A Little Protestant in Rome

BY

EGLANTON THORNE

Author of "Worthy of His Name," "The Elder Brother," "Her Own Way"

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I

NOT ASHAMED OF HIS FAITH

CHAPTER II

A REMARKABLE STRANGER

CHAPTER III

HIDE AND SEEK

CHAPTER IV

A BURDENED HEART

CHAPTER V

PAUL ADDS A NEW PETITION TO HIS PRAYERS

CHAPTER VI

PAUL SEES THE POPE

CHAPTER VII

A LETTER FROM THE HIGHLANDS

CHAPTER VIII

IN A GARDEN WITH GRAVES

CHAPTER IX

A MOONLIGHT EXPEDITION

CHAPTER X

WHAT BEPPO FOUND

CHAPTER XI

RECONCILED

CHAPTER XII

A SURRENDER

CHAPTER XIII

A FESTIVAL

A Little Protestant in Rome

CHAPTER I.

Not Ashamed of his Faith.

"I LIKE that big wound wooin," said Paul Bernard, sprawling across his mother's knees in his endeavour to gaze till the last moment in which they could be seen at the mighty sunlit walls rising against the deep, pure blue of the Roman sky.

"Sit up, Paul, directly. You are hurting me. What a rude, rough little boy you are getting! And I wish you would not say wooin. You can sound your r's if you take the trouble."

Paul fell back in his seat as the carriage turned a corner and the famous ruin passed from his sight. He was in no way disturbed by his mother's fretful reproof, for he was accustomed to being alternately snubbed and idolised, and could deport himself with equanimity under either experience. He had not yet seen his fifth summer; but he was already somewhat of a philosopher, able to take things as they came, and to possess his soul in patience when it was impossible to mould circumstances to his will.

Mrs. Bernard sighed as she shook out the folds of her gown, which Paul's impetuous action had disarranged. She was young and pretty and elegantly attired, but her face wore a sad and listless expression. She spoke with a slight drawl and an intonation which betrayed her American birth.

"I suppose it is the correct thing to visit the Coliseum by moonlight," she observed; "at any rate, it is what all my compatriots appear to do."

"Yes, and it is really worth while, although everyone does it," replied her companion, a lady a few years older, whose dress indicated that she was a widow. "I advise you to choose a night when the moon is not too brilliant. One gets finer effects of light and shade, and a deeper sense of mystery pervades the vast arena, when the moon is contending with clouds than when the sky is absolutely clear."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Bernard indifferently. "Then I must try to go on some such night."

"May I go, mother?" asked Paul eagerly.

"You, my dear child!" said his mother's friend. "You will be snug in bed and fast asleep, long before your mother sets out."

"No, I sha'n't. I don't go to bed so early as you think," he protested; "and I am often awake when Janet comes to bed. I may go, mayn't I, mother?"

"You go! Nonsense! You will be much better in bed," said his mother. "Now, Paul, don't begin to worry me! I will not have it. I should like you to accompany me, Mrs. Dunton, when I go."

"With pleasure," said that lady; "I love to visit the Coliseum. To me it is one of the most sacred places on earth, and I greatly regret that the spot where so many Christian martyrs suffered is no longer marked by a cross. I should like to have known it when there were shrines there at which one could offer prayers."

Paul's blue eyes grew big with wonder as he listened to her words.

"Why can't you pray there now?" he asked.

"Why? Because it is no longer possible," said the lady, a little puzzled how to answer the child's abrupt question. "The Coliseum is no longer a holy place, except for its memories."

"But I thought that God was everywhere," said Paul, looking puzzled in his turn; "and that we could speak to Him in any place? I do, and He hears me too."

"Now, Paul, be quiet," said his mother. "Little boys must not talk about things they do not understand."

"But I do understand," said Paul; "nurse has told me."

"There! There! That will do," said his mother, holding her neatly-gloved hand before his lips. "Not another word!"

Paul was silent for a few moments while he turned things over in his mind.

Then suddenly, he addressed to Mrs. Dunton another question.

"Are you a Catholic?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, smiling. "Most certainly I belong to the Holy Catholic Church."

Paul's brow cleared. He looked as if he had received enlightenment. He regarded the lady with an air of great interest.

"Nurse says the Catholics would burn us all if they could," he remarked cheerfully. "I'm a Protestant, you know," he added, by way of making things clear.

"My dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dunton, and she turned towards his mother with a look of amazement.

