reminds me, Mrs. Mackenzie; you can't think how divine it is now at four
o'clock in the morning. Won't you go for a ride at that hour some day
soon? Mrs. North and Mrs. Tracy could follow in the carriage" (with a
look towards those ladies).
"Ride?" repeated Dorothy. A flush rose in her cheeks. "No," she
answered, in an altered voice--"no!"
She said nothing more, and she did not speak again; she sat looking at
the floor. Mrs. North filled the pause with her placid sentences. But
Dorothy's manner was so changed and constrained that the young
Englishman soon went away. The girl had taken something into her head.
But it would not last long; nothing ever did last long with Dorothy.
This belief of his was soon jostled by the fact that Dorothy would not
see him. Mrs. North covered the refusal as well as she could by saying
that her daughter was not well; that she was not seeing any visitors at
present. But Florence was empty; there were no visitors to come; it
simply meant, therefore, that she was not seeing Owen Charrington. He
lingered on through the month, coming every day to Belmonte. Mrs. North
received him graciously. But he was obliged to content himself with a
close investigation of their plans for the summer. At last, on the 2d of
July, unable any longer to endure the burning, glaring Lung' Arno and
the furnace-like atmosphere of the Hôtel d'Italie, he took his
departure. He went to Baden-Baden, writing home to his family that he
should probably spend the summer in the Black Forest country with
friends.
The morning after Charrington's departure, illness (real illness this
time) seized Dorothy. For a week she remained motionless on a couch, her
face white, her eyes closed.
"We must take her to Switzerland; we must go straight up to the snow,"
said Charlotte Tracy. "When she sees the glacier water she will revive
at once. The gray glacier water, you know; one begins to meet it at
Chiomonte; it comes rushing over the rocks, gray and cool, with
sometimes a little foam; but gray, always gray--a sort of leady gray."
She said gray so many times that Mrs. North cried out at last, "Oh, do
call it green!"
Speedy preparations were made for departure; the trunks were packed and
sent down to the railway station. Dorothy remained passive, making no
objection to their plans, but showing no interest in them. Caroline, her
maid, dressed her for the journey. But when the little black bonnet with
its long black veil had been put on, and the black gloves, and the young
mistress of the house rose to walk to the carriage, after a few steps
her figure swayed, and she sank to the floor; she had fainted. She
remained unconscious for so long a time that it was evident there could
be no travelling that day; they must wait until she was stronger. They
waited, therefore, from one day to the next, each morning expecting to
start, and each morning postponing departure. The 15th of July found
them still at Belmonte. The thick stone walls of the majestic old house
kept out the burning sunshine, and Dorothy appeared to like the warm air
that came in through the shaded windows; she lay breathing it quietly,
with her eyes closed. The American physician of Florence had gone to New
York for six months. An English doctor came up daily. But there was
nothing to combat. There was no fever, no malady save this sudden
physical weakness. Everything possible was done for this, but with small
results. At last Dr. Hotham advised them to attempt the journey in any
case. A nurse was engaged; Dorothy was to be carried on a couch to the
station, where a railway carriage, provided with an invalid's bed, was
waiting. But before they had traversed a quarter of the length of the
Via dei Serragli, the clatter of the carriage wheels and the other
noises of the street threw the girl into a delirium, and they returned
hastily to Bellosguardo. The delirium passed away and they made another
attempt. This time they were to cross Florence in the middle of the
night, and a special train was to take them northward. But the paroxysm
came on again, and with greater violence. Before they reached the bottom
of the Bellosguardo hill Dorothy threw up her arms like a wild creature;
the nurse could scarcely hold her. This time high fever followed; the
girl, now in bed, lay with scarlet cheeks and glassy eyes, knowing
nobody. Dr. Hotham conquered the fever. Then she was as she had been
before, save that the weakness was increased.
With the exception of Dr. Hotham, there was now no one in Florence whom
they knew. Nora Sebright remained at St. Martin's Orphan House out in
the country; but she knew nothing of events in town. One day Dr. Hotham,
having been called to the orphan house to see a child, spoke to Nora of
the puzzling illness of Mrs. Mackenzie; he knew that the Sebrights were
among the acquaintances of these American ladies. Nora hurried to town,
and, although it was evening, drove up to Belmonte without delay. There
were now two nurses at the villa. But Nora was the best nurse; and,
after seeing Dorothy for a moment, she begged the mother and aunt to
allow her to remain and assist.
