A Heart-Song of To-day (Disturbed by Fire from the 'Unruly Member'): A Novel
days would quickly join themselves to the great past, we shall not
linger; but say, that on nearing the painting of the Transfiguration,
a figure caught her eye, it was that of the young Italian Castenelli,
who, with the dark rich colouring, clear cut features and soft brown
eyes that Roman blood gives, looked as though he might have stepped
from the canvas on the wall.
The painting in its glorious beauty held them in silent admiration for
some time. Vaura drew a long breath as she turned away, saying:
"The man who painted the figure of the Christ in its God-like sanctity
of expression, must have been inspired. What a volume of sermons it
preaches!"
As the Italian had tickets of admission to the Tower of St. Peter's,
Vaura decided to make the ascent. The double walls of the dome are
passed through as quickly as possible, as Vaura's time is short. But
the view from the top! who can describe it? Not I; my pen falls
lifeless; it would take a Moore to sing of; a Byron to immortalise; a
Longfellow, a Whittier or a Tennyson to make an idyl of; it has sent
artists wild; the eye rests lovingly on the hill-crests of the Sabine,
Volscian and Albano on the one side, then turns to the city with its
temples, its palaces, the historic past showing in their very stones.
Then the Coliseum and the Forum, each speaking their own story; then
the eye turns to the winding Tiber; and finally rests on the deep calm
waters of the violet Mediterranean in the far away.
"Ah, Signor Castenelli, it is too much for one day; 'tis no wonder the
Italian is a poet. You dwell in a maze of beauty in nature and art.
Dame nature with you wears such a rich warm dress; 'tis little wonder
your canvas, aye, and your own faces show such sun-warm tints."
"You should dwell with us, Signora; you feel the poetry of our land."
On parting from the Italian he tendered to Vaura for herself and Lady
Esmondet his box at the theatre, as being more favourably situated
than the only one Captain Trevalyon had been able to procure, and at
Vaura's invitation he dined at the villa Iberia, escorting them
afterwards to hear the wonderful voice of Patti.
On the morning of the 28th a telegram arrived from Lionel which read
as follows:
"To Lady Esmondet.
"Villa Iberia, Rome, Italy.
"Sir Vincent Trevalyon died at 11 p.m. the 27th inst. Shall write
to-day.
"LIONEL TREVALYON,
"The Langham, London, England.
"28th December, 1877."
"Poor Sir Vincent gone. And so generations pass. When death bowls out
one man another takes the bat; so now Captain is Sir Lionel
Trevalyon," said Lady Esmondet, as she read the telegram.
"Yes. None shall triumph for a whole life long, for death is one and
the Fates are three," said Vaura.
On the 30th came from Lionel two letters, extracts from which we shall
give.
"DEAR LADY ESMONDET,--
"Every moment of my time is occupied, but know you will be interested
in my doings, so drop you a line. My cousin with my lawyer and self
read the will. By it my uncle bequeaths to me $500,000 in gold. I was
surprised at his generosity. The whole of his fortune would be mine if
I and Judith could marry; that would not suit either of us as we are
totally unsuited to each other. Judith leaves by steamer The Queen for
New York on the 1st January. My poor uncle lived for three hours after
my arrival. He was in great pain, suffering from Bright's disease, but
brain clear; seemed to cling to me; he told me he wished I could
persuade Judith to marry me and try and make her more womanly and live
at my place in the north; but God forbid that our lives should be
linked together. What a contrast she is to Vaura. Should Judith ever
be guilty of giving up her freedom it will be to a man who admires the
divided skirt, etc., etc."
EXTRACTS FROM LIONEL'S TO VAURA.
"....Yes, darling, the words I have written, what are their worth in
telling you of my great love for you! You don't know how I hunger to
look again into your warm, expressive eyes, to hold you to my heart.
If you were only with me, my love, I should drink so freely of your
tender sympathy, that with it as a tonic to my weary waiting heart, I
could go forth into the midst of the news-mongers, into the nest of
wasps, and conquer and untangle the web of difficulty in a few short
days. But you, alas! are far away, and I have only a few minutes of
past bliss to feed on when I kissed your sweet lips, when you made
life a paradise by leaning your dear head on my breast. My love, my
love, I cannot be long without you. You must come to me whether I can
prove to society, with its shams, that Mrs. Grundy has lied in giving
me a hidden wife or no; you must come to be my own love, no matter who
says nay. My heart, my heart, you are mine; mine by right of the
subjection the fetters you have placed me in, and woven for me. Mine
by right, for you have taken my boasted strength from me. Mine, mine,
no matter what the world may say. My life, my love, write to me; I am
half delirious. I am in torture; full of jealous fears less you may
forget me. I regret once and again that I left you. Remember, darling,
I shall be always jealous, for I know the magnetic force of your
charms. I am mad, I know I am, when I think you are so far, such
'lengths of miles' from me. Ask Lady Esmondet to come on at once and
stay a day or two at her house here (it is well warmed--I have been to
see) in pity to the man you have slain, and who loves you past all you
can know; love, come. I am doing all I can, my own, to conquer the
difficulty; I have already been to the offices of our great daily, and
one editor apologized, saying the news of my 'hidden wife' was a
temptation to him in the 'silly season.' For heaven's sake, my heart's
darling, don't let anything you may hear against me turn your heart
from me. The very thought of such a triumph for Mrs. Grundy in her
_role_ of social astronomer, as she sits in her watch tower, telescope
in hand, turns my brain. My heart aches for a letter, for though my
written words seem to me cold; I shall devour yours, simply as coming
from your pen. Come to me quick, my love; I must have a letter and I
must have you. In a stationer's to-day I saw a photo of you in a case
with those of Mrs. Cornwallis West, Langtry and Wheeler, there were
just the four; you all sold, my darling, at five shillings each. The
stationer said, condescendingly, 'that you would all bring a higher
figure, but he merely wished to educate the masses to a high standard
of beauty. His monetary benefit was quite a minor consideration.' The
fellow's manner amused me; but you see, love, that the future Lady
Trevalyon in thus educating the masses reigns in the heart of mankind,
and not only in the heart of the man who only lives in her love...."
