THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 PROF. CHARLES A. KOFOID AND 
 
 MRS. PRUDENCE W. KOFOID 
 
IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
O Florence, with thy Tuscan fields and hills, 
 Thy famous Arno, fed with all the rills, 
 Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
IN THE 
 
 CITY OF FLOWERS 
 
 OR, ADELAIDE'S AWAKE'NIKG 
 
 EMMA MARSHALL 
 
 Author of ''^ L'NDER THE MENDIPS," " IN COLSTON'S DAYS ' 
 
 "on thk banks of the OUSK," <5t-"C. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SEELEV & CO., 48, ESSEX STREET, STRAND 
 
 1889 
 
75 5 
 
 TO 
 
 MY FRIENDS 
 
 N THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAI'TEK PAGE 
 
 I. DRYBOROUGH - - . . . j 
 
 II. LADY ANNA - - - - -25 
 
 III. AN ENCLOSURE - - - - - 49 
 
 IV. THE TIDE TURNS - - - - '73 
 V. EN ROUTE ------ 99 
 
 VI. COMPLICATIONS - - - - - 1 28 
 
 VII. SAN MINIATO - - - - "155 
 
 VIII. AWAKENING - - - - 181 
 
 IX. "LE premier PAS" - - - _ 209 
 
 X. ONLY A NAME - - - - - 23 1 
 
 XI. PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE - - - 266 
 XII. DISCLOSED ------ 303 
 
 XIII. IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN - - 327 
 
 XIV. "VAIN IS THE HELP OF MAN" - - '351 
 XV. UNDER A NEW MASTER - - - "373 
 
 XVI. AFTER ONE YEAR - - - - 391 
 
 iM311'765 
 
IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DRY BOROUGH. 
 
 Cruttwell Court stood within a mile of the old 
 county-town of Dryborough ; a town which had 
 defied the march of modern improvement, and held 
 almost fiercely to its ancient traditions. When the 
 railway came within an easy distance of the town, 
 and a board was put up at the little roadside station, 
 on which was painted in large letters '' Dryborough 
 Junction," a step was made in the direction of 
 progress. The landlord of the Crown Inn started 
 a smart omnibus, which travelled the four miles of 
 straight sandy road three times a day, to meet the 
 trains. 
 
 But very often the omnibus rumbled back empty, 
 and the people who turned to look at it as it passed 
 were disappointed if they had hoped to see a passenger 
 inside.'^A dusty pedestrian might perchance have 
 been picked up, or a basket and a hamper for the 
 Court, but of paying passengers there were few 
 
 I 
 
 . \ 
 
2 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Naturally a town thus self-contained and self- 
 supporting did not, as a rule, desire incursions 
 from the outer world. Of course there were excep- 
 tions to this rule, as to every rule — the landlord of 
 the Crown Inn was one. He had set his hopes high 
 when the branch line was opened from Tillingham, 
 on an access of customers : strangers who wished to 
 see the fine old church, the ruins of the castle, and 
 the old gateway leading to the Court. But appar- 
 ently these antiquities of Dryborough did not attract 
 the general public, and the spirits of the landlord of 
 the Crown sank, and he began to think seriously of 
 stopping the omnibus. 
 
 People held their own at Dryborough. No one 
 attempted to question the fact that Dr. Townley was 
 the cleverest surgeon to be found in the United 
 Kingdom. Had not his father — yes, and his grand- 
 father — held the whole practice of the neighbourhood 
 in his hands, including the family at the Court ? 
 Once or twice a smart young doctor had come to 
 try his fortune in Dryborough, but he had been 
 promptly " snuffed out," as the doctor expressed 
 it. Was not his own qualified assistant and 
 pupil worth fifty such whipper - snappers ? Then 
 there was Miss Castigan, who had educated the 
 young ladies of Dryborough for forty years, first as 
 her mother's assistant, then as sole principal, with 
 resident governesses at her command. Could any 
 new-fangled High School mistress touch the hem of 
 Miss Castigan's garment ? Dryborough answered 
 
DRYBOROUGH. 3 
 
 that question by a hearty negative, and a succession 
 of girls, from the children of the vicar and his 
 curate, and the lawyer and land-agent, were finished 
 by Miss Castigan, and finished well. 
 
 Miss Castigan was decidedly aristocratic in her 
 notions, and she drew her line of demarcation at the 
 children of shopkeepers and farmers. ''A distant con- 
 nection " of hers — whom some people believed to be 
 her first cousin — met the wants of the " lower class " 
 in a smaller house in the High Street. Miss Castigan 
 held strictly to the " upper class," as in duty bound, 
 when entrusted with the education of Hester Pon- 
 sonby and Adelaide Millington. 
 
 It is true that both girls had now finished their 
 education, but there was still some connection kept 
 up, as Adelaide continued her drawing and painting 
 lessons under the care of a niece of Miss Castigan ; 
 and Hester still received lessons in music from the 
 organist of the church, who acted as music and 
 singing master at Miss Castigan's school. Miss 
 Castigan, by-the-bye, disliked the word ''school," and 
 never spoke of anything but her ''establishment." 
 
 Cruttwell Court, surrounded by its fir-trees, which 
 flourish in that sandy soil and clothe the slopes 
 which the Dryborough people count for hills, was a 
 solemn sombre house. In the burning heat of a July 
 noontide, the shadow of the firs might be welcome, 
 perhaps; but in the dark days of winter their plum}- 
 branches seemed to shut out light, and life, and 
 brightness, from Cruttwell. 
 
4 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 The Squire who reigned there was a gouty, 
 irascible invahd, dependent on his wife for attention 
 within doors, and on his agent, Mr. Smithers, for 
 the management of his estate out of doors. His 
 wife, Lady Mary Beauchamp, always seemed like 
 a plant which gets neither sun nor air. She was tall 
 and stately. Her face was pale, and she never wore 
 any bright colours to relieve the monotony of her 
 appearance. The Squire had no children by his 
 second marriage, but there was a tradition in 
 the town that his first wife had left him a son. 
 Mystery shrouded the Squire's past. He had left 
 Cruttwell Court for many years ; when he returned 
 to it, he brought the daughter of an Irish peer to 
 be mistress of the house, and to minister to his 
 whims, which seemed to increase in number every 
 year. 
 
 Lady Mary was a good and gentle woman, who 
 probably had told out some story of romance in her 
 youth, and in later times had accepted the offer of 
 a home and a husband, when Irish affairs were 
 getting more and more hopeless, and her brother, 
 the Earl of Fernclyffe, had candidly confessed he 
 was unable to pay her the small yearly income to 
 which she was entitled by her father's will from the 
 estate. If the estate paid one shilling where it once 
 had paid twenty, what was the Earl to do ? It was 
 plain Lady Mary must find some means of support. 
 There was nothing left for her but to marry — the 
 onl}- thing a woman of her position, it seems, can 
 
DRYBOROUGH. 5 
 
 do in such circumstances : noblesse oblige ! For Lady 
 Mary could scarcely have been a nursery governess 
 or lady-help, and she was not educated even up to 
 the standard of Miss Castigan's establishment, for a 
 higher position. Thus, falling in with the Squire at 
 a German bath — whither he had gone for the cure 
 of his gout — Lady Mary accepted his offer, and 
 found herself, to her own and Lord Fernclyffe's 
 supreme satisfaction, provided for for life. The 
 quiet of Cruttwell Court, and the absence of society 
 in Dryborough, was congenial rather than other- 
 wise, and when her cousin, Mrs. Ponsonby, came 
 as a widow to live in a small house between 
 the Court and the town. Lady Mary was quite 
 content. 
 
 Mrs. Ponsonby had one child, a girl, who was, 
 as we know, one of the most desirable of Miss 
 Castigan's pupils, and Adelaide Millington was her 
 chief friend. Adelaide's stepfather had married her 
 mother long before she could remember, and her 
 step-sisters were only reminded by the difference in 
 name that they were the children of another father. 
 Mr. Wardlaw, indeed, was perhaps more inclined to 
 spoil Adelaide than his own girls, and she had the 
 reputation of being very clever, and altogether of a 
 superior type, reaching a standard of excellence to 
 which her two dull little sisters might, by Miss 
 Castigan's showing, never hope to attain. They 
 were rather proud of having Adelaide for a sister ; 
 jealousy did not enter their heads ; and what with 
 
6 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Hester Ponsonby's warm affection, which bhnded 
 ner to any faults in Adelaide, it was not to be 
 wondered at that she valued herself pretty highly, 
 and was quite satisfied to be told that she was 
 the coming artist, whose pictures might one day be 
 hung at the Royal Academy, fetch a large price, 
 and raise her family to affluence. 
 
 Mr. Wardlaw was one of those men who make 
 shipwreck in life from a certain want of persistence 
 in any one direction. He had a small fortune, which 
 made absolute work for his living unnecessar}^ He 
 dabbled in literature, and edited certain books of old 
 classics. He had taken Holy Orders early in life, 
 had been a master at a public school, then retired 
 to a country living, where he hoped, he said, to end 
 his days. But after a few years he tired of '' the com- 
 mon round and daily task." His enforced duties 
 became irksome to him, and he resigned his living, 
 which was not twenty miles from Dryborough, to 
 which he was attracted by seeing a house advertised 
 to let, near the church and with a fine view of the 
 castle and the ancient Norman gateway of Cruttwell 
 Court. 
 
 Mrs. Wardlaw always acquiesced in what her 
 husband wished ; and though leaving the home where 
 she had been so happy, and her children had been 
 born, was pain and grief to her, she bravely accepted 
 the inevitable, and about ten years from this time had 
 made her home in the house at Dryborough, which 
 ^[r. Wardlaw had really taken without consulting her. 
 
DRYBOROUGH. 7 
 
 He had a large room at the back of the house for 
 his study, which held his books, and the two little 
 rooms, one on either side of the small passage, were 
 enough for his wife and the children. Mr. Ward- 
 law sank down into contented appreciation of the 
 retirement of Dryborough, and supplemented Miss 
 Castigan's education with a little Latin and Italian, 
 which Adelaide caught up readily enough ; while 
 Nina and Susie shed bitter tears over the old gram- 
 mars, which represented to them nothing but hard 
 words they could neither learn nor understand. 
 
 I said the fir-trees which shadowed Cruttwell 
 Court were a welcome shade in summer, and it was 
 on a hot August afternoon that Adelaide Millington 
 and her friend Hester were slowly walking up the 
 avenue from the old gateway. 
 
 Nothing could be more picturesque than the far- 
 stretching avenue, as the sun pierced the dark 
 plumes of the firs, and shot bright beams of 
 golden light across the drive, at the farther end of 
 which the house was seen — a solid block of gray 
 stone, which, even in the surrounding brightness, 
 looked grave and solemn. One of Adelaide's arms 
 was linked in Hester's, and under the other she 
 carried a portfolio. 
 
 '' Do you really think Lady Mary will care to see 
 the picture ?" Adelaide asked. 
 
 " Of course she will ; it is so lovely. You know 
 that, Adelaide!" 
 
 Adelaide untied the string of the portfolio, and 
 
S IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 took out a water-colour drawing of a boy fishing by 
 a stream. 
 
 " Sit down a minute, Hester," she said, making a 
 rest of her knees, against which the foho leaned, 
 and looking half fondly, half sadly at her latest pro- 
 duction. "■ It wants something," she said with a 
 sigh ; *' I see that ; but I don't know what it wants." 
 
 " I don't think it wants anything. Miss Castigan 
 says it is the best picture you have ever done ; 
 and so did Mrs. Birley; and mother says she would 
 give anything if I could do one thing well, instead of 
 being a Jack-of-all-trades and master of none. I 
 can't think what is the matter with you, Adelaide, 
 to-day. You are so dreadfully in the dumps. It is 
 so strange, when you ought to be pleased." 
 
 "• Pleased !" Adelaide exclaimed, starting up ; '' of 
 course I am pleased. But you know, Hester, some- 
 times I should be glad of a httle real criticism. I 
 never can get that here, because no one knows how 
 to give it. Of course I can paint — and no one can 
 paint as well in Dryborough. But since I went to 
 London and saw the Academy and the National 
 Gallery, I have felt an immense longing to see more, 
 to know more. Dryborough is not the world, and 
 yet we all think it is." 
 
 " It is a very pleasant world to me," said Hester. 
 " I am very well contented. I have you for a friend, 
 to begin with ; and I like Mary Birley very much, 
 and some of the girls at Miss Castigan's are nice 
 enough." 
 
Crtttwell Coru' 
 
DRYBOROUGH. 9 
 
 " And some of the boys at the Vicarage, too," 
 Adelaide said, laughing; " this one, for instance." 
 
 As she spoke the figure of a young man was seen 
 coming from under the old Norman gateway, and 
 after a quick look right and left he advanced to the 
 stump of a tree, where the two girls were sitting. 
 
 '' Oh !" said Hester, with a heightened colour, 
 *' do come and look at Adelaide's picture. Is it 
 not lovely ?" 
 
 " I am not a great judge of pictures," Hugh Birley 
 said ; '* that is, not pictures on cardboard. I prefer 
 living ones, like that I saw just now through the 
 gateway — a study in pink and white !" he added, 
 with an admiring glance at Hester's pretty pink 
 cotton dress, which contrasted with Adelaide's 
 white canvas. 
 
 Hugh Birley was at Oxford, and flattered himself 
 he knew a little more of the world than the generality 
 of people living in Dryborough. He was neither 
 particularly clever, nor particularly good-looking, but 
 a little self-confidence goes a long way, and there 
 were some people who looked upon the Vicar's son 
 as a person of distinction, and he accepted the 
 position as if it were his right. It was not likely that 
 two people who each set a high value on themselves 
 should agree very well together. Adelaide thought 
 Hugh conceited, and he thought her very ignorant 
 of the ways of the world. 
 
 "■ She ought to know that ridiculous baggy gown 
 is out of fashion now. What a guy she makes of 
 
lo IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 herself in that big hat, too ! But she does very well 
 as a foil, and makes the study in pink and white 
 complete," he thought, as he watched Adelaide re- 
 placing the picture in the portfoHo, and preparing 
 to walk towards the house, 
 
 " We are going up to see Cousin Mary," Hester 
 said. ''SA^ always admires Adelaide's painting, as 
 everyone does." 
 
 Adelaide was a little in advance — perhaps pur- 
 posely — and Hugh Birley lingered at a slower pace 
 by Hester's side, also purposely. As they drew near 
 the house, Hester looked rather anxiously onward, 
 to see if Mr. Beauchamp were on the terrace. She 
 knew that the presence of Hugh Birley, or, indeed, 
 any young man, was an irritation to the Squire. 
 It was said of Lady Mary that she was the only 
 person in the world who did not lose patience with 
 the invalid. She was never heard to answer him 
 sharply, or even shortly. 
 
 *' Cousin Mary is never snappish," Hester would 
 say. " She has the most provokingly good temper. 
 I do like people to fire up sometimes. It is dull to 
 be always the same, and never to contradict anyone. 
 Cousin Mary provokes me." 
 
 Perhaps she provoked the Squire, too. There is 
 such a thing as being angry when you fail to make 
 someone else angry. It is not too much to say that 
 Mr. Beauchamp would have been better pleased to 
 see his wife lose her self-control, and, as he said, 
 ** pay him back in his own coin." But in all the 
 
DRYBOROUGH. ii 
 
 twelve years of their married life he had never suc- 
 ceeded in this not very amiable desire. 
 
 Hester saw that no one was on the terrace, and 
 that Adelaide had gone round to the lawn on the 
 other side of the house. On this lawn a large 
 French window opened from Lady Mary's morning- 
 room. 
 
 Adelaide found her there, as she expected, enjoy- 
 ing the quiet hour which the Squire's nap after his 
 luncheon afforded her. She was sitting to-day in 
 her arm-chair, her head thrown back, and her long 
 white hands folded in her lap ; when she saw 
 Adelaide she started up. 
 
 " Hester is here — we came up together ; and as 
 you were not on the terrace I came round. I hope 
 I did not frighten you. Lady Mary. Perhaps I 
 ought to have gone round to the hall-door." 
 
 "No, my dear; you are always welcome here. 
 But where is Hester ?" 
 
 '* Hugh Birley overtook us, and he is with her, I 
 suppose." 
 
 Lady Mary was on the alert at once. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, I must go and tell Hester that I 
 cannot invite Mr. Birley to come in. Mr. Beau- 
 champ's chair may be wheeled on the terrace at any 
 moment, and — and — as you know, he does not care 
 for the society of young men. It rather bores him, 
 and perhaps ' 
 
 Lady Mary broke off suddenly in her speech. She 
 had that habit, and on this account her conversa- 
 
12 IN THE CITY OF FL O WERS. 
 
 tion was often disjointed and rather difficult to 
 follow. 
 
 Lady Mary now hastily put up a sunshade and 
 stepped out on the lawn, Hester's rippling laugh 
 falling on her ear, as she stood at the corner of the 
 house with Hugh Birley. 
 
 " Come and sit in the shade under these trees," 
 Lady Mary said, answering Hester's greeting with a 
 kiss. " Will you come, too, Mr. Birley ?" 
 
 '' I did not know whether I might set my foot on 
 this enchanted ground. It is, I know, a forbidden 
 territory, like the garden of Princess Ida," Hugh 
 Birley said with a bow and a smile. 
 
 But Lady Mary did not smile. She merely 
 said : 
 
 " There is a nice seat under that tulip-tree ; shall 
 we go there ? How is your mother to-day, Hester ?" 
 
 " Mother has one of her bad headaches," was the 
 reply. " She sent her love to you. Cousin Mary, 
 and I was to thank you for the flowers and the 
 strawberries." 
 
 *' The roses have been very line this year. Now 
 they are nearly over, and we must look forward to 
 the autumn blossoming," Lady Mary replied. 
 
 " Adelaide has brought you her last picture to see, 
 Cousin Mary ; I am sure you will like it. Do show 
 it, Adelaide." 
 
 But Adelaide, who had seated herself on the 
 bench, had put the portfolio on the ground, and did 
 not seem inclined to open it. 
 
DRYBOROUGH. 13 
 
 " I shall show it, if you do not," Hester said, 
 springing towards the portfolio. 
 
 But Adelaide was too quick for her, and had got 
 possession of it before Hester could unfasten the 
 strings. 
 
 " It does not answer to throw pearls before 
 
 perhaps that is what Miss Millington is thinking. 
 Now with Lady Mary's permission," Hugh said, 
 " I will stroll up to the summer-house at the top 
 of the plantation, and when I am gone the pearl 
 maybe disclosed." He looked at Hester, and said : 
 " Will you come ?" 
 
 " May we, Cousin Mary ?" Hester asked. 
 
 Lady Mary, who had been thinking over the 
 easiest way of getting rid of Hugh Birley, said : 
 
 " Yes, certainly. And, Hester, do you mind going 
 out at the gate at the top of the plantation, and then 
 coming back here for Adelaide ? Mr. Birley will 
 excuse seeing the Squire, for " 
 
 *' I had never dreamed of that honour," said 
 Hugh, with a bow which was half sarcastic and half 
 deferential. " I will not intrude further upon you, 
 and, having seen Miss Ponsonby safely to the farther 
 side of the grounds, I will take my leave." 
 
 " Yes — thanks — that will be best, because — I don't 
 know " 
 
 The speech was unfinished ; but Hester had 
 turned away, so that if it had been finished it would 
 not have been heard. 
 
 *' Does Hester's mother approve of that friend- 
 
14 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ship ?" Lady Mary said. " You see so much more 
 of the Ponsonbys than I do, perhaps 3^ou can tell 
 me, Adelaide." 
 
 " Indeed I don't know what Mrs. Ponsonby thinks 
 about Hugh Birley. / think him very conceited and 
 disagreeable, and I only wonder at Hester's taste." 
 
 Adelaide's eyes flashed, and her lips curled. Then 
 gentle Lady Mary laid her hand on the portfolio. 
 
 '' Let me see this picture, my dear. I am sure J 
 shall admire it." 
 
 Instead of the pride and delight with which Ade- 
 laide generally showed her performances, she said, 
 with a sudden ring of sadness in her voice : 
 
 *' I don't think it is worthy to be admired. There 
 is something wrong in the figure — it looks so stiff — 
 and I could not get the leaves right. The sky may 
 be pretty, but not the trees ; they ought to look as if 
 they were waving, not as if they were as straight as 
 pokers. Oh, Lady Mary, I do so wish I could go 
 and copy good pictures ; not stupid things like the 
 copies Miss Smart gives me ! I read in a book the 
 other day that there was nothing so useful as the 
 study of the Old Masters." 
 
 " Would you like to try and copy some of the old 
 portraits here?" Lady Mary asked. ''There are 
 two or three rather pretty pictures. I do not know 
 much about art, but, still, I believe they are thought 
 to be good pictures. And, you know " 
 
 '* I know you are very kind," Adelaide said. " I 
 wish very much to begin oil-painting ; it is so much 
 
DRYBOROUGIL 15 
 
 easier. If you make a mistake in water-colours, it is 
 made for ever ; in oils, you can paint over and over 
 again, and it does not matter. I will try and save 
 up and buy a box of oil-paints and an easel, and 
 then perhaps you will really let me try ?" 
 
 "Indeed I will. Would you like to sell this 
 picture ?" 
 
 Adelaide's face flushed crimson. 
 
 " Of course I should like to sell it, only I should 
 not like anyone to feel obliged to buy it." 
 
 *' Well, leave it with me, my dear, and I will send 
 it to Tillingham and get it nicely framed, and then 
 find a purchaser. My sister, who thinks of wintering 
 in Florence, is very fond of pictures ; she may like 
 this — at least — well, there is no harm in trying. 
 And if not " 
 
 " Imagine living in Florence!" Adelaide exclaimed; 
 " how delightful ! I really do not think anyone in 
 Dryborough ever thought of Florence or the picture- 
 galleries there. I was reading about the Pitti Palace 
 in a book of father's the other day, and of the won- 
 derful pictures at the Uffizi. Here is the Squire !" 
 Adelaide said, starting up. " Perhaps I had better 
 go now?" 
 
 Lady Mary waited to give an answer till she saw 
 in what mood her lord and master might be. If 
 fractious and contradictious, Adelaide had better go ; 
 if, as was sometimes the case, he was inclined to be 
 friendly to Adelaide, she might stay to tea, and wait 
 for Hester's return. 
 
i6 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 The Squire was hobbling along with the help of 
 his servant's arm and a stick. 
 
 " Mary," he called — " Mary, what are you doing 
 in the sun ? / can't sit out of doors. Come and 
 read the paper to me in your room ; it is too hot — 
 too hot for anything ! Take care, you rascal ! you'll 
 throw me over !'' 
 
 These words were addressed to a frolicsome young 
 Dachshund, who had just been let out from a long 
 imprisonment, and was in a state of rapture only to 
 be expressed by leaping frantically upon everyone, 
 and wriggling at Mr. Beauchamp's gouty feet, en- 
 cased in black cloth slippers edged with fur. How 
 Blitz yearned to get hold of that fur and worry it ! 
 But his mistress called him off: "Blitz, Blitz! 
 here !" Then she went down the grassy slope to her 
 husband's side, and said : 
 
 " It is very cool here under the tulip-tree. Won't 
 you try it ?" 
 
 " No ; I won't. I don't want to be eaten up by 
 midges. And how am I to get up to that seat ? 
 Who is that ?" he asked in a rasping voice. 
 
 '' Only Adelaide Millin^ton." 
 
 " Oh !" said the Squire, with a grim laugh, " the 
 young artist. The future Madame le Brun or 
 Angelica Kauffman who wants to take my portrait 
 —eh. Miss Addy ?" 
 
 Of all things Adelaide hated to have her name 
 shortened. Her name altogether was rather a 
 grievance to her. She would have preferred some- 
 
DRYBOROUGH. 17 
 
 thing more suggestive. She only associated the 
 name of Adelaide with the portrait of the Queen of 
 William IV., with her stiff sausage curls and, in 
 her eyes, ugly cap, with large bows. And, indeed, 
 the name had come to Adelaide direct from that 
 good Queen. An aunt of her father's had been lady- 
 in-waiting to the Queen Dowager. She was god- 
 mother to her little grand-niece, and stipulated that 
 she should be named Adelaide. Sometimes when 
 Mr. Wardlaw called her with the soft ItaHan pro- 
 nunciation of every vowel — Adelaide — she was more 
 reconciled ; but Addy ! She detested the Squire 
 on many accounts, but I think the chief cause of 
 offence was that habit of calling her '* Miss Addy." 
 
 The Squire was to-day in a good-temper — for him 
 — as his man-servant, Preston, had told Mrs. Veal, the 
 housekeeper. '' For him " implied a great deal, and 
 only meant, I am afraid, that Mr. Beauchamp had 
 not thrown a book or his stick at Preston, or poured 
 out a torrent of words which cannot well be 
 written here, when his leg was bathed ! 
 
 '' I think I had better say good-bye. Lady Mary," 
 Adelaide said. " I shall meet Hester at the east 
 gate, and I can take her home to tea. Good-bye, Mr. 
 Beauchamp," she said, with a little dignified bow. 
 
 '' Where are you off to ? Nonsense ; stay and 
 amuse me a little. When are they going to bring 
 tea ? Everyone seems half-asleep. Yes, I'll sit out 
 of doors ; who said I wouldn't ? What are you 
 about, Mary?" 
 
 2 
 
1 8 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " I was bringing your easy-chair near the window," 
 Lady Mary said. '* I thought you preferred being 
 in the house." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I said I didn't wish to sit under 
 that tree ; I didn't say I wished to be broiled indoors. 
 Look sharp now, my lady, and order tea, and spread 
 the rug on the ground and pull the chair out. It 
 ought to have been ready, Preston, you blockhead!" 
 
 At last all the preparations were made, and the 
 Squire sank heavily, with a growling sigh, into his 
 chair. Almost at the same moment a footman 
 appeared with a basket tea-table, and Hester came 
 round from the front of the house. 
 
 Hester, with her round, good-tempered face, her 
 bright smile and pretty lithe figure, was by no means 
 a favourite with the Squire, while *' Addy," with her 
 quaint dress and artistic aspirations, interested him. 
 He loved to tease her, and to see her flush with 
 annoyance. Especially he liked to joke about her 
 pictures, and laugh at the calm manner in which 
 she would take any amount of praise from his gentle 
 wife and Mrs. Ponsonby, and, as he was pleased to 
 say, her " baby-faced daughter." 
 
 The Squire had a strange, and to some people, un 
 accountable dislike to young men. He had never a 
 civil word for any who by chance came to the Court — 
 and by chance or design there were very few. Hugh 
 Birley was not easily discomposed, but even he rather 
 shrank from exposing himself to a battery from 
 Mr. Beauchamp. Some people said that the reason 
 
DRY BOROUGH. 
 
 19 
 
 of the Squire's dislike to young men was to be found 
 in the fact of his own childless condition. There 
 was no son to inherit Cruttwell Court, and it would 
 devolve on a distant cousin, whom the Squire had 
 never seen or wished to see. As the estate was en- 
 tailed on male heirs, Godfrey Lysaght inherited it 
 as the son of the son of a younger brother. He had 
 married a Lysaght, and had taken the name with 
 his wife. The Squire never made Godfrey Lysaght 
 any sign of kinship, and, secure as to his claim, 
 Godfrey had left his irascible kinsman to himself. 
 There had been some flutter in the Lysaght family 
 when the Squire married Lady Mary, and Godfrey 
 Lysaght's father, who was then living, had waited 
 anxiously lest there should be any children born of 
 the marriage. All fears had, however, been set to 
 rest before his death, and Godfrey felt secure as 
 the heir of a fine property and an old house, where 
 Beauchamps had lived for many generations. It was 
 believed that Godfrey had not even seen Cruttwell 
 Court — certainly he had not made himself known 
 there ; and he was, in fact, a mythical personage, 
 about whom no one ever thought or wished to think. 
 ''' Well, where do you come from ?" was the 
 Squire's greeting to Hester. " Have you been galli- 
 vanting with that young jackanapes ? I caught 
 a gUmpse of him from the window. He knows 
 better than to come here — the wisdom of a wise 
 dog, eh, Miss Addy ?" 
 
 Hester had no quick repartee ready, but Adelaide 
 
 2 — 2 
 
20 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 came to the rescue for her friend: " I should think 
 you might wait till Mr. Birley showed the folly of 
 the foolish dog, Mr. Beauchamp, before you talk of 
 taking strong measures." 
 
 "Well said— well said, Addy. What! another 
 picture ? Hand it here." The Squire fitted his 
 gold glasses on his very strongly-developed nose, 
 and held out his hand for the picture. " Humph ! 
 very pretty — very pretty ! Copied ?" 
 
 " Yes ; from one of Front's " 
 
 " Ah ! you should study originals. Make a study 
 of me, for instance. Mary, call this brute off, will 
 you, or I'll have him hung up on the nearest tree." 
 
 Blitz obeyed his gentle mistress's call, and settled 
 himself on her gown, as she sat at the tea-table, 
 though he kept his eyes well open and fixed on the 
 fur of the gouty slipper, for which his soul longed. 
 Blitz was a very dear friend and companion of Lady 
 Mary's ; and there were times w^hen into Blitz's ear 
 were poured some plaintive utterances which no 
 other ear but his ever heard. For, in spite of Lady 
 Mary's calm exterior and unruffled demeanour, she 
 had her moments of something nearly akin to 
 despair. She had felt that she had before her two 
 paths : miserable dependence on her brother, and 
 poverty, or marriage and affluence — miserable 
 affluence she sometimes told herself, and she could 
 find it in her heart to envy those who gained their 
 living by honourable exertion. 
 
 Pitiable indeed is the condition of the woman 
 
DRYBOROUGH. 21 
 
 who finds herself thrown on the world with no 
 power of earning her living. In these times of 
 upheaval, when there is so much uncertainty in the 
 future of every family, whether noble or simple, it 
 is surely wisdom to put tools, at least, into our 
 daughters' hands with which, if left alone in the 
 world, they may carve their own way to competence, 
 if not to riches. When Lady Mary was young, 
 such an idea was never entertained, and thus, when 
 absolutely penniless she was absolutely helpless — 
 and, taken by the charity of a relative to Wiesbaden, 
 was glad to solve the difficult problem of how to live, 
 by marriage with Mr. Beauchamp. He was then 
 less irascible, less entirely forgetful of consideration 
 for those about him. Nothing touched him so 
 much as the loss of fortune and personal comforts, 
 and he had felt real sympathy with the gentle high- 
 bred lady, whose position he soon found out, and 
 whose musical cultivated voice in reading the papers, 
 was a pleasant change from Preston's dull provincial 
 monotone, or the chance service of some casual 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Why should he not have that voice alwa3^s at 
 command, the touch of those slender fingers when 
 she moved his cushions ? Then there was the 
 agreeable sensation of hearing his wife called by her 
 title, and the pleasure of receiving the warm con- 
 gratulations of her friends when at last the affair 
 was completed. Lord Fernclyffe was really charmed. 
 Both his sisters were now married to rich men, and 
 
22 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 he need have no further concern about them. Thus, 
 it will be seen, selfishness was a very prominent 
 factor in the marriage of Lady Mary Clyffe with 
 Mr. Beauchamp of Cruttwell Court. 
 
 Lady Mary certainly suited her husband ad- 
 mirably, except, as I have said, in the serenity of 
 .ler temper. It takes two to make a quarrel, and 
 Lady Mary would never give the Squire the chance 
 of engaging in one. Then she was quite content to 
 ask no questions about his past, her predecessor, or 
 the son, whom he shortly told her he had lost, and 
 wished to forget. " He is dead to me," was all the 
 information he had ever vouchsafed, and Lady Mary 
 was satisfied. 
 
 Naturally, there were various opinions of Lady 
 Mary in the little w^orld of Dryborough. Some 
 thought she was proud, some that she was un- 
 sociable, some that she was a colourless person, 
 who was very uninteresting. 
 
 Mrs. Birley, at the Vicarage, in all the bustle of 
 her active life, resented what she called her " stand 
 off" manner, while Mrs. Wardlaw was quite con- 
 tented to leave what intercourse there was between 
 her family and the Court to Adelaide. 
 
 Adelaide's friendship with Hester Ponsonby had 
 in some measure brought about the intimacy at the 
 Court ; and Mrs. Wardlaw never aspired to do more 
 than pay a formal visit two or three times a year, 
 which Lady Mary returned, when the principal topic 
 of conversation was always Adelaide. 
 
DRYBOROUGH. 23 
 
 Mr. Wardlaw led the life of a scholarly recluse, 
 and concerned himself very little about his neigh- 
 bours. He had a conversation sometimes with Mr. 
 Birley about the old Oxford days, and with the 
 good doctor about chemistry and botany; in both 
 subjects, by reading and keen observation. Dr. 
 Townley was very much in advance of the ordinary 
 country practitioner. Beyond these Dryborough did 
 not offer any social temptations to Mr. Wardlaw, 
 what society there was being on old-fashioned lines. 
 A heavy dinner in the higher circles at seven o'clock, 
 and a tea-party in the lower at the same hour, when 
 tea and thin bread and butter were handed round 
 on trays ; and punctually at nine the same trays 
 were again handed round with wine in glasses, 
 sponge-cakes and biscuits, with now and then, on 
 grand occasions, jelHes in cups, interspersed with 
 pink-topped creams. 
 
 If the Court had taken its proper place and been 
 the sun round which the lesser orbs had revolved, 
 the social atmosphere of Dryborough might have 
 changed. As it was, it was decidedly behind the 
 times. Mrs. Ponsonby's newly-made tennis-court, 
 played on this summer for the first time, was a 
 wonder in the eyes of the old-fashioned Dryborough 
 folks. 
 
 The antiquated game of croquet had been 
 patronized by the two maiden sisters of the doctor, 
 and the daughters of the Squire's agent, Mr. Smithers. 
 But tennis was denounced as a wild game ; and the 
 
24 TN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 first tennis-party at Mrs. Ponsonby's was attended 
 from motives of curiosity, which were satisfied by 
 watching Hugh Birley and Hester Ponsonby playing 
 '' a single," and afterwards a set played by the two 
 Wardlaws and Adelaide, with the younger brother 
 of Hugh Birley, all four being quite below the mark 
 to enter the lists with the two champions, Hester 
 and the Vicar's eldest son. 
 
 Mrs. Ponsonby's relationship to Lady Mary gave 
 her a certain prestige at Dryborough ; and the 
 comments which were whispered by the half-dozen 
 spectators gathered round the little tennis-court at 
 Home Cottage, would have been more severe had it 
 not been supposed that the hostess and her deeds 
 were above criticism. For had not her mother been 
 a sister of the old Earl of Fernclyffe ? and was she 
 not therefore entitled to respectful toleration, even 
 though she encouraged a game which the Miss 
 Townleys, in their secret hearts, considered " wild " 
 and Miss Castigan unladylike ? 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 LADY ANNA. 
 
 " Have you any intention of taking Dr3'borough in 
 our summer round of visits, my dearest ?" The 
 speaker was Lady Anna Cowper-Smith, and the 
 " dearest " thus addressed was her husband. 
 '' Because," Lady Anna continued, " poor Mary 
 does seem so anxious we should go to Cruttwell 
 Court. She has some craze about a young artist and 
 her pictures. Really, Mary is so very obscure in her 
 letters, poor darling ! But the gist of the matter 
 is, she wishes to awaken my interest in this girl, and 
 induce us to take her out to Florence next winter." 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith laid aside his spectacles, 
 turned the magazine over on his knee, and said : 
 
 " Well, my dear, what do you wish ? I will go to 
 Dryborough if you like ; but somehow, the last visit 
 has left behind a disagreeable impression. It is 
 more than I can stand patiently to see that old 
 tyrant riding rough-shod over your sister. But 
 there is nothing to prevent your going for a few days 
 —if you like, that is. Please yourself, my dear, and 
 / shall be pleased." 
 
26 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 This was invariably the conclusion at which Mr. 
 Cowper-Smith arrived when appealed to by his wife. 
 If one sister had secured a home and a husband 
 with a bad temper and a fine fortune, the other, far 
 earlier in life, had secured a husband with a far 
 larger fortune and a really good, easy-going temper. 
 Mr. Smith was plain Mr. Smith, when Lady Anna 
 accepted his proposal ; that plain name was in her 
 eyes a decided drawback, and she hastened to make 
 it *' double-barrelled." Mr. Smith was questioned 
 delicately as to his ancestry, but the inquiry was 
 not pursued too far. 
 
 " No one grand ever belonged to me," he said. 
 '* My father and grandfather were good working 
 men ; and my mother, she was the daughter of a 
 Dissenting minister named Cooper." 
 
 Lady Anna caught at the name, and ignored its 
 connection with a chapel. 
 
 " Cowper ! — the poet Cowper's family perhaps, 
 dearest. Do call yourself Cowper-Smith. It sounds 
 so pretty and poetical ! So I will address my next 
 letter to you : 'John Cowper-Smith, Esq.' " 
 
 Lady Anna kept her word ; she addressed the 
 letter with the double name, and when Mr. Smith 
 replied to it he said : *' I scarcely knew my grand 
 name, and you have spelt it wrong. My mother's 
 name was Cooper." 
 
 Lady Anna took no notice of this. The marriage 
 was announced in the Morning Post between Lady 
 Anna, eldest daughter of the Earl of Fernclyffe, 
 
LADY ANjVA. 27 
 
 and Mr. Cowper-Smith. The spelling was never 
 altered, and the second '' o " was exchanged for 
 the "w," to the great satisfaction of the bride. 
 
 A very easy luxurious life was in store for Lady 
 Anna Cowper-Smith. When her father died, and 
 her sister. Lady ]\Iary, was, as we have seen, thrown 
 upon the world, and the Irish estates grew yearly 
 less and less remunerative. Lady Anna was perfectly 
 prosperous. The great cotton-factory still con- 
 tinued to roll in its thousands and tens of thousands 
 to the Smiths; and although Mr. Cowper-Smith 
 soon retired on his inherited fortune, the business 
 still went on, and Smith and Co.'s cottons were in 
 as much demand as ever in the market. 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith was never ashamed of his 
 position. He was far too simple-hearted, and far 
 too much of " nature's gentleman " to be pre- 
 tentious. He was one of those Englishmen — true 
 to the core, honest and loyal — of whom, when we 
 meet them abroad or at home, we may well be 
 proud. There are, alas, too many pretentious, self- 
 asserting men, who have made their wealth by 
 trade and are ashamed to own it ; who buy 
 '' ancestors " from picture-dealers, and hang them 
 up in gaudy dining-rooms, as grandmothers or great- 
 aunts ; whose whole lives are in some sense a sham, 
 and whose wives and daughters, even more than 
 their sons, help to build up the paste-board castle of 
 ''family" and ''inheritance" that exists only in 
 their own imaginations. It is therefore refreshing 
 
28 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 to meet men like Mr. Cowper-Smith, who never for 
 a moment allowed any false statement to be made 
 about his antecedents, and yet had not that want of 
 tact which sometimes forces, on those who care or 
 do not care to know, that our guest or host has 
 worked for his living, and that his father before him 
 had done the same. 
 
 " Well, dearest, I think I shall go to Cruttwell for 
 a few days. I really have not seen Mary for two 
 3'ears now ; and as we are going to Florence in 
 October " 
 
 " You have quite made up your mind to winter in 
 Florence then ?" Mr. Cowper-Smith said. 
 
 '' Really, dearest, how can you ask that question ? 
 You know you are so tired of the Riviera, and I 
 cannot face an English winter ; and besides, we 
 must decide, or that house will be engaged in the 
 Piazza d'Azeglio. Really, dearest, you must lose no 
 time in telling me if you mean to stay here all the 
 winter." 
 
 " Well, well, my dear, I've no objection to 
 Florence, I am sure ; but we were cold enough at 
 Cannes last winter — you said so yourself — and then 
 there is little Peggy." 
 
 " I wish, dearest, you would call her Daisy, or 
 Margaret. I do so dislike Peggy." 
 
 " Well, Margaret, then — my mother's name, so I 
 ought to like it. Surely the child should have more 
 regular teaching." 
 
 "Trust that to mc, dearest. / know what I am 
 
LADY ANNA. 
 
 29 
 
 doing. Daisy speaks French and Italian wonder- 
 fully ; she is totally unfitted for school, or a dreadful 
 Higher Education governess. I found Miss Per- 
 kyns a terrible mistake : ask Percival's opinion. 
 You are always ready to take what he says as 
 gospel. Certainly my own delicate chest is in- 
 herited by our little pearl — our only treasure !" Lady 
 Anna said with a sigh; "given to us so late in life 
 — our aftermath. No risk should be incurred about 
 her. As to myself!" Lady Anna sighed, and her 
 husband hastened to say : 
 
 " My dear, I am quite contented that you should 
 have another winter abroad. There are our two 
 large houses shut up half the year, which seems a 
 pity, rather ; but as you wish it, let us decide to 
 go to Florence." 
 
 It was decided already — and perhaps Mr. Cowper- 
 Smith knew it, as he returned to his magazine, 
 titted his glasses on his nose — a short feature which 
 required some skill in balancing the pince-nez 
 securely — and with a sigh dropped the conversation. 
 
 Lady Anna turned to her writing-table and wrote 
 two letters immediately ; one was addressed to the 
 Lady Mary Beauchamp, Cruttwell Court, Surrey ; 
 the other to Signor Bernini, the agent at Florence; 
 and both letters were, with some of less importance, 
 consigned to the bag, when the collection was made 
 by the butler for the post. 
 
 There could not be a greater contrast than that 
 afforded by the huge modern mansion, near the great 
 
30 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 commercial town where Air. Cowper-Smith's money 
 had been coined, and the old-world, low-roofed, 
 many-gabled home of the Beauchamps. 
 
 Money, that great factor, was perhaps a little too 
 apparent in Willesford Hall and its surroundings. 
 Nevertheless, though everything was costly and 
 of intrinsic value, everything was also in good 
 taste. Mr. Cowper-Smith disliked gimcracks and 
 " trifles," so that the suites of rooms were all 
 furnished regardless of expense. He grudged no- 
 thing that could please his wife, and had entire 
 dependence on her taste, and as years went on he 
 always hoped that Lady Anna would like the neigh- 
 bourhood better. But the contrary seemed to be the 
 case. Her birth gave her a certain position in the 
 county — that mystic word, which implies so much 
 in provincial society ; but she was obliged to make 
 herself generally agreeable to the "town," and many 
 of the townspeople were connections, not to say 
 relations, of her husband, and, she was well aware, 
 could recall the elder Mr. Smith and his homely 
 excellent wife — nay, some could go back to the days 
 of the previous generation, when the head of the 
 Smiths' flourishing concern was but a humble 
 office-boy, who had, so tradition said, come into the 
 large manufacturing town without employment, with 
 his jacket out at elbows, and his feet without 
 stockings beneath his ragged boots. It was scarcely 
 better in London, where Mr. Cowper-Smith had a 
 fme house in Hyde Park. Lady Anna was not on 
 
LADY ANNA. 31 
 
 the crest of the wave, and this was a vexation to 
 her. It might have been different in Viceregal 
 circles in Dublin, where her ancestr}- was so well 
 known, and her brother courted by a certain party 
 who sympathized with him about his diminished 
 and diminishing income, and were agreed to trace 
 his failing fortunes to one cause — whether right!}' or 
 wrongly is not our business here. 
 
 Thus it came about that the yearly migration to 
 Italy or the Riviera, becoming now so fashionable, 
 suited Lady Anna's views exactly. For the last five 
 or six seasons Willesford Hall had been left to 
 the housekeeper and a few servants from October 
 to June, and the London house was only used as a 
 stage on the journey to and from the Continent, for 
 a few weeks at a time. It is plain that this kind of 
 life removes the weight of responsibilities and home 
 duties ; and there is a charm in it, especially for 
 those who, like Lady Anna, dishke what she called 
 the prosaic and matter-of-fact side of existence. 
 
 "When Daisy is grown up," she said, "and I 
 must present her at Court, we will turn into hum- 
 drum stay-at-homes; just take three months of 
 London in the season, and live the rest of the year 
 at Willesford, if my health permits, which is, to say 
 the least of it, very doubtful." 
 
 This remark had been made in a supplementary 
 fashion, long after Mr. Cowper-Smith had forgotten 
 what had passed about Florence, and he was too 
 deeply engrossed with a paper in the Nineteenth 
 
32 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Century, on political economy, to notice the remark, 
 or make any rejoinder. 
 
 And now voices were heard in the hall, and Lady 
 Anna went hastily out, exclaiming : 
 
 " Is that you, my darling Daisy ?" 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 " I hope you have not tired yourself and ridden 
 too far ; you look so pale." 
 
 " I met Percival ; he rode with me, and he would 
 go over Grayfell." 
 
 " How very wrong ! It is much too far. Really, 
 Percival, I shall be very angry if you tempt this 
 child to any over-exertion." 
 
 The young man thus addressed only smiled- — a 
 very bright pleasant smile — and said : 
 
 ** Trust me. Aunt Anna, I never let that child do 
 too much. The mistake with her, is that she always 
 does too little." 
 
 Daisy, or Margaret, or Peggy Cowper-Smith was 
 wearily dragging one foot after the other up the 
 wide staircase, an attendant on one side, and 
 another following. These were a maid and what 
 is called, in the polite language of the present 
 day, a lady-help. Miss Cromwell filled rather an 
 anomalous position in the large estabHshment. She 
 could hardly be called a governess, for Margaret was 
 not allowed to study ; nor a companion, for a woman 
 of eight-and-twenty can hardly be called a companion 
 for a child of fourteen. But Miss Cromwell was 
 supposed to be always on the watch to discover 
 
LADY ANNA. 33 
 
 if Margaret were tired, or dull, or if she wanted 
 amusement, or if she had any wish, in short, un- 
 gratified. 
 
 The child's naturally sweet disposition was proof 
 against all the attention lavished on her. It seemed 
 impossible to spoil her, though every care was taken 
 to do so. She had very delicate health, and had 
 never known anything of the vigour and joyousness 
 of childhood. Some people, who knew her, said she 
 resembled her aunt. Lady Mary Beauchamp ; and 
 indeed there was a far stronger likeness between 
 the aunt and niece, than between mother and 
 daughter. Daisy was not a child to be generally 
 interesting or popular ; she was very quiet and shy, 
 disliked nothing so much as to be talked about by 
 her mother, in the presence of strangers, and liked 
 nothing better than to sit on her father's knee, and 
 feel his arm round her, enjoying the unspoken 
 sympathy that existed between them. 
 
 As Daisy's little figure, in its beautifully-fitting 
 habit, vanished out of sight, Lady Anna turned to 
 her nephew, and said : 
 
 " Did Daisy get breathless while she was riding 
 to-day ?" 
 
 " I did not notice it," was the reply ; " she ought 
 to be in the fresh air much more. Such is my humble 
 opinion." 
 
 " Percival, I have decided to go to Florence ; I 
 am sure it will be best for the child and for me. 
 Will you join us for part of the winter ?" 
 
 3 
 
34 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " I will think about it," he said indifferently ; 
 " perhaps after Christmas I may come out, but I 
 am not sure. By-the-bye, have you heard anything 
 from the Beauchamps lately?" 
 
 '' I have written to Aunt Mary to-day, to say I will 
 pay her a little visit. Will you be my travelHng 
 companion ?" 
 
 " No, thanks ; I do not wish to put myself into the 
 claws of that old beast — I beg your pardon, old 
 lion — Mr. Beauchamp ! Not if I know it." 
 
 " But you need not see much of him, Percival. 
 Do think of it, there's a dear fellow ! I shall only 
 be away a week." 
 
 *' I saw Lysaght the other day in London," 
 Percival said. " He was inquiring about the old 
 man and his gout. I told him that gouty leg might 
 carry him off before long ; and he was not sorry." 
 
 '' Very shocking ! I am afraid he is not a satis- 
 factory person." 
 
 " Oh yes ! He is a good fellow in his way ; a 
 rough diamond perhaps, but of the first water all the 
 same," he said. " He is literary and has had weak 
 
 lungs, so he ought to be interesting, you know " 
 
 Percival Clyffe stopped. "I dare say it is idle gossip, 
 but Lysaght had heard some rumours which were 
 not altogether pleasant, rumours which make his 
 prospects of inheriting Cruttwell a little doubtful." 
 
 " Do you mean there is a son ?" 
 
 Percival nodded, but added : 
 
 " Was a son is the more correct rendering." 
 
LADY ANNA. 35 
 
 " And did he leave any children ? Dear me! how 
 distressing for poor dear Mary, if true !" 
 
 *' I could believe anything of Mr. Beauchamp. 
 I dare say it may be a cock-and-bull story, but 
 Lysaght was told it in good faith. Hovv^ever, he 
 vowed me to secrecy, and I had better not say any 
 more." 
 
 *' That is ridiculous after saying so much," Lady 
 Anna said. '' But please yourself ; only do manage 
 to travel with me next Tuesday. I have just written 
 to Mary to fix that day, and I shall be starting by 
 the ten o'clock train." 
 
 *' I will see about it," was the reply, as Percival 
 Clyffe strolled away, declining afternoon tea, and 
 saying he should be back again in time for dinner. 
 
 Percival Clyffe was the son of a younger brother 
 of Lord Fernclyffe, and had been thrown on the 
 world at an early age. His uncle was, as we know, 
 in no position to help him ; and the very slender 
 portion of the son of a younger son was with 
 difficulty eked out to provide for the finishing of his 
 school career at Harrow, and the three years at 
 Oxford which had followed it. Percival had gone 
 in for honours, but had not taken any, either in 
 Moderations or the Final Schools. Then he read for 
 the Bar, and had been called, as so many are called, 
 to wait for briefs which never came, and to incur 
 expenses for chambers and dinners, which it was 
 rather hard to meet, and which came fast enough. 
 Percival Clyffe was not insensible to the comforts of 
 
 3—2 
 
36 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Willesford Hall, and he knew he could turn up there 
 and find a welcome whenever he wished to do so. 
 
 He and his little cousin Peggy were fast friends, 
 and, next to her father, Percival was dearest to her 
 in the world. He laughed at her and teased her, 
 and performed all offices which fall by right to 
 the brothers in large families. But Peggy had no 
 brothers and no 3'Oung companions, and thus, if it 
 had not been for Percival, she would never have 
 known what a little wholesome chaff meant, and 
 would have been even more subdued and quiet in her 
 manner. Sometimes there arose in this child's mind 
 a suspicion that she was very much unlike other 
 children, or girls of her age. The occasional garden- 
 parties or afternoon teas which her mother planned 
 for her especial benefit, w^hen two or three daughters 
 of neighbours were invited to come and spend the 
 afternoon with Margaret, were always a failure. 
 She could not pla}^ tennis ; she was not allowed to 
 sit on the lawn for fear of cold ; she was muffled in 
 shawls, while the other girls frisked about in pretty 
 white dresses, and, except for the little court some 
 of them saw fit to pay her, as Lady Anna's daughter, 
 and the heiress of immense wealth, she was left very 
 much to herself. 
 
 " They don't care for me, mother," she would say, 
 " and I am sure I don't care for them. Don't ask 
 them again. I don't want young companions ; they 
 only bore me." 
 
 ** Then I am sure I will not ask them again, 
 
LADY ANNA. 37 
 
 darling. You are, of course, very superior to them 
 — so thoughtful, and far beyond your age." 
 
 '' Oh ! please don't, mother," would be the re- 
 joinder ; "and pray — pray never say so to anyone, 
 because it is not true. I know it is not true." 
 
 " That is only your modesty, darling. You have 
 a mind far beyond your years ; and it is all the more 
 delightful to me, because your health has made the 
 routine of study impossible." 
 
 Lady Anna was one of those people whose swans 
 are very white swans indeed ; and if she had pos- 
 sessed ten children instead of one, there would 
 probably not have been a goose amongst them. A 
 certain high appreciation of herself, and everything 
 belonging to her, was a characteristic of Lady 
 Anna. Her love for, and admiration of her pale, 
 fragile little Margaret was perhaps the reflection of 
 her own self-love and self-satisfaction. The mere 
 fact of belonging to her raised everything to a 
 pinnacle of excellence ; and, although she was bored 
 at times by her husband's plain-speaking and constant 
 desire to he what he seemed, and not to pretend to 
 seem what he was not, she gave him his meed of 
 praise. Was he not hers, and was not her im- 
 primatur set upon him, as upon everything else 
 which belonged to her ? Percival Clyffe did not 
 escape the same high valuation — I will not say 
 wholly from the same reason, but certainly in great 
 measure it sprang from it. 
 
 '' My nephew " was surely above the nephews of 
 
38 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 half a dozen other people whom Lady Anna would 
 name ; and Percival, like his little cousin, sometimes 
 shrank from his aunt's praise, when it was scattered 
 broadcast in his presence. But then he had a jest 
 always at command to turn the sweeping current of 
 admiration away from himself — a weapon which 
 poor little Margaret did not possess and could not 
 use. 
 
 '' So we shall be alone together next week, 
 Peggy ?" Mr. Cowper-Smith said, when his little 
 daughter came to spend her accustomed hour with 
 her father. " We shall not grumble at that, shall 
 we?" 
 
 "iVo, dear father," Daisy said emphatically ; " it 
 will be delightful. Not that we want to get rid of 
 mother," she added in a half-apologetic tone, " but 
 mother wants so much to see Aunt Mary ; so it is 
 all right." 
 
 " Yes, yes, of course it is. Tell me, Peggy, do 
 you like the idea of a winter in Florence ?" 
 
 ** If I were asked, I should say I would rather 
 stay here, father ; but of course there are many 
 things I should hke in Florence. Oh, would you ask 
 mother not to make me come in, when she has 
 receptions, as she did at Cannes last winter? I 
 always felt so shy and so miserable." 
 
 " You shan't be made miserable, my Peggy, if 
 your old father can prevent it. I dare say mother 
 thinks it amuses you, and, as you are not a grown- 
 up or come-out young lady, you have only to sit and 
 
LABV ANNA. 39 
 
 watch other people ; you are not expected to talk. 
 Now, shall we read something ? Have you got any 
 book to read to me, or shall I read to you ? We are 
 supposed to improve each other's minds, you know, 
 when we spend this hour together." 
 But Peggy answered : 
 
 *' I like talking best, father; have you heard any 
 more of that poor man's children ?" 
 " What children, my dear ?" 
 
 ** The children of that man whom you tried at 
 the Sessions, and he was found guilty, and sent to 
 prison for a year." 
 
 " Oh, that fellow who snared the game — a regular 
 old hand at poaching. He deserved his sentence." 
 
 ^' But, father. Parsons says the woman and the 
 children will starve while he is in prison." 
 *' What does Parsons know about it ?" 
 '* Her sister-in-law is Parsons' cousin, and she has 
 had so many troubles ! Could you send them some 
 money ? Parsons will see that they get it." 
 
 " Ah, my Peggy, it is against my principles to give 
 to beggars." 
 
 " But they are not beggars, father. Parsons says 
 the poor woman has worked hard to keep the chil- 
 dren, but now she is ill and broken-hearted. Father, 
 please help her !" 
 
 The earnestness of his little daughter, as she fixed 
 her large gentian-coloured eyes on him, touched 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith. 
 
 *'Do help her, father ! She cannot help her hus- 
 
40 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 band's poaching, and it was for her sake he snared 
 the last hare. She was ill, and he wanted to tempt 
 her appetite." 
 
 " Tut, tut, my dear ! that's a very poor story. 
 Honest men do not thieve to feed their sick wives. 
 Besides, as far as I can make out, it was that 
 fellow's wild conduct which brought his family so 
 low. It is hard, I know, when the innocent suffer 
 for the guilty, but it cannot be helped ; and it is 
 a part of his just punishment when a man sees what 
 misery his ill-doing has brought upon his family." 
 
 " I have been talking to Percival about it, father. 
 He says there are thousands of people, like this 
 man, tempted to sin by want ; and that rich people 
 like us don't wish to think about it, and don't care. 
 Why have we such heaps of money, father — more, a 
 great deal, as Percival says, than we want — and 
 people in Ironstown — thousands — can scarcely get 
 food ?" 
 
 " My dear, you are too young yet to understand 
 the condition of this country. Don't trouble your 
 head about it. A great deal more is done now for 
 poor struggling folk than was done even when I was 
 young. No wonder you look pale and thin, if you 
 worry yourself about these questions. Wiser heads 
 than yours or mine are puzzled." 
 
 Daisy clasped her small white hands round her 
 father's arm, and said : 
 
 *' If you could giwe me a little money. Parsons 
 could let Mrs. Fletcher have it. Oh, father, the 
 
LADY ANNA. 41 
 
 baby is ill, and another little boy is a cripple, 
 and — " (Daisy's voice faltered) "and " 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith put his hand into his pocket, 
 and brought out a handful of gold and silver. 
 
 "Here," he said, "rather than you should fret, 
 my Peggy, count it and take it." 
 
 "What! all? Oh, father!" 
 
 She sprang up with an alacrity very unlike her 
 usual movements, and, bringing a little ornamental 
 table near her father's chair, said : 
 
 " Let me count it here." 
 
 " Very well. Don't make a mistake. Now, then, 
 put the sovereigns in one heap, the half-sovereigns 
 in another, and the florins and shillings and six- 
 pences by themselves." 
 
 Daisy's pale face flushed crimson with delight as 
 she handled the treasure. The whole amounted to 
 seven pounds fifteen shilHngs and sixpence. It was 
 put safely in a large blue envelope taken from her 
 father's table, and then, with a fervent kiss and 
 " Thank you, dear father !" Daisy went away, stopping 
 at the door to smile and kiss her hand once more 
 in token of gratitude. 
 
 " It is for your sake, Peggy. Remember, it is 
 contrary to my principles, rather ; it's for your 
 sake." 
 
 Then, when the child was gone, Mr. Cowper-Smith 
 fell into a long fit of meditation, from which he 
 roused himself to ring the bell ; and finding there 
 was yet time for a ride before the late eight o'clock 
 
42 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 dinner, he ordered his horse round, and very soon 
 was riding in the direction of Ironstown. 
 
 " Perhaps it is as well " (he thought) " we are 
 going to Florence. Things like this take such a hold 
 on the child's mind. Percival puts them into her 
 head, I believe. Let people work for their bread. 
 My father did it, and so did I, till there was no need 
 for it. It is a false benevolence, depend upon it, 
 this indiscriminate charity. The seven pounds the 
 child has got from me will do no real good. I put 
 my name on every subscription-list when I am 
 asked, and never grudge it, but to worry over the 
 family of an ill-conditioned fellow like that Fletcher 
 is not in me. If they are well kept while he is in 
 prison, he will try it on again. But, bless my little 
 Peggy ! what an angel she is ! I wish she were less 
 like one. I am afraid of hearing her wings rustle. 
 Well, if she took flight and left me it \vould break 
 my heart. What would a kingdom be to me without 
 her ? I would rather break stones on the road than 
 lose her. I wonder if we are going the right way 
 to keep her. I can't interfere with her mother; 
 she always knows best, or thinks she does ; but / 
 think the child is kept too much away from girls of 
 her own age. I will just see if I can find Barbara 
 at home, and if I do, I will take upon myself to 
 invite her girls to Willesford next week." 
 
 Barbara, otherwise Mrs. Smith, with no prefix, 
 was the wife of one of the working partners in the 
 firm of Smith, Smith, Bolton and Smith, who lived 
 
LADY ANNA. 43 
 
 in the heart of the great commercial town, where, 
 after half an hour's quick trotting, Mr. Cowper- 
 Smith found himself. He received many respect- 
 ful salutations as he rode up the principal street, 
 and turning into a broad square, stopped before 
 a red brick house mellowed by smoke, of that very 
 respectable class of residence which only falls short 
 of a mansion when described in an agent's list. 
 
 His arrival had been seen from the window of the 
 dining-room, where the family were assembled at 
 tea. Mrs. Smith hastily rose from her place at the 
 head of the long table, and, telling her eldest girl to 
 preside in her absence, was hastening out into the 
 hall, when her husband, who was dividing his 
 attention between a mutton-chop and the Irons- 
 town Evening News, called out : 
 
 " What are you doing, Bab ? Don't go and toady 
 the great man for coming at this time to suit his 
 convenience." 
 
 " I must go, James. Sit still, children," as one 
 or two of the young Smiths were slipping down from 
 their chairs, Will calling out : 
 
 " Let me go and hold the horse, father." 
 
 ** And get sixpence for your pains," was the reply. 
 ** Be quiet ; you are not an errand-boy, are you ?" 
 
 A man had been summoned by Mr. Cowper- 
 Smith to take charge of the horse ; and Mrs. Smith 
 met her husband's cousin in the hall, just as the 
 maid-servant had admitted him. 
 
 '' Oh ! Cousin John ! do come in ! How are you ? 
 
44 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 And how is Cousin Anna, and poor little Margaret ? 
 Do come in." 
 
 Mrs. Smith led the way into the sitting-room on 
 the side of the hall opposite the dining-room. The 
 drawing-room was upstairs, and seldom used. 
 
 "Poor little Margaret!" Mr. Cowper-Smith dis- 
 liked to hear that adjective applied to his darling. 
 
 " Margaret is very well, thank you. She had a good 
 ride to-day over the moor. She would be glad to see 
 her cousins next week. Will Wednesday suit ? I'll 
 send a carriage for them ; and they can spend a 
 long day — indeed, two days — if you can spare them." 
 
 " You are very kind, I am sure. Cousin John. 
 Which two would you like ? Barbara and Rose 
 are nearest in age to your poor child. How is she ? 
 — I mean, is she stronger ?" 
 
 " Oh, I hope so," Mr. Cowper-Smith said in- 
 differently ; *' I hope so. Girls are often ailing at 
 her age — growing fast^ and all that." 
 
 " Yes ; I know that. But poor Margaret has 
 never been hke other children. Dr. Bradfield was 
 saying the other day he thought it a wonder she was 
 alive." 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith hit his riding-boot impatiently 
 with his whip. 
 
 ''Dr. Bradfield has no business to talk about his 
 patients to other people," he said ; " so you may 
 tell him." 
 
 '' But we are not ' other people,' " Mrs. Smith 
 persisted ; " we are relations, and relations who care 
 
LADY ANNA. 45 
 
 a great deal about poor, dear little Peggy, as I know 
 you call her. A very sweet child she is. My little 
 Bella said only the other day, ' Mamma, I should 
 so like to play with dear Margaret sometimes. She 
 is so pretty — like a snowdrop.' That is what Bella 
 said. Wasn't it sweet of her ?" 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith could well have been spared 
 the simile, and said : 
 
 *' Well — well, let your two girls be ready on 
 Wednesday by ten o'clock, and stay till Friday. 
 The carriage shall be here at ten. My wife will be 
 away, and " 
 
 "Ah!" thought Mrs. Smith, "the secret is out. 
 If Lady Anna were at home no such invitation would 
 be given." 
 
 " I hope,'' Mrs. Smith said, " I hope, John, Lady 
 Anna approves of the girls being asked. I never 
 wish to push — I hate to seem to push anywhere. 
 Lady Blunt will tell you so. She said the other 
 day " 
 
 But Mr. Cowper-Smith did not wish to hear what 
 Lady Blunt said — an authority Mrs. Smith was fond 
 of quoting — the wife of a man who had been 
 knighted for some service at the time of a royal 
 visit — whom Lady Anna called a very " objection- 
 able person." 
 
 " Well, well ; I shall tell Peggy the girls will 
 come, and I hope this fine weather will last. Is 
 James quite well ?" 
 
 " Yes, thank you. Shall I call him ? He is at 
 
46 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 tea, and he is always very tired after a long day at 
 the office; but I will call him." 
 
 ** No, no ; pray don't disturb him," Mr. Cowper- 
 Smith said, for his cousin was decidedly less civil 
 than his wife ; and in another minute he had taken 
 leave, and was riding at a quick trot out of the town 
 again. 
 
 Barbara and Rose received the news of their invita- 
 tion to Willesford with very decided dissatisfaction. 
 
 " Oh, mother! we shall hate it !" Rose said. 
 
 *' I simply shan't go!" exclaimed Barbara. "I 
 don't choose to be patronized by Lady Anna." 
 
 " Go — go where ?" asked Mr. Smith, between two 
 mouthfuls of currant tart, which had followed the 
 chops. '' Where are you going ?" 
 
 *' A nice visit to Willesford. John came to 
 invite them. They ought to be delighted ! but 
 delighted or not, you will have to go," said Mrs. 
 Smith with decision. '' Your dear little cousin will 
 be so pleased ;" and with a doleful shake of her head 
 Mrs. Smith resumed her seat, adding, " You may 
 not have her long ; you may soon lose her." 
 
 Mr. Smith laughed in a very provoking way. 
 
 " Lose her ! well, they can't lose what they never 
 got," he said. " It's a joke, though, about her lady- 
 ship. John dare not have invited the girls if she 
 had been at home. However, no more nonsense," 
 he said, as Barbara began a murmur of discontent. 
 " You'll have to go, and make the best of it." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Smith was certainly no favourite with 
 
LADY ANNA. 47 
 
 her cousin's wife. She could not help asserting her- 
 self, when at rare intervals they met. She certainly 
 was devoid of tact, and, it may frankly be said, was 
 not ail courant with the courtesies of ordinary 
 society. Thus, she had told Lady Anna, on her 
 return from Cannes in the spring, that she was sorry 
 to see her looking so very far from well, and that 
 she had aged considerably, adding, by way of conso- 
 lation, " like the rest of us." She invariably spoke of 
 "poor sweet little Margaret" in a tone which im- 
 plied she was doomed. She made unpleasant 
 comparisons between her own lot — as the mother 
 of a large family, condemned to a town life — with 
 that of those who had country houses at their 
 disposal, and every advantage for their children. 
 
 She often quoted, as I have said, the opinion of 
 Lady Blunt, who declared that the county were ridi- 
 culously exclusive, and gave themselves airs, which 
 was of course a matter of supreme indifference to 
 Lady Blunt and to herself. In fact, Mrs. Smith was 
 not happy in the choice of subjects, or the way in 
 which she treated them, and Lady Anna looked 
 upon the very occasional visits which were ex- 
 changed as moments of penance, when she had 
 some difficulty in retaining the calm aristocratic 
 indifference which befitted her. 
 
 There certainly is no bitterness more bitter than 
 that which is engendered by family feuds. In this in- 
 stance the strained relations could hardly be dignified 
 with such a name, but the feeling between the Smiths 
 
48 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 of Marlborough Square and the Cowper-Smiths of 
 Willesford Hall could never be cordial. Alas ! that 
 truth should compel me to say that there was a 
 strain of what might be called " vulgarity " in Lady 
 Anna herself. She had shown it in those far-off days, 
 when she insisted on her husband's second name ; 
 she had shown it by the perpetual desire — which all 
 who knew her observed — to bring her own family 
 superiority prominently forward. Lady Anna could 
 not take people as they were, she must have some 
 imprimatur with them. She was sincerely attached 
 to her husband, and his perfect honesty and lack of 
 pretension had won her in her young days to accept 
 his proposal of marriage. She, like her sister, had 
 seen a great deal of the misery caused by means 
 which were insufficient to meet the supposed re- 
 quirements of rank and fashion. And when her old 
 father represented to her that on inquiry he found 
 the Smiths were rolling in riches, and that John was 
 a good honest fellow — adding that the days were over 
 when the nobility could afford to scoff at trade — 
 Lady Anna agreed with him ; and being determined 
 to make the best of even her husband's name, by the 
 addition of his mother's, she was fairly well satisfied. 
 But Lady Anna was not noble enough to rise quite 
 above the disadvantages which were tied to her 
 marriage. Immense as the advantages confessedly 
 were, the disadvantages were as a drop of bitterness 
 in the sweetness of the cup, and the keen edge of 
 satisfaction was thereby a little blunted. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 AN ENCLOSURE. 
 
 The picture of the fisher-boy — with the glowing 
 sunset sky behind him — had been framed according 
 to Lady Mary's promise, and was a conspicuous 
 object in the drawing-room at the Court, which had 
 been put into order to receive Lady Anna Cowper- 
 Smith. 
 
 Lady Mary always rather dreaded her sister's 
 visits. It was so hard to prevent a collision with 
 Mr. Beauchamp, and Lady Anna's requirements 
 were manifold. Lady Mary felt very much as a 
 subject feels when Royalty is expected. A maid 
 and a man were always in attendance, and, as is 
 invariably the case with the servants of people like 
 the Cowper- Smiths, far more exigeant than their 
 masters and mistresses. 
 
 So it came to pass that Lady Anna's maid and 
 footman were a source of considerable anxiety to the 
 good old-fashioned housekeeper at the Court, and to 
 the much-enduring Preston, who, besides constant 
 attendance on his master, was supposed to exercise 
 
 4 
 
50 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 the same authority over the men-servants as Mrs. 
 Ball exercised over the maids of the household. 
 
