When they entered the _salone_ on their return, the first object which
met their eyes was the stately figure of Sora Antonia in full holiday
costume, lately returned from mass. She had still her fan and her rosary
depending from her wrist--adjuncts almost equally necessary to devotion,
as that is understood at Frascati--and was still arrayed in the full
splendours of the veil, which, fastened over her hair, fell almost to
her feet behind, and gave grace and dignity to her tall and stately
person. Sora Antonia was a dependent of the family Savvelli; scarcely a
servant, though she had once belonged to the prince’s household. She had
charge of the palace at Frascati, which was never occupied except by a
solitary ecclesiastic, the prince’s brother, for whom the first-floor
was kept sacred. Even this sanctity, however, was sometimes invaded when
a good chance offered of letting the _piano nobile_ to some rich
foreigner, which was the fate of all the other apartments in the house.
Sora Antonia had charge of all the interests of the Savvelli in their
deserted mansion. When the tenants did any damage she made careful note
of it, and did not in any respect neglect the interests of her master;
nor was she inconsiderate of her own, but regarded it as a natural duty,
when it proved expedient, to make a little money out of the Forestieri.
“They give one trouble enough, the blessed Madonna knows,” the good
woman said piously. But, notwithstanding these prudent cares, Sora
Antonia was not only a very sensible woman according to her lights, but
had a heart, and understood her duty to her neighbours. She made her
salutations to the two friends when they entered with equal suavity, but
addressed her explanations to Colin, who was not only her favourite in
right of his youth and good looks, but made out her meaning more easily
than his companion. The crisis was an important one, and Sora Antonia
conducted herself accordingly; as soon as she had made her salutations
she resumed her seat, which in itself was an act requiring explanation,
especially as the table had been already arranged for dinner, and this
was the last day in the world on which the strangers were likely to
desire society. Sora Antonia took matters with a high hand, and in case
of opposition secured for herself at least the first word.
“Pardon, caro Signore mio,” she said, “you are surprised to find me
here. Very well; I am sorry to incommode the gentlemen, but I have to do
my duty. The Signorina is very young, and she has no one to take care of
her. The Signori are very good, very excellent, and kind. Ah yes, I know
it--never was there such devotion to the poor sick friend; nevertheless,
the Signori are but men, _senza complimenti_, and I am a woman who has
been married and had children of my own, and know my duty. Until some
proper person comes to take charge of the poor dear young lady, the
Signori will pardon me, but I must remain here.”
“Does the Signorina wish it?” asked Colin, with wondering looks, for the
idea of another protector for Alice confounded him, he scarcely knew
why.
“The Signorina is not much more than a child,” said Sora Antonia,
loftily. “Besides, she has not been brought up like an Italian young
lady, to know what is proper. Poverina! she does not understand anything
about it; but the Signori will excuse me--I know my duty, and that is
enough.”
“Oh yes, certainly,” said Colin; “but then, in England, as you say, we
have different ideas; and if the Signorina does not wish----”
Here, however, he was interrupted by Lauderdale, who, having tardily
apprehended the purport of Sora Antonia’s communication, took it upon
himself to make instant response in the best Italian he could muster.
“_Avete molto buono, molto buono!_” cried Lauderdale, intending to say
that she was very kind, and that he highly approved, though a chronic
confusion in his mind, as to which was which of the auxiliary verbs,
made his meaning cloudy. “_Grazie, Abbiamo contento! Grazie_,” he added,
with a little excitement and enthusiasm. Though he had used the wrong
verb, Sora Antonia graciously comprehended his meaning. She was used to
such little eccentricities of diction on the part of the Forestieri. She
bowed her stately head to him with a look of approbation; and it would
be vain to deny that the sense of having thus expressed himself clearly
and eloquently in a foreign language conveyed a certain satisfaction to
the mind of the philosopher.
“Bravo! The Signore will talk very well if he perseveres,” said Sora
Antonia, graciously; “not to say that his Excellency is a man of
experience, and perceives the justice of what I but propose. No doubt,
it will occupy a great deal of my time, but the other Forestieri have
not arrived yet, and how can one expect the Madonna Santissima and the
blessed St. Antonio to take so much trouble in one’s concerns if one
will not exert one’s self a little for one’s fellow-creatures? As the
Signorina has not left her room yet, I will take away the
inconvenience[2] for a few minutes. Scusa Signori,” said Sora Antonia,
and she went away with stately bearing and firm steps which resounded
through the house, to take off her veil and put aside her rosary. She
had seated herself again in her indoor aspect, with the “Garden of the
Soul” in her hand, before Alice came into the room; and, without doubt,
she made a striking addition to the party. She was a Frascati woman
born, and her costume consequently, was perfect--a costume not so
brilliant in any of its details as that scarlet jacket of Albano, which
is the most generally known of contadina dresses; but not less
calculated to do justice to the ample bust and stately head of the Roman
peasant. The dress itself, the actual gown, in this as in other Italian
costumes, was an indifferent matter. The important particulars were the
long and delicate apron of embroidered muslin, the _busto_ made of rich
brocade and shaped to the exact Frascati model, and the large, soft,
snowy kerchief with embroidered corners, which covered her full
shoulders--not to speak of the long heavy gold ear-rings and coral
necklace which completed and enriched the dress. She sat apart and
contemplated, if not the “Garden of the Soul,” at least the little
pictures in borders of lace-paper which were placed thickly between the
leaves, while the melancholy meal was eaten at the table--for Sora
Antonia had _educazione_, and had not come to intrude upon the privacy
of her lodgers. Alice, for her part, made no remark upon the presence of
this new guardian; she accepted it as she accepted everything else, as a
matter of course, without even showing any painful sense of the
circumstances which in Sora Antonia’s opinion made this last precaution
necessary. Her two companions, the only friends she seemed to have in
the world, bore vicariously on her account the pain of such a visible
reminder that she was here in a false position and had no legitimate
protector; but Alice had not yet awaked to any such sense on her own
behalf. She took her place at the table and tried to swallow a morsel,
and interested herself in the appetite of the others as if she had been
their mother. “Try to eat something; it will make you ill if you do
not,” poor Alice said, in the abstraction and dead calm of her grief.