"You are extremely kind, Miss Sebright. But I do not think you ought to
give yourself so much trouble," said Mrs. North. "Dorothy will soon be
stronger; the fever, as you see, has entirely disappeared, and in a few
days we shall go to Switzerland."
But Nora followed Mrs. Tracy into the next room. "Dear Mrs. Tracy, do
let me stay. I am such a good nurse--you can't think. And I am so fond
of Dorothy. And I really think she ought to be amused, if possible. Not
that I am very amusing; but at least it makes one more."
There was no lamp in this room, but, all the same, Charlotte Tracy
seemed to read an expression in the face she could not see. "What has
Dr. Hotham said to you?" she asked.
"Indeed, nothing; he never talks. It is only that Dorothy has always
been so well; she was well all winter, you know. Even now (for the fever
was only the effort of the journey) there seems to be nothing one can
take hold of. And so the question came up, as it always does in such a
case, could she have anything weighing upon her mind--weighing too
much, I mean? But I am sure," continued Nora, her voice calm as usual
(but her face, in the darkness, quivering for an instant), "that we need
apprehend no danger of that sort; Dorothy's mind is perfectly healthy.
And she has been from the very first so brave, you know--so wonderfully
brave."
Charlotte Tracy, a prey to conflicting feelings, bent and kissed Nora
without a word. Grief for Alan Mackenzie had indeed been more deeply
felt at the dreary orphan house down in the dusty valley than in his own
home on this beautiful hill. Nora stayed.
August burned itself out. At Belmonte the heavy outer portals were kept
closed; within, all the doors stood open in order to create, if
possible, a current of air through the darkened rooms. Once in two
hours, night and day, Nora came to Dorothy's bedside and offered some
delicate nourishment; Dorothy took it unobjectingly. She seldom spoke,
but she appeared to like Nora's presence and her gentle ministrations.
Mrs. Tracy had forced herself to speak to Laura about the doctor's
question. Some force was necessary, for she was always exasperated by
Laura's replies. "I am beginning to be a little frightened about
Dorothy, Laura; she doesn't gain. It is no time to mince matters; such
things have happened before, and will happen again as long as the world
lasts, and it seems that even Dr. Hotham has asked whether there could
be anything weighing upon her mind. Now what I want to know is, do you
think she is brooding about something?"
"Brooding?"
"Yes. I mean, do you think she is interested in somebody?--Owen
Charrington, if I must name him. You used to think that she liked him?
And that she cannot bear the separation? Yet thinks it too soon? And
that that was the reason she refused to see him again? And now it is
weighing upon her?"
"Mercy, what theories! You have always saddled Dorothy with deeper
feelings than she has ever possessed. Do leave the poor child alone;
don't make her out so unusual and unpleasant; she is like any other girl
of nineteen. She is interested in Owen--yes; but not in that exaggerated
way; she isn't pining herself ill about him. And let me tell you, too,
that if he were to her at this moment all you are imagining him to be,
she wouldn't in the least be deterred by considerations of its being
'too soon,' as you call it; she would not even remember that it _was_
soon."
Mrs. Tracy's eyes filled.
"Well, what now? Do you wish her to be breaking her heart for Alan? I
thought you came in to suggest sending post-haste for Owen Charrington!
Do you know really what you want yourself? Dorothy will grow stronger in
time. A hot summer in Italy has pulled her down, but with the first cool
weather she will revive, and then we can carry out our plans."
Towards the middle of September the rains came, the great heat ended.
With the return of the fresh breeze Dorothy left her bed, and lay on the
broad divan among its large, cool cushions; she even walked about the
room a little, once or twice a day. The first time she walked they saw
how thin she was; the black dressing-gown hung about her like a pall.
"Take it off," said Mrs. Tracy, when she had beckoned Caroline into the
next room. "Never let her wear it again."
