speaking to each other — until again they reached the Baptistery, Here, as before, they lingered longest, then they moved up the aisle again. "This time you shall not escape rtie, my sweet fairj', unless indeed you are a witch and melt into air," said Vane. Just as they were nearing the altar of St. Mary, with Vane close behind them, for they came back to it, Mrs. Norman caught sight of Vane, and extending her hand, greeted him warmly, and introduced Father Lauder. It seemed but a moment, then Vane looked up again to find his bird had flown. He - excused himself as quickly and gracefully as possible, and hastened outside. Not a sight of them could be seen in any direction. Vane raged with disappointment and chagrin — disappointment that he could not trace the strange pair to their home, and find out more about the lovely girl who had so bewitched him — chagrin that he should be such a fool as to be enthralled by the A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 45 pretty face and graceful figure of a peasant. ^* But no, she is not a peasant," he said ; *' there is an in- born, high-bred dignity about that girl in spite of her dress — and that, if I am any judge, is rich in material, though picturesquely peasant-like in style." He walked on quickly to the bridge of St. Angelo, and took the most direct road to the Piazza di Spagna, saying as he went : *• If I did not feel that girl was high-born, I should unhesitatingly approach her without all this premeditation." Then he con- tinued : " What a day I have had trying to find out more about that girl ! If I fail to-morrow, I shall give up and try to banish her from my mind." When Vane reached the Via Condotti, as he was Hearing the steps of the Piazza di Spagna, he heard the whirling dance music of the Tarantella. It was a charming sight to see all the models in their quaint and picturesque costumes join in the mazy dance. Soon the excitement waxed high, and the passers-by joined the merry dancers ; as one dropped out exhausted, another taking the place, the dance went gaily on. One gray-headed old woman put down the basket from her head, and joined the giddy throng. Becom- ing heated with the exertion and excitement, she threw off first the kerchief from her head, then the shawl from her shoulders, and, with the grace and poetry of her motion, provoked cheers from the 46 A DAUGHTER OF ST. TETEIVS. crowd. She became wild with the cheers that greeted her. Seizing a tambourine from one of the models, she played upon it as she glided through the figures of the Tarantella, lifting the instrument above her head, and swaying with the grace of a swan. At last she sank exhausted upon the steps, with the tambourine in her lap, her eyes sparkling, and her gray hair, which had loosened, falling about her face like a mist. Silver and copper began to drop into the tambourine until she had a goodly and well earned sum. She put all but a few coins in the pocket of her green-serge skirt ; then, as she was re- turning the tambourine to the owner, she held it high above her head, rattling the coppers in it that all might know she was giving them too. Vane almost hoped and greatly feared he might find his enslaver in this group. When he reached the scene, he carefully scanned every face and figure, to make sure that she was not of that motley crowd ; then he entered with spirit into the enjoyment of the pleasant scene, and helped to cheer on the dancing of the old woman. .. Like Dickens, Vane seemed to know nearly all the people personally who took part in that festive dance, and, indeed, every visitor to Rome recognizes at once the familiar faces and costumes of the models, who have served to beautify or mar canvas or chromo, from pictures worth hundreds of dollars to a cigarette card. A DAUarrTFR OF ST. PETER'S. 47 Like a shower in April, the rain is soon over, and so was the music and the dancing. " How my heart misgave me, when I thou|^dit I mii;ht see her in that giddy tln*ong. lUit, if I had, it would have cured me of this foolish pas- sion. I can think of nothing but that lovely face, and she is ignorant of my very existence, unless she remcm'jers that one look which pierced me to the heart, anci for the moment set my brain on fire. Well, to-morrow will decide ; if she escapes me, then I shall try no longer o find her. I will banish her from my mind. No ! No ! I never can ! She fills all my thoughts ; I cannot work, I cannot think ; always the image of her sweet face is before me. Ah, Madge ! you were kind to me. I thought, in my hot youth I loved you ; but, my fair beauty, I never had one scintillation of the constant, deep passion I feel for this unknown girl. How kind you were to release me when you did i " was his mental ejaculation. 48 A Daughter of i^r. peter' s. CHAPTER VII. • Vane wandered restlessly from one scene to another the morning after the Model's dance on the Scala di Spagna. No painting for him that day. He found himself at the Sistine Chapel shortly after noon ; the day being a brilliant one, there was still a morning light in the chapel ; the hour was one which may be called between the acts ; for he was there alone with one drowsy custodian, who sat with his head almost between his knees, on a camp chair near the door. Vane came to have another look at Michel Ange- lo's wonderful fresco. An anecdote may not be amiss here ; first I quote from Eaton's Rome : " " It may be fanciful, but it seems to me that in this, and in every other of Michel Angelo's works, you may see that the ideas, beauties and particular excellences of statuary were ever present to his mind ; that they are the conceptiors of a sculptor embodied in painting. " St. Catherine, in a green gown, and somebody else in a blue one,aie supremely hideous, Paul IV in an unfortunate fit of prudery, was seized with the resolution of whitewashing over the whole of the Last Judgment, in order to cover the scandal of a few naked female figures. "With difficulty he was prevented from utterly destroying the grandest painting in the world, but could not be dissuaded from order- ing these poor women to be clothed in this most unbecoming drapery. Danile de Volterra, whom he employed in this office (in the life-time of Michel Angelo), received in consequence the name of II Braghet- toni (the breeches-maker)." A DAUGIITER OF ST. PETEIVS. 49 Michel Angelo avenged himself upon the master of ceremonies, or whoever it was who suggested this idea to the Pope, by painting him in hell, as Midas, with ass's ears. When he wanted himself white- washed out of hell, the Pope sarcastically replied : " I might have released you from purgatory ; but over hell I have no power." How deliciously sweet is such revenge ; like ripened fruit, whose very lusciousness causes it to fall from the tree. Oh ! the power of the caricaturist's pencil ! A celebrated anecdote is told in Brussels of the eccentric painter Wiertz, who made a portrait of a reigning beauty. When the portrait was finished the lady refused to take it, or pay for it, saying it was not in the least like her. "Very well, Madam; as you like." The artist then set to work and painted around that face a prison window, and across the face iron prison bars, and over it the words " Petits-Carmes," the name of the Brussels' Prison, and placed it in a con- spicuous window in Montague de la Cour. It is need- less to say the first price asked was paid after that. Vane was restless and impatient, and could not fix his attention upon any of the great works before him. He left the chapel and went to the gallery of modern pictures — the feeling of unrest still upon him — he felt inclined to find fault with everything — even Michel Angelo did not seem to him so glorious a 50 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. genius as hitherto. Why did the sun shine so pro- vokingly bright to-day, while he was uncertain about seeing his fair enchantress : he was at variance with the very elements, with all the world. " To-day will seal my fate ; to-day I shall know what manner of woman this is who has so enslaved me," he resolved. He wandered from one great picture to another, with the heedless and unknowing air of an unappre- ciative tourist, only bound to put in so much time ; nothing touched a responsive chord in his sympathetic nature ; he could only see before him a sweet young girl, standing within the golden circle of youth, with the glorious light of brilliant beauty surrounding her. At last the hour of four had come. Vane left the Vatican. Going down by the Scala Regia, he made a circle of the outside of the Basilica, then entered. He placed himself close against the monument of Maria Clementina Sobieski (who was wife of Charles Edward, the young pretender), and stood facing the west. He had only reached this spot when he took out his watch to see the time ; he was but an instant in doing so, and when he raised his eyes again, she and her hunchback companion were close beside him. " Evidently they have come here earlier than usual to-day," thought Vane, as he saw them cross straight A DA UGHTER OF S T. PE TER 'S. 5 1 in front of him. He watched until he saw them go up the centre aisle, then he headed them off, going quickly up the left, and looking back at them from different points of observation. He saw the look of admiration — nay — adoratior ! — with which the little monster regarded his lovely companion, and Vane's blood boiled. It bubbled over when the girl looked down affectionately upon the midget at her side, and patted him gently upon the breast, whereupon the creature seized her hand and passionately kissed it. She shook her head at him and made a moue, as she playfully waved him off with her open palm. When they reached the bronze statue of the first Pope, they lingered a few moments until a knight of the broom and mop, who was hastening to them, reached the spot. He lifted the little monster up to kiss the Pope's toe, then said something to the girl ; with her reply she gave a decided negative shake of her head, and Vane thought he detected a scornful curl of the lip. Vane hovered near and watched her every move- ment of natural grace, with her pretty dress, of some soft dove-colored material, hanging in straight folds from her waist to her ankles. On her slender feet, with high curved instep, she had red silk stockings and black morocco shoes, with quaint old silver buckles, and over her black wavy hair the costly man- tilla or kerchief worn the first day he saw her. 52 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. Feeling' sure they would .go straight to the high altar. Vane passed on to the back of the bronze Pope, but to his surprise they turned and came right upon him. She gave him one glance of recognition, and blushing a deep crimson went quickly to her usual place at the altar and knelt down. That look and blush left Vane