"Paul, I told you not to speak," said Mrs. Bernard hastily.

"You see what comes of having a Scotch nurse," she added, in an undertone to her companion. "I do wish she would not put such ideas into the child's head; but she is so faithful and good that I could not bear to dismiss her. It is such a comfort to know that he is perfectly safe when out of my sight."

"Yes; but still—" Mrs. Dunton began dubiously; then checked herself, and ended in a lighter tone, as she patted the boy's cheek—"Paul will know better when he is older."

Paul gave no heed to her words, for at that moment his attention was diverted by the appearance of a little boy about his own age, clad in wonderful green velvet knickers and a bright red coat, with a tiny black "wide-awake" perched on the back of his head, who ran beside the carriage and made signs to him, which Paul failed to understand. Mrs. Dunton gave him a "soldo" to fling to the little vagrant; but, after pocketing it, the boy continued to run along the road, apparently finding pleasure in amusing the other boy with his antics.

Meanwhile, the ladies could talk in peace.

"Have you thought over the subject of our last conversation, dear Mrs. Bernard, since we met?" asked Mrs. Dunton, with an air of intense interest.

"Oh yes, I have thought of it," said her companion wearily; "I am always thinking, thinking—if only one could stop thinking!"

"I know exactly how you feel," said Mrs. Dunton, her tones soft with sympathy; "but your thoughts will never cease to trouble you till you find rest, as I found it, in the bosom of our Holy Church."

"Ah! If I thought that!" exclaimed her friend. "If I could believe what you tell me, I would become a Romanist to-morrow. But how is it possible? Can anything undo the past? Many years ago I made a great mistake—nay, it was a sin. Is there any power on earth that can blot out that sin and make my life as if it had not been?"

"Of course the past cannot be undone; that is undeniable," said Mrs. Dunton; "but our Holy Church can absolve from sin the penitent soul. It is for that purpose we have the sacred office of the Confessional. Ah! Dear Mrs. Bernard, if you knew the relief one experiences when one unburdens one's heart in the ears of the priest, and the rest there is in giving oneself up to be taught and guided."

"Oh! But I could not!" cried Mrs. Bernard. "I could not bear to speak of my trouble to anyone!"

"Then it will continue to torment you," said Mrs. Dunton gravely. "Dear Mrs. Bernard, promise me that you will go again to the convent of the Sacré Cœur, and speak with Sister Célestine. You will find her full of sympathy, and she is better able to help you than I am."

"I will go," said Mrs. Bernard, after a moment's pause, while the placid, kindly face of the nun rose before her mental vision; "I like to talk to Sister Célestine. It would be easier to tell 'her' than to tell a priest."

"What is a pwiest, mother?" cried Paul, becoming conscious of his mother's words, as the little "contadino" he had been watching suddenly fell back breathless and was lost from view. "What is a pwiest?"

As often happened, his mother paid no attention to his query, and he repeated it, and was still repeating it when the carriage drew up before the hotel at which they were staying.

"What is a priest?" said a full sonorous voice in amused accent. "Look at me, my boy, and you will see what a priest is."

At the same moment, a pair of strong arms lifted Paul from the carriage and held him for a moment high above the ground. Paul looked down into a merry face, with kindly grey eyes, laughing lips, flashing white teeth, and a massive chin.

"Oh! Father O'Connell, is it you?" cried both the ladies in tones that expressed pleasure.

And Paul was set down on the pavement, while the priest turned to greet his mother.

Paul looked curiously at the tall figure in the long, glossy, black robe and broad hat. Father O'Connell, turning, caught his intent gaze.

"So, my little friend, you see now what a priest is," he said, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes; "tell me, do you like the look of me?"

"You don't look bad," remarked Paul gravely, "but nurse says she does not believe in priests."

Father O'Connell burst into a ringing laugh.

The next moment a middle-aged woman, neatly dressed in black, came to the door of the hotel, and taking Paul's hand, led him quickly away.

CHAPTER II.

A Remarkable Stranger.

CLARICE BERNARD was by nature both artistic and luxurious, and an ample income made it easy for her to indulge her tastes. The only child of wealthy parents, she had been spoiled from her infancy, and, like most spoiled children, she had suffered when the arms which had so softly sheltered her were withdrawn, and she had to face alone the realities of life. That her troubles were of her own making did not render them more easy to bear. Living, to all appearance, a life of ease and pleasure, she was in truth a most unhappy woman.