 A very modest household it was, and ''company," 
 strictly speaking, was unknown at the Court ; thus the 
 arrival of such a grand person as Lady Anna Cowper- 
 Smith caused some trouble, and not a little anxious 
 care and vexation. 
 
 Lady Mary went through the rooms several times 
 to inspect them, and herself arranged her sister's 
 writing-desk, and put upon it a large supply of paper, 
 and vases of flowers on the table. The old-fashioned 
 chintz curtains were pulled further back from the 
 two rather small windows with their thick frames, 
 and her own maid was summoned to get fresh chair- 
 backs for the easy-chairs, and another footstool was 
 sent for to replace a well-worn one under the writing- 
 table. 
 
 " Lady Anna likes to see everything very nice,'' 
 her sister said ; " you know, Grace, everything at 
 Willesford is so beautiful." 
 
 " Yes, so I have heard your ladyship say," Grace 
 replied ; " but to my thinking there's an air about 
 the Court, which makes all the difference. The 
 Court," Grace continued, ^^ seems the residence of 
 real gentry, though of course we know her ladyship 
 is of the highest family, as your sister, but " 
 
 Lady Mary was silent for a minute, and then said 
 gravely : 
 
 "Take care to encourage no gossip in the house- 
 keeper's room, Grace, and remember my sister's 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 51 
 
 servants are to be treated with courtesy and 
 kindness." 
 
 Grace took the hint and said no more then, but 
 any good resolutions she might have made were 
 blown to the winds by the fine airs of Mrs. Parsons, 
 who made a good many disagreeable remarks about 
 the low ceilings and the small windows, and wondered 
 how gentry could exist without plate-glass; "the 
 windows at Willesford were just the same as if 
 they were open, the plate-glass was that enormous, 
 and as clear as crystal !" 
 
 The arrival of Lady Mary's sister made some 
 excitement in Dryborough, as well as in the Court 
 itself. Mrs. Birley consulted Mrs. Ponsonby as to 
 the best time to call, whether the very day after Lady 
 Anna's arrival, or later a day or two. 
 
 " I do not wish to seem too anxious to call," she 
 said ; " Miss Castigan and the Miss Townleys are 
 certain to be in a hurry to go up to the Court, and 
 ]\Irs. Wardlaw will go of course, as Adelaide is made 
 so much of by Lady Mary." 
 
 Mrs. Ponsonby, who was the essence of good 
 nature, round and rosy like her daughter — to whom 
 she bore the likeness of a full-blown rose to a half- 
 opened bud — only said : 
 
 " Please yourself, Mrs. Birley ; and I am sure you 
 will please my cousins. We are not expected to 
 stand on ceremony at Dryborough." 
 
 Mrs. Birley laughed, and said : 
 
 " No, indeed. Hugh thinks us all very much be- 
 
 4—2 
 
52 IN THE CITY OF F TOWERS. 
 
 hind the time, and says he hopes I shall send his 
 sisters to school. But I do not see how it is to be 
 arranged. They must go on at Miss Castigan's — 
 with Susie and Nina Wardlaw. My husband finds 
 the boys so expensive — Oxford bills do run up 
 so frightfully — and then there are Joe and Percy 
 coming on — the girls will have to be content ; and I 
 tell Hugh what was good enough for Hester — whom 
 he thinks perfection — must be good enough for his 
 sisters." 
 
 Mrs. Ponsonby avoided any direct reply to part of 
 this speech. Her eyes were opening, by slow 
 degrees, to the fact that the intimacy between 
 Hester and Hugh was becoming rather pronounced. 
 Easy-going and good-tempered as she was, Mrs. 
 Ponsonby did not altogether like the idea of Hester 
 entertaining any serious liking for the Rector's son, 
 and was already looking forward to the end of the 
 long vacation with some eagerness. 
 
 While the matrons were discussing the important 
 question as to the proper time to pay their respects 
 to Lady Anna Cowper-Smith, Hester and Adelaide 
 were occupied with the same subject. The two girls 
 were together in the little room at the back of Mrs. 
 Wardlaw's house which was given to Adelaide for 
 her own purposes. It opened out of her bedroom, 
 and was hardly more than a closet with a window in 
 it. But it was her own, and here she painted, and 
 dreamed, and read a variety of books which her step- 
 father lent her — history, biography, plays, poetr}' — 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 53 
 
 here she wrote what Miss Castigan called " themes" 
 on many subjects. Adelaide had filled several large 
 books of lined paper with a great variety of extracts 
 — " chips" they might well be called — from the 
 workshop of many a labourer in literature past and 
 present — chiefly past — for current literature was 
 slow in reaching Dryborough, as everything else was 
 slow, and a book had its day in London before 
 Dryborough had realized that it was one of those 
 productions which ^' everyone ought to read." 
 
 This obligation we have all felt laid upon us some- 
 times, and have fulfilled it as a duty, perhaps, more 
 than as a pleasure. 
 
 Adelaide was lying back in a small folding-chair, 
 Hester balancing herself on the narrow window-seat, 
 with her head turned in the direction which com- 
 manded a view of the Rectory lawn. Mr. Ward- 
 law's house was in the street, but the back looked 
 upon a narrow strip of garden, which was separated 
 by a low wall from a field where two cows and 
 a rough pony — the property of Mr. Birley — were 
 feeding. Beyond, again, was a narrow belt of the 
 inevitable firs, and through a gap in them was seen 
 the view of the lawn at the Rectory, separated by a 
 low park railing from the field and the narrow 
 plantation of firs. 
 
 Hester was as usual bright and happy-looking. 
 She did not trouble herself with the deep questions 
 of life. They had, perhaps, never been as yet 
 brought before her. She went to church on Sun- 
 
54 /A' THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 days, and had read the Psalms every morning with 
 her mother since she had left school. But there was 
 nothing in the least awakening or inspiring in what 
 might be termed the rehgious atmosphere of Dry- 
 borough, and Hester had no aspiration for anything 
 beyond what was within her reach. She had 
 naturally a sweet temper and a happy disposition. 
 She loved her mother, and she loved Adelaide with 
 that admiring love which girls of nineteen are so often 
 ready to bestow at the shrine of some idol. Lately, 
 she had begun to feel that Adelaide had a rival near 
 the throne of her heart, and, even now, as she sat in 
 what had been to her for several years the most de- 
 lightful converse, and interchange of endearments 
 with Adelaide, her eyes were ever and anon directed 
 to the gap between the fir-trees, where, on the 
 Rectory lawn, a figure was outstretched in white 
 flannels, a straw hat on his forehead, and a pipe in 
 his mouth, from which, every now and then, a little 
 cloud of smoke was lazily puffed. 
 
 Adelaide was not conscious of any distraction on 
 Hester's part ; she was too much occupied with her 
 own affairs, and with the dim hope rising in her 
 horizon, like a gleam of a bright dawning, which had 
 been awakened by the note lying on the floor by her 
 chair. It was from Lady Mary, and ran thus : 
 
 *' My dear Adelaide, 
 
 " My sister. Lady Anna Cowper-Smith, arrived 
 last evening. She admires your picture very much ; 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 55 
 
 and though she says she is not a judge of art, she 
 would Hke to possess it. My sister has taken a 
 house in Florence for the winter, and I am hoping 
 that she may ask you to accompany her there. She 
 has a very sweet, delicate little girl of fourteen, for 
 whose sake chiefly she winters in Italy. It has 
 struck me you might be a companion to her, and 
 pursue your art studies also. 
 
 " Will you come up to dinner this evening, with 
 Hester and my cousin, Mrs. Ponsonby ? Mr. Beau- 
 champ is confined to his room to-day, and there- 
 fore will not dine with us. It will be only 
 ourselves. 
 
 *' Yours affectionately, 
 
 " Mary Beauchamp." 
 
 " What dress shall I wear, Hester ?" Adelaide 
 said after a pause. " What are you going to wear ?" 
 
 " White ; my white embroidered muslin. Mother 
 Hkes me best in white of an evening." 
 
 "You have so many dresses," Adelaide said. " I 
 have so few. But I shall wear the old-gold, with 
 the brown velvet skirt. Shall I ?" 
 
 " You look hke yourself, and no one else, in it. 
 
 But I think " Hester paused. '' I think, as 
 
 Cousin Anna has never seen you, perhaps — I 
 think " 
 
 "You think I look a guy in the old-gold gown? 
 I know who put that into your head ; but I do not 
 care to rule my taste in dress by that standard." 
 
56 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " How can you say I think you anything but 
 charming, in any gown, Adelaide ?" 
 
 But Hester's face flushed crimson. It was quite 
 true, as Adelaide had divined. Hugh Birley /^a^ used 
 that very term when speaking of Adelaide's dress — 
 *^ She makes herself a perfect guy !" 
 
 Adelaide folded her hands at the back of her 
 head, tossing back as she did so the mass of dark 
 hair from her low square forehead. It was a 
 favourite attitude of hers, and it displayed the shape 
 of her arms and delicately-formed wrists to anyone 
 who cared to look. 
 
 Hester left her seat by the window, and took up 
 a position at Adelaide's feet on the floor. Clasping 
 her hands on Adelaide's knees, and looking up re- 
 proachfully into her face, she said : 
 
 " Don't be vexed with me, darling. I do want 
 you to make the best impression on Cousin Anna. 
 It is very unselfish of me ; for, if you go to Florence 
 for the winter, what will become of me without 
 you ? DonH be vexed with me. Wear your old- 
 gold gown. And I will come and gather your hair 
 into the knot you like best, low on your neck, and 
 lend you those lovely Venetian pins mother gave 
 me." 
 
 '' No ; I don't want borrowed goods, thanks, 
 Hester." Then one arm came down from behind 
 her head, and Adelaide threw it round Hester's 
 neck. " You are very dear and good to me," she 
 added. '' I will wear what you like. Even let my 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 57 
 
 hair be scraped up to the top of my head, if it 
 pleases you. Shall I wear my blue cashmere ?" 
 
 " Yes ; that will do beautifully. Let me get it 
 out and see." 
 
 So the dress was fetched from a deep drawer, 
 and shaken out by Hester, the lace ruffles at the 
 elbow pinched, and the baggy sleeves smoothed 
 down ; while the Venetian collar falling from the 
 low square-cut neck was subjected to a similar 
 process. Hester was inwardly regretting that the blue 
 was so faint and faded in hue ; but still was saying 
 to herself, " What did it matter when Adelaide was 
 not like other girls, and never would be ? She had 
 her own style of beauty, and it was the same what- 
 ever gown she wore." 
 
 " There," she said, " you will look charming in 
 this ! And may I come and dress you at six o'clock ?" 
 
 " You may dress me now, if you like. I shall 
 stay up here till it is time to go to the Court." 
 
 " But some visitors may come — Miss Castigan or 
 Mrs. Birley." 
 
 " That is not at all likely. But I dare say you 
 would prefer going to the Rectory to have a game 
 of tennis." 
 
 Hester glanced at the lawn through the trees, and 
 said indifferently: 
 
 *' I dare say mother may like it best if I go home 
 to tea. I will come back about half-past five ; it is 
 scarcely four now. Good-bye, darling ;" and then 
 Hester left her friend to her meditations. 
 
58 ly THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 These were not altogether untroubled ones. 
 Adelaide had that self-consciousness which so com- 
 monly accompanies temperaments like hers. It was 
 too much her custom to wonder what people would 
 think of her. Her paintings, her dress, all passed 
 in review before her mental vision ; and the judg- 
 ment that others would be likely to pass tormented 
 her sometimes, very needlessly. For it is true 
 that often, while we are wondering what people 
 are thinking of us, they may not be thinking of us 
 at all. 
 
 Adelaide had been sitting just as Hester had left 
 her, for some time, when there was a gentle tap at 
 the door, and Mrs. Wardlaw came in. 
 
 *' I am glad you are to dine at the Court to-night, 
 dear. Can I help you to dress ? Can I lend you 
 any chain or brooch ?" 
 
 Adelaide sprang up. 
 
 " No, mother, thanks ; I never wear ornaments, 
 you know. Sit down, mother; you look tired." 
 
 " I am always more or less tired," gentle Mrs. 
 Wardlaw said, accepting the seat Adelaide offered. 
 *' I should like to look at Lady Anna's letter again, 
 if I may." 
 
 *' Hester put it on the table, I think ; oh yes, here 
 it is!" 
 
 Mrs. Wardlaw read the few lines again and 
 said : 
 
 "It would be a delightful plan for you, dear; 
 your father is quite as glad you should go as I am. 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 59 
 
 Florence is a city of pictures, and I have no doubt 
 you will get great advantages there." 
 
 Adelaide was now on the perch on the window- 
 ledge Hester had vacated. She was twisting the 
 tassel of the blind in her fingers, and looking 
 through the fir-trees absently, for she saw nothing 
 to interest her, as Hester had done, in the Rectory 
 garden. 
 
 " I do hope you will go, dear," Mrs. Wardlaw said 
 again. " I have always felt, with your unusual gifts 
 and powers, Dryborough w^as a sad banishment for 
 you. Yes, I think we may really consider this 
 Florence plan is arranged." 
 
 " I don't think so at all," Adelaide said, with 
 some vehemence ; " I have yet to see Lady Anna 
 Cowper-Smith, and it is just as likely as not she 
 may not take to me, or I to her ! You all seem 
 very pleased to get rid of me, I must say ; and, 
 mother, I do not think you ought to say I have 
 gifts and all that. It is more than likely that 
 it is a mistake, and I am a very ordinary person 
 indeed." 
 
 " Nonsense, Adelaide ! you would not like anyone 
 else to say that. No one can be a better judge than 
 a scholar like your father, and he knows what you 
 are. Now Nina and Susie, dear children, and Hester 
 Ponsonby are, of course, far from clever ; but you — 
 no one can look at you and not be sure that there is 
 something very far superior to the ordinary girl of 
 twenty about you. What dress are you going to 
 
6o IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 wear ? Do take pains to appear to the best 
 advantage." 
 
 Adelaide laughed a little bitterly. 
 
 " Everyone seems mightily concerned about my 
 dress," she said ; " it seems as if my general appear- 
 ance were not altogether satisfactory to my friends. 
 Hester chose my most appropriate garment — the 
 blue cashmere ; it is on the bed in the next room. 
 You can see it if you like, if you are uneasy about 
 my appearance." 
 
 Mrs. Wardlawgave a sigh of relief at the mention 
 of the blue cashmere. She, too, had dreaded the 
 " old-gold," with its very large sleeves, short waist, 
 and scant skirt. 
 
 " That will do beautifully," she said ; " and I must 
 try to scrape together enough to fit you out nicely 
 for Florence. We must ask what is likely to be 
 most worn there, and most useful." 
 
 " Dear mother, you speak as if it were quite a 
 settled thing. Remember I have yet to be seen, 
 and my measure taken, and — oh ! how I hate it !" 
 Adelaide exclaimed with sudden passion, which 
 brought the colour to her face and the tears to 
 her eyes. "Yes, I hate having my picture forced 
 on Lady Anna, and myself too! It is all a scheme 
 — kindly meant, I know — but I hate to be schemed 
 about. Dear little mother ! don't look so vexed." 
 
 And then Adelaide became infinitely tender and 
 gentle, and held her mother in a close embrace, and 
 said : 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 6i 
 
 " I will do anything to please you, sweetest of 
 mothers. And of course Florence — going to Florence 
 is like the fulfilment of a dream. I have longed to 
 go — to see the Pitti, and the Uffizi, and the sculp- 
 ture. Only there are times when I wish I could go 
 independently, and not be indebted to anyone. How- 
 ever — who knows? — I may sell the copies I make of 
 the pictures, and then I shall be able to pay every 
 expense, and do many nice things for you and Nina 
 and Susie." 
 
 Mrs. Wardlaw was quite satisfied now, and said : 
 " You are full of energy and spirit, my darling, 
 very like your dear father ; if I ever say anything 
 you do not like, you know it is all out of love and 
 appreciation for you. I want you to have every 
 possible advantage." 
 
 " I know it, dear mother," Adelaide said ; " you 
 are only too kind to me. I wish I deserved it better." 
 Hester returned, faithful to her promise, to give 
 the finishing touches to Adelaide's toilette. She 
 found Nina and Susie watching their sister with 
 great interest, and when she came in, dressed in her 
 simple and becoming evening dress of white muslin, 
 the two girls went into raptures, and openly expressed 
 their admiration. 
 
 " It must be nice to go out to dinner," Nina 
 sighed, as she watched Hester and Adelaide set off; 
 "and to put on pretty dresses every night as some 
 people do. I wonder whether we shall ever look 
 hke Hester?" 
 
62 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 *' That I am sure we never shall," said Susie. 
 " She is pretty to begin with, and you and I are 
 dowdy little things ; father thinks so, I know. He 
 always calls me Jenny Wren." 
 
 " That is only his fun," Nina said. '' Anyone who 
 is well dressed can look tolerably pretty. Well, I 
 must begin to practise and be content. After all, 
 things might be worse," Nina added philosophically, 
 as she turned to the piano, and began to rattle off 
 scales and exercises in the mechanical fashion which 
 her mistress approved. For Miss Castigan's musical 
 training was of the old school of air and variations, 
 with an occasional sonata by Dussek or Haydn. 
 
 The warm August evening was favourable for a 
 walk to the Court, and Mrs. Ponsonby had but a few 
 steps to take from her gate to the Lodge. The 
 Rectory came next, standing back from the road, and 
 then, a few hundred yards nearer the town, was 
 Mr. Wardlaw's house. Mrs. Ponsonby had thrown 
 a light Shetland veil over her head ; she had lately 
 discarded caps, and wore her hair — which was neither 
 plentiful nor of any particular hue — in the fashion 
 which Adelaide described as "scraped up to the 
 top of the head." The two girls had only shawls 
 thrown over them, and therefore, on arriving at the 
 Court, there was no preparation necessary, before 
 entering the drawing-room. 
 
 Lady Mary was alone, and received her guests in 
 her usual quiet manner. 
 
 She was never demonstrative in her greeting, and 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 63 
 
 there was nothing in the way in which she intro- 
 duced Adelaide, a few minutes later, to her tall and 
 handsome sister, which would have led anyone to 
 think she had an especial interest in her. Yet the 
 reverse was really the case, and it was with some 
 anxiety that she tried to read in her sister's face 
 what impression Adelaide had made. 
 
 " I have not seen you," Lady Anna began, '' since 
 you were a little girl, I think. The last time I came 
 to Cruttwell, you were under some ban from scarlet 
 fever. And, Hester, you were away from home, I 
 think." 
 
 " Oh yes ; I remember," Mrs. Ponsonby said. 
 " We had fled from infection, and, after all, Susie 
 Wardlaw had not scarlet fever — it was only rose- 
 rash ; but the scare was the same." 
 
 " How well you look, my dear Grace !" Lady Anna 
 said ; " so bright and happy : and Hester is exactly 
 like you. It is quite amusing to see two people look 
 so ridiculously happy." 
 
 "Well," Mrs. Ponsonby said, "it is well for me 
 that I take life as I find it. I dare say there are cares 
 with mone}' as well as cares without it. You must 
 know what the first sort of care means, Anna." 
 
 Lady Anna sighed. 
 
 " Perhaps I know others also," she said ; " a 
 precious, delicate child, like mine, must ever be a 
 care !" 
 
 It was not till after dinner that Lady Anna ad- 
 dressed Adelaide in any especial manner. Then she 
 
64 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 swept her train of lovely pearl-gray silk across the 
 room to the place where Adelaide — dreading the 
 remarks she knew were imminent about her future — 
 had withdrawn behind a curtain, which shaded the 
 deep, old-fashioned bay-window where she sat from 
 observation. 
 
 " I find," Lady Anna began, settling herself in a 
 low chair just outside Adelaide's retreat — " I find 
 that pretty water-colour picture is for sale ; if you 
 will allow me, I shall like to be the purchaser. Tell 
 me frankly what I should pay you for it." 
 
 Adelaide had winced under this speech as if she 
 had been touched on some sore place, and her most 
 stiff and reserved manner came over her at once. 
 
 " I never sold a picture," she said, in a constrained 
 voice. " I have no idea of the value of this one, 
 except " — with a little laugh, which was not natural 
 — *' except the value of the frame, which seems to me 
 a great deal too good for the picture." 
 
 " Oh !" Lady Anna said coolly. '' Everything has 
 its proper value, and in purely business matters it 
 is better to be quite frank. I should think," Lady 
 Anna said, turning her head towards the old oak 
 cupboard with glass doors against which the 
 *' Fisher-Boy " was leaning, ''I fancy five guineas 
 might be the right price. I think many httle 
 pictures of the sort in the Exhibitions are marked 
 at this sum, and I am sure this is superior to most 
 of its class." 
 
 Adelaide felt a strong inclination to start up and 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 65 
 
 leave her position in the window, but Lady Anna 
 blocked the way, and she must step over, or upon, 
 the rich folds of that gray silk train, if she attempted 
 to do so. 
 
 '* I shall take the picture to my dear child," Lady 
 Anna said ; " she always expects me to bring her a 
 present, even after a short absence. You may have 
 heard Lady Mary speak of Margaret : she is very 
 fragile and delicate, and quite unable to study like 
 other girls of her age ; but she is so very thoughtful 
 and superior in all ways, that mere routine knowledge 
 is of no importance. Certainly not, if by the attain- 
 ment of it her health should suffer. We are always 
 obliged to pass our winters abroad on her account, 
 and on mine." 
 
 Lady Anna here gave a little cough, which always 
 irritated Mrs. Smith at Ironstown. She was so 
 irreverent as to call it '' a regular made-up cough, 
 which anybody could imitate if they chose." 
 
 " I am not at all strong, and my dear child's is 
 inherited delicacy. Have you ever been in Italy, 
 Miss Wardlaw?" 
 
 " My name is Millington," Adelaide said sharply. 
 " No ; I have never been anywhere. Once or twice 
 to London, and two or three times to a seaside 
 place, Eastbourne and Southsea, with my mother 
 and the children. My travels have not been ex- 
 tensive." 
 
 "That is a pity," said Lady Anna, moving her fan 
 gently, in a languid fashion ; " for there is nothing 
 
 5 
 
66 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 like travelling for education in art, and, indeed, in 
 almost everything." 
 
 " I don't doubt it is a great advantage," Adelaide 
 said, rallying ; " but, like many other advantages, it 
 has been denied me." 
 
 " You are young yet," Lady Anna replied, w^ith a 
 smile which was meant to be consoling. " There 
 is plenty of time before you. I dare say you will 
 travel when the right time comes." 
 
 The right time had evidently not come then. 
 Not a word did Lady Anna say about the proposed 
 visit to Florence. She meandered on for a few 
 minutes longer, about the picturesque old Court, the 
 gateway and the castle, and said she felt inclined 
 to envy her sister the possession of such a dear old 
 place, while she was condemned to very new sur- 
 roundings. Willesford had been, it is true, raised 
 on the site of an old mansion, but, greatly to her 
 distress, Mr. Cowper-Smith had pulled down the 
 entire house, and erected the modern one in its place. 
 
 Very soon Lady Anna drew herself upright in the 
 little chair, which was far too small for her, and her 
 voluminous garments, as they swept away, finally 
 upset the chair, and made Hester, who had been on 
 the watch, spring forward to put it on its legs again. 
 
 " Well, what did she say, Adelaide ?" Hester asked. 
 
 " Nothing," was the reply. 
 
 " Nothing about Florence ?" 
 
 " No ; not a word about any invitation to go with 
 her; and I am glad, on the whole. It would take 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 67 
 
 a great deal to compensate for her patronage and 
 her self-assertion. Who could believe she was Lady 
 Mary's sister ? Surely there never was such a 
 contrast since the world began." 
 
 Hester saw Adelaide was vexed, and had been 
 rubbed the wrong way, but she ventured to say : 
 
 " I think, dearest, it would be worth while to put 
 up with anything, for the sake of Florence. You, 
 with your genius for painting, ought to have every 
 advantage." 
 
 '' Oh dear !" Adelaide said ; " how tired I am of 
 hearing that ! I shall do very well ; and if I can 
 sell the * Fisher-Boy ' for five guineas — which Lady 
 Anna assures me is the ordinary value of such little 
 pictures — I may sell others, save a little fortune, and 
 then — then — you and I, Hester, will take an inde- 
 pendent journey together. To be sure, we shall be 
 a pair of old maids by the time this object is attained ; 
 but that won't matter ; we shall be all the more free 
 to do as we choose." 
 
 Hester gave a little laugh, and then said : 
 
 ''We won't wait as long as that, Adelaide; and I 
 don't think I mean to be an old maid. We will 
 both have very nice husbands to pay our expenses 
 for us, and frisk about wherever we choose." 
 
 " Ah, I forgot," Adelaide said. " Your views in 
 life are changing. Mine are not. I never intend to 
 marry if anybody asks me, and I am pretty sure no 
 one will ask me." 
 
 " Oh, Adelaide ! you know better than that ! The 
 
 5—2 
 
68 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 only difficulty would be to find anybody half good 
 enough for you." 
 
 " Well, let us go into the garden. It is such a 
 lovely evening, and I like twilight. We can go round 
 this way and get our shawls in the hall. The three 
 elders are having a delightful gossip together ; it 
 would be a pity to disturb them." 
 
 The two girls then quietly emerged from their 
 hiding-place, and crossing the end of the room to a 
 door, which opened into a little ante-room, they went 
 out to enjoy each other's society in the old garden. 
 
 Passing under the window of Mr. Beauchamp's 
 bedroom, they heard his voice raised in loud angry 
 tones, answered now and then by a murmur from 
 the much-enduring Preston. 
 
 " Listen, Hester ! Would you like a husband like 
 that ? Even gay young Oxford men in flannels and 
 blazers, with the college arms worked on the left 
 side, may get the gout in old age, and may be like 
 that. There ! He has flung something out of the 
 open window in his rage." 
 
 As she spoke a book fell at Hester's feet with its 
 face on the terrace-path and its back broken. 
 Hester picked it up, and raising her head, saw 
 Preston at the window. 
 
 ** Shall I give it to one of the servants to bring 
 upstairs ?" she asked. 
 
 " No, miss, thank you. I'll run down for it." 
 
 Then there was a sound of muttering, like the 
 grumble of thunder after the storm had burst. For 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 69 
 
 Mr. Beauchamp generally quieted down after an 
 ebullition of temper, and the next minute Preston's 
 dapper figure appeared, coming round from the back 
 of the house. 
 
 *' Poor book!" Hester said. "It is battered to 
 pieces." 
 
 " It just missed my head. Miss Ponsonby ; and it 
 might have hit yours. Dear me ! what a thing it is 
 to have a temper like that ! And all because I was 
 reading haphazard about the duty of forgiveness. 
 I am sure I didn't know what was coming ; half the 
 time I am thinking of something else as I read. 
 The long articles in the Times — lor ! it w a penance ! 
 But there, I must go back. I shall not try stories any 
 more. It doesn't answer. There are apt to be home- 
 truths in them which certain people don't fancy." 
 
 " Poor Preston !" Adelaide exclaimed ; " he ought 
 to be canonized as a martyr when he dies. I 
 suppose that is the mission of tyrants like the 
 old Squire — to make those about him miracles of 
 patience. Lady Mary is one, I am sure, and Preston 
 not far behind her." 
 
 The next day Adelaide received an envelope deco- 
 rated with an imposing cipher and shield. The 
 quartering of that shield had cost Lady Anna some 
 trouble, Mr. Cowper-Smith declaring his arms were 
 a cotton-spool, and a steam-engine or a tall chimney 
 was his crest ! He would not lend himself to any 
 nonsense about the Cowper family, and he refused 
 to allow a coat-of-arms to be manufactured. 
 
70 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 But Lady Anna found Mr. James Smith more 
 amenable. Indeed, he declared that he had found 
 in the Heralds' Office the arms of the Smiths of the 
 North Riding, and had no hesitation in adopting 
 them. Hence the imposing and yet delicately 
 engraved arms, surmounted by the cipher A.C.S., 
 which caused some excitement, when it arrived 
 on Lady Anna's envelope, especially in Nina and 
 Susie's minds. 
 
 The letter arrived when the family were at dinner, 
 and Adelaide's countenance was eagerly watched 
 while she opened it. 
 
 *' Do give me the crest for Molly Pearson !" Susie 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " Oh ! there's another on the note-paper," said 
 Nina. " Let me have it, please, Adelaide." 
 
 " What does Lady Anna say ?" Mrs. Wardlaw 
 asked anxiously. 
 
 " You can read the note, mother ; it is not very 
 interesting;" and Adelaide tossed the envelope 
 across to her mother. 
 
 A very clean and crisp Bank of England note was 
 enclosed in a sheet of very thick canvas notepaper, 
 and within were these words : 
 
 " Dear Miss Millington, 
 
 *' I enclose five pounds for the pretty picture, 
 which I am delighted to possess. 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 '* Anna Cov^per-Smith." 
 
AN ENCLOSURE. 71 
 
 " Is that all ?" Mrs. Wardlaw said. " Well, I am 
 glad about the picture." 
 
 *' What picture ?" Mr. Wardlaw asked. He seldom 
 joined in any general conversation, and was always 
 dreamy and absent when a question was asked him. 
 ''What picture ?" he repeated. 
 
 '' Let father see the interesting letter ; and you 
 may keep its contents, mother, till I want it." 
 
 Adelaide spoke indifferently, but her heart was 
 sore. The dream of Florence was over. The five 
 pounds was a reality, no doubt, and not a vision. 
 There is always a pleasant sensation caused by 
 earning money by exertion. The first-fruits of labour 
 are always sweet, and Adelaide was not insensible 
 to this ; but she would have been glad had the 
 money come from anybody else. 
 
 " You must answer the note, dear," her mother 
 said, " and acknowledge the receipt of the money. 
 What will you say ?" 
 
 '' ' Thank you,' " Adelaide repHed ; " won't that be 
 enough ? Yes, Susie, you may have the grand 
 paper, and give the cipher to Molly." 
 
 Adelaide was leaving the room, when Mr. Ward- 
 law said : '' Come into my study presently, Adelaide ; 
 I want you to copy some notes for me." 
 
 " Not notes like Lady Anna's, I hope, father," 
 was the reply. " Yes, I will come." 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself about that woman and 
 her patronage, my dear," Mr. Wardlaw said, before 
 he gave Adelaide the sheet of foolscap, and put the 
 
72 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 book before her. '' You will find your level at last. 
 All the Lady Annas in the kingdom cannot prevent 
 real power from finding its proper outcome. You 
 will not end your days in Dryborough ; a bright 
 career is before you, I hope." 
 
 " It is kind of you, father, to be so hopeful ; but if 
 Dryborough is good enough for you, surely it ought 
 to be for meJ*' 
 
 "Ah !" Mr. Wardlaw said, with a sigh, "my day 
 is over. It is a miserable thing to look back on a 
 hfetime, and see nothing but failures marking the 
 backward path, like so many milestones. I have 
 made shipwreck, and I am stranded here — as well 
 here, as anywhere ; and your dear mother, gentle 
 and uncomplaining, is an example to me." 
 
 "And to me,'' Adelaide said. "When I think of 
 mother I am ashamed of my discontent. Now I 
 will forget Lady Anna Cowper-Smith, and only 
 remember her when I spend that five pounds for my 
 poor ' Fisher-Boy.' " 
 
 Mr. Wardlaw leaned back in his chair and watched 
 Adelaide, as she set herself to the task before her, 
 with kindly interest and affection. Her neat, clear 
 handwriting was a great boon to him, and she was 
 of use as an amanuensis. As he was looking at her, 
 he saw her hastily brush away a tear which seemed 
 likely to drop on the paper ; but he said nothing, for 
 he knew Adelaide always shrank from attracting 
 notice, when under any strong emotion. He there- 
 fore made no further remark, but, taking up a book, 
 was soon buried in its contents. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE TIDE TURNS. 
 
 Percival Clyffe entirely approved of the invita- 
 tion to Barbara and Rose Smith ; and, taking the 
 place of an elder brother of the house, he contrived 
 to make his young cousins so happy, that instead of 
 being glad when their two days' visit was over, they 
 were only delighted to stop for another two ! 
 
 Miss Cromwell had to exercise her authority 
 about Daisy over-exerting herself, and pursued her 
 with wraps according to tradition, while Mrs. Gray, 
 the nurse, relaxed her discipline. 
 
 " The child is ever so much better. Miss Crom- 
 well, when she is allowed to be natural," Mrs. Gray 
 said. " It does my heart good to hear her laugh. 
 Look at her now !" 
 
 Margaret was on the lawn, actually playing the 
 forbidden tennis, and trying to instruct her father 
 how to " score." Rose and Percival Clyffe were on 
 the opposite side, and Mr. Cowper-Smith's vain 
 attempts to get the ball over the net caused much 
 amusement. 
 
 Lady Anna had left home on Monday. The two 
 
74 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 girls had arrived on Wednesday, and now Saturday 
 had come and they were to stay over Sunday. 
 
 The weather was lovely, and the town-bred 
 children forgot all their misgivings and dislike to 
 the grandeur of Willesford, in pure enjoyment of 
 the country life of a large country house. As soon 
 as the game of tennis was over Miss Cromwell 
 advanced with the inevitable wraps, and summoned 
 the three girls to schoolroom tea. 
 
 They went off gaily. Rose with her arm round 
 Daisy's waist. 
 
 ''We'll have another game on Monday, father — 
 won't we ?" she said, turning back to kiss her father. 
 
 " Yes, my Peggy ; as many as you like." 
 
 " I shall not be here," Percival said. " I am 
 going southwards early on Monday. I ought to be 
 in chambers now." 
 
 " Don't hurry!" Mr. Cowper-Smith said heartily; 
 " you are always welcome here. Anna will be back 
 on Wednesday. I do not think she is exactly 
 pleased with me about inviting these two girls. 
 Nice girls, aren't they, now ?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" said Percival warmly; "and it 
 is the best thing in the world for Daisy to have 
 them with her. They are natural and unaffected — 
 wonderfully so, considering " 
 
 "Yes, yes; I know what you mean. Their 
 mother is a very tiresome person — poor Barbara ! 
 she is irritating, I confess, and Anna can't put up 
 with her. But now about the girls. I think I shall 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 75 
 
 suggest that we take one of them to Florence as a 
 companion for Peggy. What do you say ?" 
 
 ** A capital idea — it would do the Smiths a kind- 
 ness, and be a benefit to Margaret !" 
 
 " Rose is the one nearest in age — and such a 
 merry creature ; but I don't know who is to propose 
 it" 
 
 " Let Daisy propose it herself," Percival said ; 
 " her mother never refuses her anything. I rather 
 think of going to look her up at Cruttwell. I have 
 not been there for years, and I can put up in Dry- 
 borough, and pay a casual visit. Aunt Anna wished 
 me to escort her thither, and take up my abode 
 with her at the Court uninvited. That old bear 
 would have growled then ! but he cannot object 
 to a visit of ceremony to my aunts." 
 
 ''Poor Mary!" Mr. Cowper-Smith said; "she 
 must have a sorry time of it ; but as we make our 
 bed, so we have to lie on it. Hers is a precious 
 uneasy one, poor thing ! Yes, Percival, go to the 
 Court, and just feel the way about little Rose. 
 Peggy writes to her mother every day, and I will get 
 her to mention the plan, and then you can back it 
 up. The child is like a different creature, with 
 young ones about her. But I am afraid your aunt 
 will never give her consent. Still, we can but try — 
 we can but try. I will go and consult Peggy before 
 the letters go to the post. It is nearly half-past 
 five, I see." 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith left Percival to his own medi- 
 
76 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 tations and a cigarette, which he puffed in a leisurely 
 fashion, lying back on the easy garden-seat, and 
 thinking rather ruefully of his return to London, 
 where he had nothing particular to do, and where 
 waiting for briefs became more and more irksome 
 as time went on. Birth and a long line of noble 
 ancestors were good things in their way, but the 
 fortunes realized in murky Ironstown were surely 
 better. 
 
 " If things don't look up soon," Percival Clyffe 
 was saying to himself, " I shall throw up the Bar 
 and ask James Smith to give me a berth, and I 
 dare say if I sink my small capital he would take me 
 into the concern. But what are my few hundreds 
 in comparison with their tens of thousands ? The}^ 
 would not have me if I asked them, and I am not 
 sure that I wish to ask them." 
 
 By this it will be seen that Mr. Percival Clyffe 
 was in a very undecided frame of mind. 
 
 Lady Mary Beauchamp felt she had not succeeded 
 in her plan for Adelaide. Her sister had evidently 
 not taken to her. She had bought the picture, and 
 there the matter ended. 
 
 The last day but one of Lady Anna's visit had 
 come, and the two sisters were in the drawing-room 
 after dinner. It had been a trying day, for Mr. 
 Beauchamp's attack of gout had proved a very 
 severe one, and Mr. Townley had paid more than a 
 daily visit, and had looked grave about his patient. 
 
 " I am sorry, dear Nan," Lady Mary was saying. 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 77 
 
 " that I have seen so little of you the last two days ; 
 but, you know, I could not help it. Did you have a 
 nice little luncheon at the Cottage ?" 
 
 '' Oh yes, dear ! it was quite a nice little luncheon. 
 Grace manages wonderfully with small means ; and 
 Hester is a nice girl." 
 
 *' Adelaide MilHngton was there, was she not ?" 
 
 " Yes ; she seems very intimate with Hester." 
 
 Then there was a pause. 
 
 '* She does not strike me as a very attractive girl," 
 Lady Anna said. '' Clever, I dare say, but self- 
 opinionated and very conceited. Of course, living 
 in a place like this, views of life must be terribly 
 narrow.^' 
 
 "I do not think," Lady Mary said gently, ''that 
 Adelaide is conceited. She is rather apt to under- 
 value her paintings, and dislikes praise." 
 
 " Does she ?" was Lady Anna's rejoinder. 
 
 Lady Anna was by no means inclined to look 
 with a favourable eye on Adelaide, and Lady Mary 
 was meditating whether or not she should pursue 
 the subject further, when the door opened, and the 
 butler announced : 
 
 " Mr. Percival Clyffe." 
 
 ** My dear Percy! What a pleasant surprise!" 
 Lady Anna exclaimed. " When did you come ?" 
 
 ** I am very glad to see you, Percival," Lady Mary 
 said. " I am sorry to say my husband is very much 
 worse, so that I am afraid I cannot ask you to stay 
 in the house." 
 
78 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 '' I have put up at the Crown, thanks, Aunt Mary. 
 I have just dined there ; and I thought I would 
 come up and bring Aunt Anna the latest news from 
 home." 
 
 *' That is very good of you, Percy. How is 
 Daisy?" 
 
 '' Perfectly well. She has had Barbara and Rose 
 Smith staying with her ; and they have all been as 
 merry as possible." 
 
 " I was rather sorry to hear the Smiths had 
 been at Willesford ; they are too rough for Daisy. 
 Poor children, they are uncouth in their manners ; 
 and no wonder ! And, really, Daisy does not like 
 young people." 
 
 " Margaret is very fond of Rose," Percival said, 
 going straight to the point. " She would like to 
 have her as a companion for the winter at Florence." 
 
 Lady Anna laughed — not a pleasant laugh — and 
 said : '' Dear child ! I am afraid the wish is not 
 spontaneous. It has been suggested to her that 
 Rose would like it — probably by Rose herself, in- 
 stigated by her mother." 
 
 " Indeed you are quite wrong, Aunt Anna. As 
 far as I know. Rose is ignorant of the scheme. But, 
 seriously, I think you could not do better. I hope 
 you will consent to take that nice merry girl with 
 you to Italy." 
 
 '' I am afraid I must disappoint your hopes, 
 Percy. Mrs. Gray and Miss Cromwell are quite 
 indispensable. My only fear is that Miss Cromwell 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 79 
 
 will not be able to leave England. She is anxious 
 about her mother. I am a little surprised to find 
 that those two girls were invited to Willesford 
 without consulting me. My dear husband is so 
 impulsive, I shall hear of his inviting the head- 
 gardener's girls to associate with Daisy next ! But 
 now tell us about your own plans, Percy." 
 
 *' I have nothing to tell you of any importance," 
 he said. *' I dare say you may hear I have gone off 
 cattle-ranching before long, or diamond-mine hunt- 
 ing, or something of the sort. You look very pale 
 and tired. Aunt Mary; I hope you are going away 
 for change soon." 
 
 *'That is very improbable," Lady Mary replied. 
 **Dr. Townley has mentioned that the Bath waters 
 might benefit Mr. Beauchamp ; but I am afraid to 
 advise a journey " 
 
 " You don't want the Bath waters, Aunt Mary ; it 
 is you I am thinking about. I am sure Aunt Anna 
 agrees with me that you should get some change 
 and rest." 
 
 Lady Mary smiled — the patient smile which 
 seemed to put all idea of a change in her condition 
 at an end. 
 
 " I can never leave my husband," she said ; " and 
 should not entertain the idea for a moment. It is 
 kind of you to interest yourself about your old 
 auntie, Percy." 
 
 ''You are kilHng yourself— that's all," Percival 
 said ; " and I call it awfully hard." 
 
8o IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 As he spoke a very peremptory summons came 
 from Lady Mary's maid : 
 
 " Mr. Beauchamp wishes to see your ladyship im- 
 mediately. Preston has just sent down a m.essage." 
 
 Lady Mary was gone before there was time to 
 make any remark, and Percival said : 
 
 " She really looks very ill. She is aged ten years 
 since I saw her!" 
 
 " It is the wear and tear of living with that 
 irascible old man. But he really seems much worse; 
 this last attack affected his head. Poor dear Mary, 
 it will be a happy thing for her when her release 
 comes!" 
 
 " Lysaght is a fortunate man to came into this 
 line old place," Percival said. '' I should not mind 
 standing in his shoes." 
 
 '' I wonder if there will be any hitch," Lady 
 Anna said. " You hinted at something of the kind 
 the other day." 
 
 " Have you questioned Aunt Mary about it ?" 
 Percival asked. 
 
 " My dear Percival, it is utterly impossible to get 
 anything out of poor Mary. I think I never knew 
 anybody so soft and gentle as she seems, with such 
 a power of resistance 1 You simply can't make her 
 say a word about her troubles, nor against that old 
 bear — her husband ! Really, the last few days he 
 might have been the tenderest and best husband in 
 the world, if I had judged by her anxiety and cease- 
 less attention to him." 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 8i 
 
 "You cannot have had a very cheerful visit," 
 Percival said. 
 
 " Not very. But I am not sure that Mr. Beau- 
 champ's presence would have made it more cheer- 
 ful — probably the reverse. It is a lovely evening ; 
 shall we stroll down the park and pay the Ponsonbys 
 a visit ?" 
 
 " The Ponsonbys ? Oh yes, I remember now. 
 Mrs. Ponsonby is a cousin of somebody belonging 
 to us. And she came to live at Dryborough to be 
 near Aunt Mary. Yes ; I should like to make her 
 acquaintance ; let us go by all means." 
 
 " I must ring for Parsons to bring my cloak. It 
 is such a perfect evening ; and the harvest moon 
 makes it almost as light as day !" 
 
 Parsons answered the summons despatched to her 
 by the footman, and soon came into the hall with a 
 white and gold opera cloak and a pair of thicker 
 slippers. 
 
 ''You will find the dew falling, my lady; and you 
 should put on a hat." 
 
 " No ; throw a veil over my head, that will be 
 best; and just gather up my train. Parsons. That 
 will do ; now, Percival." 
 
 Then the grand lady, her white and gold cloak 
 shining in the moonlight, stepped out into the 
 glorious summer night, sweet with the fragrance of 
 the late roses over the old porch, and the subtle 
 charm of the mysterious murmur in the fir-trees — 
 "the murmur of far seas" — which, in the hush 
 
 6 
 
82 IN THE CITY OF FIOWERS. 
 
 and stillness of all around, makes a melody like 
 the chime of waves on a level strand. 
 
 When Lady Anna and Percival had gone half-way 
 down the drive, the sound of voices made them 
 pause. 
 
 " Who can be here, at this time ?" Lady Anna 
 said. 
 
 The question was soon answered by Hester and 
 Adelaide coming out from under the dark branches 
 of the firs into the drive, on which the rays of the 
 full moon lay unchequered by any shadow. 
 
 *' We thought it was such a lovely night, Cousin 
 Anna," Hester said. *' So we came out into the 
 park for a stroll ; the full moon is so bright it is 
 almost like day ! Were you coming to see mother ? 
 Do come !" 
 
 " Yes. We were on our way to introduce a new 
 cousin ; this is Hester Ponsonby, Percival." 
 
 " I am very glad to claim such a desirable cousin," 
 Percival said, warmly shaking Hester's offered hand. 
 " And is this another cousin ?" 
 
 Lady Anna then turned towards Adelaide, and 
 said : 
 
 " Miss MilHngton— Mr. Percival Clyffe." 
 
 Adelaide returned Percival's bow, and, Hester 
 walking on with Lady Anna, she was left a little 
 behind with him. 
 
 Adelaide was dressed in the much-abused " old- 
 gold dress," with its large sleeves and loose bodice. 
 She had been spending an evening at the Cottage, 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 83 
 
 where Mrs. Ponsonby was entertaining Mrs. Birley 
 and Miss Townley. Hester had persuaded Adelaide 
 to come out into the garden, and then they had been 
 tempted to pass through the old gateway into the 
 park. 
 
 Hester had a great deal to tell Adelaide ; for 
 before Hugh Birley had gone away that week to 
 join a reading-party, which his father had jocosely 
 said he hoped would not prove a tennis-party, he 
 had made Hester understand that he loved her and 
 her alone, and that nothing but the sternest sense of 
 duty and obedience to his father's commands could 
 have torn him away. 
 
 Adelaide was fresh from this confidence of her 
 friend's when Lady Anna and Percival had appeared, 
 and she had been meditating much on the difference 
 between herself and Hester. Hester was welcome 
 to the Hugh Birleys of the world ; but, nevertheless, 
 there was that unspoken longing, which I believe 
 exists in every woman's heart, for the exclusive 
 possession of one to love and cherish her, sym- 
 pathize and care for her, and her alone. 
 
 The wide-spreading cornfields, golden-brown in 
 the sunlight, are very fair to the eye ; but, as the 
 poet has said, the possession of one loaf is what 
 the hungry man needs. The little crystal stream 
 where thirst may be quenched is more to the 
 weary traveller than rushing cataracts, and rolling 
 rivers. 
 
 On their first introduction Percival had only given 
 
 6—2 
 
84 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Adelaide a passing glance, but at this moment she 
 paused and said : " That is the nightjar. It is a 
 sound which seems to belong to Surrey." 
 
 As she spoke she raised her head listening, and 
 the moon shone full on her face, illuminating it with 
 that pale light which refines everything with its pure 
 radiance. The great masses of Adelaide's dark hair, 
 swept back from her level brow, made it, by way 
 of contrast, intensely white, while the somewhat 
 irregular outline of her nose and chin was softened 
 and chastened. 
 
 Percival was looking at her with the sort of half- 
 inquiring, half-surprised sensation which we have all 
 experienced when brought face to face for the first 
 time with someone who, from no particular reason, 
 stirs our inner consciousness — a personality that 
 makes itself felt — a something new, and something 
 which, if only from the sense of novelty, is pleasant. 
 
 Adelaide in her quaint dress, with her eyes raised, 
 and her beautifully-formed hands clasped upon a bit 
 of heather which Hester had gathered amongst the 
 bracken under the fir-trees, made the impression on 
 Percival I have described. 
 
 " She is like no one else," he said to himself. '' I 
 wonder who she is, and what she does ?" Then 
 aloud he asked : " Do you live at Dryborough ?" 
 
 Her name had escaped him, for he had really not 
 listened to his aunt's introduction, as he bowed in 
 response, in the mechanical fashion usual on such 
 occasions. 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 85 
 
 " Yes, I live here, in a house just beyond Mrs. 
 Ponsonby's, nearer the town." 
 
 '' Dryborough is a quiet httle place, I should 
 think. I came from the Junction to-day in the 
 omnibus, and I was the only passenger. The people 
 at the Crown Inn rushed out to welcome me, and 
 the landlord seemed delighted when I ordered a 
 room, and announced my intention of staying here 
 for a day or two. I am sure guests must be rare at 
 the Crown Inn." 
 
 " Perhaps that is fortunate for those who honour 
 it with their patronage," Adelaide rejoined. " They 
 get more attention, you know." 
 
 '* That is what I was trying to impress on you," 
 Percival said. " I am afraid I failed to make myself 
 intelligible." 
 
 " No ; I understood you perfectly," was the reply. 
 
 They were under the old gateway now, and at 
 the gate of Mrs. Ponsonby's cottage was seen the 
 gleaming of Lady Anna's gold and white cloak. 
 Adelaide quickened her pace a little, and Lady Anna 
 said : 
 
 " It must be delightful to be able to live such a 
 thoroughly unconventional life as you all do here. 
 The quiet of the country is most refreshing. Don't 
 you find it so, Percival ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but Willesford is as quiet." 
 
 '' My dear boy, the high-road to Ironstown lies just 
 outside our gates : who would care to pass through 
 them in evening dress after dinner ? There would 
 
86 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 be common people about, and tramps, and Ironstown 
 vehicles passing." 
 
 " I dare say, if we were to extend our walk to the 
 Junction on the other side of the town, we should 
 meet tramps and carts and the like. What do you 
 say?" Percival asked, turning to Hester. ''And I 
 suppose ' common people ' have as much right as 
 we have to come forth on warm moonhght nights, 
 and get what air there may be stirring." 
 
 " I should think so !" came in a low earnest voice 
 from Adelaide. 
 
 " Well, let us go round to the drawing-room," 
 Lady Anna said, " and I will introduce you to your 
 :ousin — another cousin, I ought to say." 
 
 The arrival of Lady Anna made some commotion 
 in Mrs. Ponsonby's drawing-room. Mrs. Birley was 
 flustered, and poor Miss Townley quite overcome by 
 the grand apparition of the opera-cloak and the 
 rustle of the long pearl-gray train which followed 
 Lady Anna with a sound conveying the idea of im- 
 portance. 
 
 Mrs. Ponsonby gave Lady Anna a sounding kiss, 
 and was altogether effusive in her welcome. 
 
 " So kind of you to come, Anna. Hester, ring for 
 more hot water and bread-and-butter. You know 
 Mrs. Birley, Anna, and Miss Townley, our good 
 doctor's sister? Dryborough could hardly do with- 
 out her. She is next best to the doctor himself !" 
 
 " Oh ! really, Mrs. Ponsonby ! You are too 
 kind," said Miss Townley, fluttering under the com- 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 87 
 
 pliment paid her in the presence of the grand lady, 
 and inwardly wishing her sister had been present to 
 hear her praises thus loudly chanted. Her sister 
 was wont to say she meddled too much with 
 the patients, and talked a great deal more about 
 complaints than was seemly for a young unmarried 
 woman. 
 
 Percival, meanwhile, had been standing a little 
 behind, and waited for his welcome, which he 
 feared might be, perhaps, disagreeably effusive. 
 
 '' I hope she is not going to kiss me 1" he thought, 
 as Mrs. Ponsonby bore down upon him, and, taking 
 both his hands in hers, went over the genealogy of 
 the Clyffes, till she satisfied herself as to Percival's 
 precise claim to cousinship. 
 
 " Of course ! poor Donald's boy ! He and I were 
 great friends in our youth. Poor fellow ! he married 
 imprudently — a young thing with no fortune : a 
 good family, I believe ; but younger sons of peers — 
 especially Irish peers — must think of money. So 
 much the worse for them ! You are very like your 
 father. I am delighted to see you. You are stay- 
 ing at the Court, of course, or I should be quite 
 offended at your not coming to the Cottage !" 
 
 Percival did not attempt to enlighten Mrs. Pon- 
 sonby as to the fact that he was sleeping at the 
 Crown Inn; he merely rephed, as he at last suc- 
 ceeded in freeing his hands from the grasp of his 
 warm-hearted cousin, that he had only arrived that 
 afternoon at Dryborough. 
 
88 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " How kind to come so soon — you have seen 
 Hester ? Now, then, we will have tea." 
 
 Lady Anna had settled herself and her train in 
 an easy-chair, and lay back in it with proper aristo- 
 cratic calmness, as she talked to Mrs. Birley and 
 Miss Townley. 
 
 A pretty little conservatory opened out of the 
 room, full of bright flowers, where three or four fairy 
 lamps were shining like glow-worms amongst the 
 plants. Mrs. Ponsonby had lighted them for the ex- 
 press gratification of showing them, as something 
 new and wonderful, to Mrs. Birley. Adelaide, who 
 had felt very much de trop, as she was the last to 
 enter the room, took refuge in the conservatory, and 
 hoped to remain hidden till Lady Anna and Percival 
 had departed. 
 
 " It is just as well she did not invite me to go to 
 Florence with her," she was saying to herself, as she 
 plucked a leaf of sweet-scented geranium, and pinned 
 it with the sprig of heather in the band of her gown. 
 *' What I should have suffered from her patronage — 
 a perpetual blister ! — I would not go with her if she 
 asked me. I wonder how long they will stay ! How 
 they chatter! — at least Mrs. Ponsonby and Hester 
 are chattering ! Lady Anna would not condescend 
 to do anything so vulgar. How she drawls out her 
 words to impress poor Miss Townley and Mrs. Birley 
 with a sense of her own superiority. I wish I could 
 escape ; no one would notice my absence. I think 
 I will try." 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 89 
 
 Then she went to the door of the conservatory, and 
 found it blocked by Percival. Before she could ask 
 him to move aside and let her pass, she caught her 
 name, and Hester's voice saying : 
 
 " Adelaide is so clever ; she paints beautifully !" 
 
 The words were addressed to Percival, and she 
 felt the hot colour flush her face. 
 
 " How stupid of Hester ! I wish she would leave 
 me alone !" 
 
 But Hester, not knowing Adelaide was near, 
 went on. 
 
 *' We have been hoping Lady Anna might propose 
 taking Adelaide to Florence. Cousin Mary is so 
 fond of her ; and, of course, there are no advantages 
 for anyone like her in this dull old place. It does 
 very well for people like me, you know, but Adelaide 
 is so wonderfully clever." 
 
 "Hester, will you let me pass, please? I must 
 go home ; it is getting late, and mother will be 
 expecting me." 
 
 The voice was one of suppressed vexation, and 
 Hester laughingly said : 
 
 '' How could I tell you were in the conservatory, 
 Adelaide ? Well, for once, a listener has heard 
 nothing but good of herself." 
 
 *' Please do not be so foolish, Hester. Perhaps it 
 would be better to hear what is true about one's self, 
 than what is pure fiction." 
 
 Percival listened to this little passage of arms be- 
 tween the two girls with great amusement, and he 
 
90 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 was beginning to say something to the effect that it 
 was very easy to take Hester's remarks as absolute 
 truth, but Adelaide had, on his moving aside, slipped 
 past, and without waiting to say good-night to any- 
 one, she had snatched her shawl from the hall, and 
 was gone. 
 
 The next day was wet, and there were no strolls 
 in the park, and no tennis at the Rectory, to which 
 Mrs. Birley had invited Hester, Adelaide, and 
 Percival. Mr. Beauchamp was still very ill, and 
 Percival found the day rather long and dull. 
 
 He had read the papers and a shilling novel 
 Lady Anna had bought to beguile her journey; 
 and after luncheon there seemed nothing else 
 to do. 
 
 A very prolonged yawn made Lady Anna turn 
 round from the writing-table — where her always 
 busy pen had been employed in writing letters to 
 pass the time on this wet day — and say : 
 
 " It is a fearful downpour. I am so sorry, Percival. 
 I had hoped to have driven with you to Corsham to 
 call on the Probyns. But it is out of the question." 
 
 Percival folded his hands at the back of his head, 
 stretched, and said : 
 
 " Where is the picture you say you bought of 
 Miss — what is her name ? I've got mixed about her. 
 Hester said her mother is Mrs. Wardlaw." 
 
 *' Oh, Adelaide Millington, you mean ! Yes ; her 
 mother married twice ; she is the child of the first 
 marriage. Parsons has laid hands on the picture to 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 91 
 
 pack it. Would you ring, please ? I rather want 
 this note taken to Miss Millington." 
 
 "Give it to me," Percival said, starting up; "I 
 don't mind the rain, and I want something to do." 
 
 " Oh, I really can't let you run the risk of getting 
 rheumatic fever, Percival ; it is such heavy rain." 
 
 But Percival took no other notice of this remark 
 than to take the note from the writing-table, saying, 
 as he left the room : 
 
 " Any answer ?" 
 
 " Well, yes. I wrote to ask Miss Millington to 
 come up and speak to me ; you need not wait for 
 her reply. Of course she will be only too glad to 
 come." 
 
 " I should not say it was ever safe to count upon 
 that young lady's actions or sentiments. She strikes 
 me as having a will of her own," Percival said, as he 
 left the room. 
 
 In the hall he met Lady Mary. 
 
 ** My dear Percy, I am so sorry to have seen so 
 little of you, and this is such a wretched day. I am 
 going to try and spend an hour with your Aunt Anna 
 now. Where are you going in this deluge ?" 
 
 " Turning messenger for Aunt Anna. I have a 
 note in my pocket for Miss Millington." 
 
 " Why should you go out in the rain ?" but 
 Percival was gone. 
 
 He was soon at the Wardlaws' door, and ad- 
 mitted by a m.aid to the httle parlour to the right of 
 the passage, v.hich was empty, and where he waited 
 
92 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 for some minutes. He had leisure to examine the 
 room — a small square room, but not without signs 
 of taste. The best was made of it, and the space 
 left in the middle, by pushing the table into the 
 corner, made it seem larger than it really was. 
 Percival was in the act of looking at the pictures 
 hung round the room, when he started almost 
 guiltily as the door opened and Adelaide came in. 
 She had been summoned from her room by her 
 sister coming to announce the arrival of a gentle- 
 man, who wanted to see her. 
 
 " It must be mother he wants, or father, per- 
 haps," Adelaide had said. 
 
 " No ; Sarah says he asked for Miss Millington." 
 So Adelaide had smoothed her hair, taken off her 
 painting-apron, and now presented herself to Perci- 
 val in a blue serge gown made in her favourite loose 
 style, the collar and sleeves turned up with crimson. 
 Her face glowed with surprise, and perhaps pleasure, 
 which made Percival forget his embarrassment, and 
 put him at ease. 
 
 " I have brought you a note from my aunt. Lady 
 Anna," he said ; " she asked me to wait for an 
 answer. I can take a verbal one, if you please." 
 
 Adelaide's face, as she read the note, was a 
 study. She was silent for a few minutes, and then, 
 looking up, she saw Percival was watching her 
 intently. 
 
 '* Will you say I will come up to the Court as 
 soon as I can, please ? Lady Anna wishes to see 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 93 
 
 me — she is to spend the winter at Florence, and she 
 asks me whether I should like to accompany her. I 
 hardly know in what capacity." 
 
 " As her friend, whose society will be a gain to 
 her and to Margaret, I should think," Percival said. 
 
 " How can you judge ?" was the quick reply. 
 '' You have had no experience of what my society 
 may be." 
 
 " Very little, I know ; but I suppose it is allow- 
 able and reasonable to judge of the value of any- 
 thing by first impressions ?" 
 
 Adelaide smiled, and shook her head. 
 
 "It is never safe, though it may be allow- 
 able." 
 
 " I hope, if I may venture to say so," Percival 
 continued, " that you will go to Florence with my 
 aunt. I have a very dear little cousin, whom you 
 would like, I know. She has so little to vary her 
 life and interest at home, that I am sure it will be 
 doing her a kindness, if you join the party." 
 
 Again Adelaide shook her head incredulously, and 
 said : 
 
 " I don't think you should answer for your 
 cousin ; probably she would rather be without me 
 than with me — especially as, from what Lady Mary 
 has said, she is the one object of care and devotion 
 from her father and mother." 
 
 " Yes, and very tired she gets of it," Percival said ; 
 " she has had two young cousins with her, in her 
 mother's absence, and it was wonderful to see how 
 
94 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 she enjoyed their society. If you will allow me, 
 Miss Millington, I will wait till you are ready, and 
 then walk up the park with you, and do my best to 
 shelter you from the rain. It is a regular downpour, 
 and you must protect yourself by a waterproof." 
 
 Adelaide hesitated a minute, and then went to get 
 ready. Mrs. Wardlaw was just coming out of her 
 husband's library, and Adelaide put the note into her 
 mother's hand. 
 
 " Shall I go, mother ?" 
 
 " From Lady Anna — is it about Florence ?" 
 
 " Yes ; she asks me if I will go there and improve 
 myself in art ! I don't feel sure about it. I don't 
 think I really want to go ; she will patronize me so 
 dreadfully !" 
 
 " My darling, it is what you have wished for so 
 long ; what your father and I have desired for you, 
 with your gifts — and " 
 
 " Very well, go and talk to Mr. Clyffe while I get 
 ready ; only pray, mother, don't say anything to him 
 about my gifts — he will only laugh at you." 
 
 Mrs. Wardlaw could not resist turning back to the 
 library with the news, and Mr. Wardlaw said : 
 
 ''Go! of course she must go ; let nothing stand 
 in the way, my dear." 
 
 " / don't wash to put any obstacles in the way ; 
 it is Adelaide who has misgivings." 
 
 " Nonsense ! she ought to be only too glad to go. 
 I envy her. I think there is nothing I should like 
 better than to find myself standing on the Ponte 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 95 
 
 Vecchio once more, or watching a sunset from San 
 Miniato." 
 
 "Mr. Clyffe brought the note," Mrs. Wardlaw 
 said ; " shall I bring him in to see. you ?" 
 
 '' Yes, by all means," Mr. Wardlaw replied ; " my 
 fire is welcome on this dull wet day, and this room 
 looks more cheerful than your parlour." 
 
 Mr. Wardlaw was quite right ; and Percival Clyffe, 
 as he sank down into the depths of a most luxurious 
 chair, thought the master of the house took good 
 care to have the best of it for himself. 
 
 The shelves were well lined with books — books to 
 suit every taste, by dead authors mostly ; but there 
 were some exceptions, and the Edinhtrgh and 
 Quarterly, with some more modern magazines, 
 had a shelf to themselves. A large bay window 
 looked into the garden, and the view from it was 
 very much the same as that which Adelaide had 
 from her room on the floor above. 
 
 "What a delightful room!" Percival could not 
 help saying. 
 
 " Yes, a student's room, with no ornaments except 
 a picture or two. That is a fine engraving of the 
 San Sisto, and I am proud of Adelaide's little sea- 
 piece. She has considerable gifts, which want 
 cultivation, of course. There is nothing like study 
 of the greatest masters in any branch of art or 
 literature." 
 
 " Except the study of men and women," Percival 
 said quietly. 
 
96 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Mr. Wardlaw looked at him with his keen deep- 
 set eyes. 
 
 " Ah ! you are a philosopher, I see. Well, I agree 
 with you, though I confess the study of the works 
 of the giants of the past, in literature and art, is 
 more attractive to me than the contemplation of 
 the pigmies of our own time. Adelaide's mother 
 tells me there is a hope that she may have the 
 advantage of seeing Florence, by Lady Anna 
 Cowper - Smith's kindness. We shall gratefully 
 accept the offer, and here comes Adelaide to say 
 what she feels on the subject." 
 
 Adelaide was equipped for her walk in the rain, 
 and after a few minutes' more conversation, and the 
 pardonable vanity with which Mr. W^ardlaw exhibited 
 an edition of Shakespeare's plays which he had 
 edited, Percival asked Adelaide if she were ready to 
 brave the storm. Mrs. Wardlaw went with them to 
 the door, and Nina and Susie watched — from the 
 parlour window — their sister walk quickly up the 
 road, carefully shielded by Percival's large um- 
 brella. 
 
 When Percival Clyffe came to Dryborough the day 
 before, he had told himself his chief object was to 
 persuade Lady Anna that Rose Smith would be a 
 charming companion for Daisy during the winter. 
 
 How was it that he had changed his mind, and 
 only once had advocated Rose's claims and Mr. 
 Cowper-Smith's wishes ? He was almost provoked 
 with himself, when he remembered how he had by 
 
THE TIDE TURNS. 97 
 
 no means exercised his influence in the direction 
 which Mr. Cowper-Smith had expected. 
 
 The next morning Lady Anna's daily letters to 
 Willesford heralded her return on that evening, 
 and the train which the carriage was to meet was 
 specified. There was a postscript to Daisy's letter : 
 
 " I have secured the society of a charming young 
 lady, who wdll spend the winter at Florence with us. 
 She will study art, and she will be such a fresh 
 element in your life, my darling. I am sure both 
 you and dear papa will delight in her. She is very 
 clever, and I think you, my sweet Daisy, will thank 
 Aunt Mary for introducing her to me." 
 
 *' Oh, father !" Daisy said, as she ran to her father 
 with her mother's letter ; " mother says nothing 
 about Rose. She has got another young lady to 
 come with us to Florence." 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith understood his wife's tactics at 
 once. 
 
 *' Ah !" he said emphatically, '' I see." 
 
 " Does mother tell you anything about this young 
 lady ?" 
 
 " No, my dear ; not a word. Well, let us hope it 
 will answer, and we will take Rose with us another 
 time." 
 
 " I am so sorry, and Percival will be sorry, too. 
 He liked Rose so much, and he said she was just 
 the right sister for me. I wonder what Percival 
 thinks?" 
 
 " The tide may have turned, my dear. Perhaps 
 
 7 
 
98 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Percival is also so much taken by this young lady 
 at Dryborough that he has forgotten all about 
 Rose." 
 
 " But he promised to try and persuade mother to let 
 her come. He promised, father !" 
 
 " Well, well ; we must make the best of it, my 
 Peggy." 
 
 For Mr. Cowper-Smith was far too loyal to let his 
 little daughter have any suspicion that it was only 
 when Rose Smith was suggested as a compagnon de 
 voyage that Adelaide Milhngton had been invited to 
 take that place. 
 
 " Poor Anna !" he said to himself, not to Daisy — 
 " poor Anna ! she cannot forget that my people are 
 tradespeople ; and the wonder is she ever married 
 me." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 EN ROUTE. 
 
 " When the desire cometh it is a tree of life." 
 
 Adelaide had attained her desire, and on one bright 
 October day she had left Dryborough behind her, and 
 was fairly launched upon the world. 
 
 It has become a very common experience in these 
 days to cross the Channel, pass through the far from 
 interesting country between Calais and Bale, and, 
 taking Milan as a resting-place, go forward to sunny 
 Italy. 
 
 There is almost a distinction nowadays in those 
 people who have never travelled — to whom the snowy 
 Alps and rolling hills of Tuscany are only known after 
 the dim uncertain fashion which photographs, letters 
 and descriptions by the pen and tongue leave upon 
 the mind. There are so few who have not, at any 
 rate, *' done " the customary Continental route by 
 the help of Gaze or Cook, or, in a better and more 
 dignified fashion, by couriers, and other luxurious 
 appendages which wealth can command. And I 
 need not say Lady Anna Cowper-Smith was amongst 
 the latter class. The suite which embarked at 
 
 7—2 
 
loo IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Calais by the Invicta was almost like a royal one. 
 There were degrees and certain gradations of rank 
 even here. Lady Anna and Daisy, and her own 
 maid and Mrs. Gray, travelled in one of the best 
 appointed sleeping-carriages. Mr. Cowper-Smith, 
 who could not forego the consolation of a pipe, 
 travelled in a first-class smoking-carriage. Miss 
 Cromwell and Adelaide were in an ordinary first-class 
 compartment ; while the long train of attendants 
 were in a second-class carriage, which they filled with 
 all the loose bags and bundles and small boxes which 
 were not committed to the officials for registration. 
 
 The journey could not have been performed with 
 less trouble and less adventure. Travelling has be- 
 come so prosaic now, that even ordinary folk, who 
 have to think of their own registration tickets, and 
 wake up out of an uneasy slumber at the frontier 
 station and see their boxes marked with a bit of w^hite 
 chalk, though but seldom opened, find nothing very 
 exciting in it. Everything goes in a certain groove ; 
 and, whether jogging along through France or at an 
 easy pace through Switzerland and Italy, there are 
 no surprises and no startling sensations, as far as the 
 mere act of travelling is concerned. 
 
 The party reached Bale in the early dawn of the fine 
 October morning, and then what a bevy of dishevelled 
 passengers turned out on the platform for breakfast, 
 and that very important operation after a night 
 journey through dusty France — a morning wash ! 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith was the only person who 
 
EN ROUTE. loi 
 
 thought about Miss Cromwell and Adelaide. He 
 came to the door of their carriage and helped them 
 to descend from the high steps, and took them in to 
 breakfast. 
 
