looked at her friend with the same old affection and admiration which
she had felt for her from childhood, but now with a sort of speculative
curiosity added. How must it feel to live such a life--to be constantly
surrounded and accompanied by an atmosphere of devotion and enthralment
such as that letter had expressed? Beatrice seemed to divine something
of her friend's thought, and answered it after her fashion.
"It is such a comfort to be with you, Margaret," she said,
affectionately; "it has always been a comfort, ever since we were
children. I can talk freely to you, and as I can talk to no one else.
You understand; you do not misunderstand. But all the other women I meet
invariably do; or, at least, pretend to enough to excuse their being
horribly disagreeable."
Margaret took her hand. They had taken off their gloves, as the
afternoon was warm, and they had the heights to themselves; it was early
in March, and the crowd of tourists who come in the spring to Italy, and
those more loitering travellers who had spent the winter in Naples or
Rome, had not yet reached Florence, although it may be said that they
were at the door. Mrs. Lovell's hands, now destitute of ornament save
the plain band of the wedding-ring, were small, dimpled, very white; her
friend Miss Stowe had hands equally small, but darker and more slender.
"You have been happy all your life, have you not, Beatrice?" said
Margaret, not questioningly so much as assertively.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Lovell, "I think I have. Of course I was much
shocked by Mr. Lovell's death; he was very kind to me."
"Mr. Lovell," as his wife always called him, had died four months
previously. He was fifty-six years of age, and Beatrice had been his
wife for a little more than a year. He had been very happy with her, and
had left her his fortune and his blessing; with these, and his memory,
she had come abroad, and had been for six weeks in Sicily, with some
elderly friends. She had stopped in Florence to see Miss Stowe, who was
spending the winter there with an aunt; but she was not to remain. In
her present state of seclusion she was to visit Venice and the Lakes in
advance of the season, and spend the summer in "the most quiet village"
which could be discovered for her especial benefit on the Brittany
coast. The friends had not met for two years, and there had been much to
tell--that is, for Beatrice to tell. Her always personal narratives were
saved from tediousness, however, because they were not the usual
decorated feminine fancies, but plain masculine facts (oh, very plain!);
and because, also, the narrator was herself quite without the vanity
which might naturally have accompanied them. This last merit seemed to
her admirers a very remarkable one; in reality it was only that, having
no imagination, she took a simple, practical view of everything,
themselves included. This last, however, they never discovered, because
her unfailing tact and gentleness lay broadly and softly over all.
"And what shall you do about your Sicily person?" said Margaret, not in
the least, however, associating the remark, and knowing also that
Beatrice would not associate it, with "Mr. Lovell" and his "memory" (it
was quite well understood between them about "Mr. Lovell").
"Of course I shall not answer."
"And if he follows you?"
"He will hardly do that--now. Besides, he is going to America; he sails
to-morrow. Our having been together in Sicily was quite by chance, of
course; he knows that, and he knows also that I intend to pay, in every
way, the strictest respect to Mr. Lovell's memory. That will be fully
two years."
"And then?"
"Oh, I never plan. If things do not assert themselves, they are not
worth a plan."
"You certainly are the most delightful little piece of common-sense I
ever met," said Margaret, laughing, and kissing her. "I wish you would
give me a share of it! But come--it is late; we must go."
As they went down the slope together towards the village where their
carriage was waiting, they looked not unlike the two seventeen-year-old
school-girls of eight years before; Beatrice was smiling, and Margaret's
darker face was lighted by the old animation which had always charmed
her lovely but unanimated friend. It may here be remarked that the
greatest intellectual excitements which Beatrice Lee had known had been
when Margaret Stowe had let loose her imagination, and carried her
friend up with her, as on strong wings, to those regions of fancy which
she never attained alone; Beatrice had enjoyed it, wondered over it, and
then had remained passive until the next time.
"Ah well--poor Sicily person!" said Margaret, as they took their places
in the carriage. "I know just what you will do with him. You will write
down his name in a memorandum-book, so as not to forget it; you will
safely burn his poor letter, as you have safely burned so many others;
and you will go gently on to Brittany without even taking the ashes!"
