had ever done. Just as she was putting the finishing stroke to it, a
gondola went gliding by, an old and shabby one, and in the tall figure
at the stern she recognised Nanni. An indefinable shadow crept over the
bright elation of a moment previous, and she stopped painting.
"That old tub of your Nanni's is about ready for the crematory," Kenwick
observed, as he too began putting up his traps.
"The crematory?" she repeated, absently.
"Yes; when they are fairly on their last legs the gondolas are burnt in
the glass-factories."
May watched the water-logged craft as it vanished under a distant
bridge.
"I like that idea about the gondolas," she remarked, a few minutes
later, as Pauline and Uncle Dan, who had been taking a turn in the
Giudecca, came to pick them up. "The poor old things must be glad to
breathe their dying breath into those exquisite flasks and vases."
"What's that about dying breaths?" Uncle Dan demanded, as he handed his
niece into the gondola. "Yes; it is a happy fate to die in a good
cause," he admitted, when the matter was explained to him,--and he
wondered whether it could possibly be Kenwick who had put the child in
a sentimental mood.
"But a happier fate to serve a good cause and live," Kenwick maintained;
adding, lightly: "Miss May tells me I have taught her something, and I
desire to live long to remember it."
"You probably will," the Colonel rejoined, curtly.
"You were wishing the other day for a short life and a merry one,"
Pauline observed, as the Colonel turned to speak to Vittorio.
"Perhaps things have changed since then," Kenwick replied, in a low
voice, with so much seriousness and significance that May gave him a
quick, amused look, while Pauline experienced an unreasonable
resentment. What business had a stranger like Kenwick to be talking to
them in riddles?
And yet, the next day, when the whole party took the trip by steamer,
the long length of the lagoon to Chioggia, Pauline was shocked to find
herself almost resigned to the pretensions of the stranger as exhibited
toward May.
The morning was a glorious one, cooler and clearer than the usual
Venice June. Across the lagoon to the west, the Euganean hills stood
out, sharp-cut in their pointed outlines as if carved in stone,--as
indeed they doubtless are,--while to the northward, looking back across
the domes and spires of the receding city, could be seen the distant
snow-capped range of the Tyrolese Alps, so gracious in its undulating
curves, as to make an impression almost of warmth and tenderness.
[Illustration: "May watched the water-logged craft as
it vanished under a distant bridge"]
From the start, Kenwick had succeeded in engaging May's attention, having
resort to the same means which had already proved efficacious. At his
suggestion they had each brought a sketchbook, and, during the trip of
several hours, they jotted down desultory notes of the passing scene.
Here, a boat laden with market produce, its gay, striped sail bulging to
the breeze; there, the towers of Malamocco and Poveglia, with the pretty
vista of the channel between. Again, a rude shrine erected on piles, or a
group of boys diving off a tumble-down wharf in the distance. It was very
delightful, this monopoly of the young girl's attention. The eager interest
with which she listened to his suggestions, the quick intelligence with
which she acted upon them.
And Pauline, sitting with Geof a little apart from the others, tried in
vain to take herself to task for leaving Kenwick so entirely to his own
devices. She supposed she understood her sister too well to have any
anxiety on her account. The ready interest of May's manner was precisely
of the same sort as that with which she had listened to Nanni's
instructions in rowing, or to Vittorio's lessons in the Italian tongue.
Pauline remembered how, only the other day, Vittorio had made mention of
a _piccola bestia_ with whose name they were not familiar, and she
smiled, as she recalled May's triumph when, at last, after a laboured
description of its leading characteristics, it had dawned upon her that
the small beast with a smooth coat, a pointed nose, a long tail,
and--yes, that told the story!--_four legs_, was a mouse!
Nevertheless, though her conscience was easy with regard to her sister,
Pauline told herself, severely, that Geof was being very hardly used,
and that she, by her supineness, was as much to blame as Kenwick for
the artist's unwarrantable behaviour. To be sure, Geof betrayed no
dissatisfaction with the existing arrangement; he was far too well-bred
for that,--and really, how fine he was, in this as in everything! One
would have thought that he was deeply interested in telling her about
the great sea-wall in which nature and man have gone into partnership,
and upon the preservation of which depends the very existence of Venice.
