The secret citadel

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Chapter I

ALABGE number of people had assembled in the great Throne room of the Palace of the Vatican. The walls, hmig with crimson damasky matched the rich splendor of the curtains, and transmitted a roseate glow to the apartment; the thick carpet upon which the crowd trod so noiselessly was of a soft shade of green. A Crucifix at one end of the room faced the great golden Throne at the other. A subdued murmur of conversation could be heard. All the chairs, ranged in a single row round the walls, were occupied, and a few late comers stood in groups near the doorway or in the comers of the room. The men wore evening dress, and the women presented a curious sameness of appearance, being all alike attired in dull black dresses made for the most part with careful simplicity, while black lace mantillas were arranged upon their heads. Many of the pilgrims held bunches of rosaries, strings of medals, crucifixes, and other pious objects which they had brought with them to be blessed, and the gold, silver, and jewels of which these things were for the most part fashioned flashed as they caught the light with sudden unexpected brilliance. A little girl dressed from head to foot in white made a sharp, almost crude, note of contrast in the midst of the somber and rather severe apparel of her elders.

Little sign of weariness or of impatience was evinced by the assembled persons, altiiough many of them had been waiting for nearly two hours. Some of them had come a considerable distance in order to be present at to-day's audience, and it was possible to hear most of the languages of Europe spoken in those hushed conversations and whispered greetings.

At the end of the room two Englishmen were standing a little apart from the rest. From this vantage point they could see the rows of grave and serious faces looking almost unnaturally pallid in contrast to the unrelieved gloom of their attire. The taller of the two men, Simon Ellis, who was also probably a year or two older than his companion, was a sculptor living in Rome, and he was at least well ^own by sight to the personnel of the Vatican. He was thin, with an emaciated face, large, pale, brilliant eyes with a somewhat fanatical expression, and a lightcolored closely trimmed beard a shade fairer than his long and rather dishevelled hair. His companion, Godfrey Denne, held himself very erect and surveyed the assembly with a gaze that was at once interested and slightly csmical. His clothes and appearance and the almost elaborate neatness of his person suggested the Englishman, rich, leisured, and experienced, although the darkness of his hair and eyes, the olive pallor of his skin, might have deceived people into believing him to belong to the Latin race.

It was the first time that Denne had ever been present at one of the Pope's audiences, and though he was not — ^to use his own expression — of the lK>usehold of faith, he imagined that it would be an experience which would certainly satisfy an innate aesthetic love of the pictiu*esque which he possessed. Antiquated and medieval as he regarded this Court, he still felt some curiosity to see the venerable successor of St. Peter, whom more than one-half of Christendom regarded as their spiritual ruler and supreme sovereign. Aware of the emotion, the intense feeling of passionate loyalty, that was at that moment imbuing and exalting the majority of those now present, although he did not in the least share it, his interest as a sightseer was deeply tinged with respect. He half envied and half despised the fanatical expression which, as the moments wore on, deepened in the strange eyes of Simon Ellis.

"I wonder who those people are?" he said suddenly, turning to Simon. ' Those two ladies who have just come in with Marchesa Rittoni?"

Simon's eyes, penetrating, long-sighted, followed the indication of Grodf rey's.

"They are Lady and Miss Ettrington — old friends of the Marchesa's," he answered.

