"Come, Nancy," says Fanny, from the inner room, "let us go for a turn in the garden." 66 My head aches," says Anne; "I should like it. I suppose there will be time to finish our work." 66 others have a vocation for agreeable quib-| coming up to drink. All is quite hot and bles; there are also divisions, and sermons, silent: Mrs. de Travers snores loudly. and letters, and protests; some of us wish to improve ourselves, others of us, our neighbours. Mrs. de Travers had no particular ambition for herself, poor soul! She was a lazy woman, and would have contentedly dozed away the quiet evenings by the smouldering log, but a demon of Everything is so tiresome," says Fanduty came flitting up the palace stairs.ny, impetuously, "and I hate Lady Cas "Get up," it whispered to her, "get up, tleairs. O dear, how I wish, I wish I put on your wedding-garment" (it was a was enormously rich." shabby old purple dyed-satin that had once been bought in hopes of an invitation A closed gateway led to the old palace to Tourniquet Castle); "never mind the garden. The girls boldly jangled the draught, never mind the pain in your cracked bell for admittance, and one of the shoulder," says duty, "send old Olympia gardeners came down the steps of a terfor a hack cab, shiver down the long mar-race, and unlocked the bars and let them ble flight and be off, or Lady Castleairs in. This was old Angelo, who was not won't ask you again." Can one blame the only head-gardener, but porter and keeper poor shivering martyr as she enters Lady of the palace. He looked very portentous, Castleairs' drawing-room, followed by her and his nose was redder than usual. two votive maidens? Anne took things They had received the news that his placidly, accepted kindness and patronage Highness the Marquis was expected," he with a certain sweet dignity that held its said, " and after to-day he could no longer own; but poor little Fanny chafed and admit the young ladies to delight themfumed, and frowned, at the contrivances selves in the grounds. When the master and scrapings and disputings of their comes,' ," said he, quoting an old Italian makeshift existence. How she longed proverb, "the keys turn in the lock.'" sometimes to forget the price of earth, air, fire, and water, of fish, flesh, and fowl. She would have liked silver pieces to give to the pretty little black-pated children who came running and dancing along the sunny streets, and peeping out of darkened doorways. She would have liked to buy the great bunches of roses that the girl with the sweet beseeching eyes would hold up to her by the fountain in the street below: great pale pink heads and white sprays flowering; and golden and yellow buds among leaves of darkest emerald, green, and purple brown, and shining stems. But it was no use wishing; roses, too, mean money: it is only thistles and briers that we may gather for nothing. So Fanny and Anne stitch on in the darkened room, while Olympia glides about in the dark passage outside their sitting-room, and Mrs. de Travers dozes in the inner room. It is a birdcage-like little boudoir out of this sitting-room, with quaint dim splendours fading away, with mirrors and garlands painted on their surface, reflecting poor Mrs. de Travers' nodding head, all crowned with roses and emblems of delight; there are lyre-backed chairs, little miniatures hanging to faded ribbons, and hooks in the trellis wall, and an old tapestry carpet with Rebecca at the well and brown straggling camels "But he won't eat us up," says Fanny, pertly. Old Angelo smiled as he shook his head. "No," he said; "and yet the Lady Marchioness was as young and as pretty as you." Then he hastily added, "Now I will tell the men to put a sgabella for the young ladies in the shade." The girls gratefully accepted, though they did not in the least know what he meant by a sgabella. It was a low wooden bench, which the under-gardener placed under the Spanish chestnut-tree at the end of the avenue, just opposite the little rocky fountain. There was a great Apollo over against the fountain, with one arm outstretched against the blue waterfalls, and green, close-creeping wreaths fell over the rocks; while there were also many violets and ferns sprouting spring-like, and the iris stem of a few faint yellow flowers starting from the side of an old stone, and then a little wind stirs the many branches. "This is nicer than that endless tucking," says Fanny. "I wish one's dresses grew like leaves and flowers." "But what should we wear in winter?" says Anne, looking about. "Hush! what is that?" There was a strange soft commotion in the air- a flapping, crooning murmur, and two doves, flying white through the sunshine, came to alight by the rocky fountain, and began to drink. But Fanny jumped up to admire, and though she was no very terrible personage, the doves flew away. the souls of the dead. Six of these latter came out two by two, with long blue silk masks veiling their faces, and walked away down the street; but a seventh, who seemed waiting for somebody or some "Silly creatures!" says Fanny, throw-thing, stood upon the step of the church, ing a chestnut-leaf after them. Then she started off, and went to walk on the terrace, from whence she could see the people in the street. Anne followed slowly. How sweet and bright the fountain flowed! How quietly the shadows shook in time to the triumphal burst of spring light. Over the wall of the garden she caught sight of an ancient church front; rows of oleanders stood by the terrace wall; and