CHAPTER XXI. "The air was hushed, and still and close As a sick man's room, when he taketh repose The IR Lionel Shelley is looking out from a window o his hotel in the Piazza del Popolo, at Rome. place wears its usual Sunday aspect, which is one of more than every-day life and bustle. Streams of carriages are passing up the celebrated drive to Monte Pincio, the, greater proportion of which are filled with English people or foreigners of distinction. Groups from the numbers assembled in the pleasant well-kept gardens congregate on the Terrace, to take in a view of the Eternal City, and try in vain to count the seven hills on which it is said to have been built. The twin churches of San Maria di Monte Santo and San Maria dei Miracoli stand sentinel on either side of the entrance to the Corso, and, by their open doors, invite the entry of any stray pedestrian, or those on their way to the English service that is being carried on a few hundred yards outside the gates. A gay carriage, such as a sheriff uses in England, draws up to the steps leading to the church of San Maria del Popolo (the one built over the spot where the ashes of Nero were dis SIR LIONEL AT ROME. 285 covered, as a protection against the supernatural visitants that haunted the place); a priest alights, and, with downcast eyes and humble mien, slowly enters the sacred edifice, followed at a respectful distance by two six-feet-high footmen, conspicuous less for their humility of demeanour than for their cocked hats and demonstrative calves. The water from the fountain falls lazily and musically into its granite basin, and occasionally some pretty oxen pass through the Porto to slake their thirst at its crystal stream. Peasants with square-folded white headdresses, fanciful bodices and aprons, long ear-rings, and coral necklaces, add to the picturesqueness of the scene. But Sir Lionel, while apparently watching them, has his thoughts entirely preoccupied. He turns away from the stir and bustle in which he has so often taken part, and re-reads a letter for the third time, then sits down in the easiest seat he can find, and becomes absorbed in reverie. He is feeling very far from well and far from home, and that a few minutes' conversation with his old friend Dr. Coleridge would be very acceptable to him; thinks that perhaps the Roman climate, which is said to act unfavourably on people of plethoric habit or of hypochondriacal tendency, may be acting prejudicially on him, and that he had better decide upon a change. While sitting thus, and gazing vacantly on the decorations of the vaulted ceiling of the room, wondering, among other things, when the best-known English physician would return to the city, a smash, followed by an altercation, drew him again to the window. The noise was caused by one of the facchini carelessly throwing some luggage on to the lamps of a carriage, and then arguing with the vetturino as to who should pay the damage. Satisfied as to the origin and nature of the excitement, he again turned from the window, and, in doing so, was alarmed by a feeling of weight on one side of him; and not without reason, for the minute after, he slipped and fell on the floor. The hotel at which he was staying was one of those grand and gloomy houses which do not suit the general taste, but which are either occupied by grandees, travelling with large families and inexhaustible purses, or left quite empty, in which grass grows in the courtyard and the waiters lounge about as if they had not sufficient to occupy them. At that time there were very few people in it, and the servants were by no means on the alert as to the requirements of those who were; but they amused themselves cracking jokes on passers-by, rather than attending to the business of the hotel. Sir Lionel lay for hours in a state of partial insensibility, without any one being aware of his illness, until at last Vincent entered the room to ask if he were ready for dinner, and discovered him lying as has been described. He at once raised his suffering master, and, summoning aid, sent immediately for a medical man, who pronounced the seizure to be a slight attack of paralysis. An open letter on the table suggested the inquiry, 'Had he had anything to trouble him?' but Vincent, though an old and faithful servant, could only hint his suspicions that such might be the case; and the doctor urged the necessity of his being kept quite free from all anxiety. This was about as practical advice as is often given by doctors in our own country, who recommend a poor stipendiary on two hundred a year, with a large family of children depending on his income, to pass the winter in the south of France, or a dressmaker's apprentice to take a carriage airing daily. Ease of mind was not purchasable even with Sir Lionel's wealth. When the fact of his illness became known, inquiries were made concerning him by one or two English gentlemen, with AN ALARMING SEIZURE. 287 whom he had previously interchanged remarks on the staircase or in the courtyard; and some of the officials, who had their quarters close by in the precincts of the church of Santa Maria, came to look after him; but in a general way there was nothing to break the monotony of a sick-room. Before his attack he used to like the company of the priests; they would take pains to give him information on any subject in which he happened to be dilettanteing, and their gloomy quarters possessed for him much such a charm as the print and bookseller's shop at Scotswood had done. Now he scarcely recognized his former friends; all other interests seemed merged in his one intense longing to be at Scotswood again. He used sometimes to talk as if he were ready to start at once for England, when his servant would check his impatience by reminding him of the necessity of waiting a few days longer to get up his strength. At other times he would be conscious of such a failure of the vital principle as to lead him to the conclusion that he was fast declining; but when he rallied again, the hope of seeing Scotswood would grow strong within him. One day Vincent had left him alone for awhile, having run up the ascent from the Piazza, to the gardens, to procure refreshment for mind and body, when a sharp rap at the door of the invalid's room startled its inmate, which rap was followed immediately by the entrance of William Bryant. The young man entered the room as if sure of his welcome, expressed extravagant concern at finding his old friend thus prostrated, and then, in a quite-at-home way, affected surprise at his long absence from Scotswood; gave a running epitome of news, not forgetting to laugh at the absurd rumours rife as to the accident to himself; denouncing the originators of them in no measured terms; and winding up by saying that he had seen May in Paris, and that she was pining for home. The suddeness of his appearance, and the excitement of seeing one on whom his thoughts had lately dwelt anything but pleasurably, quite overcame Sir Lionel; and when Vincent returned, he found him with his head drooping low on his breast. Vexed and indignant, both at the intrusion and its results, the man said decidedly, 'I must ask you to leave this room, sir! I have orders to keep my master quiet. It seems to me your visit will bring on another seizure.' : 'One word!' persisted Bryant, making his way up to Sir Lionel 'I think perhaps you would like me to write for you to Miss Shelley. One of the professors at St. Jullien's, a gentleman with whom you travelled from Amiens to Paris, is shortly about to start for this place in company with his sister: to accompany them would be a safe and pleasant means of escort for her;' adding in a by-the-bye sort of way, as if it was notan affair of any moment, 'Ithought I would apprise you of the opportunity.' 'Let her come, let her come,' jerked out poor Sir Lionel, his speech sadly indistinct from paralysis; 'we can travel home together.' And without giving him time to alter his mind, Bryant left the room. After this the invalid appeared to be sinking fast: an unconquerable lassitude crept over him, and his intellect became gradually more and more clouded; so much so, that Vincent had begun to fear it would be hopelessly impaired, when, hearing him murmuring to himself as if something were troubling him, he stooped his head to listen to what he had to say, and discovered that his mind was sufficiently clear to be uneasy that he had been at fault in his arrangements for May. |