When they entered the salone on their return, the first object which met their eyes was the stately figure of Sora Antonia in full holiday costume, lately returned from mass. She had still her fan and her rosary depending from her wrist—adjuncts almost equally necessary to devotion, as that is understood at Frascati—and was still arrayed in the full splendours of the veil, which, fastened over her hair, fell almost to her feet behind, and gave grace and dignity to her tall and stately person. Sora Antonia was a dependent of the family Savvelli; scarcely a servant, though she had once belonged to the prince’s household. She had charge of the palace at Frascati, which was never occupied except by a solitary ecclesiastic, the prince’s brother, for whom the first-floor was kept sacred. Even this sanctity, however, was sometimes invaded when a good chance offered of letting the piano nobile to some rich foreigner, which was the fate of all the other apartments in the house. Sora Antonia had charge of all the interests of the Savvelli in their deserted mansion. When the tenants did any damage she made careful note of it, and did not in any respect neglect the interests of her master; nor was she inconsiderate of her own, but regarded it as a natural duty, when it proved expedient, to make a little money out of the Forestieri. “They give one trouble enough, the blessed Madonna knows,” the good woman said piously. But, notwithstanding these prudent cares, Sora Antonia was not only a very sensible woman according to her lights, but had a heart, and understood her duty to her neighbours. She made her salutations to the two friends when they entered with equal suavity, but addressed her explanations to Colin, who was not only her favourite in right of his youth and good looks, but made out her meaning more easily than his companion. The crisis was an important one, and Sora Antonia conducted herself accordingly; as soon as she had made her salutations she resumed her seat, which in itself was an act requiring explanation, especially as the table had been already arranged for dinner, and this was the last day in the world on which the strangers were likely to desire society. Sora Antonia took matters with a high hand, and in case of opposition secured for herself at least the first word.

“Pardon, caro Signore mio,” she said, “you are surprised to find me here. Very well; I am sorry to incommode the gentlemen, but I have to do my duty. The Signorina is very young, and she has no one to take care of her. The Signori are very good, very excellent, and kind. Ah yes, I know it—never was there such devotion to the poor sick friend; nevertheless, the Signori are but men, senza complimenti, and I am a woman who has been married and had children of my own, and know my duty. Until some proper person comes to take charge of the poor dear young lady, the Signori will pardon me, but I must remain here.”

“Does the Signorina wish it?” asked Colin, with wondering looks, for the idea of another protector for Alice confounded him, he scarcely knew why.

“The Signorina is not much more than a child,” said Sora Antonia, loftily. “Besides, she has not been brought up like an Italian young lady, to know what is proper. Poverina! she does not understand anything about it; but the Signori will excuse me—I know my duty, and that is enough.”

“Oh yes, certainly,” said Colin; “but then, in England, as you say, we have different ideas; and if the Signorina does not wish——”

Here, however, he was interrupted by Lauderdale, who, having tardily apprehended the purport of Sora Antonia’s communication, took it upon himself to make instant response in the best Italian he could muster. “Avete molto buono, molto buono!” cried Lauderdale, intending to say that she was very kind, and that he highly approved, though a chronic confusion in his mind, as to which was which of the auxiliary verbs, made his meaning cloudy. “Grazie, Abbiamo contento! Grazie,” he added, with a little excitement and enthusiasm. Though he had used the wrong verb, Sora Antonia graciously comprehended his meaning. She was used to such little eccentricities of diction on the part of the Forestieri. She bowed her stately head to him with a look of approbation; and it would be vain to deny that the sense of having thus expressed himself clearly and eloquently in a foreign language conveyed a certain satisfaction to the mind of the philosopher.

