mmtrnm t / K^ ^Pp^ti-j • -f ^\ ; /' \ m THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF / s rca tal< sba sor bra 1)01 an( of! The California State Library St.itc, for his ])oi' tlioiii, allowance, or salary, hv .shall be Satisfied tliat sueli meinber or otlleer has returned all books taken out of the 1-ibrai-y b\- liiui, ami has settled all aeeounts for injuring siieli books or otherwise. Si:(,'. 15. Book.s may be taken from the Library by the members of the Lejjislature and its ollicers (Ini-iiifithe session of the same, and at anytime by the (lovernorand the ofllcers of the Executive Doparttncnt of this State, who are re(iuired to Iceei) their offlees at the seat of government, the Justices of the Sui)reme Coui-t, the At- torney-General anil the Tru.stees of tlie 1-ibrary. i^m'mm^m THE MILLS OF THE GODS. A NOVEL. BY MRS. J. H. T WELLS. r II I L A D K I. P H I A : J. B. L 1 IM' [ N C O 'V V & C O. 1875- Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. ?^ £900 SHOULD THIS BOOK HOLD A WORTHY THOUGHT, A NOBLE SENTLMENT. OR A TENDER TOUCH OF FEELING, I BEG LEAVE TO DEDICATE THEM ALL TO THE LARGEST-HEARTED OF WOMEN, THE KINDEST OF FRIENDS, THE MOST DEVOTED OF MOTHERS, MY OWN. ■,-^.'^.0<^ THE MILLS OF THE GODS. BOOK I. CHAPTER I. It was the last night of the Carnival in Rome. During the past eight days the fantastic Harlequin of Mirth had disported himself on the Corso, amid the rainbow-decked balconies, where laughing-eyed women displayed their beauty in coquettish, flowery warfare ; at every window of the high, dull houses, which broke out all over in smiles, and ogles, and vari-colored streamers ; and down in the narrow street, with its contrary flow of carriages, — flower- and frolic-laden, — and its jostling crowd of masques and r(?;?/i'//'/-intoxicated roysterers. And now the evening of " Mardi Gras" rides rollicking over the boisterous waves of humanity, which had roared and rolled high in the fury of condensed excitement all through that sunny day which ushered in Ash-Wednes- day. The riderless horses had run, cheered to the echo; the last bouquet had been thrown ; arcli glances were deteriorating into weary leers, the revelers and the con- fetti had become exhausted, and the carnival of flowers and bonbons, of poetry and sentiment, was giving place to the carnival of reckless debauch, of unrestrained license, of frantic excitement, which hides no blush under the I* 5 6 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. shadow of the darkness, and cries, " Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die !" Half the world, the adventurous and the canaille, were making night a Pandemonium in that ingenious de- vice of the devil, — the struggle to extinguish each other's torches. Ye gods ! when one contemplates so much fierce energy being wasted upon a senseless sport, one is tempted to wonder why a portion of that frantic zeal is never brought to bear in rekindling an illumination in this dark- ened land, which would -once more put out the lesser lights of the world ! The other half of the Roman population were preparing to array themselves in fanciful garb for the concluding bal masque of the season. For it is to be an early ball, both at palazzo and theatre, — though fast and furious, for the chime of midnight, like the writing on the wall which disturbed the serenity of Balthazar's coiivives, will startle into a sudden sobriety these wild-eyed Maenads, these laughing rioters, with its solemn — " Peace, — be still !" And then the lauglUcr of these maniacs will terminate in groans, their flashing glances will be quenched in tears, while their confetti- soiled hands will beat the breast from which shall issue one cry, Mea culpa ! Throughout those gala-days, in the balconies where the fairest of his countrywomen dazzled the passers-by with their blush-rose charms. Dyke Faucett lounged and lingered, serenely unruffled as a lake under an August moon, amid all that wild uproar of sights and sounds, supplying with lavish hand, flowers, bonbons, compli- ments, ad infinitum, to one and all about him with impartial liberality. He took no active part in the bom- bardment of friend or foe, feeling that he had done his THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 7 part (by far the least exhausting), in supplying ammunition for his fair friends, and the lazy lids drooped occasionally over his handsome eyes, as if the whole thing bored him — and, he would f,\in have been elsewhere. Of the countless fragrant missiles which rarely missed their mark and which fell at his feet, aimed from all directions with a persistency of fire which showed more ardor than dis- cretion, Dyke took not the slightest cognizance, save when they struck him rather too obtrusively in the face, when his eyebrows would elevate themselves, and he would murmur in the ear of the lovely woman who stood beside him, "Shocking bad form in that girl opposite to bom- bard a man as inoffensive as myself; pray send her two or three bonbonnieres with a flag of truce, — de via part.'' "No, no; you must defend yourself," laughed Lady Jane St. Maur, who had spent six out of seven of those latter days striving assiduously by hook or by crook (a good deal by crook) to force that cool insouciance to betray by some little galvanic start that blood flowed through those tranquil pulses, and life glowed under that blonde, delicate- tinted epidermis. But for Dyke Faucett, the javelins of all the Becky Sharps in the big Vanity Fair of the world were blunted for the present against the breast-plate be- hind which his heart was shielded, — the fierce infatuation which had taken possession of him, to which he had, after many ineffectual struggles, surrendered himself. Before the innocence and purity of Dora Fairfiix's white soul, he had thrown down his weapons of worldly wisdom, and acknowledged himself defeated. Had her fascination for him been one whit less powerful, or her soul one shade less clean, the cynical callousness which had stood Dyke Faucett's friend on many similar occasions would not have deserted him now. But through all the varied experiences of his former life, he had never encountered such combined 8 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. attractiveness and power as this little girl possessed, who first drew his eyes away from a saint's face in the Vatican which she was copying, to rest in undisguised admiration upon her own ; and then, so deftly weaved her net about him, after a fortunate accident had thrown them together, as to give him but one object in life to pursue, which he did unremittingly, and, for the first time in his life, almost hopelessly, until within a fortnight of to-day. But Lady Jane St. Maur had not despaired ; she had not gained her pre-eminence in London drawing-rooms, and Parisian salons, and German spas, without much and arduous labor, and she did not dream of withered laurels at eight-and-twenty. " Fi-donc, mo?