To the Piazza San Marco, in all its beauty and grandeur,--the richest
jewel of the Adriatic's bride,--we must now turn. It is about nine
at night; and beneath the long lines of arcades the gay shops and
_caffès_ are brilliantly lighted up. Their illumination--for, indeed,
it is like one--contrasts well with the darkness of the great Piazza
upon which they give; for, although from the centre of every arch--and
there are in all nearly a hundred--there juts out a gracefully-curved
branch, bearing a lighted lamp, they are but as faint glimmers in that
vast space, making mysterious solemn shade of all around, especially,
as now, when there is no moon to be seen in the deep blue and
star-spangled vault above. The dark mass of San Marco's basilica, the
_campanile_, the adjoining Piazzetta, with the Ducal Palace, the two
columns of oriental marble, surmounted by the bronze lion of St. Mark
and the statue of St. George, still guarding that port where, in days
of old, so many proud galleys sailed in triumph; and opposite, across
the Grand Canal's dark watery road, rising as if from the water's
midst, the dim outlines of San Giorgio in Maggiore and Santa Maria di
Salute:--it is, indeed, a combination unrivalled in the world!
In the centre of the Piazza an Austrian band is playing; and round the
_caffès_ are seated crowds of people sipping coffee or eating ices.
Among them are Mrs. Adair, Flora, and Marie Arbi.
When last we saw them they were in Florence with the Blakes and
Pentons; but now they are alone, and their friends far on their way
towards England.
During the time they spent there, Mr. Barkley was much attracted by
Marie, and was constantly at her side; that is, as constantly as he
could be without rendering his attentions marked. He invariably tried
to keep either with her or with Flora, on the principle, it may be
supposed, that if one cannot be with the especial favourite, the
next best thing is to be with her intimate friend; at all events, it
prevented observations being made. Had there appeared to be anything
serious in his manner, Mrs. Adair would naturally have considered
herself obliged to interfere, as Marie must be given up to the de St.
Severans free from any entanglement; but Mr. Barkley managed so well
that it would have been difficult to say which he liked best, Flora
or Marie, although they were nearly three weeks in Florence, and met
almost every day.
But what were Mr. Barkley's real feelings? Was he only amusing himself,
or was it something deeper? Yes, it was something deeper; he loved
Marie as he had never loved before or would ever love again, even
though he should not marry her, which was very probable, as there would
be many difficulties in the way, and he was one who was more likely to
succumb to difficulties than to bear up against and conquer them.
He was the only son of an Irish nobleman, who--as unfortunately so many
do in the sister island--had lived beyond his income, got his property
deeply into debt, and trusted to his son's making a rich marriage in
order to clear it. Edmund Barkley himself, in a vague way, gave in to
this idea. He thought that fortune would be a most desirable addition
to the charms of the future lady of his choice; but, being fastidious
to a fault, he had hitherto found all the heiresses of his acquaintance
unattractive, and answered the parental urgings to his marrying quickly
with, "Time enough, father; the right heiress has not appeared yet. And
if she should not appear at all,--well, I suppose, as a _pis aller_, I
must take one of those whom you have named; but to make up my mind to
that will require a good long run of freedom." So he kept his liberty,
and went from flower to flower until he met Marie, and--never imagining
that the little unsophisticated African girl could really touch his
world-proved heart--he dashed into a brisk general flirtation with her;
when, one day, to his great dismay, a sad truth dawned upon him. He
caught himself dreaming day-dreams of Marie presiding in his ancestral
halls, and charming everybody around her with her _naïve_ grace, and
her sweet, wild voice warbling her simple ballads, which she sang with
such feeling that all who love music rather as the highest expression
of language than of harmonised and learned combinations--as speaking
to the heart rather than the judgment--would prefer her singing to
that of the finished pupil of a fashionable London master. Marie's
history, too, had taken a strong hold of his imagination; and even
more,--although, perhaps, unknown to himself,--there was a feeling
that this little creature, so unequal to himself in intelligence and
education, had acted with a degree of strength and heroism of which he
was incapable; so that, almost involuntarily, he looked up to her as
something above him, loving her at the same time with the protecting
love of a man for gentleness and innocence.
This discovery set him thinking:--"Marie has no position, and of course
not much fortune; she is not even St. Severan's child, so he may not
give her anything.... It will never do for me; I must think no more
about her in this way. Adieu, then, sweet Marie; would that it could be
otherwise, but it cannot. So, once more adieu, my bright little fairy!"
After these musings he took up a novel which lay on the table; but
Marie would not be dismissed from his thoughts in this summary manner.
