They had passed eighteen months of this sort of life in Venice when one
day a letter dropped into it which sent a thousand ripples over its
stagnant surface. Mrs. Elmore read it first to herself, with gasps and
cries of pleasure and astonishment, which did not divert her husband
from the perusal of some notes he had made the day before, and had
brought to the breakfast-table with the intention of amusing her. When
she flattened it out over his notes, and exacted his attention, he
turned an unwilling and lack-lustre eye upon it; then he looked up at
her.
"Did you expect she would come?" he asked, in ill-masked dismay.
"I don't suppose they had any idea of it at first. When Sue wrote me
that Lily had been studying too hard, and had to be taken out of school,
I said that I wished she could come over and pay us a visit. But I don't
believe they dreamed of letting her--Sue says so--till the Mortons'
coming seemed too good a chance to be lost. I am so glad of it, Owen!
You know how much they have always done for me; and here is a chance now
to pay a little of it back."
"What in the world shall we do with her?" he asked.
"Do? Everything! Why, Owen," she urged, with pathetic recognition of his
coldness, "she is Susy Stevens's own sister!"
"Oh, yes--yes," he admitted.
"And it was Susy who brought us together!"
"Why, of course."
"And oughtn't you to be glad of the opportunity?"
"I _am_ glad--_very_ glad."
"It will be a relief to you instead of a care. She's such a bright,
intelligent girl that we can both sympathize with your work, and you
won't have to go round with me all the time, and I can matronize her
myself."
"I see, I see," Elmore replied, with scarcely abated seriousness.
"Perhaps, if she is coming here for her health, she won't need much
matronizing."
"Oh, pshaw! She'll be well enough for _that_! She's overdone a little at
school. I shall take good care of her, I can tell you; and I shall make
her have a real good time. It's quite flattering of Susy to trust her
to us, so far away, and I shall write and tell her we both think so."
"Yes," said Elmore, "it's a fearful responsibility."
There are instances of the persistence of husbands in certain moods or
points of view on which even wheedling has no effect. The wise woman
perceives that in these cases she must trust entirely to the softening
influences of time, and as much as possible she changes the subject; or
if this is impossible she may hope something from presenting a still
worse aspect of the affair. Mrs. Elmore said, in lifting the letter from
the table: "If she sailed the 3d in the City of Timbuctoo, she will be
at Queenstown on the 12th or 13th, and we shall have a letter from her
by Wednesday saying when she will be at Genoa. That's as far as the
Mortons can bring her, and there's where we must meet her."
"Meet her in Genoa! How?"
"By going there for her," replied Mrs. Elmore, as if this were the
simplest thing in the world. "I have never seen Genoa."
Elmore now tacitly abandoned himself to his fate. His wife continued: "I
needn't take anything. Merely run on, and right back."
"When must we go?" he asked.
"I don't know yet; but we shall have a letter to-morrow. Don't worry on
my account, Owen. Her coming won't be a bit of care to me. It will give
me something to do and to think about, and it will be a pleasure all the
time to know that it's for Susy Stevens. And I shall like the
companionship."
Elmore looked at his wife in surprise, for it had not occurred to him
before that with his company she could desire any other companionship.
He desired none but hers, and when he was about his work he often
thought of her. He supposed that at these moments she thought of him,
and found society, as he did, in such thoughts. But he was not a jealous
or exacting man, and he said nothing. His treatment of the approaching
visit from Susy Stevens's sister had not been enthusiastic, but a spark
had kindled his imagination, and it burned warmer and brighter as the
days went by. He found a charm in the thought of having this fresh young
life here in his charge, and of teaching the girl to live into the great
and beautiful history of the city: there was still much of the
school-master in him, and he intended to make her sojourn an education
to her; and as a literary man he hoped for novel effects from her mind
upon material which he was above all trying to set in a new light before
himself.
When the time had arrived for them to go and meet Miss Mayhew at Genoa,
he was more than reconciled to the necessity. But at the last moment,
Mrs. Elmore had one of her old attacks. What these attacks were I find
myself unable to specify, but as every lady has an old attack of some
kind, I may safely leave their precise nature to conjecture. It is
enough that they were of a nervous character, that they were accompanied
with headache, and that they prostrated her for several days. During
their continuance she required the active sympathy and constant presence
of her husband, whose devotion was then exemplary, and brought up long
arrears of indebtedness in that way.
"Well, what shall we do?" he asked, as he sank into a chair beside the
lounge on which Mrs. Elmore lay, her eyes closed, and a slice of lemon
placed on each of her throbbing temples with the effect of a new sort of
blinders. "Shall I go alone for her?"
She gave his hand the kind of convulsive clutch that signified,
"Impossible for you to leave me."
He reflected. "The Mortons will be pushing on to Leghorn, and somebody
_must_ meet her. How would it do for Mr. Hoskins to go?"