Her own feeling was that she had been lifted far away from them into an
atmosphere of age and distance and a kind of sad superiority; and to
minister to some one was the grand condition under which Alice Meredith
lived. As to the personal suffering, which was confined to herself, that
did not so much matter; she had not been used to much sympathy, and it
did not occur to her to look for it. Consequently, the only natural
business which remained to her was to take a motherly charge of her two
companions, and urge them to eat.
“You are not to mind me,” she said, with an attempt at a smile, after
dinner. “This is Sunday, to be sure; but, after to-day, you are just to
go on as you used to do, and never mind. Thank you, I should like it
better. I shall always be here, you know, when you come back from Rome,
or wherever you wish to go. But you must not mind for me.”
Lauderdale and Colin exchanged looks almost without being aware of it.
“But you would like--somebody to be sent for--or something done?” said
Lauderdale. He was a great deal more confused in having to suggest this
than Alice was, who kept looking at him, her eyes dilated with weariness
and tears, yet soft and clear as the eyes of a child. He could not say
to her, in so many words, “It is impossible for you to remain with us.”
All he could do was to falter and hesitate, and grow confused, under
the limpid, sorrowful look which she bent upon him from the distant
heaven of her resignation and innocence. “You would like your
friends--somebody to be written to,” said Lauderdale; and then, afraid
to have given her pain by the suggestion, went on hurriedly: “I’m old
enough to be your father, and no a thought in my mind but to do you
service,” he said. “Tell me what you would like best. Colin, thank God!
is strong, and has little need of me. I’ll take you home, or do whatever
you please; for I’m old enough to be your father, my poor bairn!” said
the tender-hearted philosopher, and drew near to her, and put out his
hand with an impulse of pitiful and protecting kindness which touched
the heart of Alice, and yet filled her with momentary surprise. She, on
her own side, was roused a little, not to think of herself, but to
remember what appeared to her a duty unfulfilled.
“Oh, Mr. Lauderdale, Arthur said I might tell you,” said Alice. “Papa!
you heard what he said about papa? I ought to write and tell him what
has happened. Perhaps I ought to tell you from the beginning,” she
continued, after composing herself a little. “We left home without his
consent--indeed, he did not know. For dear Arthur,” said the poor girl,
turning her appealing eyes from one to the other, could not approve of
his ways. “He did something that Arthur thought was wrong. I cannot tell
you about it,” said Alice through her tears; “it did not make so much
difference to me. I think I ought to write and tell him, and that Arthur
forgave him at the last. Oh, tell me, please, what do you think I should
do?”
“If you would like to go home, I’ll take you home,” said Lauderdale. “He
did not mean ony harm, poor callant, but he’s left an awfu’ burden on
you.”
“Go home!” said Alice, with a slight shudder. “Do you think I ought--do
you think I must? I do not care for myself; but Mrs. Meredith, you
know--” she added with a momentary blush; and then the friends began to
perceive another unforeseen lion in the way.
“Out of my own head,” said Lauderdale, who took the whole charge of this
business on himself, and would not permit Colin to interfere, “I wrote
your father a kind of a letter. If you are able to hear the--the
event--which has left us a’ mourning--named in common words, I’ll read
you what I have written. Poor bairn, you’re awfu’ young and awfu’ tender
to have such affairs in hand! Are you sure you are able to bear it, and
can listen to what I have said?”
“Ah, I have borne it,” said poor Alice. “I cannot deceive myself, nor
think Arthur is still here. What does it matter then about saying it?
Oh, yes, I can bear anything--there is only me to be hurt now, and it
doesn’t matter. It was very kind of you to write. I should like to know
what you have said.”
