Crying for the Light: or, Fifty Years Ago. Volume 3 of 3

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE ITALIAN COUNTESS

‘How lovely!’ said a lady to a gentleman on the deck by her side, as they were drinking in all the beauty of the scene as one of the fine ships of the Orient Company dropped her anchor in the Bay of Naples. ‘And look what a swarm of boats have come out to greet us!’

They were a swarm indeed, some of them with divers to exhibit their prowess, some with fruit and flowers, some with the lava ornaments in the manufacture of which the Neapolitans exhibit such exquisite skill, and others with musicians – vocal and instrumental – keeping up for the time quite a serenade. These Neapolitans gain but little, it is to be feared, on such occasions, but the Neapolitans are a frugal people, and make a little go a long way.

The lady was Rose, the gentleman by her side was her husband.

‘Yes; and see, one of the boats has a young girl who has come on deck with flowers, which she is fastening in the gentlemen’s coats in hope of a small fee. How pretty she looks!’

The girl approached Rose, to whom she offered a flower.

‘Why, it speaks the language of hope,’ said Rose. ‘I take it as a good omen that here we shall find the Italian lady of whom we have come in search.’

‘Let us hope that it may be so. We have no time to lose if we mean to go on shore. The health officer has done his duty, and given leave for the captain to land his passengers. Let us hasten to get on board the steam launch. I see already they have got our luggage. Fortunately for me there is not much of it.’

And in a few minutes they were at the custom-house. The only difficulty was a small box of cigars, on which Wentworth had to pay a most exorbitant duty.

At the end of the quay they found a crowd of coachmen waiting for hire, shouting and gesticulating in the wildest manner. Rose was quite frightened at their appearance, and with the noise they made. However, they found one who did not charge more than double the ordinary fare to drive them to the hotel. As they drove along they encountered, of course, some of the awful drain smells for which the city has long been famous.

‘I don’t wonder, now,’ said Rose, as they pulled up before a grand hotel, ‘at the saying, “See Naples and die.” How can people live where such smells are met with everywhere? But if that Italian Countess is alive we may find her. Perhaps she can help us to establish our boy’s claim.’

That same morning an Italian Countess came home from her daily drive in a great state of trepidation. She had seen an English face that she remembered but too well – it was that of Miss Howard, the celebrated actress. She had ordered the coachman to keep the lady in sight; but that was impossible, the crowd was too great, and she returned home not a little agitated. Was it fancy or fact? was a question she could not determine.

What could she do? Well, she drove off to the English Consul next day. Perhaps he could tell her. Alas, he was in utter ignorance of the matter.

There were the hotels; she would drive to them and make inquiries. There were only a few of them, as a rule, patronized by the English. It would be easy to make inquiries. She did so, but she could hear of no Miss Howard at any of them. All day long she was driving up and down the principal streets, but in vain. There is not much to see in Naples itself, it is the country round that is the attraction, and Rose and her husband were out all day long studying the remains of Pompeii, climbing up Mount Vesuvius, sailing to Sorrento or Capri, exploring the ruins of Baiæ, and the grave of Virgil. There was much to see, and they had no intention to let the grass grow under their feet. Daily they returned at a late hour to their hotel, charmed but wearied; and thus they had but little time to spend in the streets, looking at the shops, or studying the manners and customs of the people.

The Countess pondered over the matter deeply. She lived a retired life herself; she had few friends; her establishment was on a very moderate scale. There were those who said she was not a Countess, that her title was merely an assumed one. This was unfair, as most of the ladies one meets in Naples are Countesses, and the presumption therefore was in favour of her ladyship’s claims. Countess or no Countess, she was in a very troubled state. She had seen a face that reminded her of old times in London – of her intrigue with Sir Watkin Strahan – of her worming herself into the confidence of his lady – of her participation in the abduction of the heir – in fact, of her revenge; and she sighed as she thought how little good she had gained by it. Her ladyship’s maid was alarmed. What had come to the Countess it was beyond her power to imagine.

