her blazing eyes. "I was but waiting for this," she said, her words
rushing forth, one upon the other, with the unheeding rapidity of
passion. "I felt sure that it would come. With the deeply-rooted egotism
of a man you believe that I love you; you have believed it from the
beginning. It was because I knew this that I allowed this experiment of
yours to go on. I resisted the temptation at first, but it was too
strong for me; you yourself made it so. It was a chance to make you
conscious of your supreme error; a chance to have my revenge. And I
yielded. You said, not long ago, that I was even. I answered that one
was even when one was-- You said 'indifferent,' and I did not contradict
you. But the real sentence was that one was even when one was pursuing a
purpose. I have pursued a purpose. This was mine: to make you put into
words your egregious vanity, to make you stand convicted of your dense
and vast mistake. But towards the end a better impulse rose, and the
game did not seem worth the candle. I said to myself that I would go
away without giving you, after all, the chance to stultify yourself, the
chance to exhibit clearly your insufferable and amazing conceit. But you
insisted, and the impulse vanished; I allowed you to go on to the end. I
love you! _You!_"
He had risen also; they stood side by side under the statue of Diana;
some people had come into the amphitheatre below. He had turned slightly
pale as she uttered these bitter words, but he remained quite silent. He
still held his hat in his hand; his eyes were turned away.
"Have you nothing to say?" she asked, after some moments had passed.
"I think there is nothing," he answered, without turning.
Then again there was a silence.
"You probably wish to go," he said, breaking it; "do not let me detain
you." And he began to go down the steps, pausing, however, as the
descent was somewhat awkward, to give her his hand.
To the little Italian party below, looking at the Egyptian obelisk, he
seemed the picture of chivalry, as, with bared head, he assisted her
down; and as they passed the obelisk, these children of the country
looked upon them as two of the rich Americans, the lady dressed like a
picture, the gentleman distinguished, but both without a gesture or an
interest, and coldly silent and pale.
He did not accompany her home. "Shall I go with you?" he said, breaking
the silence as they reached the exit.
"No, thanks. Please call a carriage."
He signalled to a driver who was near, and assisted her into one of the
little rattling Florence phaetons.
"Good-bye," she said, when she was seated.
He lifted his hat. "Lung' Arno Nuovo," he said to the driver.
And the carriage rolled away.
* * * * *
Countries attract us in different ways. We are comfortable in England,
musical in Germany, amused in Paris (Paris is a country), and idyllic in
Switzerland; but when it comes to the affection, Italy holds the
heart--we keep going back to her. Miss Harrison, sitting in her carriage
on the heights of Bellosguardo, was thinking this as she gazed down upon
Florence and the valley below. It was early in the next autumn--the last
of September; and she was alone.
A phaeton passed her and turned down the hill; but she had recognized
its occupant as he passed, and called his name--"Mr. Morgan!"
He turned, saw her, bowed, and, after a moment's hesitation, ordered his
driver to stop, sprang out, and came back to speak to her.
"How in the world do you happen to be in Florence at this time of
year?" she said, cordially, giving him her hand. "There isn't a soul in
the place."
"That is the reason I came."
"And the reason we did, too," she said, laughing. "I am delighted to
have met you; one soul is very acceptable. You must come and see me
immediately. I hope you are going to stay."
"Thanks; you are very kind. But I leave to-morrow morning."
"Then you must come to-night; come to dinner at seven. It is impossible
you should have another engagement when there is no one to be engaged
to--unless it be the pictures; I believe they do not go away for the
summer."
"I really have an engagement, Miss Harrison; you are very kind, but I am
forced to decline."
"Dismiss your carriage, then, and drive back with me; I will set you
down at your hotel. It will be a visit of some sort."
He obeyed. Miss Harrison's fine horses started, and moved with slow
stateliness down the winding road, where the beggars had not yet begun
to congregate; it was not "the season" for beggars; they were still at
the sea-shore.