in a tumult of tre- mulous joy, indescribable exultation, and a passionate desire to at once declare his love, for now he was sure he was deep in love. - Seeing her ever in the same place at the high altar, he said to himself: ** Sweet Ibidem^ you have found a place in my heart ; you will, I feel, be always there — in the same place." The girl went trembling to her usual station of devo- tion, with an inrush of strange emotions, caused by that meeting of their eyes. , ^ " Still from the sweet confusion some new grace Blushed out by stealth, and languish'd in her face." She did not look up again ; she could not trust her- self — and an hour ago her heart was as free as the air from heaven — now where was it .'' Caught up in a transport and given to a stranger ! She rose from' her knees, and without lifting her eyes from her folded hands, she walked slowly towards the Baptistery down the long left aisle with demure, outward calm, while within was the tumult of that new being enter- ing her soul and adjusting the magic manacles of A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 53 delight that bind a heart in the sweet thraldom of love's first grand passion. Not always is first love i\\Q grand passion of a life, nor even often; but with this daughter of St. Peter's it was to be the great love of her life. Vane placed himself in the same position he had taken up on entering the Cathedral, and waited ex- pecting every moment to see Ibidem — as he now called her — go to her favorite picture. It seemed to Vane he waited an unconscionable length of time, and Ibidem did not appear ; 'twas not two minutes in reality, but she had time to reach the Baptistery after he had taken his position. He turned to seek her ; she was gone, but the hunchback was before him. ' Vane gently touched the hunchback on his hump, when the creature turned as if he had been stung, and doubling up his puny fist struck Vane a fierce blow « fair in the stomach. Though his hand was small when doubled up, it was hard as iron. Vane summoned the best Italian he could think of to explain that he meant no offence, and only wished to ask where his companion was. The reply he got was a look of unutterable loath- ing and scorn. Vane felt like shaking the midget for the insolence of that look ; he would not resent the blow ; he could have crushed the creature with one hand and in an 54 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. instant ; he would not even speak harshly to him, for was not Ibidem evidently fond of the creature, and did not the hunchback evidently worship Ibidem ? The mystery was deepening, and the anxiety to solve it maddening. There.was some witchcraft in these sudden appear- ances and disappearances, Vane thought. ''I will now die in the attempt to find that girl! I shall come here to-morrow morning and go from dome to crypt until I find some trace of her. I'll ransack St. Peter's inside and out," said he. " By Jove ! I shouldn't wonder if she goes down some secret staircase, and gets out at the back some way. I'll make a more careful tour of the outside now to-night," and he left the Basilica. ^ He could find no trace o^ Ibidem. To-morrow as early as practicable he would begin in earnest — but now his ramblings brought him to the Palazzo del Santo' Ofifizio — the Inquisition. If those walls could speak/ perhaps to-day their tale of woe would be past beliefl '* The Archbishop of Memphis may still be languishing there," thought Vane. A young ecclesi- astical student was seized with the desire for high rank in the church, and sudden elevation to that rank. He imposed upon the Pope by writing to him letters, supposed to come from the Pasha of Egypt, saying a portion of his subjects wished to enter the Church of Rome, and asking that a suitable number A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 55 of priests be sent out to Egypt, and they would be received, provided a certain young student was made archbishop. After a great deal of consideration upon the unde- sirability of making such a youth an archbishop, the step was taken ; he was consecrated, and went with a large number of priests to Egypt. The temptation of converting the Egyptians to Christianity was, of course, a good reason for complying with the Pasha's request. When the ship arrived, the imposition was detected and the archbishop acknowledged the fraud, but hoped to escape by confessing to the Pope as a priest. He was arrested and brought back to Rome and, as Whiteside says : " As the youth had the rank of archbishop indelibly imprinted on him, nothing remained but to confine his Grace for the remainder of his life. Accordingly he was sent to this prison near the Vatican, whence he may find it difficult to escape." — (i860.) S6 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S, CHAPTER VIII. As Vane entered his hotel that evening, he saw a familiar face and form in a man looking through the hotel register ; he went up to him, and laying his hand on the man's shoulder in an assumed voice said : *' George Fairfax ! " The man gave a bound as if shot, then seeing Vane, exclaimed : "Vane Hamilton, by the Lord Harry! Why, Hamilton, I'm as glad to see you as if I'd lost a fifty dollar bill — and found it again of course " — and still holding Vane's hand, " how are you, old fellow ! '^ " All right, glad to see you. Are you putting up here?" , . " Well, no ; I guess I will, though, if you are locat- ed here." " I am ; come to my room and let's have a talk. I have not heard a word of New York gossip since I left there." George Fairfax was an old college chum of Vane's, a jolly, good-natured, warm-hearted, impulsive young man, head in all the games at college, and more cele- brated for his strength of limb and language than his A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 57 scholarly attainments. Vane had chosen a sun- shiny room at the very top of the high house for the commanding view, and as they were mounting the many flights of stairs, Fairfax panting on the way, exclaimed ; "By Jove! it takes the wind out of a fellow going heavenward at this rate. I say, Hamilton, I hope you'll mount the Golden Stairs with the same alacrity," as he saw Vane bounding up three steps at a time. , Vane put a light to the wood-fire that was laid. They drew up to the blaze and lighted their cigars. " Come now, Fairfax, tell me all about yourself first. How long have you been here .? " " What ? Here in Rome, or in Europe .'' " "Both, everything." " I came to Rome the night before last, and having found the best European hotels arc poor affairs compared with our American ones, I asked for the voy best, and was taken to Hotel Bristol ; 'twas near midnight. I went to bed by the gas-light of one candle. Next morning I wakened to find myself three feet from a stone wall outside the window and the barest surroundings possible. I had asked for a single room, and by Jove ! I got a singularly single one. Then in the dim light I read the rules of the house. No prison rules need have been harder. So I packed my gripsack and went to the office with 58 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. it and my blandest smile, and said : ' Wb.at a cheer- ful house ! How much per day ? ' ' T<2n francs for room, one for candle, two for attendance, and meals extra.* My smile raised him a five on me, I'm sure. So I spoke bad English, and told him his house was as cold as a barn in Montana at Christmas, and a good many etceteras, paid him for the room — or vault — and extras, and left." " You should reach these Italian towns by day- light. I like going to strange places in daytime and watching the gradual growing upon me of all that is so new," replied Vane between the puffs of his cigar. " But come, tell me what brought you here } " " I'm dear hunting." "Deer hunting! " . "Yes, d-e-a-r hunting," and he spelled out the word. '' Well, 'pon my soul, I thought you and Curtis were the only two of the boys of our time sure to escape heart affection." » " How about yourself ? I guess you'll find you are the only one of the three to escape, for Curtis has it bad. He's dead gone in love," said Fairfax with a laugh. . "You don't say so ! When I saw him hew'as cry- ing poverty, and was as sceptical about women as ever. A sharp one must have caught him." "Ha! ha! ha! I wish you could see her. A skim- milk Kentucky girl of eighteen, without any style, A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 59 and to mc, without beauty, but Curtis raves about licr, and no one dare say she is not beautiful. Her liair all in old-fashioned ringlets, two-button gloves, and prunella shoes with elastic sides; can you im- agine anything more antique, eh I " " Money at her back, I suppose." " No, there's the question, pure and unadulterated love. The Holmans spent last summer in the Kentucky liills with an aunt and this cousin ; and without leave or license that plucky old aunt pounced down on them this winter with Mary, and as Curtis is almost a daily visitor there, he could not miss seeing this girl. Funny thing that love is ; queen and peasant are alike subjected to its potency. You are the most likely to escape of any of us." Vane smiled as this was said, for while Fairfax was speaking, the face of Ibidem was smiling at him through the curling smoke and he was saying to himself :"If she had not entered my heart wath that glance of her lovely eyes, she would have jumped into it with those pretty feet and red stockings." Then the glance that met his again that day kindled a new light that was to tint his whole life, :ind he said to the curling smoke, with her image in It: "I see you always with my heart, my sweet love, I know you are as pure as an angel." Turning to Fairfax w^ith that happy smile he questioned him : " Tell me about your dear hunt, as you call it. Are you stricken too .'' " 6o A D AUG I ITER OF ST. PETER'S. ■ " Well, no ; not exactly. The girl has money, and I'm trying to love her for herself. You know I'm a poor devil, with only enough to keep a bachelor going. I came to England with Mignon just for a month ; then thought I would take a run to Paris and Monte Carlo. I soon had to get out of the lat- ter. I lost two thousand francs at roulette ; got two women in love with me and jealous of each other, and while they were pulling hair I skedaddled. I found I was eastward bound, so thought I'd come on to Venice to see the water front, and there, by Jove ! I met the dear I'm hunting. I was crossing the square of San Marco one fine morning, when I noticed in front of me a girl with a very pretty figure and a very large parcel in one of those rotten soft Italian newspapers. About the centre of the square, slit went the parcel, and out rolled the most conglomer- ated variety of articles you ever saw ! I went for- ward and offered assistance. In two minutes the girl was