Only when one or another article was taken from a casket or box did she pause in her walk.  Among the things selected was the pearl necklace which Charles had given her, and the only note her royal lover had ever written, which ran, “This evening, quia amore langueo.”  This she laid with her own hand among the laces and pomegranate blossoms, for this cry of longing might teach her son what she had once been to his father.  When John had seen her and felt how clear he was to her, he must become aware that he had another mother besides the Spanish lady whom he called “Tia,” and who made his underclothing; then he could no more forget her than that other woman.

Lastly, she summoned the major-domo and told him what he must do during her absence, which she thought would not exceed a week at the utmost.  The guests invited for Wednesday must be notified; the women’s choir must be requested to excuse her non-appearance; Sir Jasper Gordon, her most faithful admirer, an elderly Englishman, must learn that she had gone away; but, above all, writing tablet in hand, she directed him how to provide for her poor, what assistance every individual should receive, or the sums of money and wood which were to be sent to other houses to provide for the coming winter.  She also placed money at the majordomo’s disposal for any very needy persons who might apply for help while she was out of reach.

Before the November sun had set she entered the La Porta travelling carriage.  The chaplain, whom she referred to the major-domo for any matters connected with the poor, gave his blessing to the departing traveller, whose cheerful vivacity, after so many severe trials, he admired, and whose “golden heart,” as he expressed it, had made her dear to him.  The servants gathered at the door of the house, bowing silently, and her “Farewell, till we meet again!” fell from her lips with joyous confidence.

While on the way she reflected, for the first time, what John could desire of her for the “weal and woe of his life.”  It was impossible to guess, yet whatever it might be she would not fail him.

But what could it be’

Neither during the long night journey nor by the light of day did she find a satisfactory answer.  True, she had not thought solely of her son’s entreaty.  Her whole former life passed before her.

How much she had sinned and erred!  But all that she had done for the man to whom the posthorses were swiftly bearing her seemed to her free from reproach and blameless.  Every act and feeling which he had received from her had been the best of which she was capable.

Not a day, scarcely an hour, had she forgotten him; for his sake she had endured great anguish willingly, and, in spite of his mute reserve—­she could say so to herself—­without any bitter feeling.  How she had suffered in parting from her child she alone knew.  Fate had raised her son to the summit of earthly grandeur and saved him from every clanger.  Providence had adorned him with its choicest gifts.  When she thought of the last account of him from the Duke of Ferdinandina, it seemed to her as if his life had hitherto resembled a triumphal procession, a walk through blooming gardens.