with her disparaging tone.
"I suppose it was originally invented for the accommodation of lovers,"
May replied, with her familiar air of scientific investigation, which
caused Pauline to smile contentedly.
"Other kinds of conspirators are said to have found it convenient,"
Uncle Dan observed. "Thieves and cut-throats, for instance. But it
strikes me as being a very good place for an uncle, especially in
weather like this."
"And you, Pauline,--what is your vote?"
"I should think it was a very excellent place to be in with an uncle,
or----"
"Or?"
"Or anyone else one thought particularly well of," and Pauline gave her
sister an appreciative smile.
Then May, usually rather unsusceptible to such quiet demonstrations of
affection, put her hand in her sister's and said: "Pauline, you are a
good deal of a dear!" and there was a certain bright sweetness in the
young girl's face that caused Pauline to think of the dawn, and of what
a perfect hour it was,--and that there was never any hurry about the
sunrise.
They spent an hour, catalogue in hand, among the less important
pictures, while Uncle Dan amused himself with some old engravings, and
then, having earned their reward, the two girls strolled back to the
great saloons, where nothing less splendid than Tintoretto and Veronese
makes its appeal to the conscience of the sight-seer.
Pauline descended the steps to the main entrance hall, from which one
has the best view of Titian's _Assumption_. She seated herself on the
broad divan, and looked up through the arched doorway to the glorious
soaring figure, that seems, not up-borne by the floating cloud of cherubs
and angels, but rather drawing all that buoyant throng upward in its
marvellous flight. Geoffry Daymond, pausing at the top of the short flight
of steps a few minutes later, face to face with Pauline, fancied that he
discovered a subtle kinship between her countenance and the pictured one;
and then, as he turned to compare them, he unhesitatingly gave his
preference to the girl of the nineteenth century, with the rare, sylvan
face and the uplifted look. As she became aware of his approach a lovely
colour stole into her face, and there was a welcome in her eyes which she
was too sincere to deny.
"We wondered whether we should find you here this rainy morning," she
said, as he came toward her down the steps; and she spoke with such
quiet composure that a sudden leaping emotion that had stirred him was
checked midway.
"I was looking for you," he replied. "We came across the Colonel and he
told us you were here."
"We always come here when it rains, because the light is so good,"
Pauline observed, wondering that she could think of nothing better to
say.
"Yes; I know it. I passed your sister just now, standing with her back
to the world at large, studying a Tintoretto portrait."
"May really understands a good deal about pictures," Pauline remarked,
still wondering that nothing but platitudes would come to her lips. She
had left her seat, and they were moving toward the steps.
"It seems an age since I have seen you," said Geof, neglecting to reply
to her last observation, which, truth to tell, he had scarcely heard.
"It does seem a good while," she admitted. "Not since Quattro Fontane;"
and then she laughed. "That was only yesterday morning, but one doesn't
reckon time by clocks and calendars in Venice."
"If the clocks and calendars would only pay the old gentleman as little
attention as we do," Geof rejoined, "how lucky we should be!"
"I wonder whether we should really want time to stand still,--even in
Venice," said Pauline, as they passed up the steps into the room where
May had last been seen.
"That would depend," Geoffry answered, and there was that indescribable
something in his voice which she had heard more than once of late, and
which she always found extremely discomposing. The passing of that
breath of feeling was still troubling the waters of her consciousness
when, a moment later, they were met by the other three.
Mrs. Daymond came forward and took both Pauline's hands, and, straightway
it seemed to Pauline as if a bountiful beneficent power had encompassed
her round about.
"Geof," said his mother, turning to him, with the unfailing grace of
tone and gesture which was a source of perennial delight to the Colonel;
"I find that Colonel Steele's Venetian education is only half
accomplished. He does not know San Simeone. Supposing we all go and see
the old hero. It has stopped raining and the men must be longing to have
us come out again."
"I'm always ready for St. Simon," Geof declared.
"I don't see how we ever overlooked him in the books," said May. "He
sounds perfectly tremendous, with his hollow cheeks and his solemn dead
face."
"Then we are all going?" and Mrs. Daymond looked questioningly at
Pauline who had not spoken. It was as if the elder woman had divined
something of the unwonted reluctance that had possessed itself of the
young girl.
"Do you mind if I stay behind?" Pauline asked, hesitatingly; "I should
like to stay on here for a little while, and then I should be glad of
the walk home. So please take both the gondolas."
"Polly doesn't like sharp contrasts," the Colonel remarked, as he
passed, with the others, out of the gallery and down the stairs. "She
has probably got her mind going on some little private inspiration, and
she doesn't take to the idea of a dead saint."
"No more do I!" Geof announced, with a reckless inconsistency, that took
no thought of appearances; and, having seen the party safely ensconced
under the _felze_ of Pietro's gondola, he retraced his steps, his head
slightly bent, his hands clasped behind him.
The rain had ceased, and a timid relenting had stolen into the west.
Geof turned and glanced from the sky to Vittorio's gondola which still
lay moored under the shelter of the bridge.
"If I only dared!" he said to himself; and then, flinging his head back,
with a free, boyish gesture, he strode on to the entrance of the
gallery.
Pauline had returned to her seat before the great Titian. She was the
only person in the room at the moment. Geof came across the stone floor
with a ringing step which caused her to turn, in startled certainty that
it was he. There was something in the manner of his approach that
affected her like a summons, and she rose to her feet.
