BROWNING.
The north piazza, which was the widest and pleasantest around the house
because the coolest and most quiet, had assumed quite a cozy, festive
air since the Tracys came. Several bits of carpet and rugs had been
spread upon the floor,—three or four easy chairs had been brought out,
with a settee over which a bright afghan was thrown. A hammock had been
put up in which Helen posed, with Mark and Craig standing by and
swinging her gently to and fro. Alice said the hammock gave her a
headache and left it to Helen, who monopolized it entirely, either
sitting or reclining, and doing both naturally and gracefully, as a
little child might do. A small round table had been brought out and
covered with a dainty tea set, which Mrs. Tracy had found in Worcester,
and here Helen dispensed tea nearly every afternoon, and sometimes in
the evening when the moon was shining upon them, softening the beauty of
her face and making it more like a Madonna than a young girl whose brain
was sometimes aching with the feeling of unrest gradually stealing over
her and bringing into her eyes a troubled look never seen there before.
Every few mornings she found a fresh bouquet of roses upon her tea
table. Taking it for granted they were for herself, she went into
ecstasies over them and wondered who sent them.
“Not I. I didn’t think of it. I wish I had,” Craig said in his honest
way, as she buried her face in the roses and then looked inquiringly at
him.
If Craig did not send them, Mark did, and whether she thanked him in the
office or on the stairs no one knew. He was satisfied and happy, and
would have ordered all the roses in the North Ridgefield greenhouse if
he had thought she wanted them. Craig still kept his small table for his
lemonade, of which he was very fond, and for his papers and books. These
last had been sadly neglected. Browning had scarcely been touched, but
was not forgotten. He meant to have the readings yet, and spoke of them
several times to the young ladies. Alice was always ready, although
frankly admitting that she knew nothing and must be a mere listener.
Helen was never ready. Nothing would give her greater pleasure than to
spend an hour each day with dear old Browning, she said, but there was
always some reason why she couldn’t give herself that pleasure. At last,
as the sultry August days came on and it was too hot and dusty to drive
until after supper, Craig, who was not one to give up an idea readily,
decided to bring his club together, and on a certain morning gave notice
that he should expect its members on the north piazza at 4 o’clock
sharp, to hear him read Sordello. He was sure of Helen and Alice, and
probably his mother and Mrs. Tracy, with Mark, when he could find time,
and Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, if they chose to come.
“Come? In course we shall,” Uncle Zacheus said. “I’m rather old to begin
to improve my mind and shan’t catch on worth a cent; but Dot will. She’s
quick to see a p’int. Who was Browning, anyway? I used to know a family
down east by that name. Any relation?”
Craig explained as well as he could and smiled as he thought of Uncle
Zach trying to master, or even listen to the intricacies of Sordello.
But he was glad for an audience, if half were Uncle Zach’s, and was very
much engaged and excited for him. The chairs were arranged in a
semi-circle, a little away from the hammock, which would not, of course,
be used. Helen, the only one who was really interested, or knew much of
the poet, would sit at his right. He had arranged for that by having a
chair placed close to the stand on which were the roses which had come
fresh that afternoon for the occasion. There were bowls of lilies on the
wide railing of the piazza and at 5 o’clock Celine was to bring out
biscuits and wafers and preserved ginger to be served with chocolate
which Helen was to pour. Nothing could be pleasanter, he thought, as at
a quarter before four he took his accustomed seat. Mrs. Tracy was the
first to join him. She knew nothing of Browning and cared less, but was
glad of any break in her monotonous life which did not require exertion.
She did not like to drive, or sail, or walk; she had visited her
grandfather’s monument, and the house where he used to live, and had
been once to church. For the rest of the time she had stayed at home,
doing nothing except to watch the progress of affairs between Helen and
Craig. She would like to have her daughter settled, and nothing could
suit her better than to see her married to Craig Mason. That morning she
had broached the subject to Helen, who had replied, “If Mr. Mason
proposes to me I shall not refuse him.” This had put Mrs. Tracy into so
good a humor that she had forgotten to see if her diamonds were safe.