Miss Harrison talked on various subjects. They had been in Switzerland,
and it had rained continuously; they had seen nothing but fog. They had
come over the St. Gothard, and their carriage had broken down. They had
been in Venice, and had found malaria there. They had been in Padua,
Verona, and Bologna, and all three had become frightfully modern and
iconoclastic. Nothing was in the least satisfactory, and Margaret had
not been well; she was quite anxious about her.
Mr. Morgan "hoped" that it was nothing serious.
"I don't know whether it is or not," replied Miss Harrison. "Margaret is
rather a serious sort of a person, I think."
She looked at him as if for confirmation, but he did not pursue the
subject. Instead, he asked after her own health.
"Oh, I am as usual. It is only your real invalids who are always well;
they enjoy their poor health, you know. And what have you been doing
since I last saw you? I hope nothing out of the way. Let me see--Trieste
and Tarascon; you have probably been in--Transylvania?"
"That would be somewhat out of the way, wouldn't it? But I have not been
there; I have been in various nearer places, engaged rather
systematically in amusing myself."
"Did you succeed? If you did you are a man of genius. One must have a
rare genius, I think, to amuse one's self in that way at forty. Of
course I mean thirty-five, you know; but forty is a better
conversational word--it classifies. And you were amused?"
"Immensely."
"So much so that you have to come to Florence in September to rest after
it!"
"Yes."
Miss Harrison talked on. He listened, and made the necessary replies.
The carriage entered the city, crossed the Carraja bridge, and turned
towards his hotel.
"Can you not come for half an hour this evening, after your engagement
is over?" she said. "I shall be all alone, for Margaret cannot be there
before midnight; she went into the country this morning with Madame
Ferri--some sort of a fête at a villa, a native Florentine affair. You
have not asked much about her, I think, considering how constantly you
were with her last spring," she added, looking at him calmly.
"I have been remiss; pardon it."
"It is only forgetfulness, of course. That is not a fault nowadays; it
is a virtue, and, what is more, highly fashionable. But there is one
little piece of news I must tell you about my niece: she is going to be
married."
"That is not little; it is great. Please present to her my sincere good
wishes and congratulations."
"I am sorry you cannot present them yourself. But at least you can come
and see _me_ for a little while this evening--say about ten. The
grandson of your grandfather should be very civil to old Ruth Harrison
for old times' sake." Here the carriage stopped at his door. "Remember,
I shall expect you," she said, as he took leave.
At about the hour she had named he went to see her; he found her alone,
knitting. It was one of her idiosyncrasies to knit stockings "for the
poor." No doubt there were "poor" enough to wear them; but as she made a
great many, and as they were always of children's size and black, her
friends sometimes thought, with a kind of amused dismay, of the regiment
of little funereal legs running about for which she was responsible.
He had nothing especial to say; his intention was to remain the shortest
time possible; he could see the hands of the clock, and he noted their
progress every now and then through the twenty minutes he had set for
himself.
Miss Harrison talked on various subjects, but said nothing more
concerning her niece; nor did he, on his side, ask a question. After a
while she came to fashions in art. "It is the most curious thing," she
said, "how people obediently follow each other along a particular road,
like a flock of sheep, no matter what roads, equally good and possibly
better, open to the right and the left. Now there are the wonderfully
spirited frescos of Masaccio at the Carmine, frescos which were studied
and copied by Raphael himself and Michael Angelo. Yet that church has no
vogue; it is not fashionable to go there; Ruskin has not written a
maroon-colored pamphlet about it, and Baedeker gives it but a scant
quarter-page, while the other churches have three and four. Now it seems
to me that--"
But what it seemed Morgan never knew, because here she paused as the
door opened. "Ah, there is Margaret, after all," she said. "I did not
expect her for three hours."
Miss Stowe came across the large room, throwing back her white shawl and
taking off her little plumed hat as she came. She did not perceive that
any one was present save her aunt; the light was not bright, and the
visitor sat in the shadow.
"It was very stupid," she said. "Do not urge me to go again." And then
she saw him.