"But I have fear that madame is not enough strong yet to wear a
costume," suggested the maid, respectfully.
Mrs. Tracy unlocked a wardrobe and took out a pile of folded draperies.
They were white morning dresses, long and loose, covered with beautiful
laces and knots of ribbon; they had formed part of Dorothy's trousseau.
"Let her wear these," she said, briefly.
Dorothy made no objection to the change. Occasionally she looked at her
new attire, and smoothed out the ribbons and lace. Throughout her
illness she had scarcely spoken. They had supposed that this silence
came from her weakness--the weakness which had made it an effort
sometimes for her to lift her hand. But now that she was up again, and
walking about the room, the muteness continued. She answered their
questions, but it seemed necessary for her to recall her thoughts from
some distant place in order to answer. She lived in a reverie, and her
eyes had a far-off expression. But these were slight things. When ten
days had slowly passed without any relapse, Charlotte Tracy, who had
counted the hours, exclaimed, with joy, "Now we can go!" Dr. Hotham was
to accompany them as far as Vevey. Nothing was to be said to Dorothy, in
order that she should not have even a feather's weight of excitement;
but the preparations were swiftly made. On the afternoon before the day
appointed for the start, Dorothy suddenly left her easy-chair, crossed
the room, opened a door, and looked down a corridor. At the end of the
corridor she saw Caroline kneeling before open trunks.
"What are you doing, Caroline? Those are my trunks, aren't they? You may
stop; I shall not leave Belmonte."
Nora, who had followed, led her back. "Your mother and aunt are so very
anxious to go north, dear," she explained. "Come and lie down; you must
not tire yourself before the journey."
But Dorothy resisted. "Please call them, Nora; call them both; I must
tell them. I know mamma; she will have me carried. But that is because
she does not understand. When I tell her, it will be different. Please
call them both."
When they came in--Mrs. Tracy alarmed, Mrs. North smiling as if prepared
to be, outwardly, very indulgent--Dorothy was still standing in the
centre of the room, the laces of her white dress fluttering in the soft
breeze.
"Mamma," she said, "I must tell you. Aunt Charlotte, you have always
been kind to me. I cannot go away; do not ask me."
"Sit down, Dorothy. Nora, make her sit down. You will not be asked to
take a step, my daughter; everything is arranged; don't trouble yourself
even to think."
"You do not understand, mamma. But I myself have not understood until
lately. I cannot leave Belmonte."
"But Dr. Hotham thinks you can," interposed Mrs. Tracy, soothingly; "he
knows how much strength you have. We are all going with you, and the
journey will be very easy. You used to like Vevey."
"Let me stay here; I wish to stay here."
"But we have never intended to spend our lives at Bellosguardo,"
answered Mrs. North, drawing her towards the divan and making her sit
down.
"Let me stay a little while longer, mamma."
"You mean that you will be willing to go later? But, we think that now
is the time. You have nothing to do save to rest here quietly, and then
go to sleep; you will open your eyes in Vevey."
Dorothy, seated, her hands extended on her knees, looked up at her
mother. "Mamma, you don't know. There's an ache that will not leave me.
I haven't told you about it. But I'm _so_ unhappy!"
Mrs. Tracy, hurrying forward, put her arm round the girl protectingly.
Mrs. North, her face slightly flushed, whispered to Nora:
"She is wandering. Please go and send some one immediately for the
doctor. Write a note for the man to take with him."
In this way she got rid of Nora.
Dorothy, alone with her mother and aunt, went on talking: "I didn't know
what it meant myself for ever so long. But now I do, and it's all
simple. I shall just stay quietly here. This is the best place. And you
mustn't mind, for it makes _me_ very happy."
"My darling, have you written? What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Tracy.
"What do I mean?" Dorothy repeated. She smiled; into her white face came
a flush of color. "I mean that I shall see him very soon now. It won't
be long to wait."
"She has sent for him," thought the aunt. "I was right; it is Owen."
"That is why I wish to stay here," Dorothy went on. "Everything here is
associated with Alan; he liked Belmonte so much."
"Alan?" breathed the aunt, amazed, but instantly concealing her
amazement. Mrs. North quickly measured some drops from a phial
containing a sedative.