covered by the pigeons and surrounded by a gaping crowd of curious lazy beggars. I flung invec- tives and my cane after the begging thieves, and cleared the coast, after I had at first spread a large silk handkerchief over the poor girl's things. We began putting them in the handkerchief, when she explained that each purchase was so small she thought it was not worth while having it sent to her hotel, but the little things piled up so fast she couldn't hold them, so she A DAUGHTER OF ST, PETER'S. 6t had them made into one parcel. You should have seen them; pearl-shell purses; beads of all colors; dozens of yards of lace; a glass vase all in splinters; cream puffs, and candy, and the fiend that did the mischief, a little brass monkey papcr-weiijht. He was so heavy he broke a hole in the paper and caused the " razzle-dazzle " accident. I couldn't get a sheet of strong paper large enough to hold these things, and she wouldn't take my handkerchief, and there we stood — strangers — and almost quarrelling, because she would not tell me where she lived so I could send or take them home. At last I went into a i)icture store and bought a large sheet of drawing paper, and made a cone of it, and after sweetly thanking me, she walked off with her horn of plenty. Now, isn't that an expe- rience i " Well, rather. I suppose you fell in love with the girl on the spot," said Vane, thinking of the electric- fire from Ibidem's eyes that captured him at the first glance. " No, I didn't — that's the trouble. I wish I had, but circumstances are working that way. Mignon came on to Venice and took me to call on some friends one evening, and who should they be but her parents. I could see the governor did not approve of me ; thought I was too cheeky, I suppose, on first introduction to his daughter. Evidently he had heard nothing of our rencontre in the Piazza, and that 6a A DAUGHTER OF ST, PETER'S. inspired me with more interest in the girl. He's that rich crusty old Lindon. I'm not quite dead gone on the girl, but she's worth looking after, and here I am to look after her." " You are sure she is in Rome .<* " "Well, yes, pretty certain. I had a delicate little perfumed note from her through Mignon, saying she was sorry she could not see me again as they were leaving for Rome." " Pretty evident she regrets not having a chance to fall in love with you } " " Do you think so ? By Jove ! perhaps the girl has taken a shine to me. I hate the thought of being a fortune-hunter, but all avenues to sudden riches arc closed to me. I'm too heavy for a horse jockey — too short-winded for a base-ball player — no chance to become a bank cashier, and I must leave the golden path of literature to the copper-haired, swithering, swailing Virginian girl, who writes her burning words with a red-hot pen, and takes an occasional jump into the surging waters of the angry stream, with the swish of the rain, and swail of the storm-beaten boughs to cool her off," said Fairfax. Vane laughed at Fairfax's description of the ave- nues to wealth, and his almost evident modesty about the girl's note to him. Presently he said : "Well, now, Fairfax, you had better take a room here ; there is one next to mine vacant." A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 63 " I'd like jolly well to be near you, old boy, but I'll be d d if I'd mount those stairs every day to be next room to Queen Marg-uerite, and she's a devilish fine looking woman — a perfect daisy. I saw her driving- in the Corso to-day." *' Oh, well, suit yourself; but you'll take a room here, won't you ? " " Yes. I hope you will ' bum ' around with me to-morrow, Hamilton." " Not to-morrow. I have a very particular engage- ment, and it may take me all day — but after that I shall give you a portion of each day." " Suppose you're on a picture ; how many have you painted ? You've been here more than a month, haven't you ?" Vane laughed outright, and asked : " Do you think you could paint a house over plain in a month, all alone } " " I guess I could ; but I suppose you artist fellows are like some chess players, hang fire over a move or a color for hours," said Fairfax. 64 A DAUGHTER CF ST. PETER'S, CHAPTER IX. Next morning Vane was at St. Peter's at ten o'clock, it was a brilliant morning, and one of late October's balmiest of balmy days. All nature smiled and seemed to have wakened to a second spring. Vane felt the influence of nature and his soul bounded with a wild desire to meet Ibidem and clasp her to his heart and keep her there for ever. He felt that organ leap and sink within him as he thought of the uncertainty of such a future. It happened to be Thursday, when no pass was required to ascend the dome, and seeing an open door on the left he had not noticed before, Vane fol- lowed the little group, and found himself on the way to the wonderful roof of the Basilica. The homes of the San Pietrini who have lived there for generations are a sight of great interest; for to- day there is a family there, who have for four genera- tions been born upon the roof of the great Cathedral. Vane looked about him, taking in the view from every side, thinking nothing of the homes or lives of those people who live so far above the turmoil of the busy world, thinking only of his object in coming to A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 65 St. Peter's to-day ; he looked about with careless in- difference, not for a moment expecting to see Ibidem there, and then went up the narrow staircase leading to the dome. At the top of the first flight Vane stepped out upon a little balcony or rest, and looking down upon the roof he saw Ibidem with the dwarf at her side ; she was speaking to an Italian woman in her native tongue, and at the sound of her voice which he heard now for the first time, he felt the blood course through his veins in mad leaps. The staircase was so narrow only one person could ascend at a time, and visitors to the dome were slowly passing up ; he felt they all never would reach the top that he could descend ; to go on might be to lose her again, and that risk he would not take. She was a vision of youthful beauty in her white gown, with a silken Roman scarf across hersiioulders, and one bare arm lifted to brush back the stray short curls the gentle breeze wafted across her eyes. He was in an agonizing ecstacy as he looked down upon that lovely girl, with the glow of health and beauty upon her cheek, and the halo of golden youth surrounding her. Vane was recaptured and recap- tivated. What a mine of wealth lies in a woman's rounded arm, the wave of her hair, the smile upon her lip, the curve of her neck, or perchance the sound of her voice. Men have bartered wealth, life, heaven for one of those charms, and to-day Vane would give 8 66 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. all to clasp that beautiful arm. Yesterday it was her perfect foot — the glance from her eye. He was in a position to watch Ibidem and the staircase almost at the same time. At last they had all passed up. With a sigh of relief and a bound he was upon the first step — the next moment he lay senseless at the foot. The shrill pained cry of a woman rent the air, and for a moment caught the attention of the people still go- ing up to the top of the dome, then the fainting form of the beautiful girl was taken to one of the small houses and laid upon a couch of luxury a stranger would marvel at, were he permitted to enter; while Vane was lifted to a canvas stretcher and placed in a shady nook, to await the coming of a monk who had been sent for, and who was skilled in mcvliciiio and surgery. The Italian woman was bending over the girl, and in soothing caressing tones saying " Mcrlina ! Mcrlina ! look at me, your own Natalia," as she bathed her temples with a sweet subtly fragrant j^erfumc from a Venetian toilet bottle. At last the girl opened her eyes, and from between her pallid lips came the words in a hoarse whisper, as she convulsively clutched Natalia by the arm, " He's dead, he's dead, my God ! he's dead." " No, no ! dear, he is not dead, and, carissiina, what if he were dead } " said Natalia, wondering at the girl's strange words. A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. ^7 ''What if he were dead! did you say tliat, Natalia ? what if he were dead ? do you want mc to V\\\ yoii for saying such a thing-?" she exclaimed with her eyes dilating and her checks reddening. Just then Beppo stood without the open door — from which hung a silken curtain — and knocking on the sill, Natalia lifted the curtain. Merlina held up her tearful eyes to him, and with her pretty fingers . and hands talked to him in the language of the mutes, to learn that brother Paul had come and Vane was still alive. " He must be brought here, Natalia ! here, the best place we can give him, and I shall have a cot beside you," said Merlina in quick impulsive words, as she wound her arms around Natalia's neck. Hers was a nature that brings caresses and laughter out of every thing, with every motion a kiss. Even now Natalia could not suppress a smile as she said quite earnestly to her : ♦ "It must not be, dear child, what would father Eugenio say ? " " Dear mother Natalia, you will not refuse mc, I want it done before father Eugenio comes. Then it will be too late for h'm to deny me, you know it will, madre inia'* and she buried her face in Natalia's neck and patted her cheek, fairly dragging her outside, then back again and saying with suppressed excitement : "Madre carissima, do go and have him brought 68 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. here while I take what I shall need to your room. If you do not, I shall go myself and carry him in here." All this time the hunchback watched every motion, and from his beady eyes there shone a vengeful light. There was nothing for Natalia to do but obey. Merlina stood trembling with excitement and the desire to follow; at last the ominous sound of uncer- tain footsteps with a heavy burden approached, and two men entered for the first time this luxurious room, with the almost lifeless form of the uncon- scious Vane, who had a gash upon the side of his head where the hair had been cut away — a plaster applied and then a bandage. Merlina with pale lips and tearful eyes whispered : "On my couch, Natalia — put him on my couch ? " Natalia shook her head and knit her brows, but Merlina reiterated : " On my couch, I say ! " And gently those strong rough men moved Vane and placed him where they were directed, and bow- ing low to Merlina backed out of her little room. She gave her hand to Beppo to 1v ss as she waved him away, then sank down beside the couch which held Vane, and letting her head fall upon his shoulder, wept long and gently as if afraid to disturb him. Natalia was utterly dumbfounded. A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 69 What could it all mean? This child had never been outside the walls of the Basilica, save once when she took her as a little child to the portico steps, the day Pope Leo XIII. was elected. How well she remembered the fright of the child upon seeing the surging crowd of humanity, and the wild gesticulations and shouts of the people, and her re- mark when the Pope was pointed out to her. " He's so meagre, I don't like him." ■ She never wished again to pass the portals of the church, until she grew to be fourteen years old, and Beppo with his keen observation told heron his puny fingers of the music and the flowers of the Carnival time. She fretted to see all that was beautiful, but when tales of accident and death followed, she ceased to repine, and never again crossed the threshold of the Cathedral. 