from all the bushes and branches came a sweet summer whistle of birds, and the pleasant dream and fresh perfume of branches swaying in the soft wind. Also along the terrace there stood a colony of gods in a stony Olympus- Venus, and Ceres, and Mercury, and Theseus, the mighty hunter ancient deities, whose perennial youth had not saved them from decay. Their fair limbs were falling off, mouldy stains were creeping along the folds and emblems and torches. Theseus's lion's skin was crumbling away. "How horrid it must be to die young!" said Fanny, stopping for an instant to look at fair Ceres, one of whose hands had fallen off, whose nose was gone, whose bountiful cornucopia was broken in the middle, scattering plaster, flowers, and morsels on the ground. "I wonder what Angelo meant by what he said about the Marchioness," said Fanny. "I never listen to him," said Anne, walking on with a light step to a great pink stem studded with a close crop of flowers. Some painter might have made a pretty picture of the girl bending in her white dress to admire the flower as it grew at the crumbling feet of the goddess of the forsaken altars. looking up and down the street. "Fanny," cried Anne, who had been exploring the end of the terrace, "here is a staircase up into the house." Fanny did not answer. When Anne rejoined her sister, she found her sitting motionless on the stone wall just where she had left her, looking at something across the road. "What is it? What are you waiting for?" cried Anne. "Come away, Fanny. How that horrible figure looks at us." As she spoke, a monk came out of the church, and laid one hand on the shoulder of the blue-bearded figure (for the long pointed blue mask looked like nothing else). The man started, and withdrew his burning eyes, which had been fixed on Fanny, and the two walked away together down the sloping street. No one, except the sisters, looked after the strange-looking pair: such a sight was enough in Rome. The monk's brown skirts flapped against his heels: the brother walked with long straight strides. He wore spurs beneath his black robe. Fanny was quite pale. common Oh, Anne! I was too frightened to move," said she. "What is the little staircase? How horrid those people look." The little staircase disappeared into the wall which abutted at the end of the terrace; there was a small door, which had always been closed hitherto, leading to it. Halfway up a small window stood open, with a balcony (iron-fenced, with an iron coronet woven into the railing). It was just large enough for one person to stand. This person was old Angelo, waiting for them with his keys and a duster under his arm. 66 "This leads into the grand apartment," Meanwhile, Fanny had sat down on the he said. You may come if you like. I ledge of the low wall, and was peeping am going to see that all is in order for the with her bright open eyes into the street coming of the Marquis. In the Marchionbelow. The flower-girl was at her place ess's time it was full of company," he exby the fountain; the old women were at plained as he unlocked the heavy doors. their doors; the great porches of the op-"Now there are only the spiders and mice posite church were thrown wide open at that we chase away." the close of some religious ceremony: Fanny and her sister liked nothing betthere was a vague cloud of incense issuing ter than being allowed to go over the great with the people, who were coming from behind the heavy curtains: some monks, some Italian peasants, a soldier or two, and three or four of those Brothers of Pietà who follow the funerals and pray for VOL. XX. 930 LIVING AGE. rooms. They gladly accepted the offer; even though the elegant young ladies should have to appear mulcted of their proper number of flounces that evening. They sprang up the narrow stairs two and hree at a time, and came at once into a herself about bygone or present Barbis, algreat bedroom, furnished with sumptuous though they had numbered cardinals and blue satin hangings, with splendid laces ambassadors among their members. She covering the bed and the dressing-table, was sliding and dancing along the polished with beautiful china upon the mantel-shelf floor, in and out among the many tables. --all silent, abandoned, magnificent. The She was less even-tempered than her sister, toilet-glass was wreathed with lace, the and she would spring from all the depths pincushion must have cost as much as Fan- to all the heights of excitement in a few ny's whole year's allowance. This room minutes. The great audience-hall opened was more newly and modernly furnished into another vista of rooms, through which than the rest of the suite, and yet it was the girls turned back. They passed old more melancholy and deserted-looking windows, cabinets, and picture-frames, than any other. Angelo took off his cap the "English boudoir" crammed with when he told them the Marchioness had patchwork cushions and cheap gimcracks, died there. "In that splendid bed?" said Fanny, thoughtfully. "Not in the bed," said Angelo, hurrying on to the next apartment. The girls followed. Fanny's high heels echoed as they patted along the marble floor. "Yes, Anne, I should like to be enormously rich. Oh! how I like satin and velvet!" And she sank into a great yellow satin chair. "Ché! ché!" cries old Angelo; "not on the best chairs. Farther on the young ladies shall rest." Then with a priceless plaid paper-knife lying "We ought to go back and finish our work," said Anne, remembering the unfinished frills heaped