Twice a day,—morning and night,—since her failure to open the safe
herself, she had asked Mark to do it for her. This morning she had not
made him her usual visit, and when, as she was going to the north
piazza, he called to her and asked if she had forgotten her diamonds,
she waved her hand patronizingly, and said, “I had; but no matter, I can
wait till night.”
She took the seat indicated by Craig, and was soon joined by Mrs. Mason
and Alice. Then Uncle Zach came, pleased as a child “to be invited to a
literature.”
“Dot will be here in a minute,” he said, as he seated himself in a chair
so high that only his toes could touch the floor. “She’s seein’ to some
sass on the stove.”
Dotty soon came, heated and perspiring, and more interested in the jelly
she had left in Sarah’s care than in Browning, of whom she had never
heard till invited to attend the reading. Even then she would have
declined if it had not been for her husband, who told her they didn’t
or’to lose a chance to improve their minds.
If she thought he had not much mind to improve she did not say so, and
in her best gingham gown and white apron, she took the only chair left
except the one near Craig, reserved for Helen. That young lady had been
having a rather unenviable time with Browning. It was now more than
three weeks since that first day at the Prospect House when Alice had
gone out to find the library, if there was one. She had found it without
difficulty and inquired for Browning’s Poems.
“Which volume?” the librarian said.
Alice didn’t know, and confessed her ignorance.
“What particular poem do you wish to read?” was the next question.
“Sordello,” Alice replied, and the librarian brightened at once.
“Oh, yes; Vol. I. We have that, and it is nearly always in, so few care
for it; they find it tough reading, they say. You like it, I suppose?”
and the librarian looked over his spectacles at Alice, who said, “I
don’t know; I never read it.”
“Wouldn’t try, then; hard work and little pay,” and the old man shook
his head; then added, as he handed the book to her, “if you must read
it, better take the encyclopedia, which will help you amazingly. Here
’tis.”
Alice took the book and turning the leaves found the story which she
knew would be a help and which she might herself like to read.
“Thank you,” she said. “I will take both; they don’t look as if they
were often used.”
“Very seldom. Not on an average once a year. There’s a chap at the hotel
been in twice and looked at the encyclopedia. He’s pretty well up in
Browning, I guess. You are from the hotel, too, aren’t you?”
Alice bowed in the affirmative and left the library. For some days the
books reposed quietly on Helen’s dressing table. So many things came up
to occupy Craig’s mind that it took but little tact to put the club out
of it for a while. The moment, however, that Helen saw signs of its
revival she attacked Sordello in earnest, taking the poem first and
reading five or six pages very carefully, over and over again, first to
herself and then to Alice, who consented to listen unwillingly, for she
knew that Jeff was waiting to take her to the hornet’s nest and the
turtles, and twice his shrill whistle came in at the window telling her
he was ready. For a time she sat very quiet, for Helen was a fine
reader, but when she reached the “Progress of a Poet’s Soul,” and asked
what some of the passages meant, Alice sprang up exclaiming, “I don’t
know any more than the dead, and I doubt if anybody does. I’ve promised
Jeff to go with him to the woods and pond to see a turtle bed and
hornet’s nest. Good bye, and good luck to you.”
She was gone and Helen was alone with Sordello.
“No more soul than to prefer mud turtles and hornets to Browning. I
supposed she had a higher grade of mind,” Helen said, with a sigh of
self-satisfaction, as she thought of her cousin tramping through the
fields to the woods in company with Jeff, while she, with her higher
grade of mind, was wrestling with Browning.
