Aurora wrote to the address given her by the Duke of Sassovivo, and
received an immediate reply. The tone of her letter might be described as
dutiful. She could assume no other. That pale face and weary voice were
ever before her. She wrote much as she might have written to Fra Antonio,
though with less ease; and the reply was not calculated to change this new
position in which the two stood to each other. D'Rubiera wrote freely of
his movements and plans, and of his son, but made no reference to his
feelings, and did not mention the past, or any future beyond his travels.
"I trust that you will not leave me in ignorance of any contemplated
change in your mode of life," he concluded, "and that you will come to no
decision on any subject of importance without giving me the privilege of
offering my advice, even if you should think best not to follow it."
The letter included a note to Mrs. Lindsay, which she answered; and her
answer called forth a letter addressed to herself. There seemed to be no
reason why Aurora should write again, and, by the tacit consent of all,
the correspondence fell into Mrs. Lindsay's hands. Sometimes Aurora did
not see these letters, or saw but a part of them,--though her friend
always told her the duke's movements and plans and read her out some
message from him to herself.
Possibly the reason of this reserve lay in the fact that Mrs. Lindsay made
Aurora the principal theme of her letters. Her triumphs, her beauty, her
goodness, her admirers, her acts, her sayings, even her little whims, were
all recounted.
The lady was a good letter-writer. She wrote in a simple, self-colored way
a clear narrative of their life in Venice, ignoring sentiment and
reflections; yet the many little incidents and phrases which she set down
were like so many touches with a full brush, and gave life to what she
told.
The duke remained in England but a short time. Robertino was perfectly
contented, he wrote, and better without him. He crossed the ocean, and
threw himself into the life of the New World, going east, west, north, and
south, glancing at the agriculture, commerce, and manufactures of that
prodigious country, which astonished him. The magnificent strength and
vitality of it all braced him, waked him up, and dispelled his miasmas.
Back to England; and, before they knew that he was there, off to Spain;
and when they thought of him as in Spain, he had returned to England.
And here at length he took a brief repose. He began to go into society,
and wrote Mrs. Lindsay the names of persons he met and whom she might
know. Among those whom he saw constantly was Lady Maud Churchill, whom he
pronounced exquisitely beautiful.
Mr. Edward Churchill was with them when the letters were brought, and
Mrs. Lindsay read out this compliment to him.
"Lady Maud is my cousin," he said. "She is a woman carved in alabaster."
Mrs. Lindsay gave Aurora the letter to read when she went to her room, and
she sat there by her window after having read it, the open sheet in her
lap.
"Exquisitely beautiful," she repeated, looking down at the words. "He will
marry her. I am glad that he is going to marry an Englishwoman. She must
be good, if she is like her cousin."
She looked out at the bright April sunlight dreamily, and for a long time
without stirring. She was considering if she had not better accept Mrs.
Lindsay's invitation to accompany them to America in June. She would like
to see that wonderful golden land where nobody is ragged and nobody poor,
--to see its prairies and forests, its cities sprung up since yesterday,
its wide, clean streets with trees in them, its people, unresting,
truth-telling, generous and courageous, if not always polite.
"Fancy a country where the people drink water!" exclaimed a Frenchman, on
seeing water sold in the streets of Seville.
"Fancy a nation where the people are for the most part truthful!" thought
this Italian, sitting in the window of a Venetian palace and looking out
into the Canal Grande.
"I had better go," she said. "I shall never again have so good an
opportunity. And I really do not know what else to do. There is nothing to
keep me here."
And then, with the thought that she might indeed go to the ends of the
earth and never come back, for any tie that held her, came the bitter
remembrance of her losses.
"Oh, mamma!" she whispered, and began to cry,--not with the passion of her
first sorrow, but piteously and low, with a sense of desolation.
The next day Mrs. Lindsay wrote the duke, "A name you mention in your
letter opens the way to a story I have to tell you. Lady Maud Churchill
has a cousin in Venice who is a frequent visitor of ours, and more than an
admirer of Aurora's. It has been on my mind, to write you of this
gentleman, but I always put off doing so with the expectation of having
something of importance to communicate concerning him the next time. Last
evening he confided to me that he offered himself to Aurora a month ago,
and was refused, but so kindly that he could not give up all hope. She
told him that she was free, and had a sincere regard for him, but that she
did not mean to marry any one.
"Of course no man would believe his case hopeless with such a reply; and
Mr. Churchill seems to think that Aurora is softening toward him. It
really seems so to me also. Last evening she sat apart and talked with
him nearly two hours; and this morning, as we sat alone, she suddenly
exclaimed, 'I wish that Mr. Churchill would come in!'
"It is true that, having refused him once, she may feel free to show that
she likes him as a friend. However it may turn out, I hope that she may be
as happy as she deserves. For my part, I could not wish her a more
honorable and devoted lover. He is a man calculated to win affection and
esteem."
This letter was brought to the duke just as he was going out to a ball. He
went back to his room to read it; and, having read it, he flung it angrily
into the lighted grate.
"What does the woman mean! I'll shoot the fellow if he dares to wring a
promise out of Aurora. And this stuff about Lady Maud. What did I write?
