Was it in ostentatious display of their family mausoleums, or in callous contempt of natural loves and human griefs, or, from a desire to honor the _manes_ of the departed, and remind the living of their mortality, that the traveler to these ancient cities entered them between a double file of the dead? Was there recognition, however vague, of the great fact that, through Death we gain Life?
We were to spend the night at Castellamare, and having, through a provoking blunder for which we could only blame ourselves, missed the five o’clock train, were obliged to remain in the Pompeii station until nine. We had lunched at the restaurant—and a villainous lunch it was—and being hungry and weary, and out of patience with our stupidity, would have been held excusable by charitable people had we been slightly cross. I record that we were not, as an additional proof of the Tapleyish turn of the feminine disposition. I take no credit to myself. I was tired beyond the ability to complain. Laid upon a bench, cushioned by the spare wraps of the party, my head in Prima’s lap, I beheld in admiration I lacked energy to express, the unflagging good-humor of my charges; the “small, sweet courtesies” that made harmless play of badinage and repartee. They called up a boy of ten, the son of the station-master, from his hiding-place behind the door communicating with the family apartments, and talked to him of his life and likings. He was civil, but not clean—a shrewd, knavish sprite, judging from his physiognomy, but a fond brother to the little sister who soon crept after him. She wore a single garment that had, probably, never been whole or neat in her existence of two years. Even “our girls” could not pet her. But they spoke to her kindly as she planted herself before them on her two naked feet, her neck encircled by her brother’s arm, and gave her _bon-bons_. The boy bade her say, “_Grazie!_” and supplemented her lisp with “Tank ’oo!” and “Goot morning!”—his whole stock of English.
The four hours passed at last, and we quitted the dim waiting-room for pitchy darkness and pouring rain outside. At Castellamare, we were set down upon an open platform. The clouds were falling upon us in sheets; the wind caught savagely at our light sun-umbrellas, our only defence against the storm. The pavement was ankle-deep in water, and it was ten o’clock at night. We had been recommended to go to Miss Baker’s excellent _pension_ on the hill, but it was a full mile away, and we were wet in an instant. In the dismayed confusion, nobody knew just how it happened, or who first spoke the word of doom, but we packed ourselves and dripping garments into carriages and were driven to the Hôtel Royale. The land-lady—or housekeeper—stationed in the vestibule, took in our plight and her advantage at one fell glance. She met us with a feline smile, and we were hers.