90 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S CHAPTER X. Brother Paul made several visits to the still unconscious Vane during the day, and at three o'clock in the afternoon Father Eugenio, as he was called by the San Pietrini, came as usual to give a lesson to Merlina. She watched for him as was her habit and ran to meet him, but not with the merry glad bound of yes- terday. Stooping to kiss her he said : ^' My Banihino looks sad to-day, what can have happened, sweet one ? " , " Oh, something dreadful ! come and see ? " And she led him to her door, to there behold what appeared the lifeless form of a strange man. Merlina looked anxious and uncertain — Natalia frightened and trembling. *' Natalia! what means this ? Is this the way you fulfil your trust as mother to this girl?" Natalia sobbed : " Reverend Father, I could not help it, I did not want it." *' No, she did not want it, but I made them put him here, and here he must remain until he is able to go from this place alone ! " said Merlina decidedly. A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. yi " Mcrlina ! " There was a volunc of questions in that utterance of her name. She turned to Father Eugenio and answered with a look which caused him to open his arms to her, and in that parental embrace whisper : " I know it all, poor child ! " Then the Father luigenio placed his hand upon Merlina's head and invoked a blessing. They passed out into the sunlight — Medina told her spiritual father all she had to tell, with downcast tearful eyes. He spoke no word of reproach, but gently said, " Merlina, sweet child, guard your heart, that you do not give too much for a poor return." Then calling Natalia, he said to her, " Look well to your charge, good Natalia ; and do not for a moment neglect your daughter. You understand .'' I shall arrange to have a nurse from the Benfratelli always with your patient — always." » Natalia curtesied, saying : " Yes, good father, I hear and obey." As the Reverend Father moved away with Mer- lina holding his hand, Natalia gave vent to her amazement : " Holy Virgin, Mother of Christ, tell me lia\ e they all gone mad ! has the millennium come "i has the Devil burst his bonds and destroyed all the saints in heaven, and left not one on earth to keep us from sin, When Father Eugenio permits this heretic 73 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. to stay here ? I know he is a heretic ; he has no rosary, no scapular, and praised be all the saints in heaven, he carried a very small Prayer-book. Brother Paul said it was Protestant ; and I burned it. I would not touch it. I stuck a fork in it when I knew what it was. Looking in the direction of Father Eugenio and Merlina, she said to herself again, "What arc they to each other? did ever any one see such love ? And now ! now ! are they not alike, may all the saints in heaven witness, but not till this minute did I ever see that same look in both. She's as beautiful as an angel and he as a Greek god." Standing as they did together with the same light on each they were a sight rarely seen : he in his perfect manhood with his classic head, refined face and strength of form, to which his priestly garments only added grace ; she in her perfect girlish beauty. Natalia truly said that he was as beautiful as a Greek god, and Merlina as fair as an angel. 4 DA UGIITER OF ST, PE TER 'S, 73 \i CHAPTER XI. Just seventeen years before the day Vane first saw Mcrlina kneeling at the high altar in St. Peter's church at Rome, Natalia Niato, the wife of one of the San Pietrini — which is the name given to the work- men who live upon the roof — was made a mother and childless in the same hour. The morning her baby died Father Eugenio performed the matin service of prayer to the San Pietrini, and learned of Natalia's condition and prayed with her. The young mother was inconsolable at the loss of her baby. The second night after the death of her baby, whose body was laid upon a table at the foot of Natalia's bea — with candles around its head, and many flowers from the Vatican garden about it — ^just where she could see it from where she lay ; a monk with bare feet and belt of hempen cord and hood drawn well over his face came to the bedside of Natalia with a basket on his arm. He knelt beside her bed and prayed for her speedy restoration to health — and he did not appeal to the Virgin Mary or to the Saints to intercede for her, but direct to his " Father in heaven, who hath the power, and is Lord of all." She raised herself upon her 74 ^t DAUCIITRR OF ST. PETER'S. elbow to get a better look at one who made such a strange invocation, but not a feature was disclosed. He rose from his knees, passed down to where the dead baby lay, crossed its forehead, then placed the basket he had brought upon the bed beside Natalia, and silently left. The sick woman thought it was nothing more than wine or fruit from some monastery garden, and for some moments did not examine the contents of the basket. At last she thrust in her hand — it came upon something soft and warm ; in great surprise she made an effort to find the meaning of the strange sensation that touch caused her, and pulling away the cover of costly silk and down, to her eyes was dis- closed an infant, new-born, as her own was yester- day morning. The child gave a little helpless cry, and Natalia lifted it from the basket and placed it to her breast. Now she knew the meaning of the words the Brother had uttered in that prayer, to " God in Heaven, to spare her, and for the dead was given the living, which would be to her a spiritual and temporal blessing, which she must receive and care for and nurture with more than a mother's care, and she should have an earthly and heavenly reward." In pressing this warm, living child to her breast, she for a moment forgot the baby boy lying dead at her feet, and her heart went out to the helpless stranger so mysteriously entrusted to her. A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 75 Soon after daylight in the morning, when the Sister came from the Convent of Saint Cecilia to look after her patient, Natalia, with flushed cheeks and a feverish brightness in her eyes, showed Sister Libentina the baby the Lord had sent her by an un- known messenger the night before. The gentle Sister was no less surprised at the quality of the clothing sent with the child and the hundred franc note pinned to the clothing, than she was at seeing the infant at Natalia's side. It was now all important that Natalia's condition be made one of special care; as her excited state might lead to some serious drawback in her restora- tion to health. She was given a sedative, and while asleep her own baby was removed and buried, and rarely ever spoken or thought of again. When Sister Libentina removed the infant from the sleeping Natalia, she found sewed to the child's gown the following letter: " To the good Signora Natalia Niato : '' To you is given the sacred charge of a child, who is to be kept from tlie world without being placed within convent walls. You will receive every week one hundred francs for services and board on behalf of your charge. A reverend Father will be appointed as spiritual protector — counsellor for you and educator of the child, should it live. To him will be given the authority to provide for the child's necessities, and pay you the sum named, and whosoever may give you the hundred francs one week from today will be the Reverend Father chosen by the surviving parent of little Merjina.*' Sister Libentina was full of curiosity, as she natu- rally would be, and thought : 76 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. " How rich Natalia will be, how little it will take to maintain that child for years to come; if that infant had been sent to us we could have reared it '' just as well, and what good we could have done v/ith that money ! Fortunate Natalia." A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. >j'j CHAPTER XII. Twenty-five years before Vane first beheld Mer- jina, to whom he had ^nven the name of Ibidem, from liavin^ always seen her in the same i)lace, there was at the University of Turin one Felice Euj^^enio Gran- tini, a descendant of the Grimaldis, a promising young student, preparing to take his place among the statesmen of Italy. During a vacation holiday to Genoa, young Gran- tini met and fell in love with Elena, the daughter of Count Paganini, who was of the house of Doria. The celebrated feuds between these two families had long since ceased, but in the breast of Count Paganini there lurked as great a hatred as had ever been manifested between the two houses in the 13th century ; and when he saw the growing attachment between his beautiful daughter and a son of the house of Grantini, he vowed a union should never come of it. Elena and Eugenio contrived to meet at the houses of mutual friends and evade the survcillaftce of Count Paganini, who was a widower and well stricken in years, and whose household were all in sympathy with the young lovers, who swore undying love and loyalty to each other. ^ 78 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. Elena, knowing her father could find no good cause of objection to her lover, declared she would remain true to him, and marry no other, saying to her father : " Is not his rank equal to ours, his wealth greater, and is he not already making a name for himself as a brilliant scholar, and what more, father, do you want ? " *' I hate the name ! they have always been enemies to our house, not only in the olden time, but in the life of my grandfather. A Grimaldi wronged a woman of my house, and I shall not let a daughter of mine take one hour's happiness to the life of any Guelf ; so remember you shall not marry this Gran- tini, though he were a crowned king." "Dear father, I shall wait as long as you say, if at last you can be prevailed upc^n to consent, for, father dear, I love him more than I do my life, and you do not want to kill me, do you ? You know I shall not leave you while you live, if you will only say you will relent and that I may hope," and she wound one soft young arm about his neck, placed her fiir cheek against his, and with her dainty jeweled fingers combed out his thin grey hair, while he kept his head bent and his eyes from meeting hers as he answered : "Well, if you're so determined about it, 1 shall try to think of the best thing to do." " You dear, kind father, I knew you could not be A DAUGHTER OF ST. PF.TER'S. 79 SO cruel, and make all my life unhappy," said Elena as she left her father. Now she was clothed in the bright golden garments of hoi)e, which were not destined to grow threadbare by the lapse of time — they were to drop from her suddenly in a heap of useless, tattered rags. Count Paganini was a general in the Italian army, and late in life married. Ilis wife died in the infancy of Elena, who was educated at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Milan. Count Paganini rarely saw his child from the time she was placed with the Sisters at the age of seven, until she emerged from the convent at seventeen, and took her place at the head of his establishment, scarcely a year before the time she was pleading with him on behalf of her lover. I'Aigcnio Grantini was the eldest son of Count Grantini, of Turin, who was a polished statesman and diplomatist, and he was taking a course of studies to fit him for the same iKjsition in which his father had distinguished himself While Elena was buoyed up with the hope of a reconciliation on her father's part and a consent to her marriage, there was on the way from V^ienna an old friend of her father's, who had visited Genoa six nic Viii.'