} ami !''' she cried, gayly, as Dyke daintily dusted the confetti-powder from his coat-sleeve. "Your indolence is itself provocative, and challenges attack ! You set yourself up as a target, and — there are six feet of you, remember;" and she laughed musically. She. was right ; six feet of comeliness, dressed by Poole, and sur- mounted by that Antinous head, where the sunlight brought out the gold in the curly, chestnut chevelure, could not escape disaster through those gala-days, when every woman's heart rioted in a little tumultuous orgie of its own. But Dyke Faucett was tired of it all ; there were few things which would not pall upon him now ; some weeks ago he would have averred that there was nothing that would not turn to ashes on his sated lips; but that was some weeks ago. For this man, in the flower of life, with the beauty of a god and the digestion of an ostrich; with money in his purse, and the world before him, had joined that noble army of martyrs whom the demon of ennui claims as its very own ; and after years of delightful travel, bronzed by THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 9 tropic suns and bleached by northern frosts, having plucked the fruit of the knowledge-tree, and eaten thereof in every clime under the sun, he had begun to taste the bitterness of the lees lying inevitably at the bottom of the pleasure-cup, and to groan out that it was all " vanity and vexation of spirit ;" or that " life would be very tolerable were it not for \\'=, pleasures y And now all this noisy rabble had begun to bore him unutterably, therefore he suggested to Lady Jane the delicious tranquillity of an inner salon ; and she, nothing loth, allowed herself to be seated therein, in the most comfortable of caiiseitses, placed at precisely the correct angle for the display of her faultless profile, which Dyke compared mentally with that of little Dora, to the detri- ment of the one before him. Of which fact Lady Jane — making the most of this blessed opportunity which the gods had thrown in her way — remained in blissful ignorance. And Dyke Faucett simply endured the slow-crawling hours until the moment arrived when, with the plea of an imperative engagement, he freed himself from the toils which this young lady flattered herself were strengthening momentarily, and, at nine o'clock, after a hasty dinner and a careful toilet, he sprang into his cab with the first sensation of pleasure he had felt that day. With a domino thrown carelessly over his brilliant courtier-dress of the Elizabethan days (having ordered his man to drive to the Via Babuino), he leaned back on the cushions with a smile of satisfaction, picturing to himself Dora's surprise at his novel appearance. Poor Dora ! during all these merry-making days and nights she had not left her father's side, who, suffering from an attac k of rheumatic gout, which crippled him, was pitiably de- pendent upon her tender nursing and companionship. A* lO THE MILLS OF THE GODS. The long, monotonous days held for her but the couple of hours of delight when Dyke Faucett could tear himself away from the claims of his friends and acquaintances, and in the interval between dinner and ball seek the un- fashionable Via Babuino, where Dora watched and waited for his coming as the one great gladness of her day. For she loved this man unselfishly, devotedly, seeing only in him the incarnation of her own love-dream ; thanking God with tears for the blessing of his love, and praying to grow worthier of it. And thus another problem was cast forth, which will not know solution until the dawning of that day when we shall learn the answers to many vexing questions ; among others, why Desdemonas wed with Moors. When Sardyx, of mythical memory, went forth to bat- tle armed with the magic javelin which never went foul of the mark, pressed into his hands by the beautiful Aglaia, wet with her tears and followed by her prayers, did a vision of the triumphant return of the victor accompanied by a newer, not fairer, mistress, cast its long, drear shadow over all the days that parted them ? And when within a few miles of his native city, Aglaia rushed forth to meet her hero with wide-stretched arms, did the sight which greeted her pierce less murderously her faithful heart, than the fatal javelin hurled by the hand of him she loved, as the surest and speediest method of ridding himself of an incumbrance? Was it the stir- ring of this legend in her brain, or was it only the hope deferred of lonely waiting in the sad, still twilight through two long hours, which has given that downward curve to Dora's sweet mouth to-night, and the far-away, prescient gaze out into the gathering darkness? Or is her guardian angel drawing aside the veil from the future years and showing her the gaunt spectre of that life into which the THE MILLS OF THE GODS. n beautiful present has been transformed ? I know not ; but true it is, that in the pose of the slender form, white- robed and fragile as a lily, there was a certain pensive listlessness as she leaned against the railing that guarded the window, with her graceful head bent in a despondent curve. How exquisitely lovely she looked standing thus, with her slender, white hands clasped before her, while the round arms gleamed like polished marble through the transparent muslin ! No ornament detracted from her pure loveliness, a fragrant bunch of double violets closed the lace frills across her white throat, and a knot of the same love-breathing flowers nestled among the rich braids of her sunny hair. Against the dusky background'of her little sitting-room, Avith its paucity of furniture, its wealth of pictures, books, statuettes, its harp in one corner, and its little hired piano in another, its white-shaded lamp not yet lighted, and its wild flowers everywhere, Dora offered as fair a study of "II Penseroso" as any artist, however ambitious, could desire. So thought Dyke Faucett, as, opening the door noise- lessly, he stole upon her unawares, to watch her surprise and wonder at his flmciful garb. She was so absorbed in her reverie that he stood and watched her silently for a moment, and then advanced. With a faint cry she sprang aside, and it was not until he had removed quickly the pointed beard which belonged to the era he represented, that she recovered from her alarm. " Did I startle you, my little fawn ?" cried Dyke, caressing her hand with his, after he had bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek ; " did you not know me at all?" "Who are }ou, ])ray?" she laughed, wliile the color came back to her clifck and the gleaming jt)y to her eyes. "Arc you the beloved Essex or the gallant Raleigh? 