up on the work-table in the window. Farther on were great rooms with closed windows, and shutters within_ shutters; pictures hung from the walls. Fanny flew along the marble floor, tapping from room to room. Anne followed. The girls soon left old Angelo and his duster behind. He could hear their voices exclaiming as they travelled to the end of the long suite. Great vases stood on the mosaic tables: faded hangings, with scripture subjects, waved from the panels. They passed room after room, and they came at last to “Horrid things! Anne, how can you one lofty hall, bigger than any they had always talk about work just when we are passed through. It was unfurnished, but most happy!" said Fanny, stamping. straight stone seats ran all round the wall," We haven't half looked at the things. and at one end uprose a shadowy throne, Look at that curious old oak chest." raised beneath a dais, where great plumes and a coat-of-arms were waving. Although the glories of the house of Barbi had passed from the family to which they once belonged, the insignia of their bygone dignities still faded there in all solemnity. Some ten years before, the palace and the estates near Rome and the name had passed to a distant cousin of the grand old family, a foreigner, so people said, in humble circumstances. Since his wife's death he had not been seen in Rome. She was Sibilla, of the great Mangiascudi family, and it was said the Marquis bought her of her brothers. This was old Angelo's story; but he was always winking and shaking his head. Fanny did not trouble There were many objects displayed upon the tables and cabinets of this little room, and Fanny's frills would never have been hemmed if she had waited to examine them all. The oak chest stood upon a carved stand, with two golden harps and handles worked into some fanciful representation of hearts entwined. On the panel above hung a picture, that took the girl's fancy. It was the head of a peasant woman, painted by some great modern artist. It seemed taken in imitation of a celebrated head in the public galleries below, that people came from far and near to see. A beautiful woman, with dark imploring eyes, with a tremulous mouth that seemed ready to speak. In her hair were 66 'Angelo, is this the Marchioness?" said Fanny, pointing to the picture. "No," said Angelo, gravely. "No one knows who it is. The Marquis bought the picture of Don Federigo, the great painter, who had taken her as she sat at the fountain. There was no such model in Rome. Poor little one! she came to a sad end: she fell into the river. Don Federigo and the Marquis would have saved her, but it was too late. Hé, some people say he has the evil eye, our Marquis! Come, come!" Old Angelo, who had a way of suddenly losing his temper, stumped off; the girls followed, then went back to have another look at the picture. "What is that noise? He will lock us in," said Anne, suddenly setting off running. Fanny lingered one instant as she looked, the pictured face seemed to change, the eyes to flash resentfully. It was a fancy, but it frightened her to be alone, and she too ran away. - All the rooms flew past again in inverse order. The girls hurried on, quickening their steps, but they took the wrong way once, and had to come back, baffled by a locked door. There are sometimes Pompeian figures painted on the walls of old Italian tombs figures with garments flying, with wheels and caskets in their hands, or simply rushing by with veils floating on the wind. The two sisters were not unlike those dancing nymphs, as they hurried in pursuit of the old custodian. Fanny had forgotten her fears, and Anne's spirits were rising high as she darted through the door leading into the enormous sala into which both the long galleries opened, and where the followers of princes and ambassadors were supposed to wait while their masters feasted within. Anne sped through the great vaulted place with a white rush; half-way across she paused and looked back for her sister, beginning to call out that she was first. But the words died away; her heart began to beat. What was this? Was it a horrible fancy? Fanny was standing as if transfixed in the middle of the great brick area, gazing at the faded throne, upon which sat a figure also motionless, and watching them with strange dark glances. On one of the steps stood a capuchin monk, with his face nearly hidden by a falling hood. It was only for an instant. Fanny gave a little shuddering scream, and Anne sprang forward and caught her sister with two outstretched hands, while the apparition hastily rose from its seat and began descending the steps. At the same instant old Angelo appeared with his keys, exclaiming and bowing, and welcoming his excellency. "Who would have thought of his arriving thus! Only attended by his chaplain. His excellency would find everything ready to his command. What! the young English ladies. They should not have wandered in without permission," said old Angelo severely. "Ché! ché! What is this? Is the young lady taken with a vertigo?" The old fellow, who felt somewhat ashamed of his duplicity, tried to make up for it by assisting Anne to lead Fanny to one of the stone seats that skirted the room. He rubbed Fanny's little cold hands and jingled his keys reassuringly in her face. Fanny, fluttering and trembling, soon recovered, and prepared to go her way, although the whole place seemed to rock beneath her. "I am sorry to have caused you alarm,” said his excellency, in very good English. "My chaplain