. piTviously, and had remarked the youthful charms of the Count's fair daughter. He was far jjast middle age and of IJismarckian disposition, for 8o A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. he told Count Paganini that he admired his daughter, and if he made up his mind to marry her he would certainly do so. To save her from Eugenio, her father intended to sacrifice her to General Oberstein, who arrived at Genoa that evening. The next morning Elena went early to mass with her maid to the Church of San Lorenzo. While she was kneeling at the altar, her father and General Oberstein approached, a priest came forward and began reading the marriage ser- vice. She stood upon her feet, looked about to see what it all meant, and as the service went on her father placed her hand in that of the General's, and before she realized her position, or had time to pro- test, she was legally the wife of General Oberstein. There followed a silence that is more expressive than words in a time of trial and great anguish ; then without a sound Elena was carried in a dead swoon from the church, placed in a carriage with her maid, and whirled off to the station and on to Vienna without change or stoppage. Elena recovered from one state of insensibility to be plunged into another. She refused food or wine, and when they reached Vienna she was in a raging fever, and Maria, her maid, in a flood of tears. They were driven quickly to* General Oberstein's house, and a physician called in. After fluttering to and from the portals of death for six weeks, life took A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 8l fast hold of Elena and held her to a world she longed to leave. When the greyness of dissolution seemed near, the smile of hope illumed her beautiful face — then the giant life would catch her for a brief space, and a living death seemed before her — the greater giant death she prayed might be the victor. She lived to rise from that bed etherialized, and moved about more like a spirit than human flesh. Her heart was dead within her — a sapless, aching, heavy, life-giving thing — " would that it had ceased its life pulses at the very altar," was her hopeless cry. Maria became homesick, and when her young mistress recovered, she begged to go back to Genoa, for she had a lover there. Elena, knowing the pangs of a hungry heart, at once consented, sending her back by way of Turin, that she might see and tell Eugenio, as only she could, every circumstance of the fateful marriage. Count Paganini died six months after his daughter's marriage, which filled Elena with a fresh despair — not so much because he died, but because, had she not been bound in marriage to General Oberstein, she would have been free to marry Eugenio. Up to this time she could not be induced to accept invita- tions ; now she was in mourning and not expected to enter society. Just two year after her dismal marriage, she threw off her mourning and plunged with apparent abandon 82 A DAUGHTER OP ST. PETER' 3. into the vortex of fashionable society — was the leader of the gayest set — the toast and belle of every social gathering — the most daring rider, the most fearless driver as she whirled through the park, with her spirit- ed black thoroughbreds. When not laughing — a ring- ing, gentle laugh, lacking the timbre of happiness — her face was shadowed by the sad sweetness of a past regret. Madame la Comtesse Oberstein was a mys- tery. Mrs. Grundy settled the mystery by saying: " Madame must have a lover, who is he ? She can- not have learned to love her old husband ! " Then with characteristic energy that old gossip set to work to find the supposed lover. He was never • discovered, so again she raised up her voice in sur- prise : " 'Tis her husband ! ^ The old war horse has stormed the citadel of her heart and victoriously marched in." So the conclusion was reached, and society accepted it, and found no fete complete unless graced by the spiritual beauty of the elegant young Countess, whose plunge into gay life rescued her from herself. She was thus saved from seeing the bareness of her inner life. The hideousness of a life that is incomplete ; like a face wanting (.no feature, or the earth without verdure. How bald is a life with- out happiness ! Who can hide its gauntness from ., himself? The mysterious AVorld that each breast ! carries through life can never be reached by any save the owner. A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 83 Elena was endeavoring to wall in that mysterious world of hers beyond the penetration of her own thoughts. It was a hard task. Thoughts of Eugenio were lines of gold in a dark sky, for though womanly in her passion she was as pure as an angel. Of admiration she had her meed, but not one throb of human love had she for any but Eugenio, who had chosen a life which divided them more utterly than anything save death. 84 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. CHAPTER XIII. When Eugenio came to Genoa from Turin, after Elena's sudden departure, he found no one who could give him any clue to her whereabouts. The sus- pense was terrible. Still it did not cause such keen anguish as the announcement of her marriage in the Vienna Court Jouriial^ which was made as soon as her recovery from brain fever was certain. The bright temple of happiness which hope had raised up for his future lay shattered at his feet in fragments of inky blackness. The ruin seemed to include his very soul, and made him feel that death was his most familiar friend, and he a walking gaunt emblem of sorrow — a living death. Like Elena he cried out for that other death, for which he would hold out his arms in welcome — the death that draws a curtain over all earthly sorrows as it brings back youth and beauty to the inanimate form of clay, smoothes the lines of care, and beatifies the de- parted one. Eugenio showed no frenzy of grief, only his heart sank within him ; his features took a soul- hungry, heart-pinched look; grey rings formed around his eyes, and from a buoyant, hopeful youth A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 85 he was transformed into a man of sorrow and care. The iron that pierced his soul was hot and barbed with the thought of Elena's infidelity, for his mind was filled with the conviction that she had wilfully forsaken him, and there came no sign that such was not the case. Two months of bitter, silent anguish, and Maria came. She told him the true story of her young mistress's strange marriage, of the tender, loving words addressed to him in her delirium. But she brought no message. Eugenio resolved to enter a monastery. What was the world to him now .-* a desert of dry ashes — withered leaves — no spot of green in that dry waste. Nothing but the church would bring peace to his troubled soul ; so, " like the hart that seeks the fountain with a dagger in its breast," he began a course of theological study in opposition to the wishes of his family, who knew he was so well fitted by heritage and talent for diplomacy. When Elena heard that he had taken priestly vows, she plunged recklessly into the stream of fashionable life, to keep the sound of "it might have been " from ringing constantly in her ears. The turning-point in her life was before her like a tower- ing mountain looming up so close, while her every- day life went murmuring on like a laughing rivulet to the beholder, like a troubled sea of hopeless repinings to herself. 86 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. As Elena sought the whirlpool of gaiety to drown her grief, Eugenio sought the church in hopes that a religious life would influence his future to the forget- fulness of his great sorrow. After Eugenio Grantini was ordained, the Holy- Father, Pius IX. showed him great favor. His scholarly attainments were generally recognized ; the polish of his high-bred manners and dignified bearing, combined with his wealth and family influ- ence to advance him in his chosen calling. He had not been long in the church before he found that the waters of Lethe did not flow more freely there than in the world of earthly ambitions. He longed for independent seclusion or more strenuous activity. After being a year in Rome he built a villa in the Sabine Hills, about twelve miles from Rome, in the centre of a beautifully wooded district and at a high elevation. The design was half-modern, half-ancient. The side facing the Via Adriana was a dead wall, save for the large double doors which open to let a carriage into the outer court. When the second pair of doors was passed, which did not admit a carriage, one seemed to enter fairyland. In the centre of the court a fountain plays in the sunlight, tossing diamonds in the air. Every rare exotic fills the space that is not covered with rugs and couches of wicker, plush and leather that suit every temperature from the bright noontime to the fading day. On A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 87 the first floor luvX to tlic north and cast, tlic rooms around this court arc furnished in wicker and bam- boo, thin lace draperies with pink and blue satin hangings dividing tiiem from the sleeping rooms adjoining. On tiie floor alcove and where the set- ling sun lingers, smiling