12 THE MILLS OF THE CODS. You are very gorgeous, whoever you are; I feel a great want of court-train and jewels at this moment." He laid his hand upon her shoulder. " Court-train and jewels would not add royalty to that gracious head or this perfect form, ma mic. I would not have you other than you are at this moment. Ah, if you only knew how sick unto death I am of satins and gems, pearl-powder and rouge, and how divinely sweet you seem to me in your white gown and violets. Oh, Dora !" he exclaimed, with the nearest approach to passion he had ever before allowed to thrill in his voice, — ** Dora, I am growing tired of wait- ing for you. My love, why can you not come into my life now and make it perfect?" His arm stole about her, and for a moment she simply existed, nothing more. And then she roused herself. " Dyke, I have talked with my father to-day, a long, long time, and he is opposed to our clandestine marriage. Wait, darling," for Dyke was about to interrupt her im- patiently ; "he says I am very young, — not nineteen, you know, — and we can wait ; that no good ever comes of secret marriages, and " " That is all arrant nonsense," commented Dyke. " My guardian cannot live forever, and after his death there is no one on earth to dictate to me. I know, Dora, that he has other views for me, and would never consent to this marriage. Oh, my darling, do not start away from me like that ! I resent his narrow-minded injustice as much as you possibly can, my peerless pearl, but would you have jne wait for you tlirough all the long years which may in- tervene before his death? Can you thrust me away from you, — say, Dora, ca/i yon do this thing?" Her face grew very white, but she answered, in a clear, firm voice, " Yes, Dyke, I could thrust you away from me forever, and pluck my love for you nut of my heart by the THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 13 roots, before I could consent to live under the foul cover of deceit and falsehood which this secret marriage might entail, through years and years of hopeless self-contempt." " No, Dora, that need not be. Were my guardian to see you in your winning beauty, with your many gifts, and know that you were irrevocably bound to me, he could not then refuse to sanction and bless our marriage. Ah, you are but a child, and / know the world, and my guardian above allj can you not trust to me?" " How long would it be necessary to keep it a secret?" she asked, her tears falling fast. " Perhaps a couple of months; only until I could go over to England and prepare his mind for your reception, dear- est, and then I should come for you and your father, and, oh, Dora, my perfect one, can you imagine our happiness and still turn from me?" " I will do whatever you say. Dyke. I will trust you to the end !" Her last words were smothered in frantic kisses. As he clasped her to his heart a pang of remorse shot through him, — the last, — it was the death-sigh of his conscience, which died that night forever in this world. It was after eleven o'clock when he left her ; and she had promised to meet him two days hence, in the early morning, outside the "Porta del Popolo," where the Eng- lish Chapel stood, to ratify by sacred vows the trust she had promised to place in him. He could scarcely tear himself away from her, so fearful was he that his prize would elude his grasp; so more than beautiful she looked, in the full rays of the moon, which bathed her in its mystic gleams, and made her almost too spiritual in its glory. Her cheeks were flushed with happiness, her eyes shone like stars, and her scarlet lips showed the tiny pearls behind them in a divine smile. "Oh, Dora, turn away from me, else 1 cannot leave you," pleaded Faucell, com- 14 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. pletely intoxicated. She smiled more bewilderingly than ever, and stretched out both hands to him; but, choking down an exclamation. Dyke, without one other word, turned to the door and fled. Dora stood amazed; what did this mean, — this abrupt flitting, this disregard of her last good-night? She sank into a chair, and mused until the light faded out of her face, and — " The soft, sad eyes Set like twilight plan-ets in the rainy skies, With the brow all patience and the lips all pain! " bore more likeness to tlie fair, doomed Iphigenia, than to a young bride-elect, standing with trembling but joyous feet almost on the threshold of her wedding-day. For two hours, in that ghostly moonshine, she sat, shift- ing her fate from hand to hand. It was not yet too late; her promise had been wrung from her, it is true, but could she but convince herself that this necessary deception was unjustifiable, even as the price of such unutterable happi- ness, she would not hesitate to retract her weak words; and then, — Dyke Faucett, unwilling to bide the time in that far-stretching future which seemed so illimitable to her childish gaze, they must part, part forever; he going back to his world of fashion and beauty (ah, what lovely faces she had seen with him in the galleries of art! where he only acknowledged her existence by a courteous raising of the hat, wliich generally drew upon her llic lorgnonsof his coniijaniuns, antl more or less audible critiques on her rare type of beauty), and she, — well, the light would have been put out of her life forever, and there would be no- thing left for her in the dreary, vacant years to come but her father, wliose life was well-nigh spent, she remembered with a pang, — antl — "The coiled memory munli and cold, That slept in tier heart, a droaniiiig snake," THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 15 that would " Drowsily lift itself fold by fold, And gnaw, and gnaw, hungrily, half awake." And who was this guardian, whoee narrow prejudices were to crowd back into the green bud all the full-ex- panded glories of this gorgeous tropic flower of love, which had absorbed even her vital forces in its luxuriant growth? Not even had he claim of blood, or kindred, ui)on this man whom he hoped to sacrifice upon some Mammon's altar, whilst his heart beat only for her. And what objections could this arrogant, selfish, wicked old aristocrat bring forward against her, when she should appear in his stiff, mildewy old castle as his adopted son's bride? She was certainly well born ; was not her mother's name one of the proudest in the peerage? And her father? Well, she did not know much about his people;' but who could look at him and doubt his blue blood ? Surely Dyke's guardian could not fail to acknowledge that? (Himself, perhaps, merely a wealthy old cotton-spinner; she had read of the aristocracy of the spinning-jenny far over- topping, in intolerant haughtiness, the quiet good breed- ing fed from the j-a/;^'--as//r of centuries.) "Personally, he could not object to me," she dreamed on, with a slight flush of conscious vanity dyeing her cheek in the moon- light. "Surely I am as good-looking, and better man- nered than those hoyden English girls, who would rattle on so, during service at St. Peter's ; and I am well educated ! Ah ! but I am poor, — and this guardian would like to marry Dyke to a great, big-footed, red-cheeked daughter of some old money-bags, who cannot spell his own name, — and hasn't one to spell, if he could. Fancy Dyke, my refined, fastidious, purely artistic Dyke, chained to such a monster 1" A dimpling smile broke out over the sweet l6 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. face, and long before her father's voice, calling "Doro- thea! Dorothea!" disturbed her reverie, she had fully decided the subject of the' " Porta del Popolo;" for her love once given, she felt was — " Like water spilt upon the plain : Ne'er to be gathered up again." And what did those four words, " for better, for worse," mean, if one were not willing, in joining hands, to con- front fate, for weal or woe ? CHAPTER II. "Dorothea, you are not looking well ; you are pale, and your eyes are heavy, my patient little nurse! What have you done with the roses you brought liome from our summer trip in Switzerland, my child, and the glad, bright eyes?" Dora, sitting in a low American rocking-chair, with the frill she had been hemming lying in a white heap upon the carpet, rocked herself gently, with arms upraised and hands clasped at the back of