There it stretched for miles, the long, narrow strip of sand and
masonry, and as the steamer plied the waters of the lagoon, hour after
hour, in the bright June morning, they could hear the tread of the
breakers on the beach outside, and realise something of the mighty
forces that must be resisted in time of winter storms.
"That thing almost made an engineer of me," Geof observed.
"I don't wonder," said Pauline, with ready comprehension; "it appeals to
one immensely," and Geof knew that she was in sympathy with him, that
not a word he had said, not a word he had left unsaid, had been lost
upon her.
"When I am particularly out of conceit with myself," he continued,--and
he liked to remember that there was no one else to whom he would have
talked in this strain,--"I get to thinking that perhaps it was a mistake
not to stick to that first notion. It's a fine thing to work for
defence."
"Yes," said Pauline, after the little pause he knew so well, and which
he had learned not to break in upon,--"but,--isn't it better still to
build for shelter?"
The thoughtful words, fraught with so much delicate meaning, touched him
with a sense as of home and of sweet human happiness; the friendly eyes,
turned questioningly to his, thrilled him with a yet deeper feeling. A
look came into his face which had surely never been seen there before,
but he only said, in his deep, honest voice: "You have given a new grace
to my bricks and mortar."
Then Pauline, usually so modest and so self-contained, was conscious of
a reprehensible feeling of exultation, and, by a singular association of
ideas, she found herself constrained to remember what Uncle Dan had said
to her the other evening. She glanced at him, chatting, in pleasant
good-fellowship, with the Signora, and she was glad to think that they
too were to be made happy by this beautiful and wonderful thing which
all agreed was in the air. And at this point in her meditations Pauline
became possessed of such an irresistible, and certainly most illogical
desire to give a little sob, that she rose abruptly to her feet, and
went to look at her sister's sketches.
They were nearing the end of their voyage, and, a few minutes later,
they had made the landing, and were strolling through the ancient town
in search of luncheon. They found a little inn at the edge of the water,
where they partook of omelette and native wine, served in a pretty
loggia; after which they sauntered about the place, purchasing a piece
of lace of one and another picturesque old hag, and picking up some
quaint bits of pottery in a dingy shop under the arcades. Later, having
done their duty by the sights, they chartered a big boat, propelled by
two strapping oarsmen and a couple of very splendid sails, and voyaged
peacefully down a sleepy canal, and out across a bit of quiet lagoon to
the strip of beach known as Sotto Marina. There, on the shore, they came
upon a solitary child in a red petticoat, with a small purple shawl
crossed over her funny little person. She was apparently absorbed in
watching the tiny wavelets at her feet, scarcely bestowing a glance upon
the numberless brilliant sails, scattered like a field of Roman anemones
upon the deep green of the sea.
As the strangers descended upon her, the little recluse payed them the
tribute of a fascinated stare, and they, in return, did their best to
instill into her mind the belief that they were creatures of another and
a brighter sphere. Uncle Dan presented her with a peppermint lozenge,
Mrs. Daymond held her broad, lace-trimmed parasol over the small black
head, while May gave her a glimpse of the world through each end of her
opera-glass. The child was a self-contained little person, and betrayed
no special elation over these blandishments. When the time for parting
came, Kenwick, with much ceremony, presented her with a bright piece of
nickel, as a _ricordo_ of the visit. She was something of a beauty, in
her small childish way, and he petitioned for a kiss in return. This the
little maid politely but firmly refused; her favours were evidently not
for sale.
"If you won't give me one," he said, trying not to look abashed at the
rebuff, "go and kiss the lady you love best."
They were all standing about in the bright sunshine, deriving no little
entertainment from Kenwick's discomfiture. The child took the
proposition very seriously; but, after a moment's deliberation, she
walked straight up to Pauline and lifted a small, pursed-up mouth to
her.
"If that's not just Pauline's luck!" May exclaimed, as her sister
stooped to receive the proffered salutation. "And she is the only one of
us all who hasn't paid the little wretch the slightest attention!"
"Oh, yes, she has," Geof protested, in perfect good faith. "She has been
smiling at her!" Upon which everybody laughed, and no one more heartily
than Geof, at the way his remark had turned out.