He saw her face multiplied in the pages of the book instead of its
printed characters. He closed it and thought he would try a little
music. He went into the saloon, where there was a piano, and began to
play some of his favourite reveries; but insensibly he glided into the
melodies which Marie used to sing, and which he knew so well. Then
the sound of her soft voice began to ring in his ear; and he ceased
to play that he might better listen to those clear young tones which
were sounding, not on his ear, but in his heart.... "Devil take it!"
he exclaimed aloud, and starting up from the piano; "I have never
allowed myself to be really caught by this little wilding! Yet it looks
horribly like it.... I see I must keep away from her!"
He shut down the piano, and went back to his own room; then he took up
the novel again, muttering, "Novels must certainly be gone to the bad
when they can't amuse a man for half-an-hour! I remember the time when
I could sit for hours over them." Mr. Barkley did not seem to remember
that he, perhaps, was changed rather than the novels.
There came a knock at the door. He lazily drawled out, "_Entrate_." In
came his sister with her cloak on, and, seeing him lying in an armchair
in his dressing-gown, with a novel in his hand, she exclaimed--
"What are you about, Edmund? Are you not coming?"
"Where, may I ask?"
"You cannot have forgotten that the Adair and Blake party have got
permission to see San Donato--Demidoff's Villa--and have asked us to go
with them? We are to call for one of the girls at eleven. You know, the
laying out of the grounds is said to be very beautiful, and the house
itself gorgeous. There are collections of paintings, statues, and I
know not what, to say nothing of the charms of _living statues_, Master
Edmund--eh?"
Here was a test for his newly-formed resolution of avoiding Marie.
What a pleasant vista his sister's words had called up, of wandering
in the grounds of San Donato with Marie--getting purposely separated
from the others, and only finding them after a needlessly long search;
but it was just what he ought to keep clear of; and he felt irritated
with Mrs. Penton for thus putting the temptation before him. However,
he would be strong--he would sternly resist it--and in accordance with
this determination he answered gruffly--
"I can't go and expose myself to such a sun as this. I have a headache."
Mrs. Penton turned round from the survey which she had been making of
herself in the glass, and looked at him laughingly as she said--
"What's up now, Edmund? Have the little African's charms palled
already?"
"Damn it!" he muttered, with uncontrollable irritation.
"Damn what, Edmund?" asked his sister, laughing more than ever. "San
Donato or me? or perhaps the little African?"
"How tiresome you are, Maria! I told you that I could not go because I
had a headache, and the sun is so awfully strong to-day."
"Of which I believe as much as you do. You were quite well an hour ago.
The headache is nothing but a sham. Perhaps you have got some new
_innamorata_; but come: the little African is not so bad after all.
She will do once in a way; and you know at first you certainly were a
little _épris_ in that quarter."
"For pity's sake, Maria, go to San Donato, and leave me in peace! How
teasing women can be! What a happy fellow I am not to have a wife!"
"It strikes me, my dear sir, that you are anything but a _happy_ fellow
this morning. Now I am going; but tell me first, what has made you so
bearish?"
"If I am bearish, I think the best thing you can do is to get out of my
way at once."
"I quite agree with you. You might tear me to pieces if I remained
much longer in your den; but I daresay, when this fit has passed over,
you will regret that you did not come with us. Indeed, I should not
be astonished if you were to follow us, if only for the pleasure such
a vain creature would take in seeing the little African's bright eyes
look brighter still when you appear."
Mrs. Penton retreated after this sally, but called out from the door--
"Good-bye, dear! I hope some kind fairy will soon transform you back
to a man! Shall I send the little African to you? and then you and she
could play 'Beauty and the Beast' over again?"
She closed the door as Mr. Barkley dashed his book into the opposite
corner of the room, and began to walk up and down in a state of
laughable irritation, declaring that women were the plagues of a man's
life, and that he wished they were all kept locked up and out of the
way, as in the East. Having given utterance to this charitable wish
towards the fair sex, he threw off his dressing-gown, dragged on a
coat, and, seizing his hat, he went out and walked to the Belle Arti,
quite forgetful of his asserted headache and dread of the sun. Beato
Angelico, at least, could not fail to absorb his attention.
Alas for il Beato! His pictures could teach no grand lessons to his
admirer to-day. His beautiful angels, lovingly leading the enfranchised
spirits of their earthly charges over flower-clad meadows to the
heavenly Jerusalem, only suggested to Mr. Barkley how delightful it
would be to be wandering thus in the shady alleys of San Donato with
Marie; and he felt more than half inclined to curse his folly in having
refused to go.... At last, tired even of Beato Angelico, he left the
Accademia; and as he walked home, he began to think seriously that
he had behaved like a fool. "After all," said he to himself, "St.
