“The landlord says they are young, and the woman pretty. That may explain something. Your countrymen, Philip, are the most jealous race in Europe.”
L’Estrange coughed here three or four times, to apprise his neighbors that they were within earshot of others.
“Listen to that cough,” cried the first speaker. “That was palpably feigned. It was meant to say, ‘Don’t talk so loud.’”
“I always grow more indiscreet under such provocation,” said the other, whose words were slightly tinged with a foreign accent.
A merry laugh burst from Julia at this speech, which the others joined in by very impulse.
“I suspect,” said the first speaker, “we might as well have occupied the same room, seeing in what close proximity we stand to each other.”
“I think it would be as well to go to your room, Julia,” said George, in a low voice. “It is getting late, besides.”
“I believe you are right, George. I will say good-night.”
The last words appeared to have caught the ears of the strangers, who exclaimed together, “Good-night, goodnight;” and he with the foreign accent began to hum, in a very sweet tenor voice, “Buona sera, buona notte, buona sera;” which Julia would fain have listened to, but George hurried her away, and closed the door.
“There is the end of that episode,” said the foreign voice. “Le mari jaloux has had enough of us. Your women in England are taught never to play with fire.”
“I might reply that yours are all pyrotechnists,” said the other, with a laugh.
The clatter of plates and the jingle of glasses, as the waiter laid the table for supper, drowned their voices, and L’Estrange dropped off asleep soon after. A hearty burst of laughter at last aroused him. It came from the adjoining room, where the strangers were still at table, though it was now nigh daybreak.
“Yes,” said he of the foreign accent, “I must confess it. I never made a lucky hit in my life without the ungrateful thought of how much luckier it might have been.”
“It is your Italian blood has given you that temperament.”
“I knew you ‘d say so, Philip; before my speech was well out, I felt the reply you ‘d make me. But let me tell you that you English are not a whit more thankful to fortune than we are; but in your matter-of-fact way you accept a benefit as your just due, while we, more conscious of our deservings, always feel that no recompense fully equalled what we merited. And so it is that ever since that morning at Furnival’s Inn, I keep on asking myself, Why twenty thousand? Why not forty – why not twice forty?”
“I was quite prepared for all this. I think I saw the reaction beginning as you signed the paper.”
“No, there you wrong me, Philip. I wrote boldly, like a man who felt that he was making a great resolve, and could stand by it. You ‘ll never guess when what you have called ‘the reaction’ set in.”
“I am curious to know when that was.”
“I ‘ll tell you. You remember our visit to Castello. You thought it a strange caprice of mine to ask the lawyer whether, now that all was finally settled between us, I might be permitted to see the house – which, as the family had left, could be done without any unpleasantness. I believe my request amused him as much as it did you; he thought it a strange caprice, but he saw no reason to refuse it, and I saw he smiled as he sat down to write the note to the housekeeper. I have no doubt that he thought, ‘It is a gambler’s whim;’ he wants to see the stake he played for, and what he might perhaps have won had he had courage to play out the game.’ You certainly took that view of it.”
The other muttered something like a half assent, and the former speaker continued, “And you were both of you wrong. I wanted to see the finished picture of which I possessed the sketch – the beautiful Flora – whose original was my grandmother. I cannot tell you the intense longing I had to see the features that pertained to one who belonged to me; a man must be as utterly desolate as I am, to comprehend the craving I felt to have something – anything that might stand to me in place of family. It was this led me to Castello, and it was this that made me, when I crossed the threshold, indifferent to all the splendors of the place, and only occupied with one thought, one wish – to see the fresco in the Octagon Tower – poor old Giacomo’s great work – the picture of his beautiful daughter. And was she not beautiful? I ask you, Philip, had Raphael himself ever such a model for sweetness of expression? Come, come. You were just as wild as myself in your enthusiasm as you stood before her; and it was only by a silly jest that you could repress the agitation you were so ashamed of.”
“I remember I told you that the family had terribly degenerated since her day.”
“And yet you tried to trace a likeness between us.”
“You won’t say that I succeeded,” said he, with a laugh.
“It was then as I stood there gazing on her, thinking of her sad story, that I bethought me what an ignoble part it was I played to compromise the rights that she had won, and how unworthy I was to be the descendant of the beautiful Enrichetta.”
“You are about the only man I ever met who was in love with his grandmother.”
“Call it how you like, her lovely face has never left me since I saw it there.”