Kenwick's merriment, however, was not quite sincere. A vague mistrust
had crept over him and was working within him, subtly and surely, as the
afternoon wore on. Had he been mistaken about Geof? The thought was too
distasteful to be seriously entertained, and he rejected it summarily.
Yet it had not been without effect. His vanity had taken alarm, and the
instinct of self-preservation was roused in his mind.
Yes, he thought to himself, half-an-hour later, as they sailed before a
light wind under the gay Chioggia canvas, out toward the open sea,--yes,
he had been venturing upon deep waters, and it was time to come about.
It was, of course, sheer nonsense to suppose that Geof's taking May's
defection so easily was an indication of any real indifference on his
part. He was only too plaguey sure of himself to feel any anxiety. Geof
had always had an irritating way of taking things for granted; but, when
it came to the point, no one with eyes in his head could be really
indifferent to that superb young creature. Kenwick glanced at the
slender figure perched at the extreme prow of the boat, and straightway
he experienced an awkward wrench somewhere in the neighbourhood of that
organ to which is attributed so large a share in our emotional
embarrassments. And it was at this juncture that Kenwick had recourse to
a curious befooling of himself in which long practice had made him an
adept.
A sail was just passing, a deep red one, bearing the design of globe and
cross in crude outline of uncompromising black. As he regarded,
absently, that primitive religious symbol, there awoke within him a
certain phantom conscience, which was wont to play an effective part in
his elaborate process of self-mystification. To-day this facile monitor
hinted that if Geof did feel so sure of himself, it would hardly be the
part of a friend to press his own advantage too far. Geof was a good
fellow; he really had a great opinion of Oliver Kenwick's talent, and
did not hesitate to say so on occasion. It would never do to play him
any unhandsome tricks. The more unsuspicious he was, the more it
behooved Kenwick to guard his interests. Yes; he would withdraw in
Geof's favour, he would be hanged if he wouldn't!
And so it came about that by the time they were returning northward
again in the Venice steamer, Kenwick had worked himself up to a really
lofty pitch of self-sacrifice. He would go off in the Stickneys' yacht
with them to-morrow, by Jove he would! Luckily for him, he had left the
invitation open, not from any intention of accepting it, but simply
because he had never in his life burnt a bridge. A good principle that;
he would always stick to it.
As the lovely sunset light grew and deepened, Venice came up like a
vision out of the sea. The cloudless sky was tinged with yellow, and the
water rippled in molten gold up to the very side of the boat. He turned
to May, who chanced to be standing beside him, looking, with level gaze,
straight into the serene heart of the sky. She had certainly a softer,
gentler look than she used to wear. Would it deepen as he spoke?
"This is a charming ending to my visit here," he said, quietly.
"Ending?" May exclaimed, turning upon him that bright, straightforward
look with which she met every statement of fact. "Ending? Why, you are
not going away?"
"Yes; I am off with the Stickneys early to-morrow morning."
"In the _Urania_? You _are_ in luck! But why didn't you tell us before?"
"I couldn't bear to speak of it," he averred, and at the moment he
almost believed he was speaking the truth. "It costs me too much to go
away."
"Well, I don't wonder," May declared; "there's nothing like Venice.
Still, you live abroad half the time, and can come here whenever you
please."
"Ah, Miss May!" he exclaimed, and this time he was absolutely sincere.
"Venice will never be the same to me again."
She could not altogether misunderstand his meaning, but it was
impossible to take him very seriously, and, prompted by a not too lively
curiosity, she asked: "Then why do you go?"
"Because it would be wrong for me to stay," he replied, with a subdued,
almost convincing emphasis.
"Then of course you must go," she returned, with the youthful decision
that rarely failed her; adding, consolingly, as her eyes wandered back
to the sunset: "And I've no doubt you will enjoy the _Urania_ quite as
much as Venice."
XV
June Roses
As Kenwick stood, the next morning, on the deck of the beautiful
pleasure-boat for whose splendours he had betrayed so lively an
appreciation, he looked back across the widening distance with a sense
of regret more poignant than he was at all prepared to deal with. Even
when they were actually weighing anchor, he found himself considering
the feasibility of a retreat, and now, as the screw turned, and the water,
on whose tranquil bosom he had floated so peacefully, was churned into a
seething froth, a sickening misgiving seized him. Had he paid too high a
price to preserve the integrity of his scheme of life?--or rather,--he
hastened to correct himself,--had he made too great a sacrifice to the
claims of friendship? That was the more consoling view to take. He had
done the handsome thing and he would not flinch,--especially since he
could not now do so without making himself ridiculous.