"Keep it for me!" said Mrs. Lovell, suddenly, drawing the letter from
her pocket and placing it in Margaret's hand. "Yes," she repeated,
enjoying her idea and dwelling upon it, delighted to find that she
possessed a little fancy of her own, after all, "keep it for me, and
read it over once in a while. It is quite well written, and will do you
good, because it is not one of your theories, but a fact. There is
nothing disloyal in my giving it to you, because I always tell you
everything, and this Sicily person has no claim for exemption in that
regard. He has gone back to America, and you will not meet him.
No--positively, I will not take it. You must keep it for me."
"Very well," said Margaret, amused by this little unexpected flight.
"But as I may go back to America also, I want to be quite sure where I
stand. Did you happen to mention to this Sicily person my name, or
anything about me?"
"No," replied Mrs. Lovell, promptly. "We did not talk on such subjects,
you know."
"And he had no idea that you were to stop in Florence?"
"No; he supposed I was to take the steamer at Naples for Marseilles. You
need not be so scrupulous; everything is quite safe."
"And when shall I return the epistle?"
"When I ask for it," said Mrs. Lovell, laughing.
The next morning she went northward to Venice.
* * * * *
Two weeks later Miss Stowe formed one of the company at a reception, or,
rather, a musical party. She looked quite unlike the "Margaret" of
Fiesole as she sat on a small, faded purple satin sofa, listening,
rather frowningly, to the rippling movement that follows the march in
Beethoven's sonata, opus twenty-six; she had never liked that rippling
movement, she did not pretend to like it now. Her frown, however, was
slight--merely a little line between her dark eyebrows; it gave her the
appearance of attention rather than of disapprobation. The "Margaret" of
Fiesole had looked like an animated, almost merry, young girl; the "Miss
Stowe" of the reception appeared older than she really was, and her face
wore an expression of proud reserve, which, although veiled by all the
conventional graciousness required by society, was not on that account
any the less apparent. She was richly dressed; but the general effect of
her attire was that of simplicity. She fanned herself slowly with a
large fan, whose sticks were of carved amber, and the upper part of soft
gray ostrich plumes, curled; closed or open, as she used it or as it lay
beside her, this fan was an object of beauty. As the music ceased a lady
came fluttering across the room, and, with a whispered "Permit me,"
introduced a gentleman, whose name, in the hum of released
conversation, Miss Stowe did not hear.
"He understands _everything_ about old pictures, and you know how
ignorant _I_ am!" said this lady, half closing her eyes, and shaking her
ringleted head with an air of abnegation. "_I_ have but _one_
inspiration; there is room in me but for _one_. I bring him, therefore,
to _you_, who have so many! We _all_ know your love for the early
masters--may I not say, the _earliest_?"
Madame Ferri was an American who had married a Florentine; she was now a
little widow of fifty, with gray ringlets and emotions regarding music
almost too ineffable to be expressed. I say "almost," because she did,
after all, express them, as her friends knew. She was a useful person in
Florence because she indefatigably knew everybody--the English and
Americans as well as the Florentines; and she spent her time
industriously at work mingling these elements, whether they would or no.
No one thanked her for this especially, or remembered it after it was
done; if republics are ungrateful, even more so is a society whose
component parts are transient, coming and departing day by day. But
Madame Ferri herself appreciated the importance of her social
combinations if no one else did; and, like many another chemist, lived
on content in the consciousness of it.
"I know very little about old pictures," said the stranger, with a
slight smile, finding himself left alone beside Miss Stowe.
"And I--do not like them," she replied.
"If, more than that, you dislike them, we shall have something to talk
about. Dislike can generally express itself very well."
"On the contrary, I think it is one of those feelings we do not
express--but conceal."
"You are thinking of persons, perhaps. I was speaking of things.
Pictures are things."
