“I hope you will be our frequent guest at Verner’s Pride.”
“Thank you,” replied Lucy.
And perhaps the sudden flush on her face might have been less vivid, had Lionel not been standing there.
He attended them to the carriage, taking up his hat as he passed through the vestibule, for really the confined space that did duty for hall in Dr. West’s house, did not deserve the name. Lady Verner sat on one side the carriage, Decima and Lucy on the seat opposite. Lionel stood a moment after handing them in.
“If you can tear yourself away from the house for half-an-hour, I wish you would take a drive with us,” said Lady Verner, her tone of voice no more pleasant than her words. Try as she would, she could not help her jealous resentment, against Sibylla, peeping out.
Lionel smiled, and took his seat by his mother, opposite to Lucy. He was resolved to foster no ill-feeling by his own conduct, but to do all that lay in his power to subdue it in Lady Verner. He had not taken leave of Sibylla; and it may have been this, the proof that he was about to return to her, which had excited the ire of my lady. She, his mother, nothing to him; Sibylla all in all. Sibylla stood at the window, and Lionel bent forward, nodded his adieu, and raised his hat.
The footman ascended to his place, and the carriage went on. All in silence for some minutes. A silence which Lady Verner suddenly broke.
“What have you been doing to your cheeks, Lucy? You look as if you had caught a fever.”
Lucy laughed.
“Do I, Lady Verner? I hope it is not a third cold coming on, or Jan will grumble that I take them on purpose. Like he did the last time.”
She caught the eyes of Lionel riveted on her with a strangely perplexed expression. It did not tend to subdue the excitement of her cheeks.
Another moment, and Decima’s cheeks appeared to have caught the infection. They had suddenly become one glowing crimson: a strange sight on her delicately pale face. What could have caused it? Surely not the quiet riding up to the carriage of a stately old gentleman who was passing, wearing a white frilled shirt and hessian boots. He looked as if he had come out of a picture-frame, as he sat there, his hat off and his white hair flowing, courteously but not cordially, inquiring after the health of my Lady Verner.
“Pretty well, Sir Rufus. I have had a great deal of vexation to try me lately.”
“As we all have, my lady. Vexation has formed a large portion of my life. I have been calling at Verner’s Pride, Mr. Verner.”
“Have you, Sir Rufus? I am sorry I was not at home.”
“These fine spring days tempt me out. Miss Tempest, you are looking remarkably well. Good morning, my lady. Good morning.”
A bow to Lady Verner, a sweeping bow to the rest collectively, and Sir Rufus rode away at a trot, putting on his hat as he went. His groom trotted after him, touching his hat as he passed the carriage.
But not a word had he spoken to Decima Verner, not a look had he given her. The omission was unnoticed by the others; not by Decima. The crimson of her cheeks had faded to an ashy paleness, and she silently let fall her veil to hide it.
What secret understanding could there be between herself and Sir Rufus Hautley?
GARIBALDI AT VAREGNANO.
What a deal of rubbish is now being circulated by the Press in England as to Garibaldi’s present abode! If Spezia had been in the Fejee Islands, there would scarcely have been an excuse for the gross ignorance displayed on the subject.
All are agreed in making out Varegnano to be a fortress, and some have grown pathetic over Garibaldi’s dungeon.
Now, Varegnano is nothing less in the world than a fortress. Its sole pretension to fortification is a semi-circular sea-wall in front of it, on which five small guns are mounted en barbette, their chief function being to return the salutes of ships-of-war as they pass the Gulf.
As to the dungeon, let me assure you few gentlemen of England have a more spacious, more airy or loftier drawing-room, and none, I am certain, one which commands a more splendid view from the windows.
Varegnano is a large, massive, four-fronted building, such as in Italy is often called a “Palazzo.” It was built and used for the quarantine establishment of the Gulf, and intended to afford accommodation to a large staff of government officials. The principal staircase is wider and handsomer than that of Buckingham Palace, and the corridors are large and spacious in proportion.
When the Sub-Prefect of the Province first heard that Garibaldi was to arrive there as a prisoner, his most pressing care was to remove several hundred tons of gunpowder that were stored in some vaults underneath the building, and his next to provide whatever he could hurriedly collect of articles of furniture and comfort, for Varegnano has long been in great part unoccupied, a few of the lower rooms only being used for the Director of the Lazaretto. The building itself is beautifully placed; it occupies the extreme point of a narrow promontory which, projecting into the Gulf, separates two deep and picturesque bays,—that of the “Grazia” to the north—the Bay of Varegnano to the south. In front—and about four miles distant, lies Lerici—a crescent-like Toron on the very margin of the sea, flanked by a rocky precipice surmounted by a ruined castle. More inward again is seen St. Arenza, where close to the water’s edge, and on great massive arches under which the sea washes freely, is a square, old-fashioned villa, the terrace of which runs the whole extent of the sea front. This was where Shelley lived. Behind Varegnano, and separating it from the Gulf of Genoa, rises the great mount of the Castellano, with its fort half hid in the clouds.
