At any other time Mrs. Willoughby
would perhaps have manoeuvred Minnie out of the room;
but on the present occasion the advent of the Italian
was an inexpressible relief. Mrs. Willoughby was
not prepared for a scene like this. The manners,
the language, and the acts of Rufus K. Gunn had filled
her with simple horror. She was actually bewildered,
and her presence of mind was utterly gone. As
for Minnie, she was quite helpless, and sat, looking
frightened. The Baron Atramonte might have been
one of the excellent of the earth he might
have been brave and loyal and just and true and tender,
but his manner was one to which they were unaccustomed,
and consequently Mrs. Willoughby was quite overcome.
The arrival of Girasole, therefore,
was greeted by her with joy. She at once rose
to meet him, and could not help infusing into her
greeting a warmth which she had never shown him before.
Girasole’s handsome eyes sparkled with delight,
and when Mrs. Willoughby pointedly made way for him
to seat himself next to Minnie his cup of joy was
full. Mrs. Willoughby’s only idea at that
moment was to throw some obstacle between Minnie and
that “dreadful person” who claimed her
as his own, and had taken such shocking liberties.
She did not know that Girasole was in Rome, and now
accepted his arrival at that opportune moment as something
little less than providential.
And now, actuated still by the idea
of throwing further obstacles between Minnie and the
Baron, she herself went over to the latter, and began
a series of polite remarks about the weather and about
Rome; while Girasole, eager to avail himself of his
unexpected privilege, conversed with Minnie in a low
voice in his broken English.
This arrangement was certainly not
very agreeable to the Baron. His flow of spirits
seemed to be checked at once, and his volubility ceased.
He made only monosyllabic answers to Mrs. Willoughby’s
remarks, and his eyes kept wandering, over beyond her
to Minnie, and scrutinizing the Italian who was thus
monopolizing her at the very moment when he was beginning
to have a “realizing sense” of her presence.
He looked puzzled. He could not understand it
at all. He felt that some wrong was done by somebody.
He fell into an ungracious mood. He hated the
Italian who had thus come between him and his happiness,
and who chatted with Minnie, in his abominable broken
English, just like an old acquaintance. He couldn’t
understand it. He felt an unpleasant restraint
thrown over him, and began to meditate a departure,
and a call at some more favorable time later in the
evening. But he wanted to have a few more words
with “Min,” and so he tried to “sit
out” the Italian.
But the Italian was as determined
as the American. It was the first chance that
he had had to get a word with Minnie since he was in
Milan, and he was eager to avail himself of it.
Mrs. Willoughby, on her part, having thus discomfited
the Baron, was not unmindful of the other danger;
so she moved her seat to a position near enough to
overlook and check Girasole, and then resumed those
formal, chilling, heartless, but perfectly polite
remarks which she had been administering to the Baron
since Girasole’s arrival.
At length Mrs. Willoughby began to
be dreadfully bored, and groaned in spirit over the
situation in which Minnie had placed herself, and
racked her brains to find some way of retreat from
these two determined lovers, who thus set at naught
the usages of society for their own convenience.
She grew indignant. She wondered if they would
ever go. She wondered if it were not possible
to engage the Count and the Baron in a conversation
by themselves, and, under cover of it, withdraw.
Finally she began to think whether she would not be
justified in being rude to them, since they were so
inconsiderate. She thought over this, and was
rapidly coming to the decision that some act of rudeness
was her only hope, when, to her immense relief, the
servant entered and announced Lord Hawbury.
The entrance of the welcome guest
into the room where the unwelcome ones were seated
was to Mrs. Willoughby like light in a dark place.
To Minnie also it brought immense relief in her difficult
position. The ladies rose, and were about to
greet the new-comer, when, to their amazement, the
Baron sprang forward, caught Lord Hawbury’s hand,
and wrung it over and over again with the most astonishing
vehemence.