Do they fancy that I care for her? I like her as I like Wenham ice. Aurora
'softening' toward this impudent Englishman! She would soften toward a cat
if it cried. Mr. Edward Churchill her devoted lover! _Arcidiavolo!_"
With this growl of rage, rolling and deep-drawn, the Italian went to his
_escritori_, and wrote, "Aurora should not think of marrying an
Englishman. Sooner or later he is sure to return to England; and what
would she do here? I do not at all approve of the match; and I hope that
you will do all that you can to prevent it. Above all, do not let anything
be concluded in haste."
An event of importance in Mrs. Lindsay's family prevented her replying to
this note. Shortly after its reception her first child was laid in her
arms. Nor did she show the note to Aurora, though she requested her to
write a line to the duke, informing him that a young lady of the most
tender age but obstinate will had placed a veto on her writing at present.
It would be impossible to say whether father or mother was more happy and
proud over the advent of this little girl, but there could be no doubt
that the mother was the more peremptory and authoritative concerning it.
If Mrs. Lindsay had been queen of the household before, she was empress
now, and that in her own right.
"You are only prince consort, John," she remarked to her husband, when he
suggested that the child might be baptized in the house by the resident
Protestant minister. "I am regnant. My daughter may be baptized by a
Protestant minister, and welcome, if--but she is going to be baptized in
San Marco, and Aurora Coronari is to be her godmother and Prince P---- her
godfather. If you can reconcile that with your minister, do so."
The prince consort bowed his head meekly. "I have no particular objection
that a priest should baptize her," he said. "I am very much pleased to
have the prince and Aurora stand sponsors for her. Of course it doesn't
make any difference what they promise for her now. She will be sure to do
as she pleases when she grows up,--if she should turn out to be like her
mother."
The baptism took place on the first day of May, in the morning; and the
company invited to assist were to return to Palazzo Pesaro to breakfast in
honor of the event.
Mrs. Lindsay had her gondola--the baby's gondola _pro tem._.--decorated
for the occasion. An immense white umbrella, lined with gold-colored silk,
was fixed to cover the seats, and the whole gondola was lined and carpeted
with white and pale blue. A blue fringe fell over the edge almost to the
water, and bouquets of flowers were bespoken.
Not only this: she had made a pact with Aurora, who declared that a girl
baptized in the month of May should have Mary for one of her names. Mrs.
Lindsay would include the name if Aurora would attend the ceremony dressed
like the Madonna of an ancient picture of hers, she herself to furnish the
dress; and Aurora consented.
This Madonna on a sparkling gold ground had a long veil of dim blue
falling over her head and shoulders, and wore a dress of dull-red wool
with faint golden reflection. It was a Raphael dress, and had a band of
fine gold embroidery across the neck and round the wrists.
The dress came home the evening before, and was tried on and displayed to
the family, with whom was Mr. Edward Churchill.
"There! wasn't I right?" exclaimed Mrs. Lindsay in triumph.
"Suppose we should scrape out the Madonna and have Aurora painted in her
place," Mr. Lindsay proposed, with perfect seriousness.
"The Madonna is an antiquity," his wife said, with dignity.
"But her eyes are turned like a Chinese's," the gentleman persisted.
"And her expression is cross."
"I wouldn't do it for the world," Aurora declared. "I feel almost wicked
in assuming her dress."
"Well," Mr. Lindsay sighed. "Only don't assume her squint, and I think you
will be forgiven the clothes."
Every night when Aurora went to her room she extinguished her candle and
sat awhile by the open window. The custom had at first been a poetical one,
it was now a sign of trouble. She had seen that evening but too clearly
that one refusal was not enough for Mr. Edward Churchill.
"It is another reason for going away," she thought. "I must take myself
out of his sight. And yet I like him so! Why cannot he be friendly and
nothing more?"
The canal was almost deserted, though the Lagoon below was alive with
boats. The water was a dark mirror below. She could see the stars in it,
and the sound of its liquid touch to step and mooring-post was almost
inaudible.
As she sat there, a gondola slid along inside the posts and stopped under
her window. A moment after, a chord was struck on the strings of a
mandolin.
Ah! a serenade! It was not her first one by far, and she leaned forward
with pleasure to hear it. The scene was well set for music. But as the
first words fell on her ear she shrank back again. It was Edward
Churchill's mellow voice, and he sang a serenade of Mrs. Norton's, in
English:
Soft o'er the fountain,
Lingering, shines the southern moon;
Far o'er the mountain
Breaks the day,--too soon.
In thy dark eyes' splendor,
Where the warm light loves to dwell,
Weary looks, yet tender,
Speak their fond farewell.
Nita, Juanita, ask thy soul if we should part!
Nita, Juanita, lean thou on my heart!
When, in thy dreaming,
Hours li'ke these shall shine again,
And morning beaming
Prove thy dream is vain,
Wilt thou not, relenting,
For thine absent lover sigh,
In thy heart consenting
To a prayer gone by?
Nita, Juanita, let me linger by thy side!
