AS IN A DREAM.
“There is no place like Florence,” said Lady Despard, in her soft,
languorous voice. “One gets tired of London, and Paris, and Venice! I
always fancy, when I’m there, that I’m living somewhere in Regent’s
Park, near the canal, you know; and, as for the country in England,
you either get burned up by the heat or drowned by the rain. But
Florence”--she paused, and sighed contentedly--“oh, it’s always
delicious!”
She was lying in a hammock, swung between two laburnums, on the lawn
in front of the Villa Rimini, and she addressed Doris, who sat on the
ground, with an open book in her lap, but with her eyes fixed dreamily
on the exquisite view, which stretched out in an endless vista of
grassy plains, and violet-tinted hills, over which the full moon was
shedding its silvery light.
The soft evening breeze came to the two women, laden with flowers, as
with an offering; there were flowers everywhere; in the long beds,
starring the velvety lawns; on the banks, which ran along the limits of
the garden; in huge jardinieres, on the terraces and balconies; on the
plains, which lay like embroidered cloths beneath them, and over the
hills, to which they lent color and perfume.
It was a land of fairies, a land of beauty, in which every breath
of wind that blew carried with it the memory of music and song, of
laughter and joyfulness. In a word, it was Florence in the height of
her loveliness, crowned as a bride for her bridegroom the summer, and
rejoicing in her splendor.
The Villa Rimini, with its numerous windows twinkling with the
recently-lit candles, was one of the most beautiful of the many
palatial residences in the “City of Flowers.” It had been a home of one
of the ancient princes, and when Lady Despard had first seen, fancied
and bought it, was nearly in ruins; but, with the immense wealth at her
command, she had restored it, if not to quite its ancient splendor, at
least to a semblance which came very near the original reality.
Marble corridors, vast saloons, with rare hangings and costly frescoes,
statues which the Louvre would gladly have bidden for, antique
fountains and priceless mosaics were all here as in the days when the
princely owners were, indeed, a name and a power in the land.
And here she and Doris had been living a dreamy existence, a period of
lotus-eating, for nearly a month.
There was the usual colony of English in Florence, of which the Villa
Rimini was, by right of its splendor and the rank and wealth of Lady
Despard, the center.
Her hospitality was limitless, and the Salon of the Princes, as
the vast reception-room was called, was every afternoon the scene
of a gathering which almost resembled a royal levee; while the
widely-extending grounds were open to those fortunate individuals who
had procured an introduction to the wealthy owner.
To the Villa Rimini came also the Florentine nobility; tall,
grave-looking Italians, with their high-bred voices and polished
manners, men whom Doris always pictured as wearing the silken hose
and brocaded tunics of their forefathers in the old Florentine days,
when men wore shoes almost as pointed as the swords which were always
ready to leap from their scabbards with--or without--the slightest
provocation.
Amidst these surroundings, Lady Despard held what might, with little
exaggeration, be termed a court; but it might be said, to her credit,
the admiration, the adoration she received did not turn her head,
probably because she recognized the obvious fact that she shared her
throne with the quiet-looking, soft-voiced girl who had come to her as
a companion, and whom she had grown to regard and love as a friend.
Once, when the reception was over and the two women were alone, as they
were this evening, she looked at Doris, laughingly, and said:
“Well, dear, tired of all the adulation and worship, or are you looking
forward to to-morrow’s repetition? Seriously, my dear, I am beginning
to be a little jealous; more than half the pretty speeches this
afternoon were addressed to Miss Marlowe, and your bouquets were quite
as numerous as mine. Beware of vanity, Doris!”
And Doris had looked up at her with the quiet smile, beneath which
always lay an undercurrent of sadness, and shook her head, as she
replied:
“The danger is all on your side, Lady Despard. You are the sun, I am
merely the shadow. Some day some one will pluck the sun from its place,
and the shadow will be desolate!”
But Lady Despard had laughed placidly.