“Hawbury, as I’m a living
sinner! Thunderation! Where did you come
from? Good again! Darn it all, Hawbury, this
is real good! And how well you look! How
are you? All right, and right side up? Who’d
have thought it? It ain’t you, really,
now, is it? Darn me if I ever was so astonished
in my life! You’re the last man I’d
have expected. Yes, Sir. You may
bet high on that.”
“Ah, really,” said Hawbury,
“my dear fellow! Flattered, I’m sure.
And how goes it with you? Deuced odd place to
find you, old boy. And I’m deuced glad
to see you, you know, and all that sort of thing.”
And he wrung the Baron’s hand
quite as heartily as the other wrung his; and the
expression on his face was of as much cordiality and
pleasure as that upon the face of the other. Then
Hawbury greeted the ladies, and apologized by stating
that the Baron was a very old and tried friend, whom
he had not seen for years; which intelligence surprised
Mrs. Willoughby greatly, and brought a faint ray of
something like peace to poor Minnie.
The ladies were not imprisoned much
longer. Girasole threw a black look at Lord Hawbury,
and retreated. After a few moments’ chat
Hawbury also retired, and made the Baron go with him.
And the Baron went without any urging. He insisted,
however, on shaking hands heartily with both of the
ladies, especially Minnie, whose poor little hand he
nearly crushed into a pulp; and to the latter he whispered
the consoling assurance that he would come to see
her on the following day. After which he followed
his friend out.
Then he took Hawbury over to his own
quarters, and Hawbury made himself very much at home
in a rocking-chair, which the Baron regarded as the
pride and joy and glory of his room.
“By Jove!” cried Hawbury.
“This is deuced odd, do you know, old chap;
and I can’t imagine how the mischief you got
here!”
This led to long explanations, and
a long conversation, which was protracted far into
the night, to the immense enjoyment of both of the
friends.
The Baron was, as Lord Hawbury had
said, an old friend. He had become acquainted
with him many years before upon the prairies of America,
near the Rocky Mountains. The Baron had rescued
him from Indians, by whom he had been entrapped, and
the two friends had wandered far over those regions,
enduring perils, fighting enemies, and roughing it
in general. This rough life had made each one’s
better nature visible to the other, and had led to
the formation of a friendship full of mutual appreciation
of the other’s best qualities. Now it is
just possible that if they had not known one another,
Hawbury might have thought the Baron a boor, and the
Baron might have called Hawbury a “thundering
snob;” but as it was, the possible boor and the
possible snob each thought the other one of the finest
fellows in the world.
“But you’re not a Roman
Catholic,” said Hawbury, as the Baron explained
his position among the Zouaves.
“What’s the odds?
All’s fish that comes to their net. To get
an office in the Church may require a profession of
faith, but we’re not so particular in the army.
I take the oath, and they let me go. Besides,
I have Roman Catholic leanings.”
“Roman Catholic leanings?”
“Yes; I like the Pope.
He’s a fine man, Sir a fine man.
I regard that man more like a father than any thing
else. There isn’t one of us but would lay
down our lives for that old gentleman.”
“But you never go to confession,
and you’re not a member of the Church.”
“No; but then I’m a member
of the army, and I have long chats with some of the
English-speaking priests. There are some first-rate
fellows among them, too. Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t see much of a leaning in all
that.”
“Leaning? Why, it’s
all leaning. Why, look here. I remember the
time when I was a grim, true-blue Puritan. Well,
I ain’t that now. I used to think the Pope
was the Beast of the ’Pocalypse. Well, now
I think he’s the finest old gentleman I ever
saw. I didn’t use to go to Catholic chapel.
Well, now I’m there often, and I rather kind
o’ like it. Besides, I’m ready to
argue with them all day and all night, and what more
can they expect from a fighting man?
“You see, after our war I got
my hand in, and couldn’t stop fighting.
The Indians wouldn’t do too much throat-cutting
and savagery. So I came over here, took a fancy
to the Pope, enlisted, was at Mentana, fit there,
got promoted, went home, couldn’t stand it, and
here I am, back again; though how long I’m going
to be here is more’n I can tell. The fact
is, I feel kind of onsettled.”
“Why so?”