The three ladies formed perhaps the most distinguished-looking group in the room. The Marchesa was an Englishwoman, but like many of her compatriots, after long years of residence in Italy married to an Italian husband, she had lost very many of the characteristics of her nationality and had become quite Italian. Below middle height and slender, with an oval, beautiful face, and large brown eyes, whose brilliancy was intensified by the coif of silver-white hair that surmounted her low and straight brow, she seemed to belong exactly to the old Italian setting of her Roman villa. Her friend Lady Ettrington was a few years younger, being even now less than fifty years old. She had a worn, delicate face, and there was still much beauty of a wistful kind in her blue eyes and soft coloring. Her hair, which had once been dark, was now iron-gray. She was almost as slender as her daughter, who stood beside her. It was upon Miss Ettrington that Grodfrey Denne's fascinated regard was fixed with a curious attention. In her somber, rather clinging dress of dull black, unrelieved by any jewels. Miss Ettrington's fairness was almost startling. Her hair, of a pale but warm gold, was parted low in the middle of her brow, and so arranged that it had almost the effect of wings — wings that glowed with a subdued, golden flame under the bkck mantilla that partially concealed her hair and fell over her shoulders. Her complexion was of a warm, delicate whiteness, curiously flawless. Her eyes were of a deep gray, and looked darker because she was so fair; her lashes and narrowly pencilled eyebrows were dark. This saved her from the frequent insipidity of the blonde beauty. She moved wiili a leisured grace, almost careless in its spontaneity, and she was taller than either of her companions, being, indeed, one of the tallest women in the room.

"I wonder why they have come again to-day,'' said Simon in a low tone; '^His Holiness received them in private audience last week.*'

But Denne only said rather irrelevantly:

^' After all, nothing can beat a reaUy beautiful Englishwoman I I suppose they are Roman Catholics?"

"Oh, yes — ^they belong to one of the older Catholic families. I believe Mass has been said in their chapel for seven centuries."

Somelliing in Denne's look and words had struck a jarring note.

"I am glad," said Godfrey lightly, "that at least we are all treated alike here. No dividing the sheep from the goats I"

"In that case," said Ellis, "the goats might be less eager to come I"

"You are so sure, then, that we are the goats?" said Denne with a touch of irony.

"The simile was your own. You can hardly deny that we are the sheep of this fold 1" answered EUis. He broke oflF sharply. "Kneel downl" he said, touching Godfrey lightly on the arm.

There was a little stir at the end of the room, a curtain was drawn aside, and a group of ecclesiastical dignitaries and officials entered. The procession was headed by a file of the Guardia NohUe, whose members are drawn from the most ancient Roman families. Helmeted and spurred and carrying drawn swords, they were resplendent in their uniforms with tunics of blue, black, and gold. Next followed the Private Chamberlains — ^the Cameriere Segreto on the right and the Cameriere d'Honore on the left — ^wearing uniforms scarcely less brilliant l^n those of i^ Noble Guard. Their cocked hats with white feathers were adorned with the papal crest, and their gold buttons with the papal arms; they wore rapiers with hilts of pearl and gold, and Gkxifrey noticed that one of the Camerieri was decorated with a many-clasped medal, which indicated that he had seen active service with the British army. Behind them walked the Esente of the Noble Guard carrying his baton. The Monsignore on duty and the Major Domo followed next, and behind this splendid and picturesque retinue, which still invested his approach with so much regal pomp, the white-clad figure of the Pope came slowly forward. All eyes were fixed upon the aged Pontiff with his white hair, his burning, flame-like eyes . . . Pius X, upon whom had been bestowed in ancient prophecy the name of Ignis ardens.

The silence was tense, awed, and breathless. And yet it seemed to Denne as if an almost audible wave of fervor, of passionate emotion, had passed over the bowed heads of those kneeling men and women. The whole atmosphere had become alive, ardent, palpitating. No merely temporal sovereign could evoke such a passion of loyalty. Denne felt himself moved to an unwonted, imexpected enthusiasm of which he felt half ashamed. He looked down the long length of ihe room, and could just distinguish the slender fiffiu'e of Miss Ettrington kneeling her fair head bowed; a moment mter he oouM see her touching with her lips the ring qd the Holy Father's outstretched hand. And to her also he remembered this frail old man was ihe Vioar of Christ, the Infallible Head of the Chtui*, the successor of the Galilean Fisherman, the Keeper of the Keys.