“No, thank you, dear! I’ve been married once, and, as the boy said of
the prickly pear, ‘No more for me, thank you!’ But yours is another
case altogether, and I confess that I tremble every day lest you should
come and tell me, with that mouselike little smile of yours, that one
of these men is going to take you from me! Ah! what a pity it would
be!--for we are so happy, you and I, dear! If girls could only know
when they are well off! But they never do. It’s only when they have
resigned their liberty and given all their heart for about a quarter of
some selfish man’s that they discover what a fraud matrimony is!”
And Doris had made no reply beyond the quiet, “mouselike smile,” and a
little sigh, which was too low to reach her companion’s ear.
Not Lady Despard alone, but many another of the frequenters of the
Villa Rimini, have wondered that this beautiful English girl should
be so irresponsive to the admiration and attentions lavished upon
her. Men of rank and position, for whom the matrons of society angled
unceasingly, paid court to her, needing but a smile or word of
encouragement to lay their titles at her feet; but the smile nor the
word were never extended to them. As the Princess of Carthage, clad
in the mystic veil, moved, like an unapproachable spirit, among the
suitors at her father’s court, so Doris Marlowe lived, surrounded by
a barrier of reserve which, vague and intangible as it was, served to
keep the most ardent at arm’s length.
The past alone was to her reality; the present seemed like a dream;
and often she sat beside Lady Despard, surrounded by a crowd of people
laughing and talking, the voices died upon her ears, and she heard only
the murmur of the brook in Barton meadows, mingling with the voice of
the man who had won her heart and tossed it aside, shattered and broken
forever.
Often she wondered whether he had married the Lady Grace--whose name,
when first she had heard it on his lips, had sounded like a knell in
her ears.
If stone walls do not a prison make, a crowd cannot destroy solitude,
and Doris, in the midst of the brilliant throng which made the Villa
Rimini its center, lived in a mental and spiritual solitude, on the
threshold of which only two persons ever trod. One was Lady Despard,
whom she loved, the other was--Percy Levant. She would have treated him
as coldly as she did all the others, but it was impossible. He made
it impossible by never giving her a chance of repulsing him. Since
the evening he had come to Chester Gardens for the first time he had
never paid her a single compliment, and from his lips alone she never
received a single “pretty” speech.
Although he slept at the inn, he had a luxurious suite of apartments in
the villa, and they met at almost every meal, and frequently during the
day, but his manner to Doris was one of studious courtesy toned by a
reserve which matched her own.
By the rest he was regarded as the most charming of men. The women
secretly--some of them openly--adored him for his good looks, which
were remarkable even in that land of handsome faces, and for the
exquisite voice, which was always at their service. The men voted him a
“good fellow,” and were warm in his praises. The reception from which
he was absent always seemed lacking in its accustomed brightness, and
no dance or outdoor excursion was complete without Mr. Percy Levant.
Perhaps the air of mystery which surrounded him increased the interest
he awakened. Nobody knew anything about him, except that he was in
Florence to study music, and, in some vague, unexplained way, to
collect materials for a magnificent and unique music-room which Lady
Despard intended building in one of her houses, and at some unfixed
time in the dim future.
Of himself, and his own affairs and past history, he was as silent as
Doris was of hers; and people who were at first inclined to be curious
accepted his want of a past and were content to take him for what he
was--a light-hearted waif floating like a bubble on the surface of
society.
To the superficial frequenters of the Villa Rimini he did not seem to
have a care and scarcely an object in life, excepting it were to play
and sing at all times and seasons, whenever Lady Despard requested him.
But Doris was something more than a superficial observer, and often
when, in the early morning or in the delicious gloaming, she was
wandering dreamily through the flower-scented grounds, she would come
across him pacing moodily beneath the trees, or lying on a bank, with
his head resting on his hands, and his handsome face darkened by an
expression which would have startled his many friends who thought they
knew him quite intimately.
At such times he would spring up, dispelling his moodiness instantly,
and resume his usual manner; but the impression he had made remained
with Doris.