at the lengthening days, are found rooms in the richest luxury of plush and skins and open fires, with views looking over the classic towers and ruins of centuries, Tivoli and the Villa of I ladrian with its beautiful grounds and historical surroundings, through vine-covered slopes to the winding waters of the Tiber. This is where luigenio sought to hide his longing for that human love which he now felt, was his most absorbing thought ; but here a greater restlessness than before came over him, for he knew his heart was not in his work. He was not long in possession of his new home — or retreat as he called it — a retreat known only to himself, when the Holy Father summoned him to his presence, and told liim to prepare for a journey to Greece on diplo- matic service. At first the thought was pleasant ; he would be absorbed in other work, and new ideas would fill his mind. He was not long upon his mission, and was return- ing quite pleased with his success, when on the voyage a young Greek girl, w4io was going to Sicily to seek an aunt whom she had never seen, and who was not expecting her, and a Greek youth on his 83 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. way to the vineyards of France, asked Eugenio if he would marry them, frankly telling him they could not pay anything. He became very much interested in the young couple, and finding they were honest and ingenious, ofiered them work in his service. They joyfully accepted the offer, knowing him only as a Reverend Father. Speaking only the Greek language, they were very dependent upon Eugenio for everything. They were happily installed in the " Hermitage" midst the Sabine hills, and thanked the Virgin Mary each night and morning for their comfortable hoine. They reverenced Eugenio as their spiritual father and loved him as their benefactor and master. A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S, 89 CHAPTER XIV. The Holy Father was so pleased with the manner in which Eugcnio performed his mission in Greece, that the year after he was sent to Spain to procure a valuable manuscript in the Valiladolid library. Having t»btained the required paper, he pressed on to Avila, to see a city said to have been founded nearly seventeen hundred years before the birth of Christ, by the mother of Hercules. He was deeply interested in the ancient cathedral, whicii is at once the entrance gate, the fortress and the principal church of this strange city. The tur- rcttcd city walls and the battlcmented cathedral are silent commentaries of a warlike past. The dirty streets are moreover so narrow, that one must seek the protection of a door arch to let a panier-laden donkey pass, or a woman with two pails of water suspended from a yoke. The greyness of the stone walls and pavements is relieved by the bright scarlet coats of the military students, and the squares bright- ened by the chattering of the gaily dressed serving maids, drawing water from the centre fountain with long tin tubes into their stone water jars, which 90 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. makes a picturesque scene. All day the promenade has an air o{ do Ice far niatfc. Men in sombrero hats of soft felt pulled over their eyes, and voluminous cloaks covering them entirely, lie sleeping on the benches and grass in the sun. Suddenly they awaken as the military band strikes up its martial music in the early evening, and all " the beauty and fashion of the town " come with a sprightly outburst to see and be seen. Red-coated military men and f^iir mantillaed sirens of Avila dart from their fine eyes shafts th.it make each other tremble. The scene for the moment interested Eugenio. As he paced that promenade, with a divine of Avila on either side of him, he saw not the admiring glances cast at him. He paid a hasty visit to the Escurial, hoping to get as far as Granada and take ship from the Soutli back to Italy. At Madrid he was met by an order from the Holy Father, that in three days he must leave for Paris. He was not sorry to shorten his stay here, for Madrid is not impressive with its dry river bed — an arid white stream crossed by many bridges,— its glaring sun, piercing winds and look of newness and its ugly Royal Palace, the centre of a glaring dust heap as it were. The magnificent pic- tures in the Royal picture gallery and the bull fights are the greatest attraction ; he saw them, then was impatient to move on. When he had no duty to perform, no interest in the place, he was ever restless, A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 91 and eagerly complied with a retjuest to take part in the funeral ceremonies of a bishop at Toledo. The second day he went to attend the funeral. Toledo, the rock upon a rock, towers up like a pyramid from the surging waters of the Tagus which nearly surround it, leaving one narrow approach from the land side, which is defended by Moorish towers. The funeral procession of a church dignitary in Spain is a strange and impressive sight. The body lies upon an open bier uncoffined— with a silken canopy over it,---arrayed in the richc.-^L robes of office, a mitre upon the head, and a crucifix held in the lifeless hands before its face, the body swaying with every motion of the bearers. Bishops, priests and deacons in full official robes, choir boys in scarlet gowns, with immense lighted tapers, and people of every degree following ; in many cases bearing lights. At Toledo, where he had an opportunity of visiting one of the richest churches in the Catholic world, rich in treasure, art and historical associations. The hasty run through Spain made Eugenio for a time forget the ever-absorbing desire, of his life — the wish to bury his earthly love or himself. If he could forget Elena, how earnestly he could work with undivided affection for the holy cause. While she was alive and breathing the same air, being warmed by the same sunshine, he could not banish her, and he had made up his mind to confess it to the Holy 93 A DAUGHTER OF ST, PETER'S. Father. He regretted having to leave Spain with- out seeing the magnificent cathedral at Seville and the impressive Alhambra of Granada. His social triumphs would have been delectable food for a man of fashion and the world ; to him they were a soap bubble, empty, light, anJ only for an instant flashing bright. The magic loveliness of Elena haunted him here and everywhere, and he wailed : " I scourge my flesh, I fast, I pray, But in each moment of each day, ' Between myself and heaven I trace '' The shadow of a saintly face, Oh, who can blame me for the sin Of musing on what might have been ? " But a great surprise awaited the troubled priest. No sooner had Eugenio reached Paris than he heard of the death of General Oberstein. Now nothing could calm his restless heart. He sought prayer and pardon for the thoughts that filled his breast, but only confusion came of it. Finally he resolved to sever the bonds that bound him to the Church, and claim Elena for his bride, as soon as his present mission was fulfilled. A DA U CUTER OF S T. PE TER 'S. 93 CHAPTER XV. General Oberstein's death was sudden. When Elena realized that she was free, and Eugcnio bound as she supposed irrevocably to the church, her despair was frantic, her reason in danger. Her cry was : " O death, I pray you, silence my throbbing heart, hide the vision that haunts me from my longing eyes." " Christ's pardon for the thoughts that still Confuse my soul against my will " she prayed. As Eugenio was bound to the church, so she deter- mined upon entering a convent, as nothing but a religious life could mantle her sorrow — her despair — from the world and herself. Again society put up a bulletin. " The Countess Oberstein did love her husband, her grief is inconsolable," As soon as General Oberstein's funeral was over, Elena went to Paris, with the intention of entering the Carmelite convent, whose rigid rules would give her the seclusion for which she yearned. France, she thought, would not recall one scene of her past life, but would make that past appear in the retrospect "a false and evil dream." 94 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETE/! 'S. She arrived in Paris tiic day before Euj^enio and went direct to a friend in the Boulevard Saint Ger- main. Her friend, Madame d'Argenson, whose salon was the resort of the artistic, literary and scientific men and women of Paris, was entertaining that evening a coterie of leading !:;T^hts, among whom was Abbe Capet. Madame d'Argenson told the abbe of her guest; who was weeping alone in an upper room, while the gay throng were having their war of wit and laughter in the salon. Eugenio, upon his arrival in Paris, went to the presbytery of St. Etienne du Mont, over which church Messire Capet presided. During the progress of a generous dinner, the good wine led the talk of these pious men to earthly affairs, and the bright, witty Madame d'Argenson came in for some worldly criticism, without a tinge of heavenly charity, for about this board were gathered six holy men. Then the abbe gave the story as he heard it from Madame, of the beautiful young countess who was about to enter the Carmelite sisterhood. The wine was flowing too warmly through the veins of the other five divines, to notice the death-like pallor of Eugenio when he heard Elena's name, nor did they hear the gasp of a fainting man as he, with a strong effort, kept from swooning. That night sleep did not for a moment visit the eyes of Eugenio. The blackness around him seemed A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. 