Severan might give her a fortune, and then I don't see why I should
not marry her! Why should not an African chief be as good as an Irish
one? and that's all my father is, I suppose. In any case, the birth
question would easily be got over, if it were not for that damned
money; and if it were not for my father, I would marry her, fortune or
no fortune. But that is all for the future: there is no good in making
one's self miserable about it now. 'Sufficient for the day is the evil
thereof.'... If I thought that Maria would not tease me unmercifully, I
declare I would do as she said--follow them to San Donato. By-the-bye,
though, the sun has got all clouded over, and dread of its heat was my
excuse for not going; now that it has disappeared, I can go without any
sacrifice of dignity, and I am glad to see that Maria does not think I
really care for little Marie; if she did, she would try to keep me away
from her, instead of laughing at me about her.... And so here goes for
a pleasant day." He called a carriage, and drove to San Donato.
Thus ended Mr. Barkley's resolution to avoid Marie, and thenceforth
he struggled no more against the stream, but let himself float gently
down, enjoying the present, and, as far as possible, shutting out all
thought of the future. The spoiled child of his family and of the
world, he was too much accustomed to self-indulgence to refrain from
pleasing himself because of the possible pain which he might inflict
on others,--in fact, he never thought about it. Intentionally, he would
not render any one unhappy,--how much less Marie; yet he was in a very
fair way of so doing by this thoughtless gratification of his own
wishes....
At length arrived the last evening of their stay in Florence. The
Adairs and the Blakes spent it at the Pentons'. Marie, as usual,
sang a good deal; but she remained seated at the piano after she had
ceased singing, until Flora went over to say that it was time to go
away, when the latter saw to her astonishment that Marie's eyes were
full of tears, and Mr. Barkley--he had been standing by her all the
time trifling with the music--was looking down at her with a very
unmistakable expression of intense interest. He tried to say something
light about the pain of leave-taking in general; but as Flora raised
her eyes from the tearful Marie, and looked earnestly at him, he
coloured, and exclaimed in a low tone--
"Forgive me, Miss Adair! I know that I ought to have kept away, and I
tried--indeed, I did!--but it was too strong for me!"
"I do not know what all this means, Mr. Barkley," answered Flora,
gravely; "but it appears to me difficult to explain satisfactorily.
Mignonne, dry up those tell-tale tears, we are going now."
"Oh, Flore!"--and Marie leaned her head against Flora as she pressed
her handkerchief to her eyes.
"For your own sake, Marie, try not to let it be seen that this
leave-taking affects you so much," whispered Flora, and, turning to
Mr. Barkley, she spoke to him for a few moments on some indifferent
subject, so as to give Marie time to recover herself; then, seeing that
she had dried up the tears and only looked pale and dejected, she said,
"Come now, Mignonne," and they joined the others who were wishing the
Pentons good-bye.
Mr. Barkley said he would walk home with them, and took care to
get Flora to himself. He then told her that he had yielded to the
temptation of being with Marie, persuading himself that perhaps he
might be able to marry her after all; and as a salve to his conscience,
he had determined not to utter one word of love to her. The last
evening, however, had been too much for him, he forgot all but his love
and his yearning desire to know if it were returned. He now bitterly
blamed himself for not having had the strength to go away at first,
and, more than all, for his conduct on that evening.
"It was particularly reprehensible in you, Mr. Barkley," answered
Flora, "to speak to Marie as you have done, knowing that she is not
with her own friends."
"I know it, Miss Adair, and, until this evening, I assure you that I
scrupulously avoided"--and this was literally true--"anything like
love-making."
"Even so, Mr. Barkley, your determination not to _speak_ of love to her
was only a splitting of hairs; you felt that you loved her, and were
not without hope that she might respond to that feeling; nevertheless,
although you know that you could--_would_ is perhaps the more fitting
word--not ask her to marry you now, you continued to seek her society.
Was it honourable?"
"I can only say again, I know but too well how much I am to blame, but
will you make no excuse for the power of temptation?... Believe me, I
would give worlds to marry her."
"You would give worlds to marry her," replied Flora, with a bitter
smile, "yet there is no real impediment; surely there is a strange
inconsistency in this? God knows how far _I_ would go in excusing
any yielding to strong temptation, but I _cannot_ excuse any one for
inflicting pain on another when it only requires a resolute act of his
will to avoid it."