“Oh, it’s an aggravating place, at the
best.”
“How?”
“There’s such an everlasting
waste of resources such tarnation bad management.
Fact is, I’ve noted that it’s always the
case wherever you trust ministers to do business.
They’re sure to make a mess of it. I’ve
known lots of cases. Why, that’s always
the way with us. Look at our stock-companies
of any kind, our religious societies, and our publishing
houses wherever they get a ministerial committee,
the whole concern goes to blazes. I know
that. Yes, Sir. Now that’s
the case here. Here’s a fine country.
Why, round this here city there’s a country,
Sir, that, if properly managed, might beat any of our
prairies and look at it.
“Then, again, they complain
of poverty. Why, I can tell you, from my own
observation, that they’ve got enough capital
locked up, lying useless, in this here city, to regenerate
it all, and put it on its feet. This capital
wants to be utilized. It’s been lying too
long without paying interest. It’s time
that it stopped. Why, I tell you what it is,
if they were to sell out what they have here lying
idle, and realize, they’d get enough money to
form an endowment fund for the Pope and his court
so big that his Holiness and every official in the
place might get salaries all round out of the interest
that would enable them to live like well,
I was going to say like princes, but there’s
a lot of princes in Rome that live so shabby that the
comparison ain’t worth nothing.
“Why, see here, now,”
continued the Baron, warming with his theme, which
seemed to be a congenial one; “just look here;
see the position of this Roman court. They can
actually levy taxes on the whole world. Voluntary
contributions, Sir, are a wonderful power. Think
of our missionary societies our Sabbath-school
organizations in the States. Think of the wealth,
the activity, and the action of all our great charitable,
philanthropic, and religious bodies. What supports
them all? Voluntary contributions. Now what
I mean to say is this I mean to say that
if a proper organization was arranged here, they could
get annual receipts from the whole round globe that
would make the Pope the richest man on it. Why,
in that case Rothschild wouldn’t be a circumstance.
The Pope might go into banking himself, and control
the markets of the world. But no. There’s
a lot of ministers here, and they haven’t any
head for it. I wish they’d give me a chance.
I’d make things spin.
“Then, again, they’ve
got other things here that’s ruining them.
There’s too much repression, and that don’t
do for the immortal mind. My idea is that every
man was created free and equal, and has a right to
do just as he darn pleases; but you can’t beat
that into the heads of the governing class here.
No, Sir. The fact is, what Rome wants is a republic.
It’ll come, too, some day. The great mistake
of his Holiness’s life is that he didn’t
put himself at the head of the movement in ’48.
He had the chance, but he got frightened, and backed
down. Whereas if he had been a real, live Yankee,
now if he had been like some of our Western
parsons he’d have put himself on the
tiptop of the highest wave, and gone in. Why,
he could have had all Italy at his right hand by this
time, instead of having it all against him. There’s
where he made his little mistake. If I were Pope
I’d fight the enemy with their own weapons.
I’d accept the situation. I’d go in
head over heels for a republic. I’d have
Rome the capital, myself president, Garibaldi commander-in-chief,
Mazzini secretary of state a man, Sir,
that can lick even Bill Seward himself in a regular,
old-fashioned, tonguey, subtile, diplomatic note.
And in that case, with a few live men at the head
of affairs, where would Victor Emanuel be? Emphatically,
nowhere!
“Why, Sir,” continued
the Baron, “I’d engage to take this city
as it is, and the office of Pope, and run the whole
Roman Catholic Church, till it knocked out all opposition
by the simple and natural process of absorbing all
opponents. We want a republic here in Rome.
We want freedom, Sir. Where is the Church making
its greatest triumphs to-day? In the States,
Sir. If the Catholic Church made itself free and
liberal and go-ahead; if it kept up with the times;
if it was imbued with the spirit of progress, and
pitched aside all old-fashioned traditions why,
I tell you, Sir, it would be a little the tallest
organization on this green globe of ours. Yes,
Sir!”
While Hawbury and the Baron were thus
engaged in high discourse, Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie
were engaged in discourses of a less elevated but
more engrossing character.