Mrs. Elmore responded with a clutch tantamount to "Horrors! How could
you think of such a thing?"
"Well, then," he said, "the only thing we can do is to send a _valet de
place_ for her. We can send old Cazzi. He's the incarnation of
respectability; five francs a day and his expenses will buy all the
virtues of him. She'll come as safely with him as with me."
Mrs. Elmore had applied a vividly thoughtful pressure to her husband's
hand; she now released it in token of assent, and he rose.
"But don't be gone long," she whispered.
On his way to the caffè which Cazzi frequented, Elmore fell in with the
consul.
By this time a change had taken place in the consular office. Mr.
Ferris, some months before, had suddenly thrown up his charge and gone
home; and after the customary interval of ship-chandler, the California
sculptor, Hoskins, had arrived out, with his commission in his pocket,
and had set up his allegorical figure of The Pacific Slope in the room
where Ferris had painted his too metaphysical conception of A Venetian
Priest. Mrs. Elmore had never liked Ferris; she thought him cynical and
opinionated, and she believed that he had not behaved quite well towards
a young American lady,--a Miss Vervain, who had stayed awhile in Venice
with her mother. She was glad to have him go; but she could not admire
Mr. Hoskins, who, however good-hearted, was too hopelessly Western. He
had had part of one foot shot away in the nine months' service, and
walked with a limp that did him honor; and he knew as much of a consul's
business as any of the authors or artists with whom it is the tradition
to fill that office at Venice. Besides he was at least a
fellow-American, and Elmore could not forbear telling him the trouble he
was in: a young girl coming from their town in America as far as Genoa
with friends, and expecting to be met there by the Elmores, with whom
she was to pass some months; Mrs. Elmore utterly prostrated by one of
her old attacks, and he unable to leave her, or to take her with him to
Genoa; the friends with whom Miss Mayhew travelled unable to bring her
to Venice; she, of course, unable to come alone. The case deepened and
darkened in Elmore's view as he unfolded it.
"Why," cried the consul sympathetically, "if I could leave my post I'd
go!"
"Oh, thank you!" cried Elmore eagerly, remembering his wife. "I couldn't
think of letting you."
"Look here!" said the consul, taking an official letter, with the seal
broken, from his pocket. "This is the first time I couldn't have left my
post without distinct advantage to the public interests, since I've been
here. But with this letter from Turin, telling me to be on the lookout
for the Alabama, I couldn't go to Genoa even to meet a young lady. The
Austrians have never recognized the rebels as belligerents: if she
enters the port of Venice, all I've got to do is to require the deposit
of her papers with me, and then I should like to see her get out again.
I _should_ like to capture her. Of course, I don't mean Miss Mayhew,"
said the consul, recognizing the double sense in which his language
could be taken.
"It would be a great thing for you," said Elmore,--"a _great_ thing."
"Yes, it would set me up in my own eyes, and stop that infernal clatter
inside about going over and taking a hand again."
"Yes," Elmore assented, with a twinge of the old shame. "I didn't know
you had it too."
"If I could capture the Alabama, I could afford to let the other fellows
fight it out."
"I congratulate you, with all my heart," said Elmore sadly, and he
walked in silence beside the consul.
"Well," said the latter, with a laugh at Elmore's pensive rapture, "I'm
as much obliged to you as if I _had_ captured her. I'll go up to the
Piazza with you, and see Cazzi."
The affair was easily arranged; Cazzi was made to feel by the consul's
intervention that the shield of American sovereignty had been extended
over the young girl whom he was to escort from Genoa, and two days later
he arrived with her. Mrs. Elmore's attack now was passing off, and she
was well enough to receive Miss Mayhew half-recumbent on the sofa where
she had been prone till her arrival. It was pretty to see her fond
greeting of the girl, and her joy in her presence as they sat down for
the first long talk; and Elmore realized, even in his dreamy withdrawal,
how much the bright, active spirit of his wife had suffered merely in
the restriction of her English. Now it was not only English they spoke,
but that American variety of the language of which I hope we shall grow
less and less ashamed; and not only this, but their parlance was
characterized by local turns and accents, which all came welcomely back
to Mrs. Elmore, together with those still more intimate inflections
which belonged to her own particular circle of friends in the little
town of Patmos, N. Y. Lily Mayhew was of course not of her own set,
being five or six years younger; but women, more easily than men, ignore
the disparities of age between themselves and their juniors; and in Susy
Stevens's absence it seemed a sort of tribute to her to establish her
sister in the affection which Mrs. Elmore had so long cherished. Their
friendship had been of such a thoroughly trusted sort on both sides that
Mrs. Stevens (the memorably brilliant Sue Mayhew in her girlish days)
had felt perfectly free to act upon Mrs. Elmore's invitation to let Lily
come out to her; and here the child was, as much at home as if she had
just walked into Mrs. Elmore's parlor out of her sister's house in
Patmos.