her head, whilst her eyes looked dreamily beyond the figure of her father in his dressing- gown and easy-chair, with each wretched foot swathed in flannel and occupying separate foot-stools (little thrones of exquisite pain these were to him), answered, in a far-off voice, "Yes, dear; did you want something, papa?" "Dora," began her father, leaning slightly forward, but immediately drawing back again with the wryest face, the least movement causing a twinge of agony. " Dora, you are vexing yourself about this young Faucett. Now, THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 17 don't contradict me" (she had not moved or spoken); "and I have made up my mind to put an end to the aifair, for good and all, as soon as I am able to put my feet to the ground !" Down went Dora's arms; the rocking-chair was arrested at an angle. " Papa !" was all she could exclaim. "Yes; I am quite determined. Since Mr. Faucett has no power of choice in his selection of a wife, and declines to take the trouble to obtain the consent of his guardian (who is he, by the way? I will write to him myself), I shall not sit quietly by and see him take the sunshine out of my life, and fade my little Dora into a colorless snow-drop." " What will you do?" she gasped. "I shall just give up this little home, where we have spent four happy years, and go back to see how the beeches have grown about our old English homestead. I feel that I will not be with you long, Dora, and I must look up some trusty friends to leave about you before I go; and" (in a low, tender voice here) "I should like to kneel at my darling Marian's grave once more, and maybe, if it please God, to be laid at rest beside her." Dora's arms were about his silvered head now, and her tears falling fast upon it. She could not speak. A great fear mingled with a great joy and stifled her. Could this day pass without her innocent heart and face betraying her now fixed purpose of taking destiny by the horns on the morrow? If he pressed her with questions, she must tell him all, and throw herself on his mercy and love. " Papa, you break my heart when you speak of leaving me. Ah, what sad thoughts have come to you since this cruel pain has tortured you ! But you must not think such things; you will soon be well again, and able to go into the sunshine, and to see your friends, who have been 2* 1 8 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. SO kind since your illness. Papa, Major Goodwin called again, yesterday, to inquire for you, and he asked if you would be able to have him come and read to you to-day or to-morrow." "Surface-friends!" sighed Mr. Fairfax; "very kind, no doubt, but friends of an hour, or a fortnight, at longest, who turn their backs and forget you utterly. Did you say he might come?" "Yes, to-morrow." Dora's cheeks burned, but she was standing behind her father's chair, gently stroking back the fine white locks which waved thickly over his handsome brow. "Ah, that is well, for I had intended, Dora, sending you and Annunziata out on an excursion to-morrow, to try to coax back some of the pink into those pale cheeks of yours. You must go out of the city and its noisy bustle of this foolish Carnival, into the country; to those fine Borghese grounds, or for a stretch on the Campagna. You will take a closed caleche, — the one we usually employ on the Via Condotti ; the man is trustworthy, — and old An- tonio will keep within call and serve my dinner; so you must make a long day of it, and come back able to sing once more for your poor old cripple." " Shall I sing now, papa? I feel the sweet flower-scented air of to-morrow blowing over me already ! What shall I sing for you?" He looked at her surprised ; her whole appearance was suddenly changed, — she drooped no longer ; her face wore a rosy flush ; her great amber-tinted eyes seemed to brim with joy. She smiled with the old winning brightness, for she felt that in obeying his command on that dread mor- row, she would be si)ared half the liumiliation (possible prevarication) of her promised complicity in deceit; so sophistical is the devil's reasoning, she almost felt that THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 19 her father sanctioned her action by this fortunate coinci- dence. She sang unweariedly song after song, and her father lay back contentedly in his temporary freedom from pain, inwardly congratulating himself upon having discovered an infallible remedy for the drooping spirits of his singing- bird. She had been too long caged up in that sick-room, and needed air and light ; voila tout ! CHAPTER III. The night was wet and wintry, rain mingled with sleet, and the icy breath of January, in Rome, struck through the toughest top-coats, into the marrow of the bones of those unfortunates who happened to be exposed to their disheartening influences. " Pile more wood on the fire, Antonio, and then step around to the post-office ; there may be letters from my daughter by the late post." And Mr. Fairfax settled him- self down comfortably in his luxurious chair and drew towards him a London Times. A marked change for the better has taken place in the old gentleman's surroundings since we last looked in upon him some ten months ago ; a change which, in its beneficent effect, seemed to have added ten years to his declining life. Whether this was precisely the result anticipated, or desired, by Dyke Faucett when he drew the father of his bride away from the small, dingy apart- ment on the fourth floor of the Via del Babuino, and inducted him into the comfortable and more accessible suite on the Via Sistina, au premier, our imagination alone 20 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. can divine. But Mr. Fairfax was one of those happily- constituted mortals who accept life as it comes to them : make no loud moan in adversity, and revel in the smile of that fickle wench, Fortune, with a range of vision merci- fully limited to the bridge of their own noses. Mr. Fairfax, in his cozy rooms, with an excellent cook and the factotum of the Babuino quarters (habited in decent guise, and with a new strut of pomposity, appropri- ate to his altered circumstances, though somewhat at vari- ance with his honest, child-like expression of face) to wait upon him exclusively, with Dyke's choice books to linger over, and his choice cigars and fine wines put entirely at his disposal, Dora's father was not mad, wicked, or ungrateful enough to repine, or to allow the disagreeable thought to intrude and mar the harmony of the ensemble (and his digestive organs), that Dyke had not yet taken that trip to England to break the news of his marriage to his guardian, who still remained in blissful ignorance of the fatal frustration of his plans, and who occasionally wrote kindly letters to Faucett, which were duly and affectionately answered. When Dora had returned to her father's side on the evening of her wedding-day (for Dyke had carefully ar- ranged the programme, and after the nine o'clock morning service in the English chapel, Dora and he were made man and wife, with all the solemnity of the beautiful marriage-service, by a bona fide parson, and in the pres- ence of one other witness, — Annunziata, Dora's maid, a brown-faced, bright-eyed Italian girl, who worshiped her mistress next to the Madonna) ; — when