“Bravo! The Signore will talk very well if he perseveres,” said Sora Antonia, graciously; “not to say that his Excellency is a man of experience, and perceives the justice of what I but propose. No doubt, it will occupy a great deal of my time, but the other Forestieri have not arrived yet, and how can one expect the Madonna Santissima and the blessed St. Antonio to take so much trouble in one’s concerns if one will not exert one’s self a little for one’s fellow-creatures? As the Signorina has not left her room yet, I will take away the inconvenience[2] for a few minutes. Scusa Signori,” said Sora Antonia, and she went away with stately bearing and firm steps which resounded through the house, to take off her veil and put aside her rosary. She had seated herself again in her indoor aspect, with the “Garden of the Soul” in her hand, before Alice came into the room; and, without doubt, she made a striking addition to the party. She was a Frascati woman born, and her costume consequently, was perfect—a costume not so brilliant in any of its details as that scarlet jacket of Albano, which is the most generally known of contadina dresses; but not less calculated to do justice to the ample bust and stately head of the Roman peasant. The dress itself, the actual gown, in this as in other Italian costumes, was an indifferent matter. The important particulars were the long and delicate apron of embroidered muslin, the busto made of rich brocade and shaped to the exact Frascati model, and the large, soft, snowy kerchief with embroidered corners, which covered her full shoulders—not to speak of the long heavy gold ear-rings and coral necklace which completed and enriched the dress. She sat apart and contemplated, if not the “Garden of the Soul,” at least the little pictures in borders of lace-paper which were placed thickly between the leaves, while the melancholy meal was eaten at the table—for Sora Antonia had educazione, and had not come to intrude upon the privacy of her lodgers. Alice, for her part, made no remark upon the presence of this new guardian; she accepted it as she accepted everything else, as a matter of course, without even showing any painful sense of the circumstances which in Sora Antonia’s opinion made this last precaution necessary. Her two companions, the only friends she seemed to have in the world, bore vicariously on her account the pain of such a visible reminder that she was here in a false position and had no legitimate protector; but Alice had not yet awaked to any such sense on her own behalf. She took her place at the table and tried to swallow a morsel, and interested herself in the appetite of the others as if she had been their mother. “Try to eat something; it will make you ill if you do not,” poor Alice said, in the abstraction and dead calm of her grief. Her own feeling was that she had been lifted far away from them into an atmosphere of age and distance and a kind of sad superiority; and to minister to some one was the grand condition under which Alice Meredith lived. As to the personal suffering, which was confined to herself, that did not so much matter; she had not been used to much sympathy, and it did not occur to her to look for it. Consequently, the only natural business which remained to her was to take a motherly charge of her two companions, and urge them to eat.

“You are not to mind me,” she said, with an attempt at a smile, after dinner. “This is Sunday, to be sure; but, after to-day, you are just to go on as you used to do, and never mind. Thank you, I should like it better. I shall always be here, you know, when you come back from Rome, or wherever you wish to go. But you must not mind for me.”

Lauderdale and Colin exchanged looks almost without being aware of it. “But you would like—somebody to be sent for—or something done?” said Lauderdale. He was a great deal more confused in having to suggest this than Alice was, who kept looking at him, her eyes dilated with weariness and tears, yet soft and clear as the eyes of a child. He could not say to her, in so many words, “It is impossible for you to remain with us.” All he could do was to falter and hesitate, and grow confused, under the limpid, sorrowful look which she bent upon him from the distant heaven of her resignation and innocence. “You would like your friends—somebody to be written to,” said Lauderdale; and then, afraid to have given her pain by the suggestion, went on hurriedly: “I’m old enough to be your father, and no a thought in my mind but to do you service,” he said. “Tell me what you would like best. Colin, thank God! is strong, and has little need of me. I’ll take you home, or do whatever you please; for I’m old enough to be your father, my poor bairn!” said the tender-hearted philosopher, and drew near to her, and put out his hand with an impulse of pitiful and protecting kindness which touched the heart of Alice, and yet filled her with momentary surprise. She, on her own side, was roused a little, not to think of herself, but to remember what appeared to her a duty unfulfilled.

“Oh, Mr. Lauderdale, Arthur said I might tell you,” said Alice. “Papa! you heard what he said about papa? I ought to write and tell him what has happened. Perhaps I ought to tell you from the beginning,” she continued, after composing herself a little. “We left home without his consent—indeed, he did not know. For dear Arthur,” said the poor girl, turning her appealing eyes from one to the other, could not approve of his ways. “He did something that Arthur thought was wrong. I cannot tell you about it,” said Alice through her tears; “it did not make so much difference to me. I think I ought to write and tell him, and that Arthur forgave him at the last. Oh, tell me, please, what do you think I should do?”

“If you would like to go home, I’ll take you home,” said Lauderdale. “He did not mean ony harm, poor callant, but he’s left an awfu’ burden on you.”

“Go home!” said Alice, with a slight shudder. “Do you think I ought—do you think I must? I do not care for myself; but Mrs. Meredith, you know—” she added with a momentary blush; and then the friends began to perceive another unforeseen lion in the way.

“Out of my own head,” said Lauderdale, who took the whole charge of this business on himself, and would not permit Colin to interfere, “I wrote your father a kind of a letter. If you are able to hear the—the event—which has left us a’ mourning—named in common words, I’ll read you what I have written. Poor bairn, you’re awfu’ young and awfu’ tender to have such affairs in hand! Are you sure you are able to bear it, and can listen to what I have said?”