“And yet your regret implies that you are only sorry not to have made a better bargain.”
“No, Philip: my regret is not to have stood out for terms that must have been refused to me; I wish I had asked for the ‘impossible.’ I tried to make a laughing matter of it when I began, but I cannot – I cannot. I have got the feeling that I have been selling my birthright.”
“And you regret that the mess of pottage has not been bigger.”
“There’s the impossibility in making a friend of an Englishman! It is the sordid side of everything he will insist on turning uppermost. Had I told a Frenchman what I have told you, he would have lent me his whole heart in sympathy.”
“To be sure he would. He would have accepted all that stupid sentimentality about your grandmother as refined feeling, and you ‘d have been blubbering over each other this half-hour.”
“If you only knew the sublime project I had. I dare not tell you of it in your miserable spirit of depreciating all that is high in feeling and noble in aspiration. You would ridicule it. Yes, mon cher, you would have seen nothing in my plan, save what you could turn into absurdity.”
“Let me hear it. I promise you to receive the information with the most distinguished consideration.”
“You could not. You could not elevate your mind even to comprehend my motives. What would you have said, if I had gone to this Mr. Bramleigh, and said, Cousin – ”
“He is not your cousin, to begin with.”
“No matter; one calls every undefined relation cousin. Cousin, I would have said, this house that you live in, these horses that you drive, this plate that you dine off, these spreading lawns and shady woods that lie around, are mine; I am their lawful owner; I am the true heir to them; and you are nothing – nobody – the son of an illegitimate – ”
“I ‘d say he ‘d have pitched you out of the window.”
“Wait a while; not so fast. Nevertheless, I would have said, Yours is the prescription and the habit. These things have pertained to you since your birth: they are part of you, and you of them. You cannot live without them, because you know no other life than where they enter and mingle; while I, poor and an adventurer, have never tasted luxury, nor had any experiences but of trouble and difficulty. Let us each keep the station to which habit and time have accustomed him. Do you live, as you have ever lived, grand seigneur as you are – rich, honored, and regarded. I will never dispute your possession nor assail your right. I only ask that you accept me as your relation – a cousin, who has been long absent in remote lands; a traveller, an ‘eccentric,’ who likes a life of savagery and adventure, and who has come back, after years of exile, to see his family and be with his own. Imagine yourself for an instant to be Bramleigh, and what you would have said to this? Had I simply asked to be one of them, to call them by their Christian names, to be presented to their friends as Cousin Anatole – I ask you now – seriously, what you would have replied to such a noble appeal?”
“I don’t know exactly what I should have said, but I think I can tell you what I would have done.”
“Well, out with it.”
“I ‘d have sent for the police, and handed you over to the authorities for either a rogue or a madman.”
“Bon soir. I wish you a good-night – pleasant dreams, too, if that be possible.”
“Don’t go. Sit down. The dawn is just breaking, and you know I ordered the horses for the first light.”
“I must go into the air then. I must go where I can breathe.”
“Take a cigar, and let us talk of something else.”
“That is easy enough for you; you who treat everything as a mere passing incident, and would make life a series of unconnected episodes. You turn from this to that, just as you taste of this dish and that at dinner; but I, who want to live a life —entends-tu?– to live a life: to be to-morrow the successor of myself to-day, to carry with me an identity – how am I to practise your philosophy?”
“Here come the horses; and I must say I am for once grateful to their jingling bells, helping as they do to drown more nonsense than even you usually give way to.”
“How did we ever become friends? Can you explain that to me?”
“I suppose it must have been in one of your lucid moments, Anatole – for you have them at times.”
“Ah, I have! But if you ‘re getting complimentary, I ‘d better be off. Will you look to the bill? And I’ll take charge of the baggage.”
CHAPTER XXXI. ON THE ROAD TO ITALY
“You ‘d not guess who our neighbors of last night were, Julia,” said L’Estrange, as they sat at breakfast the next morning.
“I need not guess, for I know,” said she, laughing. “The fact is, George, my curiosity was so excited to see them that I got up as they were about to start, and though the gray morning was only breaking at the time, there was light enough for me to recognize Mr. Longworth and his French friend, Count Pracontal.”
“I know that; but I know more than that, Julia. What do you think of my discovery, when I tell you that this same Count Pracontal is the claimant of the Bramleigh estate?”
“Is it possible?”