and I were discussing the decorations of the sala." "It is I who am so silly," faltered poor Fanny, still trembling shyly, as she met the glance of those strange eyes. They were so wild, so sad, that she almost felt inclined to scream again. "The young lady is here at home," said Angelo, pointing to the landing. "Will you take my arm?" said the Marquis. Anne would have interfered, but Fanny, trembling still, put her little hand on his arm. He was a big, heavy-made man, not very active, though strongly built; he seemed to be about forty. His hair was of that blue black that is almost peculiar to Italians; his chin, which was shaved close, was blue; his eyes were so strange and " Ah, then I should get plenty of partners," magnetic that they seemed to frighten those on whom they fell. He had a curious sarcastic smile.. Anne thought him horrible, and could not bear Fanny to accept his civilities. Fanny seemed like some bird fascinated, and without will of her own. As for the monk, he followed them indifferently, seeming scarcely aware of the little passing excitement. Mrs. de Travers made very light of Fanny's vertigo. If it had been Anne, it would have been different. Anne was her pride, her darling, her beautiful daughter. Fanny's vertigoes were of no consequence. She was scarcely so pretty as the other girls they met out every night-girls with fortunes and French maids; what chance had poor Fanny to compete with them? Mrs. de Travers looked to Anne to redeem the fortunes of the family. The poor woman had been stitching away at her daughters' frills in their absence, and preparing a scolding for their return. Barbi had left them at their door, and Anne breathed again as it was closed upon him. When the evening came the girls were dressed and revived and ready to start for their ball. They went step by step down the great marble staircase, carefully holding up their dresses. It was to-day flitting through the Past, Anne's white flounces flicked the Grecian folds of one of the stately nymphs, Fanny's bournous caught in the sandal of a classic warrior. Mrs. de Travers, who was calculating her bills, poor thing, went stolidly down, on her way to the little open carriage that old Olympia had called from the Piazza, and in which the three drove off. "Mind you rake out the fire and put out the candles, Olympia," said Mrs. de Travers; "you can light them again when you hear us come in." thought poor little Fanny. She felt sad and tired, though everything was so bright and so gaily beautiful. The ball was given in a palace belonging to a great sculptor, and the statues shivered softly where the lights fell. They seemed to stir, to look with strange, far-away eyes upon the dancers. Fanny felt as if she herself belonged to the country of statues; and yet everything should have been delightful. Anne was floating by on the waves of a waltz. Marble and moonlight and music are a happy combination. Outside, in the garden, the mandolins were playing, the air came in heavy with roses; something of the serenity of the night seemed shining in Fanny's eyes, though she was so sad and this strange depression was upon her. Fanny was standing watching the company that evening, when she happened to overhear two voices talking behind her. They were talking of ancient families and palaces: of a marquis lately returned from abroad. She could not see the people, nor could the curious little creature help listening, so deeply interesting did their conversation seem to her. The voices came through an open window, through which she could see the lights in the garden outside, where the people were strolling between the dances. Barbi's name floated in distinctly uttered by these unseen gossips. "His father was a blacksmith," said the voice; "but he was the undoubted heir to the estate. You need only look at Ottavio to recognize the likeness to the mareschal and the great cardinal." "Was anything ever known about that dreadful story?" asked the other voice. "Nothing; for it happened the day before the poor Marchesa died, and all was consternation," said the second gossip. The moon was shining full up the street" They say she received a poisoned letalong which they drove. Fanny seemed ter. Surely that is Don Stephano; how silent and indifferent through it all. She delighted I am to see him so recovered was absorbed, and-instead of chattering, from his indisposition." grumbling, laughing, keeping them all Fanny cared nothing for Don Stephano, three alive by her sallies she sat and ceased to listen. She still looked perched on the little back seat of the car- through the open window at the silver riage, watching the passers-by. They came shield of moonlight, star-studded and shimout of the star and moonlight into dazzling mering upon the roses in the mandolinlight and reflections. There was music resounding garden - and then, as she floating out into the gardens, there were looked, she saw a tall figure in the doordancers flitting in time to the music, and way, and met the glance of those strange, people coming and going, and smiling and fierce eyes that had haunted her all the greeting one another. The beautiful Ro- day. It was the Marquis, grandly dressed, man ladies passed by with their dark shin- with a ribbon and an order and a diamond ing tresses and their wondrous heirlooms star. He looked grander than ever, flashing round their necks. Fanny began thought Fanny; grander even than under to wish for a diamond tiara and necklace. that dais where he had frightened her. |