Colin, who could do nothing else for her, put forward the arm-chair with
the cushions towards the table, and Sora Antonia put down the “Garden of
the Soul” and drew a little nearer with her heavy, firm step, which
shook the house. She comprehended that something was going on which
would tax the Signorina’s strength, and brought her solid, steady
succour to be in readiness. The pale little girl turned and smiled upon
them both, as she took the chair Colin had brought her. She was herself
quite steady in her weakness and grief and loneliness. Sora Antonia was
not wanted there; and Colin drew her aside to the window, where she told
him all about the fireworks that were to be in the evening, and her
hopes that after a while the Signorina would be able to “distract
herself” a little and recover her spirits; to which Colin assented
dutifully, watching from where he stood the pale looks of the friendless
young woman--friendless beyond disguise or possible self-deception, with
a stepmother whom she blushed to mention reigning in her father’s house.
Colin’s thoughts were many and tumultuous as he stood behind in the
window, watching Alice and listening to Sora Antonia’s description of
the fireworks. Was it possible that perhaps his duty to his neighbour
required from him the most costly of all offerings, the rashest of all
possible actions? He stood behind, growing more and more excited in the
utter quiet. The thought that had dawned upon him under the ilex-trees
came nearer and grew more familiar, and as he looked at it he seemed to
recognise all that visible machinery of Providence bringing about the
great event which youth decides upon so easily. While this vision grew
before his mind, Alice was wiping off the tears which obliterated
Lauderdale’s letter even to her patient eyes; for, docile and dutiful as
she was, it was yet terrible to read in calm distinct words, which put
the matter beyond all doubt, the announcement of “what had happened.”
This is what Lauderdale had said:--
“SIR,--It is a great grief to me to inform you of an event for
which I have no way of knowing whether you are prepared or not.
Your son, Arthur Meredith, has been living here for the last three
months in declining health, and on Thursday last died in great
comfort and constancy of mind. It is not for me, a stranger, to
offer vain words of consolation, but his end was such as any man
might be well content to have, and he entered upon his new life
joyfully, without any shadow on his mind. As far as love and
friendship could soothe the sufferings that were inevitable, he had
both; for his sister never left his bedside, and myself and my
friend Colin Campbell were with him constantly, to his
satisfaction. His sister remains under our care. I who write am no
longer a young man, and know what is due to a young creature of her
tender years; so that you may satisfy yourself she is safe until
such time as you can communicate with me, which I will look for as
soon as a reply is practicable, and in the meantime remain,
“Your son’s faithful friend and mourner,
“W. LAUDERDALE.”
Alice lingered over this letter, reading it, and crying, and whispering
to Lauderdale a long time, as Colin thought. She found it easier,
somehow, to tell her story fully to the elder man. She told him that
Mrs. Meredith had “come home suddenly,” which was her gentle version of
a sad domestic history,--that nobody had known of her father’s second
marriage until the stepmother arrived, without any warning, with a train
of children. Alice’s mild words did not give Lauderdale any very lively
picture of the dismay of the household at the unlooked-for apparition,
but he understood enough to condemn Arthur less severely than he had
been disposed to do. This sudden catastrophe had happened just after the
other misery of the bank failure, which had ruined so many; and poor
Meredith had no alternative between leaving his sister to the tender
mercies of an underbred and possibly disreputable stepmother, or
bringing her with him when he retired to die; and Alice, though she
still cried for “poor papa,” recoiled a little from the conclusion of
Lauderdale’s letter. “I have enough to live upon,” she said, softly,
with an appealing glance at her companion. “If you were to say that I
was quite safe, would not that be enough?” and it was very hard for
Lauderdale to convince her that her father’s judgment must be appealed
to in such a matter. When she saw he was not to be moved on this point,
she sighed and submitted; but it was clearly apparent that as yet,
occupied as she was by her grief, the idea that her situation here was
embarrassing to her companions or unsuitable for herself had not
occurred to Alice. When she retired, under the escort of Sora Antonia,
the two friends had a consultation over this perplexing matter; and
Lauderdale’s sketch--filled in, perhaps, a little from his
imagination--of the home she had left, plunged Colin into deeper and
deeper thought. “No doubt he’ll send some answer,” the philosopher said.
“He may not be worthy to have the charge of her, but he’s aye her
father. It’s hard to ken whether it’s better or worse that she should be
so unconscious of anything embarrassing in her position; which is a’ the
more wonderful, as she’s a real honest woman, and no way intellectual
nor exalted. You and me, Colin,” said Lauderdale, looking up in his
young companion’s face, “must take good care that she does not find it
out from us.”
“Of course,” said Colin, with involuntary testiness; “but I do not see
what her father has to do with it,” continued the young man. “She cannot
possibly return to such a home.”
“Her father is the best judge of that,” said Lauderdale; “she canna
remain with you and me.”
And there the conversation dropped--but not the subject. Colin was not
in love with Alice; he had, indeed, vague but bright in the clouds
before him, an altogether different ideal woman; and his heart was in
the career which he again saw opening before him--the life in which he
meant to serve God and his country, and which at the present moment
would admit of no rashly formed ties. Was it in consequence of these
hindrances that this new thing loomed so large before Colin’s
inexperienced eyes? If he had longed for it with youthful passion, he
would have put force on himself and restrained his longing; but the
temptation took another shape. It was as if a maiden knight at the
outset of his career had been tempted to pass by a helpless creature and
leave her wrongs unredressed. The young Bayard could do anything but
this.