“It is beyond a question or a doubt. I was awakened from my sleep last night by their loud talking, and unwittingly made a listener to all they said. I heard the Frenchman deplore how he had ever consented to a compromise of his claim, and then Longworth quizzed him a good deal, and attributed the regret to his not having made a harder bargain. My own conviction is that the man really felt it as a point of honor, and was ashamed at having stooped to accept less than his right.”
“So then they have made a compromise, and the Bramleighs are safe?” cried she, eagerly.
“That much seems certain. The Count even spoke of the sum he had received. I did not pay much attention to the amount, but I remember it struck me as being considerable; and he also referred to his having signed some document debarring him, as it seemed, from all renewal of his demand. In a word, as you said just now, the Bramleighs are safe, and the storm that threatened their fate has passed off harmlessly.”
“Oh, you have made me so happy, George. I cannot tell you what joy this news is to me. Poor Nelly, in all her sorrow and privation, has never been out of my thoughts since I read her letter.”
“I have not told you the strangest part of all – at least, so it certainly seemed to me. This Count Pracontal actually regretted the compromise, as depriving him of a noble opportunity of self-sacrifice. He wished, he said, he could have gone to Augustus Bramleigh, and declared, ‘I want none of this wealth. These luxuries and this station are all essential to you, who have been born to them, and regard them as part of your very existence. To me they are no wants – I never knew them. Keep them, therefore, as your own. All I ask is, that you regard me as one of your kindred and your family. Call me cousin – let me be one of you – to come here, under your roof, when fortune goes ill with me.’ When he was saying this, Longworth burst out into a coarse laugh, and told him, that if he talked such rotten sentimentality to any sane Englishman, the only impression it would have left would be that he was a consummate knave or an idiot.”
“Well, George,” asked she, seriously, “that was not the conviction it conveyed to your mind?”
“No, Julia; certainly not; but somehow – perhaps it is my colder northern blood, perhaps it is the cautious reserve of one who has not had enough experience of life – but I own to you I distrust very high-flown declarations, and as a rule I like the men who do generous things, and don’t think themselves heroes for doing them.”
“Remember, George, it was a Frenchman who spoke thus; and from what I have seen of his nation, I would say that he meant all that he said. These people do the very finest things out of an exalted self-esteem. They carry the point of honor so high that there is no sacrifice they are not capable of making, if it only serve to elevate their opinion of themselves. Their theory is, they belong to the ‘great nation,’ and the motives that would do well enough for you or me would be very ignoble springs of action to him whom Providence had blessed with the higher destiny of being born a Frenchman.”
“You disparage while you praise them, Julia.”
“I do not mean it, then. I would simply say, I believe in all Count Praoontal said, and I give you my reason for the belief.”
“How happy it would have made poor Augustus to have been met in this spirit! Why don’t these two men know each other?”
“My dear George, the story of life could no more go on than the story of a novel if there was no imbroglio. Take away from the daily course of events all misunderstandings, all sorrows, and all misconceptions, and there would be no call on humanity for acts of energy, or trustfulness, or devotion. We want all these things just that we may surmount them.”
Whether he did not fully concur with the theory, or that it puzzled him, L’Estrange made no reply, and soon after left the room to prepare for their departure. And now they went the road up the valley of the Upper Rhine – that wild and beautiful tract, so grand in outline and so rich in color, that other landscapes seem cold after it. They wound along the Via Mala, and crossed over the Splugen, most picturesque of Alpine passes, and at last reached Chiavenna.
“All this is very enjoyable, George,” said Julia, as they strolled carelessly in a trellised vine-walk; “but as I am the courier, and carry the money-sack, it is my painful duty to say, we can’t do it much longer. Do you know how much remains in that little bag?”
“A couple of hundred francs perhaps,” said he, listlessly.
“Not half that – how could there, you careless creature? You forget all the extravagances we have been committing, and this entire week of unheard-of indulgence.”
‘I was always ‘had up’ for my arithmetic at school. Old Hoskins used to say my figures would be the ruin of me.
The tone of honest sorrow in which he said this threw Julia into a fit of laughing.
“Here is the total of our worldly wealth,” said she, emptying on a rustic table the leather bag, and running her fingers through a mass of silver in which a few gold coins glittered.
“It seems very little, Julia,” said he, despondingly.
“Worse than that. It is less than it looks, George; these tarnished pieces, with a mock air of silver, are of most ignoble origin; they were born copper, and are only silver by courtesy. Let me see what it all makes.”