Dorothy let her head sink back against the cushions. "In the beginning
I didn't in the least know that I was going to feel it so. But that ache
came, and it wouldn't stop. I tried all sorts of things--don't you
remember? I tried studying. I tried music lessons. He used to urge me to
sing. He liked long walks, and I never would go; so then I took long
walks. You haven't forgotten them, have you? But the ache went on, and I
could not stand it. So I asked you to go to Paris. Paris has always been
so funny and amusing. But it wasn't funny any more. When we came back
here I thought that perhaps some one coming up every day and staying a
long time would make me forget. But having Waddy was worse than being
alone, and at last I hated him. Owen Charrington, too! Owen used to make
me laugh; I thought he would make me laugh again. But he didn't at all.
And when he asked me that last day to ride it was like a knife; for Alan
always went with me, and would never say anything to spoil my pleasure.
Yet he did not care about it really, though I insisted upon going day
after day. That is the way it was about everything. But I'm paying for
it now; I miss him so--I miss him so! Alan! Alan!--" And putting her
thin hands over her face, Dorothy burst into miserable heart-broken
sobs.
Nora came running in; Mrs. North handed her the medicine glass.
"Hysterics," she said. "Give her those drops as soon as you can."
"I look to you, doctor, to get us out of this new difficulty," said this
lady the next day to Dr. Hotham. "She has taken this fixed idea that she
does not wish to leave Belmonte. But the fixed idea of a girl of
nineteen ought not to be a trouble to you. Can't you suggest
something? Has science no resources for such a case?"
[Illustration: "'I MEAN THAT I SHALL SEE HIM VERY SOON NOW'"]
Dr. Hotham's resource was to send to Rome for a colleague. The most
distinguished English physician in Italy was called to Florence, and
there was a consultation at Bellosguardo. When it was over Mrs. North
came in to see the great man.
His sentences were agreeable; they were also encouraging. After a time
he spoke of the varying forms of nervous prostration; then he asked
whether this very interesting young lady could have, by any possibility,
something weighing upon her mind?
"No, nothing," replied the mother.
"Ah! In that case time, I trust, is all that is necessary for a complete
recovery."
"My own idea would be to take her north in spite of her disinclination
to go," Mrs. North went on. "A disinclination ought not to be important.
The journey would soon be over. She could be kept under the influence of
sedatives. But Dr. Hotham will not give his consent."
"I agree with him, madam. Do not force her; the effect upon the nervous
system might be bad. Let her do whatever she fancies. Amuse her. What a
pity there is no Corney Grain in Italy!"
"Everything in the way of amusement has been tried. That is why I wish
to take her away."
"Ah! I understood you to say, I think, that there is no hidden cause, no
wish, no mental--ah--err--strain?"
"Nothing of any consequence. She is hysterical sometimes; but that is
owing to her physical weakness," Mrs. North answered. And she said what
she believed.
A month later Dorothy, lying on a couch in her room, put out her hand to
Nora. "I must give you some of my money, Nora, for your poor
people--your orphans and the school and the hospital. I will give it to
you to-morrow."
"You can help Nora to distribute it," said Mrs. Tracy.
"Dear Aunt Charlotte, how you hate to hear me speak of it! But I talk to
Nora, you know, just as I please in the night."
"No; talk to me, too. Say whatever you like," answered Mrs. Tracy,
quickly.
[Illustration: BELMONTE]
"It is so warm this evening that I can have all the windows open,"
Dorothy went on. "Take the lamp out, Nora, please, and let in the
moonlight; I like to see it shining across the floor." She lay in
silence for some minutes looking at the radiance. They had cut off her
hair, thinking that its length and thickness might be taking something
from her small store of strength. Her face, with the boyish locks,
looked very childlike. "Do you remember that song, Aunt
Charlotte,'Through the long days'? The moonlight makes me think of it.