Miss Stowe felt herself slightly displeased; and the feeling was not
lessened when, with a "Will you allow me?" the stranger took a seat at
the end of her sofa, in the space left free by the gray silken sweep of
her dress. There was in reality an abundance of room for him; other men
were seated, and there was no chair near. Still, the sofa was a small
one; the three Italians and two Frenchmen who had succeeded each other
in the honor of standing beside her for eight or ten minutes'
conversation had not thought of asking for the place so calmly taken by
this new-comer. She looked at him as he began talking; he was quite
unlike the three Italians and two Frenchmen. He was not ruddy enough for
an Englishman of that complexion; he had a lethargic manner which was
un-American. She decided, however, that he was, like herself, an
American; but an American who had lived much abroad.
He was talking easily upon the various unimportant subjects in vogue at
a "small party;" she replied in the same strain.
Margaret Stowe was not beautiful; "pretty" was the last word that could
have been applied to her. Her features were irregular; she had a
well-shaped, well-poised head, and a quantity of dark hair which she
wore closely braided in a low knot behind. She was tall, slender, and
rather graceful; she had dark eyes. As has been said before, she was not
beautiful; but within the past two years she had acquired, her friends
thought, an air of what is called distinction. In reality this was but
a deep indifference, combined with the wish at the same time to maintain
her place unchanged in the society in which she moved. Indifference and
good manners taken together, in a tall and graceful person, will
generally give that air. Beatrice Lovell had not perceived this change
in her friend, but on that day at Fiesole Miss Stowe had been simply the
"Margaret" of old.
In accordance with what we have called her good manners, Miss Stowe now
gave to the stranger beside her easy replies, several smiles, and a fair
amount of intelligent attention. It was all he could have expected; but,
being a man of observation, he perceived her indifference lying broadly
underneath, like the white sand under a shallow river.
During the same week she met him at a dinner-party, and they had some
conversation. Later he was one of the guests at a reception which she
attended, and again they talked together awhile. She now mentioned him
to her aunt, Miss Harrison, to whom she generally gave, every few days,
a brief account of the little events in the circle to which they
belonged. She had learned his name by this time; it was Morgan.
"I wonder if he is a grandson of old Adam Morgan," said Miss Harrison,
who was genealogical and reminiscent. "If he is, I should like to see
him. Has he a Roman nose?"
"I think not," said her niece, smiling.
"Well, describe him, then."
"He is of medium height, neither slender nor stout; he is light, with
rather peculiar eyes because they are so blue--a deep, dull blue, like
old china; but they are not large, and he does not fully open them. He
has a long, light mustache, no beard, and very closely cut hair."
"He must be good-looking."
"No; he is not, especially. He may be anywhere between thirty and forty;
his hair in a cross-light shows a slight tinge of gray. He looks
fatigued; he looks cynical. I should not be surprised if he were
selfish. I do not like him."
"But if he should be the grandson of old Adam, I should have to invite
him to dinner," said Miss Harrison, reflectively. "I could not do less,
I think."
"I won't poison the soup. But Morgan is a common name, Aunt Ruth; this
is the fourth Morgan I have met here this spring. There isn't one chance
in a thousand that he belongs to the family you know." She was smiling
as she spoke, but did not explain her smile; she was thinking that
"Morgan" was also the name signed to that letter locked in her
writing-desk--a letter whose expressions she now knew quite well, having
obeyed Mrs. Lovell's injunction to "read it over" more than once. They
were ardent expressions; it might be said, indeed, that they were very
ardent.
But now and then that one chance in a thousand, so often summarily
dismissed, asserts its existence and appears upon the scene. It turned
out in the present case that the stranger was the grandson of the old
Adam Morgan whom Miss Harrison remembered. Miss Stowe, in the meantime,
had continued to meet him; but now she was to meet him in a new
way--when he would be more upon her hands, as it were; for Miss Harrison
invited him to dinner.
Miss Ruth Harrison was an invalid of nearly sixty years of age; she had
been for ten years in Europe, but had only had her orphaned niece with
her during the past eighteen months. She had a large fortune, and she
gave Margaret every luxury; especially she liked to see her richly
dressed. But it was quite well understood between them that the bulk of
her wealth was to go to another relative in America who bore her family
name. It was understood between them, but it was not understood outside.
