I.

It is an April day, and Venice is lying under a brilliant sun,

which brings out all the beryl sheen of its translucent waterways,

the gleam of its marvelous domes, the Byzantine color that still

clings to the front of its palaces, and all the life of its

picturesque and varied humanity. It is the last which specially

appeals to the interest of a man who has strolled from the Piazza

San Marco into the Piazzetta, and watches the animated movement

along the Riva de’ Schiavoni, that meeting-place of Italy and

the Orient, with eyes that take in every variety of the types

passing before him. And when they grow tired of water-carriers

and gondoliers, of soldiers and sailors, of Italians, Greeks,

Austrians, and Orientals, they have but to look beyond on the

fairest scene in the world--the wide, green plain of shining

water, as the Grand Canal opens into the lagoon, the isle of San

Giorgio with its cluster of picturesque buildings, and far to

seaward the Armenian Convent of San Lazare.

But the picture grows too dazzling after a while, and the observer,

turning, walks toward the palace of the Doges, entered under the

Saracenic arches into its great court, and ascending the Giant’s

Stairway passed into those gorgeous saloons where the sumptuous

life of old Venice still glows on the walls in that Venetian art

which in glory of coloring excels every other school. The usual

number of tourists, with open guide-books, were scattered through

the apartments, filling even the dread chamber of the Council

of Ten with their light chatter; but the newcomer avoided them,

lingered only in comparatively empty rooms, and presently wandered

into the Hall of the Great Council, whence he passed out of an

empty window to a balcony, where he found himself on a level with

the top of the column which bears the winged lion, and overlooking

from this higher elevation the same wide, beautiful picture of sea

and sky, of glittering domes and sun-tinted campanili, which he

had lately seen from below.

On a seat conveniently placed in a corner of the balcony he sat

down, and with his back against the stone wall of the Ducal Palace,

with the famous lion smiling familiarly upon him, and with the

scene of all the past glory and triumphs of Venice before his eyes,

he fell easily into that waking dream which Venice above all places

has power to produce. For where else is the setting of the past

so perfectly preserved? From the gorgeous frescoes of Tintoretto

and Paul Veronese, one steps forth to look on the unchanged

scene--palaces, columns, quays, luminous sea, and dazzling sky--of

the great events they represent, and to ask one’s self if the

stately pageants will not soon come forth to meet the victorious

galleys laden with the spoils of the East, or to accompany the Doge

when he goes forth in state to wed the Adriatic?

Into some such dream this man had fallen, when his pleasant

solitude suffered an interruption. Through the open window a figure

suddenly stepped, and advancing to the balustrade stood before

him outlined against the horizon of sea and sky. For a moment he

was inclined to regard with impatience this new object, obtruded

into the foreground of the picture he had been contemplating

with so much satisfaction; then it dawned upon him that, so far

from marring, it rather added a new and charming element to this

picture. For it was the figure of a young girl, tall and graceful,

with an indescribable beauty in the carriage of the small, shapely

head and the lines of the neck and shoulders. Her attitude, too,

was full of unconscious grace, as she stood gazing seaward; and

since her back was turned toward him, he could admire this grace at

his leisure, together with the picturesque drapery of her dress,

which was made of some fabric as soft and clinging in quality as it

was harmonious in color.

But presently she turned her face toward the great lion of St.

Mark, and presented to his view what he instantly decided to be the

loveliest profile he had ever seen--a profile as clearly cut as

that of a head on an antique cameo, but with a peculiarly delicate

grace of its own, and with coloring as exquisite as the tints of

a flower. She was smiling as she looked at the lion--who stonily

regarded her from his pedestal--and she made such a delightful

picture in her youth and beauty, that the man behind her held

his breath, fearing lest some chance movement should betray his

presence and cause her to disappear.

But, instead of this, she was presently joined by another figure,

that of a young man, who stepped through the window and walked up

to her side with an air of easy familiarity.

“By Jove!” said the newcomer, “I don’t wonder that you come out

here for relief from those miles of pictures! Their effect is

positively stupefying.”