A fond mother in her way, she yet found little satisfaction in her love for her child. He was a beautiful boy, with large, earnest blue eyes, before whose direct, searching gaze she sometimes shrank, inwardly feeling as if he could read the secrets of her heart.

She loved to buy Paul pretty clothes and costly toys, and to hear people speak of his beauty and charm; yet there were times when she wished that his eyes were not so deeply, purely blue, and that his fleeting expressions and unconscious gestures did not so constantly remind her of another.

"Paul is like you, and yet not like you," a lady said to her one day, as they sat together in the drawing-room at the hotel. "I fancy the difference will be more marked as he grows older. His eyes are not like yours. I suppose his father had blue eyes?"

"Yes, yes, it was so," said Mrs. Bernard hurriedly, and she turned to the piano and began to strike a few loud chords at random, as if anxious to check further speech.

The lady reflected that Mrs. Bernard must have loved her husband very much, since she could not bear even this slight reference to him.

Paul was so admired and petted at the hotel that he ran considerable danger of being spoiled, and doubtless would have suffered, but for the conscientious efforts of his Scotch nurse to counteract the mischief. She never failed to remind him in moments of elation of his natural depravity.

"Yes, the suit's all right," she would say; "it's bran' new velvet and real lace; but I'm thinking the worst part's in the middle. God keep us humble, for we've little cause to be proud, when we think what our hearts are."

"Is my heart so very bad, do you think, nurse?" Paul would ask, with an air of concern.

"It mayn't be the worst or the best," said his nurse; "but what of that? The Bible tells us that the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked."

"But you said that God would give me a new heart, if I asked Him, and I have asked Him; I am always asking Him," said Paul, with some impatience. "I should think He must have given it to me by now."

"The heart needs to be renewed every day," said his nurse gravely; "but now keep still while I fasten your collar. It is impossible for me to button it while you keep jerking your head about."

In spite of her Scotch birth, Janet found Paul difficult to deal with when he waxed argumentative. She was often both astonished and rebuked by his faith in prayer. When quite a wee boy, he had insisted on saying the Lord's Prayer in a fashion of his own, with the petition, "Give us this day our daily bread and honey and jam."

When Janet reproved him for making this addition, he replied, "But, nurse, you say that we may ask God for whatever we want. Bread alone will not do for me; I must have honey and jam."

And he continued to repeat the prayer in his own way.

Paul and his nurse occupied a large and airy room in the hotel, with a balcony overlooking the Piazza di Spagna. The balcony was a never-failing source of diversion to Paul. From it he could watch all the life of the Piazza—the carriages rolling to and fro, the arrivals at the hotel, the flower-sellers with the beautiful, many-hued flowers massed together on their stalls, the pedlars with the mosaics and tortoise-shells they so seldom seemed to sell, and the artists' models in their picturesque costumes. Sometimes his nurse would bring her needle-work, and sit just within the window, that she might be at hand to answer as best she could Paul's innumerable questions.

One evening about sunset, as Paul, after returning from his walk, was amusing himself in the balcony, a carriage drove up to the door of the hotel bringing a young lady, who had evidently come from a journey, since a quantity of luggage was piled up in the front of the conveyance.

She was quite young—too young, one might have thought, to be travelling alone—and very smartly dressed. Masses of red-golden hair were visible beneath her black velvet hat; her cheeks had a delicate bloom, and her eyes were large and bright, with finely-pencilled brows.

Paul looked at her and admired her with a child's ready appreciation of surface prettiness. Then his eyes were caught by the knowing-looking pug which sat on the seat beside his mistress.

Paul watched as the lady rose, and, taking up her pug, alighted with him in her arms. The wise eyes and little black nose peeped out from beneath her arms as she stood giving directions respecting her luggage.

Paul happened to be eating a biscuit, and it occurred to him to try the effect of dropping a piece down before the dog. The biscuit fell within an inch of the dog's nose, and lay on the ground before him; but he made no attempt to seize it.

The young lady looked up in surprise, but smiled as she saw the little boy.

"How kind you are to my dog!" she said. "I thank you for him. Yes, Fritz, you may take it."

She set down the pug as she spoke, and Paul had the satisfaction of seeing him snap up the biscuit.

"There," she said, looking up at Paul with laughing eyes, "he would not have touched it if I had not told him he might. He is a good dog, is Fritz."

"Is his name Fritz, and does he always do what you tell him?" asked Paul, delighted with this new acquaintance.