Godfrey glanced at Simon. His pale face was irradiated with emotion; his light eyes were extraordinarily bright. For he knew — ^who better? — ^the little histories spoken low and uttered only with a reverent reticence that from time to time emanated from the immense prison-palace of the Vatican. He did not speak of these things, but he was aware that a recent episode, the healing of a nun stricken with blindness, had found its way into the newspapers and was generally known throughout the world. And he had often been present when room after room had been filled with thronging pUgrims, had seen the fervor and loyalty displayed by them, their eager attempts to touch the hem of those white garments as the Vicar of Christ passed by.

As if in a dream Godfrey touched with his lips the ring on that frail, extended hand. A Sicilian woman near him gave an ill-suppressed sob. The Holy Father had passed on.

The two men walked in silence down the long fliffht of marble stairs into the wide, white, sun-filled Piazza of St. Peter's. Maderna's fountains were flinging up showers of golden spray that sparkled in the sunlight like gleaming jewels. Overhead the April sky was vividly blue and dear of cloud ; tibie air was delicioudy warm with that toudi of humid softness peculiar to Rome.

"You are coming back witfi me to luncheon ?" said 9^iy^a» moviog in the directiQii of tbe tram* way. ^We may as well Wdk/'

"Yes, thanks,'* said Denne inattentively. His thoughts were wholly occupied with the scene he had just witnessed. He felt as if his life were about to undergo a subtle change ; as if, indeed, f at^ had opened a new door, displaying the approach to alluring paths. But it was no spiritual change to transform and capture the soul; the Nets of the Fisherman had not entangled the feet of Grodfrey Denne. His inward vision contemplated only the exquisite, fair face of Miss Ettrington, indelibly impressed upon his mind. After a moment's pause he said hesitatingly : "Does . . . Lady Ettrington live in Rome?" "No, but she has been here for about two months. I wonder you haven't come across them."

Grodf rey relapsed into silence. He had dined once or twice with the Marchese Rittoni and his wife in their villa set on a hill just outside Rome, but on none of these occasions had Lady Ettrington and her daughter been present. In fact, until to-day he had not heard their names nor known of their existence. He had already been three weeks in Rome, and he felt an unreasoning anger against Simon for having kept this knowledge from him.

1 suppose you know them ?" he said at last. I know Lady Ettrington and her daughter very slightly," said Simon, **but I was at sdiool with the elder son, who is now Sir Edgar."

"I should like to meet them," said Grodfrey, with an assumption of carelessness. But this time Ellis made no reply. Obviously he was not prepared to gratify fann in this nwtter, nor was be r. B disposed to be communicative on the subject.

m There was something in his manner at once cold

M and even checked a more definite request,

e^ They crossed the Tiber, golden and gray and

itoL restless, and changing to tones of jade ana lapis

; tif as it flowed under the bridges of the city. Thence

feet they walked along the busy, noisy thoroughfare

sst of the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, following the

^ tram-line to the Piazza Venezia, where the new

in its gilt and marble splendor. Finally they r crossed the Via Nazionale, and entered a narrow

side street, down whose tortuous length they

came to Simon's studio.

Chapter II

MES. Meacock occupied during her annual sojourn in Rome a large and imposing suite of rooms in one of the new hotels in the Ludovisi quarter, not far from the Palace of the Queen Mother.

She was a widow, and had the reputation of being fabulously wealthy; she scattered lire as if they had been soldi, and she had attached to her person — ^with chains of gold rather than with the steel hoops of friendship — a certain Lady Sarson, the impecimious but well-bom widow of a Colonial governor.

Still, as it was practically impossible to imagine that Mrs. Meacock should be loved for her own sake, the charitable and compassionate forgave her for making use of those simple yet powerful attractions that are traceable to a large banking account.

Not, indeed, that she desired to be loved. She wished only to be amused by persons whose names admitted neither of criticism nor conjecture. She desired to recline at ease in the seats of the mighty. Love — a poor business and making heavy demands out of all proportion to the aridity of the soil whprein it sought to dwell — ^was for her a thing of the past. She had social ambition, a determination to climb, to open reluctant doors with a golden master-key, and she regretted that the means to this end had come only when she was nearer fifty than forty. The personality of her late husband— only recently removed by death — had made upward progress of this kind impossible.