 Lady Anna was already seated at the table, her 
 white hands, with their many rings, folded before her, 
 as she leaned back composedly, waiting for what she 
 had ordered through the courier, and looking with 
 sublime indifference on the crowd of less dignified 
 passengers. Lady Anna, to use a common expres- 
 sion, had not "turned a hair," and, indeed, there 
 was no need for her to do so. She had slept com- 
 fortably, her maid had performed her usual duties, 
 and, in point of fact, she had no more trouble than 
 in her own house at home. 
 
 Little Daisy sat next her mother, and called across 
 the table, '' Here we are, father !" as he came into 
 the room with Miss Cromwell and Adelaide. 
 
 " Good morning, my darling. I hope you are well 
 looked after. Had you a good night ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, dear father ; I thought I was in my own 
 bed at home." 
 
 " Don't talk across the table, my sweet one," 
 Lady Anna said, for she saw the eyes of several 
 people directed to Daisy. " Here comes our break- 
 fast ; now, you must eat some of this chicken." 
 
 " Oh, I can't, mammy dear ; not so early. I 
 only want coffee. I can't eat chicken." 
 
 *' My darling, you must try. You have a long day 
 before you." 
 
I02 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Here an unfortunate spinster lady, who still wore the 
 gray handkerchief, pinned under her chin, in which 
 she had passed the night on an " Oreiller " hired for 
 one franc in a second-class carriage, ventured to say : 
 
 ^' You had better try, dear, to do as your mamma 
 wishes. There is nothing like eating good food to 
 help through a long journey." 
 
 To this remark Lady Anna made no rejoinder, but 
 there was an expression on her face which effectually 
 prevented the poor little lady from, volunteering any 
 more advice. 
 
 When at last Lady Anna pushed back her chair, 
 and walked slowly out of the restaurant, a stout 
 English traveller, who had had varied experience of 
 journeys in many countries, stopped in the dissection 
 of a cutlet, to say to the little spinster : 
 
 *'My lady gives herself airs, doesn't she? I can 
 spot English swells abroad in a moment, by their 
 manners. They don't do the nation credit, I must 
 say. What harm would it have done her to smile, 
 anyhow, when you spoke, instead of looking like a 
 bit of granite at you ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind," was the reply. " I was sorry 
 to see that little girl look so delicate, as if she would 
 not live to get back to England." 
 
 The words smote Mr. Cowper-Smith with a sharp 
 pang. He was seated on the same side of the table 
 as the poor little lady, beyond Miss Cromwell and 
 Adelaide, so that the speaker had not noticed him. 
 He gave a deep sigh, pushed away his plate, and, 
 
EN ROUTE. 103 
 
 telling Miss Cromwell and Adelaide not to hurry, 
 there was plenty of time, went to look for his wife 
 and child with a heavy heart. 
 
 " Dearest," Lady Anna said, "will you kindly tell 
 Miss Millington and Miss Cromwell that they are to 
 travel with us as far as Milan ? Mrs. Gray and 
 Parsons will change places with them. And, dearest, 
 do not invite conversation at those public tables ; it 
 is so embarrassing." 
 
 " Invite conversation ! What do you mean ? 
 Surely I may speak to my own child and ask her 
 how she has spent the night !" 
 
 " You know what I mean, dearest," was the reply. 
 " I do hope Miss Millington is going to be a more 
 cheerful companion. She looks so gloomy this 
 morning." 
 
 They were soon off again. Who shall tell what 
 are the different influences, upon different people, as 
 the train passes through the low wooded hills which 
 lie just beyond Bale, with glimpses here and there 
 of the snowy peaks of the distant Bernese Oberland? 
 Then on to Lucerne, and thence by the side of the 
 lake, shut in by mountains which rise in ever-in- 
 creasing majesty on every side. Pilatus, dark, proud, 
 and solemn in the morning light, which wakes no 
 smile from him, as it does from the grassy slopes 
 sweeping down to the very edge of the water, and the 
 laughing cataracts leaping gaily from rocky heights, 
 to find their home in those deep blue waters. 
 
 Onwards, and then upwards goes the train, be- 
 
I04 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ginning to ascend what seem immeasurable heights, 
 in and out of tunnels which are a triumph of 
 engineering skill. Onwards and upwards, through 
 darkness into light, from dazzling radiance into 
 darkness again. A village church is passed on a level 
 with the windows of the carriage : children are play- 
 ing in the little square before it ; then it is soon lost 
 to sight as the train enters a tunnel, and is next seen 
 far, far below, like a child's toy in the old Dutch 
 villages of long ago. 
 
 It was in the St. Gothard Pass that Adelaide and 
 Daisy began a friendship which was to be firmer and 
 more tender than either of them thought of then ; 
 for Daisy pressed clos'e to Adelaide, and said ; 
 
 " Isn't it wonderful and beautiful, Miss MilKngton ? 
 The great mountains, and the waterfalls, and the 
 snow — the white, pure snow ! Did you ever see 
 mountains like these before ?" 
 
 " Never," Adelaide said — " never, except in 
 dreams." 
 
 '' I have seen the Alpes-Maritimes from Cannes, 
 and the blue Esterels, but I never went near them. 
 Now we seem to be amongst the mountains, climb- 
 ing up to their tops." 
 
 Presently Daisy's hand was sHpped into Adelaide's, 
 and she said : 
 
 " I shall write to my cousin Percy, and tell him 
 all about this journey, and that you and I enjoyed it 
 together. He will be glad, I know. He wanted 
 Rose Smith, my cousin, to come, and I was very 
 
EN ROUTE. 105 
 
 much vexed when mother told father you were 
 coming instead ; but I think, after all, you will be 
 best. I love the picture of the fisher-boy, and I 
 made Parsons put it at the bottom of one of the big 
 boxes. I shall hang it up in my room at Florence.' 
 
 Miss Cromwell had fallen asleep again ; Lady 
 Anna was reading, only looking up now and then to 
 make some remark about the stifling atmosphere of 
 the longest tunnel, and to insist on Daisy burying 
 her face in a handkerchief saturated with eau-de- 
 cologne, forbidding her to speak a word. 
 
 At the top of the pass an excellent table d'hote was 
 provided, and this time Daisy was hungry, and did 
 full justice to the bill of fare. Her father was de- 
 lighted, and when she said, " Oh, father, I never 
 liked a journey half as much before !" the cloud 
 which the well-intentioned words of the little spinster 
 lady had called up on his face vanished, and he 
 answered brightly : 
 
 " I am glad of that, my dear. I shall come into 
 your carriage now, and we will look at the Italian 
 lakes together." 
 
 The examination of the luggage at the frontier of 
 Chiasso did not affect the comfort of people like the 
 Cowper-Smiths. Parsons and Miss Cromwell and 
 the courier and manservant followed the luggage and 
 the rugs and hold-alls into the great salle des bagages, 
 having the keys in their possession. It was left to 
 humbler folk to trot after porters, carrying their 
 small boxes and bags, and to stand patiently till 
 
io6 IN THE CITY OF FIOWERS. 
 
 their turn for examination came. Then the welcome 
 mark in white chalk made on each package relieved 
 all anxiety, and the crowd of passengers flocked back. 
 
 Lady Anna surveyed them from her vantage- 
 ground with supreme satisfaction, and wondered 
 what could be the pleasure of travelling second-class, 
 and enduring so many hardships. 
 
 The glow of the evening light, rosy and beautiful, 
 was on the mountains as they passed Como and 
 Lugano ; but the evening closed in quickly after 
 Chiasso, and it was nearly dark w^hen the Hotel 
 Cavour at Milan was reached, where rooms had 
 been engaged. 
 
 There was just time the next morning for Adelaide 
 and Miss Cromwell to see the cathedral— the first 
 vast cathedral which Adelaide had ever seen. The 
 marvellous beauty of the marble tracery of the roof 
 against the pure blue of the Italian sky fascinated 
 her. She stood on the wide Piazza, gazing up at it 
 with admiring wonder. 
 
 " Come, Miss MilHngton," Mr. Cowper-Smith 
 said ; " we have not too much time. We must go 
 inside, for there is some old saint buried below the 
 nave, so Murray says. You can look down at his 
 shrine ; and you may see him, I believe, if you pay 
 for the sight." 
 
 " No, thank you," Adelaide said. " I do not want 
 to see Saint Carlo Borromeo. Where is the great 
 Cenacolo of Leonardo da Vinci ?" 
 
 " I am sure I don't know," Mr. Cowper-Smith 
 
EN ROUTE. 107 
 
 said ; " but we must ask. This is a grand place," 
 he said, looking up with a critical eye ; " but I 
 think York Minster is bigger. Come, Miss Crom- 
 well." 
 
 Miss Cromwell was gazing with curious eyes on 
 the shrine of Saint Carlo, and scarcely looked up at 
 the marvellous beauty of the forest of pillars and the 
 soaring grace and beauty of the roof. 
 
 Adelaide walked on as if in a dream, and followed 
 her companion to the carriage, and drove with them 
 to the ancient Church of Saint Ambrogio, to see the 
 celebrated picture in the deserted refectory of the 
 convent adjoining the Church of Santa Maria delle 
 Grazie, which has proved a disappointment to so 
 many whose expectations have been raised — the half- 
 effaced sad remains of what had been once so beau- 
 tiful made Adelaide exclaim, saying: " Is that all?" 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Cowper-Smith, referring to his 
 Murray. "Yes; it is little better than a patch 
 now. I can't conceive how people can try to copy 
 it. There's scarcely anything left to copy. You 
 would not want to try that, Miss Millington. But 
 we have no time to lose ; we must get back to the 
 hotel." 
 
 " Yes," said Miss Cromwell, who was beginning 
 to be uneasy as to what Lady Anna would say at 
 their prolonged absence; " we had better go back 
 to the hotel. The train leaves at twelve o'clock." 
 
 "You are right; we have no time to lose," Mr. 
 Cowper-Smith repHed. 
 
io8 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 But Adelaide had returned to look once more at 
 the picture. 
 
 " Is that all ?" she repeated, and yet she half re- 
 pented her first judgment. There was something 
 still there. Surely that outstretched hand of the 
 Lord, and the expression in it, and in the turn of 
 His head, seemed to make the pathetic words 
 almost audible : " One of you shall betray Me !" 
 Ah, memorable words ! " One of you !" And then 
 the eager questioning of those anxious men : " Lord, 
 is it I?" 
 
 These thoughts passed through Adelaide's mind 
 more quickly than I can write them ; and as she 
 walked backwards from the faded picture, with a 
 longing, lingering gaze, she came in contact with 
 some one close behind her. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said, turning round and 
 colouring deeply, as she faced a man rather below 
 the average height, whose black hair was streaked 
 with gray. 
 
 A young lady was with him, gaily dressed, and 
 with that air about her which we know as '' fast." 
 
 " What a horrid old picture !" she said. '' Surely 
 you can't admire it, Godfrey ; I think it is fviglii- 
 fiiir 
 
 " You had better write a note for the next edition 
 of ' Murray,' " was the reply. " But I would keep 
 such opinions to myself, if I were you." 
 
 Adelaide had answered Mr. Cowper-Smith's frantic 
 summons, and did not hear the rejoinder; but the 
 
EN ROUTE. 109 
 
 man's face was a remarkable one, and she said to 
 herself: " I should know him again anywhere." 
 
 "Come, Miss Millington, we shall get into dis- 
 grace. I thought you did not care for the old 
 picture, and yet you were staring at it for ever so 
 long. It was rather fun to see you backing on that 
 gentleman ; what a strange face he had." 
 
 *' And did you notice how the lady was 'got up?'" 
 Miss Cromwell said. 
 
 " Dressed smartly, do you mean ? Yes ; I thought 
 she was very grand." 
 
 ''I did not mean that sort of *get up,' " said Miss 
 Cromwell. " I meant that her eyes were darkened, 
 and the roses on her cheeks not altogether natural." 
 
 "Painted up! Dear, dear!" Mr. Cowper-Smith 
 said; "what a mistake women make who do that! 
 I never could think well of a woman who paints her 
 face. Perhaps it is partly from association with 
 the story of a certain royal lady in the Bible. It is 
 an odious practice — as all shams are odious. A sign 
 of the times, I fear." 
 
 " It has been a sign of every time," Miss Crom- 
 well said. "And I don't know that it is worse to 
 darken eyes, and make lips like cherries, than to 
 wear false hair or put in teeth — so many people do 
 it now." 
 
 " Now, now ! you are shooting wide of the mark," 
 said Mr. Cowper-Smith. " If people feel their bald 
 heads cold, I hold it is right to wear a wig. And, 
 as to teeth, everyone is wxlcome to know mine were 
 
no IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 put in by a grand American dentist some years ago, 
 and my digestion has been better ever since. But 
 I ask what good can ever come from colouring 
 cheeks and Hps, and darkening eyes ? No good, 
 but positive harm, so the doctors say." 
 
 Miss Cromwell seldom ventured on an opinion ; she 
 now relapsed into silence, and Adelaide repeated to 
 herself Miss Cromwell's words : " So many people 
 do it now." 
 
 " Not people in Dryborough," she thought. 
 " Imagine Lady Mary colouring her pale face, or 
 darkening her eyebrov/s and eyes — it would be im- 
 possible !" 
 
 The day was less brilliant towards evening than 
 its predecessors, and the great Lombardy plains 
 looked bare and desolate. Modena and Bologna 
 awoke some interest in Adelaide ; but she got tired 
 of looking out of the window, and before the train 
 had begun to dart in and out of the long succession of 
 short tunnels which lead at last by a gradual descent 
 to Pistoja, she had fallen asleep, with little Daisy 
 nestled close to her, with her head resting against her 
 shoulder and her hand in hers. 
 
 When the train reached Florence rain was falling 
 — a cold, chill rain — and there was a great deal of 
 bustle at the station, and much pushing and jostling 
 by the English travellers, who, like the swallows, 
 were now returning in flocks to the sunny South. 
 
 The sunny South ! the words seemed a mockery — 
 rain pouring down, chill air blowing in from open 
 
EN ROUTE. Ill 
 
 doors, the sallc dcs bagages full of anxious travellers 
 who were giving up their registry tickets and re- 
 ceiving the luggage which had not been in their 
 possession since it was taken from the cab at Vic- 
 toria three days before ! 
 
 Lady Anna Cowper-Smith commanded everyone 
 to keep their seats till the last moment. She was 
 so terribly afraid of Daisy getting a chill, and she 
 said it would only retard matters if they descended 
 to the platform. At last Mr. Cowper-Smith came 
 to announce all was ready, and the servants had 
 packed everything into one carriage, while another 
 was ready for Lady Anna and Daisy, and Miss 
 Cromwell and Adelaide. 
 
 " Oh! three will be enough in one carriage. Miss 
 MilHngton, will you go with Parsons ; and " 
 
 But Miss Cromwell exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh no ; I can go with Parsons, please." 
 
 *' Well, don't stay parleying here, my dear ; make 
 haste." 
 
 Lady Anna never hurried, and she descended 
 with grave dignity from the carriage, her book in 
 her hand, and her little Russian-leather travelling- 
 bag, supplied with every conceivable scent and 
 "tablets" for Daisy, slung on her wrist. Adelaide 
 was the last to leave the carriage, and forgetting the 
 height of the step, which is a feature of railway- 
 carriages in Italy, she fell with some violence on the 
 platform. 
 
 In an instant she was lifted up, and by the flicker- 
 
112 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ing gaslight she saw the man whom she had 
 
 stumbled against in Milan in the morning bending 
 
 over her. 
 
 " Are you hurt ? I hope you are not hurt ! These 
 
 steps are so dangerously high." 
 
 "Thanks," Adelaide said, ''lam not hurt, only " 
 
 " Shaken, let me take you to your friends." 
 
 *' What are y OIL doing, Godfrey ? Do, pray, come, 
 
 or we shall get no cab; there's such a crowd outside, 
 
 this wet night. Godfrey !" 
 
 The voice was shrill and fretful, but it did not 
 
 produce much effect on Adelaide's benefactor. He 
 
 gave her his arm, which she was only too thankful 
 
 to take, and asked her whose carriage he should 
 
 call for. 
 
 " Oh, thanks ! Mr. Cowper-Smith has engaged 
 
 two or three carriages. We have such an enormous 
 
 amount of luggage." 
 
 '' Yes ; I thought when I saw you all get in at 
 
 Milan it must be royalty ' incog.,' " was the reply. 
 And then the strong manly voice, in its resonant 
 
 English tones, shouted : 
 
 " Is Mr. Cowper-Smith's carriage here ?" 
 
 The footman now came up, and said to Adelaide : 
 
 " Her ladyship could not wait. Miss Millington ; 
 
 you will please to come in the last fly with the 
 
 luggage : this way !" 
 
 " Not very civil of her ladyship to leave you alone. 
 
 Here," — to the man, — " show us which cab you 
 
 have engaged.' 
 
EN ROUTE. 113 
 
 But Adelaide withdrew her hand, and said : 
 
 " Good-night ; and thank you very much." 
 
 " I shall see you safely into the cab," was the 
 reply. '' You had better take my arm again." 
 
 Then way was made, and following the tall foot- 
 man, Adelaide found herself put into the cab with 
 Mrs. Gray, the footman jumped in after her, and the 
 cab drove off. 
 
 Mrs. Gray was not in the best of tempers. She 
 began to grumble at the weather, and kept up a 
 running commentary as to the folly of gentry 
 leaving their own comfortable abodes for foreign 
 places. 
 
 ** Just as if Miss Daisy would not be ten hundred 
 times better at home ! Her ladyship is cracked 
 about warmth and sunshine. There never was less 
 of it than now in Florence !" 
 
 "Well," said the footman, ''we don't look for 
 sunshine at near ten o'clock at night in England, do 
 we ? For my part, I like to see the world." 
 
 "Her ladyship was fearfully put out that you did 
 not follow her to the carriage, Miss Millington. 
 What were you doing ?" Mrs. Gray said. 
 
 " Talking to a gentleman, of course, who was a 
 friend — was not he. Miss Millington ?" answered the 
 footman. 
 
 Adelaide became conscious that the footman and 
 Mrs. Gray were treating her as very much on the 
 same level as themselves. The footman's familiarity 
 brought a rebuke from Mrs. Gray. 
 
 8 
 
114 ^-A' THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " Hush now, Sam ; you forget yourself." 
 
 Poor Adelaide had given herself a severe shake 
 with her fall ; she was very tired, but she tried to 
 say, with becoming dignity : 
 
 " My foot slipped as I left the carriage, and that 
 gentleman kindly helped me to rise." Here her 
 voice faltered, and in her heart was the cry : '' Oh, 
 I wish I had never, never come ! How could I be 
 so foolish ? I knew what Lady Anna was. I shall 
 not stay. I will go home as soon as possible. 
 What would Hester say if she knew I was treated 
 like this by impertinent servants ! and mother and 
 father — how angry they would be !" 
 
 " Dear me. Miss Millington, I hope you have not 
 injured yourself," Mrs. Gray said. " Those high 
 steps are dreadful to get up and down ; it is a wonder 
 I did not fall, I am sure. What a long drive it is ! 
 I wonder whether we shall ever get there." 
 
 They were, though they did not know it, in the 
 Piazza d'Azeglio, and the cab stopped. 
 
 " Che numero ?" the driver asked. " Signora, che 
 numero?" 
 
 "What number? I am not sure," Adelaide said. 
 " You will see the other carriages at the right door." 
 
 The cabman only repeated his question with many 
 flourishes of his whip, and gestures such as Italians 
 only can make. 
 
 " Thirteen— thirteen — tell him thirteen, Miss." 
 
 Adelaide was taxing her memory in vain for 
 thirteen. She knew her numbers in Italian, and, if 
 
EN ROUTE. 115 
 
 allowed time, she could surely bring forth thirteen 
 from the treasure-house of her memory. But, as the 
 cabman got more and more vociferous, so did the 
 truant number get further away from her lips. 
 
 " Dieci — Tre — dieci !" 
 
 " Si, si," said the man, with the prolonged 
 "a — a — a — " which it is impossible to express in 
 writing. " Si, si, Signora. Tredici — tredici. Si, 
 si!" 
 
 At this moment the other two carriages, which 
 had discharged their passengers and luggage, passed 
 by. A series of exclamations and gesticulations 
 followed between the men, and with a cry of 
 *' Tredici, Tredici," the cab jogged off to the further 
 side of the piazza, and finally stopped before a large 
 door, which at a touch of the bell opened in the 
 middle, and Mrs. Gray said : 
 
 '' You had better go in. Miss Millington, and I 
 will stay with Sam, to see all the small things are 
 right." 
 
 Adelaide stumbled up three stone steps, and came 
 to a second glass door, which was also open, and 
 then what ? 
 
 It seemed to her utter darkness, but presently she 
 became aware of a dim light shining down from 
 above, and she could discern a flight of wide stone 
 stairs before her. 
 
 She went up cautiously. The voices of Mrs. Gray 
 and Sam at the door below echoed through the 
 house with a hollow noise, and presently the light 
 
 8—2 
 
Ii6 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 from the upper regions grew stronger. When she 
 turned for the third time, she saw a woman holding 
 a lamp, and inviting her to come up higher. 
 
 Assunta had been left in charge of the house by her 
 Italian master and mistress, and belonged to it as 
 much as the furniture did. 
 
 '' Chi e la — la Signorina ! — venga presto.'' 
 
 It was by no means easy for Adelaide to make 
 haste, and she came up the stairs so slowly that 
 Assunta ran lightly down, and seizing one of her 
 hands, drew it within her arm, saying : 
 
 *' Molta fatica, signorina ; povera signorina !" 
 
 At last the topmost step was gained, and Adelaide 
 found Mr. Cowper-Smith in the wide lobby, just 
 within the door, trying to unfasten a hamper, from 
 which Lady Anna wanted at once to get some 
 champagne for Daisy. 
 
 Adelaide heard a voice from some unseen quarter 
 saying : 
 
 *' Where are the other servants and Miss Milling- 
 ton ? Really, it is very inconvenient." 
 
 " Where am I to sleep ?" Adelaide asked of Mr. 
 Cowper-Smith. " I am so tired." 
 
 Miss Cromwell now came forward. 
 
 ** Lady Anna does not think the house as large as 
 she expected, and dislikes the stairs — but it is very 
 spacious, and well furnished. You look very tired. 
 Lady Anna was vexed that you kept her waiting at 
 the station." 
 
 ** I had a fall," Adelaide said. " I was almost 
 
EN ROUTE. 117 
 
 stunned at first. I think you might have come back 
 to see if anything was the matter." 
 
 " Come back ! You don't know Lady Anna if 
 you think she would have waited a moment. Mr. 
 Cowper- Smith did want to return to the platform, 
 but it was not allowed ; we are all under orders here." 
 
 "/ am not," said Adelaide proudly; ''and you 
 will soon see that I am independent." 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; I did not mean to offend 
 you," Miss Cromwell said. " What I mean is, we 
 all need patience ; and, with Daisy for an example, 
 we ought to be patient. It is wonderful to see how 
 sweet and gentle she is to-night, when everyone is 
 cross and tired." 
 
 "Oh, do take me to my room!" Adelaide said in 
 a despairing voice. " Which way ?" 
 
 "Your room is through these doors; it is at the 
 back of the house, but it is very nice. Mine has to 
 be near Daisy, at the other side of the corridor. 
 Lady Anna is already beginning to speak of giving 
 up this piano as too high ; and Mr. Cowper-Smith is 
 remonstrating, for, having engaged it till May, he 
 will have to pay for it, if he does not stay. This is 
 your room ; shall I help you to undress — shall I 
 bring you something? You must have a cup of tea 
 Mrs. Gray and Sam have the spirit-lamp in their 
 basket, and I can soon fetch it." 
 
 Miss Cromwell was really sorry to see how pale 
 and weary Adelaide looked ; and added : 
 
 " I am sorry I did not see you fall." 
 
ii8 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " Good-night ; never mind. I shall be all right in 
 the morning. I have some biscuits and claret left if 
 I want them. Good-night." 
 
 This was a very different first night in Florence 
 from what Adelaide had often pictured. The rain 
 made a ceaseless patter on the loggia below her 
 room, and the wind sighed in the trees outside. 
 Adelaide opened the shutters, and tried to peer out, 
 but it was very dark, and nothing was to be seen. 
 Presently the sound of a clock striking made her 
 listen. 
 
 The sound was deep-toned, and musical ; she was 
 quite sorry when the last of the ten strokes was 
 told out ; very soon the sound of that bell from the 
 Campanile became familiar, and would be one of 
 the memories of Florence in after-time. 
 
 The sound sleep of youth did not forsake her, and 
 she was awakened by the church bells ringing for the 
 early mass, before the sun had risen. It was a clear, 
 fair morning, and there was not a cloud in the sky. 
 
 Adelaide sprang up, and then, feeling stiff from 
 her fall, thought she would He down again. But the 
 spell was broken ; the voices of the bells from many 
 church-towers seemed to call her to awake. She 
 rose, and throwing open the large French window, 
 looked out. 
 
 Innumerable drops were shimmering like diamonds 
 on the branches of two tall trees before her windows ; 
 it was the clear shining after the rain. 
 
 ** I wish I was in the old city of Florence ; this all 
 
EN ROUTE. 119 
 
 looks so new, and what a tangle of a garden below, 
 and " 
 
 As she leaned out, she caught sight of the tower 
 of the Palazzo Vecchio, raising its flower-shaped 
 head high in the clear sky. 
 
 '' I must go out. I wonder if they will mind. 
 But I really must go and see the Arno." 
 
 She was soon dressed, and then she went softly 
 out into the corridor from which her room opened. 
 The kitchen department was on the opposite side, 
 and there she saw Assunta plaiting the braids of her 
 raven hair before a small glass, singing in a low 
 voice as she did so. 
 
 She caught sight of Adelaide, and came towards 
 her smiling, as she thrust the thick pin through her 
 plaits. 
 
 " Buon giorno, signorina ; ha ella bisogna di 
 me ?" 
 
 Adelaide only shook her head, and pointed to the 
 door. 
 
 " Dove conduce — questa — strada ?" 
 
 ''Alia Piazza della Santissima Annunziata." 
 Then, seeing Adelaide had difficulty in understand- 
 ing her, she said : " I speak a little English, 
 signora." 
 
 " I wish to go to the bridge, the Ponte Vecchio." 
 
 'M — a — a. You go down the Via de' Servi, and 
 then on to the FidiZza. Duomo, and on to Via Torna- 
 buoni, and then come to Lung' Arno." 
 
 The directions were not very lucid, but Assunta 
 
I20 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 accompanied them with many gestures, and smiled, 
 and nodded, and looked so happy, that Adelaide felt 
 quite cheered. 
 
 " Tante grazie !" she said. 
 
 " Posso farle una buona tazza di caffe, Sig- 
 norina." 
 
 And Assunta hastened to take a pot from the wood 
 fire, and poured out steaming coffee with one hand, 
 and with the other some milk. 
 
 Adelaide was greatly refreshed with the coffee, but 
 declined the hard roll into which Assunta set her 
 strong white teeth with great appetite. She had 
 risen early, she said, to be ready for the servants of 
 the signor, who were asleep upstairs, on the top floor ; 
 there was a little room prepared for them ; for the 
 servants of the English signors wanted more than 
 their masters. The signora was very grand, and did 
 not admire the piajw, as everyone did. The salon 
 was beautiful — such pictures and china — and it was 
 all good enough for her master, the old Marchese — 
 why not for English signoras ? The house was grand, 
 and yet the signora did only frown and shake her 
 head. Well ! she, Assunta, knew full well that the 
 Piazza d'Azeglio was more to English taste than the 
 old houses. Of course there were hotels — Paoli's 
 and others — very good — but Piazza d'Azeglio was 
 cheerful and bright. Antonio, the clicfj would come 
 at seven. And Adelaide made out that Antonio was 
 to fill the office of cook, and that he had been, like 
 Assunta, in the service of the old Marchese. 
 
EN ROUTE. 121 
 
 Was the signorina going out alone ? and Assunta 
 gave her shoulder a significant shrug. 
 
 Adelaide, however, paid no heed to this, and ran 
 down the stone stairs, eager to find herself in the 
 streets of old Florence. The heights of Fiesole 
 were before her, and the noble curve of Monte 
 Morello to her left. She walked straight down the 
 long road till she came to the Piazza of the An- 
 nunziata, and there she stopped. 
 
 It was yet early, and the donkeys and mules, laden 
 with country produce, were coming into the town. 
 The women wore brilHant handkerchiefs over their 
 dark hair, and short coloured skirts, and bright 
 kerchiefs crossed over their shoulders. There was a 
 great deal of chatter in a high-pitched key, and 
 every now and then a peasant woman disappeared 
 within the shadow of the door of the church, and, 
 leaving her merchandise outside, went to say her 
 prayers before that silver shrine of the Madonna 
 which is of fabulous cost, and of world-wide fame, 
 and is perpetually replenished with the votive hearts, 
 of purest silver and of every size, hung in glass 
 cases round the shrine. When these become too 
 numerous, they are melted down, and the silver 
 is remodelled for lamps, or candlesticks for the 
 shrine. 
 
 Adelaide followed several peasant women and 
 children through the vestibule of the church, where 
 Andrea del Sarto's most precious frescoes are pro- 
 tected by glass, and entered the church itself. 
 
122 IN THE CITY OF FIOWERS. 
 
 The bright morning light had no free access there. 
 All was shadowy and dim, and the candles at the 
 many altars burned with a dull yellow light. 
 
 So have men's devices and dogmas obscured the 
 full shining of the Sun of Righteousness. So have a 
 long succession of vain traditions shadowed the 
 beauty of the Son of God, as seen in the face of 
 Christ. But Adelaide, who had never, perhaps, 
 been touched, as yet, in her spiritual being, stood 
 in wonder, as she watched the devotion written on 
 the faces of the women, and children, and rough 
 peasants, who were kneeling before the silver shrine. 
 The dark eyes of one woman — whence tears were 
 dropping now and then — arrested her. A child 
 knelt by her, with her little brown hands clasped, and 
 her lips moving as her mother's moved. Presently, a 
 prayer from the very depths of that sad heart broke 
 forth. And, as the woman covered her face, Adelaide 
 heard an audible, 
 
 " Santa Maria ! ah, Santa Maria, ora pro me !" 
 
 The pain and misery expressed in that cry wrung 
 from a heavy heart made Adelaide hasten out again 
 to the sunny Piazza, then through the narrow Via de' 
 Servi, till she came to the Duomo, with the dazzling 
 purity of the marble of the new facciata shining with 
 an almost transparent brightness, and Giotto's Cam- 
 panile raising its stately head to the sky. There 
 was a busy crowd here, all full of life and life's con- 
 cerns. It seemed as if the dimness and the pathos 
 were left behind in the Church of the Annunziata, 
 
EN ROUTE. 123 
 
 and that this was the common life of men and 
 women in Florence — careless and happy, and forget- 
 ful of all, save the present and its needs. 
 
 Adelaide would not pass inside the Duomo now ; 
 she felt compelled to press onward to the Arno, that 
 river whose very name seems to possess a subtk 
 charm. The blue sky overhead ! the morning sun- 
 shine ! it seemed as if she could not exchange these 
 again for the gloom and heaviness which would 
 probably hang over the interior of the Duomo, as it 
 had hung over the interior of the Church of the 
 Annunziata. Adelaide felt strangely moved by the 
 novelty of all around her — the unfamiliar cries— 
 the soft Italian tongue spoken on all sides. 
 
 No, not on all — for an English voice made her 
 turn her head quickly as she came to the Strozzi 
 Palace, where flowers, fresh from the hands of the 
 flower-merchant, were being heaped in brilliant 
 masses, contrasting with the old stone-work — 
 centuries old — as youth, radiant and joyful, con- 
 trasts with age. 
 
 " How much are those roses ?" For Florence is 
 seldom without its roses, and, though less abundant 
 than in spring, the autumn bloom is rich and full. 
 
 Adelaide recognised the voice, and saw the dark- 
 haired man who had been so helpful to her at the 
 station the evening before, now too busy bargain- 
 ing for his roses, and some large bunches of chrys- 
 anthemums and marguerites, to notice her. She 
 passed quickly on down the Tornabuoni, till at the 
 
124 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 corner of the Lung' Arno the Ponte di Trinita was 
 before her, the Arno smiHng as it flowed beneath the 
 arches with a rippHng murmur, swelled by the heavy 
 rains of the last few days. 
 
 On all sides how beautiful it was ! Distant hills 
 and loftier mountains, valleys and slopes studded 
 with villas, and all under the canopy of an Italian 
 sky, clear, and with a depth of colour unknown in 
 our northern climates. Adelaide leaned mid-way 
 on the parapet and tried to take it all in — soaring 
 campaniles and domes, belfry towers, and high- 
 pitched roofs, and irregular gables of every height 
 springing from the river-side ; wonderful in eyes 
 which had never looked on any scene more striking 
 than Dryborough. 
 
 Adelaide had been twice to London, it is true, but 
 mist and rain had obscured all the picturesque 
 beauty of our own river-banks, flanked by the gray 
 old buttresses of Westminster Abbey, and the lofty 
 clock-tower of the Houses of Parliament. 
 
 Here was Florence, then, at last ! no dream, but 
 a reality ; and Adelaide exclaimed aloud, with a deep 
 sigh of satisfied delight : '' It is beautiful !" 
 
 This time her voice was heard, and she saw a few 
 paces from her on the bridge her acquaintance of 
 the previous night. He raised his hat and drew a 
 little nearer, the flowers he had bought in his hand. 
 
 *' I trust you have not suffered from your fall," he 
 said ; '' I hope not, as you are out so early." 
 
 Adelaide's manner became stiff and constrained at 
 
EN ROUTE. 125 
 
 once. English reserve taught her that she must not 
 talk to a stranger without an introduction. And 
 then how odd he must think it, to see her out by 
 herself at that time in the morning. She answered 
 his question in a self-conscious manner, which made 
 her bring out her words in a short, almost sharp 
 tone : 
 
 " Thanks, I am very well ;" and then she moved 
 off, a little uncertain which way to turn, and be- 
 ginning to wonder how long it would take to get back 
 to the Piazza d'Azeglio. The little indecision in her 
 movements was not lost on her friend of the railway- 
 station, and he said : 
 
 " I think if you will allow me I can show you a 
 short way to the Piazza d'Azeglio. I ought to say 
 I am not altogether unknown — certainly not by 
 report — to Lady Anna Cowper-Smith. My name 
 is Godfrey Lysaght. I saw Lady Anna's name on 
 the luggage yesterday when I was standing in the 
 Salle, and I heard the direction given to drive to 
 the Piazza d'Azeglio. You were with Lady Anna, 
 I know." 
 
 " Yes," Adelaide replied ; " yes — I am staying with 
 her. I must make haste back, for it is getting late." 
 
 " This way then," he said ; '' along Lung' Arno 
 Acciajoli, and you will get what I suppose will 
 be your first sight of the great tower at the end of 
 the porticoes of the Uffizi. It is one of the finest 
 views in Florence." 
 
 Adelaide walked along silently, looking through 
 
126 IN THE CITY OF FLO}VERS. 
 
 the arches by the Arno bank, at the river, and 
 the opposite heights of San Miniato, without turning 
 her head towards her companion. 
 
 His name conveyed no very distinct idea to her, 
 though she fancied she had heard it somewhere. 
 But she felt uneasy, and had none of the savoir faire 
 which enables some people to carry off embarrass- 
 ment. Presently her companion said : 
 
 " Stop one moment, and look this way now." 
 
 Adelaide did as she was told, and there before her 
 was the long paved court which lies below the 
 Uffizi, with the white marble statues of Florentine 
 heroes on either side, and at the end the marvellous 
 tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, soaring into the blue 
 sky above the Piazza della Signoria, and forming a 
 picture, perfect in beauty and interest. 
 
 " Here is a goodly company of painters, poets, and 
 statesmen on either side," Mr. Lysaght said ; " but 
 you will have plenty of time to examine them at your 
 leisure. Some will strike you at once like the faces 
 of old friends — Dante, and Petrarch, and the saintly 
 Archbishop Antonino." 
 
 " Is she stupid after all ?" Mr. Lysaght was 
 thinking; "she makes no sign of interest, and 
 it is impossible to see her face with this monstrous 
 hat shading it ! — That is the place where Savona- 
 rola suffered," Mr. Lysaght said, after a few 
 moments' pause. " He was brought down from 
 his cell in that tower to meet his death just 
 where that white pigeon is flying in and out. A 
 
Palazzo Vecchio, Florkncr. 
 
EN ROUTE. 127 
 
 Reformer before the Reformation, and, unlike many 
 Reformers, the idol of the people, and holding them 
 spell-bound for a time. Of course the breath of 
 popular applause is fickle as the wind, and that 
 square resounded with groans and execrations when 
 they led him out to die. I think I must bid 
 you good-morning now," Mr. Lysaght said ; " I am 
 staying at Paoli's Hotel with my sister, Mrs. 
 Murchison, and it must be getting near breakfast- 
 time. If you cross the Piazza della Signoria you 
 will easily find your way ; or shall I call a carriage 
 for you ? The fare is only one franc to any part of 
 Florence within the gates." 
 
 " Thanks," Adelaide said, hesitating a little ; 
 " perhaps I had better have a carriage, as every- 
 thing is so strange to me, and," she added under 
 her breath, " so beautiful." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght called one of the little open carriages 
 which are so numerous in Florence, and then, direct- 
 ing the man to 13, Piazza d'Azeglio, he bowed and 
 departed. As Adelaide was swiftly borne along she 
 seemed to awake as it were from a dream. " How 
 stupid I must have seemed, and what must he think 
 of me ? He seems to know Florence well. I wonder 
 when I shall see him again ? He might tell me about 
 the galleries and studios, for I must not forget I have 
 come here with an express purpose, which I must 
 carry out, whatever happens." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 COMPLICATIONS. 
 
 Lady Anna Cowper-Smith was so much engrossed 
 with her own concerns, that Adelaide found herself 
 treated with a little wholesome indifference. 
 
 What was the study of art, when compared with 
 the mighty question engrossing Lady Anna's mind, 
 of enlarging her borders and getting possession of 
 both floors or piani in the house ? It was impos- 
 sible, she said, for her and Daisy to get out as often 
 as was necessary if those terrible stairs were to be 
 encountered every time. The first piano must be 
 obtained, or the second must be given up. Thus it 
 became a question of throwing away the rent of the 
 second piano and removing to other quarters or 
 an hotel or applying for possession of the whole 
 house. 
 
 Fortune favoured Lady Anna. The inhabitants of 
 the first piano were suddenly called to Rome by the 
 illness of a relative there, and were glad to find 
 such rich English people to take possession of 
 their rooms and another maidservant. Within a 
 week, therefore. Lady Anna had established her- 
 
COM PLICA TIONS. 129 
 
 self and Margaret, and Mrs. Gray and Parsons, on 
 the first floor ; while the spacious rooms above were 
 left to Miss Cromwell and Adelaide and the servants ; 
 Sam having expressed his disapproval of being asked 
 to sleep in a " garret " — he was sure Mr. Fielding 
 (the butler at Willesford) " would not approve of 
 his being so put upon." 
 
 *' We shall have room for our guests now ; for I 
 hope Percival will come out, and I shall invite Mrs. 
 Ponsonby and Hester to do so in the spring. We 
 ought to have had a villa on the Fiesole side ; but, 
 faihng that, through ignorance and want of due in- 
 quiry, we shall do wevy fairly well." 
 
 This remark was made at luncheon, and Mr. 
 Cowper-Smith was heard to murmur something 
 about the Villa Palmieri, and that perhaps Lady 
 Anna was wishing she could be " fairly comfortable" 
 there. 
 
 " Will you send for Fielding, dearest ? Sam can 
 hardly get through all the waiting. Fielding felt 
 rather hurt at not being included in our party. Will 
 you give orders, dearest, for another servant to go to 
 the housekeeper at Lancaster Gate, and for Fielding 
 to come here ?" 
 
 " Dear, dear ! how many more people ? We shall 
 be getting a perfect crowd in Florence ! However, 
 it is as you like, my dear. Yes, Fll write to old 
 Fielding ; but I think he had better be labelled 
 * Florence,' or he may find himself at Frankfort in- 
 stead." 
 
 9 
 
I30 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 "He will get on very well. He went with us, if 
 you remember, to Hyeres one winter." 
 
 " I hear Florence is frightfully cold in winter," 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith said. '' We shall have to keep 
 good fires." 
 
 "It is deliciously warm to-day," Lady Anna re- 
 joined. " Daisy has had a charming drive this 
 morning. You will see, dearest, about the carriage ? 
 I must have one entirely at my command." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I have arranged that, and I am to see 
 the horses to-day." 
 
 " Pray ensure our having a steady coachman, for 
 it would be frightful to be driven by an inexperienced 
 hand." 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith pushed back his chair and was 
 leaving the room, when Daisy ran after him, and, 
 standing on tip-toe, whispered something in his ear : 
 
 " Adelaide wants to begin painting. Do ask how 
 she is to get to the galleries and a studio !" 
 
 Then a fervent embrace was exchanged between 
 father and daughter, and Mr. Cowper-Smith de- 
 parted. Presently he put his head back into the 
 room : "I suppose you would not like little Rose 
 Smith to come out with Fielding?" 
 
 " My dearest ! what a notion ! No, indeed ! I 
 should not dream of proposing anything so prepos- 
 terous !" 
 
 " It could easily be managed," Mr. Cowper-Smith 
 said, as he finally left the room. " I thought in your 
 opinion it was * the more the merrier.' " 
 
COM PLICA TIONS. 1 3 1 
 
 Lady Anna had just finished eating a peach, 
 and was leaning back in her chair, satisfied that 
 things were now in a fair way of being comfortably 
 arranged. 
 
 " By-the-bye, Miss MiUington," she said, " have 
 you made any inquiries about painting ?" 
 
 " No," Adelaide said ; " I cannot do so alone. I 
 thought perhaps one day you would be so kind as to 
 go with me to a studio, in the Viale Principe 
 Amadeo." 
 
 " Yes, we will certainly see about it when we are 
 settled. There is plenty of time." 
 
 " Adelaide is taking my portrait, mother — oh ! I 
 forgot it was a secret," as Adelaide gave Daisy a 
 warning look. 
 
 " Pray don't tire yourself with sitting for a por- 
 trait, my darling. Miss Cromwell, you should have 
 asked whether I approved it. Dr. Brocklehurst was 
 so very decided about over-fatigue." 
 
 " But, mother, I like it so much ; and Miss Crom- 
 well reads, and we do so enjoy ourselves. Pray let 
 me go on sitting." 
 
 " Well, we must be very careful. And are you 
 using oil-paints. Miss MiUington ?" 
 
 " No ; I am only trying a little water-colour 
 sketch." 
 
 " Very well. I must forbid oils, as the smell is so 
 unwholesome ; only be very careful, Miss Cromwell, 
 that Daisy is not over-fatigued." 
 
 Daisy had possessed herself of Adelaide's hand, 
 
 9—2 
 
132 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 and they went together to the upper floor, Miss 
 Cromwell waiting to receive a great many orders 
 from Lady Anna. 
 
 The little room next Adelaide's bedroom was now 
 given to her for a sitting-room, and here the portrait 
 was in progress. Adelaide had indeed no reason to 
 complain of the accommodation offered her, and she 
 told herself she had everything she could wish for, 
 but — an important "but" — sympathy! She missed 
 Hester and her mother, and the admiration they 
 had lavished on her performances. She missed 
 gentle Lady Mary, and if it had not been for Daisy 
 she would have felt more lonely ; and she began to 
 hunger for the interest and praise which, when she 
 had them, she was sometimes inclined to resent. 
 
 Adelaide had paid her visits to the Uffizi and 
 Pitti Palace, and had taken that cursory glance at 
 the pictures which on a first visit is almost in- 
 evitable. 
 
 Miss Cromwell had been her companion, and had 
 hurried her on without allowing her time to make 
 up her mind wJiicli picture she should try to copy. 
 For it had come to '' trying " now. Some of the 
 best works on the easels in the " tribune " at the 
 Uffizi had struck her as almost identical with the 
 original, and the question arose : " Shall I ever do 
 as well ?" One little dark-eyed student had pro- 
 duced what seemed to Adelaide a very faithful copy 
 of the Madonna del Cardellino, and she meditated 
 over it rather sadly, and a sigh escaped her. 
 
COMPLICATIONS. 133 
 
 The little artist turned quickly, and smiled, and 
 Adelaide said : 
 
 " Com' e bello!" To her surprise the answer was 
 in English. 
 
 " Yes ; one of the loveliest pictures in the world. 
 I don't mean mine," she said, laughing. " How 
 can a copy, even the best, be the same as the 
 reality?" 
 
 " Yours is very like the original." 
 
 " Like ! ah ! the same and not the same. The 
 spirit of Raffaelle is in that picture ; and mine — mine 
 — well — I paint for my living !" 
 
 " Have you made up your mind which picture you 
 will copy, Adelaide ?" Daisy asked, when she had 
 nestled comfortably in a chair, while Adelaide was 
 arranging her colours and wiping her brushes. 
 
 " No ; besides, I must get a permesso first ; and 
 somehow I feel rather afraid of beginning in public." 
 
 " I hope I shall be allowed to go to the galleries 
 soon. Mother thinks I should get too tired — but I 
 should not. That beautiful picture with the bird 
 and the Lord's hand softly touching it ! Ah ! I 
 should love to have that copied. Do try, Adelaide ! 
 all for mCf you know — my very own. The photo- 
 graph is lovely, but I should like it coloured." 
 
 "You shall have a copy when I can make a 
 fair one," Adelaide said. " Now please turn your 
 head on one side, and put your hand under your 
 chin. Yes, that is right." 
 
 " I suppose Miss Cromwell is not coming to read 
 
134 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 to-day. I don't mind ; I like talking to you. Isn't 
 it nice that Percival is coming at Christmas ? I 
 do long for Percival. We had such a happy time 
 at Willesford while mother was gone to see Aunt 
 Mary. Do you know, I have felt better ever since. 
 I had set myself against girls of my age, and was so 
 shy and stupid. But Barbara and Rose were so 
 nice ; and of course I wished to have Rose here in 
 Florence, and then you came instead — and I coidd 
 not like anyone better than I like you. So it is all 
 right — for me at least. Rose was, I know, dis- 
 appointed, and I often wish father had not told her 
 about it, till he was sure she was coming. Adelaide, 
 do you know why all the pictures here in Florence 
 are pictures of sacred things ? Now, no one in Eng- 
 land paints the Madonna, and lovely Httle angels, and 
 saints. I went to the Academy when we came back 
 from Cannes, and most of the pictures were of smart 
 ladies, and stories out of novels ; and in Paris, at 
 the Salon, they were all so awful, and of such dread- 
 ful things, that mother took me away — I could not 
 bear to look at them. I can't quite understand it, 
 can you ? I mean how it is people don't paint 
 beautiful Madonnas, and Apostles, and saints now ?" 
 '* I suppose it is," Adelaide said, "that in the 
 days when there were few books, and artists only 
 painted for churches and monasteries, they repre- 
 sented what was wanted to teach the people about 
 the life of our Lord and the disciples, and thus to 
 fasten on their minds the story of the childhood of 
 
COMPLICA TIONS. 1 35 
 
 Jesus, and the sufferings of those who suffered for 
 His sake — the martyrs and prophets, and all that 
 happened in the Bible history. Art was then the 
 great teacher — people learned by the eye when there 
 were no books, or at least very few." 
 
 '' Fancy the world without books ! and without 
 the Bible ! I cannot fancy it — can you, Adelaide ?' 
 
 " I cannot fancy life without books of any kind," 
 Adelaide said indifferently. 
 
 '' But the Bible is the book. It is the most beauti- 
 ful book to read. Don't you know what I mean ?" 
 
 Adelaide was always honest, and she did not like 
 even to this child — I ought to say, especially to this 
 child — to profess anything she did not really feel. 
 
 If she had been pressed for an answer, she would 
 have said the Bible was not the most beautiful 
 book to her, and that there were many she read 
 oftener, and with greater pleasure. 
 
 Daisy watched Adelaide's face as she mixed some 
 more colours on her palette, and repeated her ques- 
 tion. 
 
 *' Don't you know what I mean ?" 
 
 '' Yes, dear, I know what you mean," she replied. 
 " Do try and sit still, just for a few minutes." 
 
 " But you like me to talk ; you said so the other 
 day. You said it brought out my expression ; 
 didn't 3'ou ?" 
 
 "Yes ; but I am now trying to get your arm right. 
 Arms and hands are so troublesome." 
 
 They were indeed, to judge by results. If the 
 
136 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 fisher-boy's arm was stiff and wooden, what was 
 Daisy's ? And, if it had been held out straight, 
 it would have been longer than herself! Had 
 Adelaide been trained in an art-school, she would 
 have been taught to study models of hands, feet, and 
 arms ; and she would have been led to the study of 
 anatomy and the right understanding of the frame- 
 work of the figure, which cannot be dispensed with, 
 if anything good is to be achieved in ''the art that 
 can immortalize." 
 
 She had just determined to get rid of Daisy's 
 hand and arm, by concealing them by some drapery 
 drawn over them, when Miss Cromwell appeared. 
 
 " There are visitors downstairs," she said. " A 
 Mr. Lysaght and his sister. I could not catch her 
 name. She is a very fashionable personage indeed." 
 
 Presently Sam's footsteps were heard ; and he 
 came to say : 
 
 '' Miss Millington is to go down to the drawing- 
 room on the first piano .'' 
 
 The order was given in rather a peremptory 
 fashion, and Adelaide's colour rose as she said : 
 
 *' Will you tell Lady Anna that I am very much 
 engaged with Miss Margaret's portrait?' 
 
 Sam looked doubtful about delivering this message; 
 and Miss Cromwell said : 
 
 " Oh, you really had better go downstairs. Lady 
 Anna won't like it if 3^ou don't ! Pray go." 
 
 But Adelaide still went on painting, and took no 
 further notice of the summons. Sam departed; and 
 
COMPLICA TIONS. i ZJ 
 
 Daisy, who had watched Adelaide's face, and sav/ 
 that she looked annoyed, said : 
 
 " Perhaps mother thinks you would like to see the 
 visitors. I will sit very still while you are gone, and 
 Miss Cromwell will read to me. I won't move, I 
 promise, if you go for a few minutes." 
 
 "I don't wish to go, dear," Adelaide said ; and she 
 thought how she disliked the idea of Mr. Lysaght 
 hearing her sent for, as if she were a child, or worse, 
 a dependent ! 
 
 '' I am a guest, it is true; but I am not a welcome 
 one. Lady Mary, kind as she meant to be, made a 
 mistake; but I made a greater in coming here." 
 
 Again steps were heard coming along the corridor, 
 and voices and laughter ; and the door opened to 
 admit Mrs. Murchison, who came gaily in, saying: 
 
 " As you would not come down to see me, I have 
 come to see you. I am so fond of painting, but not 
 figures; I sketch." Then Mrs. Murchison greeted 
 Daisy with a kiss, and going to the rather high 
 window, looked out. 
 
 " Why, this is like the view birds must have from 
 their nests," she said, " over the tree-tops. You 
 can see Fiesole. I cannot go into raptures about 
 Florence. Godfrey made me go up to Fiesole the 
 other day ; but the church was so damp and musty, 
 it made him cough. We are here for his health : 
 he has had something wrong with his lungs." Then 
 Mrs. Murchison turned from the window, talking all 
 the time. " Ah ! this is a portrait — gold hair and 
 
138 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 blue e3'es. It is meant for you, little Daisy, I sup- 
 pose. You see, I know your name already. Well, 
 as far as eyes and hair are concerned, it is like you ; 
 don't think me rude, Miss Millington ; you know 
 we artists are allowed to criticize each other. But, 
 I am afraid, the figure is out of drawing. The 
 child's head is much too small in proportion to the 
 figure. I see you have put a convenient bit of — lace, 
 is it ? — over the arm and hand. I am up to all these 
 little dodges. I made a sketch last evening, of San 
 Miniato and the Arno from our windows, and gave 
 the cleverest turn, to hide a boat which did not 
 please me, by putting a larger one just before it. It 
 is a pretty sketch, and a good sunset sky. I hope 
 you will come and see us. Ah ! here is Godfrey at 
 last. He and Lady Anna have been talking secrets, 
 and were so glad to dispose of me !" 
 
 Mrs. Murchison's chatter, rapid and discursive, 
 fairly bewildered Adelaide. She smarted too, as all 
 sensitive people do smart, under the lash of her 
 criticism — delivered, it is true, in a jocose fashion, 
 but from a vantage-ground of superiority that was 
 in itself irritating. 
 
 Before Mr. Lysaght had time to speak — for the 
 ascent up the stairs had made him breathless — his 
 sister attacked him to come and look at Miss 
 Millington's picture — a portrait of Lady Anna's 
 little girl. 
 
 In a moment Adelaide had swept the block from 
 the easel, and, turning it with its face to the wall, 
 
COMPLICA TIONS. 1 39 
 
 said: "The portrait is not finished. I do not wish 
 anyone to see it." 
 
 Poor Adelaide's voice showed that she was 
 annoyed, and her face grew crimson. She was 
 grateful to Mr. Lysaght for taking no notice of his 
 sister's remark or her own ; and then Lady Anna 
 came rustling in. There was always a rustle when 
 she moved, though her movements were abundantly 
 dignified and slow. Still, she never failed to be 
 heard as well as seen. 
 
 " I have ordered tea in the drawing-room on this 
 floor. Shall we all migrate there ? This little 
 room is only used by Miss Millington for her paint- 
 ing. . . Now, my darling Daisy, come with us. 
 You have been here quite long enough. Miss 
 Millington, please remember that Daisy is not to 
 exceed half an hour, sitting as a study for your 
 picture." 
 
 " These are beautiful rooms !" Mrs. Murchison 
 exclaimed ; " and I believe we should have been 
 better here than by the Arno. What a suite ! — one, 
 two, three, four, five rooms, and what enchanting 
 old mirrors and pictures and dear little beds ! How 
 different from our ugly erections in England, where, 
 instead of being made subordinate in rooms, the 
 beds stare you in the face. You are very fortunate. 
 Lady Anna, to have secured two such piani. But 
 you cannot use all the rooms, surely." 
 
 " No ; but after Christmas I expect some friends 
 to visit us. My cousin and her daughter and 
 
I40 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 my nephew Percival Clyffe may turn up any day. 
 You know him, I think." 
 
 " I don't, but Godfrey does. They are both brief- 
 less barristers ; and I think it is as well Godfrey 
 gets no briefs. He is not strong enough. I have 
 really come out to take care of him; and he is not 
 half grateful to me. Godfrey, look at this old bit of 
 Sevres china. 1 wonder the people left anything so 
 precious about." 
 
 Lady Anna smiled. 
 
 *' You must not think many little decorations 
 belong to the old Marchese. I cannot live in bare 
 rooms ; and last year at Cannes I was rather 
 celebrated for having the prettiest and most home- 
 like rooms in the Belle Vue Hotel. We always buy 
 things on the spot, and get rid of them when we 
 leave a place. I have spent two mornings already 
 in the shops here." 
 
 "To some purpose," sighed Mrs. Murchison. 
 " Poor people like me must be content with hanging 
 up a few bits of Liberty silk, and some cheap 
 Florentine crockery." 
 
 When Lady Anna and Mrs. Murchison had got 
 into the drawing-room, which was on the further 
 side of the corridor, Sam had arrived with tea. 
 
 " Where is Godfrey?" Mrs. Murchison exclaimed. 
 " I thought he was following us. He must have 
 gone downstairs by mistake. Perhaps he is making 
 friends with your little girl. How dreadfully delicate 
 she looks ! What advice have you had for her ?" 
 
COMPLICA TIONS. 141 
 
 This was a little too familiar for Lady Anna's 
 taste, and she was thinking that Percival Clyffe's 
 friend was fairly agreeable ; but his sister was not 
 a very desirable acquaintance — a person to be re- 
 pressed and not encouraged, or she might become 
 troublesome. 
 
 " My daughter is stronger than she was, or we 
 should have resorted to the Riviera for this winter. 
 There is more to interest her father in Florence, and 
 he is, of course, our first consideration." 
 
 Lady Anna really believed in this last assertion, 
 and those who deceive themselves, generally contrive 
 to deceive other people. 
 
 '' Shall I give you sugar, Mrs. Murchison ?" 
 
 "No, thanks. Why, Godfrey, where have you 
 been ? — flirting with Miss Millington, and renewing 
 your first acquaintance at the station ? For you 
 know. Lady Anna, my brother performed the office 
 of knight errant to Miss Millington, and kept me 
 waiting at the station on the night of our arrival in 
 Florence, till I got quite savage with him." 
 
 " Really !" was all Lady Anna vouchsafed in reply. 
 *' This is a pleasant room, Mr. Lysaght, is it not ? I 
 prefer it to thel ower piano. But I could not under- 
 go the fatigue of mounting those stairs very often. 
 When my cousin arrives this suite will be given up 
 to her and her daughter. Where is Daisy — my 
 little girl ?" Lady Anna asked. 
 
 " She is trying to persuade Miss Millington to 
 come and join us, apparently with no effect." 
 
142 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Lady Anna's brow clouded, and her face assumed 
 an expression which those who knew her well always 
 understood. She turned to the footman, who was 
 handing the cakes to Mrs. Murchison. 
 
 " Tell Mrs. Gray to let Miss Cowper-Smith know 
 I wish her to come into the drawing-room." 
 
 This seemed a very roundabout way of capturing 
 Daisy, and Mr. Lysaght said : 
 
 " Shall I call her. Lady Anna ? She is close at 
 hand in the next room," 
 
 " Oh, I will not trouble you," Lady Anna said, 
 rising herself, and going to the door which com- 
 municated with the next room. For in Florence all 
 rooms communicate with each other by the little 
 doors cleverly contrived, painted or papered like the 
 wall, and only noticeable by the brass handle, 
 which, when turned, opens the door." 
 
 " Margaret, my love !" 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " Come to tea, and talk to Mr. Lysaght and Mrs. 
 Murchison." 
 
 " Mother ! I want Adelaide to come, and she 
 won't. I have been trying to make her, and so did 
 Mr. Lysaght. Do ask her to come !" 
 
 But Lady Anna had possessed herself of Daisy's 
 hand, and gently drew her with her into the room ; 
 Adelaide meanwhile escaping to her own apart- 
 ment, at the further end of the long suite of 
 rooms. 
 
 " I think it is a pity you did not go, Miss Milling- 
 
COMPLICATIONS. 
 
 143 
 
 ton," Miss Cromwell said. *' You let Lady Anna get 
 the upper hand : for myself, I know that I must 
 submit, but you are really different, and quite inde- 
 pendent. And how patronizing and disagreeable that 
 Mrs. Murchison was ! I never saw' a brother and 
 sister so different : one so frivolous and ' made up,' 
 and the other so solemn and grave." 
 
 Adelaide did not feel disposed to enter into any 
 further discussion about Mr. Lysaght and his sister 
 with Miss Cromwell, and, taking out her writing-case, 
 went on with her letters — one to Hester and the 
 other to her mother. 
 
 Hester's letters were very long and intricate ; full 
 of happiness and joyful anticipation. From Hester's 
 account the Squire was not really better ; but Lady 
 Mary would not say much about him, even to her 
 mother. Mr. Birley had gone up to the Court twice, 
 but he had refused to see him, and Mr. Birley said 
 it was really very shocking that he would not see his 
 own clergyman — for Dr. Townley considered his 
 condition very critical. 
 
 " It will really be a merciful release," Hester said, 
 using a stereotyped expression ; '' and if he does not 
 die soon. Cousin Mary will be the first to go." 
 
 The next morning found Adelaide once more at 
 the Uffizi, and she was recognised by the little bright- 
 eyed artist, who was putting her finishing touches 
 to "The Madonna del Cardellino," and listening to 
 the criticisms of an old man, w^ho haunted the 
 galleries, and considered himself a judge of art : 
 
144 !^ THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " A little too much shadow here," he was saying ; 
 " and a few touches would put the arm right" 
 
 The artist nodded and smiled, and then, as the 
 old man passed on, she said : " He always has some 
 improvements to suggest ; it pleases him and does 
 not vex me. But I think I shall not follow them this 
 time." 
 
 " I am longing to begin," Adelaide said. '' Will 
 you tell me where to get the necessary permesso ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I will go with you, if you like. But, 
 perhaps " — then there was a pause — " perhaps it 
 would be as well to begin with something simple. 
 I am going to the Accademia, to copy the head of 
 Savonarola by Fra Bartolommeo, next week. If 
 you like, we could work together there. There are 
 two little angels of Andrea del Sarto's which many 
 artists find tolerably easy. Would you like to try 
 them ? I shall be there on Monday early. The 
 light so soon fades at this time of year ; so it is well 
 CO get a long morning." 
 
 " I do not know where to get a proper easel and 
 canvas. Will you help me to do so, and give me the 
 address of the shop where to buy them ?" 
 
 The little artist tore a leaf from a note-book, and 
 wrote down the names of two shops — one in the 
 Borgo Lorenzo, the other in the Via Pucci — where 
 the artists' requisites could be bought. 
 
 " You are English, I suppose ?" Adelaide said, for 
 though a slight foreign accent, and the quick gestures 
 of her small hands, seemed almost to point to an 
 
COMPLICA TIONS. 145 
 
 Italian birth, she spoke Enghsh with perfect ease and 
 fluency. 
 
 " My father was Enghsh," she answered, " my 
 mother Itahan. I will write my address on this 
 paper," and she wrote, " Lucia Campbell, Piazza 
 Cavour." " I must bid you good-bye now. Buon 
 giorno, a rivederci !" And then, gathering up her 
 brushes and palettes, she tripped away. 
 
 Adelaide was left alone, standing before the pic- 
 ture, and presently the old man returned who had 
 spoken to Lucia about her painting. 
 
 " You are admiring that copy. You would admire 
 it still more, signorina, if you knew, as I know, that 
 the artist keeps a family by her brave exertions 
 — a sickly mother, a blind brother, and, for years, a 
 father also, but she is rid of that encumbrance — 
 he died a few years ago. She is a wonderful little 
 girl. But I wish she had just touched that arm. 
 Yes ; it is a mistake to have such a broad light 
 there ; but young folks are always slow to take 
 advice from their elders ! I wm a painter," the old 
 man said, wdth a deep sigh, '' till God was pleased to 
 afflict me, and take away the use of my right arm. 
 See, signorina," he said, pointing to it, " it is 
 withered and helpless. Yes, it has been a bitter 
 trial. Well, God knows best — God knows best !" he 
 said, as he took a pinch of snuff from an ancient 
 tortoiseshell box with silver hinges, and went to 
 another room to offer criticisms which no one heeded. 
 
 The figure of Andrea Maura was well known in the 
 
 10 
 
146 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 galleries of Florence, and he was looked upon as a 
 harmless old man^ who believed he had been once 
 an artist himself, second only to " The Faultless 
 Painter." But no one else shared his faith. Tradi- 
 tion said he had never sold any of his pictures, and 
 that they existed only in his imagination. He lived 
 in the glories of his past, and no one really cared to 
 dispel the illusion. It is well for some of us that 
 nothing can take away happy memories of our past, 
 even when they are touched by the sadness of con- 
 trast with the present. There are few who would 
 give up the beauty of a distant time, even if it is 
 true, as the poet says — 
 
 "That the Past must always win 
 A beauty from its being far, 
 And orb into the perfect star 
 We saw not when we walked therein." 
 
 When in those solemn galleries at Florence, 
 Adelaide forgot her inharmonious surroundings at 
 the Piazza d'Azeglio. What did it matter that Lady 
 Anna patronized her, and that she was daily made 
 to feel more and more that a kindness had been 
 done her, for which she was to be grateful, but never 
 to allow her gratitude to be mingled with any de- 
 monstration of affection ? 
 
 The Lady Annas of the world always manage to 
 take off the keen edge of appreciation of the favours 
 they bestow, by levying a tax on them ; and perhaps 
 a little feeling of jealousy was rising in the mother's 
 heart as she saw how Margaret clung to Adelaide 
 
COMPLICA TIONS. I47 
 
 and cared more for her society than for that of any- 
 one else. 
 
 Several masters were engaged for Daisy. Italian, 
 French, and German must be spoken by a girl who 
 was to occupy Daisy's position in society ; but she 
 was not to be teased with grammar, or exercises, or 
 dictation. She was to be helped to read and con- 
 verse, but not worried in any way. As to music, a 
 violin-master was engaged ; but, like the other pro- 
 fessors, so many restrictions were laid on him that, 
 though he liked to receive fees for his lessons, he felt 
 almost as if he were taking them as a gift. 
 
 But no restrictions can crush a real love of, and 
 even genius for music. Daisy made her violin speak, 
 and, though her fingers wanted the practice her mother 
 denied them, her bow never scraped. The purest 
 tones came to delight the ear of the little enthusiastic 
 signor, who was ready at the same time to tear his 
 hair with vexation that the signora was so bhnd, so 
 deaf, so stupid, as to limit Daisy's lessons to playing 
 airs, and forbid exercises as too exhausting. 
 
 It was a large but poorly furnished piano in the 
 Piazza Cavour where Lucia Campbell lived and 
 laboured for those who were dependent on her. 
 She was the only support of her mother and blind 
 brother, and a querulous sister who professed to 
 perform all the household duties, but did so very 
 inefficiently and with but a bad grace. She had 
 about her all the depression of an Englishwoman 
 
 10 — 2 
 
148 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 who, under adverse circumstance?, can take no 
 bright view of Hfe, looks on duty as drudgery, and 
 pines for what is denied her. 
 
 Lucia, on the contrary, had all the fire and buoy- 
 ancy of the Italian nature. She was satisfied with 
 very little, and was content with a dinner of herbs, 
 like most of her countr3^-people. If only the salads 
 and macaroni had been seasoned with love, Lucia 
 would have been quite happy to live on cold cauli- 
 flower served with oil and salt, and other compounds 
 made up from the vegetable world. 
 
 It was one bright morning when November was 
 close at hand that Lucia received her fee for the 
 cop3' of the Madonna del CardelHno. Her spirits 
 were as bright as the morning, and she was singing 
 as she went about her household duties — duties 
 which Marietta undertook, but never performed. 
 
 " Come, Marietta," she said, " make haste and 
 help Giovanni to dress while I finish the clearance 
 of this room. Oh, what dust ! I must get a broom." 
 
 "I swept the floor yesterday: my back ached so 
 I could scarcely stand up afterwards. You have no 
 pity — none, Lucia !" 
 
 " Pity ! Yes, I have pity, you poor child ! I can 
 only say, ' Patienza ; better times will come for you.' " 
 
 "I don't think it; it is all mother's talk. It is 
 nonsense to expect we shall ever get any money 
 from that grandfather who hated our father. He 
 will hate us for his sake." 
 
 "Well, then, we will go on earning money. I 
 
COMPLICATIONS, 149 
 
 have enough now to pay our rent up to May, and I 
 will give you a fine new gown, Marietta, and some- 
 thing over our expenses — oh ! mi fa tanto piacere ! 
 — for I got another commission to draw Savona- 
 rola's head. It is joy to me to paint him !' 
 
 ' Joy ! I think it is a hideous picture !" 
 
 *' Non fa niente, piccina mia !" Lucia replied. 
 
 And now a shrill and high-pitched voice was 
 heard, and a dark-eyed woman with a sallow skin, 
 and yet with the remains of beauty of a certain 
 type, came in, saying in English which had a more 
 decided Italian accent than her daughters': 
 
 *' Do not speak Italian ! I do tell you fifty times 
 a day to keep going your English ! Your father did 
 say if you talk Italian you have no chance. Look 
 on me ! Do I not speak English ? Do I not try to 
 obey the wishes of your poor, poor father ? And 
 you — you " 
 
 Signora Campbell's voice broke down into a sort 
 of angry wail and into Italian malgre lui, and 
 became so voluble and excited that it was difficult 
 to guess her meaning and catch now and then 
 such words as " Lo dico per vostro bene! Volete 
 tacere!" — the last injunction being wholly unneces- 
 sary as far as her daughters were concerned, who 
 knew by experience that any remonstrance only made 
 the torrent of their mother's speeches flow more 
 fiercely. 
 
 It was after all but words. Signora Campbell 
 forgot to be angry quite as quickly as she re- 
 
I50 LV THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 membered to pour forth her indignation on her girls, 
 and blind Giovanni coming in now to ask for his 
 coffee and morning mess of macaroni, she busied 
 herself in preparing breakfast. 
 