‘Have you anything on your mind?’ said her old Italian priest as he sat in the first-floor of one of the villas that looked over Naples on to its lovely bay and the sea beyond, whilst Vesuvius on the left was indicating, in its usual way, that it was suffering a good deal in its inside. The old priest lunched with her ladyship every day.

‘Anything on my mind?’ said the lady. ‘Oh, dear father, no. Why talk to me in this way this bright afternoon, when all nature seems so bright and gay? Ah, it is a beautiful world when one is young – the terraces, the gardens, the flowers, the blue sea, the old castle beneath, the streets with the jewellers’ shops, the fine churches with their sacred services and sacred paintings. How I love them all! I could not live away from La Belle Naples. Oh, that I could stay here for ever!’

‘That were a foolish wish, daughter,’ said the holy man. ‘Naples is very fine and its bay is beautiful, but you have something better to look at. See, the crucifix! Behold Who bleeds and suffers there – Who founded the Catholic Church of which I am a humble member, and in whose name I speak. At one time, if I may believe what I hear, you were not quite so fond of Naples as you seem to be now. I have heard that you went to the land of the heretics – that Island of England which has so long denied the faith, but which I am glad to find is abandoning its heresy, repenting of its sin, and returning to the Holy See. When we see the sister of an English Prime Minister find salvation in the bosom of the Holy Church, when our sacred officials are run after in all the highest circles, when they astonish all London by their works of charity and labours of love, by their eloquence and learning and saintly lives; when these Islanders, insolent and haughty as they are to one another, crowd as they do to Rome, and prostrate themselves at Rome’s feet as they do, we know that the end is near – that the time of the triumph of the one Catholic and Universal Church, to whom St. Peter committed the care of the keys, is at hand. Pray that that blessed time may soon arrive. I have been to St. Paul’s – I know Westminster Abbey – it would rejoice my heart to hear that once more there was performed in them the Holy Service of the Mass.’

‘Holy father, that is my daily prayer.’

‘I am glad to hear you say so. But tell me, when you were among the heretics were you always a daughter of the Church?’

‘Always, holy father. I fulfilled my mission – you know what that was.’

‘I have heard something of it.’

‘I should think so,’ replied the lady with a smile. ‘I had money, and I drew around me its worshippers. I was of an old Italian family, and stood well in the upper London circles. I had beauty – smile not, holy father, though you see me old and yellow and wrinkled – and beauty, as you know, never spreads its net in vain. I believe, also, I had wit, and wit goes far in that land of fogs and foxhunters, of prudish women and milksops, of cant and humbug.’

‘Ah,’ said the monk, with a smile of approbation, ‘you seem not to have liked those English – those heretics – those lunatic sightseers who, as they never can be happy at home, come to us to forget their sorrows, and who fancy that by doing so they are amusing themselves.’

‘Truly no, holy father. How could I? They do not even worship the Virgin Mary!’

The holy father shook his head and sighed.

‘I think, daughter, you wished to have a chat with me. There was something on your mind.’

‘Holy father, you are right; and as I cannot come to church to make confession I have sent for you.’

‘Yes; in the name of the Holy Father, and armed with his authority, I may hear confession and grant, to the truly penitent, absolution. The Apostle Peter had that power, he received it from the great Head of the Church; and our Popes – His true followers – have ever used that power for the cure of poor sinners, for the good of the Church, for the glory of His Blessed Name. We humble ministers hear private confessions. It is a sacred privilege, to be guarded jealously; but I know its value. I have seen how the weak and erring mortal who has confessed to his priest has had a heavy weight taken off his heart, has lost the cares and sorrows which were darkening and shortening his days, has gained joy and gladness as he thus realizes the Divine favour and feels certain that after the pangs of death are over we shall rescue him from the pains of purgatory, and he shall pass away to the mansions of the new Jerusalem, shall walk its golden streets, shall drink of its surpassing joys, shall join in its celestial harmonies, and take his stand with the great company of the elect gathered by the labours of the Holy Catholic Church out of every age and country under heaven. This is what we gain by means of the Mass, and yet the heretics scoff at the service and audaciously assert – in this respect only following the arch-heretic, Luther – that the Mass is simply a means for getting money out of the pockets of the people.’

