THE SCENE CHANGES
The midday sun had risen into a sky of deep cloudless blue, and a
silence almost as intense as the silence of night rested upon the earth.
No one was abroad, no one seemed to have anything particular to do. Far
away on the vine-covered slopes a few peasants were lazily bending over
their work, the bright garments of their picturesque attire standing out
like little specks of brilliant coloring against the dun-colored
background. But in the quaint old-fashioned town itself no one was
astir. One solitary Englishman made his way alone and almost unnoticed
through the queer zig-zag streets, up the worn grey steps by the famous
statute of Minerva, and on to the terraced walk, fronting which were the
aristocratic villas of the little Italian town.
It was a solitude which was pleasing to him, for it was very evident
that he was no curious tourist, or casual visitor of any sort. His eyes
were full of that eager half-abstracted look which so clearly denotes
the awakening of old associations, quickened into life by familiar
surroundings; and, indeed, it was so. To Bernard Maddison, every stone
in that quietly sleeping, picturesque old town spoke with a language of
its own. The very atmosphere, laden with the sultry languorous heat of a
southern sun, seemed charged with memories. Their influence was strong
upon him, and he walked like a man in a dream, until he reached what
seemed to be his destination, and here he paused.
He had come to the end of the terraced walk, the evening promenade of
the whole town. Before him was a small orange grove, whose aromatic
odor, faintly penetrating the still air, added one more to his stock of
memories. On his right hand was a grey stone wall, worn and tottering
with age, and overhung with green creepers and shrubs, reaching over and
hanging down from the other side, and let into it, close to him, was a
low nail-studded door of monastic shape, half hidden by a luxurious
drooping shrub, from amongst the foliage of which peeped out star-like
clusters of soft scarlet flowers.
For many moments he stood before that door, with his hand resting upon
the rusty latch, lingering in a sort of apathy, as though he were
unwilling to disturb some particular train of thought. Then a
mellow-sounding bell from a convent in the valley below startled him,
and immediately he lifted the latch before him. There was no other
fastening, and the door opened. He stepped inside, and carefully
reclosed it.
He was in a garden, a garden of desolation, which nature seemed to have
claimed for her own and made beautiful. It was a picture of luxuriant
overgrowth. The grass on the lawns had become almost a jungle. It had
grown up over the base of the deep grey stone basins of exquisite shape
and carving, the tiny statuettes tottering into ruin, and the worn old
sun-dial, across which the slanting rays of the sun still glanced.
Weeds, too, had crept up around them in picturesque toils, weeds which
had started to destroy, but remained to adorn with all the sweet abandon
of unrestrained growth. Some of them had put forth brilliant blossoms
of many hues, little spots of exquisite coloring against the sombre hue
of the stonework and the deep green of the leaves. Everywhere nature had
triumphed over science and skill. Everything was changed, and nature had
shown herself a more perfect gardener than man. The gravel paths were
embedded with soft green moss, studded with clumps of white and purple
violets, whose faint fragrance, mingled with the more exotic scent of
other plants, filled the warm air with a peculiar dreamy perfume.
Nowhere had the hand of man sought to restrain or to develop. Nature had
had her own way, and had made for herself a fair garden.
A little overcome by the heat, and a little, too, by swiftly stirring
memories, Bernard Maddison sank down upon a low iron seat, under the
shade of a little clump of almond trees, and covered his face with his
hands. And there came to him, as he sat there, something more vivid than
an ordinary day-dream, something so real and minutely played out, that
afterwards it possessed for him all the freshness and significance of a
veritable trance. It seemed, indeed, as if some mysterious force had
drawn aside the curtain of the past in his mind, and had bidden him look
out once more upon the moving figures in a living drama.
* * * * *
The warm sunlight faded from the sky, the summer heat died out of the
air, the soft velvety mantle of a southern night lay upon the brooding
land. Many stars were burning in the deep-blue heavens, and the horned
moon, golden and luminous, hung low down in the west.
Pale, and with the fever of a great anger burning in his dry eyes, a
man sat at the open window of the villa yonder, watching. Around him
were scattered all the signs of arduous brain labor, books, manuscripts,
classical dictionaries, and works of reference. But his pen had fallen
from his hand, and he was doing nothing. He sat there idle, gazing out
upon the fantastic shapes and half-veiled gloom of this fair garden. Its
rich balmy odors, and the fainter perfume of rarer plants which floated
languidly in through the open window, were nothing to him. He was barely
conscious of the sweet delights of the voluptuous summer night. He was
watching with his eyes fixed upon the east, where morning would soon be
breaking.
It came at last--what he was waiting for. There was a slight click of
the latch from the old postern door in the wall, and the low murmur of
voices--a man's, pleading and passionate, and a woman's, half gay, half
mocking. Then the door opened and shut, and a tall fair lady walked
leisurely up toward the villa.
She wore no hat, but a hooded opera-cloak was thrown loosely over her
shoulders, and as she strolled up the path, pausing every now and then
to carelessly gather a handful of the drooping lilies, whose perfume
made faint the heavy night air, its folds parted, and revealed brief
glimpses of soft white drapery and flashing jewels on her bosom and in
her hair. Her feet, too, were cased in tiny white satin slippers, which
seemed scarcely to press the ground, so lightly and gracefully she
walked. Altogether she was very fair to look upon--the fairest sight in
all that lovely garden.