 Giovanni was a thin, fragile-looking boy of 
 eighteen ; his sisters were older. Lucia was twenty- 
 two ; Marietta twenty. By common consent Gio- 
 vanni was treated as the baby, and his infirmities 
 endeared him to his sisters, though they were a 
 vexation to his mother. She was always throwing 
 out hints that if only her poor afflicted one had been 
 like other boys there would be some hope of future 
 good for him. As it was, how could he ever make 
 his way, or take his right position ? 
 
 What that right position was, neither Lucia nor 
 Marietta exactly knew. Lucia had gone through 
 many terrible scenes in her early youth, caused by 
 the perpetual misconduct of her father. At last his 
 intemperance brought about a state of imbecility 
 and irritability, which rendered every one about 
 him miserable. The little old man in the galleries 
 spoke the truth when he told Adelaide that his 
 death was a happy deliverance to his children. In 
 a short interval of sanity and something like a 
 return to natural affection before his death, Lucia's 
 father had committed to her a sealed letter, making 
 her solemnly swear that she would never reveal its 
 existence, or open it, till she could obey the instruc- 
 tions which he gave her in another envelope 
 addressed to her, and never to be revealed to her 
 
COMPLICATIONS, 151 
 
 mother till the moment came for opening the sealed 
 packet. 
 
 Lucia put both packets away, and really felt no 
 strong temptation to tell either her mother or sister 
 what had passed between her and her father. She 
 looked upon the whole thing as one of her father's 
 frequent hallucinations ; and engrossed with her 
 work and her brave efforts to keep her mother and 
 brother and sister in tolerable comfort, she may be 
 said almost to have forgotten the two packets, which 
 were carefully locked up in a small desk, which her 
 father had given her when only a little girl. 
 
 Of course, her mother's hints about Giovanni's 
 future and an implacable grandfather sometimes 
 awoke conjectures in her mind. But all that she 
 really knew of her parents was the fact that her 
 father, when under age, had married her mother, 
 who had been a singer, in no very high place in 
 the professional world, and who soon after her own 
 birth had lost her voice, never to regain it, thus 
 cutting off her means of earning her living ; while 
 her father, growing reckless, had wasted a small 
 fortune inherited from his mother, and had, by his 
 intemperate habits, reduced himself and his family 
 to the very verge of starvation. 
 
 Signora Campbell had taught music, at very low 
 terms, and had also professed to teach English to 
 her own countrywomen. But in no way was she a 
 success ; and had it not been for Lucia's exertions, ab- 
 solute want would have stared the family in the face. 
 
152 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Lucia's taste for art had developed at an early age, 
 and her copy of one of the pictures in the Accademia 
 had attracted the notice of an artist. He had seen 
 her latent power, and had taken her as a pupil in 
 his studio, with no fee. Lucia made herself useful 
 to him in many ways, and fully repaid his kindness. 
 The old man died some three or four years before 
 this time, and Lucia had gained sufficient skill to 
 obtain work as a copyist. 
 
 The American and English visitors at Florence 
 make a continuous demand for copies of the well- 
 known pictures, and certain dealers are the medium, 
 who pay the artist a fixed percentage on the sums 
 for which the pictures are sold. But in some rare 
 instances the copyist gets a commission direct, per- 
 haps through the kindness of a friend, or perhaps 
 through a copy from his hand attracting notice in 
 one of the galleries, when still on the easel. 
 
 This commission which Lucia had obtained to copy 
 Savonarola's portrait in the Accademia was a case in 
 point. Godfrey Lysaght had seen the admirable 
 copy of the Madonna in the Uffizi, and had entered 
 into conversation with the artist. 
 
 The commission had been given, and a liberal 
 price offered, and Lucia, full of hope and pleasure at 
 having a direct commission, on this bright morning 
 finished her domestic duties, and prepared to set off 
 to the Accademia. 
 
 "If it is an English gentleman with whom you 
 speak, Lucia, mind you speak English. You are 
 
COMPLICA TIONS. 1 5 3 
 
 so ready to speak Italian, and I would have you all 
 remember your poor departed father was English. 
 Ah ! how he did praise my power of speech in his 
 own tongue long ago — long ago ! Ah ! ah !" 
 
 " We all speak the English language hke natives, 
 Madre mia, do we not, Giovanni ?" Lucia said, 
 laughing and bending over her blind brother to 
 kiss him. " Say now, Giovanni carissimo, is there 
 anything I can do for you before I go ?" 
 
 Giovanni shook his head. 
 
 " No, sorella mia, no, except " — Giovanni put his 
 arm round his sister's neck and drew her head close 
 to his face — " except to promise you will take me to 
 the English Church on Sunday." 
 
 " Si, si, darling, I will take you, unless you have 
 coughed all night, and the wind is cold. A rivederci; 
 and here is your violin, I have put in the new string.' 
 
 Then she was gone, and with her the sunshine 
 went out of the room. 
 
 Marietta and her mother began to wrangle about 
 some trifling matter, and instead of sitting down to 
 the mending of her own wardrobe, which was sorely 
 needed. Marietta took up aTauchnitz volume, which 
 was in a torn and dilapidated condition, and with 
 her feet on one chair, and leaning back in another, 
 she soon forgot her promise to Lucia, that she would 
 mend the great rent in her striped skirt, and not 
 cover it with a gay-coloured upper-garment till this 
 was done. 
 
 Signora Campbell made a hasty toilette, and very 
 
154 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 soon set out with a little basket to the Mercato 
 Vecchio to make purchases, indulging in a Httle bit 
 of additional finery for herself, on account of the 
 larger sum than usual that the bread-winner had put 
 into her hand that morning. That brave little bread- 
 winner, who was so happy to have her commission 
 to execute ! And it was only when she arrived at the 
 Accademia that it struck her that the English girl 
 with the deep-set, serious e3'es and resolute mouth 
 would be waiting for her. 
 
 Adelaide was waiting, all impatience, to begin. 
 Her folding-easel and box of oil-paints and large 
 canvas were already in the lobby, deposited there by 
 a boy, who had been added to the staff of servants 
 in the Piazza d'Azeglio, and who had been promptly 
 buttoned up in a page's tight suit, which was alto- 
 gether out of keeping with Carlo's dark olive skin 
 and laughing wide mouth, his chin resting uneasil}' 
 on the stiff collar, which seemed to him a badge of 
 superiority, and therefore must be endured with a 
 broad grin, however uneasy he felt. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SAN MINIATO. 
 
 The permesso was obtained, and Adelaide found 
 herself before the lovely cherubs of Andrea del Sarto, 
 which have a wonderful charm about them. The 
 half-unrolled scrolls, the uplifted fingers, the sweet 
 childish faces with rosy lips half- opened, have 
 attracted many artists, and have become almost as 
 familiar by photographs and copies, as the sweet boy 
 angels under the Madonna di San Sisto, and the two 
 little cherubs reading from the same scroll at the 
 foot of Raffaelle's Madonna del Baldacchino, in the 
 gallery of the Pitti Palace. 
 
 " Yes, they are beautiful," Adelaide said ; " and I 
 think I can copy them. They will be a good begin- 
 ning, and not difficult. " 
 
 Lucia laughed. 
 
 " They are not too easy to reproduce," she said ; 
 '' there is a great deal of drawing required to get 
 those fat legs in their right position. You have got 
 a very large canvas, but you can take off a corner. 
 Don't put your easel in front of the picture, you will 
 not catch the right light ; here to the left is the place. 
 
156 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 And where is your chalk ? Ah ! have you brought 
 none ? I can lend you mine. Now, if I were you, 
 I would sketch in the figure on the right hand first, 
 and then the other ; you will get ' mixed ' if you do 
 both at once. I must leave you now, and go to my 
 beloved Savonarola. Did you bring your luncheon 
 with you ? I always do. Addio." 
 
 And then Lucia was gone, and Adelaide was left 
 alone in the long wide gallery, with her blank canvas, 
 her easel, and her own thoughts. 
 
 Before she began to sketch out her first cherub she 
 took a turn round the gallery, pausing before the 
 Vision of Saint Bernard, by Fra Bartolommeo, and 
 the Assumption by Perugino. She felt half inclined 
 to move her easel and copy the two angels with their 
 mandolines. The figures were more fully draped, 
 and the arms would be easier. But what about the 
 hands, instinct with life, as the beautifully-formed 
 fingers played on the strings or handled the bow ? 
 
 ** Perhaps I had better hold to the cherubs," was 
 Adelaide's final resolution ; " they will not take very 
 long to paint, and then I must try Albertinelli's 
 * Salutation,' in the Ufiizi. There is plenty of time 
 before I leave Florence. After all, it is worth having 
 Lady Anna's patronage, to secure a quiet morning 
 like this with all these pictures round me. It will 
 be delightful to show what I have done to Hester, 
 and Lady Mary shall see I have made the best use 
 of the advantages she got for me." 
 
 So Adelaide returned to the contemplation of the 
 
SAN MINI A TO. 
 
 ^57 
 
 cherubs, and, seating herself on the high wooden 
 stool, began that most important part of a study — 
 whether from the life or from a cast— drawing in the 
 outline of the figure. 
 
 As most novices would have done, she made her 
 first cherub much too large, and the arm holding the 
 scroll would come in the wrong place ; the hand was 
 much too near the knee, and the end of the scroll 
 touched the foot, instead of reaching halfway down 
 the chubby calf. Again and again Adelaide rubbed 
 out the hues, and then resorted to that most delusive 
 consolation — that in colouring she could make it 
 right. Then there was the hand with the uplifted 
 finger — it would come in the wrong place, for where 
 the curly head of the least prominent of the two 
 cherubs was sketched in, the forefinger of his com- 
 panion touched his nose, instead of being just below 
 the chin. 
 
 " It is wrong, somehow — it is all wrong," Adelaide 
 sighed. '' I think I will only make a study of the 
 heads, and leave the figures. After all, it is the ex- 
 pression of the faces I want to get." 
 
 Then all the "bodies" were rubbed out, and the two 
 heads and faces sketched in, with tolerable success. 
 
 " I will just put in the first flesh-tints, and stop for 
 to-day," she thought. 
 
 There were several people in the gallery near — 
 strangers who were passing through Florence on 
 their way to Rome, and rushing through the 
 galleries and churches at the utmost speed. Two 
 
158 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 or three artists had encamped before the great 
 picture of the Assumption, and were busily at work. 
 
 Adelaide found some difficulty in mixing her flesh- 
 tints ; they were too pink, and too yellow, and then 
 too gray. She scarcely liked to confess to herself 
 how discouraged she felt ; and when she passed 
 through the room where Lucia was intent on 
 Savonarola, she was surprised to see how rapidly 
 the head was growing under her hand. 
 
 One of the passing visitors I have mentioned 
 came up, and looked at the picture. 
 
 "What an ugly face! Oh! I see! It is that 
 man whom Mrs. Oliphant writes about in the 
 * Makers of Florence.' " 
 
 " And George Eliot," said her companion. " Have 
 you never read * Romola ?' " 
 
 " I am not sure. I fancy I found it dull ; do 
 move on. We shall never do San Marco, if you 
 don't make haste." 
 
 *' That is what people call doing Florence ; then 
 they proceed to do Pisa, and Siena, and Rome, and 
 Naples." 
 
 Adelaide said this aloud, and Lucia turned her 
 head. She had been far too much engrossed with 
 her work to heed the chatter of the two girls, who 
 had now passed on. 
 
 *' Are you tired ?" Lucia asked. *' How have you 
 got on ?" 
 
 " Not very well. I have changed my mind, and I 
 mean only to paint the heads of those angels or 
 
SAN MINIATO. 159 
 
 cherubs, whichever it is right to call them. You have 
 only a head. It is much easier to accomplish that." 
 
 "Easy!" Lucia looked up. "When I sit down 
 before this I feel I am almost helpless to produce 
 what I see before me. Here is the gentleman who 
 gave me the commission." 
 
 Godfrey Lysaght bowed gravely to both girls, and 
 Lucia said : " You did not expect to see much done 
 already, signor." 
 
 " No ; I am not come even to look," he said. 
 " I can trust you to accomplish this portrait in your 
 own time, and in your best manner." 
 
 " No one could call that face beautiful," Adelaide 
 said shortly. 
 
 "It is too massive to be strictly beautiful ; but 
 there is a peculiar charm in it, for me at least. 
 Savonarola is the presiding spirit of Florence." 
 
 "Not before Dante!" Lucia said quickly; "not 
 before Dante, signor. Dante must always hold his 
 own place." 
 
 " Yes ; but there is something less attractive to 
 me in the personality of the lonely exile, whose 
 love for the City of Flowers turned to bitterness, 
 than in that of the man on whose lips the multitudes 
 in the vast Duomo hung spell-bound, and who laid 
 all their treasures at his feet, as proofs of the power 
 that was in him." 
 
 "I know," Adelaide said, "it was a grand life; but 
 he left nothing behind him to remain, like the 'Divine 
 Commedia,' a monument of his genius for all time." 
 
i6o IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " We can never measure the power or effect of 
 influence," Godfrey said. '^ A life like Savonarola's 
 is its own monument, and may stir many humble 
 hearts to devotion to God's service which Dante's 
 splendid genius cannot reach. My sister is in a 
 carriage waiting for me. Will you drive with us to 
 San Miniato, and comeback to luncheon to Paoli's? 
 I fear I must not ask you to accompany us," 
 Godfrey Lysaght said to Lucia. 
 
 *' Oh no, signor ; I have to work till daylight 
 fails. I have my luncheon here," she said, pointing 
 to a little basket, which contained a roll and an 
 orange. " If you are going to San Miniato, do not 
 forget to look at the sleeping cardinal in the side 
 chapel. I often pay him a visit." 
 
 '^ Perhaps I ought to let Lady Anna know I am 
 not coming home to luncheon," Adelaide said ; " but 
 I do not know whether it matters, for no one will 
 miss me except Daisy." 
 
 " We can leave a message if you like, as we pass 
 the Piazza d'Azeglio." 
 
 " I don't think it matters," Adelaide said ; 
 *' thanks." 
 
 Mrs. Murchison w^as growing impatient, and 
 greeted her brother with : 
 
 " What an age you have been, Godfrey ! You 
 seem fascinated by that little artist. Ah ! Miss Mil- 
 lington, I am very glad to see you. Yes, come, by 
 all means. You must be glad to get away from that 
 stiff-and-starchcd Lady Anna. Goodness ! how I 
 
Piazza dkli.a Sionoria, FLOR^^•CE. 
 
SAN MINIATO. i6r 
 
 enjoyed shocking her ! for she was shocked with me. 
 I don't care two straws for people like her ; and I 
 hope you don't allow her to sit upon you, Miss Mil- 
 lington. Snub her well, and she won't try it on 
 again. Godfrey, do pull the rug over your knees. 
 The wind is cold ; and though I suppose it is treason 
 to say so of Florence, I consider it colder than 
 England. We should have gone to the Riviera, 
 only you were so set upon the beauties of Florence. 
 I have had a long talk this morning with an old 
 gentleman in the hotel. He evidently has a different 
 opinion of me from Lady Anna. He actually com- 
 plimented me on my knowledge of Italian history, 
 and said he supposed I was an author ; and if not, 
 that I ought to be, for I expressed myself so lucidly! 
 He is a learned professor, so I was much flattered. 
 I shall take his advice, I think, and get my novel 
 ready for the press, in spite of your scoffs, Godfrey; 
 for you know you think I am incapable." 
 
 '* I think you capable of many things, Theresa ; 
 but as to authorship, the field is too full of labourers 
 to give new hands a chance." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. There is always room for a 
 briUiant society novel, with plenty of sensation, about 
 dukes and marquises. |7: You write yourself, so you 
 should not grudge me a little scrap of your talent. 
 Did you know he was an author. Miss MiUington ?" 
 
 " No," Adelaide said. '' What does Mr. Lysaght 
 write ?" 
 
 *' Oh, dull papers on religious and philanthropic 
 
 II 
 
l62 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 subjects. Godfrey has queer ideas, and so you will 
 find out before long." 
 
 Adelaide watched the face opposite her with 
 some interest as Mrs. Murchison thus sketched her 
 brother's character in his presence. 
 
 " He is as steady as old Time/' she went on, " and 
 thinks heaps of things wicked which I think de- 
 lightful ; and yet we manage to jog on pretty well 
 together. And I take care of him, and prevent him 
 from killing himself, for which he ought to be 
 grateful, don't you think so ? He would poke about 
 in the East End of London, and live in a hole in 
 Whitechapel, if I consented. But I don't consent, 
 so here we are ; and very kind it is of me to take 
 such good care of him. Now, Godfrey, you ought 
 to say something pretty in return, or Miss Millington 
 will think I am indulging in fictions." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght was too well used to his sister's 
 chatter to pay much heed to it, or he might have 
 rejoined that what kindness there was, was decidedly 
 on his side. Mrs. Murchison was the widow of a 
 young soldier who had fallen in one of " England's 
 little wars ;" and, finding it impossible to make the 
 two ends of her income meet, Mr. Lysaght had 
 taken her into his charge, and preserved her from 
 running up bills and other extravagances, which, it 
 must be confessed, was a brotherly act, more de- 
 serving of gratitude than her sisterly solicitude about 
 his health, and preventing, as she said, his pursuing 
 his labours of charity in Whitechapel. 
 
SAN MINI ATO. 163 
 
 A rumour had reached Mr. Lysaght, as Percival 
 Clyffe had told Lady Anna, that his succession 
 to the estate of Cruttwell was rendered doubt- 
 ful by the fact that Mr. Beauchamp had a son 
 who had married and left children. Where these 
 children lived, or whether they existed at all, was 
 yet an unsolved mystery, and Mr. Lysaght carefully 
 kept the possibility to himself. Lady Anna had, 
 however, questioned him on the day of his first visit 
 to the Piazza d'Azeglio, and said "that the account 
 of " dear Mr. Beauchamp " was decidedly worse ; 
 adding that her sweet sister was a martyr, and yet, 
 like many other martyrs, a saint who never allowed 
 anyone even to pity her, but accepted her lot with 
 the most beautiful resignation. 
 
 The drive to San Miniato on this lovely autumn 
 day was delightful indeed. The zigzag road, which 
 leads by slow degrees to the plateau before the 
 Church of San Salvatore al Monte, opens out a 
 more enchanting view of Florence at every turn. 
 
 The carriage was left below the church, and 
 Adelaide lingered behind her companions to enjoy 
 herself undisturbed by Mrs. Murchison's ceaseless 
 rattle of small talk, which always had some reference 
 to herself. 
 
 Fortunately for Adelaide, Mrs. Murchison joined 
 company with the old Professor, whom she had 
 fascinated at the hotel. He was seen labouring 
 up the steep ascent, which leads by many steps 
 through the cypress avenue to the plateau where she 
 
 II — 2 
 
l64 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 was standing. She greeted him with an enthusiasm 
 which flattered him, and immediately began to air 
 her superficial knowledge, gathered mostly from 
 guide-books, about Michael Angelo's fortifications 
 and the grandeur of the work which had thus made 
 Florence memorable ! 
 
 The Professor was short-sighted, and he may be 
 forgiven for his belief that Mrs. Murchison's roses 
 and cherry lips were the token of youth in its first 
 bloom. He marvelled that one so young should be 
 a widow, and looked upon Mrs. Murchison as a 
 marvel of literary culture and youth and beauty 
 combined. 
 
 It is often so. The counterfeit passes for real gold, 
 and, while men are ready to accept it, we must not 
 be too hard on the anxiety which many women show 
 to keep up the delusion for themselves and others. 
 
 Mr. Lysaght was quite ready to leave his sister 
 to her ancient admirer, and he fell back to join 
 Adelaide. Only her eyes told her appreciation of 
 the view stretched out on all sides. This suited 
 Mr. Lysaght, and they walked silently through the 
 thick walls of the fortification about which the 
 Professor and Mrs. Murchison were so learnedly dis- 
 coursing, to the gate which is kept by a custode, and, 
 when opened, admits to the piazza of the Church of 
 San Miniate. 
 
 From the marble steps of the old church Adelaide 
 looked over that loveliest view, which remains a joy 
 for ever, to those who gaze upon it, and make it a 
 
SAN MINIATO. 165 
 
 part of themselves henceforth. The widening Arno, 
 the vineyards and olive-grounds, the encircling hills 
 and distant Carrara Mountains, all bathed in the 
 golden sunshine of this autumn day, with a canopy 
 above of intensest blue, is a picture in itself of 
 unequalled beauty. 
 
 But it is not in itself alone that every view of 
 Florence has its peculiar charm. Memories of the 
 buried past start to life : old wars and old conflicts ; 
 Florence besieged, and Florence victorious ; the 
 Medici triumphant and brought low in alternate 
 succession ; the genius of Michael Angelo, now 
 defending the dismantled fortress of the Monte San 
 Miniato, now with his chisel creating the giants in 
 marble, which remain to this day in a grandeur 
 unapproachable, combined with a grace that is 
 inimitable. It is the story that every church and 
 every palace tells in the City of Flowers which gives 
 it a subtle charm — a charm which is like the after- 
 glow of sunset, irradiating the present with the glory 
 of the past — a glory which is chastened and subdued, 
 for it seems to echo the words which are said to 
 have fallen from the lips of the dying Bayard, that 
 knight mm peur et sans reproche : 
 
 "All things pass away but the love of God. See, 
 then, to it, that thou love and fear God above all 
 things." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght was the first to speak. 
 
 " Shall we walk through the Campo Santo, or go 
 into the church ?*' 
 
i65 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " I should like to go into the church first." 
 
 As they turned to do so, they saw the Professor 
 and Mrs. Murchison, the Professor waving his stick 
 excitedly, and Mrs. Murchison smiling and nodding 
 in reply. She was hearing a lecture on the likeness 
 between San Zeno at Verona and San Miniato at 
 Florence. The nods and wreathed smiles so appre- 
 ciative of his erudition took the Professor's heart by 
 storm, and " the lovely young creature " gathered 
 from what he said more grains of superficial know- 
 ledge, which would serve her in good stead when 
 aired at the table d'hote at the hotel, and be another 
 proof of her culture and historic lore ! 
 
 *' They seem to enjoy each other's society," Mr. 
 Lysaght said. " Theresa has a taste for old fossils, 
 or rather they always seem to have a taste for 
 her." 
 
 " Mrs. Murchison is very clever, is she not ?" 
 Adelaide asked. 
 
 " She has very quick perceptions," was the 
 answer, " and, like many women, catches up more 
 from observation and listening to other people's 
 talk than from books or study. It is an easy way 
 of getting the reputation for culture 1 Theresa is 
 careful not to get into deep waters, and I am often 
 amused at the skill with which she skims the surface. 
 This is a striking church," he said, abruptly changing 
 the subject. 
 
 The first sight of the church of San Miniato 
 awakes, perhaps, more surprise than pleasure. The 
 
SAN MINIATO. 167 
 
 pavement of the wide nave is marked by wreaths and 
 crosses which show that it is a Campo Santo. The 
 choir is raised above the open crypt, and wide 
 marble stairs lead up to it, from right and left. On 
 a first view, the real grandeur and beauty of the 
 church is perhaps scarcely realized. The frescoes 
 on the walls are a good deal defaced, and of no very 
 especial interest. 
 
 *' The Medici are here, as everywhere in Flo- 
 rence," Mr. Lysaght said ; '' you must look at the 
 chapel, built for Piero de Medici, and at the beautiful 
 screen and pulpit. This is your first look ; you will 
 find out many beauties for yourself on future visits, 
 and you must get here if possible in the early morn- 
 ing, to see the windows at the back of the choir, 
 which have a wonderful hving gold colour when the 
 sun strikes them ; and you must get here also at 
 sunset, for then the view through the open west 
 door is something never to be forgotten. But here 
 come my sister and the Professor, full of learned 
 discussions. Let us turn into this side chapel — for 
 there lies one of the most beautiful marble figures in 
 Florence." 
 
 " You have been here before, then, often ?" 
 
 " Yes, when I was very young, with my mother — 
 a mother and a friend such as few men ever pos- 
 sessed." 
 
 Then he added in a low tone : " She died nere, 
 and lies in the English Cemetery. This chapel was 
 one of her favourite resorts, and so it is mine. It is 
 
i68 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 said of this man that he hved the Hfe of an angel 
 rather than of a man ; he was only twenty-six when 
 he died, four hundred years ago. The perfect repose 
 of that face is, to my mind, almost unequalled, and 
 it must have been, I always think, a faithful likeness. 
 Sit down in the episcopal chair, if you like, and look 
 at it at your leisure." 
 
 " Oh yes ! here is the chapel built by — by — 
 RosselHno." It was Mrs. Murchison's voice. '' I do 
 not think it is worth staying here. I do so want 
 you, Professor Scoresby, to tell me about the Greek 
 mosaic. It is called Greek, but is it ? You will 
 know, of course, and I want to be instructed." 
 
 " You do me too much honour," said the Pro- 
 fessor, ambling away, but casting rather longing 
 looks on the image of the young cardinal, as he lay 
 with folded hands in his last long sleep. For cen- 
 turies that serene face has been gazed on by many 
 and many a traveller, who has now passed away into 
 the eternal silence, into which Jacopo of Portugal 
 passed in his early manhood. Careless eyes may miss 
 the extreme beauty of this figure — the folded hands, 
 the sweet calm lips on which a smile lingers, the 
 easy repose of the stately head, a little turned 
 naturally, as in profound slumber. Above is one of 
 the most lovely of the Madonnas, with her child in 
 her arms, apparently watching the sleeper below. 
 The happy little cherubs who stand one at the 
 head and the other at the feet of the monument 
 have a smile on their faces, as if they wished every- 
 
SAN 3flNIAT0. 169 
 
 one to feel that to die as Jacopo died was some- 
 thing to give thanks for. Only a short conflict here, 
 in which he devoted the extraordinary gifts God had 
 bestowed on him for His glory, and then the light 
 of His eternal day, shining on him henceforth in 
 His kingdom. Who would mourn for such ? and to 
 Adelaide's lips rose the words of the poetess, who 
 lived and loved and died in Florence : 
 
 " Not a tear o'er him must fall ; 
 He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 When Mrs. Murchison had fluttered away with 
 her old Professor, Mr. Lysaght followed them, and 
 Adelaide was left alone before the sleeping cardinal. 
 There was not a sound to break the stillness when 
 the footsteps of the rest of the party had passed out 
 of hearing, and in that solemn church Adelaide 
 seemed to awake more fully to what, since she had 
 been in Florence, had begun to dawn upon her. 
 
 %J have come here to get humble," she thought. 
 " I have had so many to care for me and to flatter 
 me, and here I am alone, except for dear little 
 Daisy. They have told me I was clever, and an 
 artist, and — I know nothing, can do nothing. That 
 frivolous Mrs. Murchison knows ten times as much. 
 What old professor would care to talk to me ? I 
 may know, and feel a great deal more than I know ; 
 but I can't chatter as she does about painters and 
 poets, and Florentine heroes and saints. As to 
 my art, I will go back to the Accademia and 
 begin those two cherubs once more, and then if 
 
I70 AV THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 I fail utterly, I will never touch a brush again — 
 never! Only to think of leaving behind a work like 
 this — a beautiful monument of a beautiful life. To 
 achieve something like that is worth living for ; but 
 for me " 
 
 Adelaide left the chapel, and going down the nave, 
 went out into the Campo Santo outside. The 
 autumn bloom of the sweet monthly roses filled the 
 air with fragrance ; and amongst the pure white 
 crosses of Carrara marble were kneeling, here and 
 there, the friends of those who lay beneath, with 
 offerings of flowery wreaths and crosses in their 
 hands. The ruins of the old Palace of the Mozzi 
 family form a boundary on one side ; but all around 
 is a scene of loveliness, which makes this last resting- 
 place of the Florentines a God's-acre indeed. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. Murchison came, the charm 
 seemed broken, and Adelaide withdrew into her- 
 self; and as they all walked down to the Piazza 
 below the Church of San Salvatore, Mrs. Murchison 
 rallied her on her gravity. 
 
 " She thinks me a silly little thing, I know," she 
 said, addressing the Professor. "Well, I find plenty 
 to amuse me in life, though I can talk of grave 
 matters sometimes ; but I do like a little fun." 
 
 Adelaide disliked being talked at, or talked of; 
 and quickened her steps till she gained the stone 
 balustrade from which the view of Florence most 
 familiar to everyone by photographs and pictures is 
 seen. Villas gleaming in the sunshine ; — Fiesole 
 
SAN MINIATO. 171 
 
 rising majestically behind the noble outline of 
 Mount Morello to the westward, and the valley 
 widening eastward towards range upon range of 
 lofty Apennines, the highest of them now just 
 whitened b}^ the first snow of winter. Immediately 
 below were bridges and terraces, the stately tower 
 of the Palazzo Vecchio, the Duomo on which 
 Michael Angelo cast a loving look of farewell when 
 summoned to Rome to work under the rival dome 
 of Saint Peter, Giotto's Campanile, the spires of 
 Santa Croce ; and to the left, Santo Spirito, also 
 with its dome, and countless other towers and 
 palace-roofs, rising in every direction. And every- 
 where the cypress-spires, climbing up every hillside, 
 in stately companies — those trees which, of all 
 others, seem to belong to, and form part of, the 
 land of monasteries and churches, pointing ever 
 upwards ; their depth of sombre green contrasting, 
 as no other fohage can contrast, with the radiant 
 sky above them. 
 
 The one o'clock table d'hote was long over at 
 Paoh's Hotel, and the sunny Arno was gay with 
 many people in carriages or on foot, as Mrs. 
 Murchison drove up to the door. The four late 
 comers were, with some others, accommodated with 
 the usual course at the end of the long table. 
 
 They were not the only late comers ; and Mrs. 
 Murchison talked across the table to some of her 
 acquaintances ; inquiring where they had been that 
 morning, and whether the eccentric personage 
 
172 TN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 with the squint, in gray homespun, had been jdis- 
 covered — an injudicious question, answered by a 
 stout man at some Httle distance in a grating 
 voice : 
 
 " I guess she's my wife ; and you bet she is worth 
 two dozen of many a smart fine lady amongst you. 
 A right good one is my wife." 
 
 " I am s^ire she is," said Mrs. Murchison. " She 
 has a dehghtfully good-natured face. I long to 
 make her acquaintance." 
 
 But the American gentleman would not be so 
 propitiated. 
 
 '' Tell you what, miss ; it is a grand thing, I 
 guess, to keep straight along the road ; and a deal 
 better to have crooked eyes than crooked ways." 
 
 If Mrs. Murchison blushed, as perhaps she might, 
 the access of colour did not manifest itself Her 
 face always looked the same. But Mr. Lysaght said, 
 in a low tone of angry remonstrance : 
 
 " I do wish you would be more cautious, Theresa, 
 at any rate in public." 
 
 " But this is not public, Godfrey ; is it, Professor 
 Scoresby ? Now, isn't he hard on me ?" 
 
 To this the Professor said, with a bow : 
 
 **The young have to buy their experience, madam;" 
 and he inwardly w^ondered if the lovely creature had 
 noticed his eyes were not quite straight, and if 
 when he was absent he was inquired about as that 
 eccentric personage with a squint. 
 
 After luncheon Mrs. Murchison invited Adelaide 
 
SAN MINIATO. 173 
 
 to ascend to the private sitting-room, which over- 
 looked the Arno and the heights of San Miniato. 
 
 *' That is Godfrey's corner," she said, pointing to 
 a table covered with books and papers ; and here is 
 mine. This was my last sketch, at sunset, from this 
 window." 
 
 " It is beautiful !" Adelaide said warmly. " The 
 sky and the reflection in the river are lovely !" 
 
 " I am so glad you like it. How are you getting 
 on with your painting ?" 
 
 *' Oh, pretty well ! I have begun to copy the two 
 cherubs of Andrea del Sarto in the Accademia. 
 Have you copied any of the pictures ?" 
 
 " No," Mrs. Murchison said, laughing. '' To tell 
 you the truth, I do not care for all these saints and 
 angels with their gold rings round their heads. It 
 is all very well to look at one or two ; but I get sick 
 of them ; and as to Giotto and Cimabue, preserve 
 me from them ! I do not believe half the people 
 who profess to care for them do care for them ; and 
 as to sitting down to copy any of them, in the first 
 place it is hopeless to do so, and in the next I should 
 not have the patience to do more than make a rapid 
 sketch. I like to get everything done off quickly. 
 Now, how long do you think I was at that 
 sketch ?" 
 
 "Indeed I cannot tell," Adelaide said. 
 "About two hours. I touched it up a little, of 
 course, at another sitting. You had much better try 
 to sketch, instead of copying old pictures. I play 
 
74 
 
 TN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 the violin a little, and I sing. I am a Jack-of-all- 
 trades, you see. Are you musical ?" 
 
 " No ; that is, I don't play on any instrument. 
 The children play." 
 
 " The children ?" Mrs. Murchison said. 
 
 " My little step-sisters ; they are fifteen and seven- 
 teen now, but we call them children." 
 
 '' By-the-bye," Mrs. Murchison went on, " you live 
 at Dryborough. Godfrey will live there one day. He 
 is coming into property in that neighbourhood ; quite 
 in a roundabout way, but he is the heir all the same. 
 His grandfather and Mr. Beauchamp's father were 
 first cousins. His name is Beauchamp Lysaght, 
 this is what the ' B ^ stands for. We shall be neigh- 
 bours, perhaps ; not that I could live in a dull place 
 all the year. And perhaps Godfrey will marry, and 
 I should not choose to play second fiddle, you know. 
 Not that I think Godfrey will marry. His views are 
 so extraordinary. He is religious, and philan- 
 thropical, and self-denying, and all the rest of it ; 
 and there are not many girls who would care to be 
 tied to that sort of thing. Then he is far from 
 strong, poor old fellow ; and, as I told you, I have 
 just saved his life by making him come here this 
 winter. I don't say it was not one word for him 
 and two for myself! I am not self-denying — quite 
 the contrary. You look so grave and serious, I dare 
 say I am shocking you just as I shocked Lady Anna. 
 I can't help it : I never pretend to be what I am not 
 which is a virtue in these days. I hate shams." 
 
SAN MINIATO. 175 
 
 Adelaide was wondering if, indeed, those cherry 
 Hps and pencilled eyebrows, with the dark shadows 
 beneath the ej-es, which certainl}' made them 
 wonderfully luminous, were to be reckoned amongst 
 the shams of which Mrs. Murchison expressed her 
 abhorrence. 
 
 The ripple of small talk went on ceaselessly, and 
 Adelaide felt bewildered. She had never before met 
 anyone like Mrs. Murchison. It was a new revela- 
 tion to her — this free and easy chatter, which, though 
 it made a good many detours, as it were, amongst the 
 failings or peculiarities of her neighbours and friends, 
 always came back to that most attractive subject — 
 herself! 
 
 '' Now%" she said, after a pause, " now, tell me 
 about yourself. You must have a bit of romance 
 hidden somewhere ; dear old Professor Scoresby said, 
 ' That girl has a history.' " 
 
 Adelaide's swift blood rose to her face. " If I 
 had, it could not be of any interest to strangers. As 
 I have not a history, please let me sink at once into 
 the commonplace person I am." 
 
 " Commonplace ! No, that you are not. Com- 
 monplace people do not brave all remarks by wear- 
 ing large sleeves to their gowns, baggy waists and 
 ver}^ big hats. Of course, they are becoming to you, 
 but poor little people like me would look absolute 
 frights if they ventured on such garments." 
 
 " Really !" Adelaide said, with some heat '' I 
 think people ought to please themselves about dress." 
 
176 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " No, no ! my dear child. We have a duty to per- 
 form to our neighbours, and one of these duties is 
 to make the very best of ourselves. Now, that is a 
 new idea for you, I see ; but mind you remember 
 what I say." 
 
 " I think," Adelaide said, " I must be going home 
 now. Lady Anna may not like my long absence, 
 which is not explained. Therefore I will say good- 
 bye, please." 
 
 " But can you find your way ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ; and if not, I can inquire it at the 
 Library." 
 
 *' You will probably find Godfrey and the old Pro- 
 fessor at Vieusseux's. They frequent the reading- 
 room there. Now, do forgive me, but you would 
 look so nice in a high hat with a narrow brim ! 
 Those wide hats are so trying unless people are tall 
 and can carry them off. Fancy little me in a large 
 hat " 
 
 The large hat had been lying on the table, where 
 Adelaide had laid it, with her gloves and a large fur 
 cape. Mrs. Murchison had snatched it up, and put 
 it on her own head — cautiously, for the curled 
 toupee was not precisely indigenous in its growth — 
 and pirouetting round, said, as she glanced at her- 
 self in a long, rather dull mirror : 
 
 " After all, it is rather piquante. I declare I'll try 
 one ; only I am so much taller than you are, in spite 
 of people calling me petite.'' 
 
 " Will you give me my hat, Mrs. Murchison, 
 
SAN MINIATO. 177 
 
 please ?" Adelaide said, in a low voice of suppressed 
 vexation. 
 
 " Now, don't look so horribly serious, my dear 
 child. I will say to you, as the dear old Professor 
 said to me this morning, * You look charming in 
 anything !' " 
 
 But Adelaide did not laugh. Like all people of 
 her temperament, she was very sensitive, and she 
 had rather an unfortunate inability to see a joke. 
 This is quite apart from a certain sense of humour, 
 and quick perception of a position which is ludicrous. 
 No one appreciated the wit of Shakespeare or 
 George Eliot more keenly than Adelaide did, but 
 what she called " vulgar tricks " or " silly jokes " at 
 her own expense she never could tolerate. A great 
 many of us are like Adelaide in this respect. 
 
 Now, as she went swiftly down the stairs of Paoli's 
 Hotel she was saying to herself, " What an idiot 
 Mrs. Murchison is ! How can Mr. Lysaght put up 
 with her?" 
 
 Happy it is for us that the point of vision differs 
 in different people. For in the hall Adelaide brushed 
 against the old Professor, who, having meditated on 
 what pretext he could find for ascending to Mrs. 
 Murchison's sitting-room, had decided that a volume 
 of Villari would afford the best possible excuse for 
 doing so, saying to himself, " How surprising it was 
 to find a woman of such varied culture so brilliant 
 and sparkling, so charmingly simple, and so full of 
 the innocence of youth !" 
 
 12 
 
178 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 The poor Professor had very short sight, which he 
 helped by the aid of spectacles. But for his mental 
 vision, alas ! he had no such assistance, and was 
 more at home in deciphering the contents of an old 
 black-letter volume than in reading the character of a 
 fascinating personage like Mrs. Murchison. Such 
 masculine obtuseness is by no means uncommon. 
 
 Adelaide found herself in the Piazza Duomo just 
 as the western sunshine had illuminated the pure 
 white marble of the facciata, which looked almost 
 transparent. The tame pigeons, taking every colour 
 on their varied plumage, were pecking fearlessly at 
 the very feet of the passers-by. Here and there a 
 dove, as snowy as the marble pinnacle where it 
 made its home, came swooping down amongst the 
 rest, rising again in the glowing light on wings bur- 
 nished like silver, and its feathers like wrought gold. 
 The busy concourse of the people passes by, and 
 the pigeons heed it not. They come down for their 
 food, which is often thrown to them by the custodian 
 who stands b}^ Giotto's Tower, and by many others 
 who haunt the Piazza and pass to and fro on busi- 
 ness or pleasure. As Adelaide was looking at the 
 radiant beauty of the Duomo, she was startled to 
 see a line of black figures cross the surrounding 
 whiteness. A procession of men in black robes and 
 hoods were just returning from an errand of mercy. 
 
 The first four were bearing a litter with swift, even 
 steps, empty now, to be deposited in the chapel of 
 the Misericordia, whence, an hour before, it had 
 
SAN MINIATO. 179 
 
 been taken at a signal of the bell in the Campanile, 
 which calls with its resonant voice to * the Brothers 
 of Mercy ' to come to their headquarters opposite the 
 Duomo, and prepare to set forth for the relief of 
 someone who has had an accident, or who, sick and 
 poor, is gently conveyed by them to a hospital. 
 
 *' For six hundred years these men have performed 
 this office, for the sick or wounded in Florence." 
 
 Adelaide turned at the sound of a voice near her, 
 and saw Mr. Lysaght. She had been so engrossed 
 with watching ' the Brothers of Mercy,' that he had 
 come across, unperceived, from the door of the 
 Duomo to the place where she stood. 
 
 " They look so strange in their black gowns, and 
 only holes in the masks for their eyes," she said. 
 
 " That is to prevent recognition. They are often 
 taken from the noblest families in Florence. One 
 of the rules of their order is to take no remunera- 
 tion but a cup of cold water. The great bell calls 
 them from all parts of the city, and they come here 
 for their orders." 
 
 '' It is a beautiful work. How different from the 
 rough way poor people are sometimes taken to our 
 hospitals in England! Even in Dryborough I have 
 seen a poor man who had fallen off a scaffold jolted 
 along in a cart to the Cottage Hospital, which Lad> 
 Mary and two or three other ladies have lately 
 estabhshed. We want Brothers of Mercy there, I 
 am sure." 
 
 " May I walk home with you ?" Godfrey Lysaght 
 
 12 — 2 
 
i8o IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 said. *' Have you looked at ^ Sasso di Dante ?' Here 
 is the place where it is said ' passionate poor Dante 
 did sit ' to watch the building of some part of the 
 cathedral. Whether true or not, it is a pleasant 
 legend." 
 
 " I wish so many beautiful stories were not 
 legends," Adelaide said. " I should like to believe 
 they were all true." 
 
 " Even that the tree burst into leaf when San 
 Zenobio's body, carried past, brushed against it. 
 Well, we may comfort ourselves that there is truth 
 underlying most legends. Often in death the good 
 man's works, following him, call finer fruit and 
 flowers to life, from apparently a hopeless stock." 
 
 Just as Godfrey had bid Adelaide good-bye at the 
 door of the Piazza d'Azeglio, Lady Anna drove up 
 in the carriage which Mr. Cowper-Smith had bought 
 for her use while in Florence. 
 
 Adelaide waited till Lady Anna had alighted, 
 expecting, perhaps, a remonstrance at her long 
 absence. But there was none. 
 
 " She does not care enough about me to miss 
 me," Adelaide thought, as she followed Lady Anna 
 up the first flight of stairs to the drawing-room. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AWAKENING. 
 
 " Adelaide's letters are not so bright as I expected," 
 Mrs. Wardlaw said to Hester Ponsonby one day. 
 " I shall be glad when you go out to her ; I think 
 she misses you — and, indeed, all of us. Lady Anna 
 is so very unlike Lady Mary." 
 
 " Yes," said Hester warmly ; " it is the difference 
 between a thoroughly selfish and a thoroughly un- 
 selfish person. Poor Cousin Mary does efface herself 
 too much, perhaps, but it is the best extreme of the 
 two. Mother says that yesterday, when she remon- 
 strated with her about never taking any proper 
 exercise and shutting herself up with that old crea- 
 ture, who does nothing but storm at her, she said, 
 ' It will not be for long,' and she looked so sad, and 
 ready to cry as she said it. Imagine crying about 
 that old Squire !'^ 
 
 " My dear," said gentle Mrs. Wardlaw, " we do 
 not always care the most for those who give us no 
 trouble. I have often noticed that a mother loves a 
 wayward, troublesome son better than those who 
 never give her any anxiety. It is the same with 
 
1 82 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 sick, ailing children : the mothers always care most 
 about them. And," said Mrs. Wardlaw, making a 
 final climax, " even with husbands, the kind and 
 thoughtful ones, like — like — " (she could not quite 
 honestly say Mr. Wardlaw) — " like Mr. Birley or 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith, are not mourned for half as long, 
 as those who have worn out their wives by their bad 
 temper and selfishness." 
 
 Hester laughed. 
 
 " Well, I hope I shall have no experience of the 
 ill-tempered and selfish husbands. It is not very 
 hkely." 
 
 " You are engaged to Hugh Birley, my dear, are 
 you not ?" 
 
 " Well," Hester said, hesitating a little, " we are 
 both determined to marry no one else. My mother 
 will not consider it a positive engagement, and Mr. 
 Birley says Hugh must not think of marrying till he 
 has taken his degree and settled himself in the 
 world. But we understand each other, and, though 
 we do not correspond, we manage to hear about 
 each other." 
 
 " That sort of engagement is not very satisfac- 
 tory," Mrs. Wardlaw said ; *' but I dare say you 
 know best." 
 
 Mrs. Wardlaw had so long been accustomed to 
 think her husband and Adelaide " knew best," even 
 yielding to both Nina and Susie's superior judgment 
 sometimes, that she took the same optimist view 
 of the world generally. 
 
A WAKENING. 183 
 
 Gentle, clinging natures like Mrs. Wardlaw's are 
 always content to take the lowest place. It never 
 occurs to them that it is not their right place, and 
 they feel, so to speak, more comfortable in it than 
 in any other. It doubtless saves a great deal of 
 worry, and that antagonism with the opinions and 
 sentiments of our neighbours which discussion of 
 burning questions brings about. 
 
 "■ It is so much pleasanter to agree than to dis- 
 agree," Mrs. Wardlaw thought, and carried her 
 thought into practice. *' You know best," was always 
 her placid way of settling any difficulty. " Your 
 father knows best," " Adelaide knows best," and 
 Nina and Susie understood that this meant that 
 their mother had no more to say, but that the 
 matter was settled. 
 
 " You know best, dear," Mrs. Wardlaw now said. 
 Then she left the subject of Hugh Birley and re- 
 turned to Adelaide. " She says nothing about her 
 painting in this last letter. It is addressed to Mr. 
 Wardlaw, and it is so interesting ! I really think it 
 ought to be published. I dare say the editor of the 
 Dryhorough Weekly News would be proud to print it 
 in his paper. I will get Nina to copy it." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure Adelaide would not like her letter 
 to be made public ; that is why I never let anyone 
 see that she writes to me. She always says handing 
 on letters is like opening them when they are not 
 meant for you." 
 
 ' Oh, my dear ! how shocking to hint at such a 
 
1 84 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 thing ! It is so very dishonest to open and read a 
 letter addressed to someone else ! If Adelaide has 
 secrets with you, I am sure I do not wish to pry 
 into them ; but a letter about the antiquities of 
 Florence and her favourite pictures in the gallery — 
 surely there is no harm in wishing those who know 
 her to read it, and see how clever she is. I am 
 naturally proud of Adelaide ; but perhaps you know 
 best." 
 
 " I am sure Adelaide would hate to see her letter 
 in print," Hester said decidedly ; ^' I am certain of 
 it ! When did you see Cousin Mary last ?" 
 
 " Not for some days. I do not like to intrude, and 
 I know you and your mother are so often with her." 
 
 Although to the outer world there was no percep- 
 tible difference in Mr. Beauchamp's conduct to his 
 wife, she was conscious of a change. He sometimes 
 looked at her with wistful eyes, and one day sur- 
 prised her by saying : 
 
 " How glad you will be when I am dead, Molly • 
 You have been a patient, good wife to me, and I 
 ought to be grateful." 
 
 " You have been so good to me," she said. '' I 
 owe you my home, and many comforts." 
 
 " You deserve more than I've done for you," said 
 the Squire graciously. " You are well provided for 
 at my death, and if this precious hundredth cousin 
 of mine takes possession here, 3'ou will not lose much. 
 You'll have enough to take a pretty little place all to 
 yourself." 
 
AWAKENING. 185 
 
 " We need not talk of that time yet, need we ?" 
 Lady Mary said gently. "You are better, and if 
 we have a warm, mild winter, I hope you will soon 
 be able to get out again." 
 
 *' I shall never get out again," was the decided 
 answer. 
 
 Then Lady Mary took his poor, distorted hand in 
 hers, and stroked it gently. 
 
 "Look out!" he called sharply. "My thumb is 
 very painful." 
 
 The momentary softness had passed, and Mr. 
 Beauchamp became irascible again, and was hurling 
 anathemas at Preston, who had just appeared, and 
 had committed the offence of shutting the door with 
 a click, which could hardly be called the "bang," 
 which his master said it was. 
 
 Preston laid the letters which had just arrived on 
 the table by Lady Mary's side, and Mr. Beauchamp 
 was on the alert at once. 
 
 " Who are the letters from ? Here ! give them to 
 me!" 
 
 " One is from Anna — I see the Florence post- 
 mark ; and another is from Adelaide Millington." 
 
 " Let's hear what she has got to say. I wish she 
 were here again. I like to see her flare up when I 
 call her ' Addy.' There's fine stuff in her. What 
 does she say ?" he repeated querulously. " You 
 might as well amuse me, shut up here as I am, like a 
 bull in a net." 
 
 Lady Mary was glancing over Adelaide's letter. 
 
1 86 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 looking out for anything which, when she came to it, 
 it would be advisable to skip ; but, afraid of exciting 
 her husband's impatience, she began hurriedly : 
 
 " Dearest Lady Mary, 
 
 " It was delightful to get your last letter. 
 You cannot think how I long for the next, and how 
 disappointed I am when there is no letter for me. 
 
 " I have written to my father an account of what 
 I have seen here, and enjoyed. I don't want to 
 repeat the Guide-book style to you. There are so 
 many printed ' walks about Florence ' — the story of 
 mine, written on this thin paper, would not be new 
 to you. 
 
 *' At first, I thought I should never really feel 
 happy here ; and, even now, I miss all the dear 
 people at home, and all their interest in me and my 
 Httle doings. Here, it is different. Lady Anna is 
 very kind to have brought me at all, and I am very 
 grateful to her ; but I do not know her any better 
 than I did when I came into the drawing-room at 
 the Court, and you showed her my 'Fisher-boy' 
 that day. 
 
 " Daisy treasures that picture. What a darling 
 she is ! and I think if she were allowed to lead a 
 more child-like life, she would soon be bright and 
 well, like other girls of her age. I have made the 
 acquaintance of a Mr. Lysaght, who is a coilnection 
 of yours. He is a very pleasant man, not like 
 anyone I ever knew before." 
 
AWAKENING. 187 
 
 " They'll make a nice pair,'' interrupted the 
 Squire. *' Little Addy will come here and be mis- 
 tress — what do you say ?" 
 
 Lady Mary had nothing to say to this. She was 
 looking down the next page. 
 
 " What are you skipping for ? Go on." 
 
 " I have begun to copy two little angels by 
 Andrea del Sarto ; but I do not get on very well. 
 A girl who earns her living, and supports her mother 
 and sister and a bhnd boy, her brother, by copying 
 pictures, has made friends with me, and has given 
 me some hints. Her name is Lucia Campbell. 
 Her father was Enghsh, and her mother is an Italian ; 
 she was a singer, I think." 
 
 " What's her ladyship about, letting that girl 
 associate with Italian singing women? — always a low 
 
 set, always You must tell Addy to beware ; 
 
 she is just taken in — Italian singer, indeed! An 
 Italian beggar is more Hke it." 
 
 Lady Mary hastily went on to the end of the 
 letter, and missed some words of praise about Lucia 
 which might be distasteful. 
 
 " I will read Anna's letter now, and see what she 
 says ; that may be amusing." 
 
 "Anna can't be amusing," was the answer, 
 "except by her airs, which she plays off whenever 
 she has the chance. She is very different from 
 you, Molly. You are a gentlewoman, and my lady 
 — well, I suppose I must allow she is born of the 
 
i88 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 same parents, with a pedigree a mile long — no 
 longer than the Beauchamps though — mind that! 
 But there must be a strain of snobbishness some- 
 where that Anna has got, and you have missed. 
 If you had married poor Smith, you would not have 
 hung out your title on every possible occasion, just 
 to show, as my lady does, that she did poor Smith 
 a great honour by tacking it on his name. Cowper- 
 Smith, indeed ! He was plain John Smith, and 
 never wanted to be anything better. Well, go on. 
 What does her ladyship say ?" 
 
 Lady Anna's letter might just as well have 
 been written from Lancaster Gate or a fashionable 
 quarter of Brighton. Florence simply meant to her 
 a place where she could hold her own in society, 
 drive to the Cascine, and receive the visits of the 
 English families, who were beginning to congregate 
 in Florence for the winter. Daisy's health and her 
 own concerns filled the sheet of thin paper. Narrow- 
 streets with certain strong odours were an abomina- 
 tion to Lady Anna ; hence the old quarters of 
 Florence were as a sealed book to her. The little 
 Church of San Martino, Dante's House, Michael 
 Angelo's House, the Mercato Vecchio, the old 
 Ghetto, all the associations of Oltr' Arno, the Via 
 dei Bardi, and the Santo Spirito were a blank to her. 
 
 Of course as she drove along Lung' Arno, she 
 looked about her, and, from her well-appointed 
 carriage, surveyed, with something akin to pity, the 
 visitors who, with Hare's books in their hands with 
 
A WAKENING. 189 
 
 the gold Mercury on the cover, were hastening to 
 see all that could be seen in the City of Flowers. 
 
 Happy, eager girls, enjoying their first tour 
 abroad ; bustling mothers and spare spinsters, 
 referring at every step to Baedeker or Murray — all 
 this was a mystery to Lady Anna ! Of course she 
 paid a visit to the Pitti and the Uffizi and Acca- 
 demia ; but any enthusiasm that Daisy or Miss 
 Cromwell showed was promptly repressed. It was 
 a little vulgar to go into raptures about anything, 
 though, of course, Lady Anna considered herself a 
 lover of Art, and would gaze with her gold eye- 
 glasses well-set on her arched nose at the Venus 
 or the Niobe, and murmur something in a low voice 
 about the marvellous folds of a drapery or the 
 expression in an up-turned face. Sculpture is con- 
 sidered to stand on a higher level than painting ; 
 and for that reason, if for no other, Lady Anna was 
 constrained to care more for it — or profess to care 
 — which comes to the same thing. 
 
 " We have exchanged a good many visits already," 
 Lady Mary read from the letter. " It was quite 
 necessary to send for Fielding, though John did not 
 think so. It was impossible for Sam, even with the 
 best intentions, to do all that was required. We 
 are pretty well off for servants. The chef under- 
 stands the best Italian cuisine, and varies it with 
 English dishes. 
 
 *' Daisy shows remarkable quickness in her con- 
 versation lessons, and quite surprises Signor Benini 
 
I90 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 and Madame de la Cour. She is reading a little 
 history with Miss Cromwell, and I allow her to 
 practise rather longer. I hope this winter will be 
 more successful than the last. There is decidedly 
 more variety than at Cannes ; and John finds the 
 reading-room at Vieusseux's a great resource. All 
 the English papers and magazines are there, and 
 the reading-room is pleasant. I have had several 
 new books already: but really, with all that devolves 
 on me, making arrangements, and seeing that 
 everyone does their duty, I have but little leisure for 
 reading. We have a very fair carriage ; but I don't 
 know what * The Park' would think of our horses 
 They are not remarkable for high breeding !" 
 
 " All about herself, as usual," Mr. Beauchamp 
 growled — "just like Anna." 
 
 Lady Mary skipped another page to a place where 
 she saw Adelaide's name. 
 
 " Miss Milhngton has made an attempt to take 
 Daisy's portrait. There is some merit in it ; but of 
 course it would be difficult for an amateur to catch 
 the ethereal beauty of my darling's face. Miss 
 Mllington is copying a picture in the Accademia. 
 We do not see very much of her. Daisy is very fond 
 of her ; but, then, she is so sweet and affectionate — 
 she loves everyone. 
 
 " Mr. Lysaght and his sister are at Paoli's Hotel. 
 He is rather a pleasant person, with strong religious 
 views : he has bad health, I believe. His sister is 
 not a person I like ; and I shall be afraid of too 
 
A WAKENING. 191 
 
 much intimacy, on her account. But I need not 
 sa}', as Mr. Lysaght is Mr. Beauchamp's heir, I 
 shall be civil to him, and tolerate his sister for his 
 sake ; but she is a little inclined to be pushing." 
 
 '' That will do— that will do," Mr. Beauchamp 
 said. " It is all in one strain. I pity that poor 
 Addy out there with her ladyship . . . And though 
 you meant well, Mary, you made a mistake. Now 
 read the Times to me, and that will be more amus- 
 ing; and do tell that fellow to stop the noise of 
 the mowing-machine. It is enough to drive one 
 wild." Then, returning to the first part of this 
 speech, Mr. Beauchamp said, as his wife left the 
 room to give an order about the mowing-machine : 
 *' Poor little Addy ! I am rather sorry for her. 
 Her art studies will not be sweetened for her by 
 my lady — poor little Addy !" 
 
 Perhaps if Mr. Beauchamp could have had a 
 telescope which would have shown him the interior 
 of the Accademia at Florence at that moment, his 
 pity would have been even greater for Adelaide. 
 
 She was seated on the high stool before Andrea 
 del Sarto's little cherubs, but she was not painting. 
 Her own canvas only presented a blank to the 
 passer-by. It had been turned with its face to the 
 easel ; and Adelaide sat opposite it with her palette 
 in one hand, it is true, but the brush had fallen from 
 the other, and lay at her feet. 
 
 Every day, for the past week, Adelaide had been 
 in her place ; every day her efforts to reproduce 
 
192 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 those little chubby cherubs had seemed more and 
 more hopeless. Lucia had not been at her post ; 
 and day after day Adelaide had gone to the place 
 where Savonarola hung, and found the canvas 
 turned back, and the easel put aside in a corner. 
 
 Adelaide had been making up her mind to go and 
 find Lucia that very morning, when she had seated 
 herself before her picture. 
 
 " I must ask her to tell me what she thinks. It 
 was she who advised me to put in the whole figures 
 again, and not be content with the heads only, 
 and now — they may look better, but they are not 
 right." 
 
 These thoughts had been passing through Ade- 
 laide's mind as she mixed her colours and prepared 
 to begin her morning's work. There were several 
 people in the gallery, and a lady with spectacles 
 stopped behind Adelaide and said, in an audible 
 voice, to a gentleman with her : 
 
 " How awful ! Did you ever see such a carica- 
 ture ?" 
 
 Adelaide turned quickly. Her dark eyes were 
 blazing with indignation, and the lady moved away; 
 the gentleman saying : 
 
 " Take care ! She is English, and heard what 
 you said." 
 
 Yes, she had heard — a caricature! Was it indeed 
 possible — was it indeed true ? With a sudden 
 gesture of dismay, Adelaide turned the canvas, and 
 sat, as I have described, with her palette in one 
 
AWAKENING. 193 
 
 hand, the brush on the ground, large tears dropping, 
 before she was aware of it, on her lap. She brushed 
 them hastily away, and stooped to pick up her 
 brush, as a voice near her said : 
 
 *'What is the matter?" 
 
 Turning, she saw Mr. Lysaght. Oh, the shame 
 and misery to be caught crying by him ! And more 
 vexatious still, she could not check a short quick 
 sob. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ? I shall be glad to 
 help you if I can." 
 
 Adelaide recovered herself with a desperate effort, 
 and said : 
 
 " I am going home. I am not going to paint 
 any more to-day ; perhaps, never again." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght discovered at once what had hap- 
 pened. There had been some rude awakening to 
 the reality, which he had seen on one or two former 
 visits to the Accademia was inevitable. Adelaide had 
 power to blend colours, to make a tolerable attempt 
 at hair and eyes, and even complexion; but she could 
 not draw. Her figures were hopelessly at fault ; 
 and she had had no proper training or study, which 
 can alone secure success as an artist. She had never 
 drawn from a model in her life. Miss Castigan's 
 notion of what was necessary had never got beyond 
 flat copies of outlines well shaded, and then of the 
 imitation of water-colour pictures like that of the 
 memorable " Fisher-boy by the Stream." Only sen- 
 sitive and highly organized natures can understand 
 
 13 
 
194 !^ THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 what this rude awakening meant to Adelaide. She 
 always writhed under criticism inwardly, however 
 callous she might seem outwardly : and the sweet 
 smiling Angioletti with their scrolls displayed 
 seemed to mock at her calamity. 
 
 The faultless painter himself would have pitied 
 the despair which was written on Adelaide's face 
 as she said in a voice of forced calmness to Mr. 
 Lysaght : 
 
 *' I have utterly failed. There is nothing left for 
 me but to burn that wretched canvas, and go back 
 to Dryborough. I " 
 
 " May I look at the picture ?" Mr. Lysaght said, 
 as he put his hand on the canvas. 
 
 " No, oh no !" she said, springing forward to 
 prevent him. ^' No ! No one shall ever have the 
 chance again of calling it a caricature. It is true, I 
 dare say ; but truth is not always pleasant." 
 
 She was wiping her brushes as she spoke, and 
 cleaning her palette with her knife, gathering up all 
 her little materials, and putting them into the basket 
 where she left them every day. 
 
 " I wish you would treat me as a friend," Mr. 
 Lysaght said, *' and let me look at the right side of 
 the canvas." 
 
 '' This is the right side — the other is the wrong. 
 Look!" she said bitterly; " there is my name written 
 on it — a sign of my folly, and stupid blindness, and 
 hideous self-conceit." 
 
 "You are very hard on yourself," Mr. Lysaght 
 
AWAKENING. 195 
 
 said, ** and I am so sorry for you. I expect you 
 want to study under direction, and there are plenty 
 of studios where, for small fees, you can do this. 
 May I help you to find one ? I shall be glad to be 
 of use." 
 
 His kindness softened Adelaide. She went towards 
 the easel, and seemed to hesitate whether or not to 
 turn the canvas to the other side. 
 
 " Don't show me the picture, if you would rather 
 not do so ; but, in any case, let me be of some 
 assistance. You know we began our acquaintance — 
 may I say friendship ? — by my being able to render 
 you a trifling service ; and " 
 
 " Picking me up w^hen I had fallen. This would 
 be very much the same kind of service, only, un- 
 happily, this time I am not to be picked up. I am 
 down now, without any hope of rising again. It is 
 not" — she said, turning her face towards him, her 
 dark eyes still dim with the mist of tears — '' it is 
 not because these people laughed at my picture, and 
 called it a caricature, that I am giving it up. For 
 some time I have had misgivings about myself, and 
 especially since I came here. I have lived with 
 those who have loved me too well, and thought too 
 much of me ; and it is so easy to beheve that good 
 things said of you are true, and so hard to beheve 
 that bad things are nearer the mark. Do you 
 understand ?" 
 
 " Yes, perfectly. Awakening from a pleasant 
 dream is always a painful process, the only thing 
 
 13—2 
 
196 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 is to be brave, and meet the new conditions of life 
 with courage and perseverance." 
 
 As Mr. Lysaght had been speaking, Adelaide had 
 slowly turned the canvas, and the copy of the 
 cherubs stood revealed. He was silent for a few 
 minutes, and then Adelaide said : 
 
 " Tell me the truth. I can bear it from you, 
 however hard it may be. Tell me the truth, please." 
 
 " The figures are very much out of drawing," he 
 said, " but the colouring is good, almost wonderfully 
 good ; but I need not tell you that colouring will not 
 make a picture. There must be truth of outline, 
 and, in short, the figures must live. That is the 
 principle of all Art ; it must be true to life — for 
 nothing can be beautiful that is not true." 
 
 " Yes," she said sorrowfully. " Do you think any- 
 one was ever so foolish, so mistaken as I have been ? 
 Now tell me, shall I go on, or shall I give up ? 
 Is it worth my while to waste any more time in 
 painting ?" 
 
 " I think that question is better answered by a 
 more competent judge. Shall we find out our little 
 Italian friend, and consult her as to the studio we 
 ought to go to, inquire terms, and submit your work 
 to a master ?" 
 
 " Yes, if you will take the trouble, that will be 
 best ; but it is a foregone conclusion. I know what 
 the man will say if he is honest. What shall we do 
 with this wretched thing ?" she asked. 
 
 " Take it first to my artist, to whom I have 
 
A WAKENING. 197 
 
 entrusted the copy of Savonarola, and then hear 
 what she says as to the studio." 
 
 " Very well ; I will carry the canvas under my 
 cloak. No one can see whether it is a caricature or 
 not if I do ; let us go at once." 
 
 They set off together towards the Piazza Cavour. 
 As they entered it, and were crossing by the 
 fountain, they saw a procession of the black-robed 
 '' Brothers of Mercy," walking at a swift even pace 
 under the arches which run round the Piazza on the 
 pavement, close to the houses. 
 
 " They are going on to No. 4 — that is Lucia 
 Campbell's number !" Adelaide exclaimed. " Some- 
 thing must have happened." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght quickened his pace across the wide 
 square ; and jie and Adelaide were at the door just 
 as Marietta, breathless and perplexed, reached it 
 from the other side. 
 
 " Oh, signor, signor, I could not help it ; the 
 carriage came round so quick — so very quick — round 
 the corner by the Palazzo Strozzi, and Giovanni had 
 just left the pavement, and then I saw him fall ; but 
 whether he tripped or was knocked down, I don't 
 know. The ' Brothers' were passing, and lifted 
 him, and carried him home. What will Lucia say? 
 She has been ill for a week past; and she trusted 
 me to take Giovanni to get some new strings for 
 his violin. What will Lucia say ?" 
 
 While Marietta was thus indulging in weak 
 lamentations, the steady tramp of returning feet was 
 
 C 
 
198 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 heard down the stone stairs, and two and two the 
 black-robed figures passed out, silently and quietly 
 as they had come. 
 
 Marietta clasped her hands. 
 
 " Ah, signore, signore !" but the black mysterious 
 figures passed on, and took no heed of Marietta's 
 entreaty. 
 
 *' Come upstairs at once," Mr. Lysaght said ; '* go 
 first, and we will follow you." 
 
 Marietta was always a coward ; and her dis- 
 tress was caused quite as much by the anticipation 
 of what her mother and Lucia would say to her, 
 as by the fear as to what her brother's injury 
 might be. 
 
 "He left my hand a moment," she said — "just 
 one moment ! Then it was all over — all done.^' 
 
 They were at the head of the staircase now, and 
 sounds of wailing and lamentation were heard from 
 Signora Campbell, or, as she always called herself, 
 Campobello. Giovanni had been stunned by his 
 fall, and there was a bruise on his forehead, but he 
 had recovered consciousness, and was murmuring 
 " Lucia, Lucia!" 
 
 Poor Lucia, pale and wan, was supporting her 
 blind brother's head ; while his mother was wring- 
 ing her hands, and pouring forth lamentations in 
 Italian, quite forgetting her usual desire to speak 
 only English, and to give up her native tongue. 
 
 When Marietta appeared, she changed laments 
 into raiHng ; and declared she was no better than a 
 
AWAKENING. 199 
 
 baby, and could not take care of herself, much less 
 of her blind brother. 
 
 Lucia alone preserved her calmness, and said 
 quietly to Mr. Lysaght : 
 
 " I do not think he is seriously hurt. Are you, 
 caro mio ? We must keep him very quiet and 
 still. Nay, madre mia, do not be too angry with 
 Marietta. The accidents will happen to us all. 
 We will pray to God that no real harm may follow 
 now." 
 
 Marietta, with a storm of angry recrimination to 
 her mother, escaped to another room ; and Adelaide, 
 going to Lucia, said : 
 
 ^' Can I help you — shall I fetch a doctor ?" 
 
 " No, I think not, grazie signorina ;" and now 
 Madame Campbell thrust Adelaide aside, and 
 knelt down with a bowl of lily-leaves and vinegar, 
 which she proceeded to lay upon the bruise in the 
 boy's forehead, murmuring over him tender, pitiful 
 words ; the maternal love in her acting like a spell, 
 to hush the storm of her wrath against Marietta to 
 a calm. 
 
 Lucia left the head of the low bed, where she had 
 been kneeling, and said : 
 
 *' I have been ill, signor, and unable to work. I 
 fear you have come to inquire about the delay in 
 executing your commission. I have had a chill, 
 which gave me great pain in my head and limbs, and 
 when I tried a week ago to get to the Accademia, I 
 was forced to return, and go to my bed. But I am 
 
200 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 better now, and shall soon be at my work again, if 
 only you can wait." 
 
 " There is no haste. Do not think of it. I 
 shall be at Florence all the winter," Mr. Lysaght 
 said. 
 
 " Ah, but I must work very hard to make up for 
 lost time, and I love my work," she added. 
 
 Adelaide here put down her canvas in a corner of 
 the room, and Mr. Lysaght said : 
 
 " I am sorry Miss Millington and I arrived at such 
 an inopportune moment. We really came to ask 
 your advice as to a studio, where Miss Millington 
 can have some direction in her studies." 
 
 Lucia brightened at once. 
 
 " Ah, I am so glad you came to ask this question ! 
 I knew you would want to learn more before you could 
 really copy. Yes, there is the very place for you in 
 the Viale Principe Amadeo. It is the studio of a 
 great painter, but adjoining to it is another, over 
 which two pupils of his preside. There you will 
 learn by drawing from the casts, and afterwards from 
 the life. I have the card. I will give it to you. I 
 see your picture there. Is it finished ?" 
 
 Adelaide sprang forward to possess herself of the 
 canvas. 
 