95 pierced with faint streaks of liopcful light; the sun- light of happiness was penetrating the iron shroud of despair, a strange thrill of joy shook his frame; he fell across his bed in a swoon, and in that instant the past was cancelled. He awakened to find himself in a transport of joy- ful hope. As he joined the abbe next morning, though his cheeks were pale and his eyes sunken, there was an elasticity in his step, a glad light in his eyes, when he said ; "I must crave one day's immu- nity from clerical duty, which I hope you will grant ? I do not feel equal to-day to enter upon the Holy Father's work." " Of course ! of course ! it is grnnted." Eugenio set out early to watch the house of Madame d'Argcnson, lest Elena should leave it. He did not care to announce himself before noon, knowing the habits of the Parisians, aid the certainty of not seeing her be- fore the late breakfast if she were not going out. The time seemed interminable to him as he waited and watched from a square opposite. At last a carriage drove round to the door, and soon a lady came down the high steps and drove off. The uncer- tainty of suspense threw a mist over the garish bright- ness of his longing hope, as he feared lest she might have already gone where he should not see her that day and perhaps never again. Moments seemed ex- panded into years. He knew the <\Ay had begun at 96 A DAUGHTER OF S7: PETER'S. Madame d'Argcnson's — he crossed the street and with his heart beating high, rang the door bell. " Is Madame la Comtesse Obcrstein in ? " "Yes, father," with a low curtsey; "you will find her here," and the servant opened a door, which he closed immediately. With one faint cry Elena rose to her feet with out- stretched arms. Another moment and Eugenio was clasping her closely, while she clung to him with equal fervour. He held her to him in silence — a silence loaded with sympathy and deep joy — while she, woman-like, found vent for her emotion in tears and caresses. It seemed to them as if life were suspended, and they were enveloped in the bright, silvery clouds of hope, happiness, and love. At last Eugenio said in a low, tender tone : " Sweet Elena, your love is mine still." " My beloved, I wish I had all the music of this world, all the tuneful songs of praise in heaven mingled in one voice to tell you how I love you — how I have always loved you," she replied in a whisper. " And so you have thought of me in all the gay life you have been living," he rejoined, as he still clasped her closely to his breast; "you wished for me sometimes ? " *' I felt it no sin to wish for you, Eugenio ; I felt it only sin to live as I have done — loving you." J DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S, 97 They niiirinurcd of tliclr love, their sorrow, tlio exquisite despair of a month ago — the exquisite joy of the present moment. Then suddenly remembering his vows to the church, Elena said in a soft, low, complaining tone of mingled joy and sorrow : " You are not free ! Can you free yourself, Eugenio ? " For passion had taught her in a moment what experience takes a lifetime to teach. In trembling words of passionate love he said : "I shall free myself from all bonds that separate me from you, my beloved, my life, my all." Elena's questions flocked upon him hke the pigeons at Venice upon scattered corn. At last the great problem of their future must be solved. It was one of grave significance to both. They had paid the debt of the five years of wretched- ness in those few hours of bliss, and they determined to part no more. " Elena, I must make you my wife now in the sight of God. We cannot compromise with sin — we can- not part. Later man can ratify a marriage that will be pure and holy. What say you, my sweet } \ will leave this work of the Holy Father unfinished if you but murmur a wish for me to do so." " No ! no ! Eugenio. Finish your work, and when it is done we shall speak of marriage and casting off tlic yoke that binds you to the church," said Elena. 4 98 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S, "Tliat will not do, sweet one. Witliin tlic liour you must vow to me in the sight of God to be my wife. Ours must be a reh'gion of love as well as a love of religion, a sweet, secret love, sanctified by our honesty to each other and the purity which, as the just God knows, is governing our hearts. I see but one little cloud — that it must be unratified by the words of man." Seeing that Elena remained silent, he said : "'Do you consent, or must I give up my work .'' I shall barter everything but life for you now." " I consent," she whispered. With solemn tones Eugenio spoke the words of the marriage service, and again Elena was a wife un- der the strangest circumstances. He pressed her closely to him, kissing her upturned face. His strong frame trembling with deep emotion as he said ; " My own, my true, my beloved wife." The girlhood had gone out from the beautiful face of l^lena in the five years since Eugenio had seen it, but it was none the less beautiful. The mobile mouth was the same, though the smile was more sad ; there was the same soft, waving hair. The dark, liquid, brown eyes, to which the dancing love-light had just returned after those long years of absence, were the same in which years before he had read his fate. In fact, Elena was more beautiful as woman than she had been as maiden. j4 DAVCIITER of ST. PETER'S. 99 CHAPTER XVI. The day after Eugcnio aiul Elena had that iiKist extraordinary interview, he had to ap[)ear before a council of the church, to gain what intimate knowl- edge he could of the state of Paris in that time of tumult and rapine, that winter of untold suffering, 1870-71. He had to hear the personal experience of those of his brethren who had gone about among tho children of the Pope, to alleviate their pains, cheer and encourage them to be true and brave and fight manfully for their country and their religion. The eloquence of the Holy Father's ambassador electrified his hearers ; his heart was attuned to kind words — the echo of his own affectionate feelings for all mankind at that time. The Abbe Capet looked at him in astonishment, then thought ; *'Oh, he's a young enthusiast, he has not been face to face with the exigencies of war, nor has he become hardened to seeing pain and suffering, but he has an earnest magnetic eloquence, and the Church should be proud of him." To-day Eugenio soared from earth, he seemed to be floating upon clouds of golden mist with a sweet 100 A DAUGIirKR or ST. PETER'S. fcice in every wave oi vapor ; he fairly exulted in his sweet and happy secret. He ling"ered on in Paris, because he had no com- mand from the Holy l^^ithcr to return, and he had some secret office of the church at Rome that could not be hastily performed, and he did not try nor wish to hasten, for besides the happiness of knowing Elena was there in Paris, the wild tumult that shook P^rancc to its foundation at that time excited in him an inter. :c interest. At last the danger approached like ;in in-coming tide, the sound of revelry was hushed, and people fled through every outlet from Paris, or remained to see its street,; flowing in streams of human blood. Madame d'Argenson took the last train out for England, and PLlena and luigenio the last one to Italy. In the intense excitement of their hasty departure, they forgot to ask each other as to their respective destinations. Those remaining in the beleaguered city were near upon the verge of starvation. Brave, kind men sent away their wives and cliildren, and remained behind to feed and warm the famine-stricken creatures, some of whom had revelled in luxury and wealth a few short weeks before, but were now glad to share the pittance doled out to the starving poor. Men there are to-day in Paris who carry the im- press of that terrible siege in lines of care upon their faces — sensitive natures who, while their wine lasted, A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S, Toi allowed no suppliant to j^o unnourishcd, or while there was a chair or table to burn, suffered none to shiver unwarmed. Only the beds were spared, that the sick and dying" mii^ht recline if they could not be Eugenio, by being masterful, and offering gold generously, procured for Elena a place in a first-class carriage on that last train, amidst the clamor of desperate men — the terror of frightened women, and the helpless wail of innocent children. It took two da)'s and two nights to reach Rome, and the third evening at dusk Elena and Eugenio were driving to the Hermitage. She had no idea of the scene through which she was passing, nor the goal which she was reaching — even the dismal blank wall that confronted her in the dark caused her no quiver of trepidation. She felt a delightful surprise upon em- erging from the outer darkness into the bright beauti- ful inner court, with its rare Etruscan lamps — its jars of porphyry filled with sweet-smelling flowers, and Palissy vases full of fresh cut roses. The rare hang- ings of Gobelin tapestry, rugs from Turkey and skins fi'om Russia, all showed the artistic taste of tlie owner. Eugenio, seeing her look of wonder, said : " The thought of you, darling, was with me always, while I was gathering about me what you see. You were always with me in spirit ; and, now that I have 102 A DAUGHTER OF ST. TETER'S. you here in the flesh — shall }'oii be happ}-, ni}- sweet wife, secluded from the world ? " " Happy, oh ! Eugenio, happy as the condemned soul who finds himself in heaven when he iiad lost all hope." " But remember, dear, no repinin^^. When you will, you shall be proclaimed the honored wife of a proud husband." " I shall remember, and when I wish to have other society than yours, tremble for your laurels, my dear 1 >> love. Like children they went from room to room, while she expressed her c^ladness at every fresh surprise. Then lie led her to the stairs which they ascended hand in hand, and came to his study with its rich crimson plush hangings and velvet carpet nearly covered with skins of tiger, deer and bear, and an open welcoming fire of fragrant wood burning on the hearth. "Now, dear, throw off your wraps." "I forgot I had not done so," she replied. " I did not forget it, but fearing you might feel the lower rooms chilly, I waited for you to reach my sanc- tum — now, sweet Elena, I give you welcome to our home amidst the Sabine hills, and may God grant us a long and happy life." Six precious blissful months of true happiness had been passed by Elena and Eugenio at the llermi- A DAUGHTER OF ST. rUTER'S, 103 tage in the Sabine hills, wlicii he asked her if ishe was happy or longed for the world. For tJKnigh honors had been crowding u{)on him, and soon he would be elected a cardinal — still he was reaily at any time to proclaim his marriage and his happiness to his fellow men if only she expressed the wish. " I feel only the time when you are away," she said. " Think not, dearest, of me, I am happy. If you feel that you are of use to the Holy Father, do not withdraw your services for me. You know T was on the eve of secluding mj-self from the world because I loved you. So should I not be happy now that I have you } luigenio, you are my world, my life." " And you, sweet IClena, are everything to me. You see I love you more than Church or Pope or life itself, more than in the days of hot youth, with its flashing" flames of effervescent passion. Those have died away and left the red coals that give a perma- nent warmth." When they had been a year married and Elena was about to become a mother, the Holy F\ather detected an expression of more than common happi- ness in the foce of luigenio. The Poi)e noticed ever since his return from Paris a different expression and air about him — a manner almost of indifterence to affairs connected with the Papal Court. There were those about the person of the Holy P'ather who would gladly have discovered soir.e cause for interrupting I04 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. the friendly and even affectionate relationship bet- ween him and his favorite canon, and who at this time hinted at some undercurrent of disloyalty on the part of Eugenio. Tliey could not nuke out the cause of his almostboyishly exuberant gaiety. From an ascetic he had become in their eyes a sybarite. The Holy Father at this time said to Kugenio: ** Beloved son, I fear your successes at foreign courts have made you indifferent — have puffed you up with a wordly pride you must not indulge in." Then, smiling benignly, the kind old man continued, " What causes the change in j'ou ? " *' Holy and Reverend F.ithcr, if you will permit me to ask one question of you to-day, and will wait until to-morrow for the answer to your last question, I will speak." ** Speak, dear son."' " Most Holy and Reverend Father, can it not be that men like me can as well serve God and the Church while cherishing a human love ? " The Pope shot one electric glance at Eugenio, as he flashed upon him the answer ; " No man can serve two masters — God and Mam- mon ! " Eugenio was silenced for a moment ; then he re- plied : *' But it has been so, Holy Father.'