‘What awful blasphemy!’ said the lady with a shudder, at the same time making the sign of the cross. ‘Glad indeed was I to leave that horrid country. It is full of Free Catholics.’

‘Free Catholics!’ said the priest, in a tone of alarm. ‘What can they be?’

‘Alas, holy father! they are everywhere – in Paris, in Brussels, in London. They are only Catholics in form, but not in heart. In fact, they are no better than Protestants.’

‘Not exactly – if they keep up the forms of the Holy Church they are better than Protestants,’ said the priest, ‘who in denying the form deny the faith, as the holy Apostle says, and are worse than infidels. But, my daughter, time is wearing away.’

‘Ah, truly, holy father, it is luncheon-time. Already I hear by the gong that it is served.’

The father knew the rules of the house, and timed his visit accordingly. Soup, fowl, fish, with cut of roast lamb, a choice bottle of Italian wine – it won’t bear transplanting, nor a sea voyage – a few grapes and green figs, with a cigarette and a demitasse of coffee, were not to be despised. He found alike his piety and his benevolence all the better for such a feast. The Countess kept a cook and a butler, and they were neither of them novices by any means. There has been good eating and drinking on the shores of the Bay of Naples, at any rate since the time of the Romans. Naples owes its fame, and probably its existence, to the superlative loveliness of its situation. As old Sam Rogers sang:

and thus it was that the bon vivants of the old world loved the favoured spot – that Baiæ was the Brighton of the Romans. Between it and Puteoli rolled the Lucrine Lake, over which skimmed the small yachts of fashionable visitors, while around were the oyster-beds for the luxurious tables of Rome. It was there Sergius Orata of blessed memory established the fine oyster-beds which have ever since been a model for all succeeding ages, and a name grateful in the ears of the epicure.

The lady and her guest had coffee served up in an adjoining apartment. The lady lit up her cigarette, the gentleman did the same. It is wonderful how tobacco quickens the conversational powers. High-born dames, as well as Irish fish women, in this respect own the influence of the seductive weed.

‘Ah, father,’ said the Countess, ‘you have known me long. I have confidence in you.’

‘Yes; I have known madame long – friend of the good cause, a supporter of the true Church – liberal with her money and her time, strict in the observance of holy days. What would you, my daughter?’

‘Ah, father,’ said the lady with a sigh; ‘it was not always so – I have lived.’

‘Yes; many of us who now pose as saints can say as much,’ said the holy father. ‘What a blessed thing it is to be able to find out what is true life, what are true joys – the ecstasy of being lost in the Divine Being, of being waited on by angels, hasting to guide one the way to Paradise, of appealing to the sweet Virgin Mary, of having her as an intercessor night and day for our sins in the court of Heaven! Compared with these things, what are the pleasures of sense and sin – which are soon vanished, and always leave a sting behind?’

‘Oh yes, father; I can feel and realize all this, but I am not happy. I am in great anxiety – I have a great weight on my mind. My medical man tells me to avoid excitement, that I suffer from disease of the heart, that any day I may have an attack which may be attended with fatal consequences.’

‘Oh, dear madame, calm yourself. You look well – madame speaks and walks well. There is assuredly little serious to contemplate. These doctors, who are they? – ignorant quacks who, for their own selfish ends, make us believe that we are on the way to death when in reality we are in the enjoyment of health and strength. Remember how, in a cholera year, Death met the Devil as he was on his way to Vienna. “I shall slay twenty thousand people,” said Death. In a day or two they met again. “Ah!” said the Devil, “only ten thousand died of cholera.” “Ah,” said Death, “that is true.” “How, then,” asked the Devil, “did you make up your number?” “Easy enough,” was the reply; “ten thousand were killed by the cholera and the other ten died of fright!” Ah, these doctors, they do a lot of mischief! They are also, I fear, men of science – that is, men of no religion. It is dangerous for one’s soul to have them about us. It is the priest, your ladyship, who is the true friend of all in sickness or adversity, or doubt or sorrow.’

‘Oh, father, I believe you. And now to business.’

‘With all my heart.’

‘There is no one who is likely to overhear us?’