Her only daughter had married a Grerman count, poor but possessing many quarterings. She had repaired his medieval castle and given him three sons. Mrs. Meacock was proud of her daughter. She would have preferred an English title for her, but failing this, she had welcomed the German son-in-law, a rather beefy Teuton, already at the age of thirty inclined to obesity. Mrs. Meacock paid them an annual visit, not too long, and accompanied by such handsome disbursements that Ludwig, who was a gambler, actually anticipated them with eager pleasure.

Her son was, however, less of a comfort to her. She had sent him to Oxford, hoping that there he might acquire something of the culture and veneer denied to him by nature, and he had returned, after his first term, a violent democrat, imbued with every kind of socialistic and revolutionary theory. Mrs. Meacock was patient and waited for the tide to turn. She was aghast at the importance and "consequence** — as Miss Austen would have termed it — of those names with whom he was associated ; far from consoling her, she felt that their influence would permanently retain her son in these undesirable paths. Lawson Meacock was extremely clever; he was a fiery orator; he threw himself heart and soul into the movement, and now at the age of twentyfive he displayed an increased ardor for the cause of socialism. He was a f at, pale-faced young man with a consciously strenuous expression, and was now said to be engaged in writing a book comparing the condition of work and wages prevailing in the principal countries of Europe. He was at the moment with his mother in Rome. She had a sense of humor, and ridiculed him openly, but he bore it with a kind of contemptuous patience.

On the day following his visit to the Vatican, Mr. Denne called upon Mrs. Meacock. Of late he had not accepted many of her invitations, for he had been disagreeably impressed by the personality of her son, and did not wish to further his acquaintance with him. In fact, he had neglected Mrs. Meacock, rather ungratefully it must be said, for on his first arrival she had introduced him to quite a nimiber of agreeable people. To-day he had come with a definite purpose, for he believed that she could be of very real use to him in achieving an end which Simon Ellis had tacitly refused to further. Godfrey was conscious of a certaii} feeling of irritation toward Simon on account of his reserved attitude upon the subject of Miss Ettrington. It crystallized his resolve to obtain an introduction to her.

His hostess was alone when he arrived, except for the negligible presence of Lady Sarson, who hovered like an indefinite, silent, but useful shadow in the background, pouring out tea when necessary, and otherwise ministering unobtrusively to the comfort or entertainment of those who penetrated into that charmed circle. She fulfilled these functions with a weary air of predsion. She wore black of old-fashioned make, a cap with a flat black velvet bow in it, and a gold locket in which was concealed the photograph of the late governor, whose obituary notices had proclaimed him an Empire-Builder.

"Well, Mr. Denne, I*m delighted to see you," said Mrs. Meacock heartily; "'Lawson said he would be in to tea, as I am expecting one or two people this afternoon. YouVe met my son Lawson, haven't you? He is in a very trying mood just now, and he simply hates Rome. He says the atmosphere is so enervating! We haven't seen you for an age,*' she went on ; "but of course youVe been far too busy here to bother your head about two dull old women like me and Sarsy T' ( It was by this playful abbreviation that she indicated the reluctant shadow.) "However, as I have just said, youVe come at the right moment, for I'm expecting some very charming girls this afternoon. Mrs. Rivers has promised to bring her daughter, and Lady Ettnngton is coming with hers!"

"I am longing to meet the Ettringtons," said Grodf rey in his smooth, pleasant voice ; "I went to the Vatican with Ellis yesterday, and they were both there with Marchesa Rittoni."

But Mrs. Meacock rather tactlessly switched off the conversation from the topic he so desired to pm*sue, and said:

"Oh, you went to the Vatican? Isn't the Pope wonderful? I always feel as if he'd convert me. I have to think of all the thumbscrews and instruments of torture I've seen in museums and places, and Luther nailing up his theses against the iniidulgencesy to make myself get over the idea! You're not a Catholic, I hope, Mr. Demief* 'No, I am not,'* said Godfrey.