 " I don't like you to see anything so miserably 
 bad !" she said. 
 
 " Ah, well then, do not show it ! I know that it 
 is pain to show what we feel is ill done. Do you not 
 think I have known this ? I will get the card." 
 
A WAKENING. 201 
 
 Lucia disappeared into a small ante-room, and 
 soon returned with the card, stopping by Giovanni's 
 couch to kiss his forehead, and say : 
 
 " Come sta, carissimo." 
 
 To which Madame Campbell replied : 
 
 " Non ce male. Why do those people stay ? We 
 do not want strangers now." 
 
 " They are not strangers, Mamma. One is a good 
 friend — my patron, Signor Lysaght." 
 
 It did not escape Mr. Lysaght's notice that the 
 little, alert, cheerful artist moved languidly and 
 slowly, as if exertion were an effort to her. 
 
 He took the card from her, and, as he touched 
 her hand, he noticed it was burning with feverish 
 heat. 
 
 " We will not remain longer now ; but I shall 
 hope to come again later, and see how your brother 
 gets on. Now," he said, turning to Adelaide, " we 
 will go to this studio, and make arrangements for 
 you to begin at once. Now," turning to Lucia, 
 '* Buon' giorno, addio." 
 
 She smiled faintly, and did not even ask to look 
 at the picture which Adelaide had now replaced 
 under her cloak, as she replied to Mr. Lysaght's 
 " addio," with, 
 
 "We do not say * addio' when we hope to meet 
 again. 'Addio' is our last farewell; so I say to 
 you, signor, 'A rivederci !' And to the signorina, 
 also, * A rivederci.' " 
 
 On the stairs, Mr. Lysaght and Adelaide met a 
 
202 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 bowed figure coming up, striking his stick on every 
 one of the stone steps. It was Andrea Maura. 
 
 He carried in his hand a few herbs and a lettuce ; 
 and as he stopped to let Adelaide and Mr. Lysaght 
 pass, he bowed low. 
 
 '' I hear there has been an accident to the bUnd 
 boy. Alas, for his sister ! For she is ill herself, 
 and no one taking any care of her ! And no one 
 to think of her ! Her work stopped. I know what 
 that means ; what it means to me — all but starva- 
 tion ! I have had the bounty of San Martino till 
 now — that is stopped; and — well — I am old, and she 
 is young and fair and clever. I should have made 
 a fortune if God had not taken from me the use of 
 my arm. And now I am too poor to help her ; for I 
 tell you, sir, she wants help. She starves for others' 
 sakes. Now she is ill, she wants good food. I have 
 brought her this Httle cake and a salad," he said, 
 flourishing the little bundle in the air, and pointing 
 to a small square cake, which lay in the middle of 
 the bundle. " That is all I can do : I would it were 
 more." 
 
 ''The cup of cold water," Mr. Lysaght said as they 
 passed down ; and the old man continued his feeble 
 ascent of the stone stairs, his stick tapping, as he 
 went, an accompaniment to his murmured words : 
 " I would it were more — I would it were more." 
 
 "That is a struggle for hfe," Mr. Lysaght said, 
 "and there are many like it. That girl is abso- 
 lutely in want of proper nourishment after her 
 
A WAKENING. 203 
 
 illness. And all her earnings go for the comfort of 
 others — a story of self-sacrifice ! We ought not to 
 grudge her the crown which it surely wins, though 
 the way to it looks sad and toilsome enough. I 
 wonder what can be done to help her. If even only 
 a bundle of salad herbs, I should be glad to offer it, 
 like that poor old man." 
 
 " I feel as if I had no business to be so miserable 
 about my own failure and disappointment when 
 I think of Lucia," Adelaide said. '' Let us not 
 trouble ourselves any more about a studio to-day. 
 Here is the turn to the Via Alfieri ; and I will go 
 home and forget this wretched attempt, and let 
 the waters of Lethe wash it out." 
 
 ** I don't see that you will help the little artist by 
 giving up your own long-cherished scheme of study- 
 ing art at Florence. Here we are at the studio : 
 let us go in and make inquiries at least." 
 
 " Don't ask me to show this picture !" 
 
 Mr. Lysaght laughed. 
 
 " When we go to consult doctors, we let them take 
 our temperature and feel our pulse and examine our 
 tongues; otherwise, how can they prescribe? I think 
 you will have to show your picture ; besides, the 
 corners of this canvas make right-angles under your 
 cloak, and a professional eye would soon detect what 
 you were concealing." 
 
 " There is another thing," Adelaide said. " Stop, 
 please " (for Mr. Lysaght had his hand on the bell, 
 which had a plate beneath, on which were the 
 
204 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 words '' Studio : A. L. Guercini, G. & B. Bassano") 
 — " stop, please ; there is the question of fees. My 
 mother and my step-father made a great effort to 
 give me the money for my travelHng expenses out 
 to Florence. Twenty pounds means so much to 
 them, and I could not ask them for more; so I could 
 not pay a high fee for my lessons." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght shrugged his shoulders with half 
 Italian emphasis. 
 
 " Surely Lady Anna would bear the expense for 
 you!" 
 
 " I would not ask her for the world," Adelaide 
 said ; " she considers she has done me a great kind- 
 ness in inviting me as a guest here. She has no 
 intention of doing anything more. I " 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it," Mr. Lysaght said. " If 
 report is right, the Cowper-Smiths have an enormous 
 income, and a cheque with three, or even four figures 
 can hardly make the slightest difference to their 
 finances ; however, we will see what we can do 
 here first." 
 
 As he spoke he pulled the handle, and the bell 
 gave a querulous metallic tinkle ; and a little boy 
 with a smiling face opened the door. 
 
 " Yes, Signora Bassano was at home ; but Signer 
 Guercini, no." 
 
 Signor Bassano had been a pupil of Signer Guer- 
 cini's : and had now a separate studio, where he 
 received those pupils whom the numerous applica- 
 tions to his late master obliged him to reject. 
 
A WAKENING. 205 
 
 He was assisted by his wife with his pupils, who 
 in her turn had been a pupil of Guercini's ; and, 
 indeed, her husband and herself had been first 
 brought together by studying the same models. 
 Signora Bassano was considerably older than her 
 husband ; and she held him in the reins of a govern- 
 ment which could not be said to be altogether silken. 
 
 But they managed between them to make a very 
 comfortable living, and had a pretty little villa on 
 one of the slopes which lead up towards Fiesole. 
 
 Signora Bassano had always an eye to business, 
 and surveyed Adelaide with an inquiring — not to 
 say inquisitive — air. 
 
 Did the signorina intend to make art a pro- 
 fession ? No — ah — ah ! The fees were on a lower 
 scale for such. The signor, her husband, was not 
 at home, but, with a quiet glance at the obtrusive 
 corners of the canvas, which, as Mr. Lysaght had 
 predicted, betrayed itself, she asked : Could she see 
 how far the signorina was advanced ? Had she a 
 picture to show ? 
 
 Once more Adelaide had to go through the ordeal 
 which she dreaded. The unhappy canvas was 
 brought out from under the folds of her loose 
 cloak — which, a few years ago, used to be called 
 "a Mother Hubbard cloak," and was beloved by 
 those who aimed at aesthetic garments — and placed 
 on an easel. It looked even worse here than it had 
 done in the Accademia. 
 
 A cast of Diana seemed to be pointing the 
 
2o6 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 finger of scorn at it ; a Cupid, with his bow and 
 arrow, seemed to be taking aim at it ; and a large 
 portrait of an American lady, with a broad, smiling 
 mouth, seemed to be laughing at the poor artist 
 from the gorgeous frame which made a setting to 
 her amber satin gown, with its load of lace and 
 finery, all wonderfully well painted by the signor's 
 skilful hand — the sheen of the satin, the delicate 
 texture of the lace, the shimmer of the emeralds, 
 which lay upon the fat neck of the Boston lady. 
 
 Adelaide felt her to be a personality, and, 
 shuddering, turned away, that she might not see 
 the broad, good-natured face smiling at her poor 
 Angioletti. 
 
 " Ah ! si — si — no — it is misguided ; it is not drawn 
 in right. But does the signorina wish to be a 
 pupil ? There is colouring — which is pretty good. 
 When will the signorina begin ?" 
 
 " We must ask your terms before we decide." 
 
 The signora put her head, first on one side, then 
 on another. 
 
 " We say five lire for each day, four hours in each 
 day, or, for six days, twenty-five lire. The signorina 
 must begin at the beginning. My husband would 
 tell her this were he here. Ah, here he comes !" 
 
 And then a rapid conversation began between the 
 husband and wife, as they stood before the picture ; 
 a conversation so largely carried on by means of 
 signs, uplifted hands, shrugged shoulders, and sudden 
 steps backward or in advance, that no one who was 
 
A WAKENING. 207 
 
 not initiated could possibly understand what was 
 passing. 
 
 Every now and then the signor, who was clad in a 
 loose morning coat of gray cloth, with a belt at his 
 waist, looked round at Adelaide, and then returned 
 to the pantomime with his wife. At last he spoke : 
 
 '' Monsieur and madame, or signor and signorina, 
 this picture is wholly bad — it is no art, it is no copy ! 
 See!" — with a sudden dart towards the cherub — 
 *' see ! this leg from the knee to the foot. I 
 measure ! See ! it is longer than the whole body of 
 the boy !" — then a start back, and a significant shrug, 
 and an action of both well-formed hands, inde- 
 scribable as inimitable. 
 
 ''But the signorina would learn — would study? 
 Then come here— this w^ay,'' and the signor pre- 
 ceded them towards an inner room, where there 
 was a picture on the easel of a girl's half-length 
 figure, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes full of 
 fire and intelligence. 
 
 " See ! onty six months' study, and this is the 
 result ; from the life ! The lady, she came here, and 
 not one line could she draw. She could colour " — 
 and again the peculiar action with the hands — ''she 
 could colour ! but what is that ? The signorina can 
 colour pretty well, so to say ; she can mix and blend, 
 though the lights are wrong. Well, if she comes 
 here — first, the model of a hand, of a finger, of a 
 foot ; then the arm, the shoulder, the neck. At last, 
 the full figure — all from the model. And then ? Well, 
 
2o8 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 then from the Hfe ! and then ? — a picture worth the 
 purchase of any EngHsh nobleman." 
 
 " The signorina is not professional," the wife 
 whispered. She was afraid her husband might name 
 the lower fee. 
 
 Then Mr. Lysaght turned to Adelaide and said : 
 
 " Well, will you come ? Will you begin at once ?" 
 In a lower voice, " Do not think of the money part ; 
 that can be managed — I feel sure it can," he added 
 hastily. " Your friends would not wish you to lose 
 this opportunity." 
 
 Adelaide felt she was in his hands, and made no 
 further opposition. 
 
 '' Yes," she said, " I will begin to-morrow. I will 
 work every day, and then I shall, at least, have done 
 my best to succeed." 
 
 So the arrangement was concluded, and Adelaide 
 was to set her foot on the first rung of the ladder 
 which she had attempted to scale with one bound ; 
 going back to first principles, instead of arriving at 
 the highest place at once. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ''le premier pas." 
 
 "And must you begin all over again ?" Daisy said, 
 as she nestled close to Adelaide on that same after- 
 noon. " You, who paint such beautiful pictures ? 
 Oh! what are you doing with my portrait?" For 
 Adelaide had suddenly started up and seized her 
 drawing-block. 
 
 " I am going to burn it," Adelaide said, de- 
 Hberately snipping it off the block, and then putting 
 it into the low wood fire which was smouldering on 
 the hearth. 
 
 Daisy's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry," she said. 
 
 " I will take your portrait again, some day, and 
 make it like you ; that was not like you." 
 
 " Mrs. Gray said it was my image," Daisy mur- 
 mured. 
 
 " Mrs. Gray ! She knows nothing about it !" 
 Adelaide said impetuously. " But don't be vexed, 
 darling. When you have your photographs from 
 Mendelssohn's I will colour one of them ; that will 
 be far better. I am just able to do that. But let us 
 forget that poor portrait. Look, it is nearly frizzled 
 
 14 
 
2IO IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 up now ! I can just see a bit of your hand — there ! 
 Now it is all a black mass. That is right — let the 
 dead past bury its dead." 
 
 Adelaide laughed, and tried to treat the matter 
 lightly, and asked Daisy if she should read to her 
 or talk, or whether she would play the vioHn to her. 
 
 " I should like to do that, but I have practised an 
 hour, and mother says I am never to do more. That 
 is rather hard ; but I promised, and I must keep my 
 promise. I am not to ride here, and that is another 
 hard thing. Mother is so afraid of my mounting a 
 strange horse, and so few people ride in Florence. 
 Percival is coming soon ; then we shall all feel 
 happier. I mean, he is so merry and nice, isn't he ?" 
 
 Adelaide's reply rather disappointed Daisy. 
 
 '' I hardly know your cousin," she said. " I have 
 only seen him two or three times." 
 
 " He seems to know jyow r Daisy exclaimed. *' He 
 was so glad that you should come to Florence, and 
 changed his mind about Rose Smith after he had 
 seen you." 
 
 " You told me that before," Adelaide said rather 
 sharply. 
 
 '' So I did," the child replied. '* Don't you hke 
 Percy ? I fancied you did." 
 
 '' I like him well enough, and I shall be glad for 
 your sake when he comes to Florence ; and still more 
 glad when your other cousin comes." 
 
 '* You mean Rose Smith, and perhaps Bella. 
 Father means to try and manage so." 
 
-LE PREMIER PASr 211 
 
 ** I was thinking of your cousins the Ponsonbys ; 
 you know Hester is my greatest friend." 
 
 " Oh ! I forgot that. Yes, they are my ' second 
 best ' cousins, as Percy calls the Smiths at Irons- 
 town, and he says he is my very best." 
 
 There were visitors in the drawing-room on the 
 lower floor, and Mr. Cowper-Smith, seeing several 
 carriages at the door on his return from Vieusseux's, 
 made for the upper floor, where he always liked to 
 find his little daughter. She sprang to meet him, 
 pressed him into the luxurious chair b}^ the fire, and 
 seating herself on his knee, said : 
 
 " Isn't it nice to have you all to myself, Daddie ? 
 No, don't go away, Adelaide ; tell her not to go, 
 Daddie. Do stop, Adelaide." 
 
 Adelaide returned to the window, and stood 
 looking out on the heights of Fiesole, which were 
 becoming daily more and more visible as the leaves 
 fell from the trees in the square. 
 
 " Adelaide is going to begin to learn drawing all 
 over again ; is not she humble to do it ?" 
 
 "■ I am afraid there is not much humility in the 
 case, dear," Adelaide said ; " as no one thought I 
 could draw a straight line it was time to begin to 
 learn." 
 
 " Are you going to have a master. Miss Millington ?" 
 Mr. Smith asked. 
 
 " I am going to a studio in the Viale Principe 
 Amadeo," Adelaide said. 
 
 " Dear me ! what a mouthful ! These Italian 
 
 14 — 2 
 
212 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 names are as long as they are broad ! I shall 
 never learn them. Well, I hope 3'ou will succeed, 
 Miss Millington." 
 
 " I mean to try," Adelaide said ; "and I shall go 
 on till we leave Florence, if I can afford it." 
 
 " Oh ! that is easily arranged ; you must let me 
 pay the fees. Are they in advance ?" 
 
 '' No, I think not; Signor Bassano did not mention 
 it ; but I could not trespass on your kindness." 
 
 " Oh ! that will be all right. I wonder Anna 
 did not propose it. I always understood you 
 were coming here expressly to study art. Anna 
 made that a reason for inviting you rather than 
 little Rose — didn't she, my Peggy ?" 
 
 "Yes, father." But Daisy saw that Adelaide 
 looked annoyed. 
 
 How often was she to hear that she had stood in 
 the way of Rose Smith ? It chafed her terribly, 
 and the feeling rather increased upon her that she 
 was, after all, de trop, and again and again she 
 repented that she had ever come to Florence. How 
 often our fairest dreams, when realized, are clouded 
 by some mists and vapours, which, rising perhaps 
 from trivial causes, and very often from our own 
 fault, obscure the sun of our delight. 
 
 Adelaide left the room abruptly, and Daisy said : 
 
 " Adelaide does not like to hear about Rose Smith. 
 I wish, dearest Dad, you could ask her to come when 
 Percival does, or the Ponsonbys, and then Adelaide 
 would not feel she had put her aside." 
 
'' LE PREMIER PASr 213 
 
 ** Miss Millington is too thin-skinned, my Peggy; 
 it is better for people in our house to be hke Miss 
 Cromwell, who, it seems, has no feelings to be 
 hurt." 
 
 " Adelaide is very good, father ; she has been 
 telling me about an artist here, who supports her 
 mother, and a brother who is blind, and her sister. 
 Now she is ill herself. Oh, father, do you remember 
 when you gave me all that was in j^our pocket for 
 that poor woman whose husband was in prison ? 
 Would you give me what is in your pocket now 
 for this artist ? Her name is Lucia ; and do give 
 her a commission for a picture. I should so like 
 to have a lovely Madonna del Gran Duca for my 
 very own." 
 
 " Very well, my Peggy ; yes, you may empty my 
 pocket, but you may depend upon it your lady-artist 
 would like a commission better than alms. You may 
 give her both if you like, but you may find yourself 
 in a difficulty, as I should if I offered the cash to 
 your friend Adelaide for her studio lessons ; she is 
 not one to take favours with a smile." 
 
 Daisy relaxed her hold on her father's pocket and 
 dropped the money back, saying : 
 
 " Yes, I dare say you are right, father, but I may 
 give her the order to paint the Madonna del Gran 
 Duca, mayn't I ?" 
 
 '' Yes, yes, and another also if you choose. And 
 now tell me, do you like Florence better than 
 Cannes ?" 
 
214 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 "■ Yes, for most things. I like being in our own 
 house, and not meeting people on the stairs who 
 ask me how I am ; and I am glad not to have to sit 
 at those long luncheons, when mother is warning me 
 not to eat what I like best. But I miss the sea — 
 that blue, beautiful sea, and the purple Esterelles. 
 Father, do take me into the old part of Florence 
 one day, please. I do get tired of only driving to 
 the Cascine, and I want so much to go up to Fiesole. 
 Mother is afraid I should get cold in the church, 
 which she calls ' dampish and musty,' while Adelaide 
 says it is ever so beautiful. Isn't it odd how different 
 people's eyes must be ? Some see beauty where 
 others see ugliness. Mother has a reception this 
 evening, and I am to go down. I wish I had not to 
 go. My violin master is coming to play, and Mrs. 
 Murchison will sing. And have you seen the flowers, 
 father ? Fielding ordered them from the florist in 
 the Via Colonna. They are so beautiful ; but it is 
 in the spring that I shall care about the flowers, the 
 scarlet anemones and narcissus, which cost so little. 
 I heard Fielding say what mother has ordered for 
 to-night cost a fortune." 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith sighed heavily. 
 
 '* If it pleases your mother, I suppose it is all right ; 
 but I like a simpler sort of life, my Peggy. Still," 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith said, rising and giving a pro- 
 longed sigh which ended in a yawn, " it is good for 
 trade. The circulation of money must be of use in 
 the iong-run." 
 
"-LE PREMIER PAS." 2x5 
 
 Lady Anna Cowper- Smith's reception was very 
 much hke a reception in a fashionable place any- 
 where. There were the usual types of those who 
 thought themselves superior to others, and showed 
 it ; who made little cliques in certain corners of the 
 room, the daughters calling each other by their 
 Christian names, and planning excursions together, 
 the mothers sitting or standing near each other, en- 
 gaged in intimate conversation. Then there were 
 those who were scarcely allowed to do more than 
 touch the skirts of the more august circle. Of these, 
 the mothers tried to look at ease and unconcerned 
 and their daughters resigned to their fate, while 
 feeling uncomfortably " out of it." There were 
 young men, stiff and uneasy, longing to break 
 through the ice, and inwardly thinking Lady Anna's 
 " at homes " a bore. And then there was a 
 sprinkling of happy people, who were not thinking 
 of themselves at all, but were quite content to gaze 
 from a distance at Lady Anna's diamonds and the 
 Marchesa di Genori's topazes, and to listen to the 
 music with real delight ; one Italian lady in par- 
 ticular nodding her head in the fulness of her enjoy- 
 ment, and proud of the feats of her own countryman 
 on the violin. 
 
 Mrs. Murchison scarcely belonged to any par- 
 ticular set. She fluttered about in her very juvenile 
 dress, apparently quite unconscious that she was in 
 several instances making a raid on other people's 
 domains, nor that several glasses were raised as she 
 
2i6 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 laughed and chattered, and that most important 
 question was asked, '' Who is she ?" 
 
 Happily, in Mrs. Murchison's case the question 
 could be answered satisfactorily. Whispers were 
 afloat that Mr. Lysaght was heir to a fine English 
 property, and that he and his sister were connec- 
 tions — family connections — of Lady Anna. Several 
 Italian youths, who were less reserved than the 
 Enghsh ones, ventured to address Mrs. Murchison 
 without standing on the ceremony of formal intro- 
 duction. They were answered in fluent Itahan, with 
 smiles which they considered enchanting, and 
 they were charmed with an air and manner so 
 different from the usual stiffness and reserve of the 
 English in Florence. 
 
 The very impersonation of this reserve was to be 
 seen at the farthest end of the brilliant drawing- 
 room. Adelaide could not be said to shine in 
 society ; and as she sat apart in her plain ruby 
 velvet dress, made square, with elbow sleeves turned 
 up with some old lace of her mother's, she looked 
 at the first glance many years older than the gay 
 fluttering beauty who came dancing airily to her 
 corner, saying : 
 
 " How grave you look ! almost as grave as 
 Godfrey! Don't you enjoy yourself? I do. It is 
 fun to see Lady Anna doing the grand hostess. 
 Isn't her train like the pictures in the Ladies' 
 Picturial ! and how well she sweeps it across the 
 carpet ! Look at that little Italian contessa. How 
 
''LE PREMIER PA 5." 2 1 7 
 
 awestruck she is ! I wonder what Lady Anna 
 is saying to her. She does not understand it, what- 
 ever it is. Now meditate on the folly of the world. 
 All the leaders of society in Florence come to pay 
 their respects to the Lady Anna Cowper-Smith. If 
 she were Mrs. Jack Smith, in a humble little pension, 
 who would care to win her favour ? But in this 
 case it is such a happy union — riches fabulous, 
 riches and rank ! Godfrey is very late ; but I begged 
 him to come for me. He is on some errand of 
 mercy. I believe he will have no rest in him till he 
 has set up a Brotherhood of Mercy in London. We 
 shall live to see him in a black gown and mask, 
 with those dreadful holes for eyes, carrying a 
 wounded man along the Strand or Piccadilly. What 
 a lovely child that little Margaret is ! and what a 
 dress ! — silvery plush high up to her throat. But 
 how well it suits her ! So few children could carry 
 off a thick dress like that. I suppose she wears it 
 because Lady Anna is such a fidget about her 
 health. Here is Godfrey, and here comes Miss 
 Cromwell. Lady Anna wants me to sing. She 
 always deputes even a question to someone else. 
 Poor little me ! She could not come from one end 
 of the room to the other to find me. Yes, Miss 
 Cromwell. Do you know, I always feel inclined to 
 call you the Protector. Do you mind ? It is a 
 feeble joke ; but I am feeble. Yes, I will come and 
 sing. No one will listen, that is one comfort." 
 Away went Mrs. Murchison, leaving Adelaide in 
 
2i8 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 her corner by a statuette of that snowy Carrara 
 marble, which has a purity about it pecuKar to 
 itself. The near contact of the white outline of the 
 statue, with masses of yellow roses in a vase by its 
 side, set off the dark head just below it, and the 
 figure in the plain ruby velvet. 
 
 It was not long before Mr. Lysaght found his way 
 to the place where Adelaide stood. 
 
 ''I am very late," he said; ''and I was afraid 
 Theresa would be getting impatient, but she seems 
 to be enjoying herself. I have been looking after our 
 friend in the Piazza Cavour. I could not be satisfied 
 till I had taken a doctor, under pretence of examin- 
 ing the boy, but really to prescribe for her. What 
 do you think his verdict is ? Miss Campbell's con- 
 dition is the result of a long strain on mind and 
 body, insufficient nourishment, and hard work. It 
 has been hard work — incredible almost. Besides 
 all her more important pictures, she has done 
 designs for photograph-books and stands and fans 
 and trivialities like that, sitting up at night to get 
 through it, and then off in the morning to the 
 galleries." 
 
 " It is wonderful, indeed, to think of all she has 
 done," Adelaide said. " She makes me feel ashamed 
 of my own complaints— terribly ashamed, just as if 
 my own concerns were the most important in the 
 world. I have been living in a little circle of my 
 own, going round and round, with myself the centre. 
 It is very humiliating to think of." 
 
''LE PREMIER PAS." 219 
 
 " You don't suppose you are a solitary instance of 
 moving in your own little circle ? We must all plead 
 guilty, more or less," Mr. Lysaght said. '' But it is 
 good to know it ; and better still to try to break 
 through with a courageous effort — widen our 
 borders, that is to say, and get rid of self." 
 
 " Mrs. Murchison is singing ; we ought not to 
 talk," Adelaide said ; and Mr. Lysaght seated him- 
 self on a low cushioned seat which was placed 
 below the statuette. 
 
 " You have been standing a long time ; won't you 
 sit down ?" 
 
 As he spoke he gave a short quick cough, and said : 
 
 " The night-air in Florence does not suit me any 
 better, or not much better, than the night-air in 
 London," 
 
 Mrs. Murchison's song was a gay little French 
 ditty, followed by several Neapolitan ones, which 
 were much admired. 
 
 When she rose from the piano, Lady Anna 
 thanked her graciously ; but the little contessa took 
 her hand in hers, and, looking up at her with tears 
 in her dark eyes, said : 
 
 " Ah, how beautiful it is ! Tante grazie, signorina, 
 tante grazie. I cannot but weep — I do think of my 
 youth in Naples." 
 
 " Oh, you should hear my brother sing, signora !" 
 and Mrs. Murchison flitted down the room again, 
 and said : 
 
 " Godfrey, I have Beethoven's ' Adelaide,' here ; 
 
220 IN THE CITY OF FIOWERS. 
 
 come and sing it ; it will be quite in harmony with 
 your thoughts, I know." 
 
 " Do not be foolish, Theresa," Mr. Lysaght said 
 sharply. " Besides, you are not the hostess here. I 
 must wait till I am asked." 
 
 " Oh, I will soon settle that Lady Anna !" Mrs. 
 Murchison said, tripping back to the place where 
 Lady Anna stood, slowly flapping her beautiful fan, 
 and trying not to look hopelessly puzzled as the 
 little contessa poured forth her admiration of the 
 songs which had reminded her of her youth — 
 '' Lady Anna, my brother sings far better than I 
 do. Shall I play the accompaniment for him of 
 Beethoven's ' Adelaide ' ?" 
 
 Lady Anna grew her stateliest, and stopped 
 immediately. 
 
 '' We shall be very happy, I am sure ; but Signer 
 Candoletti is going to favour us with a solo on the 
 vioHn." 
 
 " Oh, never mind, then ; Godfrey can sing after- 
 wards. You would like to hear ' Adelaide,' I am 
 sure," she said, caressing Daisy's golden hair in a 
 famihar way, which brought from her mother an 
 instant command to ask the marchesa if there was 
 any piece for the violin which she would prefer 
 Signor Candoletti to play. 
 
 The marchesa — to whom Neapolitan airs, French 
 chansons, and Wagner's '' Lohengrin" were all alike 
 — smiled and bowed pleasantly, and replied, in very 
 pretty English : 
 
''LE PREMIER PASr 221 
 
 " Ah, cara mia, it is the same to me ; what the 
 signora Hkes will please me much. And now sit 
 beside me and tell me how you love our Citta dei 
 Fiori, our fair Florence." 
 
 Lady Anna, who had only asked the question in 
 the hopes of detaching Mrs. Murchison from Daisy, 
 heard the answer, and, just as Signor Candoletti 
 drew the bow across the strings, was provoked to 
 see her irrepressible guest sign to Daisy to make 
 room for her on the lounge, where the marchesa 
 was seated, and begin to talk to her in Italian, as if 
 she had known her for years. 
 
 " Intolerable person !" Lady Anna inwardly ex- 
 claimed— " intolerable ! And 5^et it is difficult to 
 see how I can get rid of her. I must consult 
 Percival when he comes." 
 
 Before Adelaide had been at the studio many 
 days, she began to see her way to comparative 
 success. 
 
 Signora Bassano led her carefully through the 
 very earliest and easiest stages of model-drawing, 
 and every step upwards seemed less difficult than 
 the last. Adelaide's resolution and perseverance 
 were now directed aright, and her progress was such 
 as to surprise her master and mistress, and make 
 them exchange many remarks in Italian which 
 Adelaide did not understand, but which were to the 
 effect that the signorina would soon show what 
 their admirable teaching could achieve. 
 
222 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Perhaps they gave less credit than they should to 
 the unflinching steadfastness of purpose, without 
 which no talent in the pupil and no skill in the 
 teacher can avail. But Signora Bassano at least 
 fully appreciated the effort which Adelaide made to 
 forget she had ever attempted to paint a picture 
 when ignorant of the first principles of art. 
 
 There is nothing sweeter than the feeling that we 
 are on the way at least to attain a desired end, and 
 that by our own exertions ; and there were times 
 when Adelaide, after a long morning in the studio, 
 where she always had her frugal luncheon, would go 
 to watch one of the gorgeous sunsets from San 
 Miniato or the Ponte Vecchio, feeling a spring of 
 happiness in her which was as new as it was delight- 
 ful. Hitherto her life had been, as we know, self- 
 absorbed ; and, surrounded by those who loved her 
 with a blind love, like her mother and Hester Pon- 
 sonby, she had silenced the misgivings which 
 would sometimes assert themselves, and believed 
 herself to be what others believed her. 
 
 There were other influences at work which were 
 even more salutary than those of honest and untiring 
 study. It was impossible to be associated with 
 Lucia Campbell without catching something that 
 was elevating from her. By slow degrees, perhaps, 
 but if slowly, yet surely, Adelaide began to recognise 
 that there was some deeper spring of action in 
 Lucia than mere desire to maintain her mother and 
 her blind brother and sister by her efforts. 
 
PoNTE Vecchio, Florence. 
 
"Z^ PREMIER PAS." 223 
 
 That unwearied patience and forbearance which 
 were exercised towards her mother and sister, the 
 soft answer, the cheery words, the bright smile, 
 even under provocation, were not, as we say, only 
 natural to a temperament like Lucia's ; for she had 
 a high spirit that, if undisciphned, would have ill 
 brooked control, and a keen sense of injustice which 
 was continually ready to assert itself. Thus she 
 saw Marietta lazy and self-satisfied, and her mother 
 bustling, and letting all her good resolutions evapo- 
 rate in words, while she was left in the forefront of 
 the battle, where no one recognised it or bid her 
 God-speed. 
 
 It is common now — becoming more common 
 every day ; I had almost written fashionable — to 
 preach the doctrine that benevolence, unselfishness 
 and earnest desire to benefit others ; devotion to 
 the poor, and giving up time and strength and gifts 
 and worldly distinction to raise the " beggar out of 
 the dust " and set him amongst princes, are seen in 
 the lives of those who have no Christian principle — 
 nay, who deny its power, because they deny Him 
 who came to seek and to save the lost. It is 
 common to put the elevating influences of art and 
 music and literature in the place of the spirit which 
 giveth hfe. It is common for those who do this to 
 look down, as from a lofty vantage-ground, on those 
 who in their ignorance, as is said, still hold to the 
 old, old story of the love of Christ which alone con- 
 straineth us ; that love which by that greatest of all 
 
224 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 motive powers can melt the heart to charity ; the love 
 of Him who died for all, that they which live should 
 no longer live unto themselves, but unto Him who for 
 their sakes died and rose again. In this mutable 
 and perilous life of ours we are as ships without an 
 anchor if we lose our grasp of that great doctrine 
 of constraining love. We need something that is 
 reliable in the great exigencies of life and death. 
 As it was said not long ago by an accomphshed 
 preacher of his time, than whom none can have a 
 keener relish for all the treasures of literature and 
 art, nor a more refined ear and enthusiastic appre- 
 ciation of music, "All these things which are His 
 gifts to man are powerless to raise and ennoble 
 and reform of themselves. The form of the Son 
 of God must be recognised, and His Divine power 
 to save and regenerate must be accepted and re- 
 ceived with thankful hearts, or the house which is 
 raised only on beauty, or culture, has its foundation 
 on the sand, in the time of the stormy wind and 
 tempest, and therefore it will be swept away." 
 
 Lucia Campbell had gone through many dark 
 experiences in her early youth, such as Adelaide 
 knew of only by hearsay. A father like hers, who 
 had ruined his own health and debased his man- 
 hood, had been a pitiable spectacle even before her 
 eyes. Her mother, who had been born and educated 
 as a Roman Catholic, had given up her old faith 
 and taken nothing in its place. Marietta sometimes 
 went with her mother to kneel in one of the churches 
 
LE PREMIER PASr 
 
 225 
 
 and say a few prayers with a wandering heart and 
 careless Hps ; but that was all. Lucia had pos- 
 sessed herself of her father's Bible and English 
 Prayer-book, and had been brought into contact 
 with an English lady, who had given her a portrait 
 of her dead child to enlarge, and who had taken a 
 deep interest in the Italian girl, who had come daily 
 to her house to execute her commission, and whom 
 she had invited to talk to her. 
 
 She had not survived her child long, and both 
 were buried in the old Cemetery, where so many 
 English are resting under Itahan skies. Not now in 
 the calm and stillness of past days, for that once 
 secluded God's acre is left like an island, where four 
 roads meet, and the roll of the tramcar and the 
 sound of many passing feet, as they come and go 
 below the walls, destroy the old charm v/hich was 
 the atmosphere of the Cemetery when Elizabeth 
 Barrett Browning, Arthur Clough and many another 
 well known in the records of English poets and 
 authors were first laid to rest there. 
 
 Lucia came to the studio in the Viale Principe 
 Amadeo one bright December afternoon, as had been 
 arranged, that she might return with Adelaide to 
 the Piazza d'Azeglio, to receive an order about the 
 painting of the Madonna del Gran Duca, which Mr. 
 Cowper-Smith had promised to give Daisy. 
 
 Adelaide had just finished the bust of Clytie, and 
 had won great praise for her work from Signor 
 Bassano. 
 
 15 
 
226 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 *' It is wonderful," Lucia said, surveying it with a 
 critical eye. " And after five weeks' work only ! Ah, 
 you could draw the legs of the little cherub now, so 
 that even Andrea himself would say, ' You have 
 worked with a will.' " 
 
 " I shall leave off for to-day," Adelaide said ; "it 
 is still early. Shall we take a turn together before 
 we go to the Piazza d'Azeglio ? But you look tired ; 
 are you tired ?" 
 
 " I am always tired now," Lucia said. Then she 
 changed her tone, and said in her usually cheerful 
 voice, '' Yes, let us go somewhere ; to the Ponte 
 Sospeso : that is near us, and we can see the sunset 
 from there — it will be a fine one." 
 
 Then the two girls set off together, and Lucia put 
 her hand within Adelaide's arm. 
 
 " This has been a tiring day," she said. " I have 
 finished my Savonarola for Signor Lysaght ; and I 
 have loved the work, so that I am almost sorry it is 
 done. The signor has been so good to us. Do you 
 know how good ? Scarcely a day has passed but 
 he has come to read to Giovanni, and he has sung to 
 him, and made him happy. Then he has sent me and 
 Giovanni wine and strengthening things, and says he 
 will take out the cost from the money for my pic- 
 ture. He is to pay me less, you understand : other- 
 wise I could not have taken all the good things. 
 And he sent me a lounge — cushioned and soft — for 
 me to lie on when I am tired, and a large portiere to 
 keep out the draught. For our house is very cold, 
 
''LE PREMIER FAS." 227 
 
 and the matting is worn out. Did you know all that 
 he has done ?" 
 
 " I knew he had been kind — that he always is 
 kind," Adelaide said. 
 
 " He must be very rich," Lucia said. 
 
 *'No; I think not. I mean, not very rich, Hke 
 some people ; but he is heir to a beautiful old place, 
 near the town where I live, and he will be very well 
 off one day. The gentleman who owns it has no 
 children, and Mr. Lysaght is the next heir — the 
 grandson of a younger brother." 
 
 " What is the gentleman named?" Lucia asked. 
 
 " Mr. Beauchamp," Adelaide replied, with the 
 English pronunciation. 
 
 " Beecham — Beecham ! How do you spell it ?" 
 
 ^' Beau-champ," Adelaide answered. 
 
 Lucia's grasp of Adelaide's arm tightened. 
 
 " Beauchamp ! — Beauchamp ! Campbell — Campo- 
 bello ! So you make names into English ?" she said. 
 *' Is Mr. Beauchamp a good man ?" 
 
 " Well," Adelaide replied, " he is not able to keep 
 his temper : he has fearful fits of gout, which give 
 him agonies of pain, and he does not bear it well. He 
 has a wife with an angelic temper, and she is never 
 angry with him, and never in the least cross. He 
 has had great sorrows, I believe, though I do not 
 exactly know what they were. But let us talk of 
 something else now. Tell me more about that lady 
 you loved, and whose little girl's portrait you painted.'* 
 
 But Lucia seemed unable to turn her thoughts in 
 
 15—2 
 
228 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 another direction, and was silent till they reached 
 the Ponte Sospeso, and paying the required sous, 
 stood midway, looking down and up the Arno. It 
 was a glorious roseate sunset, and everything was 
 bathed in the crimson light. Far away, beyond the 
 long stretch of the Lung' Arno — far away, beyond the 
 Campanile and the great Duomo, were range upon 
 range of mountains, of that deep violet colour which 
 must be seen to be believed. The rugged peaks 
 of the Carrara Mountains were distinctly defined 
 against a sky of burnished gold, in which lines of 
 rose-coloured clouds, with beryl depths between, 
 seemed to spring into a living glow, as the sun 
 sank behind the heights, stretching almost to the 
 zenith above. The Arno reflected the colours with 
 chastened beauty on its breast, as it flowed 
 beneath the Pont Sospeso, where the two girls 
 stood, to the Ponte Carrara, dimly seen at the 
 further end of Florence. As they turned to look 
 in the opposite direction, where the upland slopes 
 were studded with villas and campaniles of village 
 churches, all steeped in the sunset glow, while the 
 distant ridges of the Apennines, which shut in the 
 valley, were white with the first snows of winter, 
 Adelaide gave a sudden exclamation of surprise, and 
 in another moment Percival Clyffe had greeted her 
 with : 
 
 " So I have met you where I least expected it. I 
 arrived by a train which took me to the Piazza 
 d'Azeglio by eleven o'clock, and Daisy told me you 
 
" LE PREMIER PA S." 229 
 
 were at your studio at work, and would not like to 
 be disturbed. I have taken a siesta since then, and 
 a very substantial luncheon ; then I came out to see 
 something of Florence, and have seen what is more 
 attractive to me than Duomo, Arno, or Campanile — 
 an old friend !" 
 
 It was Percival's way to say pleasant things 
 to everyone — but Adelaide's swift colour came to 
 her face, and she said, in a rather stiff, shy 
 manner : 
 
 " You will be very welcome at Florence. You 
 have come in for one of the most beautiful sunsets.' 
 
 " Yes, I am a fortunate person this afternoon. 
 I mean to enjoy myself in Florence, and these 
 first few hours seem to be an earnest of what is to 
 come." 
 
 Lucia, meantime, had relaxed her hold on 
 Adelaide's arm, and stood a little apart, leaning on 
 the low railing of the bridge. 
 
 The chill after sunset was creeping up, and Lucia 
 said quickly : 
 
 "We must not stand here longer. It is full of 
 danger — to the English especially — to be out in the 
 cold air when the sun goes down." 
 
 " Mr. Clyffe, this is my friend, Miss Lucia Camp- 
 bell," Adelaide said, looking at Percival, who 
 answered the introduction with a bow — to which 
 Lucia responded with a frank : 
 
 " I am glad to see you at Florence, signor." 
 
 And then they all turned towards the Piazza 
 
230 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 d'Azeglio, under rows of newly-planted trees, bare 
 now of leaves, and past a caffe, whence sounds of 
 music and singing were heard. 
 
 Adelaide felt a strange sense of satisfaction at 
 Percival's arrival. He put her entirely at her ease ; 
 and, before they turned into the Piazza, she was 
 laughing and talking, as she had not done since she 
 had parted with Hester Ponsonby. 
 
 It seemed Lucia's turn to be grave, and she did 
 not join in the conversation. At the door of Mr. 
 Cowper-Smith's house, she suddenly said : 
 
 *' Buon' sera, Miss Millington ; buon' sera, 
 signor." 
 
 " Lucia, you are to come in, and see Mr. 
 Cowper-Smith about the picture !" 
 
 "Not now — not to-night — grazie !" 
 
 And then Lucia's swift step was heard on the 
 smooth pavement, and her small lithe figure 
 vanished in the gathering twilight. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 ONLYANAME. 
 
 There were some additional comforts in the two 
 rooms in the Piazza Cavour. The thick portiere 
 hanging over the door was not the least of these, 
 and as Lucia's hand was upon it to draw it aside, 
 she listened for one moment to the low, deep 
 voice which was singing to the accompaniment of 
 Giovanni's violin. 
 
 No one heard her coming, and she stood with the 
 curtain in her hand, drawn just wide enough to 
 show the interior of the room, lighted by the fitful 
 blaze of the wood fire on the low hearth, by which 
 her mother sat with some needlework in her long 
 olive-coloured fingers, which were loaded with rings, 
 while bangles jingled on her thin wrists, and a heavy 
 silver chain, with a cross attached to it, lay upon the 
 scarlet handkerchief crossed over the breast of her 
 gown. 
 
 Marietta was taking her ease as usual, a large cat 
 tucked up on her lap. Pietro was one of the many 
 stray Florentine cats, and had demanded admission 
 
232 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 a few months ago, and had been made welcome 
 ever since. 
 
 It was not Pietro's first home, and probably 
 would not be the last. He had been stolen from 
 the Monastery of Certosa, where he had spent an 
 easy, luxurious life, sunning himself on the wall 
 below the monastery steps, with five or six other 
 fat representatives of his race. 
 
 A chance person, who had come up to the 
 monastery with some flour from Florence, had 
 seized Pietro, and plunged him into the empty 
 sack, where he had struggled and kicked in vain. 
 His captor, however, was not sufficiently careful 
 when he opened the sack. Pietro leaped out, 
 shaking the dust of the flour from his large paws, 
 and raced off, from the narrow street by the Porta 
 Romana to the other side of the Arno. After that 
 he picked up a scanty pittance in the Cloisters of 
 San Lorenzo, where homeless cats are regularly fed 
 every evening. 
 
 Such a manner of life did not suit the dignity of 
 a cat brought up by the white-hooded Dominican 
 who acted as lay-brother and porter at Certosa. 
 Pietro happened to be sitting blinking disconsolately 
 at the foot of the stone stairs, where he had taken 
 refuge from some teasing boys, when Lucia, return- 
 ing from the Uffizi, heard a pitiful mew, and stooping 
 down, stroked Pietro's back with a gentle, caressing 
 hand. Pietro acknowledged the compliment by 
 rubbing against her with his tail erect, and followed 
 

 llfeat's^ 
 
 f 
 
 
 
 /F~^ ES; 
 
 J^_^Il. 
 
OXLV A NAME. 233 
 
 her upstairs with an evident determination not to be 
 repulsed. Marietta received him with rapture. He 
 loved ease and comfort, and thus they had much in 
 common ; so he was not likely to be any trouble 
 to her — for he would wash himself and need no 
 attention — and Pietro had thus become an addition 
 to the family, showing a marked preference for 
 Marietta, probably from the sympathy which existed 
 between them. 
 
 Lucia's momentary pause gave her time to take in 
 the whole picture. Giovanni, with his pure refined 
 face and sightless eyes, shaded by long, dark lashes, 
 his violin held close to his cheek, and his ear drinking 
 in the low, musical tones of Mr. Lysaght's voice 
 as he sang Beethoven's beautiful song, which had 
 been postponed on the evening of Lady Anna's first 
 reception, and which he had, by repetition, taught 
 Giovanni's quick ear to catch. 
 
 *' Adelaide — Adelaide !" The name seemed to 
 linger on his lips as if he were unwilling to part 
 with the sound. 
 
 At a first glance there was nothing remarkable or 
 even attractive in Mr. Lysaght's appearance. He 
 was scarcely above the middle height, and he 
 stooped a little, so that he looked shorter than 
 he really was. His forehead was square and broad, 
 and masses of dark hair, with one broad lock 
 of gray, shadowed it. His eyes, however, when 
 deeply moved, were like the key to the whole man. 
 They could flash fire at a story of wrong or oppres- 
 
234 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 sion, and they could dance with merriment when any- 
 thing awoke his keen, quiet sense of humour. They 
 could express even more than his voice, which was 
 not as strong as it was musical — it had lost much of 
 its old power, and, though still rich and melodious, 
 did not ring through a room as it had done in 
 times gone by. But his eyes, the colour of which it 
 was hard to define, could fill with tenderness, as 
 he looked at the blind boy's face, with its rapt, 
 intense enjoyment of the music his fingers awoke, 
 in soft accompaniment of Beethoven's matchless 
 song, " Adelaide." 
 
 Our best friend — Lucia had called Mr. Lysaght " my 
 best friend ;" for had he not, by his timely help, en- 
 abled her to resume her work ? And had he not done 
 much to brighten the life of her brother, by atten- 
 tions, offered with the tact and consideration which 
 made it as much a pleasure to receive them as it was 
 to bestow them ? Madame Campbell was the first to 
 see Lucia. She held up her finger to prevent her 
 interrupting the music, till the last note had died 
 away. 
 
 In those few moments Lucia found herself re- 
 hearsing, she hardly knew why, all the past two 
 months since she had first heard Mr. Lysaght's 
 voice in the gallery of the Uffizi, asking her if she 
 would undertake to copy Savonarola's head for him, 
 the beginning of an acquaintance in which Adelaide 
 too had part ; and yet on what a different level did 
 they stand ! Adelaide was an amateur, working 
 
ONLY A NAME. 235 
 
 bravely, it is true, to conquer difficulties and fit herself 
 for higher things, but still an amateur, surrounded 
 by the luxuries and refinements of life, while she was 
 an artist toiling for daily bread, spending herself 
 and her strength for those she loved, obliged to 
 enter into the details of money, and to measure her 
 work in the balance with so many, or so few, paper- 
 notes and silver lire. 
 
 Perhaps Lucia had never before felt her real 
 position press so heavily upon her as now, when the 
 last *' Adelaide" had died away; and Mr. Lysaght, 
 turning, saw her standing with the red curtain 
 behind her. 
 
 *' I am glad you have come," he said. " I want 
 a few minutes' conversation with you in the ante- 
 room, please." 
 
 Then Madame Campbell spoke sharply to 
 Lucia : 
 
 " Are you in a dream ? What makes you stand 
 there ? Do you hear what the signor says ? If 
 he desires you in the next room, go at once, and I 
 will make the coffee hot, while Marietta gets the 
 cups." 
 
 Madame Campbell was much too far-sighted to wish 
 to lose any chance of winning Mr. Lysaght's favour. 
 " He is going to pay her for that picture," she was 
 thinking; "and it is time, it is time. She talks 
 nonsense about taking less by reason of these few 
 comforts he has furnished for my poor blind boy. 
 But he will not be so inclined, not if I know him. 
 
236 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Come, Marietta !" she said aloud ; " put down that 
 great cat and stir about." 
 
 Pietro jumped down, as if in reply, with a heavy 
 thud upon the coarse matting which covered the 
 floor, and began to wash his face vigorously. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Lysaght had held open the door 
 which led into the little ante-room, which was 
 scarcely more than a passage connecting the larger 
 room with the bedrooms opening from it. It was 
 filled with tokens of Lucia's industry in those 
 " trivialities " which Mr. Lysaght had mentioned — 
 screens and wooden frames, to be ornamented by 
 Lucia's ready brush, canvases standing against the 
 wall, and one on an easel. 
 
 Lucia did not cross the room with her usually 
 alert step, and as she passed her brother she stooped 
 to kiss his forehead. 
 
 "Did you hear that music, Lucia mia? Was it 
 not divine, 'Adelaide'? Ah," Giovanni continued, 
 " but that was the best word. As he sang it he 
 seemed to love it. There is music in the very 
 word." 
 
 Lucia drew back from her brother's caressing 
 hand, and said quickly : 
 
 " He waits for me. I must go." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght had waited patiently while these 
 words had been exchanged between the brother and 
 sister, and now Lucia said, as she followed him into 
 the ante-room, using the Italian word which is so 
 expressive in its conciseness : 
 
O.YLV A NAME. 237 
 
 " Scusi, signer ! I have kept you long ; but I 
 spoke to Giovanni." 
 
 " There is no haste," Mr. Lysaght said. " What 
 a pleasure it is to see that boy's real joy in music ! 
 He must have some lessons from the master who 
 teaches little Margaret Smith." 
 
 '' I fear that cannot be," Lucia said, in a tone 
 which struck Mr. Lysaght as unusual. 
 
 " Well, now to the business on hand. I am 
 delighted with my picture, and have brought you my 
 debt for it. I feel it is too little, far too little ; but 
 my purse is not inexhaustible, like Mr. Cowper- 
 Smith's. We agreed for thirty English sovereigns ; 
 in this packet you will find that sum in Italian 
 notes. I take it they are the most convenient for 
 you." 
 
 Lucia took the large envelope in which the notes 
 were put, and taking them out, said : 
 
 " It is too much_, far too much, signor." 
 
 " It is our agreement. It is purely a matter of 
 business." 
 
 " But there was the understanding, signor, that I 
 should pay for the things which you furnished for 
 Giovanni — the portiere, the large rug for his feet, 
 the many things you sent me to make me strong — 
 the doctor's physic. I cannot tell what money these 
 things cost, but I will please pay for them from this." 
 
 " Do not treat me as if I were a stranger, or take 
 from me the pleasure of doing the slightest thing 
 for your comfort, or for your brother's." 
 
238 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " Ah, signer," Lucia said, in a tone which struck 
 Mr. Lysaght as strangely pathetic; *'ah, this, as 
 you say, is business. I have toiled for long years. I 
 have taken help from none, except," with a sad smile, 
 " now and again from poor old Andrea Maura. It 
 would have hurt him deeply had I refused his little 
 offerings of fruit, and herbs, and flowers." 
 
 " And do you not think it will hurt me, if you treat 
 me less kindly than you did the poor old critic of 
 your pictures ?" 
 
 Lucia paused for a few moments. 
 
 " No, I do not," she said at last ; '' not in the same 
 way. You are kind, signor, and noble, but I prefer 
 not to be thus in your debt. If you will not tell me 
 what is the money you spent for Giovanni and for 
 me, then I will give you what I think it must be." 
 And she carefully separated from the bundle of notes 
 two for twenty lire each — a large sum it seemed 
 to her — and laid them on the table which was 
 between her and Mr. Lysaght. Then she replaced 
 the other notes in the envelope, and said with a smile : 
 
 " Tante grazie, signor! tante grazie." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght took the notes and replaced them in 
 his pocket-book. He saw that he could not press 
 his point further, and that he must watch for other 
 opportunities of assistance. 
 
 *' And have you more commissions ?" 
 
 '* Yes ; I am to paint the Madonna del Gran Duca 
 for the little English lady, Margherita, as a present 
 from her papa." 
 
ONLY A NAME. 239 
 
 " I am delighted to hear it. I hope you will not 
 be too modest in the fee you charge." 
 
 *' I shall charge the same as before. I copied the 
 Madonna for Signor Batista ; only I shall profit more, 
 as he had his commission." 
 
 *' Have you seen Miss Millington's work lately ?" 
 
 *'Yes, to-day; it is very good. She has pleased 
 Signor Bassano with the Clytie." 
 
 " I saw it yesterday, and thought it surprisingly 
 good ; but then I am no real judge, as you are." 
 
 " I went to the studio to-day," Lucia continued, 
 " and Miss MiUington and I, we walked to the Ponte 
 Sospeso to see the sunset, and there we met the 
 signorina's English friend — 2. great friend I think — 
 Mr. Clyffe." 
 
 " Oh, so he has come," Mr. Lysaght said shortly. 
 " I think I heard he would be here at Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 *' Are you his great friend ?'' Lucia asked. 
 
 " A friendly acquaintance. We have been thrown 
 together by similarity of position, and by circum- 
 stances. He is likely to be welcome in Florence. 
 A man who can do all those things which I 
 cannot." 
 
 " What things ?" Lucia asked. 
 
 '' He can talk on any subject ; tell amusing 
 stories of his numerous acquaintances ; dance and 
 sing. What more is to be desired ? Moreover, he 
 is kind-hearted and has a good temper. Now, what 
 can I add to this character ?" 
 
240 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " You say he is cared for because he sings ? You 
 sing, signor ?" 
 
 *' I did sing once ; but since I had that attack on 
 my lungs, my singing is not Hkely to bring down an 
 encore, as Mr. Clyffe's will." 
 
 " I could not like any voice better than yours," 
 Lucia said simply ; " it is to my ear beautiful. 
 Then, as it pleases and delights Giovanni so much, 
 it must delight me." 
 
 " All your thoughts seem to centre on Giovanni," 
 Mr. Lysaght said. " What a gift it is for him to 
 have a sister like you ! You are, it seems, everything 
 to him." 
 
 "Ah, yes ! there is a double love always for those 
 who are afflicted, if they are like Giovanni, patient 
 and sweet under it, taking it from God as His will." 
 
 " You have learned the secret of happiness," Mr. 
 Lysaght said ; '' that secret which is with them who 
 fear Him." 
 
 " Yes," Lucia said, a strangely beautiful light in 
 her dark eyes, as she raised them to Mr. Lysaght's — 
 ** yes, I do think I have. I do not question — I do 
 not wonder what next. I say when much perplexed, 
 ' It is God's will.' " 
 
 ** So you hold a golden thread to guide you through 
 the maze, and you will see light shining at last." 
 
 When Mr. Lysaght was gone, Lucia stood where 
 he had left her for a few moments. Then, instead of 
 following him into the room beyond, she opened a 
 door at the further end of the ante-room, which led 
 
ONLY A NAME. 241 
 
 to the little, poorly-lighted, bare chamber, scarcely 
 more than a closet, where she slept. The notes must 
 be put safely away, for her mother had enough in 
 hand for their simple requirements for the next 
 month, and it would not do to let her have more 
 than was necessary, or she would see it spent in 
 some bit of finery for herself or Marietta. 
 
 Lucia kept her store in an old oak cupboard, 
 much worm-eaten, but carved with grotesque figures, 
 and in the centre the well-known Medici arms, balls 
 and pointed crown above. That old cabinet or cup- 
 board had doubtless many secrets hidden in it, and 
 had seen many changes, since it stood, perhaps, in a 
 chamber at the Villa Careggi, where Lorenzo turned 
 away from the last appeal of Savonarola to repent 
 and give freedom to Florence. 
 
 Perhaps the old cabinet had stood centuries ago in 
 the very room where that solemn scene took place, 
 and the dying man — who brought nothing into this 
 world, and could carry nothing out of it — felt all his 
 honour and greatness, his learning, and his culture, 
 fading away in the mists of the valley of the 
 shadow ; and Lorenzo the Magnificent was to be 
 even as the poorest monk, dying in his cell in the 
 Convent of San Marco, ere the sun had set that day! 
 
 The door of the cupboard creaked as Lucia 
 opened it, and took from it a httle leather box, in 
 which she placed the notes. But, instead of closing 
 the door again, she reached up to a higher shelf, at 
 the back of the cabinet, and brought down, covered 
 
 16 
 
242 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 with dust, a little wooden desk, with a brass plate 
 on the lid, on which were engraved two letters — 
 
 'j.p; 
 
 The key was kept in the smaller box, where 
 she had just placed the money, and Lucia felt for it, 
 and fitting it into the lock of the desk, opened it. 
 There lay the two letters she had placed there, now 
 six years ago. She had been but a girl of sixteen 
 when her father, in one of his half-lucid intervals, had 
 made her promise that she would keep the two 
 papers safe from every eye ; the sealed one, he said, 
 he had written years before ; the open letter was to 
 direct Lucia what to do when a certain event 
 became known. She had read it before, but not for 
 some time. She had been too much absorbed in the 
 struggle for existence to think much about it, and it 
 all seemed so vague and hard to understand ; it was 
 rambling and incoherent, but as Lucia read it her 
 hand, generally so steady, trembled, and she said 
 aloud : 
 
 " What shall I do ? Nothing yet, nothing yet. I 
 am not compelled to do so. It will be a sore trouble 
 when I must do it. There can be no doubt — the 
 name— the name ! How stupid I have been ! 
 Reading the name in French, I never thought of it. 
 I see now — I see now." 
 
 It was not Lucia's usual custom to vacillate, and 
 to be uncertain as to what she should do. Now, 
 however, she read and re-read the paper, put it back 
 in the box, took it out again, and, finally, clasping 
 
ONLY A NAME. 243 
 
 her hands, she cried aloud in her trouble for 
 guidance. 
 
 Kneehng by the old oak cupboard, her head resting 
 on her clasped hands, she prayed silently : 
 
 " Teach me to do the thing that pleaseth Thee." 
 
 Quietness came after conflict, and then Marietta's 
 voice was heard, complaining and irritable. 
 
 '' Lucia, Lucia, Mr. Lysaght is leaving ! Make 
 haste ! What are you doing here ?" 
 
 The door, which had been locked by a rusty key, 
 was rattled angrily, and Lucia had only time to 
 replace her treasures, and take the little lamp she 
 had lighted in her hand, and open the door to her 
 sister. 
 
 " I am coming," she said gently. 
 
 '* Coming, yes ! You are so afraid we should get 
 your money. You are very miserly. I know you 
 have been locking up what Mr. Lysaght gave you for 
 the picture. So mean!" 
 
 And this from one who owed everything to her — 
 this from one who was a mere clog on the wheels of 
 the household — a vain, self-indulgent girl, who was 
 quite content to fold her hands, and reap what others 
 had sowed. 
 
 Sometimes Lucia would give Marietta a sharp 
 word when she was provoked beyond endurance — 
 nay, tell her plainly that she did not intend to keep 
 her in idleness when she was twenty-one. But now 
 there was no angry rejoinder, as Lucia closed the 
 door behind her, and followed her sister through the 
 
 1 5 — 2 
 
244 ^A' THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 little ante-room to the larger one, where the rest of 
 the party were assembled. 
 
 Lucia was so subdued and quiet, and moving so 
 slowly, that Mr. Lysaght said : 
 
 *' You are overtaxing your strength again. Do 
 be careful." As he took her hand when bidding her 
 good-bye, he felt it was as cold as ice. " Have you 
 caught cold again ?" he asked. 
 
 " No, I think not, signor. My hands are often 
 cold." But she gave an involuntary shudder, and 
 then, rallying, said : ^' A cup of coffee will warm me. 
 Addio, signor." 
 
 Percival Clyffe's presence in the house in the 
 Piazza d'Azeglio certainly made a great change. 
 He put everyone into a good humour, Mrs. Gray 
 said, and no wonder — he had always a pleasant word 
 for everybody. Percival was decidedly a popular 
 person, and though he might not precisely lay claim 
 to popularity, still he never lost the chance of 
 obtaining it. He pleased Lady Anna by telling 
 her she had made the suite of rooms she occupied 
 famous. Everyone in Florence said they were quite 
 the most attractively '^got up " of any of the English 
 quarters, and that her receptions were the most 
 brilliant. Then he told her that Daisy looked prettier 
 than ever, that Miss Millington had worked wonders 
 as a companion to her, and that he should write 
 at once to his aunt Lady Mary and tell her that 
 Adelaide was thriving and on the high road to be 
 a distinguished artist. 
 
ONLY A NAME. 245 
 
 Percival knew very little about art, but he made 
 the assertion as he made many others — haphazard. 
 He took life easily, for his own prospects were not 
 very brilliant. The briefs never came, and he was, he 
 said, looking out for some employment as secretary 
 to a club or a company, or a post in the colonies. 
 He had got his name put down on the list, through 
 influence at headquarters, and he hoped he might 
 succeed in obtaining a place as Judge of the Supreme 
 Court of Judicature on the West Coast of Africa, or 
 Cyprus — it did not matter where. 
 
 '' I hope you will not succeed," Lady Anna was 
 saying one morning, when she was at her writing- 
 table, engaged with her voluminous correspondence, 
 from which from time to time she turned to listen 
 to Percival, or talk to him. 
 
 " It does matter very much where you go ; fevers 
 are so horrible on the West Coast of Africa. You 
 had better wait and be patient." 
 
 '' I am the mirror of patience, my dear aunt," 
 he said ; " and I am sure you do not hear me 
 grumble !" 
 
 "' No, indeed, you are always so cheerful ; and 
 you are welcome here as long as you choose to 
 stay." 
 
 " Thanks, you are awfully kind ; but I am afraid 
 you do not know what you are saying. If I could 
 choose I should prolong my present existence indefi- 
 nitely." 
 
 " Very well," Lady Anna said, " let it be in- 
 
246 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 definitely. By -the -bye, Percy, what have you 
 made out of Mr. Lysaght ?" 
 
 " I knew him before I found him established 
 here," Percival said ; " he is no novelty to me." 
 
 " He will come into possession of Cruttwell, I 
 suppose ; and really I thought a few weeks ago 
 Mr. Beauchamp was sinking. He has raUied a 
 little, but he will not live long. Has Mr. Lysaght 
 said anything to you about the property ?' 
 
 " Not much ; he is more reserved than ever I 
 knew him." 
 
 " Is that report of living grandchildren Hkely to 
 be true ?" 
 
 " I have heard nothing about it here ; I expect it 
 was only report." 
 
 '* Mr. Lysaght is not likely to be too eager to 
 press his inquiries," Lady Anna said. 
 
 *' You are wrong there ; he is the last man to wish 
 to wear other people's shoes. He is a very honest- 
 hearted fellow, and besides, he has high principle. 
 As soon as Mr. Beauchamp is gone he will advertise, 
 and set inquiries on foot in the proper quarter ; but 
 till the old man dies, I do not know why he should 
 move in it. The rumour reached him through an 
 Italian in London, who lived in one of the dens in the 
 East-end which Lysaght frequents. This man told 
 him he had a sister who married a gentleman, whose 
 father was furious with him, and utterly disowned 
 him ; that they had had a hand-to-hand tussle, and 
 he threw something at his head — when he had made 
 
ONLY A NAME. 247 
 
 an attempt to see him — and was within an inch of 
 kiUing him ; as it was, he was felled to the ground." 
 
 '' My dear Percival, how shocking ! what a man 
 for poor dear Mary to be tied to for life !" 
 
 " Well, we are not sure that this furious father 
 and Mr. Beauchamp are one and the same ; though 
 many of the particulars fitted. The place was in 
 the south of England, the wife had been a profes- 
 sional singer, and the man had changed his name, 
 and left the country with her. But as to the name, 
 the Italian could not get very near it. It seems 
 he had never had much to do with his sister, and 
 he had sunk so low that he never cared to make 
 any effort to find her. That is about all / know, or 
 Lysaght knows, either." 
 
 " But, my dear Percy, this man surely can be 
 further questioned ?" 
 
 "No, he can't, for he is dead," Percival said 
 shortly. " He was found by Lysaght in a miserable 
 condition, and he befriended him, but he died soon 
 after he got him into the hospital. He had earned 
 a scanty pittance working in ornamental hair, and 
 when Lysaght found him he was dying of inflamma- 
 tion of the lungs and starvation." 
 
 " How shocking ! But is it not odd Mr. Lysaght 
 never told me this history? He just hinted that he 
 had heard a report about Mr. Beauchamp having a 
 son, but he gave me no details." 
 
 " It is not his way to give details," Percival said, 
 pulling himself together, and saying, as he rose out 
 
248 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 of his luxurious chair : " It is nearly one o'clock. 
 I must go and look up Daisy; her conversation 
 master must be gone by this time." 
 
 " Not till one precisely. Have you heard her 
 speak Italian ? It is so charming." 
 
 '' No. I like to hear her speak English best, but 
 for the very good reason that I do not understand 
 Italian." 
 
 And then Percival departed, not, however, to look 
 after Daisy, but to turn his steps towards the Via 
 Alfieri, and thence to the studio where Adelaide 
 worked. He had now been in Florence several 
 weeks. Christmas was over, and the new year had 
 dawned with sunshine and blue skies ; and on the 
 sunny side of the Arno people forgot that it was yet 
 winter, and that cold winds would sweep down from 
 the Apennines for many weeks to come. 
 
 It was not the first time that Percival had gone 
 towards the studio, and had tried to persuade 
 Adelaide to come home to luncheon, instead of 
 eating her frugal repast in the studio. Percival 
 had a half-formed intention of getting Adelaide 
 to leave her work on this delightful afternoon, 
 and go to San Miniato or Fiesole with him. 
 He had, however, been forestalled. He had just 
 crossed the road in front of the English Cemetery 
 when he saw Adelaide and Mr. Lysaght turning in 
 the opposite direction. 
 
 Mrs. Murchison had been in retirement since 
 Percival's arrival. She had caught cold at a re- 
 
ONLY A NAME. 249 
 
 ception given by some English people, where she 
 had acted in a play, and had, when over-heated, 
 walked in the illuminated garden which filled the 
 quadrangle of the Palazzo Bourtolin. A chill at 
 Florence is very apt to be accompanied with fever, 
 and Mrs. Murchison had been anything but a patient 
 invalid. 
 
 She had got tired of the Professor ; and having 
 found herself out of her depth with him, and showed 
 that her knowledge of Italian history was a Httle 
 superficial, she had not encouraged his visits to her 
 sitting-room, and had found the time hang heavily 
 on her hands. 
 
 '' Why doesn't that girl Adelaide come and see 
 me ? Go and fetch her to luncheon," she had said 
 to Mr. Lysaght that morning. " Do pray make her 
 come, for I am perishing of ennui." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght had not been at all unwilling to 
 please his sister in this respect, and after some 
 little hesitation Adelaide had consented to go with 
 him to Paoli's Hotel. Suddenly, just as Percival 
 was following them down the Via di Pinti, Adelaide 
 turned quickly; and he saw she had forgotten some- 
 thing, for Mr. Lysaght left her and hastened back 
 to the studio. Then Percival was at her side at 
 once. 
 
 *' Where are you going ?" he asked, rather abruptly. 
 " I came to take you back to luncheon. It is absurd 
 your starving on miserable biscuits and rolls every 
 day." 
 
250 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " I am going to luncheon at Paoli's with Mrs. 
 Murchison," Adelaide replied. 
 
 " Mrs. Murchison ! Who is she ? Some new- 
 friend ?" 
 
 " Mr. Lysaght's sister," Adelaide said. " You 
 must have known her name." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght now rejoined them. He had 
 Adelaide's little basket in his hand, which she had 
 left in the studio. 
 
 " Will you come with us to Paoli's ?" Mr. Lysaght 
 said ; '' and then, at two o'clock, we should have 
 time to drive up to Fiesole before the sun sets." 
 
 Percival accepted the invitation not too graciously, 
 and the three walked on together without speaking. 
 
 " I forget whether you know my sister, Clyffe," 
 Mr. Lysaght said. 
 
 " No, I don't," was the rather short answer. '' I 
 do not think I ever saw any of your people." 
 
 " She has been very unwell, and I find it hard to 
 make her prudent. She has not come down to the 
 table d'hote for nearly a fortnight." 
 
 The bell was just ringing when the party turned 
 into the salle. Mrs. Murchison was already there, 
 wearing a very becoming fur of silver fox over a 
 tightly - fitting black cloth dress. She received 
 Adelaide with great warmth. 
 
 " You naughty child ! not to come and see me 
 till you were sent for ! Ah ! is this Mr. Clyffe ? — 
 Percival Clyffe ? — I know him well by report. I am 
 delighted to see you, or in fact to see an3'one." 
 
ONLY A NAME. 251 
 
 *' That is a doubtful compliment for me, Mrs. 
 Murchison," Percival said, laughing. 
 
 " Well, I have had a horribly dull time. Do you 
 know, I have sketched the view from my window 
 upstairs till I see it in my dreams, and begin to hate 
 it. How charmed they must all be in the Piazza 
 d'Azeglio to have your company ! They are just a 
 little dull there. I don't suit Lady Anna ; I am too 
 unconventional. Ah ! Professor Scoresby, how are 
 you ?" 
 