“Ah, I have borne it,” said poor Alice. “I cannot deceive myself, nor think Arthur is still here. What does it matter then about saying it? Oh, yes, I can bear anything—there is only me to be hurt now, and it doesn’t matter. It was very kind of you to write. I should like to know what you have said.”

Colin, who could do nothing else for her, put forward the arm-chair with the cushions towards the table, and Sora Antonia put down the “Garden of the Soul” and drew a little nearer with her heavy, firm step, which shook the house. She comprehended that something was going on which would tax the Signorina’s strength, and brought her solid, steady succour to be in readiness. The pale little girl turned and smiled upon them both, as she took the chair Colin had brought her. She was herself quite steady in her weakness and grief and loneliness. Sora Antonia was not wanted there; and Colin drew her aside to the window, where she told him all about the fireworks that were to be in the evening, and her hopes that after a while the Signorina would be able to “distract herself” a little and recover her spirits; to which Colin assented dutifully, watching from where he stood the pale looks of the friendless young woman—friendless beyond disguise or possible self-deception, with a stepmother whom she blushed to mention reigning in her father’s house. Colin’s thoughts were many and tumultuous as he stood behind in the window, watching Alice and listening to Sora Antonia’s description of the fireworks. Was it possible that perhaps his duty to his neighbour required from him the most costly of all offerings, the rashest of all possible actions? He stood behind, growing more and more excited in the utter quiet. The thought that had dawned upon him under the ilex-trees came nearer and grew more familiar, and as he looked at it he seemed to recognise all that visible machinery of Providence bringing about the great event which youth decides upon so easily. While this vision grew before his mind, Alice was wiping off the tears which obliterated Lauderdale’s letter even to her patient eyes; for, docile and dutiful as she was, it was yet terrible to read in calm distinct words, which put the matter beyond all doubt, the announcement of “what had happened.” This is what Lauderdale had said:—

Alice lingered over this letter, reading it, and crying, and whispering to Lauderdale a long time, as Colin thought. She found it easier, somehow, to tell her story fully to the elder man. She told him that Mrs. Meredith had “come home suddenly,” which was her gentle version of a sad domestic history,—that nobody had known of her father’s second marriage until the stepmother arrived, without any warning, with a train of children. Alice’s mild words did not give Lauderdale any very lively picture of the dismay of the household at the unlooked-for apparition, but he understood enough to condemn Arthur less severely than he had been disposed to do. This sudden catastrophe had happened just after the other misery of the bank failure, which had ruined so many; and poor Meredith had no alternative between leaving his sister to the tender mercies of an underbred and possibly disreputable stepmother, or bringing her with him when he retired to die; and Alice, though she still cried for “poor papa,” recoiled a little from the conclusion of Lauderdale’s letter. “I have enough to live upon,” she said, softly, with an appealing glance at her companion. “If you were to say that I was quite safe, would not that be enough?” and it was very hard for Lauderdale to convince her that her father’s judgment must be appealed to in such a matter. When she saw he was not to be moved on this point, she sighed and submitted; but it was clearly apparent that as yet, occupied as she was by her grief, the idea that her situation here was embarrassing to her companions or unsuitable for herself had not occurred to Alice. When she retired, under the escort of Sora Antonia, the two friends had a consultation over this perplexing matter; and Lauderdale’s sketch—filled in, perhaps, a little from his imagination—of the home she had left, plunged Colin into deeper and deeper thought. “No doubt he’ll send some answer,” the philosopher said. “He may not be worthy to have the charge of her, but he’s aye her father. It’s hard to ken whether it’s better or worse that she should be so unconscious of anything embarrassing in her position; which is a’ the more wonderful, as she’s a real honest woman, and no way intellectual nor exalted. You and me, Colin,” said Lauderdale, looking up in his young companion’s face, “must take good care that she does not find it out from us.”

“Of course,” said Colin, with involuntary testiness; “but I do not see what her father has to do with it,” continued the young man. “She cannot possibly return to such a home.”

“Her father is the best judge of that,” said Lauderdale; “she canna remain with you and me.”

And there the conversation dropped—but not the subject. Colin was not in love with Alice; he had, indeed, vague but bright in the clouds before him, an altogether different ideal woman; and his heart was in the career which he again saw opening before him—the life in which he meant to serve God and his country, and which at the present moment would admit of no rashly formed ties. Was it in consequence of these hindrances that this new thing loomed so large before Colin’s inexperienced eyes? If he had longed for it with youthful passion, he would have put force on himself and restrained his longing; but the temptation took another shape. It was as if a maiden knight at the outset of his career had been tempted to pass by a helpless creature and leave her wrongs unredressed. The young Bayard could do anything but this.