"By heavens, Miss Adair, it is true that I would give worlds to many
Marie--I beg your pardon--Miss Arbi; and I would do so, fortune or no
fortune, were I my own master, but my father would disinherit me if I
married in opposition to his wishes; he has already told me so, and I
could not ask any one to marry me on nothing."
"I don't believe that your father would disinherit you, Mr. Barkley,
you, his only son, his idol, and the future lord. But pray do not
imagine that I want you to marry Marie. I only speak thus because
it is laughable to hear a _man_ say that he cannot ask one whom he
professes to love, to marry him unless she has a certain number of
thousands, because, forsooth, his father will disinherit him! But as
far as regards Marie, I would greatly prefer that you did not marry
her, unless it be that her affections are very deeply engaged, and this
I hope there is no great fear of. You have not treated her well, Mr.
Barkley, and I do not think that you are suited to each other. I doubt
if your happiness would be of very long duration."
"Oh, Miss Adair!"
"Spare me a lover's rhapsody, please, and take a word of advice from
me: try to forget Marie, as I trust and believe she will forget
you;--but here we are at the hotel, so good-bye."
"You are dreadfully hard upon me, Miss Adair, but it is no use to talk
of forgetting. I love Marie, and shall ever love her, truly!"
"Then act like a man gifted with a free will," answered Flora, as she
entered the hotel.
Flora and Marie slept in the same room, so, before going to bed, the
former heard a tearful confession of love and sorrow from poor gentle
little Marie. The wretched weakness of her lover's conduct seemed to
have no effect upon her, although to Flora it appeared despicable, and
she thought to herself, "Such an one would not do for me; he whom I
shall love must be strong and great, even in his faults. He must be one
of whom I could say
'He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again.'
However, it must be my work now to comfort poor Mignonne."
She endeavoured to rouse her by talking of her dear papa, Monsieur de
St. Severan; of how grieved he would be if she were to return to him
after so many years, looking pale and melancholy, when he expected to
see her in the bloom of youth and happiness; and urged her, for his
sake--and for all their sakes--to struggle against this, her first
experience of love's trials.
At length Marie said--speaking French, as she invariably did when very
earnest, but we will give the substance in the vernacular--"Yes, Flora,
I know it is very wrong to grieve so, to repine at what I suppose God
sees is good for me. I know that I ought to be content to be unhappy if
He wills it, but it is very hard at first, Flora...."
"Hard? Oh how hard, first or last! But you bear it like a saint,
Mignonne! _I_ could not bear it as you do; it would be a hard struggle
with me to submit to the power which deprived me of the person I loved
best, even before I had known the bliss of being his companion."
"Ah! It is very nice to be happy," murmured Marie through her tears,
"but, if _le bon Dieu_ sees that it is better for us not to be so, we
ought to be satisfied, ought we not?"
"Ay, and it is comparatively easy for a little angel like you to be
so, but for me it would be a fierce battle...." Were Flora's words
prophetic? "However, that has nothing to do with the present hour, the
duty of which is for you to go to bed, dearest."
Marie's tears broke out afresh, but she allowed Flora to unfasten her
gown and help to undress her. When she was in bed Flora kissed her and
said good-night. Marie clasped her arms round her, and drawing her face
down to her own, murmured, "Flore, what should I do without you?"
"Better, perhaps, than with me, Mignonne," answered Flora, somewhat
brusquely, in order to hide the inclination which she herself felt to
cry. Marie's gentleness in her sorrow was so plaintive. "I am not saint
enough to know how to console you with religion as another might do, I
can only feel for and with you, darling, so good-night again."
At last Marie sobbed herself to sleep like a tired child, and next
morning the hurry and fuss of departure prevented her sad face and red
eyes from being observed. It was not a pleasant morning to Flora; she
was losing her friend Maria Blake, and she knew that she should miss
her sadly. On Marie she looked as one does on a pretty, loving child,
but she could not make a companion of her as of Mina,--and how great
is the loss of one with whom we can talk on the different subjects
that most occupy our thoughts,--one with whom we can really have an
interchange of ideas!... This Marie certainly could not be to Flora,
for she did not think much on any subject, or read much except of light
literature. She had no lack of intelligence and quickness, but she
was by nature averse to application; she worked beautifully and was
very fond of it,--it did not hinder her from giving vent to all her
innocent gaiety of disposition in chattering about all sorts of little
nothings. These were the things which made Flora think that Marie was
not suited to Mr. Barkley; she would be to him a little attendant,
loving, laughing sprite, ready to work for him, to do anything for him,
in short, but to be a real companion to him; and Flora feared that
when the first charm of Marie's beauty and caressing manner had become
familiar to him, he would tire of living without one who could interest
herself in, and, as it were, take part in, his pursuits, and that by
degrees he would begin to leave her alone, and seek elsewhere that
interchange of ideas which he could not have with her.
