'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 pa.s.s away to the mansions of the new Jerusalem, shall walk its golden streets, shall drink of its surpa.s.sing 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 Ma.s.s, and yet the heretics scoff at the service and audaciously a.s.sert-in this respect only following the arch-heretic, Luther-that the Ma.s.s 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 demita.s.se 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 sh.o.r.es 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:

'Not a grove, Citron or pine or cedar: not a grot Seaward, and mantled with the gadding vine, But breathes enchantment;'

and thus it was that the _bon vivants_ of the old world loved the favoured spot-that Baiae 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 a.s.suredly 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 mult.i.tude 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 a.s.sumed an Italian t.i.tle of n.o.bility. There are only too many in London, especially among rich parvenues, who throw open their doors to anyone with a foreign t.i.tle, whether real or a.s.sumed.'

'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 pa.s.sions.'

'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?'