She didn’t find him quite as entertaining or easy to be understood as
she had at first. It was not much like Tennyson’s “May Queen,” or
Tennyson’s anything, she thought, and at last threw the book down in
disgust, half tempted to go after Alice and the hornets, especially as
she saw Mark walking down the lane in that direction. Taking up the
encyclopedia she turned to the story of Sordello, which pleased her
better. Here was something she could understand, and she read it over
and made copious notes from it for future reference, and felt herself
quite mistress of the narrative in all its different phases. She could
not explain why, but Mark Hilton always stood for Sordello, while she
was Palma, and with this fancy she finished the story. To wade through
the poem was a different matter. Then a happy thought occurred to her.
She could commit parts of it, and, if necessary, fire them off at Craig,
who would be impressed with her superior knowledge. Just what to commit
she didn’t know. So she took bits here and there at random, learned them
in a short time, with no conception of their meaning, and was ready for
the class.
Days and weeks passed. The class was not called and she forgot a good
deal she had stored up, and when Craig unexpectedly announced the
meeting for that afternoon she was thrown into a state of great
consternation and hardly knew whether Sordello had been a troubadour or
a hotel clerk,—whether he belonged to a noble family, or was ’Tina’s
great-grandson,—and whether he was still in Purgatory, where Dante saw
him, or at the Prospect House, receiving orders from Mrs. Taylor. Her
Browning knowledge was a good deal of a jumble, which she must
disentangle. She had made too many admissions of her liking for him to
fail when the test came, and all the morning which was one of the
hottest and sultriest of the season, she was shut in her room, going
over the story again and re-committing the passages which had escaped
her memory. Sordello and Mark Hilton were pretty equally mixed in her
mind, which for some reason she found more difficult to concentrate on
the subject than she did before, and as she spent the morning so she
spent the time after dinner alone in her room, letting no one in and
saying she had a headache and was resting. She did look a little
heavy-eyed when she was at last ready to join the group on the piazza.
Tired as she was she had taken a great deal of pains with her toilet,
dressing more for Mark than for Craig, who, she had found, was less of a
connoisseur in the matter of women’s attire than Mark. She would have
liked to have worn white that hot day, but Mark did not like white gowns
and blue ribbons, because ’Tina was said to figure in these when she
visited the haunted house. So she chose a soft grey chally with
elaborate trimmings of pink and white chiffon. Two or three of Mark’s
roses were her only ornaments except her costly rings. With her smelling
salts to keep up the appearance of headache, and a fan which matched her
dress, she went languidly toward the group on the piazza, all seated
except Mark, who was standing at a little distance with a quizzical
expression on his face. He was something of a lover of Browning and had
read Sordello two or three times. Since the club had been talked of he
had thought to read it again and had inquired for the book at the
library. He was told one of the young ladies at the Prospect House had
had it for some time, and he readily guessed that Helen was “loading
up,” as he expressed it. He did not believe she cared a straw for
Sordello, or anybody like him, and was anxious to see how she would
acquit herself.
“We are waiting for you,” Craig said, getting up and putting his hand on
the chair reserved for her. “You are to sit here near me, as you are the
one who will be most in sympathy with the reading. The others do not
like Browning.”
“What a pity, and how much they lose,” Helen replied, “but if you’ll
excuse me I’d rather sit in the hammock. My head still aches a little.”
She had no idea of being in close proximity to Craig, who might ply her
with troublesome questions. She preferred the safety of the hammock,
and, with the help of Mark, who at once came forward, put herself into
it, half sitting, half reclining on the cushions, with her face away
from all the party except Mark, who stood just where he could see her.
No one would ever have suspected there was anything of the schoolmaster
about Craig, but he assumed that role to some extent, and before
commencing to read, he said, “I think we shall understand the poem
better if we know something of the subject, Sordello. Who was he? Miss
Alice will perhaps tell us?”
“Oh, don’t ask me! Pass on to Helen. She is posted,” Alice said, while
Helen raised herself on her elbow,—moved her fan back and forth slowly,
and replied, hesitatingly, as if cudgelling her memory for something she
had once known and which had become a little indistinct.