“To _you_, perhaps, it may be,” said the young lady, in a very

sweet voice, with a slightly mocking accent. “But it was not

because _I_ felt stupefied that I came out, but because the greater

picture tempted me. When one has Venice before one’s eyes, one

hardly cares to look at paintings.”

“That is exactly my opinion,” said the young man, “so let us go

down and get into a gondola and float about. That is the principal

thing to do, besides lounging in the piazza.”

“Then suppose you go and lounge in the piazza,” said the young

lady. “I am very well satisfied where I am,” and as she spoke she

turned again toward the railing, with the air of one who did not

mean to stir.

“Oh, I am very well satisfied to stay here--with you,” said her

companion, leaning beside her.

At this point it occurred to the unobserved listener behind that

the time had come for him to retire. Solitude was charming, and

charming also was the contemplation of a single graceful figure in

the foreground of a noble picture; but a conventional pair of young

people engaged in a conventional flirtation was more than he could

endure. With a sense of disgust and vexation he rose, and entered

again the Hall of Council.

Over this magnificent apartment various groups were scattered, some

studying the frescoes of battles and triumphs, others following

the frieze of Doges’ portraits, and pausing before the vacant panel

across which is thrown a black curtain and on which is painted the

name of Marino Faliero, and the short sentence, “_Decapitati pro

criminibus_,” while others were occupied with Tintoretto’s vast

_Paradiso_. Among the latter was a pretty, fashionably dressed

young woman, who, seated on a chair before the immense picture,

had transferred her attention from it to the costumes of a pair

of English girls, whose dresses were as ill-fitting as their

complexions were blooming, and who appeared to be studying the

great composition in detail, unconscious of the critical glances of

the animated fashion-plate behind them.

This little scene attracted the notice of the idler from the

balcony, and as he advanced, drawn rather by amusement than by any

special interest on his own part in the _Paradiso_, the lady of the

chair turned her eyeglass upon him. A moment later she had dropped

it and risen to her feet, exclaiming:

“What, Lennox--Mr. Kyrle!”

Lennox Kyrle--for it was he--started and looked at her for an

instant; then he held out his hand, saying, quietly:

“This is a very unexpected pleasure, Mrs. Meredith.”

Fanny Meredith turned from white to red, and red to white again.

His composure seemed to rebuke her agitation and that slip of the

tongue--“Lennox.” Moreover, she could not forget that this was the

first time they had met since parting as lovers. But she recovered

herself quickly, and, glancing up as she gave him her hand, said, a

little reproachfully:

“I knew you at once, though you have changed, but you were not sure

of me.”

“Yet you have _not_ changed,” said he, smiling and wondering--so

quick is thought!--as he looked into her upturned face, where he

had found the charm which once enslaved him. She had not changed,

he was quite right about that; but where was there inspiration for

any of the rapture and agony of passion in this blooming, piquant,

commonplace countenance? As he held the hand which he had once so

eagerly coveted, he thanked Heaven for that old disappointment,

while he said, “But I could not expect to meet you here.”

“As easily as I could expect to meet you,” she answered, “though it

is true I heard that you had gone to Egypt as a war correspondent.

But the war has been over for some time.”

“For something like half a year,” he replied; “but I have been up

the Nile, and, had it not been for a sudden summons calling me

home, I might be emulating Stanley in equatorial Africa now.”

“I should think you would rather be here,” said Mrs. Meredith, with

a little shudder. “We have lately come, and I am delighted with

Venice.”

“Most people are,” said Lennox; “and by ‘we’ you mean, I presume,

Mr. Meredith and yourself?”

“And the Joscelyns. We joined them in Paris. You know the

Joscelyns? No? Well, at least”--with a sudden laugh and blush--“you

remember Aimée?”