she came and knelt at his side, with her happiness glowing all over her, and half whispered, "Papa, Mr. Faucett and I were married this morning!" without elaboration or circumlocution, he was simply stunned at a coup d' etat which had scattered THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 21 to the winds his plans and projects. And then, for one moment, he covered his eyes with his shapely hands, and swiftly there spread out before him a vision of his youth. The love he had borne for a woman from whom parents wished to separate him; her pleading face, his high-handed venture, and then afterwards, the long, happy married life together, — one continuous courtship until the very end. "Dora," he said, looking steadily at her through two tear-dimmed eyes, "are you sure you love him?" "Oh, papa!" "And are you equally sure he loves you ?'''' "Why else should he have married me, dear papa? Ah, tell me you have forgiven me for doing as I have done without your consent, and I shall be perfectly happy !" She laid her cheek on his hanSs and kissed them. "God bless you, my own ewe-lamb! May you be as happy as your mother was, thank God !" And they wept together, not unhappy tears. The following day they were transplanted to their new quarters, which Dyke informed Mr. Fairfax he had leased for three years, and which he was to look upon as his home, as well as his daughter's and son-in-law's, when they would be in Rome. For the present, the happy pair intended running up to Paris to choose Dora's very simple trousseau and hear the new opera. ("It was really too much to ask of a man to leave his bride and rush over alone to England; that can be postponed, my dear sir, until after the honey-moon at least,'' remonstrated Dyke, in reply to Mr. Fairfax's innocent query, "When do you start for England?") Money is the axis upon which the world turns, therefore it is not surprising that, having lavishly employed that power- ful agent since the hour in which he left his betrothed dreaming in the moonlight, the very day after the cere- 22 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. mony all things were magically in their places, and the softest and easiest of conveyances carried Mr. Fairfax to his handsome rooms in the new apartment, in which a French cook, Dora's maid, Faucett's valet, and old An- tonio metamorphosed, were already in their respective stalls. Mr. Fairfax could not conceal his delight ; and the fact of Dyke's having observed his preference for the for- lorn-looking, hybrid maid- and man-servant of his four- years-old home, touched him deeply. That same night Dyke Faucett and his bride occupied a coupe of a railway train en route to Civita Vecchia, while the faithful Giles entertained, in a second-class car- riage and in broken Italian, Dora's dark-eyed little maid, Annunziata. Dora felt that she had never seen Paris before, after some weeks of the enchanting diversion which that city afforded to a well-filled purse and a man not destitute of savoir-faire. It was one long fairy-tale to her, and her eloquent letters full of fetes, tours of palaces and galleries, tlieatres and the opera, of Dyke's lavish generosity in his costly contributions to her trousseau and jewel-case, of his devotion to her in all ways, patted to sleep the last remain- ing scruple in the mind of her doting father, who, in return, wrote cheering letters of his restored health, and of his hope that before their return he would walk as well as ever. He walked before their return ! After a couple of months of Paris, the advanced spring rendered Italy dangerous and Switzerland desirable. The old gentleman was advised to go to the lakes in the north of Italy, where his considerate son-in-law had already engaged rooms for him, paid in advance. ("As they are included in my suite, you understand ; for Dora and I mean to join you later," wrote Dyke, to soothe any ruffles THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 23 on the pride which never died out of the old man's blood.) But he occupied the' suite in lonely grandeur, and if he missed his singing-bird, and the luxuries of life seemed at times a poor exchange, he never pained her by such a confession. He made friends everywhere, and led a sweet, tranquil life, grateful to God for the comforts of which he had never mourned the absence. Only once during those long ten months had he seen Dora, and then for a brief week's visit after his return to Rome, in September. " It was only to give him a glimpse of his darling," Dyke assured her fatlier ; "for they were en route to Naples, and would return to Rome for the Christmas festivities." And when Mr. Fairfax's material organ of sight had fully satisfied itself that Dorothea's eyes had gained in lustre, and the oval of her cheek was unimpaired, that the willowy figure had rounded into fuller curves, and her voice deepened in its richest notes, he was more than content, thoroughly assured that her soul was full-fed, and tliat the tendrils of her heart, clinging to a firm support, were flowering all over in luxuriant profusion. The subject of the still-postponed trip to England was not mooted. When all the sky was serenely blue, with not even a cloud the size of a man's hand to awaken doubt or dread, why should he raise a mimic thunder, or force discordant elements to agitate the moral barometer which was set so fi.xedly at — "fair'' ? And Dora had certainly not a corporeal wish ungrat- ified ; and althougli Dyke's bank account had not been over-weighted by a paul, the money which had ever flowed like sand through his careless fingers was now concentrated upon one object, in place of many, the one only, long- lasting passion of his life. Fur Dora still held him cap- tive, though ten moons had risen and waned since that in wliich he had left her in her slight, girlish beauty, glowing 24 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. in the conscious triumph of having woven the last link of the chain which bound him to her feet. A closer association with her, so far from bringing to him the customary desillusionnemejit, only served to un- fold to his view charms of manner and graces of char- acter which had never before come under his observation. The beau-sexe had long been a study to this man, but it was always from the same potter's-clay they were formed, however delicate in form and coloring (and frailty). Those Sevres bits had ornamented his table to perfec- tion, but they never changed in form or tint througli all the many costly courses in which they served, and after awhile they wearied the pampered eye, and gave place to another set of a newer pattern and a rarer shade, but bearing the same manufactory's mark under the exquisite enamel. But here was a woman, guileless as a child, and yet pos- sessed of that innate power of fascination which springs from infinite tact, unerring good taste, art-culture, and a sweet, sunny warmth and brightness of temper, united to a purity of thouglit and dignity of character which enforced his respect, and which, through almost an aesthetic admira- tion, he would not have desired sullied any more than he could have restrained his disgust should some Vandal mu- tilate the Venus of the Capitol or plunge a knife through the canvas of a Titian. And the secret of her power was