First, Felicia Philipps sang it one moonlight evening over at Villa
Dorio. Then, after we were married, some one sang it here in the garden,
and Alan said, when it was over-- Oh, if I could only tell him once, just
once, that I _did_ love him! He never believed it--he never knew--"
"Don't cry, dear. _Don't._"
"No; I don't cry very often now," Dorothy answered, her breast rising in
one or two long sobs. "Last spring Waddy dared to sing that song
again--Alan's song! I could not see him after that.
"Through the long days, the long days and the years--"
"It will tire you to sing, dear."
"No; I like it." And then, in a faint little thread of a voice, barely
audible, but very sweet, she sang, lying there in the moonlight, the
beautiful song:
"Through the long days, the long days and the years,
What will my loved one be,
Parted from me, parted from me,
Through the long days and years?
"Never, ah, never on earth again--"
It was her last song. Three days later she died. She passed away so
quietly that they did not know it was death; they thought she was
asleep.
When at last they learned what it was, Mrs. North, standing beside the
couch, white and stern, said, with rigid lips, "The doctors did not tell
us."
But the doctors did not know.
A TRANSPLANTED BOY
I
Lorenzo came into the hall, bell in hand.
Putting down his white gloves at the feet of the goddess Flora, he began
his promenade: ding-dong past Jupiter and Juno; ding-dong past Mars and
Venus, Neptune and Diana, Minerva and Apollo, until the last pedestal on
the east was reached; here there was no goddess, only a leaping flame.
There was a corresponding tongue of fire on the last pedestal of the
west side opposite, and both of these architectural ornaments were made
of wood, painted scarlet. On the north side there towered six windows as
high as those of a church. These windows faced a flight of stone steps
that went down in a dignified sweep, eighteen feet wide, to a landing
adorned with a Muse; here, dividing into two wings, the staircase turned
to the right and the left in noble curves, and descended to the square
hall below. The massive iron-clamped portals of this lower hall were
open; they were swung back early in the morning, in order that the
horses might pass through on their way to the street; for there were
horses in the stables of the court-yard within. They did pass through,
making with the carts to which they were harnessed a thundering clatter
which would have deafened the inmates of an American dwelling. But the
old Pisan palace had been built in another fashion. This lower hall with
its heavy pavement and great doors, the gallery above with the rows of
life-sized statues, the broad sweep of the stone stairways--all these, a
space that could have swallowed many modern houses entire, were but its
entrance; and so massive were the floors that no one in the long ranges
of rooms above had any intimation of the moment when their hallway was
turned into a street. The outer portals remained swung back all day; but
the light inner doors were opened and closed on demand by old Bianca,
the portress, who lived in a dusky den under the staircase. This evening
the sunset was so brilliant that even these inner doors stood open, and
Bianca herself had come to the threshold, blinking a little as the
radiance fell upon her patient, cloistered face.
She was looking at a boy who was leaning over the parapet opposite. This
boy, with one arm round a small dog whom he had lifted to the top of the
wall by his side, was gazing at the tawny water of the Arno as it glided
past the house; for the old palace was in the Lung' Arno of Pisa, the
sunny street that follows the river like a quay, its water-side lying
open to the stream, protected by a low wall. Bianca was evidently
thinking of this boy and the summons of the clanging bell above; whether
he cared for the bell or not, he seemed to feel at last the power of her
mild gaze directed upon his back, for, swinging himself down from the
parapet, he crossed the street, and with his dog at his heels, entered
the palace. He went up the right-hand stairway, glancing as he passed at
the two stone caryatides which upheld the balustrade at the landing;
these were girls who had probably been intended for mermaids; but their
fish endings were vague compared with the vividly human expression of
their anxious young countenances--an anxiety oddly insisted upon by the
unknown house-sculptor who had chiselled them according to his fantasy
hundreds of years before. Freshly arrived Americans, not yet broken in
to the light foreign breakfast, and frozen from January to March, were
accustomed to declare that the faces of these caryatides reflected in
advance all the miseries of the _pension_, that is, all the hardship of
winter life in Italy which assails the surprised and undefended pilgrim
from the United States. But the boy who was coming up the stairs, though
American, was not freshly arrived; in his mind the caryatides
illustrated, more or less, a charming story which his mother had told
him--the story of the Little Mermaid; he was fond of their anxious stone
cheeks on that account.