Yom* charming friend Mr. Ellis is, and IVe seen his statue of the Virgin Mary, and I couldn't help admiring it. He is a convert, too, they tell me. Now, isn't that a pity in a nice, sensible man ? But perhaps he has never seen the thumbscrews and things, or hasn't put two and two together like I've done. Still, tiie Pope is very attractive, and so are all those lovely Cardinals! I wish we had Cardinals in the English Church; they would give such a tone to it, wouldn't they? It doesn't seem quite fair. Why, Lawson, so you've come back! You know Mr. Denne, don't you?" Lawson Meacock advanced toward Grodfrey Denne with an earnest smile. ^^I am delighted to meet you again, Mr. Denne," he said. ' Last time we had no opportunity for serious conversation. I always welcome tibe prospect of an interview with one of the heads of our own great British firms ! They are, as a rule, extraordinarily inaccessible, and are generally content with sending us a copy of their last report — a document which is of course written only for the benefit of the shareholders. Now, I understand from my mother that you have a very large interest in a soap-boiling manufactory in the North of England, and I am most anxious to know if you are running it on co-operative lines. I'm engaged in a special study of that, with the ultimate view of making representations to Parliament on the subject of the rate of wages being determined by the profits, just as the dividends are. There are it'

countries, and I wish ours was one of them, where before a man can set up a factory and employ labor he has to guarantee that he will distribute a fixed percentage of the profits in wages to the workmen!**

During this long speech, delivered in the earnest eloquent manner of a preacher, Grodfrey's face underwent a curious change. At the word soap he looked almost alarmed, as if he had been suddenly called upon to contemplate a peculiarly sive specter. But he only replied stiffly: ou are making a mistake in thinking I have anything to do wit£ the management of the company. I am only one of the directors.*'

^ ^^Is that really so?** said Lawson Meacock in a disappointed tone. "Now, I went into my father's business at the age of fourteen, directly I left school. Xawson, you've got to work your way up same as I did,' said the old man to me. He gave me the same wages as the other boys, and I worked just the same hours as they did, and I had to give him so much a week for my keep. And if I ever have a son I mean to bring him up in the same way; it brings out the grit in a boy. But I needn't tell you how much opposed my mother was to it — ^she wanted to send me to a public school and then into the army. I was twenty-one when the old man died, and to please her I studied and went to Oxford. It wasn't time lost, Mr. Denne, for I met men there who taught me to organize my thoughts and ideas in a practical way. But you are a director of the company, you say? Then as a director you help, I think, to settle the distribution of dividends.

Now, do you realize that the hundreds of factory hands you employ are just fellow-creatures — human beings like yourself? That they give the best years of their life, and nearly all the time and attention of the working hours of the day, to the perfecting of your soap ? You must spend immense sums in adyertisements. I was quite struck by the novelty of one I saw recently in Paris! You employ, I know, the finest poster artists of the day to design those magnificent works that decorate our London hoardings ! You were the first, I think, to exhibit a Post-Impressionist advertisement done by one of the leading artists in that line. So that you can not be altogether ignorant of the conditions under which your men work. You are aware that the chemicals employed in the manufacture of soaps are sometimes deleterious to the health of those who have to deal with them. Now, do you see, for instance, that proper precautions are taken, so as to minimize this danger? Do you distribute frequent bonuses now your soap is bringing in larger profits than ever before? Believe me, a little personal supervision is often all that is required to rectify the most crying abuses!"

"I am not aware of any crying abuses,'' said Grodfrey, "and fortunately I do not know the head of the advertisement department, or I am sure I should do him a grievous personal injury! My brother sees to the business, and I am afraid you will regard me as a heartless monster when I tell you that my only interest in it is to see that the high rate of the dividends is maintained.''