“Aimée!” he repeated, in a puzzled tone. Then suddenly there

flashed upon him the memory of the old sea wall of St. Augustine,

of the tide murmuring at his feet, of the stars shining overhead,

and of a sweet, frightened voice saying, “I am sent to tell you

that Fanny can not come.” The name, which he had forgotten, brought

the scene back like a picture, and with it also another scene--an

orange grove at sunset, its alleys filled with golden light, its

glistening foliage meeting like an arcade above, and a pair of dark

eyes gazing half-beseechingly, half-defiantly into his, while the

same sweet voice said, “As for me, I will never speak!” Remember

her! How could he ever forget the delicate, childlike creature,

with her unbending loyalty? His eyes, which time had not rendered

less brilliant and keen, gave a flash of recollection as he turned

them on Mrs. Meredith, saying, “You mean the young cousin whom you

sent--”

“Yes,” she interrupted, looking around with a quick glance. “Pray,

be more cautious. If it were suspected, there would be trouble even

yet. It is a great bore to have a jealous husband! And you know

you are supposed to have been Aimée’s lover.”

Mr. Kyrle drew his brows together, and lifted a head which was not

without natural haughtiness a little higher. He thought that the

bad taste of this speech was only equaled by its impertinence.

“I am aware,” he said, stiffly, “of the deception which you induced

your cousin to assist you in practicing at the time of which you

speak; but I hardly thought it possible that even you could have

allowed such an impression to remain until now.”

“You are as flattering as ever, I perceive,” said Fanny, coolly.

“‘Even you’--that means, I suppose, that you consider me bad enough

for anything, and yet are a little surprised that I have been bad

enough for this! But, you see, if it was a matter of necessity at

the time, it has been equally a matter of necessity ever since.

And it did Aimée no harm; whereas to have told the truth, then or

later, would have done _me_ great harm.”

“I remember that she described herself as of no importance,” said

Kyrle, “and it seems that you fully shared the opinion.”

“Yes,” answered Fanny, calmly, “that was what we both thought,

she and I, when I sent her on that unlucky errand. I shall never

forgive Mr. Meredith for not going home and to bed like a Christian

that night! But, as it turned out, she was really a person of much

importance. She inherited a great South American fortune, and she

is now an heiress and beauty of the first rank.”

“And yet,” cried Kyrle, with the old indignation rushing over him,

“you have suffered her to rest under--”

“The aspersion of having been on the point of eloping with you,”

said Fanny, with a subdued, wicked laugh. “Yes, it was a necessity

of the situation, and I will say for Aimée that she is the most

generous creature I ever knew. I really can not see why you should

look so indignant. Pray, do you think it such a horrible thing to

have been on the point of eloping with you?”

“I think,” he answered, haughtily, “that it is a shameful injustice

to allow a young girl to rest under the imputation of having been

about to elope with any one when she is altogether innocent of it.”

“We went over all that and settled it at the time,” said Mrs.

Meredith, impatiently, “and it is much too late to unsettle it now.

It is ancient history--dead, buried, forgotten. Besides, no one

knows anything about it except Mr. Meredith; and there is surely

not much to harm Aimée in one person’s knowledge. Percy Joscelyn

suspects something--you may remember that he found you with Aimée

on that awfully unlucky day--but he does not _know_ anything. He

will, however, look upon you as having been her lover, and the

whole Joscelyn clan will be thrown into consternation by your

appearance. They watch the poor child, and every man who approaches

her, like so many dragons. How amusing”--with another irrepressible

laugh--“it is that you should have turned up just now!”

“At the cost of depriving you of some amusement,” he said,

coldly, “I shall not renew my acquaintance with your cousin--if

acquaintance it could be called. The last thing I am capable of

is of annoying one who has already been the victim of such an

injustice.”

“But why should you annoy her?” inquired Fanny--whom time had

evidently not robbed of any of her volatile qualities--opening

her eyes. “And you don’t know, really, what you will lose. She is

charming! Every one admires her immensely.”

“I shall not have the opportunity of doing so,” replied Kyrle,

more stiffly than ever, for he said to himself that this woman was

insufferable. “I am leaving Venice almost immediately, and since I

may not have the pleasure of seeing you again, I shall therefore

bid you adieu--”

“Not just yet,” said Fanny, with a note of malicious triumph in her

voice. “Here is an old friend to whom you must speak first.--Aimée,

my dear, let me recall Mr. Kyrle to your recollection.”