There was no relief even at
night, for the warm air hung stagnant and suffocating, and the inside of
my travelling coach was often like a furnace. We were at last approaching the conclusion of our journey, and had left
Rome behind us. The day that we set out from Aversa was the hottest that
I have ever felt, the sun beating down with an astonishing power even
in the early hours, and the road being thick with a white and blinding
dust. It was soon after midnight that our carriage began rattling over
the great stone blocks with which the streets of Naples are paved. The
suburbs that we at first passed through were, I remember, in darkness
and perfect quiet; but after traversing the heart of the city and
reaching the western side, we suddenly found ourselves in the midst
of an enormous and very dense crowd. There were lanterns everywhere,
and interminable lanes of booths, whose proprietors were praising
their wares with loud shouts; and here acrobats, jugglers, minstrels,
black-vested priests, and blue-coated soldiers mingled with a vast crowd
whose numbers at once arrested the progress of the carriage. Though it
was so late of a Sunday night, all seemed here awake and busy as at
noonday. Oil-lamps with reeking fumes of black smoke flung a glare over
the scene, and the discordant cries and chattering conversation united
in so deafening a noise as to make me turn faint and giddy, wearied as I
already was with long travelling. Though I felt that intense eagerness
and expectation which the approaching termination of a tedious journey
inspires, and was desirous of pushing forward with all imaginable
despatch, yet here our course was sadly delayed. The horses could only
proceed at the slowest of foot-paces, and we were constantly brought
to a complete stop for some minutes before the post-boy could force
a passage through the unwilling crowd. This produced a feeling of
irritation, and despair of ever reaching my destination; and the mirth
and careless hilarity of the people round us chafed with bitter contrast
on my depressed spirits. I inquired from the post-boy what was the
origin of so great a commotion, and understood him to say in reply that
it was a religious festival held annually in honour of "Our Lady of
the Grotto." I cannot, however, conceive of any truly religious person
countenancing such a gathering, which seemed to me rather like the
unclean orgies of a heathen deity than an act of faith of Christian
people. This disturbance occasioned us so serious a delay, that as we
were climbing the steep slope leading up to Posilipo it was already
three in the morning and the dawn was at hand. After mounting steadily for a long time we began to rapidly descend, and
just as the sun came up over the sea we arrived at the Villa de Angelis. I sprang from the carriage, and passing through a trellis of vines,
reached the house. A man-servant was in waiting, and held the door open
for me; but he was an Italian, and did not understand me when I asked
in English where Sir John Maltravers was. He had evidently, however,
received instructions to take me at once to my brother, and led the way
to an inner part of the house. As we proceeded I heard the sound of a
rich alto voice singing very sweetly to a mandoline some soothing or
religious melody. The servant pulled aside a heavy curtain and I found
myself in my brother's room. An Italian youth sat on a stool near the
door, and it was he who had been singing. At a few words from John,
addressed to him in his own language, he set down his mandoline and left
the room, pulling to the curtain and shutting a door behind it. The room looked directly on to the sea: the villa was, in fact, built
upon rocks at the foot of which the waves lapped. Through two folding
windows which opened on to a balcony the early light of the summer
morning streamed in with a rosy flush. My brother sat on a low couch
or sofa, propped up against a heap of pillows, with a rug of brilliant
colours flung across his feet and legs. He held out his arms to me, and
I ran to him; but even in so brief an interval I had perceived that he
was terribly weak and wasted. All my memories of his past faults had vanished and were dead in that
sad aspect of his worn features, and in the conviction which I felt,
even from the first moment, that he had but little time longer to remain
with us. I knelt by him on the floor, and with my arms round his neck,
embraced him tenderly, not finding any place for words, but only sobbing
in great anguish. Neither of us spoke, and my weariness from long travel
and the strangeness of the situation caused me to feel that paralysing
sensation of doubt as to the reality of the scene, and even of my own
existence, which all, I believe, have experienced at times of severe
mental tension. That I, a plain English girl, should be kneeling here
beside my brother in the Italian dawn; that I should read, as I
believed, on his young face the unmistakable image and superscription
of death; and reflect that within so few months he had married, had
wrecked his home, that my poor Constance was no more;--these things
seemed so unrealisable that for a minute I felt that it must all be a
nightmare, that I should immediately wake with the fresh salt air of
the Channel blowing through my bedroom window at Worth, and find I had
been dreaming. But it was not so; the light of day grew stronger and
brighter, and even in my sorrow the panorama of the most beautiful spot
on earth, the Bay of Naples, with Vesuvius lying on the far side, as
seen then from these windows, stamped itself for ever on my mind. It was
unreal as a scene in some brilliant dramatic spectacle, but, alas! no
unreality was here. The flames of the candles in their silver sconces
waxed paler and paler, the lines and shadows on my brother's face grew
darker, and the pallor of his wasted features showed more striking in
the bright rays of the morning sun. CHAPTER XIII


I had spent near a week at the Villa de Angelis. John's manner to me
was most tender and affectionate; but he showed no wish to refer to the
tragedy of his wife's death and the sad events which had preceded it, or
to attempt to explain in any way his own conduct in the past. Nor did
I ever lead the conversation to these topics; for I felt that even if
there were no other reason, his great weakness rendered it inadvisable
to introduce such subjects at present, or even to lead him to speak at
all more than was actually necessary. I was content to minister to him
in quiet, and infinitely happy in his restored affection. He seemed
desirous of banishing from his mind all thoughts of the last few months,
but spoke much of the years before he had gone to Oxford, and of happy
days which we had spent together in our childhood at Worth Maltravers. His weakness was extreme, but he complained of no particular malady
except a short cough which troubled him at night.