While she was arranging the money in little piles on the table L’Estrange lighted a cigarette, and puffed it in leisurely fashion.
“Julia,” said he, at last, “I hope I haven’t committed a dreadful folly in that investment of your two thousand. You know I took the shares I told you of?”
“I remember, George, you said so; but has anything occurred to make you augur ill of the enterprise?”
“No; I know no more of it now than on the first day I heard of it. I was dazzled by the splendid promise of twenty per cent instead of three that you had received heretofore. It seemed to me to be such a paltry fear to hesitate about doing what scores of others were venturing. I felt as if I were turning away from a big fence while half the field were ready to ride at it. In fact, I made it a question of courage, Julia, which was all the more inexcusable as the money I was risking was not my own.”
“Oh, George, you must not say that to me.”
“Well, well, I know what I think of myself, and I promise you it is not the more favorable because of your generosity.”
“My dear George, that is a word that ought never to occur between us. Our interests are inseparable. When you have done what you believed was the best for me there is no question of anything more. There, now, don’t worry yourself further about it. Attend to what I have to say to you here. We have just one hundred and twelve francs to carry us to Milan, where our letter of credit will meet us; so that there must be no more boat excursions; no little picnics, with a dainty basket sent up the mountain at sunrise; none of that charming liberality which lights up the road with pleasant faces, and sets one a-thinking how happy Dives might have been if he had given something better than crumbs to Lazarus. No, this must be what you used to call a week of cold-mutton days, mind that, and resist all temptation to money-spending.”
L’Estrange bowed his head in quiet acquiescence; his was the sad thought that so many of us have felt; how much of enjoyment life shows us, just one hair’s breadth beyond our power to grasp; vistas of lovely scenery that we are never to visit; glimpses of bliss closed to us even as we catch them; strains of delicious music of which all our efforts can but retain the dying cadences. Not that he felt all these in any bitterness of spirit; even in narrowed fortune life was very pleasant to him, and he was thoroughly, heartily grateful for the path fate had assigned him to walk in.
How would they have liked to have lingered in the Brianza, that one lovely bit of thoroughly rural Italy, with the green of the west blending through all the gorgeous glow of tropical vegetation; how gladly they would have loitered on the lake at Como – the brightest spot of landscape in Europe; with what enjoyment had they halted at Milan, and still more in Florence! Stern necessity, however, whispered ever onwards; and all the seductions of Raffaels and Titians yielded before the hard demands of that fate that draws the purse-strings. Even at Rome they did not venture to delay, consoling themselves with the thought that they were to dwell so near, they could visit it at will. At last they reached Albano, and as they drove into the village caught sight of a most picturesque little cottage, enshrined in a copse of vines. It was apparently untenanted, and they eagerly asked if it were to be let. The answer was, No, it was waiting for the “Prête Inglese,” who was daily expected to arrive.
“Oh, George, it is ours,” cried Julia, in ecstasy, and hid her head on his shoulder, and actually cried with excess of delight.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE CHURCH PATRONS AT ALBANO
The patrons of the English chapel at Albano were the three great leaders of society in Rome in winter, and at Albano during the summer. Of these the first was Lady Augusta Bramleigh; next came Sir Marcus Cluff; and last – not indeed, either in activity or zeal – was Mrs. Trumpler, a widow lady of considerable fortune, and no small share of energy in her nature.
To these George L’Estrange had brought formal letters of introduction, which he was cautiously enjoined should be presented in the order of their respective ranks – making his first approaches to the Lady Augusta. To his request to know at what hour he might have the honor to wait on her Ladyship, came a few lines on the back of his own card, saying, “Two o’clock, and be punctual.” There did not seem to be any unnecessary courtesy in this curt intimation; but he dressed himself carefully for the interview, and with his cravat properly arranged by Julia, who passed his whole appearance in review, he set out for the pretty Villa of the Chestnuts, where her Ladyship lived.
“I don’t suppose that I’m about to do anything very unworthy, Julia,” said he, as he bade her good-bye; “but I assure you I feel lower in my own esteem this morning than I have known myself since – since – ”
“Since you tumbled over the sunk fence, perhaps,” said she, laughing, and turned back into the house.