Not so seemed to think the man who stood back in the shadow of the
window, waiting for her. His white face was ghastly with passion, and
his fingers were nervously interlaced in the curtains. It was only with
a supreme effort that he at last flung them from him, and moved forward
as though to meet her.
She saw him standing there, pale and rigid, like a carved statue, save
for the passion which burned in his eyes, and for a moment she
hesitated. Then, with the resigned air of one who makes up her mind to
face something disagreeable, she shrugged her shoulders, and throwing
away the handful of lilies she had gathered, advanced toward him.
They neither of them spoke until they stood face to face. Then, as his
motionless form prevented her stepping through the window, and barred
her further progress, she came to a standstill, and addressed him
lightly.
"Yours is a strange welcome home, _mon ami_," she said. "Why do you
stand there looking so fierce?"
He pointed with shaking fingers away toward the east, where a faint
gleam of daylight was lightening the sky.
"Where have you been?" he asked harshly. "Can you not see that it is
morning? All night long I have sat here watching for you. Where have you
been?"
"You know very well where I have been," she answered carelessly. "To the
ball at the Leon d'Or. I told you that I was going."
"Told me! You told me! Did I not forbid it? Did I not tell you that I
would not have you go?"
"Nevertheless, I have been," she answered lightly. "It was an
engagement, and I never break engagements."
"An engagement? You, with no chaperon, to go to a common ball at a
public room! An engagement. Yes, with your lover, I presume."
She looked at him steadily, and yawned in his face.
"You are in a bad temper, I fear," she said. "At least, you are very
rude. Let me pass, will you? I am tired of standing here."
He was beside himself with passion, and for a second or two he did not
speak. But when at last the words came, they were clear and distinct
enough.
"Into this house you shall never pass again," he said. "You have
disregarded my wishes, you have disobeyed my orders, and now you are
deceiving me. You are trifling with my honor. You are bringing shame
upon my name. Go and keep your assignations from another roof. Mine has
sheltered your intrigues long enough!"
The hand which had kept together her opera-cloak relinquished its grasp,
and it fell back upon her shoulders. The whole beauty of her sinuous
figure, in its garb of dazzling white, stood revealed. The moonlight
gleamed in her fair hair, bound up with one glittering gem, shone softly
upon her white swelling throat and bare arms, and flashed in her dark
eyes, suddenly full of passion. Her right hand was nervously clasped
around a little morsel of lace handkerchief which she had drawn from the
folds of her corsage, and which seemed to make the air around heavy with
a sweet perfume.
"You are angry, and you do not know what you are saying," she said. "It
is true that you forbade me to go to-night--but you forbid everything. I
cannot live your life. It is too dull, too _triste_. It is cruel of you
to expect it. Let me go in now. If you want to scold, you can do so
to-morrow."
She stepped forward, but he laid his hands upon her dainty shoulders and
pushed her roughly back.
"Never!" he cried savagely. "Go and live what life you choose. This is
no home for you. Go, I say!"
She looked at him, her lovely eyes turned pleadingly upwards, and her
lips trembling.
"You are mad!" she said. "Am I not your wife? You have no right to keep
me here. And my boy, too. Let me pass."
He did not move, nor did he show any sign of yielding. He stood there
with his hand stretched out in a threatening gesture toward her, his
face pale and mute as marble, but with the blind rage still burning in
his dark eyes.
"What is the boy, or what am I to you?" he cried hoarsely. "Begone,
woman!"
Still she did not seem to understand.
"Where would you have me go?" she asked. "Is not this my home? What have
I----"
"Go to your lover!" he interrupted fiercely. "Tell him that your husband
is no longer your tool. He will take you in."
A burning color streamed into her delicate cheeks, and a sudden passion
blazed in her eyes. She drew herself up to her full height and turned
upon him with the dignity of an empress.
"Listen to me one moment," she said. "Ask yourself whether you have ever
tried to make my life a happy one. Did I ever pretend to care for books
and solitude? Before I married you I told you that I was fond of change
and gaiety and life, and you promised me that I should have it. Ask
yourself how you have kept that promise. You deny me every pleasure, and
drive me to seek them alone. I am weary of your jealous furies, and
your evil temper. As God looks down upon us at this moment, I have been
a faithful wife to you; but if you will add to all your cruelties this
cowardly, miserable indignity, then I will never willingly look upon
your face again, and what sin I do will be on your head, not mine. Will
you stand aside and let me pass?"
"Never!" he answered. "Never!"
She drew her mantle round her shoulders, and turned her back upon him
with a contemptuous gesture.
"You have made me what I shall be," she said. "The sin be with you. For
several weary years you have made me miserable. Now you have made me
wicked."
She walked away into the perfumed darkness, and presently he heard the
gate close behind her. He listened frantically, hoping to hear her
returning steps. It was in vain. All was silent. Then he felt his limbs
totter, and he sank back on a couch, and buried his face amongst the
cushions.