On the contrary, it was generally believed in Florence that Miss Stowe
would inherit the whole. It is just possible that this belief may have
had a remote influence in shaping the opinion which prevailed
there--namely, that this young lady was "handsome" and "gracious," when,
in truth, she was neither. But Mr. Morgan, the new-comer, exhibited so
far, at least, no disposition to fall in with this fiction. In his
estimation Miss Stowe was a conventionally agreeable, inwardly
indifferent young lady of twenty-six, who carried herself well, but was
too ironical as well as too dark. He came to dinner. And did not change
his opinion.
A few days after the dinner Miss Harrison invited her new acquaintance
to drive; she was able to go out for an hour or two in the afternoon,
and she had a luxurious carriage and fine horses. Miss Stowe did not
accompany them; she went off by herself to walk in the Boboli Garden.
Miss Harrison returned in good-humor. "I like him," she announced, as
the maid removed her bonnet. "Yes, I think I may hope that the grandson
of old Adam is not going to be a disappointment."
"The grandson of Adam--I suppose his name is Adam also--is a fortunate
person, Aunt Ruth, to have gained your liking so soon; you do not often
take likings to strangers."
"His name is not Adam," pursued Miss Harrison, "and that is a pity;
there is character as well as association in Adam. He has a family
name--Trafford. His mother was a Miss Trafford, of Virginia, it seems."
Miss Stowe was selecting flowers from a fragrant heap before her to fill
the wide-mouthed vases which stood on the floor by her side; but now she
stopped. "Trafford Morgan" was the name signed at the end of that
letter! It must be he; it was not probable that there were two names of
that special combination; it seemed a really remarkable chance. And
evidently he had not gone to America, in spite of Mrs. Lovell's belief.
She began to smile and almost to laugh, bending her head over a great
soft purple heap of Florence lilies in order that her aunt might not
observe it. But the large room was dusky, and Miss Harrison
near-sighted; she observed nothing. The two ladies occupied an apartment
in a house which, if it had not been so new, would have been called a
"palace." Although modern, the measurements had been after the old
Florentine pattern, and the result was that the occupants moved about in
rooms which could have contained entire, each one, a small American
house. But they liked the vastness. After a moment Miss Stowe went on
arranging her blossoms, but inwardly she was enjoying much
entertainment; she was going over in her own mind the expressions of
that letter, which now took on quite a new character, coming no longer
from some formless stranger, but from a gentleman with whom she had
spoken, a person she had met and would meet again. "I never should have
dreamed that he was capable of it," she said to herself. "He has seemed
indifferent, _blasé_. But it places me in a nice position! Especially
now that Aunt Ruth has taken a fancy to him. I must write to Beatrice
immediately, and ask her to take back the stupid letter." She wrote
during the same evening.
The next day she was attacked by a severe illness--severe, although
short. No one could tell what was the matter with her; even the
physician was at fault. She did not eat or sleep, she seemed hardly to
know what they said when they spoke to her. Her aunt was alarmed. But at
the end of the week, as suddenly as she had fallen ill, she came back to
life again, rose, ordered the maid to braid her hair, and appeared at
Miss Harrison's lonely little dinner-table quite herself, save that she
was tremulous and pale. But by the next day even these signs were no
longer very apparent. It was decided that she had had an attack of
"nervous prostration;" "although why in the world you should have been
seized by it just now, and here, I am at a loss, Margaret, to imagine,"
said her aunt.
On the day of her reappearance at the dinner-table there came a letter
from Beatrice which bore the postmark of a village on one of the Channel
islands. Mrs. Lovell had changed her plans, and gone yachting for a
month or two with a party of friends, a yacht probably being considered
to possess attributes of seclusion more total than even the most
soundless village on the Brittany shore. Of course she had not received
Margaret's letter, nor could she receive one--their route being
uncertain, but nevertheless to the southward--until her return.
Communication between them for the present was therefore at an end.