Nita, Juanita, be my own dear bride!
Silence fell, continued, and pressed. There was no note of music from
below, no response from above. Then there was a stroke of oars lightly
falling, then ceasing, and again silence. Not a sign of response. Slowly
the gondola glided away and disappeared in the night.
"I am so sorry for him!" Aurora murmured, and softly closed her window.
"So sorry!"
She recollected what Mrs. Lindsay had said of the fascination of this
serenade: "If the woman who hears this sung to her--well sung--on a
beautiful night does not at once accept the singer, it is because she is
in love with some one else."
"I am in love with freedom and with poetry," Aurora exclaimed, and hastily
put the subject away.
The cortège that accompanied the babe to church the next morning was a
picturesque one. A dozen gondolas brought their loads to the palace steps,
and the company entered and paid their respects to the mother while
waiting for the procession from the nursery.
Mrs. Lindsay, on this her first appearance, received in one of the front
_salons_,--a room lined with gold-colored satin, with sofas and chairs
covered with maroon velvet flowers on a gold satin ground. She wore a
marvellous toilet, which looked like sea-foam, so covered was it with
laces.
"The difficulty with these rooms is that they extinguish almost anything
that you can wear," she said. "Nothing looks well against these draperies
but old point-lace. That asserts itself anywhere."
She certainly contrived to make herself a very lovely and interesting
object seen against those rich cushions. No color reflected upon her but
light, in her slight languor and pallor of convalescence, her cheeks
delicately thinned, she was like a white rose drooping in the heat of
noonday.
The nursery sent down its treasure. First came Aurora in her Madonna dress,
and was received with acclamations. Then came a footman, then two
wondrously-dressed nurses, with their heads a halo of silver filigree pins,
one of the nurses bearing the lace-wrapped infant in a white embroidered
mantle that fell almost to the floor. Two maids followed.
This little company filled the babe's gondola, that swept out, the others
following and surrounding it as they glided down to San Marco. The place
of honor was the infant's, and Aurora sat at her left hand, and bent to
talk to her and keep her in good humor.
"She looks at you, Donna Aurora," the nurse said. "And, see! she smiles."
In fact, it had been found that Aurora had the right magic "Coo-coo!" and
the cunning hand and soothing cheek which babies require.
At starting, she had observed a covered gondola at rest opposite the house,
and saw that some one was watching them from its curtained window. It was
not surprising, for their little pageant was pretty. But she was surprised
when the gondola slipped forward beside her own and became almost
entangled with their followers. For a moment she thought that it might be
Mr. Churchill, but a swift, stolen glance showed her that the arm which
rested by the window wore a military sleeve.
"Some officer who knows the family," she concluded. They knew a good many
officers.
The entanglement was but momentary, and might have been accidental, the
person inside having evidently given orders to let them pass. Leaning on
his oar against the out-flowing tide, the gondolier took his hat off and
bowed lowly, smiling at the babe.
"_E riverita, Madama Innocenza_!" he said.
Aurora gave him a kind glance. "But you will be more innocent still in a
few minutes," she said to the infant.
They reached the landing, and walked across the piazza to Saint Mark's,
and entered the baptistery. A good many people gathered about the door
during the ceremony, and among them Aurora was aware of a military officer
who stood leaning against the grating. She did not look at him, or she
would have known that his eyes were fixed on her alone.
When, after holding the infant at the font, and giving it a string of
names as long as a rosary, she turned to restore it to its nurse, and bent
to kiss its rosy face as she released it, the officer smiled, gazing
earnestly at her downcast eyes. He saw her lips move in a whisper.
She was repeating the gondolier's salutation: "_E riverita, Madama
Innocenza!_"
As they went out, her veil brushed the gold-banded sleeve, and she heard a
faint sigh from the wearer. It required a force not to look at him, not to
show that she was conscious of his presence and pleased by it. Any one who
wore a soldier's dress touched her heart, from general down to orderly.
Home through the sunshine, in through the shaded court, up the stair with
its painted lords and ladies looking down upon them from the painted
arcade.
Mrs. Lindsay came out to the stair to receive them, and to embrace her
infant before dismissing it to the nursery.
Mr. Churchill had joined them at Saint Mark's, and returned with them,
sitting beside Aurora at breakfast. Both ignored the serenade as if it had
never been.
"My cousin Edith and Mrs. Graham arrived last evening," he said. "They
will stop here a week or two before returning to England."
"Oh, I should like to see them!" Aurora said cordially. "Tell me where
they are, and I will leave a card today. I am sure, too, that Mrs. Lindsay
will wish to make their acquaintance."
The breakfast ended with coffee in the beautiful garden the dining-room
windows looked into; then one by one the company departed. Mr. Churchill
lingered a few minutes after the others, then went, seeing no hope of an
interview with Aurora.
As soon as he had left the room, Mr. Lindsay accompanying him, Mrs.
Lindsay turned with an almost impatient vivacity to Aurora. "At last I can
tell you!" she exclaimed. "Do you know who is in Venice, who sent me a
note while you were at church, and who will dine with us this evening?"
She looked triumphant and joyful.