this: she never bored him for one moment, and yet, strange to say, she loved him. For love, being blind, is ofttimes selfish, and in the insatiable hunger of a loving woman's heart, even her arms may weigh heavily, after a time, on the most ardent lover's shoulders. Young bride, beware ! the first, faintest sigh of satiety is the first tremulous sound of the death-knell of your power. Before the orange-blossoms crown your bright THE MILLS 01' THE GODS. 25 tresses, chain your beloved by heavy-forged b'nks of gold or steel, an you will ; but after the golden circlet clasps your finger, let your victim breathe freely in bonds flower- woven and lightly worn. Instinct teaches some fine, artistic natures many things; vivid perception and a keen psychological eye see breakers ahead before the dull, half-closed optic of a coarser nature, or the distorted vision of a more sin-clouded soul, would see aught but the sun-glinted waves of the present enjoy- ment. And Dora understood the art, more difficult than win- ning love, of keeping it, and never allowed, through her own weakness or craving, the ineffable charm of novelty, the exhaustless resources of her versatile mind, the ever- increasing charm of her rare beauty and her entrancing voice, to pall upon his taste, or his over-stimulated nerves, or his blase epicureanism. Whether this near communion with her idol had robbed her of some illusions and low- ered his pedestal to the level of humanity in general, she had not confessed to her own heart, for she loved Dyke still absorbingly, and, as long as that love lasted, she ex- ercised over him the spell which won his absolute devo- tion. It was only long after, when her respect became undermined and the whole beautiful fabric of trust and belief in his honor tumbled piecemeal to the ground, that she, through weakened love, relaxed her vigilance and carefully-preserved fascinations, and he slipped gradu- ally his neck from beneath the yoke which had only just begun to weigh even lightly upon him. IJutwe must go back to poor old Mr. Fairfax, whom we have left so long, wading through that stale Times, and who has now been repaid for his perseverance in sending every three hours to the post, by a few lines in Dyke's beautiful calligraphy, announcing the birtli of a fine lillle R 3 26 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. girl, with the assurance of Dora's welfare at that writing, etc., etc. Mr. Fairfax put down the letter with an audible sigh of relief. This, then, accounted for Dora's long silence and the neglect of Dyke's promise to bring her to Rome for Christmas ; he had not suspected such a denouement, and he was delighted with its plausibility in excusing their evident forgetfulness of himself. " A little daughter ! Dora with a baby ! Oh, it was too ridiculous ! She never had held an infant in her arms in her life ; and born down there in Naples, with not an English-speaking Christian about her ; Annunziata was faithful, but she was ignorant and inexperienced. Ah, how I long to see her, — my little Dora, — and — the baby ! Ha ! ha ! ridiculous ! too absurd !" And he rang the bell to confide the joyous intelligence to the devoted Antonio (who had known Dora as a slim girl of fifteen, and would have given his life for her at any moment), with the ad- ditional information that Mr. Faucett would bring his family {^^Yi-x\ ha!") to Rome before Easter, and then Antonio should dandle la Signora's baby ! CHAPTER IV. The tender crocus had peeped forth, followed by the shrinking violet ; the orange-trees had blossomed and scented the air all about Rome with heavy delicious fra- grance. And now — all spring was spreading full bloom over everything; even the lazzaroni forgot the stereotyped expression of woe frozen into their countenances by the cold blasts of the winter through those dark, narrow streets, THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 27 and chatted and laughed and sung in the revivifying sunshine. Dorothea had rejoiced her father's eyes during the last six weeks, and had witnessed, without an apparent pang, the complete transfer of that pink, dimpled, golden-haired cherub Marian to the pedestal which she herself had oc- cupied for so many years, before which her father had bowed in abject idolatry. And Antonio ! Never, save on canvas, had he seen any- thing so fair and blue-eyed, and with such tender rose- tints about it ; it was comical to see these two old men gaze at and discuss gravely together the entrancing wiles and absurd grimaces of the wonderful baby. Dora too, while she laughed at them both, found secret store of blissful enjoyment in the little frail life unfolding day by day under her loving eyes. Dyke was in England, — at last he had determined to avoid a possible fracas with his guardian by paying him a visit of a fortnight. The fortnight had lengthened into two months; they had left EUingham and gone uj) to town ; for it was the third week in May, and Dyke had not enjoyed the "season" for some years, and it had novelty enough now to attract him. His letters to his wife were not frequent, but they were affectionate enough, veiling with plausible pretexts his desire to remain longer than he had at first intended. Not one word, however, did they contain relative to the divulgement of his secret marriage, and Dora's heart sank like lead within her. She could not fail to remem- ber how guarded Dyke had been during their bridal trip and their sojourn in Naples to prevent the fact of his marriage, by any possibility, being reported in English circles, — how, when in llicir rambles they stumbled upon parties of acquaintances. Dyke invariably passed hastily 28 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. witli a cold bow, or, hustling her into the carriage, bade the coachman drive home, whilst he turned and joined his compatriots with smiles and hand-shakings. Through all these twelve months and more, he had never introduced a single person to his sweet young wife, with the exception of a itfi men who were unavoidably presented just before they sat down to dinner, and whom she never saw after the meal had ended and cards and decanters occupied the table ; but the laughter and cigar- smoke mingled reached her in her little sitting-room be- yond, where she sang to herself, or sketched, or read a little, wondering if they never meant to go and let Dyke come to her. And then towards the small hours, when her rcpciioire had become exhausted, and she had watered her flowers and buried her face in their fragrant blossoms, feeling that in them she found some strange, sweet sympathy, she would betake herself to her bedroom with its windows looking out upon the beautiful bay. There Dyke, coming in softly, would sometimes find her enveloped in her flowing white peignoir, with her luxuriant hair unbraided and falling about her like a cloud, out of which the pure face and great eyes gleamed with almost supernatural beauty. A gentle reproach from Dyke for losing her beauty-sleep, a loving caress, and her loneliness was for- gotten, her sadness dispelled. The next morning was sure to be sunshiny, and they would drive along the shore of that magical bay; or often, as the fancy seized them, would take their places in a barciolina, belonging to a fisherman, who was ready to throw