 This was said across the table to the little Pro- 
 fessor, who knew he had dechned in favour, and 
 yet could not quite resist the attraction of his en- 
 chantress. 
 
 " Have you settled to your satisfaction the 
 genealogy of that fair Etruscan lady with the blue 
 earrings in the museum ? You thought you were a 
 thousand years out in your reckoning as to her 
 birth ; but that is a small matter." 
 
 The poor Professor, being touched on a weak 
 point, could not resist beginning a long history of 
 the Etruscan monuments, of which absolutely nothing 
 is really known. 
 
 Those strange Etruscan figures, shaded by their 
 red silk curtains in the museum, always seem to 
 gaze out from an unknown and unknowable past 
 with a sort of stately challenge to us, who give back 
 their stony stare with one of inquiry. " Our past is 
 our own, and with it you pigmies of the present have 
 
252 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 nothing to do. The mystery is insoluble. Do not 
 attempt to find the solution." 
 
 And with this even an erudite scholar like Pro- 
 fessor Scoresby must rest content Not that he was 
 content ; and he had at least the right to air his 
 conjectures, and to let the result of his researches, 
 however unsatisfactory, be known. 
 
 Long before he had got through his history Mrs. 
 Murchison's attention had wandered, and the Pro- 
 fessor was startled by his neighbour, a deaf man, 
 whom most people at Paoli's rather avoided, 
 suddenly breaking out with : 
 
 " I can't hear what you say, sir. Are you address- 
 ing me ?" 
 
 The Professor, with a watery smile, shook his 
 head, and then for the first time became conscious 
 that his fair friend opposite was talking to Percival 
 Clyffe, and that she much preferred the ripple of his 
 small talk to a learned disquisition on an Etruscan 
 lady, whose blue earrings had been supposed to 
 assist the researches of the Professor as to the date 
 of her birth. 
 
 Very soon, everyone at the tahlc dliote became 
 aware that Mrs. Murchison had found a ready 
 listener to her flow of brilliant " nothings." As the 
 chairs were pushed back, and the people were moving 
 off, arranging their plans for the fine afternoon, 
 several eye-glasses were directed towards the group 
 of which Mrs. Murchison was the centre. 
 
 The American lady, whose husband had loudly 
 
ONLY A NAME. 253 
 
 resented Mrs. Murchison's remarks about her eye, 
 said in a stage whisper as she passed : 
 
 " What a flirt that woman is ! She^ll be taking 
 in that young man, as she did the old one. Poor 
 things !" 
 
 Adelaide heard the words, and she felt the colour 
 rush to her face. She looked at Mrs. Murchison, 
 expecting to see her show some annoyance or 
 perhaps confusion. On the contrary, she only 
 seemed to be laughing more merrily than ever, and 
 Adelaide hoped that she might not have heard 
 what was said. The next moment she was con- 
 vinced to the contrary, for Mrs. Murchison said to 
 Percival : 
 
 " Did you hear that flattering opinion of me from 
 the Boston lady ? She owes me a grudge, because I 
 mentioned the very obvious fact that she squints. I 
 am very incautious, but I manage to get on, never- 
 theless. I should not in the least wonder if, before 
 the end of the winter, I am quite intimate with 
 ' Mrs. Walter Fisk, junior' — for that is her style and 
 title in the visitors' book : — ' Mr. Walter Fisk, 
 junior, Mrs. W. F., junior, Boston, U.S., North 
 America.' I do wonder, if these are the Fisks 
 juniors, what the Fisks seniors must be! Adelaide, 
 how grave you look ! She is always shocked at my 
 frivolity, Mr. Clyffe — almost as much as Godfrey 
 is shocked. Well, have you ordered the carriage for 
 Fiesole, Godfrey ?" 
 
 " It is too cold for you to drive to-day — certainly 
 
254 ^^ THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 as far as Fiesole, Theresa. You must not think of 
 it. Your cough is not gone." 
 
 "Ah, what a dragon you are!" Mrs. Murchison 
 said, manipulating the long ends of her fur boa, as 
 with a graceful action she placed one end over her 
 shoulder and the other across her slender figure. 
 '' I mean to go, all the same ; so order the carriage, 
 and let us get ready. Come with me to my room. 
 Miss Millington, and I can lend you a fur cape. You 
 must have another wrap." 
 
 The drive to Fiesole is one of the most beautiful 
 in Florence. As the road winds and turns up the 
 steep sides of the hill, on the crest of which the 
 ancient city sits like a queen, the views of the 
 country on every side are varied and lovely. The 
 hills dotted with villas, the Arno winding through the 
 plain, the blue mountains which rise towards the 
 great rugged mass of the Carraras in the horizon, and 
 the noble outline of the lofty range which encircle 
 Pisa. Florence lies far below, with her Duomo and 
 Campanile, her domes and towers. Dark masses of 
 shade show where the cypresses are chmbing up 
 some hill-side, as custodians of the monastery or 
 church — and here and there, their lofty spires shoot 
 up against the blue sky, every branch distinctly 
 traced in the translucent atmosphere, where every- 
 thing is clearly defined. 
 
 It is] strange to ascend from Florence, with all 
 its old memories, where we seem to live in the past 
 and are living, as it were, with the people of a by- 
 
ONLY A NAME. 255 
 
 gone age, to Fiesole, which goes so much further 
 back, into ages seen but imperfectly through the 
 mists of centuries, where we can but catch here and 
 there some clue to the life which was lived in 
 Fiesole, on the hill, long, long before the banks of 
 the Arno had been studded with churches or 
 dwellings for the rich or poor, and the City of 
 Flowers had become famous in the valley. 
 
 The carriage was left at the Piazza, and Adelaide 
 found herself with Mr. Lysaght, while Mrs. Murchi- 
 son took complete possession of Percival. 
 
 A strange pang shot through her, which she 
 scarcely understood, as from above the little Roman 
 amphitheatre she watched Percival Clyffe helping 
 Mrs. Murchison as she tripped down the broken 
 tiers of old seats to the tiny arena, where, on a 
 block of fallen stone, she seated herself, breathless 
 and laughing. 
 
 ''Come down, you two sober people!" she ex- 
 claimed. " You stand there both looking so solemn, 
 as if you expected the lions to come out and 
 eat us " 
 
 Percival sprang up, and putting out his hand to 
 Adelaide, said : 
 
 " Come down. I will help you." 
 
 He smiled up at her with his brightest and most 
 winning smile, but she said : 
 
 " I am quite able to jump down by myself, thanks." 
 
 And very soon she had reached the place where 
 Mrs. Murchison was sitting. 
 
256 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 There is something very solemn in that Httle amphi- 
 theatre, shut in by the encircling hills — so lonely and 
 so quiet now — once the scene of the savage conflicts 
 watched by excited crowds, gathered from the 
 city above it, or flocking thither from remote towns 
 among the mountains, to feast their eyes upon the 
 death-struggles of condemned slaves. And it may be 
 that the now desolate and forsaken spot once rang 
 with the cry, " Christianios ad leones !" 
 
 Adelaide felt Mrs. Murchison's laughter and 
 perpetual banter very much out of harmony with 
 the place. Even when she changed her mood, and 
 began to talk of the Etruscan walls, and show 
 Percival how well up she was in Italian history, it 
 was with the same self-conscious air, the same light, 
 frivolous manner. Yet he seemed to enjoy it ; and 
 as he was, unlike the Professor, very hazy as to dates 
 and eras, of Etruscan or Roman remains, and had 
 never given history a serious thought, it was only 
 likely that he should consider Mrs. Murchison as 
 clever as she was pretty. 
 
 The shadow on Adelaide's face did not escape 
 Percival's observation, and he left Mrs. Murchison 
 to her brother's care, and asked Adelaide to come 
 and show him anything else that was wonderful in 
 the place. 
 
 "Everything is wonderful," Adelaide said, "when 
 we think that this little city is so much older than 
 the large one below it in the valley. The cathedral 
 is very interesting, but you ought to see that when 
 
ONLY A NAME. 257 
 
 you have more time. Let us go up the steep path 
 to the Httle Franciscan convent and church ; we 
 shall see the sunset from there. Look, it is beginning 
 to be glorious." 
 
 "Yes — this is worth coming to see," Percival 
 said, as they stood together on the plateau below 
 the little church. " This is glorious ! What a view 
 it is ! Tell me about it. I am very ignorant, you 
 know. I was quite struck dumb with Mrs. Murchi- 
 son's learning." 
 
 "I am not learned," Adelaide said, "and since I 
 came to Florence I have only felt how little I really 
 know. But after all it is not mere knowing which 
 gives pleasure. It is better to feel a little to your 
 very heart's depths than know a great deal which 
 you do not feel. But," she said, " I find it is not 
 thought 'the thing' now to express any great ad- 
 miration either for people, pictures, or places. 
 There is no one here to whom I can talk about what 
 I like best, and why I like it, except, perhaps, Lucia 
 Campbell and dear Daisy." 
 
 " Please talk to me," Percival said, "about all you 
 care for ; don't shut me out." 
 
 " After all," Adelaide said, " I don't want to say 
 too much to anyone, for I have not, and never shall 
 have, the power of expressing myself well about 
 things I care for most." 
 
 " You express yourself well enough to please me, 
 anyhow," he said. 
 
 Turning to look at her face in the g'^ow of the sun- 
 
 17 
 
258 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 set, the night in the park when he had seen her first, 
 with the moonhght shedding its pure radiance over 
 her, came back to him, and he thought her now, as 
 he thought her then, beautiful. 
 
 She was leaning against the low parapet of the 
 walls, which are here some thirty feet in depth, and 
 looking out over one of the fairest scenes which eye 
 can ever look upon — with a wistful gaze. 
 
 Presently the bells of the Angelus came borne 
 across the valley on the wind — sounding from count- 
 less campaniles — and deep and sonorous even at 
 that distance from the great Duomo. 
 
 The bell of the little Franciscan church hard by, 
 and the Cathedral lower down, answered with the 
 same famihar sound, and after a silence Adelaide said : 
 
 " We ought to be going. Mrs. Murchison should 
 not be out after sunset ; and Mr. Lysaght will have 
 the carriage closed going back. So good-bye to the 
 view ; we can come up again, and the days will 
 be lengthening soon." 
 
 Percival echoed her words. 
 
 " Yes, we can come up again, and then you will 
 tell me more of those things you feel." 
 
 *' Perhaps," she said. *' But there is Mr. Lysaght 
 beckoning to us. I knew he would be anxious to get 
 Mrs. Murchison away." 
 
 Mrs. Murchison was waiting rather impatiently. 
 She had had quite enough of Fiesole, and it was 
 getting cold. The carriage was closed in returning, 
 and she lay back in her particular corner, muffled up 
 
ONLY A NAME. 259 
 
 in furs and Shetland shawls, and did not invite any 
 conversation. 
 
 Only a little desultory talk was kept up between 
 Mr. Lysaght and Percival, and it was rather a relief 
 when the carriage drew up before Paoli's hotel, and 
 the party separated. 
 
 Percival Clyffe and Adelaide said good-bye then, 
 and went along the Arno, and then turned into a 
 labyrinth of narrow streets where — in the evening 
 glow still lingering — the Florentines were out and 
 about, as if it were April instead of January. 
 
 These old streets of Florence have a wonderful 
 charm, with the long narrow thoroughfares open- 
 ing to right and left, where here and there hght 
 streams in, and a gable higher than its neighbours 
 catches a sunset glory, which deepens the effect of 
 the gloom below. Then there are the open stores, 
 where a variety of wares are displayed — where linen 
 and stuff goods are felt and priced by voluble house- 
 wives — where at his stall the shoemaker sits cross- 
 legged, tapping the sole of a boot with his awl, and 
 keeping up a conversation with some neighbour who 
 leans in a dolce far yiiente fashion against the door- 
 post, and, as he puffs his pipe, uses his hands with 
 the expressive gestures which Italians can alone 
 understand. 
 
 It is amusing to listen to two or three Florentines 
 in eager talk about politics, it may be, or public 
 affairs, or domestic events. The movement of the 
 head, and the shrug of the shoulders — the sudden 
 
 17 — 2 
 
26o IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 start forward or step backward — all these gestures 
 serve in the place of connected sentences, nay, 
 even of connected words. 
 
 The sign is sufficient : and love and hate, approval 
 or disapproval, mockery or fun, all are seen by the 
 sign and understood by the tone of the " A — a — " or 
 the low laugh which accompanies some sudden move- 
 ment of head, arm or foot ! 
 
 Emerging from the labyrinth of houses, Percival 
 and Adelaide came out by a church, and thence into 
 a wide, modern street — where the Jews have lately 
 built a grand and imposing temple of stately propor- 
 tions, with a dome, and rich carving, which tells of 
 the wealth of their people in Florence, and of their 
 devotion to their old faith — and then they turned 
 into the Piazza d'Azeglio. 
 
 Lady Anna did not as a rule concern herself much 
 whether Adelaide had taken her luncheon to the 
 studio or whether she came home at one o'clock. 
 
 But that night at dinner she asked in a low 
 repressed tone, which always made Miss Cromwell 
 tremble and Mr. Cowper-Smith dread that he had 
 done something amiss, and would make the bright 
 colour mantle in little Daisy's usually pale cheeks : 
 
 " Did you take luncheon at Paoli's to-day. Miss 
 MilUngton?" 
 
 " Yes," Adelaide said ; " Mrs. Murchison has been 
 ill and sent for me." 
 
 " Rather extraordinary, I think. She is a person 
 who rather delights in setting certain acknowledged 
 
ONLY A NAME. 1(^1 
 
 rules of good society at defiance. Perhaps, another 
 time, Miss MilHngton, you will kindly let me know 
 when you have invitations elsewhere." 
 
 " Mother, darling !" Daisy exclaimed. "Adelaide 
 generally takes her luncheon in a basket to the 
 studio. Mrs. Gray gets it ready for her ; nothing 
 but sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs." 
 
 '' Now, Aunt Anna," Percival said, breaking in, 
 '*how did you find out we were at PaoH's ?" 
 
 " I happened to be driving back, with Daisy, from 
 the Cascine, and saw you and Mr. Lysaght turning 
 out of the Via Tornabuoni with Miss Millington. It 
 really is not of any great importance." 
 
 " Importance ! no, indeed," said Mr. Cowper- 
 Smith. " I am very glad you had a proper 
 luncheon, my dear Miss Millington. You won't 
 thrive in this climate if you cut your luncheons short : 
 every doctor will tell you so." 
 
 Lady Anna leaned back in her chair in an attitude 
 of profound indifference, and Percival said, 
 
 *' Mrs. Murchison is a very amusing little woman, 
 and wonderfully clever. She can talk like any 
 learned professor, and she seems just as much at 
 her ease in speaking Italian as English. She is very 
 graceful and pretty, and the most complete contrast 
 to her brother. They are like people dropped from 
 different planets ; both out of the common, though." 
 
 " Really!" Lady Anna said, playing with Daisy's 
 little hand, which she had taken in hers — for Daisy 
 always sat next her mother, that what she ate or did 
 
262 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 not eat might be watched ; " it would certainly not 
 strike me that either Mr. Lysaght or Mrs. Murchison 
 were anything but ordinary mortals.. You are so 
 happy, Percy, in seeing everything through rose- 
 coloured spectacles. The world must be a delightful 
 place to you." 
 
 " As to the rose-coloured glasses," Mr. Cowper- 
 Smith said, laughing irreverently as he repeated his 
 wife's words ; " Mrs. Murchison is rosy enough with- 
 out looking at her through pink glasses." 
 
 Percival was cracking a walnut, and appeared to 
 be intent on peeling it. Then he said, as he helped 
 himself to salt : 
 
 " You think some of that bright colour is laid on 
 with a brush, as Miss Millington lays it on her 
 pictures ?" 
 
 '* I am certain of it," said Mr. Cowper-Smith ; 
 " but it really is no business of mine. I never wish 
 to see my Peggy with any more colour in her cheeks 
 than nature has given her ; that is all. Miss MilHng- 
 ton does not need to use the rouge-pot to her face, in 
 spite of starving, as I hear she does. I must say 
 Florence air suits her." 
 
 The remark, as was natural, brought a more vivid 
 rose-colour into Adelaide's face, and her eyes were 
 luminous, as she said — with a desire to defend the 
 absent, and perhaps to atone for a secret annoyance 
 which Mrs. Murchison had caused her that day : 
 
 *' I don't think people ought to be judged about 
 colour. Some have naturally a very high colour, and 
 
ONL Y A NAME. 263 
 
 I think, perhaps, Mrs. Murchison is one, for she 
 always looks the same." 
 
 " That I don't doubt, for a moment," Mr. Cowper- 
 Smith said, laughing. " If she fainted dead off you 
 would not see her grow pale." 
 
 " She may accentuate her eyebrows a little and " 
 
 " Really !" said Lady Anna, rising, with Daisy's 
 hand in hers — "really, it is not a subject of any 
 importance to us, dearest, whether Mrs. Murchison's 
 colour is natural or not. I do not think her a 
 desirable acquaintance ; but there let the matter 
 rest. Now, Percy, you must hear Daisy play that 
 last new waltz of Chopin's ; come, darling, let Miss 
 Cromwell play the accompaniment." 
 
 As they all went to the drawing-room, Daisy said : 
 
 " Mother, may the blind boy come one day and 
 play to us? You half promised that he should. 
 He is the brother of the artist who is to paint 
 the Madonna for me, and the Signor says he is 
 quite a genius. May Adelaide tell Lucia to come 
 with him ? Father said I might ask you. Do, 
 mother ! I do so want to hear him." 
 
 "We will see about it, darling. I must first 
 be sure that he comes out of a healthy home. 
 There are so many fevers amongst the poor in 
 Florence." 
 
 " He is not exactly poor — I mean his sister has 
 worked so hard for them all that they live in a nice 
 sort of house in the Piazza Cavour. Oh, I do so 
 want to hear Giovanni — Lucia's brother, you know." 
 
264 ^^' THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 *' You seem to have the whole family history by 
 heart, darling," her mother said. " I do not think 
 you should be told about such sad things." 
 
 " But, mother, we ought to know about them and 
 think about them, that we may be thankful for all 
 we have given us. I will tell Percy about him, and 
 he will beg you to send for him, I know." 
 
 Little Daisy played her Chopin, and then went 
 round to say good-night. As she kissed her cousin, 
 she whispered something in his ear, and he re- 
 turned : 
 
 "All right ; I'll manage it." 
 
 And then he thought within himself that perhaps 
 the time was over when Lady Anna would take 
 his recommendation of what would please Daisy 
 best. 
 
 He wondered whether Adelaide's visit had been a 
 success. It chafed him to see her patronized and 
 questioned, as from a superior level, as to where 
 she had lunched, and what she had done. If only 
 Adelaide's appearance were to be taken as a sign of 
 contentment, tjiat had, indeed, changed ; and there 
 was a brightness about her, and a zest which had been 
 wanting before. She looked what, indeed, she was, 
 — a woman who had awoke from self-absorption and 
 self-contemplation, from accepting the loving judg- 
 ment passed upon her and her work, to the conviction 
 that she had as yet done so little worth recording, and 
 that she had, as it were, to begin her life over again; 
 just, as little Daisy said, she had to begin her draw- 
 
ONLY A NAME. 265 
 
 ing. But it was the courage and humility with which 
 she had done this that had given an added charm to 
 her noble countenance — a charm Percival Clyffe saw 
 without in the least divining its cause. The 
 obstinate adherence to huge hats and short waists 
 and baggy sleeves and loose hair had given way also. 
 " Who am I to make myself conspicuous ?" she had 
 begun to say, instead of, " I like to show I am not a 
 slave to fashion books, and am not ashamed to own 
 it." It was an awakening in all directions ; and 
 there was another yet to come. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 
 
 " Oh ! to be in England now that April's there !" is 
 a wish perhaps echoed by many who are compelled 
 to live the greater part of their time in other 
 countries. 
 
 Our English spring has its peculiar charm, and 
 few hearts are so dull as to be unable to respond in 
 some degree to the song of " the wise thrush " as he 
 wakes at dawn, and repeats his notes with an ever- 
 increasing joyful ring of gladness, as he tells his 
 mate that the day is born — the spring day, which 
 means so much to the company of birds — that happy 
 company — which fill the air with their joyous matins 
 and evensong at the dawn and dying of every day. 
 
 But an April morning in Florence, how beautiful 
 it is ! Then, indeed, the City of Flowers is in its 
 glory. In lavish profusion the lilac wistaria hangs 
 its clusters over every wall, and the Banksia roses 
 mingle their golden blossoms with those of the 
 Florentine hawthorn, and throw their flower-laden 
 branches over parapet and gateway in every direction. 
 Then how beautiful is the mass of flowers arranged 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 267 
 
 on the great stone ledges of the Strozzi Palace, where 
 they smile at every passer-by, and tempt many a 
 centime from the purses of the English visitors! 
 Purple and white iris, carnations, tuhps and bouquets 
 of the pale tea-rose, are offered by the flower-dealers, 
 with bunches of lilacs and golden-brown wall- 
 flowers, making the air fragrant with their delicious 
 perfume. 
 
 The spring had been late even in the sunny 
 south, and the Florentines said that the flowers 
 were all a month behind their time. They made 
 up for it now by an excess of beauty and a more 
 lavish profusion than usual. After weeks of un- 
 certain weather, with chill winds coming down from 
 the Apennines, still in the higher ranges snow- 
 crowned, spring, which in temperature was like an 
 English summer, had burst forth, and Florence was 
 in its full beauty. 
 
 It had become familiar ground to Adelaide, and 
 no one ever entered more fully into the charm of 
 Florence than she did. For her there might in- 
 deed be said to be sermons in the stones of palaces, 
 convents and churches, and she would listen with 
 wonder to some of the English who frequented Lady 
 Anna's receptions, to whom all the memories and 
 associations so precious to her were a blank. 
 
 Many rush through the galleries and churches 
 in passing to Rome or Naples, and take away with 
 them a very faint impression of what they have seen. 
 Such people, however, let it be said, take away faint 
 
268 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 impressions from every place, whether Florence, 
 Naples, Berlin, or London. 
 
 It really makes very little difference to many 
 English and American tourists w^here they are ; 
 they have to ''do" the different cities, and say they 
 have " done them." And there is no doubt a certain 
 enjoyment in this race from city to city ; but, like 
 many other of the races such people run, when it is 
 over it is done with. 
 
 Of course, it is necessary to gather up a few 
 names and pronounce them properly. It is neces- 
 sary to distinguish Savonarola from Michael Angelo, 
 and not to get " mixed " with Dante and Petrarch ; 
 to learn a few Italian phrases and expressions ; to 
 be ready with " Chi lo sa " and " Molto bello," and 
 to pass for lovers of the '' faultless painter " and 
 Raphael. But it often amused Adelaide to hear 
 such remarks as Mrs. Ponsonby made, who with 
 Hester had joined the party in the Piazza d'Azeglio 
 in February. 
 
 Mrs. Ponsonby was far more interested in re- 
 tailing Dryborough gossip, and stories of Mr. Beau- 
 champ's increased illness and irascibility, and in a 
 novel from Vieusseux's Library, than in any visits 
 to Santa Maria Novella, San Marco, or the Bargello. 
 Then, though Mrs. Ponsonby drove through the 
 Piazza of the Annunziata nearly every day, she had 
 never seen the beautiful bambini in their swaddling 
 clothes, each in his separate medallion of pale blue, 
 each with his own expression, over the colonnade 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 269 
 
 before the Ospedale degli Innocenti. Then, too, the 
 beautiful front of the old Palazzo Bourtolin was lost 
 on her, though again and again she had stopped 
 there to pay a visit, with Lady Anna, to some 
 English residents in one of the spacious piani. 
 
 Florence was to Mrs. Ponsonby what it is to 
 hundreds of English visitors — a very agreeable place, 
 with old houses, and pictures, and pleasant drives. 
 But it was necessary to avoid the narrow streets, 
 for they were decidedly malodorous ; and though 
 Percival Clyffe insisted that she ought to see "the 
 little poky place where Dante lived, and the funny 
 little Church of San Martino," she was only anxious 
 to turn away — the odours were so disagreeable ! 
 
 It is hard to say which class of travellers and 
 residents in foreign countries are the most objec- 
 tionable — those who pretend to a deep interest in 
 everything, who make a business of their travels, 
 and stare at everything, whether they care for it or 
 not, marking each point of interest or picture in 
 their '' Hare " or '* Horner," and following a certain 
 routine with slavish precision ; or those who might 
 as well be at home, and who certainly have the 
 merit of a good-tempered, honest avowal, like Mrs. 
 Ponsonby's, " that she didn't care for dark, narrow 
 streets w^ith bad smells ; and that, though she liked 
 a drive by the Arno to the Cascine, she would be 
 quite as well pleased to be driving in Hyde Park in 
 Lady Anna's carriage." 
 
 Certainly to neither of these classes did Adelaide 
 
270 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 belong ; and, now she had Hester for a companion, 
 she had really much enjoyment in Florence, apart 
 from the mornings she passed at the studio, where 
 her progress was steady and assured. 
 
 " This is such a glorious day !" she said one 
 morning to Hester. " I shall take a hoHday, and 
 we will go out together, lunch at Cornelio's, and 
 have a good time. Shall we ?" 
 
 " I wish I could come, too!" Daisy said. '* Oh, 
 I wish I could !" 
 
 " It would be delightful if you could, darling," 
 Adelaide said ; '* but, now the weather is so beauti- 
 ful, you will soon lose your cough." 
 
 Daisy shook her head. 
 
 " I never had a cough so long before." But she 
 threw her arms round Adelaide's neck, and said : 
 " Don't, please, say anything about my cough, because 
 mother always says it was that day I was out after 
 sunset with father that gave me this cold. Please 
 remember ; and will you ask whether Giovanni can 
 come this afternoon and play to me ? Marietta can 
 bring him, can't she ?" 
 
 " I will ask Lady Anna's leave. I must not do 
 anything without consulting her." 
 
 " Oh ! here is Percy. Percy will do," Daisy ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 Percy came into the room with less of his jocund 
 light-heartedness than of old. 
 
 " Oh," he said, " I came to find out whether you 
 two girls would come with us to Prato to-day. 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 271 
 
 Mrs. Murchison is going to sketch there. Will you 
 come ?" 
 
 " No, thanks," Adelaide said ; *' I have just 
 arranged a holiday for myself and Hester. But 
 there is nothing to prevent you from going to Prato 
 if you prefer it, Hester." 
 
 " I would rather be with you, of course ; only — 
 won't you go to Prato ?" 
 
 " No. Still, do not let me hinder you if you wish 
 to go." 
 
 " Oh, very well," Percival said carelessly. " I 
 must be off, anyhow ; I am to meet the rest of the 
 party at the station. Good-bye. — What is it, Daisy ?" 
 
 " Percy, do please ask mother to let Giovanni 
 come here this afternoon — do !" 
 
 " All right — why shouldn't he ? I will go over to 
 the Piazza Cavour and order him to do so." 
 
 "Not order, Percy; ask Marietta or Lucia to 
 bring him. liyou do it, mother won't mind." 
 
 Percival stooped to kiss his little cousin ; then, 
 with an indifferent whistle, was gone. 
 
 Miss Cromwell now came with orders from Lady 
 Anna that Daisy was to go downstairs; for the 
 doctor was there. 
 
 '* Oh, dear, I do so wish mother would not have a 
 doctor so often !" Daisy said. But she submitted to 
 be wrapped in a large shawl, and, putting her hand 
 into Miss Cromwell's arm, she said : " You dear old 
 Protector ! you would not wrap me up so tight if 
 you had not to do it as your duty, would you ?" 
 
272 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 *' Wait, Miss Margaret" (it was Mrs. Gray's 
 voice) ; " you have not had your cod-Kver oil. You 
 must take it before you see her ladyship." 
 
 Daisy turned her head away. 
 
 " No, I canH, and I won't take it now ! It is 
 horrid, and I know does no good." 
 
 " You will get me into trouble if you don't take 
 it," Mrs. Gray said; "that's all. There, that is 
 Sam coming up, to see why you do not go down- 
 stairs." 
 
 Daisy hesitated a moment, and then opened her 
 mouth and swallowed the contents of the wine-glass 
 Mrs. Gray held to her lips. She shuddered at the 
 dose, which, however disguised, has always a certain 
 repulsiveness about it, to sensitive tastes like little 
 Daisy's. 
 
 "That's for your sake, Grayling" (her pet name 
 for her faithful nurse). " Now then. Protector, dear, 
 let's be off. Good-bye, Hester — good-bye, Adelaide," 
 Daisy said. 
 
 " Bless her ! Is not she too good for us — too 
 good for this world ? It's just as I said— she would 
 have been better at home. I am sure all last month 
 the winds were sharp enough to cut anybody's head 
 off! No wonder she got cold, dear lamb !" 
 
 " It is only a cold," Adelaide said. " We are just 
 as likely to get colds in Florence as in England." 
 
 " Rather more likely, so it seems," said Mrs. Gray, 
 turning away with a sigh. 
 
 " Don't you think Daisy looks very thin and 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 273 
 
 transparent ?" Hester said, as she and Adelaide left 
 the house together. ** I am certain her father is 
 anxious about her. What wonderful patience he 
 has ! I wonder how often we have heard him 
 lectured about after-sunset chills ! Cousin Anna 
 does not spare him." 
 
 " She spares no one/' Adelaide said ; " but her 
 heart is bound up in Daisy. I cannot imagine what 
 she would do if the child were taken from her." 
 
 " It would simply kill her," Hester said. 
 
 " Grief does not kill," was Adelaide's reply ; 
 " trouble either hardens or softens us ; it seldom 
 kills us, though it may kill the joy in us for 
 ever." 
 
 " How solemn you are all at once, Adelaide !" 
 Hester said. " I am sure I wonder how I bear my 
 troubles. I am brought out here by mother, in the 
 hope of making me forget Hugh ; it only makes me 
 care a hundred times more for him. As soon as he 
 has taken his degree I shall insist on having our 
 engagement acknowledged. Cousin Mary says there 
 could not be any objection then. I know you never 
 liked Hugh," Hester went on ; "you did not under- 
 stand each other. He thought you so awfully clever, 
 and I think he was afraid of you." 
 
 " What nonsense, Hester ! pray let us talk of 
 something pleasanter ; the idea of my cleverness 
 has, I hope, been blown away at Florence. If 
 I have learned nothing else here, I have learned 
 that I am a very ordinary person indeed." 
 
 18 
 
274 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 "Adelaide, you don't really think so?" Hester 
 said. 
 
 '' Well, I will be honest ; I think I have, perhaps, 
 more desire to gain knowledge and wisdom — which 
 is far more than knowledge — than many women of 
 my age, and I think I have enough smattering of 
 many subjects to quicken my longing for real culture. 
 But take my conceit about my pictures as an ex- 
 ample. It was ever so long before I could believe I 
 was unable to copy a picture like Lucia Campbell, 
 and — ah ! you don't know what that awakening cost 
 me. I have had other dreams too, which are fading 
 away, and the awakening from them will hurt me 
 more — far more !" 
 
 Hester's hand was on Adelaide's arm, and she gave 
 it a sympathetic pressure. 
 
 '' Do I know what you mean ? May I guess ?" 
 
 " No, don't attempt to guess — or to put into 
 words — what I am thoroughly ashamed of. Until 
 anyone has absolutely said they care for you, no one 
 has a right to think it is so. It is the same thing — 
 1 mean it comes from the same root — intolerable 
 self-conceit is the root, and bitter disappointment is 
 the fruit." 
 
 '' Oh, Adelaide !" Hester said, her round, child- 
 like eyes filled with sympathy ; " oh, Adelaide ! 
 when I first came to Florence in February I 
 thought you looked so happy, and so splendid. 
 It will all come right." 
 
 " It will all come right, because everything does," 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 275 
 
 Adelaide said. " Now shall we turn into San Marco ? 
 It is just the right morning to think of Savonarola, 
 sitting under the damask rose-tree in the cloister 
 garden, discoursing, when a young man, to many of 
 his younger brethren, who listened to him with the 
 utmost attention. It is good to think of him here, 
 making San Marco a school of painting in the service 
 of religion, making himself felt as a living power, as 
 Angelico was felt as an almost heavenly influence ! 
 And his hopes were not centred only in the narrow 
 limits of the convent, but reached out to the City 
 beyond. His words claimed attention — burning 
 words, which denounced sin in a manner terrible 
 to hear, and yet pleaded with the children with a 
 loving and tender earnestness ; and then the end — 
 the bitter end !" 
 
 Hester listened as Adelaide spoke, her enthusiasm 
 illuminating her face and making it beautifuL Sud- 
 denly she stopped : 
 
 " You can read it all in scores of books. Why 
 should I tell you what you can find in Mrs. Oliphant's 
 ' Makers of Florence,' and ' Villari ' and ' Romola.' 
 Come, let us go and look atFra Angelico's work in the 
 cells, and at Aw cell who is the master spirit here." 
 
 " But I like to hear you tell me everything," said 
 Hester; "and I do like to see your face light up as you 
 tell it. Reading is never half as good as listening." 
 
 But Adelaide had apparently changed her mood 
 now, and the two girls walked through the long line 
 of passages which divide the cells, on the walls of 
 
 18—2 
 
276 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 which are left the record of the Hfe work of the Fra 
 Angehco and his friend, the Fra Benedetto. 
 
 It is said that the Hves of many a creator of 
 beautiful things, whether poet, painter, or sculptor, 
 are often found to be painfully out of harmony with 
 their work. Perhaps, therefore, the great charm 
 which seems to linger round those tender, loving 
 Madonnas and Saints of Fra Angelico's creation, is 
 the certainty that his life of pure, devout retirement, 
 of gentle modesty, and meekness of disposition, was 
 in perfect accord with the scenes which his brush 
 has left recorded on the walls of San Marco. The 
 man who could not paint the agony of the Cross 
 without tears ; the man who, as he worked, prayed 
 that his work might please God ; who, pure in 
 heart, might well receive the blessing promised 
 to such by the Lord Himself; — surely all this is 
 shadowed forth in the ethereal beauty of his Saints, 
 who look down on the careless passers-by, as their 
 footfalls echo through the deserted corridors, and 
 seems to call upon those who admire the work to 
 give a thought to him who wrought it, as one whose 
 highest gifts were consecrated to God's service. 
 
 Adelaide silently pointed out here and there some 
 favourite fresco of her own, and it was not till they 
 reached Savonarola's cell that she spoke again. 
 
 *' Look, this is the prior's cell. I like to think that 
 these two frescoes were painted by Fra Bartolommeo, 
 when Savonarola had so stirred his soul within him 
 that he determined never to draw anything but sacred 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 277 
 
 subjects again. Can't you fancy Savonarola here in 
 his own Httle cell, after he had been moving the 
 hearts of thousands in the Duomo, coming here to 
 pray alone? When Florence loved him and well-nigh 
 worshipped him, how he knelt and asked for humility, 
 and when she had turned against him and he knew it, 
 how he prayed for patience and forbearance, and for 
 endurance even to death ? There must have been 
 many an unseen angel here strengthening him — for 
 he was faithful unto death. It is always so hard to 
 be forsaken by those whom you trust ; his great 
 heart must have gone nigh to breaking." 
 
 " I never thought of him before in this way," 
 Hester said. 
 
 "Yes, it is wonderful to think of him here. And in 
 the Duomo where he preached the evangelical doc- 
 trine in all its simple beauty," Adelaide said ; '' for the 
 piazza before San Marco used to be so thronged that 
 he was allowed to preach in the Duomo, where thou- 
 sands would go overnight to secure even standing 
 room." 
 
 " Adelaide," Hester said, " I sometimes wish, 
 don't you, that we could hear about God and His 
 love for the first time — I mean, we hear and don't 
 hear ; nothing seems greatly to impress us. There 
 are so few gifted people now who would give up 
 everything for God's service. And yet all this 
 religious fervour is thought by some old-fashioned, 
 and that it was suited to the time, and that now we 
 have grown beyond it — wiser and more enlightened. 
 I really wish — I do, indeed — that I could feel more 
 
278 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 about these things — be roused, you know, by some 
 Savonarola. Just think how we go on at Dry- 
 borough. We all go to church, and we are told to 
 be thankful for it." 
 
 "And so we ought to be," Adelaide said. 
 ** Savonarola was a reformer, and sounded the first 
 notes of the trumpet-call which was to break the 
 slumber of centuries, and bring the rehgion of Christ 
 to the people. It is this that the free circulation of 
 the Bible has done ; and with the word of God 
 came freedom from the fetters which had bound the 
 Church in misery and iron. The letter killeth, but 
 the spirit gives Hfe. It is that life that Savonarola 
 tried to kindle, and so did our own Reformers. We 
 must remember them with gratitude.'' 
 
 " I do not believe there is anyone now who would 
 die for his faith," Hester said. 
 
 "There are many who live for it. Since I came 
 to Florence I have known those who do this without 
 many words and profession, without telling everyone 
 what they feel. They show it by making their lives a 
 beautiful picture, just as Fra Angelico made his the 
 reflection of something above and beyond the world, 
 and so they beautify the common life of every day as 
 he beautified the bare walls of these cells, making 
 them evidence at once of his power and his faith." 
 
 " Do you mean Lucia Campbell ?" 
 
 "Yes; she is one, and Mr. Lysaght is another." 
 
 " Mr. Lysaght !" Hester said. " Has he ever 
 talked to you as you have been talking to me V 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 279 
 
 " Not often ; but sometimes, and to much better 
 purpose than I can ever hope to do." 
 
 They were out in the sunny streets again, out 
 into the common, everyday Hfe of the gay City of 
 Flowers, leaving behind them the solemn mysteries of 
 San Marco, and walking slowly towards the Duomo. 
 The sun was very hot, and they were glad to turn 
 into the shadow of the great church, where, by 
 contrast with the elaborate and dazzling beauty 
 of the exterior, the first impression is that of a vast 
 space, bare of any ornament, and with huge pillars 
 of a sombre hue. 
 
 Santa Maria dei Fiori seems to be an inappropriate 
 style and title for the interior of this grave, solemn 
 building. But when at high noonday the sun pours in 
 from the windows of the great dome and sends floods 
 of radiance over the space before the high altar, where 
 priests and choristers are gathered, there is no longer 
 a feeling of gloom, but of majestic beauty. 
 
 Within the circle, which is railed off from the 
 nave, and into which no laymen are admitted, the 
 great psalter and mass-books on the desks are lighted 
 by unseen candles, which are so placed as to throw 
 their light on the books, and thus make the words 
 and musical notes visible, for those who stand round. 
 
 Service was going on, and presently the gates of 
 this inner sanctuary were opened, and a long pro- 
 cession filed past, singing as they went round the 
 huge nave, and not in very harmonious tones. In 
 these processions it is always remarkable that while 
 
28o IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 some of the priests seem to be really in earnest, the 
 great proportion appear to be mere machines going 
 through a necessary exercise, as soldiers would go 
 through a drill, or carelessly looking about them, as 
 if it did not much matter how the function w^as 
 got through, so long as it was accomplished in the 
 right order and at the right time. 
 
 " The letter which killeth " seems to be written 
 on the ordinary services of the Church in Italy ; and 
 it is impossible not to see that fervent devotion seems 
 to rest with the people, rather than the priests. 
 
 Hester wandered about, looking at the monuments 
 and the side chapels, while Adelaide sat down and 
 gave herself up to her own thoughts. It was easy 
 for her imagination to fill that great church with the 
 seething crowds, who came to listen to the fervent 
 appeals of Savonarola, the women weeping and 
 touched even to the giving up of all their ornaments 
 to the burning pile, where poor Monna Brigida con- 
 signed her false tresses and the trinkets dear to her 
 heart ! Was not Hester right that no one would now 
 die for the faith — nay, would any give up all they 
 prized most of personal adornment, for conscience' 
 sake ? Was it, indeed, true that religion had lost the 
 quickening power of old, and that only the scaffolding 
 was left, and the real heart of the Church dead ? 
 
 There are many intelligent and earnest minds like 
 Adelaide's, perplexed and full of doubts as to the 
 reality of the faith professed so glibly by us English 
 Churchmen and women every Sunday — nay, every 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 281 
 
 week day. Do we indeed believe ? or is it only what 
 has been well called " a mechanical religion," which 
 is wound up like the large clock in the belfry tower, 
 and strikes its appointed round of hours with unfail- 
 ing regularity ? And then there came to Adelaide's 
 mind what Mr. Lysaght had said to her when, a 
 few weeks before, she had put such thoughts into 
 words ; and she recalled his very gesture and voice 
 as he met her doubts by several striking proofs that 
 faith lived, and that it was shining more, rather than 
 less brightly, than it had done centuries ago. 
 
 What was the key-note of such great benevolent 
 institutions as Miiller's Orphanage, dependent as it 
 was on the gifts of the faithful ? Mr. Lysaght had told 
 her of ornaments and jewels thrown into that good 
 work by the rich and the young, the noble and the 
 wealthy ; just as poor Monna Brigida had obeyed 
 the voice of Savonarola, and, with the women of 
 Florence, had thrown her precious things into the 
 fire for Christ's sake. Then he went on to speak of 
 Gordon and Hannington, of Father Damien, the 
 friend of the lepers, living on their island with them, 
 and many another whose watchword was " Deus 
 vult," who gave up their lives nor counted them 
 dear, for His sake in Whom they believed. 
 
 And when Adelaide had said there were so many 
 good works in our own country which were carried 
 on with zeal, and yet without any acknowledgment 
 of God's love in Christ, he answered her in the 
 words of a preacher of our own time, " that all the 
 
282 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 efforts made by music and painting, and beauty of 
 form and expression, to raise the soul to higher and 
 nobler things, to reform the masses of our crowded 
 cities, had no stability and no constraining power, 
 unless the form of the Son of God was recognised 
 and His Spirit sought for, to quicken and give life." 
 
 None of these thoughts troubled Hester. She 
 returned from her round of the church with the 
 small edition of Hare's " Florence " in her hand, and 
 said she really thought she had seen all she wanted 
 — where should they go next ? 
 
 " To the Bargello, if you like," and here Adelaide 
 was interrupted by hearing her name spoken by Mr. 
 Lysaght, the very person of whom she had been 
 thinking. 
 
 '' Miss Millington, I have been looking for you ! 
 I have come to say good-bye." 
 
 " I thought you were gone to Prato." 
 
 " No ; just as we were starting, I had a telegram, 
 which summons me to Cruttwell at once." 
 
 *'To Cruttwell ! Is Mr. Beauchamp dead ?" 
 
 " He is dying, and wishes to see me." 
 
 " Oh, poor Lady Mary !" " Poor Cousin Mary !" 
 came simultaneously from Hester and Adelaide. 
 
 Mr. Lysaght paused for a moment and looked 
 round him, round and up at the great dome, 
 through which the midday sun was still making 
 pathways of soft radiance. His dark, expressive eyes 
 looked full of intense earnestness, and no one, Adelaide 
 thought, could see his face, and think that faith was 
 
Statucasr in the Pat.azzo del Podesta, Florence. 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 283 
 
 dead. After standing for a few moments thus, he 
 turned and led the way silently down the cathedral 
 to the south door. As he did so a party of English 
 visitors were coming gaily along, laughing and talking 
 in their ordinary voices. 
 
 " What an ugly church it is inside," one said. 
 *' Just look what Hare says : Oh ! ' Pillars washed a 
 sombre brown.' Let us make haste ; there really is 
 nothing here." Then, in an audible voice : " I saw 
 that dark man at Paoli's this morning, didn't you V 
 
 *' No ; I didn't notice him." 
 
 And then they passed out of hearing. 
 
 '' It does jar one terribly to see the behaviour of 
 our own country-people in these churches," Mr. 
 Lysaght said, as they went out; "the English do 
 not appear to advantage in Italy ; less in the churches 
 than anywhere." 
 
 They were standing on the Piazza now, under 
 Giotto's Tower, the pigeons coming down in flocks 
 at their feet, their white wings shining like the 
 marble of the Facciata, or with breasts burnished 
 with many colours of emerald and purple, in the full 
 rays of the April sunshine. 
 
 Presently two English ladies came up, on whom 
 Lady Anna had called, and who were always very 
 anxious to cultivate the acquaintance. 
 
 *' Now, how fortunate we are to have met you !" 
 Mrs. Anderson exclaimed. *' Come home to luncheon 
 with us; we are quite near. Let us have the pleasure 
 of seeing you also, Mr. Lysaght." 
 
284 /^V THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " Oh, do come !" echoed her daughter. " It is so 
 frightfully hot standing here. Do come." 
 
 Mrs. Anderson and her daughter had permanent 
 rooms in the Palazzo Bourtolin, in the Via dei Servi, 
 and they seemed determined to take no refusal, but 
 led the way, their scarlet parasols swaying to the 
 right and the left, as they threaded their way through 
 carriages and omnibuses to the Via dei Servi, on the 
 opposite side of the Piazza. 
 
 *' I wanted to speak to you particularly," Mr. 
 Lysaght said, " before I start. Could you give me 
 a few minutes alone ? Perhaps after luncheon you 
 would leave your friend with Mrs. Anderson, and 
 come with me to the Piazza Cavour. I must tell the 
 Campbells that I am leaving Florence." 
 
 '' Have you seen Lady Anna ?" 
 
 " Yes. I went to the Piazza d'Azeglio to find 3^ou. 
 Percival came back after his unsuccessful attempt to 
 persuade you to join the party to Prato." 
 
 " Is Mrs. Murchison to remain behind ?" 
 
 " She cannot get ready for the journey to-day, and 
 I think she will probably stay at Florence till I can 
 tell her what I find at Cruttwell. I was sorry at first 
 when Clyffe came back without you ; now I am glad 
 you refused. I was just getting into the carriage when 
 the telegram was put into my hand. It seemed a pity 
 to disappoint the whole party, for there are several of 
 Theresa's friends, or rather acquaintances, from the 
 hotel gone also. So we retired and had a short 
 consultation, and then they drove to the station, and 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 285 
 
 I went to telegraph to Lady Mary, and then to the 
 Piazza d'AzegHo to tell Lady Anna." 
 
 They were at the door of the Palace now, and 
 Mrs. Anderson invited them to look into the garden, 
 which was a perfect wilderness of flowers — kept, 
 indeed, with more regularity than many Itahan 
 gardens ; but in that wild luxuriant growth of every 
 tree and flowering shrub, the trimness of our English 
 gardens is scarcely ever seen or desired. The 
 garden fills the quadrangle round which the palace 
 is built, and was on this bright day a blaze of colour, 
 with rhododendrons and Banksia roses, azalias and 
 cinerarias. 
 
 The rooms occupied by Mrs. Anderson were on 
 the third piano, and formed a perfect suite of sixteen 
 rooms, which were furnished with EngHsh comfort. 
 The luncheon was served with great taste, and 
 Hester, who was hungry after her long morning, did 
 it ample justice. 
 
 Mr. Anderson proposed a drive to Certosa after 
 luncheon, and it fell to Hester to accept the invita- 
 tion, as Adelaide said she had an engagement, and 
 Mr. Lysaght and she left the room together. 
 
 " Are those two engaged ?" Mrs. Anderson asked 
 of Hester. 
 
 " Oh no, certainly not." 
 
 " I hear Mr. Lysaght has a fine property coming 
 to him on the death of an uncle." 
 
 " Not an uncle," Hester said ; " a distant cousin.' 
 
 " I should think his sister will not allow him 
 
286 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 to marry until she has found a husband ; she is 
 evidently looking for one. I heard that that hand- 
 some young Englishman, Lady Anna's nephew, is 
 devoted to her." 
 
 '' Mother !" exclaimed Miss Anderson, seeing that 
 Hester did not seem to like this gossip ; " mother ! 
 Mrs. Murchison is devoted to everyone for a time. 
 It means nothmg." 
 
 " Then it ought to mean something, my dear. 
 Mrs. Murchison is extremely pretty, and, really, she 
 has such a flow of clever talk that I don't wonder 
 people are fascinated, and that she is popular. A 
 little fast, of course, and not likely to suit a person 
 like Lady Anna, who stands a good deal on cere- 
 mony — more than /do! But Mrs. Murchison is, I 
 hear, quite remarkably clever, and so well read and 
 cultivated !" 
 
 Mrs. Anderson was, as may be seen, a personage 
 who did not herself stand on much ceremony. She 
 considered it quite legitimate to ask questions about 
 the surroundings of Cruttwell, and Hester, always 
 simple and frank, gratified her curiosity. Mrs. 
 Anderson thus found herself in possession of many 
 interesting facts, which would be served up with 
 embellishments to some of her English cronies who 
 were in the habit of coming in for afternoon tea on 
 dull days, when there was nothing better to do. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson's gossip might be called harmless, 
 if idle words and eager interest in histories of other 
 people and their concerns can be called harmless. 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 287 
 
 But it is almost impossible for gossip to be altogether 
 innocuous. Very often the repetition of something 
 carelessly said of another has caused a life-long 
 separation, and left a sting little intended. 
 
 I wonder how many of the cold bows which 
 replace a friendly greeting — nay, even a direct cut 
 instead of a warm hand-clasp — might not be traced 
 in any society, whether in Florence or Cheltenham 
 or Bath, to some foolish repetition of what might 
 have been a very innocent remark, by one of the 
 Mrs. Andersons of the world ! And this from no 
 direct wish or intention of deliberate mischief- 
 making, but simply out of pure love of retailing 
 what someone has said of somebody else ! So many 
 half truths have thus done more real harm than a 
 wholesale lie, and there are many who are chafed 
 and annoyed by them, who cannot bring the offender 
 to justice. 
 
 It has been said truly, it would be a very dull 
 world if we might never talk of our neighbours and 
 friends ; and it is a little hard that we should 
 be obliged to be guarded in the particular circle 
 in which we move, if one or two people are 
 present who will, we know, be only too likely to 
 carry what has passed into another house, and re- 
 peat some remark, never intended for repetition. I 
 feel sure that we all know, when we have been saying 
 something about our neighbours' concerns, that, on 
 thinking over those who were present, we say of some 
 who were there that they are very unlikely to repeat 
 
288 IN THE CITY OF FIOWERS. 
 
 our perhaps incautious remark, while a pang of fear 
 thrills through us that one, or it may be two people 
 are almost sure to make use of our words. 
 
 Hester Ponsonby, as she reviewed her afternoon 
 with the Andersons, asked herself if she had too 
 freely answered questions as to whether Lady Anna 
 was an easy person to get on with ; whether it was 
 true that the doctors had but little hope of the delicate 
 girl's life ; whether Adelaide was always so reserved 
 and quiet as she had been at luncheon, and whether 
 there was really nothing between her and Mr. 
 Lysaght. 
 
 It was no use torturing herself with vain regrets 
 that she had not been more cautious, and, like many 
 bright unsuspecting girls, Hester could only inwardly 
 resolve to be more reticent in future. 
 
 When Mr. Lysaght and Adelaide reached the 
 Piazza of the Annunziata, Mr. Lysaght said : 
 
 " I know you will befriend the Campbells when I 
 am gone. Lucia is decidedly less able to get 
 through work than before her illness, and there is 
 something about her I do not understand. Poor 
 old Signor Maura shakes his head and looks 
 unutterable things when I meet him. That copy 
 of the Madonna del Gran Duca is hardly up to her 
 previous work, and she has been so long about it 
 that I expect the funds are getting low. If the 
 bread-winner fails what is to become of them all ? 
 If I am placed in a position to do so, I can help 
 them, and many others more effectually than I do 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 289 
 
 now — give a great deal more pleasure, and do with 
 thousands what I could not do with hundreds. You 
 know Cruttwell Manor well, I think?" 
 
 " Yes, I have lived at Dryborough the greater part 
 of my life, and probably shall return there in June 
 to spend the rest. I am beginning to long for the 
 dull old market-place and the quiet streets — above 
 all for my mother and the children. Since Hester 
 came it has been better." 
 
 ^'What has been better?" 
 
 *' I mean I have had some one to talk to of my 
 own people, and old times. Beautiful as Florence 
 is, I have often felt very lonely here. It was so new 
 to me to have no one to care about my poor 
 little doings — no one — it sounds very absurd," she 
 said, breaking into a laugh which was not quite 
 natural, " no one to admire my productions." 
 
 " I do not know whether this is the best place or 
 time to choose," he said, "but I am going away; 
 and who can tell what lies beyond any parting in 
 this world ? I have often longed to tell you — what 
 you must, I think, know without words — that it 
 would be my great happiness to make you happy. 
 While Cruttwell Court was only a distant vision, 
 and while there was the least chance of a report I 
 heard last year being true, I could not ask you the 
 question — which I have been often longing to ask : 
 has another been in the field before me ?" 
 
 " Please stop," Adelaide said, and Mr. Lysaght 
 was silenced by the tone of her voice, and the 
 
 19 
 
29b IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 pallor of her face. " Please do not say any more. 
 You have been such a good friend to me, and taught 
 me so much. But what you ask can never be. It 
 is very kind of you to think of it." 
 
 " ' Kind !' " — he repeated the word almost bitterly. 
 " Very well ; then I may conclude I am too late." 
 
 " I did not say so ! How can I say so ?" she 
 said, in a voice so much distressed. " Oh, do not 
 press me any more. I cannot bear it I" 
 
 Mr. Lysaght had a certain masculine obtuseness, 
 or he might have guessed Adelaide's secret sooner. 
 Now a light seemed breaking in upon him. Was it 
 possible that his sister had stolen away Adelaide's 
 happiness, by her foolish wiles ? Was it possible 
 that Percival Clyffe had deserted her for a woman 
 older than himself, towards whom as a brother Mr. 
 Lysaght felt a tender pity, but to whose vanity 
 and folly he could not be wholly blind ? He had, 
 it is true, noticed that Percival Clyffe had been 
 what might be called hanging about Paoli's Hotel, 
 making many excuses for visits — to sketch, to 
 practise a song, and so forth. He had once 
 touched upon the subject with his sister, who only 
 said : 
 
 '* Poor boy ! I am sure you cannot grudge him a 
 little amusement. It is so deadly dull in the Piazza 
 d'Azeglio, especially now the child is ill. Lady 
 Anna would drive me mad in a week if I had to live 
 with her. Poor Adelaide looks more and more Hke 
 Griselda come down from her monument — she does 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 291 
 
 not smile, though, but wears a solemn face of 
 calm endurance." 
 
 Mr. Lj^saght had not been satisfied, but he knew 
 well his sister's waywardness, and that to attempt to 
 pull her in one direction was the sure way of sending 
 her off at a tangent in the other. 
 
 Now, however, the whole truth flashed on him. 
 He was to lose Adelaide. He was to see her un- 
 happy, and to be denied the power of making her 
 happy, and all the time know that she was throwing 
 away her affection on one who was unworthy. He 
 knew his sister, as I have said, too well to think she 
 had any serious views about Percival Clyffe — he was 
 a string to her bow, and she would play upon another 
 as soon as it suited her. She had married when 
 ver^' young, and her husband had been ordered out 
 to take part in one of the "little wars" which make 
 so many dark blots on the history of this country, 
 and had fallen in that disastrous campaign which 
 cost the life of the gallant young Prince Imperial of 
 France — years ago, now — and the widow of twenty 
 summers was still a widow — who had never led a 
 settled life, and had really no friend or relative to 
 whom she could turn but her brother; he had con- 
 scientiously done his best to protect her, and in- 
 fluence her for good. 
 
 Mrs. Murchison's faults arose chiefly from excess 
 of vanity. She could not resist exercising her powers 
 of fascination on anyone who came near her — old 
 professors, learned schoolmasters, boys from college, 
 
 19 — 2 
 
292 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 nay, even from school ; even the irate Bostonian, as 
 she had foretold, was now reconciled, and had said 
 to his wife : 
 
 *' You bet that girl is a rare one to talk. She is 
 that learned it's quite alarming, and so fetching, too. 
 She told me a lot more about the grand fight we 
 made for independence than ever I knew before. 
 And she's a rare clever girl, talks like a book, and 
 sings hke a prairie-bird !" 
 
 This type of woman always manages to do a great 
 deal of mischief, and the heart-aches she causes are 
 manifold. 
 
 " I will not press you further," Mr. Lysaght said. 
 '' I beg your forgiveness for having said so much. 
 But rem.ember that if you want a friend you ma}' 
 count on me, and that I never change. It is wholly 
 impossible for me to change!" he repeated with 
 vehemence. 
 
 Adelaide walked on for a few paces in silence, and 
 then she said : 
 
 *' I think I had rather not go to the Campbells, 
 but go home. Little Daisy will be expecting me, 
 and we have come out of the way. You must turn 
 to the left, and I can go on to the Via Alfieri, and 
 be at home in five minutes." 
 
 "Very well," he said; " then we must say good- 
 bye." 
 
 " Addio," Adelaide said earnestly, "addio." 
 
 " The Italians think that implies a final parting," 
 he said, as he took her hand in his. " Surel}' it can- 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 293 
 
 not be that ? We shall meet again as friends, when 
 this has passed ?" 
 
 Tears were gathering in Adelaide's beautiful eyes, 
 and her voice faltered as she said : 
 
 '* A rivederci." 
 
 And so they parted — deep pain at both hearts — 
 pain which neither could really express, and which 
 Adelaide shrunk from acknowledging, though it 
 seemed to fill her with confusion. 
 
 She had loved Percival Clyffe too well. But had 
 she any real right to love him ? She went over 
 it all in her mind, for the hundredth time. Their 
 first meeting that night in the Park — his coming 
 with Lady Anna's letter in the pitiless storm — the 
 walk up to the Court, with the rain beating upon 
 the umbrella with which he shielded her so carefully 
 — all his bright, winning ways — his ringing laugh — 
 his tender care for little Daisy, when he first came to 
 Florence — all he had said to her, as they stood 
 looking out together on that gorgeous sunset from 
 the wall of Fiesole, and her words : " We can come 
 again." " Never again, never again," her heart now 
 said. "" Never again, as we then were." 
 
 That drive to Fiesole was, she now remembered, 
 the beginning of trouble. From that day she had 
 dated a change — the subtle change which, at first 
 hard to define, had too soon become evident — 
 a change she tried in vain to ignore, and cheat 
 herself into the belief that it existed only in her own 
 imagination — a change which many a woman has 
 
294 !N THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 felt creeping over some dear friendship, or dearer 
 love, and hidden in the depth of her heart the 
 pain, which, perhaps, is made the sorer because, 
 after all, strictly speaking, she has no right to feel it. 
 
 When Adelaide reached home she was going up- 
 stairs to what she considered her own territory when 
 the old butler stopped her : 
 
 *' Her ladyship wishes to see you, Miss Millington, 
 before you go upstairs." 
 
 Adelaide knew she must obey the summons at 
 once — disinclined as she felt to do so. 
 
 Lady Anna was not, as usual, seated at her writing- 
 table, but leaning back in a chair by the fire, which 
 was never discontinued, however bright and sunny 
 the weather might be. 
 
 *' I wanted to tell you," Lady Anna begun, " that 
 there has been a telegram from Mr. Beauchamp's 
 lawyer to Mr. Lysaght, requesting his immediate 
 return. I have had one also from dear Mary. You 
 can read it." 
 
 " The end is near now. Urge Mr. Lysaght to 
 start at once." 
 
 *' Have you seen Mr. Lysaght ?" Lady Anna 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes. He is leaving by the four o'clock train, 
 and will go straight through to London." 
 
 '' Grace Ponsonby wants to set off with him, 
 thinkin she would be a comfort to my sister, but 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 295 
 
 I know she would rather be alone, poor darling! 
 I could not leave my Daisy now, or I would go to 
 her. I am miserably anxious about Daisy!" 
 
 It was the mother speaking now, out of the fulness 
 of her heart. 
 
 " Yes, I am miserably anxious ! What do you 
 think ? I know Percival tries to put anxiety 
 aside, but her father is even more depressed than I 
 am. She gets thinner every day, and then the cough ! 
 She never had a cough before — never — except the 
 whooping-cough. I must really try and get a 
 London man to come out to Florence, if there is 
 not some improvement soon. What are a few 
 hundred pounds to us in comparison with her health, 
 or, I may say, her life ?" 
 
 Adelaide was never quick in expressing her 
 feehngs, and yet she did long to say something to 
 comfort Lady Anna. She felt powerless to do this, 
 and therefore was silent. At that moment the door 
 opened quickly, and Percival Clyffe came in. 
 
 ''Back from Prato already!" Lady Anna said, 
 gathering up something of her usual manner. 
 
 " Yes, we saw enough ; it is a poor place after 
 all ; and of course Mrs. Murchison wanted to see 
 Lysaght before he starts. I am going to the station 
 myself to see the last of him. It is a pity you did 
 not come. Miss Millington," he said carelessly. 
 *' Now, am I driving you away ?" For Adelaide had 
 risen, and was leaving the room. He sprang forward 
 to open the door for her, as she said indifferently : 
 
296 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 "You have had a lovely day for Prato!" and then 
 she was gone. 
 
 " You used to be on very friendly terms with 
 Adelaide Millington, Percy. You have quarrelled 
 lately, I think." 
 
 "Quarrelled!" he said sharply; "I never quarrel 
 with anybod}^ it is too much trouble ; and she is the 
 last person to have a quarrel with, because, you 
 know, it takes two to make one." 
 
 " What do you think about Mr. Beauchamp ?" 
 
 " He will die now to a certainty, and Lysaght will 
 come in for the place." 
 
 " Unless that report is true." 
 
 " Oh, that is all over. It was mere suspicion ; 
 and, though I dare say Lysaght, with his stiff ideas of 
 justice, will advertise, and go on trying to get at 
 some clue, he will never find one. He is, as I told 
 you long ago, a real good fellow, a trifle too strait- 
 laced and superior, but he is very good all the same. 
 Daisy does not seem very bright. Aunt Anna," 
 Percival said, changing the subject abruptly. 
 
 " No, indeed, I am very unhappy about her. She 
 was exposed to that sunset chill, and this is the 
 result." 
 
 " She had a cough before that," Percival said. 
 
 For Mr. Cowper-Smith now came into the room, 
 looking troubled and anxious. 
 
 " I have been with Peggy, my dear," he began. 
 " She is very feverish, a spot of crimson on her 
 cheek, and her eyes so bright." 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 297 
 
 "What is to be done?" Lady Anna exclaimed. 
 " Shall we return to London at once." 
 
 ''That will never do ; the east winds are so sharp 
 there ; then there is the journey to get through," 
 and Mr. Cowper-Smith sighed heavily. 
 
 Percival tried to say an encouraging word, but his 
 heart failed him. He left the father and mother 
 alone, and went up the stone stairs to the other 
 piano with a quick step. 
 
 Daisy was in her low easy-chair, and Adelaide 
 seated on a stool at her feet. The child's hand was 
 round Adelaide's neck, as she pressed her head 
 against her knee. Adelaide did not raise her head 
 when Percival went in, but Daisy sighed out : 
 
 " Oh, Percy ! it is such a long time since 3'ou came 
 to have * tea and talk ' with me ! You don't care 
 to come and " 
 
 " Nonsense, Daisy ; I care to come very much, 
 but I can't stop now, for I am going to the station 
 to see Mr. Lysaght off for England." 
 
 " I wish we were going to England," Daisy said 
 fretfully. "Oh dear, I do wish we were ! We haven't 
 all been happy at Florence. Adelaide isn't happy, 
 and you are not exactly happy. You are always in a 
 hurry now, and always going with 'friends' some- 
 where, and when you first came to Florence what 
 nice times we had here — Adelaide making tea, and 
 the Protector making toast, and " 
 
 Percival stooped over the back of the chair, and 
 kissed Daisy's hot cheeks. 
 
298 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ''We'll have plenty more nice times," he said. 
 *' Have you a head-ache, Miss Millington ?" 
 
 Poor Adelaide had kept her head buried in Daisy's 
 lap, for she knev^^ there were traces of tears on her 
 face. 
 
 She sprang up now^, and said : 
 
 " No, thanks. I am lazy, I think. I took a 
 holiday to-day with Hester, and it has proved more 
 tiring than a long morning^s work at the studio." 
 
 '' You had better have come to Prato, as I asked 
 you. We had some fun out of that old Bostonian ; 
 his remarks and lectures on Art generally, and the 
 frescoes at Prato in particular, were very instructive ; 
 it was a joke 1" 
 
 " I don't think it is kind to make fun of people, 
 Percy," Daisy said. "It might hurt their feelings, 
 you know." 
 
 " My dear child, happily for the world, we don't 
 allow feelings to have anything to do with our 
 enjoyment, or interfere with it. In other words, we 
 have to be thankful for thick skins, that are proof 
 against barbed arrows." 
 
 '' I don't understand," Daisy said. But Percival 
 was gone. 
 
 " Adelaide," Daisy said thoughtfully, " something 
 is wrong with Percy. What is it ? He is so very 
 different from what he used to be. I wish he did not 
 go about so much with Mrs. Murchison. Miss Crom- 
 well says he is running after her." 
 
 '' Miss Cromwell should not gossip," Adelaide said. 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 299 
 
 " I am SO tired," Daisy sighed. " I wish you would 
 sit in the chair, and take me in your arms, like father 
 does. Father has been here an hour, and he does 
 sigh so. I can't make him laugh ; and he used to tell 
 me such funny tales of the days when he was a little 
 boy, and lived with a cross old aunt in Ironstown." 
 
 Adelaide laid aside her hat and jacket, and then 
 took the arm-chair, and Daisy crept into her arms. 
 She was very quiet for a few minutes. Adelaide 
 hoped she was asleep, for Mrs. Gray gave bad 
 accounts of her restless nights, and broken, troubled 
 sleep. 
 
 But presently Daisy said : 
 " Adelaide, do you think I am going to die ?" 
 " I hope not, darling. We could not spare you." 
 ''That's not an answer," she said. '' I am going 
 to tell you something. I think I am going to die, 
 and — and I should like to live and get well, and be 
 a comfort to dear father, because he thinks he made 
 me ill that day when it was so cold, and I had not 
 my fur cape — that day in the Cascine, you know — 
 you remember ?" 
 
 " Yes," Adelaide said ; " yes, I remember." 
 *' But if I am to die, I don't think I am afraid. 
 I feel Someone near to help and comfort me. I don't 
 think He will forget poor little me, when I am going, 
 and then — oh, there will be such rest on the other 
 side, won't there ?" 
 
 Adelaide pressed the child closer ; she could not 
 trust herself to speak. 
 
300 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " Adelaide, I love Percy very — ver}^ much. He 
 has been so kind to me ; and I thought you liked 
 him, and I did think he liked you. He used to talk 
 to me about you, when he first came to Florence, 
 and always called you, in Italian, ' Adelaide !' and he 
 made poor Antonio play that song on the violin, and 
 said he was jealous of Mr. Lysaght, because he could 
 sing it — ' Adelaide.' Well," Daisy went on, " I can- 
 not think why lately it has been different ; I can't, 
 indeed. I should so like you and Percy to love each 
 other, especially when I am gone away." 
 
 " Daisy darling, please do not say this to anyone 
 but me — promise !" 
 
 " I think I shall say it to Percy," she whispered. 
 
 " No, Daisy, you must not. If you love me, you 
 will not." 
 
 " Very well," the child replied — ** very well. 
 Things puzzle me so much ; I lie and think of them 
 at night, as I turn and twist about, and I don't get 
 them straight. Some people so rich, like father and 
 mother, and some so poor ; and some people caring 
 for nothing but fine things, and always laughing and 
 making jokes, like Mrs. Murchison, and others work- 
 ing hard, with no time to please themselves. And 
 then people who ought to like each other don't : oh ! 
 it is dreadfully puzzling." 
 
 " Yes, Daisy, it is puzzling, I know ; but the only 
 thing is to hold very fast to the faith that God — 
 who is a God of love — knows best, and that He 
 guides us all in the best way." 
 
PROBLEMS HARD TO SOLVE. 301 
 
 It was so seldom that Adelaide ever spoke thus, 
 that Daisy raised her head, and said : 
 
 " I am glad you think like that. Do you know, 
 people don't seem to like to speak of God and His 
 love, and I ihonght you didn't. Now I can talk ever 
 so much more to you — now that I know you think of 
 Him. I think of Him so much, perhaps, because I 
 have led a very different life from girls of my age. 
 I have been taken such care of, and kept apart from 
 others, so that I have had time to think : and I do 
 believe the Lord loves me, and it is so nice to think 
 you understand." 
 
 Adelaide felt self-reproved, as she thought how 
 alone in her deepest feelings this child had been. 
 Only a few months ago she could not have responded 
 to Daisy as she did now. Her life, too, though after 
 a very different fashion, had been self-contained and 
 self-absorbed. She had been led by a wa}^ she knew 
 not, and awakened from that dreamlike existence, 
 which, whether in the pursuit of intellectual studies, 
 or culture in art or music, has no less self for its aim 
 and end than excessive vanity, and engrossment with 
 dress and adornments for the person or the house ; 
 or that thirst for admiration and popularity which 
 characterises women like Mrs. Murchison — who 
 flutter about the world, thinking only how young 
 they can be thought to be, or how pretty, or how 
 fascinating ; passing off as much of the " base coin " 
 for silver in their conversation on subjects about 
 which they really know nothing, and have thought less. 
 