Thus, after they left Florence, it was rather a gloomy time for both
girls, but the various sights of Bologna, Parma, Milan, and Padua--in
each of which towns they made a short stay on their way to Venice--were
good distractions, and Marie's light, buoyant nature was not one to
which the absence of a loved one rendered everything sunless, so that
sometimes she would be as gay as possible, although at others large
tears might have been seen rolling slowly down her cheeks, as on the
lovely night when she sat in the Piazza San Marco.
The band was playing a beautiful though somewhat sad serenade,--all
conduced to a soft melancholy which was deeply felt by Flora as well
as Marie; but her own name--"Miss Adair!"--pronounced by a voice whose
music she loved, perhaps, too well, sent the blood flushing to her
cheeks, and made her eyes sparkle as she exclaimed, "Mr. Earnscliffe!"
How inexpressibly sweet she thought his smile was as he shook hands
with her. Then he turned to speak to Mrs. Adair and Marie. She felt too
astonished, yet delighted, to speak, but Mrs. Adair said, "Well, this
_is_ a surprise! We thought you were in Naples."
"So I was, but as I have not any ties to any one, or to any place, my
movements are often sudden and changeable. I began to find it rather
hot, so I determined not to spend the summer in Italy, but I wished,
before leaving it, to have another look at Venice,--it is so beautiful.
Is it not, Miss Adair?"
"Yes, this Piazza alone contains a world of beauty and interest."
"Quite true, it has indeed been the scene of stirring deeds. We have
but to look upon that gorgeous Ducal Palace to recall them, and with a
shudder we think of the fearful dungeons with which it is connected by
the fatal Bridge of Sighs, and half expect to see the terrible state
barge gliding swiftly and noiselessly to the dark Lagunes where some
poor wretch is about to be consigned to a watery grave.... Oh, Venice
is one vast romance!"
He looked at Flora as if he expected that she would continue the
conversation; but she did not want to speak, she only wanted to be
allowed to sit there and silently enjoy the luxury of listening to him.
Finding that she did not answer, he said, "How strange it was that on
the very night of my arrival I should chance to see you!"
These words recalled to her the night when she had last seen him, and
she replied with a smile, "I wonder that you stopped to speak to us,
as we are all ladies. Do you remember the harsh condemnation which you
pronounced upon women in general at Mrs. Elton's ball? And I have not
seen you since!"
"So, Miss Adair, you have not then forgotten my unfortunate speech to
you?"
"I could not forget it, it was so sweeping and severe upon us."
"I fear I was very rude. Will you forgive me?"
"Personally, I have nothing to forgive, but as one of the sex, I must
repeat, you were very unjust to us."
"I believe so _now_, sincerely; at least I know that there are
exceptions to what I then said, as _you_"--his voice was lowered so
that there should be no possibility of its reaching any other ears than
hers--"proved on that very night; therefore, you, personally, have a
great deal to forgive."
Flora blushed deeply as she looked up at him in wonder. "What can he
have heard?" she asked herself.... Just then the band stopped playing
and went away, so that this _sotto voce_ conversation could not be
continued.
The loiterers in the Piazza now began to disperse. Mrs. Adair stood up
as if she wished to go home, but Flora said, "How I should like to see
the Lagunes at night!"
"Then let us go now," said Mr. Earnscliffe; "there could not be a
better night for seeing them than this dark and starry one, and my
gondola is at the steps of the Piazzetta. Shall it be so, Mrs. Adair?"
"The girls would like it," answered Mrs. Adair, "so I suppose we must
go."
... What a happy closing to the evening did Flora find in that row in
the gondola! How vividly did Mr. Earnscliffe's language call up the
past,--the far-famed Doges of other days; the hapless Marino Faliero,
the father of the Foscari; great "blind old Dondolo."... Byron and
Shakespeare lent their aid; Shylock and Antonio seemed to walk again
on the Rialto; ... bravos lurked behind dark buttresses for the coming
of their victims; ... lovers fled in the close-curtained _gondole_ from
cruel guardians to some freer shore.... Mr. Earnscliffe did indeed
make Venice "one vast romance" to Flora, the spell of which was hardly
broken by his taking leave of them on the steps of the Hotel Zucchese.