Kenwick refrained from asking himself why he should consider Daymond's
claim paramount to his own; he was not given to searching analysis of
his own motives. The man who values his illusions soon learns the best
way of preserving them, and the illusion in question was doubly
valuable, since it bade fair, under judicious tending, to invest the
mythical Oliver Kenwick, already so dear to his imagination, with a
nimbus of romantic devotion most agreeable to contemplate.
His fellow-passengers were a talkative and somewhat egotistical company,
and he was left more completely to himself, for the first few moments
than, on ordinary occasions, he would have found quite to his mind. No
one was likely to note the persistency with which his glance returned to
one of the high, stone balconies of the Hotel _Venezia_.
There was one chance in ten that a certain tall, girlish figure might
appear there, as it had so often done in the carelessly fleeting days
that were already past and gone; there was one chance in twenty that it
might appear for his sake, that a fluttering white handkerchief might
assure him of certain pleasant things. He strained his eyes to the last
possible moment, in the hope of such a sight; but he was too mindful of
appearances even in the stress and strain of painful emotion, to take
out his opera-glass and turn it upon that point. He did, however, so far
forget himself, as to sigh profoundly, and without that guarded look to
right and left, which should always precede such an indulgence. That, in
itself, was a very marked concession to feeling.
There remained to Kenwick one consolation besides that of having behaved
handsomely to Daymond: he had left a fragrant, if not a lasting, memory
behind him. Would she not be pleased, would she not be touched, when,
presently, his roses were brought to her? She was to find them when she
came up from breakfast; his directions to the porter on that head had
been very explicit. And would not the roses, beautiful in themselves,
gain a telling significance, by reason of the message they bore? On the
reverse side of his card he had written, in his small, clear hand, the
words:
"All June I bound the rose in sheaves."
The line seemed to him extremely well chosen; it could hardly fail to
stimulate the imagination. He, himself, felt its haunting quality, and
he had repeated it, under his breath, as he followed the gardener about,
urging him to cull his choicest roses.
As he mused upon these things, the yacht, rounding Santa Elena, steamed
away to the Porto del Lido, and he suddenly became aware that Miss
Hortense Stickney's inquisitive eyes were fixed upon him. He was
instantly on his guard.
"Well, that's the last of Venice," he exclaimed, "and I'm glad of it.
One gets tired of dawdling about on a magnified frog-pond. One begins to
long for the open sea." Miss Stickney looked gratified, and Kenwick felt
himself once more in his element.
May Beverly, meanwhile, had been frankly delighted with the roses. So
enchanting did she find them, indeed, that she had merely glanced at
the card, and had tossed it into the waste-paper basket without looking
at the reverse side.
"Just think of it, Pauline!" she had cried; "he must have been way over
to the Giudecca this very morning to get them. I wonder if the _Urania_
has sailed yet."
"Nine o'clock was the hour, was it not?" Pauline asked, taking up one of
the roses and holding it to her face. "It must be after that."
"Yes, it's too late," said May, as she stepped out upon the balcony;
"she's half-way to the Public Gardens. But I'm going to wave, all the
same."
And so it chanced, by the perversity of fate, that if Kenwick had but
risked using his opera-glass, he would not have looked in vain.
May watched the yacht until it disappeared from sight,--for she had not
before seen the graceful craft in motion,--and then she returned to the
contemplation of her roses. As she lifted them, one by one, and arranged
them deftly in a broad-mouthed Chioggia jug, she was moved to exclaim:
"I do think that was really kind of him! Do you know, Pauline, I'm
afraid we didn't like him half enough."
It was but a passing compunction, however, and the roses themselves were
not destined to receive the attention which their beauty fairly entitled
them to. It did not seem quite feasible to take them to San Giorgio
degli Schiavoni, and even had they gone, they would soon have been
forgotten in the delights which that modest little sanctuary offers. The
sunshine of four hundred years ago that glows in mellow warmth upon
Carpaccio's canvases, the vigour and the piety and the fun of that
"wayward patchwork," are more vital and more absorbing than any mortal
roses.