"I am more than glad, Vaura, _ma chere_, that Dame Fortune is
playing so smilingly into dear Lionel's hands," said Lady Esmondet,
as she read aloud the letter she had received from Trevalyon on the
morning of the 30th. Yes, more than glad, for the legacy of $500,000
and the title, will do more to close the gaping eyes of society, and
lips of Dame Rumour, than any red-tapeism in the form of libel
suits; or living proofs, from living truthful lips."
"True, god-mother dear, and 'tis well we are women of our day, or
the knowledge that a man may, if he will, live the life of a Mormon
in Utah, on the quiet; and if he present a wife well gilt with gold,
and a title, to society; society will fall prostrate; or this
knowledge might mystify us."
"Yes, we hive eaten of the tree of knowledge, Vaura dear; we know
society's deal and the cards she bids us play; no matter though we
don't like our hand."
"Poor Lionel does not relish the play just now, manly, brave, and
true as he is," said Vaura, pityingly.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
BRIC-A-BRAC.
The morrow dawned, fair and bright, and Vaura looked as bright and
fresh as a goddess of day, as she stepped, from the door of the villa,
robed in a gown of blue velvet, tight jacket of same, and a small
bonnet of a lighter shade, with long tan kid gloves; her cheek was
warm with the colour her quickened heart-beats gave, and the love-
light shone in her eyes, for she had again just re-read Lionel's
loving words, and knew her own would soon make his heart glad.
O'Gormon came up the walk as she descended the verandah steps.
"Good morning, Miss Vernon."
"_Bonjour_, Sir Dennis; sorry I am deserting the villa as you are
making your _entree_."
"Fortune favours me, in that you are not already gone. May I not be
your escort, and attend you?"
"Well, I scarcely know; I am not going to the Colonna gardens," she
answered gaily.
"No matter, I am only too willing to follow you blindly; whither thou
goest I go; thy will shall be my will; thy goal my goal."
"Then to the dusty shop of Pedro; to the rescue of some trifles in the
matter of bric-a-brac."
"But, am I not sufficient escort without yon trim female; give her a
holiday to go buy ribbons to 'tie up her bonny brown hair.'"
"You may take an hour's pleasure, Saunders; I do not require your
further attendance."
And now they bend their steps in the direction of the old town, and
turning into a short, narrow street, ascend the high stone steps of an
old house; so old one wondered it held together; in fact, many stones
had fallen from the front wall, giving it a hollow-eyed appearance.
The whole _quartier_ in which they now are, presents a dilapidated
front. But when they enter the old, mouldy apartment, lit up with so
much of the beautiful, they forgot the gloomy, damp street; the
uninviting exterior of the building; the weird old man in charge;
everything but the gems by which they are surrounded. Here were some
rare bits of Sevres and Dresden china, there some modern tile
painting, here some old Roman jugs, jars, and vases; there the sweet
face of a Madonna looks down, as if in pity, on a Greek dancing girl.
Here a goblet, fit for a kingly gift; there a zone to win the good
graces of some pretty little ballet dancer. Here were Romish missals
in rare old inlaid coverings, side by side with garters studded with
precious stones, destined for the leg of woman.
Vaura, an ardent admirer of the choice in bric-a-brac, was in her
element amid this confusion of beauty, while her companion preferred
the living charms of a lovely woman more than anything the world of
art could show; so, not a purchaser, he seated himself on a chair with
more carving than comfort to recommend it, and watching Vaura, fell
into a reverie: "She is the most priceless gem in the casket, and
though my governor left me as heritage the waste acres, and nothing
but an income of debts to keep up Castletruan, unless I marry money,
by my faith a fellow could live on love with Vaura Vernon, better than
on stalled ox without her."
Here he gave a start knocking down a porcelain vase at the weird voice
of Pedro from behind, saying:
"You don't examine my poor wares, mi lord.'
"The shattered remains of that vase are typical of the _denouement_ of
the idle dreams I was dreaming," he muttered, as the wily Italian,
full of regrets, picked up the fragments, naming double the value of
the vase, and thinking,
"He would not have spent a _soldi_, the Signora occupies all his
thoughts; so Pedro, you are in good fortune that the English lord was
startled at the sound of thy voice; the intention was good, Pedro, so
is the result."
Vaura now signified to the Italian her wish to purchase bric-a-brac to
the extent of a golden goblet, beautiful in design and of early Roman
handiwork. A group of statutory, representing Venus and Adonis, at
once piquant and charming, with an exquisite painting of the Dying
Gladiator pathetic in the extreme.
"He is a grand athlete," said Sir Dennis.