* ** Ah, but it cannot be again. Prelates and even A DAUGHTER CF ST. PETER'S. 10$ Popes have openly s'nnccl in sensuality; to do so now — apart from tiic enormous sin —would be to pull the very foundation from under the true Church, which needs all the earnest piety of its lessening up- holders to keep it standinf^." Then, laying his hand upon Eugcnio's shoulder, he said : "Dear son, cast out this worldly affection from your heart ; rid yourself of all earthly ties, and put yourself, heart and soul, into the work of your Heavenly Father. To-morrow I shall hear what you have to say. Pray earnestly to be released. Adieu." That night Elena died in giving birth to Merlina, and next day the Pope saw in Eugenio's face that he had given up his earthly attachment, and read in every gesture and look that it had been a hard and death-like struggle. '' You need not speak, dear son. Your tale is told in silence. You have obeyed ; you shall be re- warded ! " Little the Holy Father knew of the bitter anguish that could not be altogether masked — the hopeless cry of a bereaved heart. The world can pity and sympathize with fellow- beings who are in physical pain, hunger or distress, but who can minister to a starving heart, or alleviate the sorrow that death causes — the hopeless, joyless, void — the loss of everything that makes life dear ? Let us pass over the deep, silent, hopeless anguish of Eugenio's bereavement. io6 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. His changed manner \vas attributed to tlie sacrifice of what — the Holy Father thought — was "a zuilii?ig severance of earthly tics," and a conviction that ''the Church alone must claim his every thought." And so he never told of his great sorrow, but went assidu- ously to work to find increasing favor in the eyes of Pius IX., while he had some delight and comfort in watching the f^rowth of his beautiful child, and in storing her mind with all that was pure and good, Natalia was a Sabine woman of Gannazzaro, the daughter of an inn-keeper of that town of pil primage, and during one of thefestivals of the Virgin, Sebastian Nieto carried her away as a bride to the roof of St. Peter's Cathedral. There she has remained — never having visited her native town nor seen any of her friends or family since— until a peasant woman she had known at Gannazzaro walked all the way to Rome, carrying the dwarfed four-year-old son of her sister, leaving him in her care, soon after the death of her own baby. Natalia was a pious, good woman, superior to most of her class, and was devotedly fond of her charge, Merlina, instinctively knowing that she was of gentle birth. Beppo was vindictive, jealous and suspicious. PY'eling an extraordinary devotion for Merlina, he resented every glimpse that Vane got of her in the Cathedral and now he was in a jealous frenzy. A DA UGIITER OF ST. PETER 'S. 107 CHAPTER XVII. For three days Vane's life was despaired of, three long days of anxiety and suppressed excitement to Merh'na. At Ipst there was hope of recovery — then dehrium — then Merlina listened to his call for "sweet Ibidem," his only love. The brothers from St. Bartholomew's Hospital were in constant atten- dance upon Vane, using all their medical skill and art of nursing. Vane's restless tossings and low faint murmurs, then cries of pain, were alarming to Merlina — who for the first time saw a fellow-creature suffer, and that fellow-creature one she had learned to love, but one to whom she was — she thought — indifferent. For was not Vane ever calling upon Ibidem ? Bcppo shunned Merlina constantly and looked the picture of misery. His jealousy of Vane knew no bounds — he would not even go with Merlina down to the altar at vesper time. Natalia greatly feared violence at his hands, but dared not say to Merlina what her fears were, and in those anxious moments when they were at their afternoon devo- tions, Natalia was, to say the least, uneasy, even though the brother in charge promised nt^t to leave I08 A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S, his patient for a moment during their absence. Beppo had been Merlina's silent and devoted slave since her infancy, and she could not bear to see him so wretched. He would not be sympathized with nor be reconciled to the thought of Vane superseding him, as it were. He had been Merlina's nurse in her babyhood, with his four years of advantage in age, and now, to take a second place, made him rebel- lious, and he vowed a secret vengeance. He thought to himself: "I shall not let that white- faced heretic carry away Merlina ; he shall not live to do it ! " Merlina, poor girl, was in a sad dilemma. She could not comfort or console the little hunchback whose dumb faithful fondness she well knew he had always felt for her. He could not read, and even then words lose the cadence of the tenderness of voice in sympathy, and to twirl her pretty fingers at him now seemed mockery ; for she knew the creature was suffering from the pained look which sometimes came to his face and eyes. When she beckoned to him to come to her, he sadly shook his head and walked. away. He had been her brother since she was born, and as such she loved him. Now he could have shown himself a brother by sharing her anxiety, love and regard for Vane. She little sus- pected that Beppo, in his ignorance and warm southern blood, had cherished a growing passion for A DAUGHTER OF ST. PETER'S. I09 her since boyhood, and that the same hot blood hid caused the jealous frenzy he now cherished. Little did she suspect the feeling that jealousy had created in his narrow breast, or the plans he had fornu'd for a swift and deep revenge. Natalia was the only one who saw what was working in his mind, and all the rietrini suspected his real feelings ; only Merlina was ignorant of them. V iio A DAUGHTER OF ST, PETER'S, CHAPTER XVIII. Fairfax walked the floor of the office and corridors of Hotel Quirinale, the first night of Vane's absence in any thing but mild impatience, as he exclaimed between the puffs of cigar smoke : " I'll pay Hamilton off for keeping me on a string. It's a d — d shame to have a fellow cooling his heels among a lot of strangers, when he promised to be here to dinner, and, by Jove ! it's near midnight now." Then going to the book-keeper, he plied him with ■ questions : " Where does Mr. Hamilton go at night } where are his haunts .-* Has he got a mash } " and seeing the blank look of the man, he continued : " You befuzzled razzle-dazzle ink-slinger, why don't you answer me ? " The man shrugged his shoulders, arched his eye- brows and exasperatingly said ; " Me no stand, signor." Fairfax turned away, saying to himself: "You don't deserve to stand, confound you ; what / are you here for ,-' " The porter, who is an oracle in all foreign hotels, came forward at this crisis, and explained to Fairfax, A DA UGilTER OF S 1 '. PE TER 'S. ill saying, " Mr. Hamilton never was out so late before, \ sir; he may have gone on some excursion which I guests fre(|uently plan ; returnini^ so as to visit the Coliseum by moonlight ; he may liave joined • such a party, sir." Next night it was the same — Ivairfax was savage ; such treatment he would not stand. ** To be induced to come here by promises of /lis precious company and a good time together. It's devilish mean. Confound that fellow, lie might have taken me with him, or have telegraphed, or done some sort of a decent thing. l\y Jove! I believe I'll skedaddle, and let him wonder where I'vegone when he comes back ! No I won't either. I'll just stay here and have it out with the j^rig ! not a first-rate fellow in the whole crew here — grimacing parlez-vous de ding dong French or la-de-da English dudes. I've got over the fun of watching them, and now I want a good brother Jonathan chat with Hamilton, and where the devil is he .? " Then the third night came, and there was still no sign of Vane. Fairfax felt some little anxiety now as to his p'Y)longed absence. He began to think there was some guud cause for his non-appearance. V>\xt what could it be ? When a week had passed, Fairfax im- pressed upon the landlord of the hotel the impor- tance of opening Vane's room to see if any clue could be found there. In opening a small hand ! r a A DA UGIITER OF S T. PK TF.K 'S. valise, an unsealed letter was found, addressed to the landlord of the hotel ( Jiiiriiialc, which was as follows : " Hotel Quirinale, Oct. ist, 1888. " SiGNOR • ** Dear Sir — Should anythinj^ fatal happen to me, such as death from Roman fever, accident by land or sea, while I am your guest, please send the enclosed letter to my bankers in New York. You will find i: addressed * Hamilton & Ulrich,' of which firm my father was at one time senior partner. By doing this, you will greatly oblige, I " Yours sincerely, 1| " Vane Hamilton. ' '* P. S. — Should there be any balance owing you at the time of my death, my banker will settle it. — V. H." Fairfax looked upon Vane as dead — captured by brigands, murdered for his money, overtaken by some awful fatality, and he felt it his bounden duty to make a search for him. He interested the Ameri- can Consul, and all the American Colony in Rome •■ were roused. Many regrets were expressed that Vane had not made known his residence in Rome to them. The New York press correspondents cabled the mysterious disappearance of Vane Hamilton, the rich young American artist, who had come to Rome A DAVCnri.K OF ST. PETER'S. II3 to study the old masters. Ifc was eulogized as a refined, courteous, intelligent gentleman — which he was: advertised as a successful and distinguished artist — which he was not. Facts or suppositions were flashed across tlic wide seas to be interpreted by the newsmongers in New York, by such head lines as : "BriainlatforkiiiMy!!" **. i6g " Awake, sweet child— wide awake ! " " If this is livin«r in the world, how beautiful it is! Father Ku