‘None. The house is silent as the grave,’ of which it really reminded one with its funereal embellishments, its ghastly pictures of saints and martyrs – the work of old masters they said, horrible to look on – and crucifixes of every kind. In some parts of Italy this show is supposed to indicate the possession of true piety, and that, like charity, covers a multitude of sins.

‘Well, father, let me state a case in which I am interested.’

‘I am all attention.’

‘In the fair city of Florence there was a girl, fair in person, a fine figure, a sunny face, a gift of song. She was the child of pious parents in the neighbouring mountains. The father was an officer in the Pope’s army. When all Europe dashed its armies, not in vain, against the holy rock of St. Peter’s, the father died as a brave man should. The mother lived on on her small estate on the mountains. The girl loved the city, and the museums, and the gardens, and the picture galleries. She would not go back to the solitude of her country home; in fact, she ran away, and one morning she met an English milor. He was rich, he was handsome, he was well-born; he told her he loved her to distraction – she would always be happy with him. In a foolish hour the silly girl went on board milor’s yacht, that was lying in the bay – just as the yachts of milors lie there to-day.’

‘Ah! that was bad,’ said the priest.

‘Yes, it was indeed, holy father,’ continued the lady. ‘The girl remained there; she believed in the milor; she learnt his language; she amused his idle hours. He did not know his own mind; she did not know hers, and both thought they were happy.’

‘It was bad,’ said the priest. ‘Evil came of it. You need tell me no more. Evil always comes of such liaisons. Where the Church does not bless, the great enemy of souls, like a roaring lion, comes in.’

‘But there is a good deal more to be told.’

‘Proceed, madam, I am all attention.’

‘The milor was lost sight of. The lady appears in London. Socially, she had kept her reputation untouched; she assumed an Italian title of nobility. There are only too many in London, especially among rich parvenues, who throw open their doors to anyone with a foreign title, whether real or assumed.’

‘So I have heard, madam.’

‘The Italian lady in this way made many acquaintances and some friendships. Amongst the latter was a lady in weak health, and in great trouble of body and mind. The Italian lady was interested in her; she seemed so sad and sorrowful – almost as sad and sorrowful as herself. The lady had many confidences to make. She was the wife of the rich milor; she was about to present him with a child – a son and heir it was to be hoped. She dreaded the event, she was so weak and sad.’

‘“What will you?” said the Italian lady to the English one. “That you come and stay with me – that you be my companion and friend. Everything shall be placed in your hands.” The Italian lady was delighted. In the first place it would give her an opportunity to meet her English milor again; perhaps to regain her old authority over him. Alas! she was mistaken.’

‘And it was quite as well, too,’ said the priest. ‘Her better part was that of a penitent; it was only thus the ministers of the Church could absolve her of her sin.’

‘Milor had lost all interest in the Italian woman who had given up to him her youth, her love, her innocence, and her life. Milor felt no pleasure at once more recognising her as established in his grand house in town as the friend and companion of his wife.’

‘Was this madame, this Italian Countess, this friend of yours, very much distressed, was she broken-hearted?’ asked the priest with a quiet smile.

‘Not exactly. Her idea was to take a grand revenge.’

‘Ah! that is more the way of Italians. But what was that revenge? Did she stab the milor? did she poison his wife?’

‘Neither the one nor the other. As one of the household – as its mistress as it were for the time being – she saw how she could revenge herself in a better way.’

‘Revenge! Ah, that is sinful, I fear,’ said the priest. ‘“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” Hear David, “O Lord, to whom vengeance belongeth, show Thyself.” Ah, it may be sweet for a time,’ said the priest, as he shook his head.

‘Holy father,’ replied the lady, ‘you are right, as you always are. We women have not men’s heads, we have only hearts, and those hearts often fill us with bad passions.’

‘I fear that is too true,’ said the priest. ‘But pray proceed with your narrative.’

‘Well, her plans were artfully laid. The servants were her creatures. The medical man was her dupe. She had sole command of the mansion. The poor dying wife had begged her to take the trouble off her hands. Milor fancied she was his slave; he in reality was her dupe. She made him believe that his child was dead. She did more, she paid some women to take care of a child which she pretended, with strict injunctions to secrecy, was the heir. Gold did it all. At that time the lady had plenty of gold.’