He rose, and bowed. After an instant's delay she spoke his name, and put
out her hand, which he took as formally as she gave it. Miss Harrison
was voluble. She was "so pleased" that Margaret had returned earlier
than was expected; she was "so pleased" that the visitor happened to be
still there. She seemed indeed to be pleased with everything, and talked
for them both; in truth, save for replies to her questions, they were
quite silent. The visitor remained but a short quarter of an hour, and
then took leave, saying good-bye at the same time, since he was to go
early in the morning.
"To Trent?" said Miss Harrison.
"To Tadmor, I think, this time," he answered, smiling.
The next morning opened with a dull gray rain. Morgan was late in
rising, missed his train, and was obliged to wait until the afternoon.
About eleven he went out, under an umbrella, and, after a while, tired
of the constant signals and clattering followings of the hackmen, who
could not comprehend why a rich foreigner should walk, he went into the
Duomo. The vast church, never light even on a bright day, was now
sombre, almost dark, the few little twinkling tapers, like stars, on an
altar at the upper end, only serving to make the darkness more visible.
He walked down to the closed western entrance, across whose wall outside
rises slowly, day by day, the new façade under its straw-work screen.
Here he stood still, looking up the dim expanse, with the dusky shadows,
like great winged, formless ghosts, hovering over him.
One of the south doors, the one near the choir, was open, and through it
a slender ray of gray daylight came in, and tried to cross the floor.
But its courage soon failed in that breadth and gloom, and it died away
before it had gone ten feet. A blind beggar sat in a chair at this
entrance, his patient face faintly outlined against the ray; there
seemed to be no one else in the church save the sacristan, whose form
could be dimly seen moving about, renewing the lights burning before the
far-off chapels.
The solitary visitor strolled back and forth in the shadow. After a
while he noted a figure entering through the ray. It was that of a
woman; it had not the outlines of the usual church beggar; it did not
stoop or cringe; it was erect and slender, and stepped lightly; it was
coming down towards the western end, where he was pacing to and fro. He
stopped and stood still, watching it. It continued to approach--and at
last brushed against him. Coming in from the daylight, it could see
nothing in the heavy shadow.
"Excuse me, Miss Stowe," he said; "I should have spoken. My eyes are
accustomed to this light, and I recognized you; but of course you could
not see me."
She had started back as she touched him; now she moved away still
farther.
"It is grandly solitary here on a rainy day, isn't it?" he continued. "I
used often to come here during a storm. It makes one feel as if already
disembodied--as if he were a shade, wandering on the gray, unknown
outskirts of another world."
She had now recovered herself, and, turning, began to walk back towards
the ray at the upper door. He accompanied her. But the Duomo is vast,
and cannot be crossed in a minute. He went on talking about the shadows;
then stopped.
"I am glad of this opportunity to give you my good wishes, Miss Stowe,"
he said, as they went onward. "I hope you will be quite happy."
"I hope the same, certainly," she answered. "Yet I fail to see any
especially new reason for good wishes from you just at present."
"Ah, you do not know that I know. But Miss Harrison told me
yesterday--told me that you were soon to be married. If you have never
forgiven me, in the light of your present happiness I think you should
do so now."
She had stopped. "My aunt told you?" she said, while he was still
speaking. But now, as he paused, she walked on. He could not see her
face; although approaching the ray, they were still in the shadow, and
her head was turned from him.
"As to forgiveness, it is I who should ask forgiveness from you," she
said, after some delay, during which there was no sound but their
footsteps on the mosaic pavement.
"Yes, you were very harsh. But I forgave you long ago. I was a dolt, and
deserved your sharp words. But I want very much to hear _you_ say that
you forgive _me_."
"There is nothing to forgive."
"That is gently spoken. It is your marriage present to me, and I feel
the better for it."
A minute later they had reached the ray and the door. He could see her
face now. "How ill you look!" he said, involuntarily. "I noticed it last
evening. It is not conventional to say so, but it is at least a real
regret. He should take better care of you."
The blind beggar, hearing their footsteps, had put out his hand. "Do not
go yet," said Morgan, giving him a franc. "See how it is raining
outside. Walk with me once around the whole interior for the sake of the
pleasant part of our Florentine days--for there _was_ a pleasant part;
it will be our last walk together."