aside his net at the prospect of biiona viano, antl lend all the energies in his brawny arms to the swift speeding of the tiny bark over the blue waves. And then Dyke, lying at her feet, would tell her the story of the ^Micid, while she, breathing THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 29 in the golden air of that exquisite climate which makes it a joy to live, with one white hand idly toying with the blue waters over which they glided, listened with unabated interest to the musical voice which had not lost one whit of its charm. Then they would draw in to shore, and would stroll into the cave of the Cumsean Sibyl where ^neas consulted the oracle, or into the Temple of Apollo, where Daedalus retreated after his flight from the island of Crete, and make a festive day of it, — a sort of improvised picnic, tete-d'teie, without one jarring element or moment of ennui to mar their entire enjoyment. Or else they would drive to the Castle of St. Elmo, winding through the heart of Naples, and spend hours of delight in the ole- ander-shaded arbor on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the myriad gems set in the sea stretching beneath them ; while Vesuvius towered high above groves of orange, lemon, and citron trees, myrtle-shaded walks, classic ruins, and lovely villas, half buried in acacia-blossoms, on the other hand. And sometimes they would join the stream of gayly- dressed idlers on the promenade which leads to the Villa Reale, that charming chiaja, which is certainly one of the brightest and gayest in Europe. But this was very seldom, for it was a rare chance at that season that, cos- mopolite as he was. Dyke should not meet among that gay throng one or more acquaintances, and this contre- temps he avoided religiously when Dora was with him. And Dora was not sorry : she cared only for Dyke ; his society was her world, his voice a complete orchestra, filling every want to her ears ; his approval of her appear- ance the only flattery she craved, and in their solitary ramblings she found perfect joy. During those early days of her married life the thought never intruded, like a snake in her paradise, that perhaps Dyke was just a little selfish now and then. She never 3° THE MILLS OF THE GODS. questioned for one moment liis right to dispose of her and of himself as he saw proper or agreeable to himself, and on liiose evenings when he dined out, and just "looked in" afterwards at the San Carlo, for an act or two, she was undisturbed by doubt or foreboding, thinking it all very natural, and rather pitying her husband, who looked so bored as he drew on his light gloves and kissed her good- night, begging her not to sit up for him ; he would get away as soon as he decently could, however, etc. And sometimes Avhen he had taken her to the theatre and she, sitting slightly behind the curtain according to his suggestion ("For, my darling, yours is too lovely a face to be stared at by these brutes of Italians," he assured her), and she would see him in the boxes of the elegantly- dressed women and disiingue-Xookmg men, evidently Eng- lish, chatting familiarly, and sometimes with an empresse- incnt too marked to be unobserved by one keenly interested and with an excellent lorgnette, detained {pour causer un pcii) in the little saloon attached to each box, a thought would cross her mind that some of these fair dames should have done her the honor to call upon her, as they seemed such old friends of her husband. But she never put her thought into words, and — they never called. And then came into her cup of joy another drop and caused it to overflow ; she cared no longer for the San Carlo or the promenade; she troubled herself with no further questionings of the why or wherefore of the world about her; she never felt lonely or sad when Dyke did not re- turn as early as he promised, for she carried in her heart a blessed hope, the sweetest of all a pure woman's entire life, — the budding promise of a first maternity. She kept her secret jealously to herself, gloating over it as a miser over his gold, building dream-castles on its frail foundations, singing of it in gushing, caroling notes of THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 31 very happiness ; and Dyke saw her whole expression of face change from that of gleeful girlhood to the sweet serenity of dawning matronhood, intensifying the eloquent eyes in an extraordinary degree, and wondered at her ever-increasing charm. But 1 fear when, with blushes and tears and stammer- ings, the great news was broken to him, his delight was not entirely unfeigned, and if his candid opinion could have been educed, it would have been something after this fashion, "A deuced bore ! Hang it all ! What's the use of it ?" etc., and straightway forget all about it until the next mention. But Dora dreamed naught of this ; if she was a little chilled by the calmness with which he received her communication, she consoled herself with the reflection that he was only a man, and could not be expected to soar heavenward on the wings of such bliss as hers ; could not understand or appreciate it, in fact ; but Annunziata could, and did, for she wept genuine tears of joy over her young mistress, and was so enthusiastic after her tears subsided, that Dora became quite impatient for the grand finale; and they talked and plotted and arranged the programme of everything, after the manner of women, quite unne- cessarily prematurely, and then cried a little more, and ended up in a cheerful and patient frame of mind, both looking a little more consequential than usual, and stealing eloquent glances at each other full of a mute sympathy. I think the happiest hours of Dora's whole life were those spent in sunny Naples, and yet the time came when she could not look back upon those days without a spasm of pity for her own helpless blindness, so treacherously betrayed. And Naples was marked in her memory by the loss of her faithful Annunziata, to whom she had become much attached. 32 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. Two months after little Marian's birth the poor girl had been seized by fever, and in spite of the most careful attendance and the best medical advice she became de- liriousj and did not recover consciousness until the end. Dora was deeply grieved, and, as soon as a suitable nurse could be provided in her place for the infant, they left Naples and the flowery grave which had saddened every thing for her, and returned to Rome, Dyke leaving almost immediately for England. CHAPTER V. "Yes, Dyke, I will go to this ball if you desire it so much." And Dora, standing at the window gazing out upon a street with its shifting panorama with unseeing eyes, sighed a little tremulous sigh, which expressed the struggle it had cost her to accede to Dyke's request, and attend a great ball which was to be given for charitable purposes, patronized by the elite of the English residents in Rome. " You need not sigh so profoundly over the prospect, Dora, my dear," yawned her husband from the depths of his easy-chair. " Most handsome women would be en- chanted at this opportunity of exhibiting themselves; there are any number of foreign potentates to add lustre to the " "Oh, Dyke," interrupted Dora, reproachfully, "you are only discouraging me. I have never