"Always," said the girl.

But at that moment Janet, astonished to hear her charge talking with some one below, stepped on to the balcony. She looked down, and the girl's face met her view in the full light of the clear sky. The girl nodded to Paul and went into the hotel, followed by her dog; but Janet had seen enough.

"A painted minx!" she said, with something like a snort. "She's no good."

"What is a minx?" asked Paul. "And why is she painted, and who painted her?"

"Never mind. It's no business of yours," replied nurse, aware that she had been indiscreet in making such a remark in his hearing.

"What makes you think that she is not good?" persisted Paul.

"There! There! It does not matter to you. You are not to talk about her," said his nurse.

"But the dog is good, is he not?" said Paul. "He does whatever he is told, so he must be a very good dog."

"Then you may try to be like him," said nurse. "I know a little boy who does not always do what he is told."

And Paul, aware that he had forgotten more than one injunction of his nurse's that day, became silent.

That evening, at the "table d'hôte," the appearance of the newly-arrived traveller created a sensation. She was richly dressed, and diamonds flashed on her small, white hands. Her beauty was most striking; but the ladies present eyed her with suspicion, and whispered among themselves that her complexion was certainly artificial and her hair too golden to be natural. She bore herself with great self-possession, and looked about her with cool, supercilious eyes, which seemed to defy criticism. Now and then her beautiful lips curled with a somewhat contemptuous smile.

Presently she began to talk to the gentleman on her right, and the people near her grew quiet, that they might hear what she was saying. She talked gaily and brilliantly in good and fluent French; but she had been heard to speak English with equal facility, and people began wondering as to her nationality. Was she English or American, or possibly Canadian? Was she as young as she looked, and what was the meaning of her travelling alone?

But while people observed and conjectured, they held aloof from the young stranger, and made no attempt to obtain information at first hand.

"An actress, I should say," whispered Mrs. Dunton to Mrs. Bernard, as she watched the play of hands and voice and features with which the young beauty talked.

"An adventuress of some kind, no doubt," was the other lady's reply.

So their eyes dwelt on the stranger with cold disapproval, while reluctantly compelled to admire the style and fit of her silk gown.

Meanwhile, the new arrival was being discussed in other regions of the hotel. A courier who chanced to be in the hall when the young lady entered, recognised her as one whom he had seen at Naples, and imparted certain facts concerning her to the porter, who in his turn told them to one of the waiters, who confided them to his wife, who was a chambermaid, and who, being able to speak English, could not resist whispering them to Paul's nurse.

Janet was shocked at this confirmation of her suspicions, yet derived some satisfaction from the thought that she had been right in her first estimate of the young woman's character.

On the following morning, Paul, equipped for a walk on the Pincio, was waiting till his nurse was ready to accompany him, when a sharp little bark reached his ears, and running into the corridor, he saw the clever pug standing at one of the doors, evidently asking that it might be opened to him. Paul was stroking him when his mistress opened the door. She smiled to see the child standing beside the dog. She was a radiant vision in a pink morning gown, and Paul was fully conscious of her charm as he looked up at her.

"Good morning, little man," she said brightly, "I am glad that you like my dog. Now, Fritz, say 'good morning' properly. See, he knows how to shake hands!"

"So he does!" exclaimed Paul, delighted with the dog's accomplishment as he shook the proffered paw. "He is a good dog. Nurse says he is better than I am, because I don't always do as I am told."

"You don't mean to say so!" said the young lady, looking amused. "And you look such a good little boy too!"

"I'm not, though," said Paul seriously. "It's awfully hard to be good, isn't it? Did you always do what you were told when you were a little girl?"

"Oh dear me, no; neither then nor since. I was always one to take my own way," said the girl.

She spoke lightly, and ended with a laugh, yet a shadow fell on her face as she spoke, and Paul was dimly aware that his words had somehow hurt her.

Just then Fritz sprang forward, barking vigorously at the hotel porter, who was coming down the corridor with his hands full of letters. Instantly the lady's face changed. There was an eager, anxious look in her eyes as she advanced to meet the man.

"You have a letter for me—Mademoiselle Grand?"

The man shook his head.

"But there must be!" she insisted.

And she made him turn over all the letters till she was satisfied that not one bore her name. A look of pain and disappointment came to her face. She stood motionless with clasped hands as the porter went on down the corridor.

"Cruel, cruel!" she murmured to herself.