"Do you know that Willy has been sent down again?"
Six weeks have passed since Burgoyne's eye followed his quondam friends
down Mesopotamia, and he is not in Oxford now. He left it, indeed,
twenty-four hours after the rencounter described; left it with something
of a determination never to revisit it. This, too, in spite of the good
Brown's vociferously reiterated invitation to him to run down for
another Sunday, whenever he should feel inclined, and which he accepted
civilly, knowing that he should never feel inclined.
At the present moment he is pacing up and down the still wintry,
north-windswept walks of a country-house garden in Shropshire, in the
company of a lady whom he has known as long as he can remember; a lady
who would have been a friend of circumstance, even if she had not been
one of choice, since her home has been in the immediate neighbourhood of
the only one he has ever had; a lady whose friendship he has tested by
letters on thin paper from New Guinea and Central Africa all about
himself; at whose feet he has laid on his return more heads, and skins,
and claws than she has well known what to do with; whose husband he
thought a very good fellow, and to whom he wrote a very nice letter on
that husband's death; lastly, concerning whose only child has been made
the communication that opens this chapter--"Do you know that Willy has
been sent down again?"
"I did not know it; but I am very sorry now that I do know."
"You need not be," returns she cheerfully; "he does not mind it in the
least; indeed, happily for him, most of his friends have been sent down
too."
"What has he been doing this time? Putting the porter into the fountain?
or screwing up the Dean? or what other playful little pleasantry?"
"You need not speak in that nasty sarcastic voice," says she, half
laughing and half vexed. "After all, you must know that young men will
be young men, or, at least, if you do not know it now, you must have
known it once."
"If you take that tone to me," retorts Burgoyne, smiling, "I shall have
to souse your gardener in your fountain, to prove my juvenility; but
come, what has he done?"
"Absolutely nothing, as far as I can make out," replies she, spreading
out her hands as if to emphasize the statement.
"Do you mean to say that the authorities have sent him down _de gaiete
de coeur_, without any provocation at all?" asks Burgoyne, in a tone
out of which he is unable to keep a shade of incredulity.
"I mean to say," replies she, nettled, "that he had a few men to supper,
and I suppose they were making a little noise; did you ever in your day
hear of an undergraduate supper where there was not noise? However, in
this case, from what he tells me, Willy was taking positively no part in
it."
"He was sitting in a corner, with cotton-wool in his ears, reading
Aristotle," suggests Burgoyne teasingly.
"And it seems," continued she, not deigning to notice the interruption,
"that the Proctor came in, and was very rude, and Willy was told to go
to the Dean next morning, and he either was a little late, or mistook
the hour, or some trifle of that sort; and when he did go he was told
that he was sent down. However"--with some triumph in her voice--"it did
not matter in the least--he did not mind; in fact, he was rather glad,
as he has long wanted to go to Italy in the spring."
"To Italy? Then perhaps we shall meet; I too am going to Italy."
"Are you?" she says. "Why should you go to Italy? There is nothing to
kill there, is there? Is not it at Naples that they go out in full
chasseur uniform to shoot tomtits?" Which speech is her revenge for his
sarcasms upon her son.
But Burgoyne's face has taken on a rather careworn look; and her little
arrow misses its mark.
"You see, Amelia is at Florence," he says explanatorily; "her father,
Mr. Wilson, had a clergyman's throat in the autumn, and was obliged to
give up duty, so they all went abroad. They have been abroad all the
winter; you know that I have not seen her since I came back from the
Rockies."
They are now walking in a winding shrubbery path, whose laurels protect
them from the pinching wind. They have turned several corners, and
traversed half a quarter of a mile before either again breaks silence.
It is the lady who does so finally.
"Jim, how long have you been engaged to Amelia?"
There is a sigh mixed with his answer.
"Eight years--eight years this next June; it was the second summer term
after I came up."
"And as far as you can see, you are likely to be engaged for another
eight years?"
"As far as I can see--yes; but then I cannot see far."
Perhaps his companion is a fanciful woman; but she notices that this
time he does not sigh.
"Poor Amelia!" she says, half under her breath.
"Poor Amelia!" repeats he sharply; "why poor?--for being engaged to me?
You are not very complimentary, Mrs. Byng."
She looks up friendlily at him. "For being engaged to you, or being only
engaged to you?--which? I leave you a choice of interpretation."
But either Jim is too ruffled by the pity expressed in her tone towards
his betrothed, or her remarks have provoked in him a train of thought
which does not tend towards loquacity. The loud rooks, balancing
themselves on improbably small twigs above their heads, and, hoarsely
melodious, calling out their airy vernal news to each other, make for
some time the only sound that breaks the silence of the cold spring
afternoon. It is again Mrs. Byng who at last infringes it.