“I don’t know that I can talk very clearly about him, there were so many
fictitious accounts of him. I believe, though, he was a troubadour, who
was born in the twelfth or thirteenth century at Goito, near Mantua. Am
I right?”
She was looking at Craig, who nodded affirmatively, and smiled upon her
as she went on still more slowly.
“Wasn’t he at first in the family of some count, who was chief of the
Guelph faction, and didn’t he afterward enter the service of Berenger,
of the house of Barcelona?”
Again Craig bowed and Helen continued: “He wrote songs and poems and was
distinguished for his pleasing address and grace of manner, although
said to be small in stature. The stories told of him are so filled with
anachronisms, romances and fictions that it is difficult to decide which
are true and which are false.”
“That is all encyclopedia. Of herself Helen never mastered such a word
as anachronism,” Alice thought, while Mark had a similar idea.
Craig had no suspicion, and was delighted to find one person in so
perfect accord with himself. He motioned her to go on, and, pleased with
the attention she was receiving, she went on rapidly now and a little
incoherently, as her memory was beginning to fail her.
“I think,” she said, “that some writers have accused him of eloping with
another man’s wife. This is doubtful. There is a Palma, who figures very
conspicuously with him. I can’t tell you all about it, or just how he
died. I know Dante met him in Purgatory with those who had died without
a chance to repent.”
“Served him right, too, for running off with another man’s wife. Has he
ever got out of Purgatory?” Uncle Zach exclaimed, and Helen blessed him
for creating a diversion at a point from which she dared not venture
much farther.
Everybody laughed except Mrs. Taylor, who had caught a whiff of burning
jelly and arose hastily, saying she must be excused.
“Come back, Dot, as quick as you can; it won’t do to lose none of this
feast of——, what do you call it?” Uncle Zach said to her, putting his
hand on her chair as if to keep it from some imaginary claimant.
Dot did not answer, nor did she come back.
“I think I’ve done my part,” Helen said, but as Craig urged her to go on
she continued, with an air of superior wisdom, “As to the much-abused
poem, it was written, I suppose, to show the times in which Sordello
lived, and is in some sense the history of the development of a great
soul. It is the most obscure of all Mr. Browning’s poems, and is like a
beautiful palace without a staircase; so if one would reach the rooms on
the second floor, he must climb.”
“Bravo! Miss Tracy. That is a most original idea, and you have described
it exactly,” Craig cried, enthusiastically.
He evidently had not studied the encyclopedia as she had, and was giving
Helen credit for an originality of thought she did not possess. The
absence of a staircase had struck her forcibly, and she remembered and
repeated it, and, flushed with success, ventured out into waters which
proved too deep for her. Why commit portions of Sordello, if she did not
use them? she thought. “It is a grand poem, with so many fine passages,”
she said, and began to repeat portions of it, but became confused, and
strung together parts of sentences in two or three different books,
making a medley at which even Craig looked perplexed, wondering where
such passages occurred, while Mark disappeared around the corner to hide
his merriment.
It was his face which told Helen of her blunder, but she was equal to
it. With a gay laugh she said, “I’ve made a horrid mistake, I guess, and
jumbled things some, but have done the best I could. Now I’ll give place
to the master.”
She made a graceful gesture with her hands toward Craig, and then lay
down among her cushions and prepared to listen. Craig was a fine reader
and interested in his subject, but the air was hot and sultry and none
of his audience very appreciative except Helen. He was sure of her; he
was reading to her, and occasionally casting a look at the hammock and
the white hand which lay on her grey dress, and the perfect contour of
the side of her face he could see, with the rich coloring on her cheek
and the soft curl of hair around her delicate ear. He did not mind if
Mrs. Tracy did nod occasionally and his mother yawn and Alice cast
glances at the village clock which could be seen up the street, while
Uncle Zach was placidly sleeping with his head thrown back and his mouth
wide open. He had his Plato and was satisfied. As yet he had asked no
one for their ideas of the meaning of anything he had read. He had
merely given his own and that of the most approved critics.