And if, in the morning, Kenwick's interests had been subordinated to
Art, Nature proved no less exacting in the afternoon. For then it was
that the red banner and the blue pursued together yet unexplored paths
of the northern lagoon, returning whence, the city was seen in a new
perspective, the great _campanile_ in particular, taking up a position
so contrary to all precedent, that May was half inclined to believe that
it actually did "promenade," as Vittorio so picturesquely expressed it.
The evening again was a glorious one, and again the roses were left
behind. When the Colonel and his Pollys appeared at the steps of the
_Venezia_, Vittorio greeted them with a radiant "_bellissimo!_" The moon
was all but full and not a breath of air stirred the wide reaches of the
lagoon, visible beyond San Giorgio. One of the musicians' barges was
drawn up in front of the hotel; the first song was in progress, and
gondolas from the upper canal were approaching, with soft dip of oar,
and gleaming tiny lights.
The singer was a woman. She was standing in the middle of the boat, one
hand clinging, as if for support, to the shoulder of a violinist. The
voice was high and strained; painfully strained, it seemed, to Pauline's
quick perception.
"How tired that woman's voice is!" she exclaimed. "Do let us give them
something!"
Vittorio brought the gondola close alongside the barge, but before
Pauline could make her offering, the strained voice broke, the figure
swayed heavily to one side, and the woman sank to the floor, supported
in the arms of one of the men. The big boat instantly moved away, and in
another moment, the swinging paper lanterns, illumining but faintly the
anxious group of musicians, had disappeared down a side canal.
The other gondolas had not yet come up, and Vittorio, without waiting
for orders, rowed after the retreating barge, which he overtook with a
few vigorous strokes of the oar. The men had stopped rowing, and someone
was calling for a gondola. The Colonel's boat was promptly placed at
their service.
The woman had already recovered consciousness, and was murmuring
pitifully: "_A casa, a casa!_" Her husband helped her aboard the
gondola, where Pauline took compassionate possession of her, ministering
to her in gentle, discerning wise. May, usually so fertile in resource,
found nothing to offer but her _vinaigrette_, which the patient did not
take kindly to; while Uncle Dan, with misguided zeal, administered a
severe rebuke to the unhappy husband, for allowing his wife to sing,
when she was so manifestly unequal to the effort.
"Ah, Signore," the man replied, in a tone of dull discouragement, "you
do not know poverty!" Whereupon the Colonel admitted that it was
_vero_, and, becoming very penitent indeed, began grubbing about his
person in search of paper money, and calling himself names for having
left his wallet in the pocket of his other coat.
Meanwhile, Vittorio was rowing them swiftly down narrow canals with many
windings, where the water flowed black in the shadow, and gleamed
weirdly in the light of a chance gas-lamp. The moon was not yet high
enough to look down between those close-ranged walls, but, above them,
the sky stretched, a luminous, deep blue ribbon, upon which only the
brighter stars could hold their own.
News of the mishap had outstripped the gondola. Two turns of an
alley-way, a couple of bridges, a dash across a square, and another
alley-way, had brought a messenger to the house, while the gondola was
still gliding on its tortuous way. A group of women awaited their
arrival.
"I wish we might have gone in, to see how they live," May said,
regretfully, as they pushed off, leaving the woman in the hands of her
friends.
"It's probably a very poor way of living," Uncle Dan surmised. "The kind
that makes a man feel like a scoundrel the next time he smokes a good
cigar."
"Why, you're a regular socialist, Uncle Dan," cried May. "I didn't know
that!"
"Neither did I, Polly," the Colonel replied, pulling viciously at his
moustache. "I don't so much mind being better off than other folks," he
added, thoughtfully; "but somehow, you do hate to have other folks worse
off than you!"
They were retracing their way down one of the narrowest and darkest
canals, when the warning cry,--"_premi-o!_"--echoing round an
unsuspected corner told them of an approaching gondola.
"_Ecco, mio fratello!_" Vittorio exclaimed, answering, then, with his
own sonorous call; and an instant later, the prow of his brother's
gondola came stealing out of the shadow.