L’Estrange soon found himself at the gate of the villa, and was conducted by a servant in deep mourning through a very beautiful garden to a small kiosk, or summerhouse, where a breakfast-table was spread. He was punctual to the moment; but as her Ladyship had not yet appeared he had ample time to admire the beauty of the Sèvres cups of a pale blue, and the rich carving of the silver service – evidently of antique mould, and by a master hand. The rare exotics which were disposed on every side, amongst which some birds of bright plumage were encaged, seemed to fill up the measure of this luxurious spot, and impressed him with – he knew not what exalted idea of her who should be its mistress.
He waited at first patiently enough – there was much to interest and amuse him; but at last, as nigh an hour had elapsed, and she had not appeared, a feeling, half of irritation at the thought of neglect, and half doubt lest he should have mistaken what the servant said, began to worry and distress him. A little pendule on a bracket played a few bars of a waltz, and struck three. Should he wait any longer? was the question he put to himself. His sense of shame on leaving home at the thought of presenting himself before a patron came back upon him now with redoubled force. He had often felt that the ministers who preached for a call were submitting themselves to a very unworthy ordeal. The being judged by those they were appointed to teach seemed in itself little short of an outrage; but the part he was now playing was infinitely worse; he had actually come to show himself, to see if, when looked at and talked to, her Ladyship would condescend to be his patron, and as it were to impress the indignity more strongly upon him he was kept waiting like a lackey!
“I don’t think I ought to stoop to this,” muttered he, bitterly, to himself; and taking a card and a pencil from his pocket, he wrote: “The Rev. George L’Estrange has waited from two to three o’clock in the hope of seeing Lady Augusta Bramleigh; he regrets the disappointment, as well as his inability to prolong his attendance.” “There,” cried he, aloud, “I hope that will do!” and he placed the card conspicuously on the table.
“Do what, pray?” said a very soft voice, as a slight figure in deep mourning swept noiselessly into the kiosk, and taking the card up sat down without reading it.
One glance showed that the handsome woman before him was Lady Augusta, and the bashful curate blushed deeply at the awkwardness of his position.
“Mr. L’Estrange, I presume?” said she, waving her hand to him to be seated. “And what is your card to do; not represent you, I hope, for I ‘d rather see you in person?”
“In my despair of seeing your Ladyship I wrote a line to say – to say” – and he blundered and stopped short.
“To say you ‘d wait no longer,” said she, smiling; “but how touchy you must be. Don’t you know that women have the privilege of unpunctuality? don’t you know it is one of the few prerogatives you men have spared them? Have you breakfasted?”
“Yes – some hours ago.”
“I forget whether I have not also. I rather think I did take some coffee. I have been very impatient for your coming. Sit here, please,” said she, pointing to an armchair beside her own sofa. “I have been very impatient indeed to see you. I want to hear all about these poor Bramleighs; you lived beside them, did n’t you, and knew them all intimately? What is this terrible story of their ruin? this claim to their property? What does it mean? is there really anything in it?”
“It is somewhat of a long story,” began L’Estrange.
“Then don’t tell it, I entreat you. Are you married, Mr. L’Estrange?”
“No, madam, I have not that happiness,” said he, smiling at the strange abruptness of her manner.
“Oh, I am so glad,” she cried; “so glad! I ‘m not afraid of a parson, but I positively dread a parson’s wife. The parson has occasionally a little tolerance for a number of things he does n’t exactly like; his wife never forgives them; and then a woman takes such exact measure of another woman’s meanings, and a man knows nothing about them at all: that on the whole I ‘m delighted you are single, and I fervently trust you will remain so. Will you promise me as much? will you give me your word not to marry till I leave this?”
“I need scarcely pledge myself, madam, to that; my narrow fortune binds me, whether I would or not.”
“And you have your mother with you, haven’t you?”
“No, madam; my sister has accompanied me.”
“I wish it had been your mother. I do so like the maternal pride of a dear old lady in her fine, handsome son. Is n’t she vain of you? By the way, how did your choice fall upon the Church? You look more like a cavalry officer. I’m certain you ride well.”
“It is, perhaps, the only accomplishment I possess in the world,” said he, with some warmth of manner.