On the afternoon after Margaret's reappearance Madame Ferri was making a
visit of congratulation upon the recovery of "our dear girl." It was a
cool day, a heavy rain had fallen, and fresh snow gleamed on the summits
of the Apennines; our dear girl, very unresponsive and silent, was
dressed in black velvet, whose rich, plain folds brought out her
slenderness, and made more apparent than usual the graceful shape of her
head and hair. But the unrelieved black made her look extremely pale,
and it was her recent illness, probably, which made her look also tired
and languid. Madame Ferri, who kept constantly in practice her talent
for being charming (she was always spoken of as "charming"), looked at
her for a time while conversing; then she rose, took all the crimson
roses from a vase, and, going to her, placed one in her hair,
meditatively; another in a button-hole of the closely fitting high
corsage; and, after a moment's reflection, all the others in a bunch in
a velvet loop which was on the side of the skirt not quite half-way
down, rapidly denuding herself of pins for the purpose as she proceeded.
"There!" she said, stepping back a few paces to survey her handiwork,
with her head critically on one side, "_now_ you are a picture. Look,
dear Miss Harrison, pray look."
Miss Harrison put up her glass and approved. And then, while this climax
still lasted, Madame Ferri took her departure; she liked to depart in a
climax.
She had hardly gone when another card was brought in: "Mr. Trafford
Morgan." He, too, had come to pay his respects to Miss Harrison upon the
change for the better in her niece; he had not expected to see the
latter person, he had merely heard that there was "an improvement."
After he had been there twenty minutes he said to himself that there
was, and in more ways than one. She not only looked much better than
usual (this may have been owing to the roses), but there was a new
gentleness about her; and she listened with a perceptible increase of
attention to what he said. Not that he cared much for this; he had not
admired Miss Stowe; but any man (this he remarked to himself) likes to
be listened to when he is talking better than the contrary; and as the
minutes passed he became conscious that Miss Stowe was not only
listening, but bestowing upon him also what seemed an almost serious
attention. She did not say much--Miss Harrison said more; but she
listened to and looked at him. She had not looked at him previously;
people can turn their eyes upon one without really looking, and Miss
Stowe had excelled in this accomplishment.
During the next week he met her at a dinner-party; she went to these
entertainments with a friend of her aunt's, a lady who was delighted to
act as chaperon for the heiress. The spring season was now at its height
in Florence, and the members of the same circle perforce constantly met
each other; on each separate occasion during the two weeks that followed
Trafford Morgan was conscious that Miss Stowe was honoring him, although
in a studiously guarded and quiet way, with much of a very observant
attention. This, in the end, excited in him some curiosity. He had as
good an opinion of himself as most men have; but he did not think it
probable that the heiress had suddenly fallen in love with him without
rhyme or reason, as it were, the "rhyme" being that he was neither an
Apollo, an Endymion, nor a military man; the "reason," that he had
never in the least attempted to make himself agreeable to her. Of
course, if he had attempted--But he had not. She was not in need of
entertainment; she had enough of that, of all sorts, including
apparently the sort given by suitors. She showed no sign of having
troublesomely impulsive feelings; on the contrary, she seemed cold. "She
is playing some game," he thought; "she has some end in view. But if she
wishes to make use of me she must show her hand more. I may assist her,
and I may not; but, at any rate, I must understand what it is--I will
not be led." He made up his mind that her aim was to excite remark in
their circle; there was probably some one in that circle who was to be
stimulated by a little wholesome jealousy. It was an ancient and
commonplace method, and he had not thought her commonplace. But human
nature at heart is but a commonplace affair, after all, and the methods
and motives of the world have not altered much, in spite of the gray
lapse of ages.
Morgan was an idle man; at present he was remaining in Italy for a
purpose, and had nothing to do there. The next time he met Miss Stowe he
followed out his theory and took the lead; he began to pay her attention
which might, if pursued, have aroused observation. To his surprise she
drew back, and so completely that he was left stranded. He tried this
three times on three different occasions, and each time met the same
rebuff. It became evident, therefore, that Miss Stowe did not wish for
the kind of attention which he had supposed was her point; but as,
whenever she could do it unobserved, she continued to turn upon him the
same quiet scrutiny, he began to ask himself whether she wished for any
other. An opportunity occurred which made him think that she did.