And, having seen him off his guard, as it were, she found herself,
at odd times, thinking of him. He seemed as alone in the midst of
the pleasure-seeking crowd as herself. From thinking of him in an
indifferent, casual kind of way, she grew, all unconsciously, to
entertain a vague sort of sympathy for him, which she would never have
been capable of if he had lavished compliments upon her, as the rest
did. She felt convinced that some shadow lay in his past, and that the
ready jest and the fluent laugh only hid a wound which he was too proud
to permit the world to gape at.
This was the first phase of their relation; the second began during the
second week of their Florentine life. She became conscious that his
presence at the villa contributed not only to the enjoyment of Lady
Despard and the rest, but to hers!
In an indescribable way he seemed to know exactly what was wanted at
any given moment, and to supply it, and his thoughtfulness, strangely
enough, always appeared to save trouble to Doris.
From the first day of her coming to Lady Despard, she had undertaken
the arrangement of the flowers in the various rooms, and she continued
to do so in Florence as in London. The head gardener was accustomed to
send up huge baskets of flowers each morning, which Doris would set out
and arrange in the various vases and bowls. It was a long task, and
one morning he had entered the salon and found her in the midst of it,
looking rather pale and tired, for the room was hot and close with the
almost overpowering perfume.
“That is a serious business,” he said, in his quiet fashion.
“Isn’t it?” she assented, with a smile.
He said nothing more, and passed out; but the next morning Doris found
the flowers spread out on a table, under an awning, in a shady part of
the terrace.
“Why, how thoughtful of the gardener!” she said to Lady Despard’s maid,
who stood near.
“Oh, but it wasn’t the gardener, miss,” said the girl. “It was Mr.
Percy who brought the table out here; he did it himself, and put the
awning up.”
“It was very kind of him,” said Doris, and when he came in to breakfast
she thanked him.
He bowed, slightly.
“It is cooler out there,” he said, simply, and turned to speak to Lady
Despard at once.
A few evenings afterward a discussion arose respecting a book that had
suddenly leaped into popular favor.
“What do you think of it, Miss Marlowe?” inquired an old Italian
nobleman, whose breast sparkled with orders.
“I haven’t read it, count,” said Doris.
Instantly there was an inquiry for the book, but it appeared that no
one possessed a copy.
“Oh, you must read it! I’ll send to London for a copy,” said the count.
An hour afterward some one wanted a song from Percy Levant, but he was
nowhere to be found, but presently one of the young men, of whom there
were always more than a sufficient quantity at the villa, came in with
a:
“I say, Lady Despard, if Mr. Levant doesn’t mind, he’ll lose that jolly
voice of his! I’ve just met him in the hall, wet through; it’s raining
cats and dogs, you know! Can’t make out where on earth he’s been, don’t
you know!”
A little later, Percy Levant sauntered into the room, and Doris saw him
laughing and talking with one and another on his way to the piano, and
she thought the lad must have been mistaken; but, when all had gone,
and she was going upstairs, he came to her, with something in his hand.
“There is the book they were talking about,” he said. “I fancy it isn’t
worth the fuss they are making about it.”
“Where did you get it?” said Doris.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I was lucky enough to find a copy in the town,” he replied.
“Then it was for that you went out and got wet!” she exclaimed. “It
was very kind, but--was it worth while, Mr. Levant?”
“I thought so, and think so still, but I may be mistaken,” he retorted,
with his peculiar, half-cynical smile. “Good-night,” and he moved away,
as if the incident were done with.
Gradually she began to realize that in any difficulty he was always
at her side. A big picnic was to be arranged, and Lady Despard, who
had got accustomed to leaving everything to Doris, had done so on this
occasion, and Doris was up early in the morning to give the necessary
orders. She found that all the preparations had been made. Mr. Percy
Levant had interviewed the major domo, and the thing was done.
When Doris thanked him, he smiled, and courteously cut her short.
“I don’t deserve any thanks,” he said. “You see, my Italian is not so
good as yours, and I was anxious to practice it with the major domo,
that’s all. We are all moved by selfish motives, Miss Marlowe.”
“Not all,” said Doris. “Not Mr. Percy Levant.”
He started slightly, and fixed his brilliant eyes on her for a second;
then, with a laugh, said:
“Yes, even Mr. Percy Levant.”