She assented silently, and they turned into the shadow again.
"I am going to make a confession," he said, as they passed the choir;
"it can make no difference now, and I prefer that you should know it. I
did not realize it myself at the time, but I see now--that is, I have
discovered since yesterday--that I was in love with you, more or less,
from the beginning."
She made no answer, and they passed under Michael Angelo's grand,
unfinished statue, and came around on the other side.
"Of course I was fascinated with Beatrice; in one way I was her slave.
Still, when I said to you, 'Forgive me; I am in love with some one
else,' I really think it was more to see what you would say or do than
any feeling of loyalty to her."
Again she said nothing. They went down the north aisle.
"I wish you would tell me," he said, leaving the subject of himself and
turning to her, "that you are fully and really happy in this marriage of
yours. I hope you are, with all my heart; but I should like to hear it
from your own lips."
She made a gesture as if of refusal; but he went on. "Of course I know I
have no right; I ask it as a favor."
They were now in deep obscurity, almost darkness; but something seemed
to tell him that she was suffering.
"You are not going to do that wretched thing--marry without love?" he
said, stopping abruptly. "Do not, Margaret, do not! I know you better
than you know yourself, and you will not be able to bear it. Some women
can; but you could not. You have too deep feelings--too--"
He did not finish the sentence, for she had turned from him suddenly,
and was walking across the dusky space in the centre of the great
temple whose foundations were so grandly laid six centuries ago.
But he followed her and stopped her, almost by force, taking both her
hands in his. "You must not do this," he said; "you must not marry in
that way. It is dangerous; it is horrible; for you, it is a crime."
Then, as he stood close to her and saw two tears well over and drop from
her averted eyes, "Margaret! Margaret!" he said, "rather than that, it
would have been better to have married even me."
She drew her hands from his, and covered her face; she was weeping.
"Is it too late?" he whispered. "Is there a possibility--I love you very
deeply," he added. And, cold and indifferent as Florence considered him,
his voice was broken.
* * * * *
When they came round to the ray again, he gave the blind beggar all the
small change he had about him; the old man thought it was a paper
golconda.
"You owe me another circuit," he said; "you did not speak through fully
half of the last one."
So they went around a second time.
"Tell me when you first began to think about me," he said, as they
passed the choir. "Was it when you read that letter?"
"It was an absurd letter."
"On the contrary, it was a very good one, and you know it. You have kept
it?"
"No; I burned it long ago."
"Not so very long! However, never fear; I will write you plenty more,
and even better ones. I will go away on purpose."
They crossed the east end, under the great dome, and came around on the
other side.
"You said some bitter things to me in that old amphitheatre, Margaret; I
shall always hate the place. But after all--for a person who was quite
indifferent--were you not just a little _too_ angry?"
"It is easy to say that now," she answered.
They went down the north aisle.
"Why did you stop and leave the room so abruptly when you were singing
that song I asked for--you know, the 'Semper Fidelis?'"
"My voice failed."
"No; it was your courage. You knew then that you were no longer
'fidelis' to that former love of yours, and you were frightened by the
discovery."
They reached the dark south end.
"And now, as to that former love," he said, pausing. "I will never ask
you again; but here and now, Margaret, tell me what it was."
"It was not 'a fascination'--like yours," she answered.
"Do not be impertinent, especially in a church. Mrs. Lovell was not my
only fascination, I beg to assure you; remember, I am thirty-six years
old. But now--what was it?"
"A mistake."
"Good; but I want more."
"It was a will-o'-the-wisp that I thought was real."
"Better; but not enough."
"You ask too much, I think."
"I shall always ask it; I am horribly selfish; I warn you beforehand
that I expect everything, in the most relentless way."
"Well, then, it was a fancy, Trafford, that I mistook for--" And the
Duomo alone knows how the sentence was ended.
As they passed, for the third time, on their way towards the door, the
mural tablet to Giotto, Morgan paused. "I have a sort of feeling that I
owe it to the old fellow," he said. "I have always been his faithful
disciple, and now he has rewarded me with a benediction. On the next
high-festival his tablet shall be wreathed with the reddest of roses and
a thick bank of heliotrope, as an acknowledgment of my gratitude."