He came up to her and, looking straight into her face, he said: "You
must come out. The sun will be out before we know it, and one always
wants to be out-of-doors when it clears."
"Are the others waiting?" she asked.
"No; Pietro has taken them off. But I think you are right; St. Simon is
not what we want this morning. Supposing we make a call upon the
Rezzonico Madonna."
"But I was going to walk home," Pauline demurred, quite sensible of her
own futility.
"You can't. It's really very wet. Do come and take a look at the
Madonna."
She turned, with neither protest nor assent, and walked with him down
the room. She felt that she had relaxed her hold upon herself. What was
it she was yielding to? Something imperative and masterful in him, or
something still more masterful and imperative in her own soul? She did
not know, she did not consider. She walked with him down the stairs, and
out into the outer world, and she knew that she would have walked with
him across the very waters of the Canal with the unquestioning faith of
the pious little princess whom legend carries over dry-shod to her
prayers.
Pauline spoke only once, and that was when her eyes fell upon the
gondola coming to meet them.
"The _felze_!'" she exclaimed, under her breath. If Geof heard her, he
was too wise to admit that he did.
"To the Madonna of the Palazzo Rezzonico," he commanded, quite as if
Vittorio had been his own gondolier. It crossed his mind that he ought
to apologise for his presumption, but he was not in the mood for
apologies.
The _felze_ was arranged for three, the little box-seats taken out, and
the chair in place of them; Geof took the chair. And Vittorio rowed them
swiftly with the tide, up the Canal, past the tiny striped church of San
Vio, to which the pious little princess crosses, in the pretty legend,
and on, to the stern and massive Palazzo Rezzonico. The gondola turned
down the narrow _rio_ that flows beneath the poet's memorial tablet, and
a few strokes of the oar brought them to the feet of the Madonna.
Geoffry and Pauline stepped out of the _felze_ and stood looking up at
the lovely figure in its flowing garments, with hands clasped upon the
breast, and head bowed beneath its floating aureole of stars. Vittorio,
too, stood with his eyes fixed upon the benignant face, and perhaps an
_ave_ in his heart if not on his lips.
Presently Pauline said, softly: "You were right."
"I was sure you would think so. It's only once in a while that one knows
exactly what is good for one; but then,--_one knows!_"
"Did you ever notice the inscription on the pedestal?" he asked, after
a moment. "Hardly anybody ever does."
"Yes; _Decus et praesidium_," Pauline read.
"For grace and protection," Geoffry translated. "Isn't that pretty?"
They went inside the _felze_ again, without giving any directions to the
gondolier, and Vittorio, delightedly equal to the occasion, rowed on,
through intricate, winding ways, with many a challenging _sta-i!_ and
_premi-o!_ and out across the Giudecca Canal. Neither Geoffry nor
Pauline was disposed to talk, yet neither of them felt the silence
oppressive. After a while they found themselves floating far out on the
lagoon beyond San Giorgio. The steady pulse of the oar went on, and the
light grew in sky and water.
"See how clear the Euganean hills are," Pauline said, looking out
through the little window to those deep-blue pyramids, rising beyond the
wide, opaline waters.
Geof, who was again sitting in the little chair, came down on one knee,
to bring his eyes on a level with the window, and, steadying himself
with his hand on the tufted cord, looked forth and saw the first ray of
sunlight break through the clouds and gild the waiting waters. And then
he turned from that glistening light and looked into Pauline's face.
The gathering brightness of the world outside seemed only to deepen the
shadow and the sheltering privacy of the low, arching roof above their
heads; the rhythmic throb of the oar seemed to grow stronger and more
imperative; the onward impulse of it seized and mastered him. He had
meant to say so many things, to urge so many reasons, to make such
humble entreaties. But, looking into that tender, gracious face, one
thought alone possessed him, and he only said: "Pauline, I love you!"
Then a wonderful light came into the face he loved, and she answered, as
simply as a little child: "I know it, Geoffry!"
* * * * *
"It seems as if the lagoons belonged to them, this evening, eh, Polly?"
Uncle Dan and May were standing in the balcony, watching the receding
gondola. The stars were shining clear and high,--the lagoon would be
strewn with them. Far away on the horizon, May could see a revolving
light, coming and going, coming and going. She longed to be out.
"There's the Grand Canal," she suggested modestly.
"Yes; there's the Grand Canal. But, Polly, what do you say to making a
call on the Signora?"
May turned her bright eyes to those of the old soldier, that gleamed
questioningly, almost entreatingly, under the grizzly eye-brows.
"That would be very nice," she said, suppressing a little sigh of
resignation.
"Good girl!" cried the Colonel. "And, look here, Polly, perhaps it's you
who are to be the support of my old age, after all. Who knows?" and he
cast a glance, half humorous, half reproachful, in the direction in
which the gondola had disappeared. He was not yet quite reconciled to
the trick fate had played him.
[Illustration: "It seems as if the lagoons belonged to
them this evening"]
Then May slipped her hand inside his arm, in her own confiding way, and,
looking affectionately into the seamed and seared old face, she said,
with roguish sweetness: "I tell you what, Uncle Dan! We shall have to
grow old together, you and I!"
THE END.
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Corrections made to text:
Page 97: changed Nannie to Nanni
Page 139: changed Siennese to Sienese