At last he came to a sentence rather obscure to himself. He asked for an
opinion, looking first at Mrs. Tracy, whose eyes were closed,—then at
his mother who shook her head,—then at Alice, who was convulsed with
laughter, although what there was to laugh about he could not guess.
“Miss Tracy will have to help me out,” he said, turning to the hammock,
and dropping his silver paper cutter at the same time so that he only
caught a faint sound of what he had not observed before, or which his
voice had drowned.
“What did you say, please? I didn’t quite catch it,” he asked, bending
towards the hammock from which the sound came again and very decided
this time; not an explanation of Sordello, but an unmistakable snore!
Helen was fast asleep. Mark, who had returned to his post and had been
watching her for a few moments, gave a loud laugh, in which Craig, after
a moment’s discomfiture, joined.
“I think it time to stop,” he said, “as I have read part of my audience
to sleep.”
Helen was awake by this time, greatly distressed and a little ashamed as
she guessed why they were all laughing.
“I am so sorry and mortified,” she said, getting out of the hammock and
stretching up her white arms like one rousing from sleep, “but my head
aches and the day is so hot that I cannot help it. Did I,—did I
really—?”
She looked at Alice, who answered, “Yes, you did; but it was a very
ladylike snore, and not at all like Mr. Taylor’s; he has been off for
some time.”
He was awake now, and rubbing his eyes, looked round bewildered, “What’s
that? What’s that?” he said. “Is the meetin’ over? I must have fell off
a minit. Great chap, that Sour fellow; mighty queer name! Where’d you
say he was? In Purgatory? Let him stay there! Honest, though,” he
continued, as his truthfulness came to the rescue, “I couldn’t get head
nor tail to it, if there was any. I s’pose though to you who see through
it ’twas a feast of—, what do you call it? Hello, there comes the
chocklet. I guess we are all ready for that kind of feast,” he
exclaimed, as Sarah appeared with the chocolate mug and the basket of
biscuits and wafers.
Helen was certainly ready for it, and took her seat at the table, and
poured the chocolate, which Craig handed round, while Sarah passed the
wafers and biscuits. It was a very merry party which gathered near the
table and Helen was the merriest of all, and was so graceful and
fascinating that Craig would have forgiven a much graver offence than
falling asleep while he was reading. Having no sisters, and a mother who
was almost painfully matter-of-fact and frank, he had no knowledge of
girls and their ways, and could not understand that nothing about Helen
was genuine except her beauty; everything else was studied for
effect,—from the intonation of her voice to the droop of her long
eyelashes and the tears she could summon when she wished to be
particularly pathetic and interesting. Mark knew her much better than
Craig, but her deceptions, which would have filled Craig with disgust
had he known of them, did not touch his moral sense of what was right
and wrong. He did not look beyond the beauty of her person, which he
coveted and meant to possess. He knew she did not care for Browning, or
books of any kind, and was not at all surprised at her falling asleep.
The flippancy with which she repeated Sordello was easily accounted for.
He knew she had the encyclopedia, and Jeff, who was everywhere and saw
and heard everything, had heard her reciting passages from Sordello, and
when he was under the window waiting for Alice to go with him to the
woods he had caught snatches of the conversation and had heard Helen say
“I hate it all, but must keep up my reputation as a Browningite.”
This he had reported to Mark, and had asked, “Is she going to speak a
piece, and can I hear her?” Jeff was obedient to every known wish of
Mark, whose will dominated him, and, actuated by a desire that the
latter should be a winner in the race he saw was running between the two
men, he frequently gave information to his master as to where Helen
could be found alone, and sometimes stood guard at a little distance,
ready to whistle, or turn a summersault when any one was approaching.
“Both of ’em after her,” he thought, “and it’s a toss up which will win.
Time will tell. I can’t.”