attended a ball, a real ball, you know, in my life, and," she concluded, dreamily, "I scarcely think I am fitted to shine in festiv- ities on such a grand scale ; they do not attract me." THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 33 "Ah, my dear, you do not know yet; taste tlie cup before you abjure it. You are dwindling and pining for a little excitement, and as for me, well, I am sick of Rome and — everything." He yawned again, shook himself, and, without a word of adieu, started off for his club. Dora looked after him with tears in her sad eyes; but there was an unwonted flush upon her cheek as she turned hastily and pulled the bell. Giles appeared immediately. " Tell Clementine to prepare Miss Marian to drive with me, and order the coupe at once, if you please," she commanded. The color had not faded out of her sweet face, when, half an hour later, she stood discussing with feverish ani- mation the rival merits of satin, silk and velvet with Madame Massoni, the most fashionable and expensive coiituriere in Rome. Madame was in raptures; with such a face and such a form she would accomplish a chef- d'' xuvre which would outdo her rival, IMadame Borsini Dupres, and quench her for evermore. And when Dora, becoming weary, and dazzled and confused by the masses of color exposed for her selection and the volubility of the artiste (who was taking in every detail of her visitor's beauty, dress, and appurtenances ; for Marian, a three- year-old mass of embroidery and lace, cushioned on Ernestine's Parisian -clothed la]) in the neatly-appointed coupe at the door, had not escajjed her observation), had at la.st exclaimed, in despair, "I cannot decide; I leave everything to you. Spare no expense ; but make me beau- tiful ; do you understand? — beautiful!" "Ah, madame, nature has spared me that trouble ; but trust me, we shall find a fit setting for such a face as yours even ; I understand perfectly. And it is for the ball at the Opera on Wednesday evening? Give yourself no uneasiness, Madame shall be satisfied." 34 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. And Dora departed, while a small devil invaded the tranquil depths of her nature, stirring up rebellion at last, and whispering, "We shall see whether love is dead in his heart ; if there is one spot left which can feel pain, it shall be pricked into suffering as surely as I live." Thus it will be seen that the years have borne fruit of thistles, which was far from the toothsome fig; and in the inevitable estrangement which had grown up between Dora and her husband there was bitterness as well as dis- appointment. After Dyke's return from England, more than two years ago, he had volunteered no explanation of his extended visit, no mention of his determined continued reserve towards his guardian on the subject of his marriage. Dora had pondered long and wonderingly on this strange, to her unaccountable, deception, and at last had timidly broached the subject to him. She was answered by a cool nonchalant query, "Are you not content, Dora? Is there anything more I can do to contribute to your happiness or your father's comfort? If so, only mention it to me, and consider it accomplished ; but do not fret yourself or annoy me by any heroics on the subject of my guardian's blessing upon our nuptials. I fancy we can get on without it, my dear." And then he kissed her and lounged away, and she knew a seal had been placed upon her li])s which it would not be wise to break. But from that hour her faith in her husband's nobility of character wavered ; her respect for his truth and honor was shaken ; she never loved him quite so idolatrously afterwards. But still she loved him, and still her fasci- nation was paramount with him, although not all-absorb- ing as at first. There were days passed in jjlcasures of which she knew nothing, save the one grim fact that they took Dyke away THE MILLS OF THE GODS. 35 from her side ; there were dinners and balls and card- parties, to all of which he went reluctantly, but inevitably; and there were visits to England each spring and autumn, in which she did not participate, and there were occasional trips to Paris, and in the summer to the Lakes, in which she did. And now the smooth run of pleasure was begin- ning again to pall upon Dyke Faucett. The novelty of a wife had worn off at the edges ; the flirtations interspersed through these last three years were becoming tame, and he felt that he must stretch out in a new series of experiences or he would perish. '• With pleasure drugged, he ahnost longed for woe ; And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below !" But in vain he strove to shake off the last remaining influence which Dora possessed over him. Other women, when he had grown weary of them, he had been able to dispose of very quietly ; some with a few low-spoken decisive words, — many more by heavy drafts upon his bankers; but Dora's great luminous eyes turned full upon him always checked those quiet words before they were formed into syllables. And this was the last vestige of her power over him ; he dared not wound her ! And this fact irritated him beyond endurance. Caligula, when he clutched his wife Milonia Csesonia by the throat, shriek- ing at her, " Tell me, thou fascinating devil, what poisons thou hast put in my wine, thus to bind me against my will ? Make confession ! or the torture shall wring it from thee !" no doubt expressed from the black depths of his cruel heart the same passion which Dyke Faucett, under the controlling influences of the social amenities, whispered only to his own soul. But who has forgotten that wlien this Roman monster was assassinated, this wretched wife implored the conspira- 36 THE MILLS OF THE GODS. tors to slay her also, "which, in pity for her wild grief, they did" ? And can we wonder that Dora still clings to the first love of her life, though trust, respect, hope, and faith are dying all about his image? In the sort of moral syncope which had become Dyke's normal condition, he dreamed not of the warring of love and pride and despair in the heart of the woman he had sworn to cherish until his life's end. And after he had grown used to her beauty, grown weary of her repug- nance to certain choice entertainments, in which his male friends participated and from which his lady friends were rigorously excluded, he resented a purity of heart and tone which was a constant mute reproach to him ; and finding his efforts to draw her down to his level unavailing, he grew to feel her a shackle upon his freedom, morally; and the feeling chafed liim more and more as he saw her eyes grow sadder and the color in her cheek vary with every emotion through the delicate transparency of her skin. He sought a new device to arouse her: she should know what it was to be admired, courted, flattered ; perhaps she would not prove insensible to the incense which intoxi- cated all women, and her old charm would return with a knowledge of her power. He would try it; anything is better than this stagna- tion ; and he should like to compare her, in a ball-room, to others, — to the beautiful Marquise de Courboisie (the " Pauline" of his Spanish tour, who, with her aged spouse, was spending the winter in the Eternal City, and finding therein imlimited delight in the devotion of \\