Mrs. Meacock, having noticed that her son's voice had been upraised in that sustained and uninterrupted monologue which indicated that he had captured a new and possibly helpless victim, now came to the rescue.

"I know Mr. Denne better than you do, Lawson/' she said; *'and I'm convinced he doesn't want to talk shop on this lovely afternoon. Lawson would like to turn every factory in England into a philanthropic concern," she went on ; "and I am glad he has no control over my income, for I am sure he would reduce it at once to fifty pounds a yearT'

"My mother is not in sympathy with the movement,*' he said with a wan, patient snule ; "but it is growing, and among men, too, whom a few years ago we could ifoi have hoped to touch. That is at least a healthy sign. I intend to stand for our constituency at the next general election as a labor member. I wish I could induce you to become a subscriber to our society, which is pledged to achieve the greatest bloodless revolution the world has ever seen I"

1 am a Conservative," said Denne coldly. 'A Conservative? An enemy to yom* own class? A traitor, Mr. Denne, to your own camp?" said Lawson Meacock, more in sorrow than in anger.

Class?" said Denne.

'Your father was a working man, I think?" 'My grandfather established the firm," said Grodfrey, now scarcely able to articulate.

"Well, your grandfather, then. He worked himself up from being one of the hands, step by step, rung by rung. Sixty years ago he was probably in much the same position as one of your employees to-day. Do you think he was a Conservative when he stood in the boiling-room at a temperature of something over a hundred?" Godfrey was silent.

"I have inquired," continued the inexorable Lawson, "into the origin of many of our oldestablished firms in order to obtain statistics. The facts made me extremely despondent. Our system is so very old. Only in a young and new republic can we hope to plant the more perfect system of fair play to all; that hearty co-operation between master and man which we so desire to promote! But with your wealth and influence you could be a great power. I suppose it never occurred to you to enter your own firm as a hand?"

"It did not," said Godfrey.

"It would have been the only way," said Lawson, "to find out the exact conditions under which your employees work — and the hardships and dangers to which they are being daily exposed 1 I myself have worked in many of our big manufactories — I have tried my hand at some of the mnsf dangerous and repulsive trades that exist, e seen" — and now he raised his voice a httle, tie were addressing a large and hostile meetither than one reluctant and bored listener — ve seen men and hoys, and women and young suifering from hideous diseases that were irect outcome of those trades. I have worked Dse great furnaces before which men stand ped to the waist, enduring as best they can the thirst that is a torment in the hell-heat of that atmosphere! — I have seen "

"Pray excuse me, Mr. Meacock. What you tell me is most interesting . . . but I see a friend of mine whom I am most anxious to say a word tol** said Godfrey, and he hurried across the room to speak to the Marchesa Rittoni, who had just come in accompanied by the Ettringtons.

Lawson looked after him with a kind of pitying contempt.

"A coward and a traitor," he miumured, "he won't know — ^won't learn. Keeps his eyes shut. A mole. Afraid of what he might see. Conservative indeed! Conservatives are bom, not made!'*

Grodf rey meanwhile had almost forgotten his indignation in the fulfilment of his purpose. For the Marchesa with her charming smile held out a daintily gloved hand to him and introduced him to her two friends. Lady Ettrington and her daughter. Lawson retired into the background with Sarsy, who resumed her office of tea-maker.

To-day Melanie Ettrington looked even more beautiful than she had done in her somber garb at the Vatican. She wore a dress of some soft white woolen material with a white fur stole about her shoulders. Under her large black hat Godfrey could catch a furtive gleam of her fair hair. He judged her to be less than twenty years old. Her voice as she spoke to him was low and charming; he found it peculiarly soothing after the harsh and strenuous utterances of Lawson Meacock.

"I saw you yesterday at the Vatican," he said as they sat down near the window which looked out upon the busy street. "I was there with Simon Ellis."

"Oh, was that you with Mr. Ellis? We saw him in the distance,'' said Miss Ettrington. "Had you ever been there before?"

"No," said Godfrey. Then he added, "It impressed me very mudi."