302 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " It is very hard for me not to be selfish," Daisy 
 went on, after a pause, "because everyone tries to 
 make me selfish. But v^hen I think how the Lord 
 never, never pleased Himself, I am ashamed, and 
 tell Him that I long to be hke Him, and that, if I 
 live to be a woman, I will do as much as I can for 
 Him by helping others. And if I don't live I am 
 going to write down in a book all I want dear father 
 to do. I have begun it, only I don't wish anybody 
 to know. You won't tell, will you, Adelaide ?" 
 
 " No, dearest — no, I will tell no one." 
 
 " I am cross to poor mother sometimes ; I was 
 this afternoon, when she came up with patterns for 
 a new dress, and asked me which colour I would 
 have. I don't want a new dress— I've heaps ; and I 
 said so. Then she didn't look angry, as she does 
 sometimes, but so miserable, and she went away so 
 quickly." 
 
 Adelaide understood, now, how it was that she had 
 found Lady Anna in such bad spirits on her return, 
 and felt more sympathy with her than she had 
 ever felt before. Perhaps there is nothing so hard 
 to meet as the growing conviction, which will not be 
 put aside, that one who is as the light of our eyes 
 is going from us, and that all our hopes, so confi- 
 dently expressed, and so fondly cherished, are fading 
 away, and a dreary sense of coming loss taking their 
 place. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 DISCLOSED. 
 
 "Lucia! Lucia!" exclaimed Madame Campbell; 
 *' where have you been so late ? The signer has been 
 here with great news to take leave of you, and waited 
 till he dare wait no longer. He is gone to England." 
 
 "Yes," Marietta said; "he is gone, for he was 
 sent for to the old gentleman who is dying, so he 
 thinks, to hear of his estate." 
 
 " Lucia !" — it was Giovanni's more gentle and 
 musical voice — " the signor left you a message, and 
 I was to tell you he was sorry — grieved not to see 
 you. His voice was sad, very sad ; and you are not 
 to work too hard any more. Lucia, come nearer;" 
 and Giovanni drew his sister's head down on a level 
 with his lips and whispered, " The signor cares for 
 you and for us as no one else ever did or can ; and 
 I think he is sure to come back." 
 
 " He will never come back," Lucia said ; " no, it 
 is over now. I must have time to think," she said, 
 half to herself, half aloud — " time to think." 
 
 " What have you been doing, Lucia ?" said her 
 mother sharply. " Two rich ladies from America 
 
304 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 have been here, asking for you to paint a large screen 
 for them, with the picture of the Ponte Vecchio on 
 one panel, and the tower of Giotto on another. 
 They must see you to-morrow. Their address is on 
 this card. Now, Lucia, wake up, and be thankful ; 
 they will pay a large sum. Do you hear ?" 
 
 '' Yes, mother ; I hear," Lucia said. " I have 
 been with poor Signor Maura some time. I think 
 he is faiHng fast. I am returning to him before 
 night to take to him some of the jelly Giovanni did 
 not eat.'' 
 
 ^' Poor old man!" said Madame Campbell. "You 
 want the jelly yourself." 
 
 *' Yes," said Marietta, yawning. " I do not think 
 poor people can help poor people, and I am sure 
 Signor Maura is a cross old creature." 
 
 " He is a true friend to me," Lucia said ; and 
 then she refused any of the coffee and rolls put aside 
 for her, and went into her own room. 
 
 We saw her there before, and know that in the 
 old oak cupboard were the letters which were the 
 confirmation of her brother's claim to Mr. Beau- 
 champ's estate entailed on male heirs. Poor blind 
 Giovanni ! How strange to contemplate the change 
 for him and for them all ! But it was not this that 
 was the prominent thought in Lucia's mind. Their 
 benefactor and friend, who had raised her out of the 
 depths of despondency when her health failed, who 
 had been like a new and bright element in her life — 
 this was to be the return for all he had done ! They 
 
DISCLOSED. 305 
 
 were to stand between him and his inheritance, 
 and it was left to her to disclose the fact that Mr. 
 Beauchamp's son had left a grandson who was heir 
 to Cruttwell Court and all it contained. 
 
 Lucia stood with the box in her hand where these 
 important letters lay, and the thought flashed through 
 her mind that after all she need not tell anyone of 
 their existence. The secret had been so well kept — 
 her father's condition when he confided these letters 
 to her had been so pitiable — after all, half he had 
 written might not be true. He had been scarcely 
 responsible for his words or actions ; and if it had 
 not been for her mother's often-expressed hope that 
 the children's future was provided for by her hus- 
 band's father, Lucia might have been almost tempted 
 to look upon the whole as a delusion. Then, as she 
 again read the letter addressed to herself, the 
 command seemed binding. She must at once take 
 the necessary steps, and let Mr. Lysaght know of 
 the existence of the letters. 
 
 The letter addressed to her, written in an irregular, 
 straggling hand, which she had read a few weeks 
 before, was as follows: 
 
 '* I commit to the care of my daughter Lucia 
 Beauchamp (Itahan,Campobello; AngUce, Campbell) 
 a statement of my separation from the worst of 
 fathers. I have towards him no feeling of kindness. 
 When I went to him to announce my marriage to 
 my wife Antonia, ncc Bellini, and asked to be for- 
 
 20 
 
3o6 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 given, as I meant to reform, he spurned me from 
 him, he felled me to the ground, and he cursed me 
 with fearful curses. Had he relented to me, I might 
 then have been saved. Too late now, too late ! 
 But I charge my good child Lucia, always trust- 
 worthy, to retain the sealed packet till she hears of 
 the death of this old man. She will see it in the 
 English papers, or she will hear it in some way. 
 The old man, after twelve years, married a woman 
 with a title. Poor soul ! I pity her. There are no 
 children ; I know so much. But, as set forth in this 
 sealed packet, there is an heir, the son of a second 
 son of an old Beauchamp, of Cruttwell Court, whose 
 father took a second name with a wife, who brought 
 him money, and by that name he is called. But he 
 holds Beauchamp, added to this name, L " 
 
 Here a large smear had been made, and the name 
 was illegible ; but Lucia knew it too well. 
 
 What followed was a wandering, incoherent story 
 of his wrongs and his continued poverty, with a 
 feeble acknowledgment of Lucia's patience and kind- 
 ness to him in his illness ; a weak lamentation over 
 the curse that had fallen on his boy, and that no 
 one was to be trusted but Lucia, and that he had 
 chosen her to act for him. 
 
 Finally, no application was to be made to the old 
 man in his lifetime. He would rather die of star- 
 vation — see them all die — than take alms from 
 him ! 
 
DISCLOSED. 307 
 
 What an inheritance for children's children, even 
 to the third and fourth generation, is left by those 
 who hate God and persist in rebellion against Him ! 
 It is a bitter harvest indeed, to be gathered in by 
 the innocent — a harvest which has been sown by a 
 guilty hand ! In cases like poor Lucia's and her 
 blind brother's it may truly be said, " One soweth, 
 and another reapeth." 
 
 Lucia had never seen her father and mother 
 exchange any tenderness or kindness. Her mother 
 had married her father believing he was a rich man, 
 and that he would raise her to a position very superior 
 to that of a public singer in second-rate concert- 
 halls, and her disappointment had embittered her. 
 Naturally mean and self-seeking, she never forgave 
 the deception practised on her, and after much 
 mutual recrimination, followed by complete estrange- 
 ment, the wife went one way and the husband 
 another. And, as we have seen, the husband be- 
 came a victim in mind and body to intemperance, 
 drinking and gambling away his mother's small 
 fortune till he was dependent, in his half-imbecile 
 state, on his wife's and Lucia's earnings for his very 
 existence. 
 
 Lucia's had been a sad and troubled life, and yet 
 how she had risen above it — how she had nobly 
 supported her mother, Marietta, and Giovanni by 
 continuous work, for which, it seemed, she received 
 but little in return ! 
 
 " What I do must be done at once," she said, as 
 
 20 — 2 
 
3o8 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 she put the letters into her pocket and determined 
 at once to go to consult Adelaide and find out Mr. 
 Lysaght's present address, feeling that the safety of 
 the packet was of the greatest importance. 
 
 Never, surely, were feelings more mixed than poor 
 Lucia's as she passed through the large room again, 
 and Antonio said, in a complaining tone : 
 
 " Marietta would not take me to play to the little 
 signora to-day, though the EngHsh signor came for 
 me. I know, if you had been here, you would have 
 taken me. Marietta is so cross !" 
 
 " Indeed I am not going to the Piazza d'Azeglio to 
 be treated like a servant!" Marietta said, roused 
 to some energy of expression by her wounded pride. 
 " Not I ! The mother does not wish it." 
 
 " No, indeed ! You are born of a noble name in 
 England, and I have determined to go there this 
 coming summer, and use my endeavours to find out 
 where your grandfather is. I will make him repen- 
 tant — see if I don't !" 
 
 '' You don't even know grandfather's name, 
 mother," said Marietta fretfully. " Why do you 
 talk such folly?" 
 
 " Name ! I know our name, I hope — a good 
 English name, Campbell— in Italian, Campobello ; 
 but you know I forbid you all to say Campobello. 
 It was only your father's foolishness. Ah me ! what 
 a poor, silly woman I was to marry him ! He is 
 dead and gone, but the saints only know what he 
 wasl" 
 
DISCLOSED. 309 
 
 " Mother !" Lucia exclaimed ; '' he was our father. 
 Do not speak so." 
 
 She had been putting the jelly into a cup, and 
 placing it, with some of Liebig's beef-tea, in a little 
 basket, saying to Giovanni : 
 
 " You will like poor Signer Maura to have some of 
 your good jelly, caro mio ?" 
 
 *' Yes ; but do not stay long away from me, Lucia 
 mia. And will you take me to the httle signora 
 to-morrow ?" 
 
 " Yes, if you are wished for, carissimo. And now, 
 a rivederci !" 
 
 She kissed his forehead, and was soon crossing 
 the piazza to the Via di Pinti, where, in the topmost 
 piano of a tall, dark-browed house, Signor Maura 
 lived — a house once inhabited by people of distinc- 
 tion, as seen by the medallion by Luca della Robbia 
 over the large open door, and by the faded frescoes 
 on the walls. 
 
 Lucia mounted some eighty stone steps, till she 
 reached the door, upon which was painted — 
 
 " Andrea Maura, Pittore." 
 
 Lucia's gentle tap was recognised, and the door 
 was opened, and she was admitted into the large, 
 comfortless room where the poor old man lived. 
 Everything around him told of decay and past 
 glories of some ancient family. The proportions of 
 the room were fine, and the ceiling was painted 
 with a smiling company of floating Cupids with their 
 
3IO IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 little bows bent, taking aim with arch smiles at a 
 recumbent Venus and attendant nymphs, who were 
 the centrepiece of the fresco. 
 
 The tall mantelpiece was carved elaborately, and, 
 though broken and defaced, had still some beauty 
 left. A few dying embers of charred wood were on 
 the wide hearth, and the old man had drawn his couch 
 near, and was sitting crouched upon it in one corner. 
 
 There was not much else in the room. A stool 
 and a broken carved oak chair ; a chest and an old 
 easel on which was a canvas, while several more 
 were standing against the wall, from which some 
 rags of ancient tapestry hung disconsolately. A 
 cupboard (which ought to have had two doors, but 
 had lost one, now lying on the floor), held the few 
 articles of crockery, which, few as they were, were 
 more than was needed. 
 
 The windows were high, and only by standing on 
 the deep window-seat could anything be seen, and 
 then the view was only of the roofs of houses and 
 palaces, Giotto's tower and the Palazzo Vecchio ap- 
 pearing like sentinels over the irregular gabled roofs. 
 
 There was something infinitely pathetic in the 
 resignation of the old man. He lived in his past, 
 he believed in his past, and the picture on the easel 
 was the last he had painted before he was disabled. 
 No wants can be fewer than those of an Italian like 
 Signor Maura. A hard-boiled e^g after the fashion 
 of Donatello's, a little salad, and a roll were enough 
 for his daily needs, and he never complained. 
 
DISCLOSED. 311 
 
 But lately Lucia had noticed a visible decline of 
 strength, and he had no inclination to descend those 
 multitudinous stairs oftener than was absolutely 
 necessary. The galleries knew him no more ; and 
 had it not been for Lucia's ministry of love, he 
 would have been helpless indeed. 
 
 *' Ah, ah ! cara mia," he said, as Lucia came into 
 the room ; ' back again. Now take breath, take 
 breath. The young should not mind a climb, only 
 the old." 
 
 " I have brought you some beautiful jelly, signor, 
 made for my brother. He likes you to have it." 
 
 " Very kind ; but I do well without it. I am only 
 tired and weak ; that is all. But I have been saying 
 to myself, since you left me, the time is come to tell 
 you that when my death happens I leave you all — all 
 my pictures. You may sell some, not all ; but some 
 will be a help. Unlike many, they are original, 
 composed by myself. Do you hear ?" 
 
 Yes ; Lucia heard, and rallied herself to thank 
 him. 
 
 *' It is kind and noble of you, signor," she said. 
 
 '' You have never seen them ; that one on the easel 
 — my last, my last ; I keep it with its face turned 
 to the easel. It is not for common eyes ; but you 
 may look now. Go to the easel and look. Then 
 express to me your sentiments — freely, remember, 
 freely. It was my last work — the portrait of one I 
 called Madonna, Madonna, the fairest and most 
 beautiful lady, who died at Florence in her youth — a 
 
312 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 young English signora. She lies in the old cemetery, 
 and I will tell you her name, but to no one else. 
 She had a little dark-eyed boy ; he is in her arms. 
 Now turn it and look." 
 
 Lucia did as he desired, and felt that his eyes 
 were upon her as she stood before the easel. 
 
 " The first eyes that have looked on it," he 
 murmured, " for thirty — yes, thirty years — the first. 
 And when I die it is yours, Lucia. My possession 
 more precious than jewels, for is not art priceless ?" 
 
 Lucia's heart sank within her as she looked at 
 the faintly shadowed figure of a woman, if young and 
 beautiful in life, certainly neither young nor beautiful 
 in the picture ; poorly drawn, poorly painted, without 
 any artistic merit whatsoever ; the boy, with his 
 dark eyes, the most distinctive feature of the picture, 
 but wofully out of all proportion with his mother. 
 What could Lucia say ? Her eyes filled with tears, 
 and she stood motionless before her poor old friend's 
 lost ideal. It was true, then, that he never had 
 painted ; that the loss of his right arm had only 
 perhaps saved him from bitterer pain in the constant 
 labour which could never have been rewarded by 
 either praise or money. For who would buy a pale, 
 almost unintelligible, portrait like that of his dear 
 signora and her child ? 
 
 " Ah," he said from his corner by the hearth ; 
 " ah, you see now what I could do. Did you ever 
 divine it before ? You see now why I have so often 
 bid you take care of your high lights, and that your 
 
DISCLOSED. 313 
 
 shadows were too forcibly marked ; you see now, 
 Lucia mia ; and all will be yours when I am dead 
 and gone. I have nothing else to leave you, my 
 brave one. This is my all, and it is yours. Turn 
 the picture back. The time for other eyes to see it 
 is not yet, not yet." 
 
 Lucia was thankful that the old man's meandering 
 talk saved her from having to say anything. She 
 turned the canvas with the face of the picture to 
 the easel, and going back to the couch, knelt down 
 by the old man and kissed his withered hand, saying 
 only, " Tante grazie, tante grazie, signor mio." 
 Then she put another faggot on the fire, placed on 
 it the little tin saucepan, in which she had put some 
 of Giovanni's beef-tea to heat, and putting the cup 
 and saucer, both cracked and chipped, on a shelf 
 by the side of the hearth, left Signor Maura with a 
 promise of return on the morrow. 
 
 She had, perhaps, entertained some idea of laying 
 her own story before him when she had entered the 
 room. She had no such intention now. He was too 
 drowsy to take in anything she said — too drowsy and 
 too much occupied with the gift he was bestowing — 
 the legacy he would leave her. So she left him in the 
 dim shadows of declining day — so meet an emblem 
 of his declining life — and bent her steps towards the 
 Piazza d'Azeglio to find in Adelaide the sympathy for 
 which her soul hungered. 
 
 It was getting late when she reached the door, and 
 a carriage with some fashionably-dressed ladies had 
 
314 A'V THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 just driven up, as Mrs. Ponsonby and Hester were 
 starting to dine with a remote connection at the Hotel 
 de la Grande Bretagne. Lady Anna's heart might be 
 heavy, but that would not interfere with her receiving 
 her English acquaintances, as she had arranged, at 
 dinner. 
 
 " It will not be necessary, dearest," she had said 
 to Mr. Cowper-Smith, '^ to let anything drop about 
 Mr. Beauchamp's condition. He may rally — and, 
 indeed, I think it is very probable that he will ralty." 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith's sigh — which had brought 
 Lady Anna's remark, as they were together in the 
 drawing-room about seven o'clock — had not been 
 caused by the thought of Mr. Beauchamp's ap- 
 proaching death. His child — his darhng child — 
 was ever in his thoughts, and he did not know how 
 to meet the ordeal before him of a long-drawn-out 
 dinner and longer drawn-out platitudes from the 
 husband and wife, and their son and daughter, who 
 were now announced by Fielding as Lord and 
 Lady Herbert Donegal, and Mr. Edward Mosstyn, 
 and Miss Geraldine Mosstyn. 
 
 Almost simultaneously Percival Clyffe appeared to 
 claim kinship with his Irish cousin of the hundredth 
 degree, and Adelaide, in her ruby-velvet, followed. 
 
 Percival had done his best to get his aunt to invite 
 Mrs. Murchison, but he had not succeeded. How 
 could he think of impossibilities — a little dinner-table 
 of eight people with a ninth ? What would Fielding 
 say? And, besides, Mrs. Murchison would be 
 
DISCLOSED. 315 
 
 offended at a short invitation. The Irish lord and 
 lady were good-natured, free-spoken people, with a 
 decidedly strong Irish accent, and voices pitched in 
 a resonant key. The son and daughter had toned 
 down their voices, and the brogue was scarcely per- 
 ceptible in Miss Mosstyn, and hidden by a drawl and 
 studious avoidance of the letter " r " by Mr. Mosstyn. 
 He used an eye-glass with great freedom, dropping it 
 and resuming it at intervals, and both he and his 
 sister looked cursorily and supercihously at Adelaide, 
 as Lady Anna introduced her. 
 
 Perhaps Lady Anna a little regretted that Mrs. 
 Murchison had not been bidden as a guest when, 
 just as the first course was over, and Adelaide was 
 trying to listen to an involved statement Mr. Mosstyn 
 was making about the first visit he had made to the 
 Uffizi, in which he said he thought the greater part 
 of the collection was " wubbish, and weally not 
 worth the twouble of looking at " — Fielding, with a 
 very grave face, bent over Adelaide, and said : 
 
 " The young artist lady whose brother plays the 
 violin, Miss Millington, wants to see you on very 
 particular business." 
 
 ''Would you ask her to wait?" Adelaide said, 
 unpleasantly conscious that Lady Anna's eyes were 
 upon her. 
 
 Fielding departed, but as he handed Adelaide the 
 first entree, he said : 
 
 "The young lady says it is about a letter of im- 
 portance for the post." 
 
3i6 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Poor Adelaide ate her entree, and sat on thorns for 
 another five minutes. Then she made a great effort, 
 and looking at Mr. Cowper-Smith, next whom she 
 sat, and who was doing his best to laugh at Lady 
 Herbert's jokes, she said : 
 
 " Will you ask Lady Anna to excuse me ? Some- 
 one is waiting to speak to me on very important 
 business." 
 
 " It's not the child ! — it's not Peggy who is worse ?" 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith said hurriedly. 
 
 " No — oh no ; it is Lucia Campbell, who is very 
 anxious to see me. May I go ?" 
 
 " Yes — yes, certainly." 
 
 And as Adelaide slipped away, Mr. Cowper-Smith 
 said: 
 
 " My dear. Miss MiUington begs you to excuse her. 
 Someone wants to speak to her." 
 
 Lady Anna bowed, but she did not smile, and 
 murmured, " Extraordinary !" but made no further 
 remark. 
 
 Percival Clyffe felt strangely curious, and said 
 audibly : 
 
 " What on earth can it be about ?" 
 
 " Now, now," said Lady Herbert ; " don't you be 
 so inquisitive. Young ladies may have their secrets, 
 I suppose. She is a very handsome person. Where 
 did you pick her up. Lady Anna ?" 
 
 " The idea of Adelaide being picked up !" Percival 
 said, laughing. " You ought to ask, Lady Herbert, 
 what planet she had fallen from." 
 
DISCLOSED. 317 
 
 " Well — well, what planet, if you like it better. 
 The planet Venus ! — now, will that suit you ?" 
 
 Here Lady Anna said, in clear, distinct tones to 
 Lord Herbert, who was very deaf, and had to encircle 
 the ear next his hostess with his large hand : 
 
 " Miss Millington is a protegee of my dear sister. 
 Lady Mary Beauchamp. She asked me to allow her 
 to spend the winter with us, to study art." 
 
 " Study art. Oh — ah ! — oh ! She is a fine young 
 woman ; and, by-the-bye, how is your sister's 
 husband?" 
 
 "iVo^ in a very satisfactory state," Lady Anna 
 said, with an uneasy feeling that at the very moment 
 she was speaking a telegram might be on its way 
 with the news of her brother-in-law's death. Not 
 that the event itself would give her any pain, rather 
 would she consider it a relief to all concerned, but it 
 would not be exactly in accordance with the code of 
 social ethics if it leaked out that on the very day of 
 her little dinner-party she was fully aware that Mr. 
 Beauchamp's condition was hopeless. There were 
 certain social observances which were imperative, and 
 Lady Anna never set them aside if she could help it. 
 
 Adelaide found Lucia in her own room, to which 
 she had asked to be shown. 
 
 Lucia's face betrayed at once that something was 
 affecting her deeply. She was tearless, but her large 
 dark eyes were full of mute appeal as she fixed them 
 on Adelaide and said simply : 
 
 " I want your advice. I am greatly troubled." 
 
3i8 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " Giovanni ! is he ill ? Is that why he could not 
 come here to-day, when Daisy wanted him ?" 
 
 *' No, it is not of Giovanni I wish to speak ; it is 
 about these letters," and she drew from her pocket 
 the sealed packet and the letter addressed to herself. 
 " I would know precisely Mr. Lysaght's address. 
 He has left Florence, as you know." 
 
 " Yes," Adelaide said — " yes. Is it help from him 
 you want in any trouble ? His address is Cruttwell 
 Court, Dryborough, Surrey. He has gone straight 
 there with all haste, for Mr. Beauchamp is dying, 
 and you know Mr. Lysaght is the next heir to the 
 estate." 
 
 Lucia was silent for a moment, and then she said 
 sadly : 
 
 " No, he is not the next heir. Giovanni, my blind 
 brother, is the heir, and this letter shows how it is. 
 My father made me vow never to tell anyone of 
 this till his father died. He said I should know it 
 and hear of it, and then tell. The name has con- 
 fused me — Beauchamp I always thought when I 
 read it here was Beau-champ. My father called 
 himself Campobello; my mother, anxious to be Eng- 
 lish, Campbell. She has ever had a notion that 
 some day our English birth would help us ; she has 
 made us speak English — tried to make us English. 
 But she really knew nothing of my father's father — 
 no, not his very name. They married secretly, and 
 my father having made one visit to his father, had 
 some terrible scene, and they parted for ever. Have 
 
DISCLOSED. 319 
 
 you a good father ? If you have, oh, be thankful ! 
 It is hard to feel — so hard — that one's parents are 
 not good." 
 
 " My father died when I was a little child," 
 Adelaide said ; '' but I know he was the best of 
 fathers. My mother is gentle and sweet, and she 
 married again my stepfather, Mr. Wardlaw." 
 
 Lucia seemed scarcely to follow all Adelaide said. 
 The letters were in her hand, and her eyes fixed on 
 them. 
 
 '' It is so sorrowful for me," she said at last, "to 
 have to be the one to take from our best friend his 
 inheritance. If there were any way to prevent it, I 
 would take that way." 
 
 '' But there is none," Adelaide said decidedly — 
 " none. If the letters are authentic, of course you 
 have no choice." 
 
 " I shall not open the sealed packet," Lucia said ; 
 " I know its contents — the copy of the marriage 
 documents. What do you call them in England ?" 
 
 " The marriage certificate." 
 
 " Ah, yes. Well, I shall post them now. I will 
 write a few words with them. Give me, if 3^ou 
 please, a pen." 
 
 '' Yes ; I have plenty here," Adelaide said ; "paper 
 and stamps, and a large envelope. Here," she 
 repeated, making way for Lucia at her writing-table. 
 
 Lucia sat down, and, leaning her elbow on the 
 table, sat with the paper before her ; but she did 
 not begin to write. 
 
320 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Presently Adelaide, who had turned away that she 
 might not seem to be watching her, heard a short, 
 quick sob. 
 
 '' Lucia, what makes you so sad ?" 
 
 "Ah!" she said, *' cannot you know — cannot you 
 tell ? Cannot you tell what it is to my heart to be 
 forced to take away from the one I love better than 
 all the world, that which I would so gladly give him ? 
 You can never know what he has been to us — to 
 me — tender, chivalrous, good — ah! what am I 
 saying — what am I saying, that you look at me 
 thus?" 
 
 The truth flashed on Adelaide at last. Oh, why 
 was life so tangled and bewildering ? This very day 
 the love that Lucia craved to possess had been 
 offered her, and she had rejected it. And for what ? 
 Only for that which was but the shadow of a love she 
 dared not confess to herself without shame — a love 
 unsought — a love which she had no right to cherish. 
 It was but too plain that Percival Clyffe, if he had 
 ever cared for her, cared for her no longer. The 
 brilliant, if frivolous, Mrs. Murchison suited him far, 
 far better. In her presence of late she had felt the 
 sharp contrast between her own slowly expressed 
 feelings and opinions, and Mrs. Murchison's spark- 
 ling repartee and apparent knowledge of every sub- 
 ject under the sun. Her superior in everything — so 
 Adelaide in her humility thought — superior, certainly, 
 in all that made her a centre of attraction wherever 
 she went, and a magnet indeed to Percival Clyffe. 
 
DISCLOSED. 321 
 
 Adelaide was always self-possessed, unlike poor 
 Lucia, who, now that she had broken the ice, poured 
 forth her troubled heart to Adelaide, and said again 
 and again : 
 
 " Pity me — pity me ! I love Giovanni, and I love 
 him ! Is it wrong ? — is it wicked ? Do you think 
 he will be angry ?" 
 
 " Angry ! Why ?" Adelaide asked. *' He will be 
 sorry for you — very sorry — much more sorry than 
 for himself. I think you need not be so unhappy. 
 It is not as if Mr. Lysaght were a poor man ; he is 
 able to live without following any profession ; he will 
 not suffer. Do not be unhappy about the loss of 
 the fortune to him ; that is the last thing he will care 
 about." 
 
 " This is a comfort," Lucia said ; "this is a com- 
 fort to hear. I will try to take comfort. But you, who 
 know what Mr. Lysaght is — you can feel for me ?" 
 
 " Yes, I can feel for you," Adelaide said ; and then 
 to herself she added, " more deeply than you think." 
 But she continued aloud : " You must write your 
 letter now, and then it can be posted. You will feel 
 happier when it is gone." 
 
 Lucia took up the pen, and wrote these few words : 
 
 " Dear Signor, 
 
 " The enclosed will tell you of what I cannot 
 write. Antonio is heir to the fortune of his grand- 
 father. 
 
 " Yours in sorrow to say this, 
 
 "Lucia." 
 21 
 
322 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 The letters were put into the envelope and sealed, 
 when a quick step was heard in the corridor, and a 
 sharp rap at the door, followed by : 
 
 " May I come in ?" 
 
 " There is some curiosity downstairs to know 
 why you have deserted the party," Percival said. 
 " What is wrong ?" he asked, looking from Adelaide 
 to Lucia. ^' Is the poor blind boy ill ?" 
 
 " No ; he is well, signor," Lucia said, rallying 
 herself with a great effort ; " he is well. And I must 
 bid you good-evening. Buon' sera, signor !" 
 
 Then, with a sudden gesture, she threw her arms 
 round Adelaide, pressed her in a close embrace, and 
 was gone. 
 
 " I say," Percival began, "what is the matter with 
 that poor little girl ?" 
 
 " I suppose there can be no secret in it. Giovanni 
 is Mr. Beauchamp's heir — not Mr. Lysaght." 
 
 Percival gave vent to the usual expressions of 
 astonishment when unexpected announcements are 
 made. 
 
 *' And why did she come and tell you ?" he asked. 
 
 *' Perhaps because she wanted sympathy," 
 Adelaide said coldly. 
 
 '' Sympathy ! I should not want sympathy if I 
 found myself suddenly in Giovanni's place. Sym- 
 pathy !" 
 
 "There is such a thing as sympathy in joy as well 
 as sorrow," was the reply. " Perhaps we ought to 
 go downstairs now." 
 
DISCLOSED. 323 
 
 " Are you going to tell Aunt Anna the particulars 
 with which you do not seem inclined to favour me ?" 
 Percival asked. 
 
 " They will soon be known by everyone." 
 
 " Perhaps it is all a mistake," Percival said. " I 
 dare say it is ; only there have been queer stories 
 afloat about there being a son or grandson in 
 Italy." 
 
 "■ I do not myself think there can be any doubt, 
 from what Lucia has told me ; but, of course, we 
 shall hear more soon. Had we not better go down- 
 stairs now ?" she repeated. 
 
 But Percival did not seem inclined to hasten. He 
 stood leaning upon the back of a high chair, the 
 very picture of a young English gentleman in his 
 irreproachable evening dress, which has a power of 
 making even short and ill-built figures look well, 
 and sets off a tall and finely-proportioned one like 
 Percival's to perfection. He had all the comehness 
 of face and figure which goes to make a handsome 
 man. His eyes were of the true Irish blue under 
 their dark lashes, and his rather wide mouth was 
 shaded by a fair moustache. This appendage hid 
 the form of the lips, and the slightly retreating chin 
 was not noticeable except in profile. But any keen 
 observer would at once have concluded that this tall 
 and handsome young Englishman had no strength 
 of purpose, and wanted stability and steadfastness. 
 
 There are many like him, from whom we have 
 probably all suffered more or less in our time. 
 
 21 — 2 
 
324 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Kindliness, good nature, and desire to please, with 
 a ready appreciation of all that is fair and good in 
 others, have blinded many to the grave defect, which 
 brings those who trust in these unstable folk to con- 
 fess at last, in the bitterness of their soul, that the 
 staff on which they leaned has broken, and pierced 
 them with an exceeding sharp pain. 
 
 "Are you anxious about Daisy?" Percival asked. 
 " You ought to be a good judge." He asked this 
 question instead of following her to the door. 
 " Please stay one moment, and tell me what you 
 think." 
 
 " I think she is very much weaker than when we 
 first came to Florence. This cough is very persistent. 
 You can hear it now." 
 
 As she spoke Miss Cromwell, ready dressed to go 
 down into the drawing-room, which was one of the 
 privileges of her office in Lady Anna's establishment, 
 came in, and as she did so the little, short, quick 
 cough smote on Percival's ear. With all his varied 
 moods and all his changes, he was constant in his 
 love for his child cousin, and he had been like an 
 elder brother to her. 
 
 " Daisy is very feverish," Miss Cromwell said, 
 " and her cough is so troublesome. Mrs. Gray is 
 very anxious about her." 
 
 *' Old Grayling always croaks," Percival said, with 
 the ready desire to put aside the thought of coming 
 trouble. 
 
 ''No," Miss Cromwell said; *' Mrs. Gray has 
 
DISCLOSED. 325 
 
 always been hopeful, and that makes me think more 
 seriously of what she says now." 
 
 " They ought to have another doctor — a man from 
 England, or take her home at once," Percival said. 
 " Is she gone to bed ?" 
 
 " No ; she is sitting in the chair by Mrs. Gray's 
 fire. She is so restless, and does not want to go to 
 bed yet." 
 
 Percival went through the intermediate rooms 
 to find Daisy, and she held out her arms to him as 
 he knelt down by her chair. 
 
 " Oh, Percy ! I am glad you are come ! Where is 
 Adelaide ?" 
 
 " She is gone down again to the company, Peggy, 
 — a deaf old gentleman and his noisy old wife and 
 his dull son and daughter have been dining here to- 
 night. Are you not glad you are not in the drawing- 
 room to see them ?" 
 
 " Yes, rather," Daisy said, with a sigh. *^ I 
 couldn't play my violin, and it would vex mother. 
 Percy, perhaps I shall never play the violin again." 
 
 " Nonsense ! You will play at my wedding. You 
 know, we always settled that." 
 
 " Percy, are you going to be married ? Grayling 
 said she thought you were. I hope not to that lady 
 with the rosy cheeks who laughs and talks so 
 fast." 
 
 Percival gave rather an awkward laugh. 
 
 " Not that I know of, Peggy. Of course, I shall 
 ask your leave first." 
 
326 IN THE CITY OF FIOWERS. 
 
 " If you did, I should tell you who I wished you to 
 marry. Shall I whisper it ?" 
 
 She drew his head down to her burning cheek, 
 and said in his ear, "Adelaide!" He started up 
 suddenly, but Daisy held him fast. 
 
 " Everyone thought you really did mean to marry 
 Adelaide. The Protector was sure of it, and Grayling 
 too. I was so glad. Now I hear them say that it 
 is a lady ever, ever so much older than you are, who 
 pretends to be young. Oh, don't, Percy ; don't do 
 that !" 
 
 He tried again to laugh carelessly, but he did not 
 quite succeed. 
 
 " Good-night, my Peg ; and tell Mrs. Gray and the 
 rest of them to mind their own business;" and then 
 he was gone. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 
 
 It was a soft April evening, when all the loveliness 
 of an English spring was at its height. Peace 
 seemed to brood over Cruttwell Court, and no sound 
 broke the stillness ; for the birds had ceased their 
 evensong, and the ring-doves had told out their tale 
 of love for that day. Even the whisper in the dark, 
 plumy branches of the firs, where the doves built 
 their nests, was only faintly heard, and the village- 
 street outside the old Norman gateway seemed more 
 silent and quiet than ever. Mrs. Ponsonby's house 
 was shut lip and deserted, and the Rectory had few 
 inmates, for the Easter holidays were over, and the 
 boys had gone back to school, and the girls and 
 Hugh were away. 
 
 As gentle Mrs. Wardlaw came out of her house 
 and turned towards the gateway, she was conscious 
 of her own light footfall as she passed under it — 
 even so slight a sound made itself heard ; and she 
 trod more warily, as if afraid to waken some sleeper. 
 Half-way up the drive she met Mr. Birley. 
 
 " Is there any change ?" she asked. 
 
328 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " No. He has rallied a little, but it is only the 
 leaping up of the flame before it dies out. Ah !" said 
 Mr. Birley, "to be brought face to face with a death- 
 bed like that is a lesson we may well take to heart." 
 
 *' Is he still so restless ?" 
 
 " Yes ; there is something on his mind, but I 
 cannot get him to speak to me. He holds poor 
 Lady Mary's hand, and clings to it. I have prayed 
 by him, but he made no sign one way or the other. 
 It is three days since the telegram was sent, and 
 Mr. Lysaght will be here soon. I don't know how 
 the Squire will take it — whether his presence will in- 
 crease his restlessness." 
 
 *' I do not think I shall go up to the house," Mrs. 
 Wardlaw said ; *' I will turn back with you, for 
 you have given me the latest news. I suppose Dr. 
 Townley sleeps at the Court ?" 
 
 '' Yes ; and the London man is coming again 
 early to-morrow. Quite useless ; but Lady Mary is 
 so anxious, poor thing, to leave nothing undone." 
 
 " I am sorry Mrs. Ponsonby is away at this time ; 
 dear Lady Mary must feel so lonely ! And Adelaide, 
 too — she might have been a comfort to her." 
 
 " I think Lady Mary prefers being alone. She has 
 borne so much alone for so many years, that she may 
 well bear on to the end." 
 
 '' It has been a sad life for her, and she has 
 endured it with the patience of a saint," Mrs. Ward- 
 law said, her eyes filling with tears, as she parted at 
 the gate of the Rectory with Mr. Birley. 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 329 
 
 She returned to Nina and Susie and her husband, 
 and made his coffee, and sat down to write out some 
 notes for him for his history. 
 
 Mr. Birley stretched himself out in his easy-chair 
 in his study, and seemed disincHned to give his wife 
 any more particulars than she already knew. 
 
 And so the fair spring twilight deepened, and the 
 stars peeped out between the branches of the dark 
 trees, and all the varied and delicious fragrance of the 
 sgring filled the calm air with that mingling of scents, 
 which is so subtle and so beyond any words to describe. 
 
 Marked indeed was the contrast between the 
 peace without and the unrest within. The windows 
 of Mr. Beauchamp's room were open, and every now 
 and then, at a sign from Lady Mary, Preston moved 
 a large fan backwards and forwards, and then stopped 
 agfain at her bidding. No word had been spoken 
 since Mr. Birley had left the room, and the restless 
 tossing to and fro and low moans of the sick man 
 were hard to see and hear unmoved. 
 
 About nine o'clock Dr. Townley came and ad- 
 ministered a reviving draught, felt the pulse, and, in 
 answer to Lady Mary's look, said : 
 
 *' It is rather stronger." Then, in a still lower 
 tone : " Mr. Vassall is here waiting for Mr. Lysaght's 
 arrival. He telegraphed from Paris, and he must be 
 here by ten o'clock." 
 
 " Don't whisper,' the Squire said ; " I hate 
 whisperers !" Then, as Dr. Townley left the room, 
 he said, " Mary, is anyone here ?" 
 
330 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " Preston is here, dear." 
 
 '' Send Preston away ; I want to be alone with 
 you." 
 
 Preston laid down the large fan and went into the 
 dressing-room at a sign from his mistress. Several 
 other servants were there, and the professional 
 nurse, whom Mr. Beauchamp would not tolerate in 
 the room. 
 
 " Mary, you have been a good wife to me. You 
 are well provided for. Lysaght will have what he 
 must, but no more — not a penny more !" 
 
 ** I shall be content — more than content. But I 
 wish, dear, you could think of Him who has pro- 
 mised to forgive." 
 
 " Forgive !" and the old man's eyes shone with a 
 strange light. 
 
 " Forgive, as you hope to be forgiven." 
 
 " I can't forgive." 
 
 " Oh, dear, do not say that ; if there is anyone 
 you should forgive, do it now." 
 
 "It's too late!" 
 
 " It is never, never too late." 
 
 "Yes; I never forgave my son. I had a son, 
 Mary. He is dead and gone — it is too late ! You 
 knew I had a son ?" 
 
 " I guessed it from things I heard you say. You 
 never mentioned him by name." 
 
 " Forgive ! he was a reprobate, he was. True, 
 I felled him to the ground, and I left him to be 
 picked up by others. That was the end ; years 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. ZZ\ 
 
 before I knew you, my good, patient wife. Oh, 
 Mary — Mary ! pray — pray ! I don't care to hear 
 Birley : you are different." 
 
 Poor Lady Mary controlled her voice as best she 
 could, and bending over the hand which never 
 loosened the clasp of hers, she said in low, clear tones, 
 
 " ' In all time of our tribulation, in the hour of 
 death, and in the day of judgment, good Lord 
 deliver us.' " 
 
 To her surprise, Mr. Beauchamp repeated the 
 words, and said, " Go on." 
 
 And Lady Mary went back to the familiar entreaty 
 — so familiar to us as we take it on our lips, in that 
 mechanical, half-hearted fashion too common in our 
 services, but fraught with deepest meaning in the 
 face of great emergencies and suffering : 
 
 " ' By the mystery of Thy holy incarnation, by 
 Thy precious death and burial, by Thy glorious 
 resurrection and ascension, and by the coming of 
 the Holy Ghost, good Lord deliver us !' By His 
 death, and by His most holy life we are forgiven ; 
 shall we not forgive for His sake ?" 
 
 " It is too late — too late ! but I'll try— God help 
 me!" 
 
 Then he wandered, and talked of Johnnie as a fine 
 Httle fellow, and called to his mother to come and 
 see him sit a horse. Then he said he would thrash 
 him for speaking ill to his mother, and rambled on 
 in a past in which the gentle, patient woman at his 
 side had no part. It was a relief when he almost 
 
332 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS, 
 
 lost consciousness again, and Preston was recalled, 
 and Dr. Townley came again, administered another 
 draught, and went to the window to close a shutter, 
 as the night air was chill. As he did so, looking 
 down the avenue, he saw a man's figure coming up 
 in the dim, mysterious light, and that figure was 
 Godfrey Lysaght's. 
 
 The omnibus had brought Godfrey Lysaght from 
 the station, and set him down at the King's Head, 
 where he left his luggage, and walked up to the 
 Court alone. 
 
 In the gathering shadows, with the stars' faint 
 radiance seen through the firs, the place looked dark 
 and solemn, and Godfrey felt oppressed with the 
 solemnity of the shadow of death which he knew lay 
 over the house rising in a sombre mass before him. 
 
 There was a light over the door, and lights in the 
 windows, gleaming out like beacons to beckon him 
 onward. 
 
 Dr. Townley had seen him coming, and had told 
 Preston to go down and let Mr. Vassall, the lawyer, 
 know, that he might receive the new master of the 
 Court. But Mr. Vassall had been on the alert, and 
 was already at the door, before Preston had reached 
 the hall. 
 
 Mr. Vassall perhaps a little overdid the warmth 
 with which he greeted Mr. Lysaght : 
 
 " I am thankful to tell you, sir, you are in time," 
 he said, in answer to Godfrey's question. " There 
 has been an extraordinary rally since my last 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 333 
 
 telegram, which I hope you received according to 
 your orders, at Paris. Now, what refreshment may 
 I offer you ? We have everything at command : 
 there is no stint in this house." 
 
 "Thanks ; 1 am not in any need of refreshment. 
 I dined in London, having an hour to wait for my 
 train." 
 
 " Ah, exactly ; then coffee, perhaps But here 
 
 comes her ladyship." 
 
 The door opened, and Lady Mary herself came 
 slowly into the room. Seen by the light of the 
 lamps and candles, Lady Mary's face was unnaturally 
 pale. She had been so incessantly in the darkened 
 room upstairs that she had to shade her eyes with 
 her hand — the light dazzled her. 
 
 '' My husband," she began, '' has very often ex- 
 pressed a wish to see you during the last few days. 
 Will you mind coming into the room and waiting 
 till he inquires for you ? Any sudden introduction 
 would be too much for him." 
 
 As she spoke. Lady Mary held out her hand to 
 Godfrey, and said : 
 
 " I am glad you have got here in time, and when 
 you are rested and have taken some refreshment, 
 will you come upstairs ?" 
 
 " 1 will come now," he said, " if you please." 
 
 And Lady Mary led the way at once, merely 
 
 bowing her head and moving noiselessly before him 
 
 up the old staircase, where, in the dim light from the 
 
 corridor above, he saw the faces of Beauchamps of 
 
334 ^^ THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 many generations looking down on him. At the 
 head of the stairs the Hght fell full on the picture of 
 some judge who had been a Beauchamp. The deep- 
 set eyes, under the huge gray wig, seemed to fasten 
 their keen glance on him, and an ironical smile 
 played on the thin lips. Godfrey never forgot that 
 picture, nor the feeling it gave him of the living 
 personality of one at least of his ancestors who re- 
 garded him with little favour. 
 
 He followed Lady Mary's noiseless footsteps into the 
 large room, with its low ceiling and old-fashioned bed, 
 from which the curtains were drawn back, so that 
 the figure propped up by pillows was distinctly seen. 
 Remembering what Lady Mary had said, Godfrey 
 withdrew to a deep cushioned chair near the window, 
 and did not speak. 
 
 The silence was oppressive. The doctor came in 
 from time to time, and Preston took up his place 
 with the fan, and no words were spoken. The clocks 
 striking made the only sound, and so the long hours 
 passed. So far, sending for him to see Mr. Beau- 
 champ appeared to Godfrey to have been useless. 
 He had relapsed into a half comatose condition, 
 breathing heavily, and only uneasily turning his head 
 from side to side, but retaining a firm grasp of Lady 
 Mary's hand. About one o'clock Preston touched 
 his shoulder. 
 
 *' Her ladyship wishes to speak to you, sir." 
 
 Godfrey rose and went near her. 
 
 "Will you not retire to rest?" she said. "He 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 335 
 
 may be in this state for some hours. When he 
 rouses again I will send for you." 
 
 *' The chair is very comfortable," Mr. Lysaght 
 said. ** Had I not better remain ?" And he added, 
 " Can no one relieve you ?" 
 
 She shook her head, and resumed her watch with 
 the old hand in hers, while Godfrey returned to the 
 seat near the window. 
 
 How strange it was, he thought, that a man by all 
 accounts so hard and so tyrannical and unforgiving 
 should be thus tenderly cared for by a wife to whom 
 he had granted scant kindness ! What could be 
 the key to a mystery like this ? That he, who 
 never loved anyone with a pure, unselfish love, who 
 had never thought of sparing those about him the 
 bursts of ill-temper and the perversity of a stubborn 
 will, and sometimes savage moods, should thus be 
 ministered to by that pale, worn W'Oman, who had 
 been unfailing in patience and self-forgetfulness and 
 forbearance through all the thirteen years of her 
 married life ! Such things are mysteries ; but we 
 meet them continually. 
 
 It is not the most worthy who have the most 
 love bestowed on them ; it is not the unselfish and 
 considerate who fare best at the hands of others ; it 
 is not the child who causes the mother the least 
 trouble who is the most fondly loved. Do we not 
 often see the pretty, gay, frivolous, and self-indulgent 
 and indulged wife far more ready to lift her head in 
 her widowhood than one who has never been spared 
 
336 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 or considered in the household, and whose husband 
 had taken all her labour for himself and the children 
 as a matter of course ? 
 
 These are the strange anomalies which often fill 
 us with wonder and perplexity. As regards Lady 
 Mary, Godfrey Lysaght could not read all that had 
 been in her heart during these thirteen years. Her 
 devotion and patience were perhaps counted, half 
 unconsciously to herself, as of duty paid for the 
 benefit she had accepted. She had wanted a home, 
 and Mr. Beauchamp gave it to her. She had not 
 stopped to consider what lay before her as his wife. 
 She had married him for what he could give her. 
 Her brother and her sister. Lady Anna, were loud 
 in their congratulations, and all her "little world" 
 said it was a blessing, indeed, that she had found a 
 home Hke her sister, especially as Irish affairs grew 
 worse every year, and "poor Lady Mary was so 
 unfitted to make her own way in life." 
 
 But though all around tried to deceive her, she 
 did not deceive herself. She knew well enough that 
 to marry without love and for any worldly advance- 
 ment solely is a sin. She knew well enough that a 
 penalty must follow, and she determined to make 
 the only atonement possible, and be a patient and 
 forbearing wife if she could not be a loving one. 
 But something near love, which is, indeed, akin to 
 pity, had sprung up in Lady Mary's poor heart, 
 and especially during the last year this feeling 
 had gathered strength, and she earnestly longed 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 337 
 
 for a word which would show that her husband 
 had turned to God for pardon, and that he might 
 find peace. The cHnging to her, and the expressions 
 of gratitude for what she did for him, almost, indeed, 
 equivalent to some regret for what she had suffered 
 — had become in the last few days a further solace ; 
 and she dreaded the time, now so near, when all 
 her efforts for the good of that poor, irascible patient 
 should be at an end for ever. 
 
 But into these secret workings of the human heart 
 earthly eyes cannot penetrate, and Godfrey Lysaght 
 knew nothing of all that passed, during the silent 
 watches of that long night, in the breast of the lady 
 whose delicate profile was just defined against the 
 dark crimson of the curtains, which had been drawn 
 back in thick folds to the head of the bed. 
 
 As day dawned, and " the earHest pipe of half 
 awakened birds ^' was heard, Mr. Beauchamp came 
 back to the partial consciousness of the evening 
 before ; and the doctor, crossing to the place where 
 Godfrey was dreaming of Adelaide, and fancying 
 that she was standing with him in the little chapel 
 of San Miniato, where, instead of the sleeping 
 Cardinal, Mr. Beauchamp lay, said : 
 
 " Go near the bed now, if you please." 
 
 " Who is it ?" Mr. Beauchamp said. " Is it John 
 — is it Johnnie ?" 
 
 " It is Mr. Lysaght, dear. You wished to see 
 him." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Tve not got much to say. Be kind 
 
 22 
 
338 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 to her,'' he said; ''be kind to her. Did you ever 
 hear I had a son, sir ?" he asked, after a pause. 
 
 " Yes ; I have heard it." 
 
 "And that he married a singing woman — a low, 
 ItaHan creature ?" 
 
 " I heard the rumour, sir. I tried to find out the 
 truth, but failed." 
 
 "Tried! What for ?" 
 
 " That I might give him, or his heirs their 
 rights." 
 
 " Rights ! rights ! Who talks of rights ? Wrongs 
 — wrongs — never to be forgotten, nor forgiven !" 
 
 " Do not say so, sir," Godfrey said. " Forgive as 
 you would be forgiven." 
 
 Something of his old angry impatience replaced 
 the softer mood as he gasped brokenly : 
 
 " I won't be preached at by you, young man. 
 Send him away, Mary. I want no more of him." 
 
 And then Mr. Beauchamp relapsed into drowsy 
 unconsciousness, which was, indeed, in great measure 
 the result of the frequent injection of morphia and 
 the doses of ether which, by the order of the London 
 physician, Dr. Townley had administered at intervals 
 during the night. 
 
 It seemed useless for Godfrey to stay longer, and 
 Lady Mary saying, " When he revives again we 
 will call you," he left the room, Preston following 
 him, and asking if he could get him any refresh- 
 ment. But Godfrey declined anything, and when 
 he was alone he threw himself on the bed, 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 339 
 
 and slept heavily till the sun was high above the 
 horizon. 
 
 It was a quiet, still morning, the sky veiled with 
 thin gray clouds, and not a breath of wind stirring 
 the branches of the firs — though, as Godfrey threw 
 up the window and leaned out, he could hear the 
 mysterious murmur in the topmost boughs — which 
 is seldom quite silent, an accompaniment to the voice 
 of the turtle-doves, in their monotone of love. 
 
 Presently, too, there was the cuckoo's call from the 
 copse in the field below ; and the low of cattle, and 
 the caw of rooks, mellowed by distance. 
 
 Godfrey felt — as so many of us have felt in strange 
 circumstances — unable to realize them. 
 
 He had, of course, known for some years — ever 
 since his father's death — that the estate was entailed 
 on the next male heir ; but, as he had never had any 
 kind of communication with Mr. Beauchamp, this 
 inheritance of his had looked very vague and dim. 
 The rumour of a son and a son's family had, as we 
 know, reached his ears, and he had used every 
 means, through his lawyer, Mr. Vassall, to investigate 
 the truth of the poor man's story in the hospital. 
 He had always intended, when Mr. Beauchamp died, 
 to make fresh inquiries, and to advertise again in 
 colonial and foreign papers. But, strange to say, 
 now that the dim vision of Cruttwell had become a 
 reality, and not a dream in an indefinite future, he 
 did not think of another heir at all, nor of new efforts 
 to find him. He was filled with the sadness of the 
 
 22 — 2 
 
340 IN THE CITY OF FIOWERS. 
 
 death-bed in the room he had left at midnight, and 
 wondered what tidings would be brought to him 
 when he rang his bell. 
 
 It is quite true that we seldom or ever feel as we 
 expect to feel in any supreme moment of our lives, 
 either of jo}^ or sorrow, to which we have looked 
 forward ; and Godfrey Lysaght was no exception 
 to what we may call the universal law. 
 
 Here, in the soft stillness of the April morning, 
 looking out on the close-shaven turf, and beyond 
 the lines of sombre firs to the Surrey hills, in blue, 
 dim beauty, over which the sun, which had forgotten 
 Cruttwell, was pouring its early rays twenty miles 
 away, Godfrey found himself scarcely conscious of 
 the present. For, except in the sadness which the 
 memory of that unhappy dying man, with his patient 
 wife sitting by his bed, left upon him, that present 
 did not seem to be really his ! 
 
 His thoughts were far away with Adelaide. He 
 was in the place now most familiar to her — the place 
 where she had said she had been like a dreamer for 
 so long, believing all that her loving friends had told 
 her ; and then, when the wish of her heart was 
 granted, she went to Florence to have a rough 
 awakening to her real self, to know what she could 
 not do, and wherein she failed. 
 
 All their intercourse for the last few months was 
 mapped out before him. He was with her again in 
 the churches and monasteries, on the heights of San 
 Miniato and Fiesole. Was it a year ago, or was it 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 341 
 
 only three days, v/hen, almost secure of her answer, 
 he had told her of his love ? Then the distress so 
 plainly seen in her face, the gathering tears in her 
 beautiful eyes, the quivering lip — what did it all 
 mean ? 
 
 Alen are proverbially dense where women are con- 
 cerned, and Godfrey Lysaght was not, perhaps, more 
 dense than others of his race. 
 
 It was not from vanity, or undue appreciation of 
 himself, that he was surprised at Adelaide's answer ; 
 it was from sheer inability to think that a woman of 
 such depth of feeling, one who had high aims and 
 lofty ideals, could be satisfied with a man like 
 Percival Clyffe — a mere man of the world, handsome 
 and agreeable, bright in conversation, and kindly 
 and good-tempered. 
 
 Was it possible that Adelaide could care for him, 
 and that his sister's foolish flirtation had pierced her 
 noble heart with pain ? He ought to have stopped 
 it, he told himself — he ought to have taken Theresa 
 away ; he ought to have discouraged Percival's fre- 
 quent visits, the singing together, the sketching, the 
 perpetual round of little excitements which were 
 necessary to his sister's existence — that butterfly 
 existence which he had as an elder brother tried his 
 best to modify. For in the kindness of his heart he had 
 done all in his power for her, for the sake of his dead 
 parents, who had committed her to his care, before 
 her first hasty marriage. Now that she was a widow 
 and unprotected — requiring, though she did not 
 
342 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 acknowledge it, protection — he reproached himself 
 with leaving her too much to her own devices at 
 Florence, and encouraging, perhaps, rather than 
 discouraging, her perpetual hankering after what 
 gaieties Florence society could offer. He had been 
 far too much engrossed with his own affairs — with 
 Adelaide. 
 
 Adelaide ! He sighed the word out in the beautiful 
 refrain of Beethoven's song — '' Adelaide ! Adelaide !" 
 And never one thought in all these memories 
 did he give to Lucia. If he were dense and his 
 mental vision dim about Adelaide, how much more 
 dense about the little Italian artist ! Her self- 
 denying exertions, her patience in the early days of 
 their acquaintance, her spirit, her quick perception 
 of anything humorous, her perseverance in copying 
 pictures, which, after all, she felt was work which 
 would never raise her as an artist, though it main- 
 tained her and her family as a bread-w^inner — all this 
 had kindled his admiration, and one of the chief in- 
 terests in his winter at Florence had been her blind 
 brother, to whom she was so nobly devoted. 
 
 Ah, little did Godfrey Lysaght think of the pain 
 which he had all unconsciously given Lucia, or of 
 what it cost her to tell him that her blind brother — 
 the fragile youth who lived in his music, and was 
 entirely dependent on her — was to come between 
 him and his rights ! 
 
 As the clocks struck ten there was a rap at his 
 door, and a manservant entered with a breakfast-tray. 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 343 
 
 " I was to say, sir, Mr. Reauchamp is much the 
 same, and her ladyship hopes you will breakfast 
 in your room. Can I give you any assistance, 
 sir ?" 
 
 " No, thanks ; I shall be coming down in an hour's 
 time, and I shall wish to see Mr. Vassall." 
 
 Godfrey had only partially undressed, thinking he 
 might be summoned at any moment to the sick- 
 room, and had thrown himself on his bed in his 
 dressing-gown. He now seated himself at the table 
 where the man had placed the tray, and Lucia's 
 letter, which had been travelling just twelve hours 
 behind him, caught his eye. 
 
 " Florence !" he exclaimed. " Who can this be 
 from ?" 
 
 He opened the envelope, altogether unconscious 
 of who the writer might be, and Lucia's words first 
 caught his eye. We know what those words were, 
 and how and where they were written. The mystery 
 was solved now ; he was not the heir of Cruttwell 
 Court ! 
 
 Though, as we know, Godfrey Lysaght had used 
 every means to ascertain the truth of the poor 
 Italian's story in the hospital ; though he had told 
 himself often that he would feel far better satisfied if 
 a grandson had been discovered, still, there was a 
 very natural feeling of disappointment and vexation 
 as he read the contents of that letter sealed with a 
 large seal, unbroken for all these years. 
 
 It was as Lucia had said. There was the copy 
 
344 !N THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 of both the marriage registers ; for it was evident 
 that Mrs. Campbell had taken care to have their 
 marriage duly solemnized at both the EngUsh and 
 Roman Cathohc churches. The ingenuity of the in- 
 vented name struck Godfrey as a proof of the 
 cunningof Lucia's father — Beau-champ, Campo-bello, 
 Campbell, all bearing the same meaning in the three 
 different languages. Never surely had a plan for 
 secrecy been more successful, and never had a man 
 been able to hide himself more completely. 
 
 A large part of this declaration of John Beau- 
 champ's identity with Giovanni Campobello was 
 bitter abuse of his father and a miserable history 
 of his visit to Cruttwell, as he said, to try and 
 propitiate his angry parent — an interview which 
 ended in a hand-to-hand encounter, in which the 
 father's hand was against the son, and the son's 
 against the father. 
 
 While the letter addressed to Lucia was, as we 
 know, written in a feeble and meandering style, the 
 sealed document was vigorously expressed. It had 
 been written before intemperance and bad habits 
 had sapped the strength of manhood, and reduced 
 the man of scarcely forty to the imbecility of 
 old age. 
 
 Godfrey was not like a man without a helm let 
 loose on a sea of doubt in this time of difficulty and 
 disappointment, with many hopes crushed, not so 
 much as to the possession of the estate as of the 
 power to do a great deal more for others than he 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 345 
 
 had been able to do before. He had a sure trust 
 which did not fail him now. 
 
 It is the fashion to strike out from any history 
 of individual trial and conflict the motive power 
 of Christian faith. It is the fashion to say that 
 such motive power is greatly exaggerated in its 
 effects, and that as a rule it is better to keep silence 
 about it, and not bring it unduly forward in pictures 
 of life, because it so seldom exists nowadays, and 
 that the very noblest and best men and women are 
 not influenced by it — a sweeping assertion that it is 
 very easy to make, and very difficult to prove. If, 
 indeed, it were true that this motive power is 
 paralysed and dead, then many hearts amongst us 
 would faint and fail, before the great mysteries of life 
 and death. There will ever be scoffs at a faith which 
 the scoffer cannot grasp, and there will always be a 
 great multitude who, not able to beheve themselves, 
 are only too ready to think others are sceptics also. 
 
 That the Christian verities yet live amongst us 
 let the lives of thousands of men and women bear 
 witness. Thousands are still ready, thank God ! to 
 give up all that He requires of them, to recognise 
 His hand, and instead of setting their faces like 
 flint to meet the storms of life, even through tears 
 they see the rainbow of hope thrown by the bright 
 shining of the sun of a Father's love on the cloud 
 which overshadows them. 
 
 Lady Mary was still keeping her watch by the 
 
346 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 bedside, when a note was put into her hand. It was 
 from Godfrey Lysaght : 
 
 " May I speak to you alone for a few minutes ? 
 
 "G. B. L." 
 
 " Mr. Lysaght is in the morning-room, your lady- 
 ship," Preston said. 
 
 Lady Mary rose slowly from her chair, taking her 
 hand gently away from her husband's, and walked 
 feebly across the room. 
 
 '' I wish he had not troubled me with business 
 now," she thought; "it is perhaps something about 
 the future." 
 
 It was nothing about the future, as Lady Mary 
 found when Godfrey advanced to meet her, saying 
 simply : 
 
 " I thought I had better tell you at once that 
 letters have followed me from Florence which prove 
 beyond a doubt that Mr. Beauchamp has a grandson, 
 who is the heir of this place." 
 
 Lady Mary put out her hand, and Godfrey took 
 it, and placed her in a chair. 
 
 " Is it true — are you sure ?" she said. 
 
 " Quite sure. Mr. Vassall has examined the state- 
 ments, and though he will, of course, verify the 
 marriage register at the London church, and at the 
 registry office, there can be no doubt." 
 
 '' Let me see the papers," Lady Mary said. 
 
 " I think not, now; it would be only painful to you 
 to read them; but let me tell you that by what we call 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 347 
 
 chance — though I prefer to give it another name — I 
 know the family Mr. Beauchamp's son left behind 
 him. They live at Florence, and the daughter is one 
 of the most admirable girls you can imagine. The 
 son is blind." 
 
 " Bhnd !" Lady Mary exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes ; a fragile, delicate boy, who is a born 
 musician." 
 
 " Are there any other children ?" 
 
 '' Yes, another daughter. The girl I have men- 
 tioned is the eldest of the three children." 
 
 " And the mother ! — is there a mother ?" 
 
 "The mother is an Italian, a woman of many 
 words — well-meaning, I dare say — but a woman of 
 no culture or education. They have been living in 
 absolute poverty for years." 
 
 " And we in affluence," Lady Mary said. " It is 
 too terrible ! What is to be done ? — help me to 
 decide 1" 
 
 " The decision is made for us," Godfrey said. 
 " Would you hke to see Mr. Vassall ?" 
 
 *' I don't mean that part. I mean how shall we 
 tell him — my poor husband ? Oh, I fear it will rouse 
 in him the old feelings of bitterness, even now, 
 even now, when he feels so little — knows so little." 
 
 " I think he ought to be told — I think he ought to 
 know the truth ; that is to say, if he recovers any 
 real consciousness again." 
 
 " Very well," Lady Mary said, with that acqui- 
 escence which comes of long habit. It was so long 
 
348 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 since she had set up her own will or judgment, that 
 she almost forgot how to do so. 
 
 " I must go back to him. Will you come ?" 
 
 She put her hand in Godfrey's arm for support, 
 and then she said : 
 
 " I am so sorry for you. Forgive me for forgetting 
 your disappointment ; and I hope you will help me 
 in all the new arrangements, and be my friend." 
 
 Preston now suddenly entered the room. 
 
 " Come back, my lady, come back ! My master is 
 like himself— -he is quite rational — he calls for you !" 
 
 Lady Mary withdrew her hand from Godfrey's 
 arm, and went hastily towards the room where Mr. 
 Beauchamp lay. 
 
 '' Mary, Mary ! come here ! don't leave me ! 
 What is that about the sins of the father ? — what 
 is it ?" 
 
 Lady Mary took up her old position, and said in a 
 clear, calm voice : 
 
 " He shows mercy unto thousands, dear, in Christ, 
 think of that." 
 
 Then, after a momentary pause, she said : 
 
 '' Here is Mr. Lysaght ; he has something to tell 
 you. 
 
 " I know — I know ! Well, he will come after me 
 here, and see you are cared for !" 
 
 Godfrey went close up to the head of the bed, and, 
 speaking slowly and distinctly, said : 
 
 " I am not your heir, sir. Your son, John Beau- 
 champ, left a son and two daughters." 
 
IN CRUTTWELL COURT AGAIN. 349 
 
 The eyes of the dying man flashed with a momen- 
 tar\^ brightness. 
 
 " A son ! you say ? — a son !" 
 
 '' Yes, and he is bhnd." 
 
 " The sins of the fathers ! — the sins of the 
 fathers !" he moaned. ^' Poor boy — poor boy ! May 
 he be a better man than his father, and than I have 
 been ! Poor boy !" 
 
 This temporary rally was passing away, but Lady 
 Mary, bending over him, heard him say: 
 
 " I forgive — pray that I may be forgiven. Little 
 Johnnie was a fine fellow — poor little Johnnie ! You 
 never saw him, Mary. I ruined him. Ask that 
 I may be forgiven ! Pray, my dear — pray for 
 
 me 
 
 I" 
 
 *' Try to pray yourself, dear ! God is very 
 merciful. He will hear you," was the low repty. 
 
 Lady Mary alone caught the murmured words, and 
 Mr. Birley, coming in just then, saw that the end 
 drew near. In solemn silence all knelt round the 
 bed, and as the commendatory prayer was said, a 
 peaceful expression passed over the face that had 
 been so often disturbed by passion, and it seemed to 
 those who watched that, through infinite love and 
 mercy, the last prayer had been heard, and the pardon 
 of the penitent sealed. 
 
 But oh ! the sadness of lives like that which closed 
 as the full beauty of the April afternoon bathed the 
 earth with a tender radiance ! So true it is that no 
 man liveth to himself; no action, no word but has 
 
3 so IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 its effect for evil or for good, directly or indirectly, 
 upon those around us. 
 
 How widespread is the influence of a good man's 
 life, and, alas ! how widespread the influence of a 
 life spent in forgetfulness of God, and our duty to 
 Him and our neighbour ! Surely this is a grave 
 thought, to which we all do well to take heed, lest a 
 bitter retribution should overtake us unawares. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "vain is the help of man." 
 
 Percival Clyffe went early on the following 
 morning to Paoli's Hotel, and ran up the stairs, two 
 steps at a time, to Mrs. Murchison's room. He 
 knocked at the door, and heard her voice bidding 
 him come in. 
 
 Mrs. Murchison was surrounded with a motley 
 array of dresses and hats and bonnets, sketch-books, 
 paint-boxes, her violin, and many other possessions, 
 all in dire confusion. 
 
 " Ah, you have caught me packing. I mean to 
 follow Godfrey to England as soon as possible. It is 
 rather nice to think of Cruttwell Court, isn't it ? I 
 shall wake up the old place, have heaps of people 
 staying in the house, and have dehghtful garden- 
 parties for the townspeople. You must come and see 
 us. For" — with a little laugh — " I mean to live with 
 Godfrey till he marries — perhaps afterwards, unless 
 
 But how frightfully solemn you look ! What can 
 
 be the matter ? You ought to congratulate me. I 
 shall really like to hve at Cruttwell for part of the 
 
352 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 year, though I am not going to say addio to Florence 
 for ever. Chi lo sa! I may come back again." 
 
 It was always impossible to break the stream 
 of Mrs. Murchison's rapid chatter. It was like a 
 little, noisy, babbling brook in its tone, not altogether 
 unmusical, but wearisome — sometimes provoking, 
 too — when the listener, as was now the case, was 
 trying to get in a word edgeways. 
 
 Percival watched all Mrs. Murchison's graceful 
 movements, as she smoothed the ribbons of a 
 bonnet, crimped the feather of a hat, and talked on 
 all the time ceaselessly. 
 
 " I have no maid," she said, "but I shall have one 
 now ; Godfrey is sure to let me have one, though I 
 am secretly afraid, do you know, he will spend a lot 
 of money on those fads of his in London — his coffee- 
 rooms, and reading-rooms, and recreation-rooms, 
 where he holds forth lay-sermons to the great 
 unwashed." 
 
 " I don't think you know what I believe will be 
 known all over Florence very soon," Percival began. 
 " Lysaght is not the heir to Cruttwell." 
 
 "Not the heir! What rubbish! Who said so? 
 Who can be nearer of kin than Godfrey ?" 
 
 " Well," said Percival, rather awkwardly, " there 
 is a grandson of the old man's living in Florence. 
 A grandson is nearer than a — great-nephew — I 
 suppose." 
 
 " I don't believe it ; it is a trumped-up story. I 
 hope Godfrey does not beheve it ?" 
 
" VA/N IS THE HELP OF MANr 353 
 
 " He does not know it, but a letter has followed 
 him to England ; so he will know soon enough. It 
 is quite true, I assure you. I am awfully sorry, but 
 it is true." 
 
 *' Does Lady Anna know about it ?" 
 
 "Yes" — and Percival sighed — "yes, but she is 
 too much engrossed with poor little Daisy's illness 
 to think of anything else." 
 
 "Poor little mite! is she worse? I always 
 thought they were going the way to work to kill 
 her with kindness." Then Mrs. Murchison began 
 to hum snatches of songs in a provokingly careless 
 way. " Well, so all my dreams are over, and I shall 
 have to make the best of a London flat again. It is 
 provoking! What is the use of my going to England 
 now? Oh dear ! and all this finery to put back in 
 my drawers and boxes ! Godfrey said he would 
 telegraph for me, so I thought I had better get 
 ready. Now I shall have to stay here for the 
 present." 
 