It was; and no one ever knew why. If it had been in "the season," the
inquiring tourists would have been rendered distracted by the
impossibility of finding out; but to the native Florentines attending
mass at the cathedral, to whom the Latin inscription, "I am he through
whom the lost Art of Painting was revived," remains a blank, it was only
a tribute to some "departed friend."
"And he is as much my friend as though he had not departed something
over five centuries ago," said Trafford; "of that I feel convinced."
"I wonder if he knows any better, now, how to paint an angel leaning
from the sky," replied Margaret.
* * * * *
"Have you any idea why Miss Harrison invented that enormous fiction
about you?" he said, as they drove homeward.
"Not the least. We must ask her."
They found her in her easy-chair, beginning a new stocking. "I thought
you were in Tadmor," she said, as Trafford came in.
"I started; but came back to ask a question. Why did you tell me that
this young lady was going to be married?"
"Well, isn't she?" said Miss Harrison, laughing. "Sit down, you two, and
confess your folly. Margaret has been ill all summer with absolute
pining--yes, you have, child, and it is a woman's place to be humble.
And you, Trafford, did not look especially jubilant, either, for a man
who has been immensely amused during the same space of time. I did what
I could for you by inventing a sort of neutral ground upon which you
could meet and speak. It is very neutral for the other man, you know,
when the girl is going to be married; he can speak to her then as well
as not! I was afraid last night that you were not going to take
advantage of my invention; but I see that it has succeeded (in some
mysterious way out in all this rain) better than I knew. It was, I
think," she concluded, as she commenced on a new needle, "a sort of
experiment of mine--a Florentine experiment."
Trafford burst into a tremendous laugh, in which, after a moment,
Margaret joined.
"I don't know what you two are laughing at," said Miss Harrison,
surveying them. "I should think you ought to be more sentimental, you
know."
"To confess all the truth, Aunt Ruth," said Trafford, going across and
sitting down beside her, "Margaret and I have tried one or two of those
experiments already!"
A WAITRESS
As the evening was delightful, their coffee was served in the garden.
Modesta brought out a low table and a tray; then, returning to the
kitchen, she came forth again with the coffee-pot, fresh from the fire,
and filled the two cups, one for Dennison, the other for his guest,
Edward Gray. The coffee was fragrant, very hot, very black. John
Dennison never took at night more than this one small cupful; but it was
necessary that the quality of the drops within should be of the purest,
and Peppino, the cook, knew that he must not fail. The dinner which had
preceded the coffee had been excellent.
"Well, Jack, you _live_ well!" Gray had remarked, after he had spent two
days with his former school-fellow.
"Yes, good cooking has become a _sine qua non_ with me," Dennison
answered. "I don't take much, but it must be just so; I can't put up
with even a trifling deficiency. I give Peppino very high wages for this
economical land; but, on my side, I require of him unfailingly his very
best skill. I am afraid," he added, with a quizzical smile, "that I
couldn't get through my day and cultivate lofty thoughts if I did not
feel certain that at the end of it there would be a capital little
dinner waiting on the table. Physical comfort has become enormously
important to me. Result: I'm corpulent!"
"Oh no," said Gray.
"Well on the way to it, then. Do you remember how lean I used to be?"
"You look in much better trim than you did when--"
"When I was young. You needn't hesitate about saying it; we're in the
same box in that respect. How old do we call ourselves now?"
"We're fifty-two," answered Gray. "But I to-day look fifty-eight or
nine, and you about forty. To me, Jack, it's marvellous--your youth."
"Yes, I'm plump. I no longer worry; I take life easily. But it's such an
immense change in every way that I've stopped watching it myself. Why, I
remember when I liked pictures that tell a story, good heavens! and
books with a moral, and iron-fronted blocks, and plenty of gaslight."
"Well, it's awfully tempting," said Gray, slowly, as he looked about
him.
"Plenty of gaslight?"
"No; this place--the whole thing."
[Illustration: TEA IN THE GARDEN]