Twenty times a day she found him coming to her assistance, but always
in the same way, always with the same unobtrusiveness, which was almost
coldness, but which was very welcome to Doris, contrasted with the
fervent, accentuated attention of the rest of the men.
This evening, as she sat beside the hammock, looking at the stars,
which were beginning to peep out from the midst of the deep blue of the
sky, and thinking of the past, she was conscious, in a half-troubled
way, of recalling one of the innumerable services Percy Levant had
rendered her, and she started when Lady Despard said, in her sleepy
fashion:
“I wonder where Mr. Levant is? Has he gone to the hotel? I haven’t seen
him all the evening. How one misses him, doesn’t one?”
“Yes,” said Doris. “That is our tribute to his amiability.”
Lady Despard laughed.
“He is quite the bright particular star of our group,” she said. “Some
of our fair Florentine friends are almost mad about him. I shouldn’t
wonder if he were caught and chained before we leave.”
“Yes?” said Doris.
Lady Despard leaned over the hammock and regarded her with a lazy smile.
“What a cold little ‘yes,’” she said. “I really believe you are the
only woman here who doesn’t admire him.”
“But I do admire him,” said Doris, smiling in return. “I think he is
the handsomest man I ever saw----” She stopped and picked up the book,
for unnoticed by Lady Despard he had come up and stood beside the
hammock.
“May one inquire the subject of Miss Marlowe’s encomium?” he asked,
and he looked from one to the other with his usual smile, but Doris,
glancing up at him, saw, or fancied she saw, the shadow of the darkness
which she, and she alone, had discovered his face could wear.
“Oh, no one you know,” said Lady Despard. “May one ask where you have
been all this long while?”
“All this long while! A few hours! What a testimony to one’s worth!”
he said, as lightly as before, but his eyes, as they rested on Doris’
pensive face, were grave and intent. “I have been wandering in the
woods, listening to the birds.”
“While we have been dying to listen to you,” said Lady Despard, with
mock reproach. “We have missed you terribly, haven’t we, Doris?”
“Miss Marlowe is halting between truth and politeness,” he said, as
Doris remained silent. “I will spare her a reply.”
“We’ve had no music to speak of,” said Lady Despard. “Won’t you sing us
something now? Shall we go into the house?”
“No, no,” he said, almost abruptly. “Who would exchange this”--and
he waved his hand--“for four walls? What shall I sing to you? Let me
think.”
He thought for a moment, then he began to sing.
Doris never heard his voice, even in the crowded saloon, without
feeling a thrill run through her, but to-night, although he sang in so
low a tone that it seemed scarcely more than a whisper, the melody
stirred her to her depths, and brought the tears to her eyes.
“That is beautiful,” said Lady Despard, with a little sigh. “We won’t
spoil it by asking for another. Come, Doris, dear. Will you come in,
Mr. Levant?”
“No, thanks,” he said, slowly. “I’ll say good-night now.”
He did not offer to shake hands, and the two ladies left him and went
toward the house. As they were ascending the steps, Lady Despard
stopped, and uttered an exclamation:
“Oh, my bracelet!”
“What is it? Have you lost it?” inquired Doris.
“Yes; I must have dropped it while I was in the hammock! I’ll go
back----”
“No; I’ll go!” said Doris, and she ran back.
She had almost reached the spot where they had been sitting, when,
with a start, she saw in the starlight, a man lying full length on the
grass, with his face hidden on his arm. It was Percy Levant. He sprang
up at the sound of her footsteps, and confronted her, and Doris saw
that his face was pale and haggard, so different, indeed, to its usual
bright and careless expression, that she felt a shock of distress and
almost fear.
“Mr. Levant!” she said, falteringly; then she recovered herself. “I
have come back for Lady Despard’s bracelet,” stooping down and looking
about her, to give him time.
“It is here,” he said, picking it up.
“Thanks!” she said. “Good-night!”
“Wait! Will you wait a moment?” he asked, and his voice, usually so
soft and musical, sounded hoarse and strained.
Doris stood, silent and downcast, and waited for him to go on.