 " That is a gain for some people," Percival said, 
 feeling obliged to say something. " I am awfully 
 glad you are not going !" 
 
 "Are you ?" she asked, putting her head on one 
 side, as she went on, with a paper-knife, crimping a 
 long ostrich feather which had suffered from a 
 shower when driving in the Cascine a few days 
 before. " Are you really ?" 
 
 " Of course I am : how can you ask ? Think 
 
 23 
 
354 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 how dreary my life here would be without you : I 
 really could not stand it." 
 
 " Why, you would have your friend Adelaide, and 
 your little cousin." 
 
 " I don't believe I shall have her long," he said 
 — " dear little thing ! She was too good for 
 us." 
 
 " Now, really," Mrs.Murchison said, "it is hard to 
 say that all the too good people die, and all the too 
 bad ones are left. I am one of the last named. Ah, 
 I see you think so !" 
 
 "I think nothing of the kind!" Percival said, 
 fingering the strings of the violin which lay on the 
 sofa by him — " I think nothing of the kind. Why 
 do you pretend to read my thoughts ?" 
 
 " My dear boy, I am very quick at thought-reading, 
 and I believe I can read yours. You think me — 
 well, never mind. I shall soon be gone ; and there 
 will be an end of me." 
 
 She put her head on one side, and her mouth, 
 which was beautifully formed, with a short upper 
 lip, displaying very white teeth, showed a little 
 vexation. 
 
 Why did not Percival come to the point ? He 
 was a long time about it. 
 
 Sad to say, Mrs. Murchison was one of those 
 women who have a strange delight in bringing, as it 
 were, a fish to the bank, and then, when caught, 
 shaking it free, sometimes with a wound in its mouth. 
 Such anglers do not always wish to possess their 
 
" VAIN IS THE HELP OF MAN:' 355 
 
 prey; they like to play with it, and then, when the 
 amusement is over, it may go ! She had beguiled 
 many an hour for Percival which would otherwise 
 have hung heavy on his hands. Singing duets, play- 
 ing duets, attending her with her sketch-book, when 
 those bright sketches were rapidly knocked off, which 
 were so much more attractive than Adelaide's studies 
 of heads and figures ; then that constant badinage, 
 that sharp criticism of everyone, that brilliant super- 
 ficial talk on a hundred and one subjects — all this 
 was very amusing and delightful while it lasted ; 
 and Percival was just the preux chevalier whom 
 Mrs. Murchison liked to show off as a captive. 
 
 Mr. Lysaght had remonstrated sometimes, but 
 was always met with, " Poor boy! as if there were 
 any harm in my efforts to amuse him. He would 
 have a frightfully dull time with these Cowper- 
 Smiths if it were not for me." Mr. Lysaght had not 
 been satisfied, but it is always difficult to treat any 
 matter seriously, when the persons most nearly con- 
 cerned laugh it off as a jest. 
 
 To-day Mrs. Murchison was really much an- 
 noyed at the loss of her brother's fortune ; and 
 she presently assumed a pensive attitude, leaning 
 back in her chair and gazing dreamily out of the 
 window. 
 
 *'Well," she said at last, after a silence, "what 
 shall we do ? Shall we amuse ourselves a little, if 
 that is possible ?" 
 
 " I don't feel much Hke amusement to-day," 
 
 23—2 
 
356 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Percival said ; " things are going very badly 
 with me." 
 
 ** With you ! Now, that is nonsense. It is poor 
 little me who is to be pitied — all alone here ; and 
 it is so humiliating, too, when all the people here 
 think I am going to be ' la grande dame.' The 
 old Professor, in the days of our friendship, 
 got it out of me that Godfrey had great expecta- 
 tions. Dear me !" with an impatient tap of her 
 foot upon the floor, "it is provoking — it is disgust- 
 ing!" 
 
 Tears came into her beautiful eyes, but they were 
 not allowed to fall. When cheeks are coloured, 
 and eyes darkened below the lids, emotion must 
 be kept in abeyance ! 
 
 And now there was another tap at the door, and 
 the opportunity Percival wished for was gone ; for 
 the old Professor came head-foremost into the 
 room, looking vaguely with his short-sighted eyes at 
 the heaps of various articles around him, stumbling 
 over a violin-case, and sitting at last on one of the 
 tallest of the hats, the crown of which went down 
 with an ominous crack, which made Mrs. Murchison 
 exclaim : 
 
 " Oh, you dear, awkward creature, what have you 
 done ? You must buy me a new hat — you must 
 indeed, and choose it yourself. Could there be a 
 greater penance ?" 
 
 " Oh, I — I am very sorry ! I hope no mischief 
 is done," gasped the poor Professor. 
 
'' VAIN IS THE HELP OF MAN?' 357 
 
 "Mischief! Well, I should think there was — 
 irreparable mischief !" 
 
 " I came — I ventured to come to congratulate you 
 on what I hear was Mr. Lysaght's errand to England. 
 A delightful place, I hear, in a part of Surrey which 
 is interesting geologically. Some very remarkable 
 fossils were discovered in a sand-cavern in that 
 neighbourhood." 
 
 " Oh !" Mrs. Murchison said, "you find me in a 
 state of mind in which life in a sand-cavern with 
 fossils would be the most congenial to my feelings. 
 To hide from the world — 'the world forgetting, by 
 the world forgot.' Tell him, Percival ; I can't. 
 Don't go, Percival !" 
 
 But Percival did not feel inclined to stay. "You 
 had better tell the Professor yourself," he said; 
 and then he took her little white hand into his for 
 a moment, gave it a slight pressure, and was gone. 
 
 Adelaide did not go to her studio any more that 
 week. She could not find it in her heart to leave 
 Daisy, who clung to her more and more, and could 
 not bear to lose sight of her. 
 
 The large fee was paid to the great London 
 doctor, who only looked grave, talked of keeping up 
 strength, and went through the usual formula of 
 advice, and encouragement to persevere in his pre- 
 scriptions. 
 
 But Mr. Cowper-Smith knew, as he handed him 
 his cheque, that money was powerless to stay 
 the ebbing current of that little life, so infinitely 
 
35^^ IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 precious to him. Lady Anna would not give up 
 hope, and talked of summer, and summer plans, and 
 how they would go to some place on the southern 
 coast of England, where the soft sea-breezes would 
 soon work wonders. Did she really think that there 
 was any earthly future for that dearly loved child? 
 Was it the self-deception so common, when we 
 hold fast to hope, as if hope would save what is 
 precious to us ; and fancy that, if we do not let go our 
 grasp, we shall keep the dear one with us, whom we 
 refuse to acknowledge as fading from before our 
 eyes ? 
 
 Daisy's condition now was more like fading than 
 suffering. Indeed, these last few days the cough, 
 which had broken her rest so much, and the pain in 
 her side had almost disappeared. It seemed as if 
 the disease had done its work, and was now stayed, 
 because the result was sure. 
 
 The day on which the news of Mr. Beauchamp's 
 death was telegraphed, Adelaide went early to the 
 Piazza Cavour. 
 
 Lucia had also received the news ; and the whole 
 family were collected in the large room, discussing 
 their future. The blind boy seemed quite unable to 
 realize his position : he asked if they should leave 
 Florence, and how soon. 
 
 " How soon, the dear innocent boy ! — at once," 
 his mother said. ''And you will be master of a 
 grand house, as large and grand as one of the 
 Florence palaces — will he not, signorina ?" 
 
" VAIN IS THE HELP OF MAN:' 359 
 
 This was addressed to Adelaide, who came into 
 the room while Madame Campbell was speaking. 
 
 " Ah, you, too, have had the news ! Here is 
 Lucia's telegram. I know not why she is chosen by 
 Mr. Lysaght, except that she is a grand favourite ! 
 Now, signorina, about the black dresses we must 
 wear. I have a black lace mantilla, which makes 
 mourning; but we must have black skirts and jet 
 ornaments. And I want Lucia to bring out the 
 money ; she is so close with the money." 
 
 *' Oh, mother!" Lucia exclaimed, in a voice which 
 had a ring of suffering in it ; " do not speak so !" 
 
 ** Well, it is true," Marietta said. " You do keep 
 all your money so close, and you are very miserly." 
 
 " It is a shame to speak like that to her," said 
 Giovanni, " and wicked too. Lucia, mia cara, / 
 know what you have done for us." 
 
 Adelaide was sorry to be present at this family dis- 
 cussion, and she said in a low voice to Lucia : 
 
 " Can I come to your room ?" 
 
 *' Yes, that will be best." 
 
 *'Now, do tell us of the grand place, signorina," 
 Mrs. Campbell began. " Are there not large halls, 
 and pictures, and a marble piazza ? I know what 
 English houses are, for I had once to sing at a 
 duke's residence in an operetta — so grand it was, and 
 how they applauded me ! I wore a gold band in 
 my dark hair ; ah ! well, an old woman is never 
 believed when she says she was young once, and 
 handsome." 
 
36o IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 "Cruttwell Court is a very pretty country house; 
 some part of it is very old ; it is not at all grand," 
 Adelaide answered, moving to the door which led to 
 the ante-room with Lucia. 
 
 " Come back soon to me, signorina," Giovanni 
 said, " and tell me of the dear little Margherita." 
 
 " She is much the same. She wants to see you, so 
 I will take you with me when I return." 
 
 When the two girls were alone Lucia exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh, Adelaide, Adelaide ! is it not terrible ? That 
 is how they talk every hour — every minute. What 
 will the future be ? I cannot picture it. Poor 
 mother ! in the midst of English people, hke Lady 
 Anna and Mrs. Ponsonby ! She will offend them, 
 
 and Oh, I am ready to wish that this had never 
 
 been known — if I had only burned the letter ! It was 
 a sore temptation. Do you think me very wicked ?" 
 
 " If it was a sore temptation you resisted it, 
 dear," Adelaide said. " But I am sorry for you, 
 very sorry." 
 
 " No one else is," Lucia said. " No one else 
 understands — no one else can ever be told — the 
 hard, hard fight I have had, and shall have. Do you 
 remember when you first saw me in the Ufftzi, 
 and heard Signor Maura finding his faults with my 
 picture, and how gay and happy I was ? I loved to 
 work — I loved to feel I could work and keep them 
 all ; and now — now that the need of work is over, and 
 I think why it is over — my heart is breaking. Oh, 
 it is a sorrowful world !" 
 
" VAIN IS THE HELP OF MAN." 361 
 
 " It is indeed, for some of us. But, Lucia, all 
 sorrows seem to me small when I com.pare them 
 with Mr. Cowper-Smith's. His face haunts me ; it is 
 lined with grief about Margaret. Darling Daisy is 
 going from us. Her poor father said to me when I 
 left Hester with her, and came to fetch Giovanni : 
 * She is all I have to love, God help me!' " 
 
 "Yes," Lucia said, "yes, I am selfish — I am un- 
 grateful. I will endure." Then, with the simplicity 
 and directness of a child, she said, " Do you think 
 it was wonderful I loved him ? — coming here often, 
 helping, cheering, when Giovanni was ill, reading 
 and singing in his low, beautiful voice ; always 
 true, and noble, and good. Ah, the woman whom 
 he chooses is blest indeed !" 
 
 Adelaide made no reply to this ; but told Lucia 
 that Daisy was very anxious to have Giovanni 
 to play to her, and that Lady Anna had begged 
 her to fetch him. " I cannot leave her long," she 
 said ; " so I must ask you to get him ready at once, 
 please." 
 
 " Yes, I will do so ; and do not think badly of 
 me — do not forsake me !" 
 
 " Why should I ? I hope we shall always be 
 friends ; and when you come to live at Cruttwell, 
 we shall see each other every day, perhaps." 
 
 " Kiss me and love me," poor Lucia said. " I 
 feel unworthy, but I have been helped in many a 
 trouble ;" and she added reverently, " God will not 
 forget me now." 
 
362 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS, 
 
 Hester Ponsonby met Adelaide on her return with 
 Giovanni on the stairs. 
 
 " Daisy has been very faint ; she is sitting on her 
 father's knee now. The doctor has been here : it 
 cannot be very long now — mother says so." Hester's 
 voice faltered. 
 
 *' Perhaps Giovanni had better not come into the 
 room. I will go and find out, if you will wait with 
 Giovanni here." 
 
 Adelaide threw off her hat, and went quietly into 
 the room, where Daisy lay in her father's arms. 
 
 She looked up at Adelaide with a sweet smile. 
 
 " Giovanni — let him play to me !" 
 
 " No, darling," said Lady Anna, who was seated 
 near, her fine features rigid with suppressed emotion 
 — " no, darling ; keep quiet." 
 
 " Music is quiet," the child said. 
 
 " Let him come — let him come," came in a low 
 agonized tone from Mr. Cowper-Smith. 
 
 " And Percival — Percy — dear Percy ! Everybody 
 come and listen — everybody." 
 
 Very soon all were gathered together in the large 
 room, and Daisy, looking round, said : 
 
 " I am so glad — don't cry, dear father ;" for 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith's chest was heaving with uncon- 
 trollable sobs. ' Mother, darling, you don't mind 
 Giovanni playing to me, do you ? If you do ' 
 
 " No, no — my sweet one, no!" 
 
 Giovanni drew the bow across the strings, and 
 then the chords melted into the air which is so well 
 
" VAIN IS THE HELP OF MANr 363 
 
 known, and to which we all so often sing the beautiful 
 
 words, which express the perfect faith and trust of a 
 
 heart which leans on God in all darkness, and all 
 
 distress : 
 
 " Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom. 
 Lead Thou me on." 
 
 " Sing, please — sing," Daisy said ; and soft and 
 low, Percival and Hester controlled their voices, 
 and sang the words. 
 
 " And with the morn those angel faces smile," the 
 child repeated when the last notes had died away. 
 *' I think I am tired, father, and will go to sleep 
 now. Lay me down, dear father." 
 
 He carried her into the adjoining room, where poor 
 Mrs. Gray stood weeping bitterly, and laid her on 
 the bed. 
 
 "The morning will come," she said softly; "but 
 it's very dark now." 
 
 As the dark waters of that solemn river of death 
 touched her, there was a little shuddering and dis- 
 tress ; but it was soon over. 
 
 " I hear lovely music," she said. " Is Giovanni 
 playing again ? And I see — I see Jesus : I do in- 
 deed. Look, father ! father !" 
 
 But mortal ears heard not that music, and mortal 
 eyes looked not on that vision. A few minutes more, 
 and " from the hushed and silent room" the child, so 
 dearly loved, had gone from all the wealth of an 
 earthly inheritance, to the inheritance which fadeth 
 not away. 
 
364 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 It was a beautiful June day when Adelaide walked 
 once more under the old gateway, and passed up 
 the avenue leading to Cruttwell Court. 
 
 What a changed life was hers since, in the mists 
 of an autumn morning, she had set out from Dry- 
 borough to join the Cowper-Smiths in London, on 
 her way to Florence ! 
 
 A changed life — rather, I should call it, an awak- 
 ened life. The old aims and the old aspirations 
 were the same, it is true; but they were definite now 
 — not mere dreamy shadows, in which self was the 
 only really distinct object. 
 
 She had learned a great deal more than how to 
 draw correctly ; and the battle with herself, which 
 cost her some tears, over the distorted limbs of 
 Andrea del Sarto's little cherubs, was not the only 
 battle she had fought. I do not think Adelaide's 
 experience is at all uncommon ; for many girls, who 
 have seen nothing of the world, find in the first man 
 they meet, who has a certain amount of culture and 
 a genial manner, the realization of an ideal. 
 
 When Adelaide first met Percival Clyffe, she was 
 just at that point of dissatisfaction with herself which 
 was scarcely yet acknowledged. She had been 
 wounded by Hugh Birley's slighting remarks on her 
 dress and her appearance, which Hester, if she did 
 not exactly repeat to her, implied. 
 
 It had begun to strike her as possible that Hugh 
 Birley might be right, and the Dryborough people 
 wrong. That the ''old gold" gown with the large 
 
" VA/N IS THE HELP OF MANT 365 
 
 sleeves was not so lovely or becoming as she fancied ; 
 and that large shady hats looped up at the side 
 were not suited for a figure which was neither tall 
 nor slender ; that her studies with Mr. Wardlaw 
 were not such as to make her a popular member of 
 society; and that Hester, all dimples and smiles, and 
 with a ready flow of the current coin of conversation, 
 was far more likely to be attractive and sought after. 
 
 The two or three days spent in Percival Clyffe's 
 society had at that very time an especial charm for 
 her. Here, at least, was one person who knew the 
 world, and moved in circles far wider than little 
 Dryborough, who found her worth talking to, who 
 expressed an interest in her, and who, she could not 
 but feel, cared to be with her. The impression thus 
 made was deepened when Daisy told her that it was 
 Percy who had asked Lady Anna to take her to 
 Florence ; and then, what feeling there was, was 
 further strengthened when, on the suspension bridge 
 at Florence, on that bright December afternoon, 
 Percival had greeted her with a warmth that brought 
 the colour to her face, and made her heart beat with 
 an undefined delight. 
 
 It was easy for Adelaide to see the very palpable 
 conceit and "young Oxford" air of superiority 
 which jarred her so much in Hugh Birley. Besides, 
 she had known him from a boy in Eton jackets, and 
 she had always disliked him for his self-assertion ; 
 and when her nearest and dearest friend, Hester Pon- 
 sonby, told her that she did not understand him, for 
 
.366 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS, 
 
 that he was really delightful, and clever, and good, 
 she could only pity her, and look incredulous. 
 
 It was not likely that Percival Clyffe should fail to 
 attract her, and, indeed, he was very winning, and 
 had a charm about him which many people felt. We 
 may have our misgivings as to the depth of rippling 
 waters. Nevertheless, shallow streams make a very 
 pleasant music, and can reflect the sunshine and the 
 sky as they tinkle merrily along. We do not stop 
 to think that such shallows may soon dry up, and 
 that in days of drought and barrenness the refresh- 
 ment of such streams may fail us. 
 
 During the time of sorrow which had marked the 
 last weeks at Florence, Percival had certainly ap- 
 peared to advantage. He undertook all the necessary 
 arrangements for the broken-hearted father ; and 
 now he had lost his child-friend, he seemed to feel 
 that he had never known how dear she was to him. 
 
 In the face of a terrible grief like poor Lady 
 Anna's, Percival had found Mrs. Murchison's frivolity 
 irritating ; and the little murmured expressions of 
 sorrow, and then the immediate return to some- 
 thing which concerned herself, made him think as an 
 excuse for her that a bright creature like her could 
 not be expected to know what sorrow meant. 
 
 He forgot, perhaps, that the same bright creature 
 had lost a gallant young husband, and oii^ht to 
 know what sorrow meant ! But though he did not 
 seek Mrs. Murchison in this trouble, he did not draw 
 any nearer to Adelaide. 
 
" VA/N IS THE HELP OF MAN:' 367 
 
 He thought her manner to him cold and un- 
 sympathetic, and talked much more freely to Hester 
 Ponsonby and her mother about the painful pre- 
 parations for taking all that was left of dear little 
 Margaret to her own home. And now, as Adelaide 
 passed up the fir avenue, and stood before the 
 house, which could not choose but look bright in 
 the summer sunshine, the memories of the moon- 
 light night under those trees, and the walk through 
 the driving rain, sheltered by Percival's arm, came 
 back. 
 
 It was over — this first dream of love. Even if 
 he were by her side then, and by his words dis- 
 pelled the clouds of distrust and disappointment, it 
 could not be the same. Mrs. Murchison was far 
 better suited to him, she thought — " but," was the 
 final conclusion, " I shall never be so ready to 
 care for anyone again. I ought to be ashamed of it ; 
 and I am. It is over now." 
 
 The door was opened by Preston. He had lost 
 his occupation, and was glad to answer bells, or do 
 anything which might help to pass what was a very 
 dreary time in that silent house. 
 
 " Can I see her ladyship ?" Adelaide asked. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Milhngton ; I think her ladyship will 
 see you, but she is very much broken down — very 
 much indeed. If you will step into the drawing- 
 room, I will let her know you are here." 
 
 '* Mr. Lysaght is gone, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss Milhngton. He left for London, and 
 
368 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 then for Florence, last Monday. It is a curious 
 business," Preston added, with the freedom of an 
 old and trusted servant. " Foreigners are to come 
 here, I find." 
 
 "Mr. Beauchamp's grandson!" Adelaide said; 
 " hardty a foreigner !" 
 
 *' Well, I consider it a misfortune, especially for 
 her ladyship. The circumstances are very peculiar 
 — very peculiar indeed. My poor master ! Well, it 
 is not for me to say anything more." 
 
 Preston had drawn up the blinds, and the long, 
 low room became illuminated with sunshine. When 
 he had closed the door, the profound stillness was 
 oppressive. Adelaide felt as if she could not move, 
 and scarcely breathe. 
 
 How beautiful was the close-shaven turf and the 
 dark shadows of the firs lying on it ; the roses 
 climbing up by the window, almost like those she 
 had left in Florence ! The subtle charm of a real 
 English summer-day is always felt on a return from 
 other countries ; and Adelaide felt it now. It was 
 some minutes before Preston returned ; at last the 
 summons came for Adelaide to go to Lady Mary's 
 morning-room. 
 
 She dreaded the meeting, but she need not have 
 done so. Lady Mary was quite calm, though she 
 spoke in a voice which was full of suppressed 
 emotion. 
 
 " I am glad you have come back, my dear," she 
 said, rising to meet Adelaide, her tall figure looking 
 
" VA/N IS THE HELP OF A/AN." 369 
 
 taller than ever, clothed in black. Lady Mary 
 wore a widow's cap, with long streamers behind, 
 which set off the refined contour of her head and 
 shoulders. The lines on her face had deepened, 
 but the old look of patient endurance was gone. It 
 was replaced by an expression which is seen on the 
 faces of those who have no longer need to bear 
 a burden, for relief has come — no longer need to 
 fight against the storm, for the storm is over. 
 
 The ship was in port ; and though the traces of the 
 surging sea and tempest were visible, yet there was 
 peace underlying them — a peace won after a hard 
 conflict. 
 
 Lady Mary received Adelaide affectionately, and, 
 instead of referring to her own troubles, said : 
 
 " Tell me about my poor sister — my heart aches 
 for her and her husband." 
 
 " Lady Anna is still in a most dejected state," 
 Adelaide said. " She says very little, and seems 
 unable to take any comfort. I think she is suffering 
 from the feeling that all that was done was done in 
 vain ; that the life of the darling child could no 
 more be saved b}^ all that wealth could procure, 
 than the life of the child of a poor man !" 
 
 '* Yes, the powerlessness of money in the great 
 exigencies of life and death !" Lady Mary said. " I 
 can understand what she feels ; poor Anna !" 
 
 " Mr. Cowper-Smith is really broken-hearted," 
 Adelaide said. '' It is so pathetic to see him stud} - 
 ing the little book Daisy left, with ' My wishes,' 
 
 24 
 
370 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 written on the title-page, ' for dearest father.' He 
 seems to take comfort in carrying them out, 
 while Lady Anna is already studying designs from 
 a Florentine sculptor for a recumbent figure, in pure 
 white marble, for Willesford Church. The likeness 
 is to be taken from a portrait Lucia Campbell — I must 
 call her Lucia Beauchamp now — was just finishing 
 when the dear child became too ill to sit for it." 
 
 "Ah!" Lady Mary said, "that name makes me 
 think I must ask you about these people. From 
 what Godfrey Lysaght says, the girl seems very 
 ^ood — but the mother, and the poor blind boy ! 
 Does it not seem wonderful that a man so w^ell fitted 
 to take his place here, with all his gifts and desire 
 to do good in his day and generation, should be 
 displaced by a poor afflicted boy, who seems to 
 have no interest in the world but music — a dreamy, 
 fragile creature, whose mother will rule here, and 
 be of practically no use? I can submit to God's 
 will, and I know His ways are not our ways, 
 nor His thoughts our thoughts. But I confess 
 while I should have hailed Mr. Lysaght as the 
 master at the Court, I do shrink from those who 
 have the first claim. My husband" — Lady Mary's 
 voice faltered — ''my husband died with forgiveness 
 on his lips ; and I thank God for it. He had built 
 so many hopes on his son, and the utter destruction 
 of them was terrible. I cannot go over that past — I 
 had no part or lot in it. It is the present which 
 concerns me ; and I shall be glad, my dear, if you 
 will help me to meet it. I have no daughter ; and I 
 
'' VAIN IS THE HELP OF JIANr 371 
 
 shall be thankful to possess one in you. I have 
 always loved you." 
 
 *' Do you mean," Adelaide said, taking Lady 
 Mary's hand in hers, and kissing it — the first time 
 she had ever ventured on such a caress, "that I 
 should live with you ?" 
 
 *' Yes. I do mean it. I must leave this place be- 
 fore these people come, and I have ample provision 
 for my wants by my husband's generosity. I wish 
 to place my personal possessions in safe keeping for 
 a year, and travel. I thought you would like to 
 come with me, and pursue your studies at Florence 
 or Rome next winter." 
 
 " I must ask my mother about it," Adelaide said. 
 *' If she and my stepfather think it is right, I shall 
 be glad to accept your offer, and be of what use I 
 can to you." 
 
 " Your mother will consent, I think. Your sisters 
 are growing up, and will be a comfort to her, while I 
 — I am very desolate." 
 
 Were not such desolation and loneliness better than 
 the daily and hourly attendance on a selfish, irascible 
 invalid ? Adelaide thought. As if Lady Mary had 
 read that thought by intuition, she said : 
 
 *' I know that many will think that I am only 
 relieved from a heavy burden, but, my dear, I had all 
 I deserved. I married for a home and a mainte- 
 nance. What right had I to complain if the bed I 
 had made for myself was an uneasy one ? And I 
 had my compensations ; the last few weeks brought 
 
 24~2 
 
372 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 them to me ; and I miss the ministry on him, which 
 at first, and for many years, was simply the ministry 
 o{ duty, but later became that of affection." 
 
 It is indeed true that our hermit-spirits dwell apart, 
 and that the heart alone knows its own bitterness or 
 its own joys, in neither of which can a stranger inter- 
 meddle. 
 
 "Adelaide," Lady Mary said after a pause, '* what 
 is Percival Clyffe doing ?" 
 
 The colour rushed to Adelaide's face, and told its 
 own tale. 
 
 " I do not know," she said. '' He returned to 
 London with the Cowper-Smiths and Mrs. Pcn- 
 sonby and Hester. Miss Cromwell and I stayed 
 behind at Florence with Fielding till the owners of 
 the house returned." 
 
 " Some one said — I think it was Grace Ponsonby 
 — that Percival was engaged to a young widow, Mr. 
 Lysaght's sister. Is it so ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you," Adelaide said. 
 
 *' I hope not ; for, from what the Ponsonbys say, 
 she must be very different from her brother — a very 
 gay, frivolous person." 
 
 " She is very good-natured and very clever," 
 Adelaide said. But her voice had a ring of bitterness 
 in it which did not harmonize with her words. 
 
 Lady Mary put her arm round her and kissed her 
 tenderly. 
 
 It was a silent token of understanding and sym- 
 pathy, and Percival Clyffe's name was not mentioned 
 again for many a long day. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 UNDER A NEW MASTER. 
 
 Mrs. Ponsonby was not, as we know, at all 
 reticent, and as soon as she returned to Dry- 
 borough everyone was in possession of the history 
 of the Beauchamps. Poor Mrs. Beauchamp — other- 
 wise Campbell — was described in unflattering terms, 
 and the Miss Townleys and Miss Castigan thought 
 they really should hardly care to call upon such a 
 person. 
 
 Mrs. Birley said it would not do to be discour- 
 teous, and if " the county " acknowledged Mrs. 
 Beauchamp and paid its respects to the new master 
 of the Court, of course Dryborough could not hold 
 back. Hester's account of the Beauchamps was 
 decidedly more favourable than her mother's, and 
 Susie and Nina Wardlaw were looking forward to 
 Lucia's painting and Giovanni's music, while their 
 mother said she quite hoped these young people 
 would compensate to her children for the loss of 
 their sister. For Adelaide was to leave Dryborough 
 with Lady Mary for a prolonged residence abroad. 
 
 The coming of the acknowledged heir to the Beau- 
 
374 I^ THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 champ estate, and the novelty of Itahans at the 
 Court, was a nine days' wonder. How few wonders 
 outHve the tenth ! 
 
 " The new family at the Court," as Dryborough 
 expressed it, arrived late one Saturday evening in 
 August. A telegram reached Preston to send the 
 carriage to the junction, and a servant for the 
 luggage. Preston kept his own counsel, and was 
 determined there should be no demonstration made, 
 or any " bell-ringing or nonsense for the arrival of 
 a pack of foreigners." 
 
 So well was everything arranged, that the congre- 
 gation in the church the next morning were for the 
 most part taken by surprise when the party from the 
 Court came up the aisle to the Squire's pew, where 
 recumbent figures of the Beauchamps lay with folded 
 hands in deep repose, which no chances or changes 
 could disturb. 
 
 Miss Castigan felt herself strangely affected as she 
 saw the blind master of the Court walk up the 
 church on Mr. Lysaght's arm. 
 
 " So wonderfully forgiving of him," she said, 
 wiping her spectacles. '' It was most affecting." 
 
 " I don't see that there was any forgiveness in the 
 case," said Miss Townley sharply. '' The blind boy 
 only claims his own." 
 
 " Ah, but what a disappointment ! I call it very 
 heroic of Mr. Lysaght — that I do !" 
 
 " Mrs. Beauchamp is the image of a gipsy woman 
 dressed as a lady, but I suppose she must be called 
 
UNDER A NEW MASTER. 375 
 
 handsome : large eyes and coal-black hair are 
 admired by some people, but not by me, I confess." 
 
 " I thought the blind boy very interesting, and he 
 certainly has an aristocratic air.*' 
 
 *' Do you think so ?" Miss Townley said. " I can- 
 not say it struck me. Now, there was a grandeur 
 about the old Squire, for when I was a tiny child, you 
 know, I used to watch for him coming under the 
 archway on his fine black horse. I was a mere baby 
 when that dreadful event happened, but I can 
 remember it clearly." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Townley ! you were at my school when 
 the great trouble came at the Court. You were quite 
 a big girl, and a very clever one, too," Miss Castigan 
 added, trying to gild the pill with a little timely 
 flattery, for Miss Townley, though generally truthful, 
 was apt to deviate from the path of rectitude when 
 the question of age was concerned. 
 
 The small, lithe figure which followed Mrs. Beau- 
 champ up the aisle, with the more imposing form of 
 Marietta, had been almost overlooked. Lucia might 
 have passed unnoticed, but when she was leaving 
 the church she suddenly turned to wait for Adelaide. 
 With all the impulsiveness of her Southern nature, 
 and quite unconscious of the eyes which were look- 
 ing at her with some curiosity, Lucia kissed her, 
 taking both her hands in hers, and saying in a low 
 voice : " Come and see me ; I am so lonely here." 
 
 Adelaide was spending her last Sunday with her 
 
376 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 mother in the old home, and Lady Mary was staying 
 with Mrs. Ponsonby. They were to start early the 
 next morning for London, and all Adelaide's pre- 
 parations were completed. 
 
 After the service in the church, she separated 
 herself from her sisters, and in the dim twilight of 
 the September evening went under the gateway 
 towards the Court. The dark firs were murmuring 
 their old song, and just above the topmost boughs 
 a crescent moon was hanging its silver bow. As Ade- 
 laide drew near the house she saw lights in the hall, 
 and heard the sound of Giovanni's violin, with a 
 voice — a well-known voice — singing a familiar hymn 
 of Faber's to the tune which seems to suit it so well. 
 The wide hall door was open, and under the old 
 stone porch Adelaide could just distinguish Lucia's 
 figure. At the sound of footsteps Lucia started, and 
 springing towards her, said : 
 
 " I have been waiting and watching for you so 
 long." 
 
 " I have been to church," Adelaide said. " It is 
 my last night here for a very long time, and I liked 
 to be with my mother and sister for our last service 
 together." 
 
 " Hush !" Lucia said. " Do you hear that music? 
 Do you know the words ? 
 
 "' Rest comes at last, though life be long and dreary.' 
 
 Ah, I am longing for that rest — the rest little 
 Margherita has gained. Why am I left ?" 
 
UNDER A NEW MASTER. 377 
 
 " To do good in the world," Adelaide said. "You 
 have so much power and so many gifts, Lucia. Do 
 not lose heart. You have been so brave." 
 
 "■ I wish I were returning with you to my beautiful 
 Florence. I would rather be working there again 
 for my daily bread than shut up here under these 
 dark trees ; so dark and chill it is ! And no one 
 wants me." 
 
 "You forget Giovanni. How could he live with- 
 out you ?" 
 
 " Ah, everyone learns at last to do without the 
 people and things they love best," Lucia said. 
 " That is what poor Signor Maura said to me when 
 I left him. He said he had learned the lesson of 
 doing without his right arm, and that he should have 
 to learn to do without me — the light of his eyes, he 
 called me. We moved him into our old room, and 
 made it pleasant for him, and I asked the signor 
 to let us leave some money to keep him while he 
 lives. The signor is going to manage our money for 
 us. Giovanni cannot, and the madre must not — she 
 does not know its value ; and Marietta is worse. 
 We moved all the poor signor's pictures for him. 
 Have you heard that the lady and the little boy were 
 signor's mother and little brother who died ? Is it 
 not wonderful ? She was such a good friend to 
 Signor Maura ; and he thought he could paint her 
 portrait. It is terrible to be self-deceived as he was. 
 It is no portrait, no picture, only a daub — a dream, 
 a delusion. Have we not all our dreams and 
 
378 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 delusions ? You will go and visit the dear old man 
 at Florence, for my sake ?" 
 
 "Yes, I promise," Adelaide said. 
 
 *'The signor said he was going to visit the Lady 
 Mary this evening. Ah, he is coming, he is coming!" 
 And Lucia had vanished in the dim light of the 
 spacious hall behind her just as Mr. Lysaght came 
 into the porch. He started, and said : 
 
 *' Are you waiting for anyone ? Have you rung 
 the bell ?" 
 
 " It is I — Adelaide," she answered. " I came up 
 to see poor Lucia. She has been talking to me 
 here." 
 
 " Will you not come in and see Giovanni V^ And 
 Mr. Lysaght turned and led the way to the familiar 
 drawing-room, which was lighted by two lamps at 
 the further end. 
 
 Adelaide could have fancied herself in the bare 
 apartments in the Piazza Cavour as she heard 
 Marietta and her mother talking in their rapid, high- 
 pitched voices. It sounded very like wrangling, if 
 not like quarrelling, and Adelaide's heart was full of 
 sympathy with Lucia. As she had said, working 
 for daily bread might almost be preferable to having 
 no particular object in life in the stately loneliness 
 of Cruttwell Court. 
 
 *' Well, Giovanni." The blind boy started to his 
 feet. 
 
 " Signorina ! signorina ! I am glad you are come ! 
 It will make Lucia happier." 
 
UNDER A NEW MASTER. 379 
 
 *' Happy — happier !" exclaimed Mrs. Beauchamp; 
 *' we are all happ)^ now. We shall have plenty of 
 good things. It is enraging to see Lucia mope, mope, 
 and look like one of the blessed martyr saints. I 
 have no patience with her !" 
 
 "We need not mind her now," said Marietta. 
 *' We can please ourselves, thank goodness ! Lucia 
 has been as sour as an unripe olive ever since our 
 good fortune came. We need not mind her/' 
 
 "But we shall mind her!" exclaimed Giovanni. 
 " I am the master here, and I shall order all to love 
 and reverence my Lucia. Oh, it is a shame to talk 
 thus !" 
 
 The boy's pale face glowed with indignation ; but 
 Marietta only laughed and said : 
 
 " It is only amusing to hear you !" 
 
 " Giovanni is perfectly right," Mr. Lysaght said. 
 
 He had been standing a little apart. It was not 
 in human nature to be insensible to the contrast be- 
 tween what wm and what might have been. 
 
 This querulous girl and her garrulous mother 
 installed at the Court, with all their little disputes 
 and unseemly wrangles ; Giovanni, who was really 
 the master of the house, set aside ! 
 
 And Lucia — did he not give one thought to 
 Lucia ? Yes, assuredly ; but he looked on her as 
 the one most likely to keep peace and to exercise an 
 influence for good, as she had done in their humble 
 home at Florence. He saw there was a change in 
 her — that she was listless and silent — that her old 
 
38o IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 brightness and activity seemed gone ; and he thought 
 it was the result of her changed Hfe and of her illness 
 in the spring. 
 
 '' She is one to whom work is a necessity," he 
 thought. " She will soon find it for herself, and the 
 absolute rest and freedom from care will have its 
 effect in time." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght said this as he and Adelaide walked 
 together down the avenue under the dark fir-trees, 
 where the night-breezes made their moan, as of 
 waves on a distant shore. 
 
 " Lucia's brave spirit will assert itself at last," he 
 continued. '' Now all things are strange to her. 
 It is a new and trying position." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght seemed to like to talk of Lucia, and 
 of any subject that might put Adelaide at ease. 
 She on her side was silent, only assenting in mono- 
 syllables to what he said. 
 
 " Lucia's kindly thought for that poor old Italian 
 was very touching. She has left him at ease for the 
 rest of his life. Did she tell you of the strange 
 coincidence about my mother being his ideal — his 
 Madonna?" 
 
 " Yes," Adelaide said ; " Lucia told me about it." 
 
 " It is strange how small the world is," Mr. 
 Lysaght went on ; " everyone seems to be linked 
 in the chain of circumstances with somebody 
 else. The whole story is remarkable ! The curious 
 adaptation of the name ; the skilful avoidance of 
 anything which might lead to suspicion ! Sad it is 
 
UNDER A NE W MA S TER, 38 1 
 
 to think how implacable were the feelings of un- 
 natural hatred between the father and son. The 
 son too proud even to make himself known to the 
 father, preferring starvation for his family to appeal 
 to the Squire ! But the father's heart softened at 
 the last, and poor Lady Mary had her reward for 
 years of patient continuance in well-doing." 
 
 Then after this there was a silence. They were 
 under the old gateway now, and in a few minutes 
 they must separate. How often it happens, as it 
 happened that night to Mr. Lysaght and Adelaide, 
 that the subject nearest to the heart of one is pur- 
 posely avoided, while the other uses every effort to 
 seem unconscious that it exists ! 
 
 *' I shall be here from time to time," Mr. Lysaght 
 said. " I cannot resist the appeal of that poor blind 
 boy to help and befriend him ; but I shall try to 
 make headquarters for the winter in my chambers." 
 
 Not a word of his sister, and no reference to her. 
 Adelaide determined to ask the question, but she 
 could scarcely summon courage to do so, or control 
 her voice as she said : 
 
 " Will Mrs. Murchison live with you ?" The 
 words came out slowly and with hesitation. 
 
 " No ; my sister's plans are uncertain. For the 
 present she is staying with some friends near Cam- 
 bridge. I shall probably be alone for the greater 
 part of the winter, but I shall not be lonely. I have 
 a great deal on hand in London, and I must make 
 my pen useful now. I have enough and to spare. 
 
382 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 thank God, and I hope I shall be able to do some- 
 thing for those who are in need. We must say- 
 good-bye here. I hope your art studies will prosper 
 this winter, and that we may see a picture of yours 
 on the walls of Burhngton House some day." 
 
 " That is a very distant day, I am afraid," Adelaide 
 said ; " but, if it ever comes, I shall owe it to your 
 encouragement and help. Do you remember finding 
 me in despair over the httle cherubs in the Acca- 
 demia, and taking me to consult poor Lucia ?" 
 
 "As if I could forget!" he said. He held her 
 hand for a moment in his, and then said : " I do not 
 ask you that question again which I asked you at 
 Florence. I thought then I had something to offer 
 you ; now I have nothing but my love, which, if 
 everything else is changed, is changeless." 
 
 So they parted. Adelaide opened the door (which 
 had been left on the latch) noiselessly, and hastened 
 upstairs to her own room, where so many of her 
 dreams had been dreamed, where aspirations for a 
 dim and undefined future had made her forget the 
 duties of the present. 
 
 She stood for some minutes amongst all the pre- 
 parations for departure, thinking over her position 
 and trying to realize it. Why was her fate so 
 different from Hester Ponsonby's, who had been 
 loved and loved again, and now, in the face of all 
 opposition, was engaged to be married in the spring 
 to Hugh Birley ? — Mrs. Ponsonby had withdrawn an 
 opposition in which she felt it was hopeless to persist, 
 
UNDER A NEW MASTER. 383 
 
 and was ready to welcome Hugh Birley as her son- 
 in-law. Why would her heart turn so persistently to 
 Percival Clyffe, while her better judgment rose up in 
 rebellion, as it were, against herself? The bright, 
 versatile, and popular man who had won her by 
 sympathy when she needed it, who had first opened 
 out to her a possible future of success, and had pro- 
 fessed — ah, was it only profession ? — to be interested 
 in all she did, and all she longed for, still held a sway 
 over her. Yes, though he had fallen off from his 
 allegiance, and had apparently given it to a gay, fas- 
 cinating woman who knew the world and v/as versed 
 in all the ethics of society, of which Adelaide herself 
 knew nothing. 
 
 She did not even take into account the possibility 
 that he might at last return to her — that he might 
 get tired of Mrs. Murchison, and be as he had been 
 in those first days at Dryborough, and in the first 
 delightful fortnight at Florence. To do Adelaide 
 justice, she did not look forw^ard, but simply met the 
 question as it presented itself to her then. 
 
 " Could I, feeling as I do now, care for anyone but 
 him ? No, I could not — I dare not !" 
 
 And yet in her secret heart she felt that Mr. 
 Lysaght stood on a vantage-ground far above Per- 
 cival Clyffe. The one, earnest and full of the serious 
 purpose of life, resolute, and, as he said, changeless ; 
 the other, with all his attractions, unstable in his 
 plans, uncertain in his moods — one day talking of a 
 situation in the Home Office, the next of a cattle- 
 
384 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ranche in the Far West, or seeking a place at the 
 Cape as secretary to some mining company. But all 
 these schemes ended in nothing, and Percival Clyffe 
 was content to be what he was — a popular member 
 of society, whose popularity was, as in thousands of 
 other cases, a snare to him. 
 
 Adelaide's meditations were brought to an abrupt 
 conclusion by her sister's knock at the door. 
 
 " Adelaide, do come down ; it is your last night, 
 and supper is ready. Do come." 
 
 Yes ; it was again the last night. But she 
 was going forth with very different anticipations 
 to those with which she had joined the Cowper- 
 Smiths the year before. The great lessons of life 
 had forced themselves on her, and the horizon had 
 widened ; Adelaide Millington was no longer the 
 centre round which her little world revolved. She 
 had learned much more since that moonlight night 
 when she first saw Percival Clyffe's handsome face 
 looking down on her. It had been an awakening 
 from dreams to the realities of life — yes, and of death 
 also. For the sweet influence of the child who had 
 loved her, and whose dying words were so often in 
 her ears, had come to her just when she had most 
 needed it. Dear little Margaret, by her gentleness 
 and unselfishness, surrounded as she was b}^ every- 
 thing most calculated to evolve a character wholly 
 engrossed with selfish requirements, had not lived 
 in vain. That life had left its mark ; to be with 
 her was to be with one whom the King of Love had 
 
UNDER A NEW MASTER. 385 
 
 marked for His own ; and in His love had taken her 
 gently to His arm, and shielded her from the trials 
 which must have beset her in the long journey of life. 
 
 Who could wish to recall her ? 
 
 A few days later, Adelaide found herself with Lady 
 Mary at Willesford Hall. The grief-stricken father 
 was trying to find consolation in following out his 
 child's last wishes. But the mother, whose hopes 
 had been crushed, and who sat with folded hands 
 mourning for her child, with the ever-present sense 
 of failure in all her efforts to keep her darling with her, 
 filled Adelaide's heart with the deepest pity as she 
 read in Lady Anna's rigid face, marked with lines of 
 a hard and bitter grief, the words of the prophet of 
 old, " I do well to be angry." There is nothing 
 more terrible to see than grief like Lady Anna's. 
 The idol is taken away, and with it seems to have 
 gone all sweetness and tenderness out of the heart 
 which hardens itself against the loving Father who 
 does not willingly afflict His children. 
 
 Lady Mary had felt it her duty to propose this 
 visit to Willesford before leaving England; but it 
 was too painful to prolong it, and it lasted but a few 
 days. 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith called Adelaide to his library 
 one evening, saying they should be free from in- 
 terruptions, and that he had something to show her. 
 
 "You loved my darling; you know how I loved her !" 
 he said ; " and I am only longing to carry out the 
 wishes she has left behind. There are difficulties ; my 
 
 25 
 
386 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 poor wife is so resolutely set against one of them." 
 Then he took from a drawer the little red book 
 Adelaide had often seen in Daisy's hand, and said, 
 in a broken voice, " You already know about this 
 book ! You can read what she has written. I know 
 what she says there by heart ; and I must obey her 
 —but how ?" 
 
 Adelaide turned the pages of the little book, on 
 the first leaf of which was written, '^ My wishes 
 for dearest father : I should like dear father to 
 build a nice pretty house near the church for little 
 sick children to come and get well out of Irons- 
 town. Next, I should like Mrs. Gray — dear, dear 
 Grayling — to look after them, and talk to them 
 about me. I know what it is to be tired and to feel 
 ill ; and it is very hard to bear — how much more for 
 poor children in dark dismal houses in Ironstown ! 
 I should like Percy, dear Percy, to have anything of 
 mine he wishes for — my dear pony Zoe, and, dear 
 father, some money ; you will have no money to 
 spend for me when I am gone away, so do let Percy 
 have it. I love him very, very much ; he was 
 always so kind to me. Then there is Rose Smith, 
 my cousin, dear father ; I want you to have her as a 
 little daughter instead of me. You and poor mother 
 will be lonely at Willesford with no one. Do ask 
 Cousin Barbara to give you Rose. I think she 
 will, for she has so many little girls ; and you, poor 
 father, had only one, only me ! — and God is taking 
 mc away. I am so sorry for dear father, losing his 
 
UNDER A NEW MASTER. 387 
 
 Peggy ; but God knows best. Do take Rose to be 
 your little daughter." 
 
 No wonder this page was blotted with tears ; and 
 Adelaide's eyes were dim as she read the wishes the 
 child's father held sacred. He broke in here : 
 
 " I would do all — all ; but my poor wife will not 
 listen to the wish about Rose. I dare not even 
 mention it, she is so set against it. She may come 
 round in time — poor thing, poor thing !" 
 
 Adelaide could not trust herself to speak as she 
 read on : 
 
 " I love Adelaide very much, dear father ; let her 
 have anything of mine she likes — my dear tiny little 
 watch, which rings the half-hours in the night. 
 Adelaide will think how often I have touched it 
 when I was lying tossing about at Florence. 
 
 *' Then Giovanni is to have my violin, please ; and 
 you will help him, for he is very poor. Mr. Lysaght 
 was so kind to him. You won't forget Giovanni, 
 father ? And Mr. Lysaght — I should like him to 
 have my clock that sounds like the bell of the Duomo 
 when it strikes. I love Mr. Lysaght — he is so good." 
 
 The writing grew more feeble after this, and evi- 
 dently the entries had been made with increasing 
 difficulty ; but everyone was remembered. Miss 
 Cromwell, and Fielding and Sam, all were to have 
 keepsakes. 
 
 The last words were deeply touching : 
 
 " I leave my tender love to my dear father and 
 mother. All I have is theirs, so I cannot leave them 
 
 25—2 
 
388 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 a keepsake ; they can choose what they Hke best. 
 I hope I shall be the first to meet them when they 
 come to that lovely home where I am going — soon, 
 now, I think. I have been afraid to go, but not now. 
 I feel the Lord is quite — quite near. This is Whit 
 Sunday — White Sunday — and I saw a pretty white 
 dove at my window to-day, before Grayling was 
 awake. I cannot write any more." 
 
 A few words after this were not legible. 
 
 Adelaide returned the book to Mr. Cowper-Smith, 
 and she said : 
 
 '' You are happy to have such a child, for she is 
 yours still." 
 
 '* Yes, yes ; I try to feel that, and I try to realize 
 her joys in that home she writes of ; but I have 
 many sad hours, sadder than anyone can guess. 
 My wife, poor thing, will not take any comfort, keeps 
 herself apart, and seems to have no interest in any- 
 thing but the plans for the chapel to be built on the 
 east end of the church, where the monument is to 
 be placed. Have you seen the sculptor's drawing 
 for the figure ?" 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith drew a portfolio towards him 
 with the design for the marble tomb. 
 
 The child's figure lying in perfect rest, her head 
 turned upon a pillow, a smile on her lips, and the 
 likeness — taken from Lucia's portrait — very striking. 
 
 ^' It will be beautiful in marble," Adelaide said ; 
 and she could no longer restrain her tears, as she 
 read the words beneath : 
 
UNDER A NEW MASTER. 389 
 
 " Margaret, only beloved child of John Cowper- 
 Smith and Anna, his wife, given to them May 21st, 
 1874, taken from them May 15th, 1886. 'The light 
 of mine eyes is gone from me. He takes away the 
 desire of my eyes with a stroke. It is the Lord; let 
 Him do what seemeth Him good.' " 
 
 " The last words ought to be what I feel," the poor 
 father said ; *' and I do feel them sometimes, not 
 always — not always ! God have pity on me, and help 
 me!" 
 
 As Mr. Cowper-Smith replaced the design in the 
 portfolio he said : 
 
 " Can you say anything to my poor wife about 
 little Rose ? I have asked her sister to do so, but 
 she shrinks from it." 
 
 " I am afraid I dare not," Adelaide said ; " I fear 
 to seem intrusive, and Lady Anna gives me no chance 
 of speaking to her of Daisy." 
 
 Mr. Cowper-Smith sighed heavily. 
 
 "We must trust to time," he said, ''and be 
 patient; it is a hard blow for her, and somehow 
 she will not let me try to soften it. But we must 
 be patient — we must have patience !" 
 
 Yes, he had patience, and he needed it. This self- 
 absorbed grief, which is the outcome of an un- 
 disciplined will, is infinitely sad for those who have to 
 watch it, and feel powerless to help or comfort. 
 
 Those people who are selfish in joy and in the times 
 of prosperity, are invariably selfish in sorrow. We see 
 some stricken as Lady Anna was turn to the world 
 
390 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 and all it can give for consolation ; but Lady Anna's 
 love for her child had been too absorbing, and was so 
 mixed up with herself, and her pride in her as hers, 
 that she could not do this. Rather the cry of her 
 stricken heart was, " What does it profit, all this 
 wealth for which I craved ; what do all these pos- 
 sessions mean ? Nothing but barrenness and despair ! 
 All I could do — all that riches could do — was done, 
 and in vain. I have lost her, and it is a cruel blow ! 
 And there is none to pity — none to care !" 
 
 So she wrapped herself up in her sorrow as in a 
 mantle, and forgot the pain at the heart nearest her 
 own ; forgot to soothe his grief — forgot, indeed, every- 
 thing but herself and her own bitter grief. 
 
 Nor was this condition of Lady Anna's out of har- 
 mony with her past life. She had lived for herself, 
 and she was now sorrowing for herself. In such 
 natures there is no room for the griefs or joys of 
 others, apart from their own. Only one Hand can 
 touch hearts like Lady Anna's, and with the touch 
 bring repentance and healing. Only at the Cross 
 can we learn what is the beauty of sacrifice, and 
 the happiness which springs from all pain and weari- 
 ness, when once His steps are followed, faithfully — 
 even unto death — who pleased not Himself. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 AFTER ONE YEAR. 
 
 Florence looked her brightest and best on the May 
 of the following year when Lady Mary Beauchamp 
 and Adelaide arrived there on their way from Rome, 
 where they had spent the winter, and where Adelaide 
 had made rapid progress in her studies. It was 
 strange to find herself in Florence again, so full of 
 memories of her own past, where the sound of the 
 rippling Arno under the bridges and the great bell of 
 the Duomo were like the voices of friends bearing 
 messages from a vanished time. 
 
 Lady Mary had found Adelaide a congenial com- 
 panion. She had the gift of silence when silence 
 was desired, and did not think it necessary to make 
 talk out of nothing, which manufacture is often so tire- 
 some and destroys anything hke freedom of inter- 
 course. Lady Mary had lived in retirement at Rome, 
 where the English have a large society, and where the 
 faults of our modern life at home are seen perhaps 
 more clearly in the light of the atmosphere of the 
 Eternal City. It is the fashion to say that Rome is 
 
392 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 infinitely before and beyond Florence in interest, 
 and there is a certain affectation in many of those 
 who frequent it, who look down with pity on their 
 friends and acquaintances whose travel stops short of 
 Rome. Although Adelaide's travel had extended to 
 Rome, she found in Florence, on her return to it, 
 all the grace and indescribable charm which cannot 
 be destroyed even by the intimate acquaintance of 
 months with the grandeur of St. Peter's and the 
 solemn memories which linger round the Forum and 
 the Pantheon, and are borne upon the waters of 
 the yellow Tiber. Florence holds her own, and 
 greets those who love her with a smile as she spreads 
 before them the wealth of her flowers, her treasures 
 of art, and welcomes them to the dazzling beauty 
 of the facciata of her Duomo, to her Campanile 
 soaring heavenward, and her encircling hills, which 
 take the deepest violet hue as the sun sinks behind 
 the Carrara mountains, and sends an afterglow of 
 the purest rose colour across the deep blue of the 
 overarching sky. 
 
 " After all, there is no place like it," Adelaide said, 
 as she went up the zigzag path to San Miniato once 
 more, stopping at every turn to recognise all the 
 objects which had been familiar, like the recognition 
 of friends from whom she had been separated. 
 The heights of Fiesole, the grand outline of Monte 
 Morello, the bridges, the towers and domes, all in 
 the glowing sunshine of the May afternoon, were 
 like the realizing of a beautiful dream, and made 
 
AFTER ONE YEAR. 393 
 
 her sing out of the fulness of her heart for very 
 thankfulness that she saw it all again. 
 
 Adelaide's step was light, and her whole bearing 
 very different from other times. She was now self- 
 rehant instead of self-doubting, no longer teased 
 with the fear of what others thought of her, no 
 longer yielding to that self-depreciation which is in 
 reality a form of self-love. 
 
 Lady Mary had encouraged all her tastes and 
 sympathized in her work. They had read a great 
 many books together, for Lady Mary had a low, 
 clear voice, and she read while Adelaide worked at 
 her water-colour sketches, which at last rivalled 
 Mrs. Murchison^s. She had acquired the happy art 
 of expressing what she felt with her brush, and all 
 the poetry of her nature came forth in her pictures 
 of world-famed ruins, set against the sunset skies of 
 Italy, with which her portfolio was full. 
 
 The graver studies had gone on at a studio in 
 Rome, and one of her compositions, from the hving 
 model of a Roman peasant and her child, had won 
 great praise for careful execution, and faithful re- 
 presentation of a mother and her boy. Success is 
 always sweet ; and though Adelaide in her secret 
 heart thought less of her productions now than she 
 had done of the "Fisher-boy," still, there was the 
 feeling dear to most of us who labour with pen, brush, 
 or chisel, that the power that is in us is growing, and 
 that patient labour, and determination to conquer 
 difficulties, irrespective of criticism or opinions, is 
 winning its reward. 
 
394 ^^ THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 When Adelaide reached her favourite position 
 before the church which crowns the height of San 
 Miniato, she sat down on the steps of the Piazza 
 and drew from her pocket some letters which had 
 awaited her from Florence. One from a happy 
 bride, Hester Birley, written from Lucerne, where 
 she was finding out how delightful life was with one 
 to share all her joys, and especially when that one 
 was like her Hugh, so superior as he was to the 
 average of man. Adelaide smiled a little scornfully 
 as she read these words. 
 
 *' Poor Hester ! dear little Hester ! She is to be 
 envied for her faith in Hugh ; but superior — will she 
 ever find out that he is anything but that ?" Then, 
 checking herself, " How crabbed I am ! and who 
 am I to laugh at her, for being taken by the outside ! 
 Dear Hester, I must write to her to-morrow." 
 
 The other letter was from Lucia. She had grown 
 more accustomed to her life, and Giovanni was so 
 thoughtful and kind. He had asked the signor to 
 find the right place at the back of the Court where 
 to build a studio — a real artist's studio — and she was 
 to be settled in it before long. Then she should get 
 back to her work, and feel happier. *' Happy I do 
 not think to be, but life is very bright sometimes." 
 
 Evidently the old spirit was reviving in the little 
 artist. And Adelaide was glad to mark it, and 
 to feel that Lucia's heart-wound would heal, as 
 her own had healed. But then her cure had been 
 hastened ! 
 
AFTER ONE YEAR. 395 
 
 Percival Clyffe, in spite of the anger of his aunt, 
 Lady Anna, and threats of discontinuing all her 
 favours to him, had married Mrs. Murchison. 
 
 He had done it at last, from a consciousness, 
 perhaps, that he had given her every reason to 
 believe he cared for her, and that in honour he could 
 not draw back. As to Mrs. Murchison, she was well 
 pleased ; the only drawback was the want of money ; 
 but she employed her powers of fascination to such 
 good purpose, that a slight acquaintance with one of 
 the chiefs of the Colonial Office was worked so well 
 that Percival Clyffe, backed by Lord Fernclyffe's 
 influence, was appointed judge of one of the 
 Supreme Courts of Judicature in a distant part of 
 Her Majesty's Empire. 
 
 Thither they drifted, and Mrs. Percival Clyffe was 
 spoken of as a sparkling, charming person, round 
 whom a little coterie gathered, in a place where she 
 reigned as queen, and succeeded in making many 
 besides the learned Professor at Paoli's Hotel believe 
 in her, as a literary queen who, by the hard-hearted- 
 ness and gross stupidity of pubHshers, could not gain 
 a hearing. She instantly plunged into a book to be 
 entitled *' My Life in the Tropics." And if the 
 material at her command is worked up with a 
 certain clearness of style and good grammar, which 
 her previous efforts rather wanted, the book may 
 prove what Percival foretells — a grand success. 
 
 I do not know whether Percival Clyffe casts many 
 backward glances. Men of his type have a happy 
 
396 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 facility of effacing their past — especially if it is 
 not altogether creditable to themselves — with a 
 sponge. But sometimes he hears — echoing from 
 that past in which his wife has neither part nor lot 
 — the voice of a child, tender and musical, and he 
 hears her say, '' Percy, dear Percy," and again 
 ^^ Adelaide.'' Perhaps his love for his little cousin 
 was the deepest and purest love he had ever known, 
 or ever will know. But he was very well satisfied 
 with himself and his wife. His knowledge of law 
 was certainly not very great, but he had been called 
 to the Bar, and it was easy to persuade himself that 
 the title of Judge was a deserved honour, which he 
 wore with a becoming sense of his own import- 
 ance ! 
 
 Adelaide turned into the church to take a look at 
 the sleeping Cardinal, and here indeed she found a 
 well-remembered friend. The repose and perfect 
 rest of that beautiful figure seemed to fill her soul 
 with an answer of peace. She had gained much 
 since she had last gazed upon the pure beauty 
 of that marble face, and it was with a feeling of 
 thankfulness that she remembered how sore her 
 heart had been when she last sat there, and how 
 wonderfully the smart of wounded pride, as much as 
 wounded love, had been cured. 
 
 " It was all a mistake," she said to herself, as she 
 tripped lightly down the steep hill with its tall 
 cypresses and its wooden crosses. *' It was all a 
 mistake. I wonder how many other people have 
 
AFTER ONE YEAR. 397 
 
 made the same. I wonder if I am very much un- 
 Hke the rest of the world — rather, I ought to say, 
 very much more fooHsh. Few people would have 
 been as weak as I was ; and yet I knew nothing 
 of life, and I believed all that was said to me. 
 Perhaps it was natural, considering how I had lived 
 in my own little world, where everyone thought 
 so far too highly of me. It is all over; and I 
 hope I am better for the lesson I was so slow to 
 learn." 
 
 She was at the foot of the hill now, and passed 
 under the old gateway into the shadows of the old 
 town beyond it, where across the narrow streets 
 the westering sunshine lay in bands of glory, and 
 burnished the higher gables of the tall roofs till they 
 gleamed like bronze against the blue sky. 
 
 The Florentines were standing at their doors or 
 leaning out of their windows, the Italian tongue 
 sounding like the echo of the Arno as it rippled and 
 tinkled under the Ponte Vecchio. Adelaide paused 
 at the opening between the houses, and leaned 
 over the parapet, looking towards the Carrara 
 mountains for a few moments. Suddenly she heard 
 her name : 
 
 "Adelaide — Miss Millington !" 
 
 She turned quickly, and stood face to face with 
 Mr. Lysaght. 
 
 " I found Lady Mary at the Hotel de la Grande 
 Bretagne, being directed thither by the courteous 
 personage at Vieusseux's Library, with whom I had 
 
398 TN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 many conversations last year. He told me Lady 
 Mary Beauchamp had entered her name as a sub- 
 scriber for a month." 
 
 " Yes," Adelaide said ; " I went there this morn- 
 ing, and wrote our names in the book. When did 
 you come ?" 
 
 " A few days ago. I was in want of a little rest, 
 and I had an errand here for Lucia Beauchamp. Her 
 poor old friend was dying, and she wished to possess 
 herself of his pictures. A very pathetic sight it was 
 to see the old man to the last clinging to his old 
 faith in himself and his productions. Of course, I 
 had a double interest in him, for Lucia's sake and 
 for my own. He knew my mother ; and one of the 
 crude pictures, scarcely more than a daub, represents 
 her and my little brother, both of whom are buried 
 in the old English cemetery." 
 
 " For Lucia's sake." Why did those three words 
 stand out from all the rest and give Adelaide a 
 sudden pang ? Presently Mr. Lysaght said : 
 
 " What are you going to do to-morrow ?" 
 
 *' I shall drive in the afternoon, probably, with 
 Lady Mary ; but in the morning I shall go to the 
 Boboli Gardens, and make a sketch there of the 
 famous view. Last time I was here I had never 
 learned to sketch, and now I like it better than any 
 part of my work." 
 
 They were at the door of the hotel now, and 
 Adelaide said, with something of her old constrained 
 manner : 
 
AFTER ONE YEAR. 399 
 
 " I think I must say good-bye. Lady Mary will 
 be expecting me." 
 
 Mr. Lysaght said : " Then good-bye till to- 
 morrow. I hope you may have a fine day for your 
 sketch." 
 
 " Mr. Lysaght is in Florence, my dear," Lady 
 Mary said. " He called here this afternoon." 
 
 " Yes ; I met him." And then, feeling obhged to 
 say something, she added : " He looks very well — 
 much stronger than he did last year." 
 
 Lady Mary went on quietly working at her em- 
 broidery, and merely said : 
 
 "Yes, I think he does. I hope your tea is not 
 cold, my dear ; if it is, call Mason, and she will get 
 some more hot water." 
 
 " It is very nice, thank you," Adelaide said 
 absently ; and as she sat stirring the cup of sugar- 
 less tea with the spoon, Lady Mary was wondering 
 whether or not there was really anything between 
 her and Mr. Lysaght ; but she had too much tact 
 and kindliness to ask the question. 
 
 Adelaide seemed in a great hurry to be off the 
 next morning, sketch-book and camp-stool in hand. 
 She crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, and was soon at 
 the entrance of the Boboli Gardens. 
 
 She had made up her mind where to take up her 
 position for her sketch — the point (familiar to those 
 who know those beautiful gardens) whence the 
 Duomo and the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio appear 
 
400 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 between a row of cypress-trees and the walls of the 
 Pitti Palace. 
 
 Adelaide was soon lost in her endeavours to catch 
 the full beauty of the scene before her, and forgot 
 everything in the earnestness with which she studied 
 the view, making it her own, before she began to 
 reduce it within the limits of her sketching-block. 
 
 Her dark expressive eyes were full of that wistful 
 longing which the artist always feels when contem- 
 plating a fresh subject for a study. The fine out- 
 line of her head and brow were not now hidden by 
 one of " the monstrous hats " on which Hugh Birley 
 had made such uncomplimentary remarks. Adelaide 
 wore on the dark masses of her hair a closely fitting 
 cloth cap of the same colour as the plain gray 
 dress of homespun, which fitted her perfectly. Her 
 sketching-block was on her knee, and her large red 
 sunshade fixed on its long handle behind her, 
 shadowing her with a rosy hue. 
 
 All unperceived, Mr. Lysaght had come almost up 
 to her, before she was conscious of his presence. 
 When at last she turned her eyes from the view 
 before her with an inquiring glance, still half 
 absorbed in her work, she started, and her whole 
 countenance lighted with a glad surprise. 
 
 It gave him courage, and he came nearer and sat 
 down by her, watching her, as, after ** Good-morning" 
 had been exchanged between them, she began to 
 rub the colours on her palette, having first put in a 
 few rapid lines in pencil, to guide her brush. 
 
AFTER ONE YEAR. 401 
 
 Her long, delicate fingers seemed to be full of life, 
 and swiftly but surely there dawned upon the paper 
 before her a reflection of the scene on which so 
 many artists' eyes have lingered lovingly, and left 
 with a regret that, after all, such a vision of glowing 
 beauty of sky and mountain, of dome and tower, 
 accentuated by the tall forms of the dark cypresses, 
 is beyond their power to reproduce. 
 
 A long silence followed, broken only by the buzz 
 of an insect, or distant voices in another part of the 
 gardens. Then Mr. Lysaght said : 
 
 " When can 3^ou spare a moment to look at me 
 and listen ? I have been very patient ; it has been 
 the patience of hope, Adelaide." 
 
 But still those mobile fingers moved, and still the 
 picture grew under her hand, and she did not 
 speak. 
 
 " Something in your face tells me that hope is to 
 meet its reward at last. Am I wrong, or am I 
 dreaming ? and shall I, must I awake to know that 
 that welcoming smile of yours was but as a vision 
 which will fade ?" 
 
 Again a pause. 
 
 " Adelaide, was I dreaming when I thought you 
 were glad to see me ?" 
 
 She stopped her brush now, and held it suspended 
 in her hand. At last she raised her eyes to his. 
 
 *' It is I who have been dreaming," she said. 
 *'This is my awakening." 
 
 " To what ?" he asked. 
 
 26 
 
402 IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS. 
 
 The answer was in so low a tone that, bending 
 towards her, he could hardly be sure of the words. 
 
 " To what — to what have you awakened ?" 
 
 '' To know that I love you," she said. 
 
 There is no need to lengthen out this old story, 
 told in the City of Flowers in that radiant May-time, 
 when all things around her seemed to be rejoicing 
 with Adelaide's new-found joy. Many and many a 
 time has the same story been rehearsed by the 
 rippling waters of the Arno, under blue Italian skies, 
 as well as in the colder regions of the far North. 
 
 And there is no more beautiful story than that of 
 a love which has its foundations struck deep, though 
 hidden, and is the union of two souls bound together 
 by the golden band of faith — a faith which reaches 
 far into the land where the shadows of earth pass 
 away and the substance remains — where there is a 
 blessed awakening in His likeness Who is the Foun- 
 tain of light and life and love ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILUKORD. 
 
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 ginners. By A. Giberne. With Illustrations. Third Thousand. 
 Cloth, price 5^. 
 
 'The exposition is clear, the style simple and attractive.' — Spectator. 
 
 A CANTERBURY PILGRIMAGE. Ridden, Written, 
 and Illustrated by Joseph and Elizabeth Pennell. Price \s.', 
 cloth, gilt edges, zs. 6d. 
 
 'The most wonderful shillingsworth that modern literature has to offer.' 
 
 Daily News. 
 
 AN ITALIAN PILGRIMAGE. By Mrs. Pennell. 
 With many Illustrations by J. Pennell. Price 6s. cloth. 
 ' This charming book.' — Academy. 
 
 EARLY FLEMISH ARTISTS, and their Prede- 
 cessors ON THE Lower Rhine. By W. M. Conway. With 
 Twenty-nine Illustrations. Price ys. 6d. cloth. 
 ' An altogether admirable book.' — Graphic. 
 
 THE ARTISTIC DEVELOPMENT OF REYNOLDS 
 AND GAINSBOROUGH. By W. M. Conway. With Sixteen 
 Illustrations. Price 5^. cloth, gilt edges. 
 
 ' A contribution to the subject which no student can afford to miss.' 
 
 Saturday Review 
 
 SEFXEY & CO., ESSEX STREET, STRAND. 
 
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