“I ‘m delighted to hear that you ‘re a horseman. There ‘s a mare of mine become perfectly impossible. A stupid creature I took as groom hurt her mouth with a severe bit, and she rears now at the slightest touch. Could n’t you do something with her? Pray do; and in return I’ll take you some charming rides over the Campagna. There’s a little valley – almost a glen – near this, which I may say I discovered myself. You mustn’t be afraid of bad tongues because you ride out with me. Mrs. Trumpler will of course take it up. She’s odious – perfectly odious. You have n’t seen her yet, but you ‘ll have to call on her; she contributes a thousand francs a year to the Church, and must not be neglected. And then there’s old Sir Marcus Cluff – don’t forget him; and take care to remember that his mother was Lady Marion Otley, and don’t remember that his father was Cluff and Gosier, the famous fishmonger. I protest I’m becoming as scandalous as Mrs. Trumpler herself. And mind that you come back and tell when you ‘ve seen these people what they said to you, and what you said to them, and whether they abused me. Come to tea, or, if you like better, come and dine to-morrow at six, and I ‘ll call on your mother in the mean while and ask her – though I ‘d rather you ‘d come alone.”
“It is my sister, madam, that is with me,” said he, with great difficulty refraining from a burst of laughter.
“Well, and I ‘ve said I ‘d visit her, though I ‘m not fond of women, and I believe they never like me.”
L’Estrange blundered out some stupid compliment about her having in recompense abundant admiration from the other sex, and she laughed, and said, “Perhaps so. Indeed, I believe I am rather a favorite; but with clever men – not with the fools. You ‘ll see that they avoid me. And so,” said she, drawing a deep sigh, “you really can tell me nothing about these Bramleighs? And all this time I have been reckoning on your coming to hear everything, and to know about the will. Up to this hour, I am totally ignorant as to how I am left. Is n’t that very dreadful?”
“It is very distressing indeed, madam.”
“The Colonel always said he ‘d insert a clause or a something or other against my marrying again. Can you imagine anything so ungenerous? It’s unchristian, actually unchristian – isn’t it?”
A slight gesture seemed to say that he agreed with her; but she was for once determined to be answered more definitely, and she said, “I’m sure, as a clergyman, you can say if there’s anything in the Bible against my having another husband?”
“I ‘m certain there is not, madam.”
“How nice it is in the Church of Rome that when there ‘s anything you want to do, and it’s not quite right to do it, you can have a dispensation – that is, the Pope can make it perfectly moral and proper, and legal besides. Protestantism is so narrow – terribly narrow. As the dear Monsignore Balbi said to me the other night, it is a long ‘Act of Parliament against sin.’ Was n’t that neat? They are so clever!”
“I am so new to Italy, madam, that I have no acquaintance with these gentlemen.”
“I know you ‘ll like them when you do know them; they are so gentle and so persuasive – I might say so fascinating. I assure you, Mr. L’Estrange, I ran a very great risk of going over, as it is called. Indeed, the ‘Osservatore Romano’ said I had gone over; but that is at least premature. These are things one cannot do without long and deep reflection, and intense self-examination – don’t you think so? And the dear old Cardinal Bottesini, who used to come to us every Friday evening, warned me himself against my impulsiveness; and then poor Colonel Bramleigh” – here she raised her handkerchief to her eyes – “he would n’t hear of it at all; he was so devotedly attached to me – it was positive love in a man of his mould – that the thought of my being lost to him, as he called it, was maddening; and in fact he – he made it downright impossible – impossible!” And at last she paused, and a very painful expression in her face showed that her thoughts at the moment were far from pleasurable. “Where was I? what was it I was going to say?” resumed she, hurriedly. “Oh, I remember, I was going to tell you that you must on no account ‘go over,’ and therefore, avoid of all things what they call the ‘controversy’ here; don’t read their little books, and never make close friendships with the Monsignori. You’re a young man, and naturally enough would feel flattered at their attentions, and all the social attractions they ‘d surround you with. Of course you know nothing of life, and that is the very thing they do understand; and perhaps it is not right of me to say it – it’s like a treason – but the women, the great leaders of society, aid them powerfully. They ‘d like to bring you over,” said she, raising her glass and looking at him. “You’d really look remarkably well in a chasuble and a cope. They ‘d positively fight for you as a domestic chaplain” – and the thought so amused her that she laughed outright, and L’Estrange himself joined her. “I hope I have not wearied you with my cautions and my warnings; but really, when I thought how utterly alone and friendless you must be here, nobody to consult with, none to advise you – for, after all, your mother could scarcely be an efficient guide in such difficulties – I felt it would be cruel not to come to your aid. Have you got a watch? I don’t trust that little pendule, though it plays a delicious ‘Ave Maria’ of Rossini’s. What hour is it?”