‘Which might have been better spent in the service of the Holy Catholic Church, which needs the treasures of the faithful, and gives them interest for the money, which will yield rich fruit through the countless ages of eternity.’

‘Ah, my friend did not think of such things. She was in the world and of it. There, in that island of heretics, she had given up her religious observances, and had almost lost her religious faith. Oh, how much better it is for the woman to stop in the land where the poetry of youth ripens and matures, till in her old age she has all the ardour and the blessedness of a devotee.’

‘You speak truly and well,’ said the priest, with an approving smile; and though he did not often smile, his smile, when it did appear on his marble face, was encouraging.

‘My father,’ said the penitent, weeping, ‘I can keep up the deception no longer – I speak of myself!’

‘I thought as much,’ he replied. ‘I am afraid you have done a great wrong. But what has become of the child?’

‘I know not; and the father is dead.’

‘Oh,’ said the priest, ‘you should have brought him to Italy and placed him in the school of the Monastery of St. Joseph.’

‘Yes, holy father, I ought to have brought him up in the true faith. I hear his father is dead; I hear they believe there is no heir; I hear the brother and his family are now in possession of the estate. I know all about them. They are of the Low Church school which hates our faith, abuses its priests, and even the Holy Father – ’

‘Hush!’ said the priest, ‘do not sully your lips with the foolishness and wickedness of these poor Protestants. I have heard them talk their blasphemies in Naples, and even at Rome itself. It is the holy Inquisition that we need to put a stop to such vile calumnies.’

‘I had my revenge; but I know not what became of the boy. If we could gain his rights we could make a Catholic of him. I am no longer a penitent, holy father. I feel as if I had been a mighty instrument in paving the way for the return of the true religion to that unhappy land. Here,’ placing in the priest’s hand a handsome casket, ‘are the documents which will establish his claim. You go to London. You will see the lawyer of the family; he cannot deny the claim. Oh, I feel so joyful! I’ve gained my revenge! and is it not a sanctified one, as it is for the good of the Church?’

‘Daughter,’ said the priest, ‘I would fain say in the language of the Holy Book, “Many daughters have done well, but thou hast surpassed them all.” Still, it seems to me so marvellous, I can scarcely understand it.’

‘The mystery is being cleared up. I saw an English actress in the street yesterday, who I believe can help us in the matter. But in the meanwhile let us see these documents. We shall have done a great work for the Church if we can take these documents, find the child, establish his claims in a court of law, and secure him as a true son of the Church. Ah, that will be grand!’ said the Countess joyfully. ‘I gain a son for the Church.’

‘Heaven will reward you, daughter,’ said the priest; ‘but hasten and fetch the casket.’

The Countess left the room to find it. In a little while she returned with it in her hands.

‘There it is,’ said she, as she handed it to the priest.

‘What a lovely casket!’ said the priest.

‘Ah, one thinks of what it contains,’ said the lady; ‘a title – an estate – a life, which will all be handed over to the Church.’

With a trembling hand the priest opened it; the Countess in an equally excited state looking on.

In the casket was an official-looking wrapper.

‘It is all right,’ said the Countess; ‘break the seal and master its contents.’

‘All in good time,’ said the priest. ‘Don’t agitate yourself; be calm.’

‘I am,’ said the Countess; ‘but delay not. Secure the prize; the hour has come.’

Suddenly the priest turned red and white. ‘In the name of the Holy Father,’ he said, ‘what have we here?’

‘Why, documents of the highest importance.’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ exclaimed the priest in a rage. ‘Nothing but an old English newspaper,’ as he threw it on the ground, with something that sounded like a rather expressive Italian oath.

The lady shrieked and nearly fainted away, only she thought better of it. The situation, it occurred to her, would be neither interesting nor picturesque. Alas! she had no help for it. That English maid-servant, of whom she fancied she had made a dupe, was more than a match for her after all, and had tampered with the documents she had carefully sealed and religiously guarded these many years.