After the ladies had escaped they
went up stairs. Lady Dalrymple had retired some
time before to her own room, and they had the apartment
to themselves. Minnie flung herself into a chair
and looked bewildered; Mrs. Willoughby took another
chair opposite, and said nothing for a long time.
“Well,” said Minnie at
last, “you needn’t be so cross, Kitty;
I didn’t bring him here.”
“Cross!” said her sister; “I’m
not cross.”
“Well, you’re showing
temper, at any rate; and you know you are, and I think
it very unkind in you, when I have so much to trouble
me.”
“Why, really, Minnie darling,
I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, why don’t you tell
me what you think of him, and all that sort of thing?
You might, you know.”
“Think of him!” repeated
Mrs. Willoughby, elevating her eyebrows.
“Yes, think of him; and you
needn’t go and make faces about him, at any
rate.”
“Did I make faces? Well,
dear,” said Mrs. Willoughby, patiently, “I’ll
tell you what I think of him. I’m afraid
of him.”
“Well, then,” said Minnie,
in a tone of triumph, “now you know how I feel.
Suppose he saved your life, and then came in his awfully
boisterous way to see you; and got you alone, and began
that way, and really quite overwhelmed you, you know;
and then, when you were really almost stunned, suppose
he went and proposed to you? Now, then!”
And Minnie ended this question with
the air of one who could not be answered, and knew
it.
“He’s awful perfectly
awful!” said Mrs. Willoughby. “And
the way he treated you! It was so shocking.”
“I know; and that’s just
the horrid way he always does,” said
Minnie, in a plaintive tone. “I’m
sure I don’t know what to do with him.
And then he’s Lord Hawbury’s friend.
So what are we to do?”
“I don’t know, unless we leave Rome at
once.”
“But I don’t want
to leave Rome,” said Minnie. “I hate
being chased away from places by people and
they’d be sure to follow me, you know and
I don’t know what to do. And oh, Kitty darling,
I’ve just thought of something. It would
be so nice. What do you think of it?”
“What is it?”
“Why, this. You know the Pope?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh, well, you’ve seen him, you know.”
“Yes; but what has he got to do with it?”
“Why, I’ll get you to
take me, and I’ll go to him, and tell him all
about it, and about all these horrid men; and I’ll
ask him if he can’t do something or other to
help me. They have dispensations and things,
you know, that the Pope gives; and I want him to let
me dispense with these awful people.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Willoughby.
“I don’t see any nonsense
in it at all. I’m in earnest,” said
Minnie; “and I think it’s a great shame.”
“Nonsense!” said her sister
again; “the only thing is for you to stay in
your room.”
“But I don’t want to stay in my room,
and I can’t.”
“Oh dear! what can I do with
this child?” exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby, whose
patience was giving way.
Upon this Minnie went over and kissed
her, and begged to be forgiven; and offered to do
any thing that darling Kitty wanted her to do.
After this they talked a good deal
over their difficulty, but without being able to see
their way out of it more clearly.
That evening they were walking up
and down the balcony of the house. It was a quadrangular
edifice, and they had a suite of rooms on the second
and third stories. They were on the balcony of
the third story, which looked down into the court-yard
below. A fountain was in the middle of this,
and the moon was shining brightly.
The ladies were standing looking down,
when Minnie gently touched her sister’s arm,
and whispered,
“Look at the man!”
“Where?”
“By the fountain.”
Mrs. Willoughby looked, and saw the
face of a man who was standing on the other side of
the fountain. His head rose above it, and his
face was turned toward them. He evidently did
not know that he was seen, but was watching the ladies,
thinking that he himself was unobserved. The
moment that Mrs. Willoughby looked at the face she
recognized it.
“Come in,” said she to
Minnie. And drawing her sister after her, she
went into the house.
“I knew the face; didn’t
you, Kitty dear?” said Minnie. “It’s
so easy to tell it. It was Scone Dacres.
But what in the world does he want? Oh dear!
I hope he won’t bother me.”