"If you and Willy are both going to Italy, why should not you go
together?"
Jim does not immediately answer; the project is sprung upon him with
such suddenness that he does not at once know whether it is agreeable to
him or the reverse.
"You do not like the idea?" continues the mother, trying, not very
successfully, to keep out of her tone the surprise she feels at his not
having jumped at a plan so obviously to his own advantage.
"I did not say so. I did not even think so."
"Willy is an ideal fellow-traveller," says she, "excepting in the matter
of punctuality; I warn you"--laughing--"that you would always have to
drag him out of bed."
"But," suggests Jim slowly, "even supposing that I embraced your design
with the warmth which I see you think it deserves, how can you tell that
it would meet with his approbation? He has probably made up a party with
some of the other innocent victims of a corrupt University system."
"No, he has not; the friend with whom he was to have gone has thrown him
over; at least, poor man, that is hardly the way to express it, for he
has broken his leg; but anyhow he is _hors de combat_. If you went with
Willy," she adds, after a pause, and with a rather wistful air, "I
should be sure of knowing if anything went wrong."
"I am to dry-nurse him, in fact, only I stipulate that, if he brings you
home a Contadina daughter-in-law, or 'commits himself with a countess,'
like the commercial gentleman at Todgers's, you are not to hold me
responsible."
And so it came to pass that a fortnight later, while April is still
young, Burgoyne, _en route_ to his Amelia, is standing at a window of
the Hotel de Genes at Genoa, noisiest of hotels, though, to be sure,
that is its only fault. He is looking out at the gay market that is held
in the piazza below--the gay market that is over and gone by nine
o'clock.
It seems odd that so many women, so many umbrellas, so many baskets, so
many oranges and lemons--each lemon with a glossy green leaf still
adhering to its inch of stalk--so many fresh vegetables can be swept
away in so short a time. But they are; all the gay kerchiefs are fled,
and have been replaced by a row of fiacres with sad droop-headed horses,
a good hour before Byng appears--appears radiantly well washed and
apologetic.
"How many morning chapels did you attend last term?" asks Burgoyne with
some dryness.
"It is a vile habit," replies the other sweetly, sitting down at a
little table, and unfolding his breakfast napkin. "I do not mean going
to chapel, but being so late; however, I really am improving. I am a
quarter of an hour--twenty minutes earlier than I was yesterday, and,
thank God, we have no train to catch to-day."
Burgoyne is rather inclined to echo the thanksgiving a little later in
the day, as they stroll with the pleasant vagueness with which one
strays about a little-known foreign town, not exactly knowing whither,
through the streets of the queenly city, with which neither of them has
much acquaintance; Byng's twenty-two years of school and college, of
cricket, and grouse, and stalking, having left not much margin for aught
else; and Burgoyne being in the case of some widely-wandered shots and
explorers, to whom the Nyanza Lake and the Australian Bush are more
familiar than Giotto's Campanile or the Lagoons. There is a
grayish-looking English sky, with now and then little sprays of rain,
and now and then flashes of warm sun.
Neither of the young men knows much Italian, and such as they possess
they are ashamed to air before each other in asking their way, so they
wander wherever chance or fancy leads them. They look curiously into
churches, they walk down deep narrow streets, whose houses have for
three centuries been threatening to embrace each other across the strait
sky strip far, far above their heads. They glance at palace-fronts, and
wonder at the sculptured portals where fresco and fruit garland and fine
tracery speak of a time at more leisure for delicate work that has no
end but beauty, than this breathless one. Everywhere in the gardens they
see budding green, untrained roses making bowers, ripe oranges hanging
over the walls. They jostle against women, each made charming, even the
ugliest of them, by the black lace kerchief tied about her head.
"Henry James says that an English crowd is the best-looking in the
world," says Byng, in a tone of strong dissent, following with his eyes
a little tripping figure, and with an expression of pronounced
approbation in those eyes, which gives Burgoyne a momentary twinge of
misgiving as to his chaperonship. "I should put it the other way up, and
say that they are the ugliest."
"All crowds are ugly, and most individuals," replies Burgoyne,
misanthropically looking up from his guide-book.
They are sauntering down the Via Garibaldi, street of palaces that
deserves an antiquer name than that of the somewhat shoddy and recent
hero who has god-fathered it. Noblest Via, down whose stately length
great towering bulks succeed each other in solid majesty on either hand;
bulks on whose high fronts, lofty-portaled, o'errun with fresco,
glorified by brush and chisel, strength and beauty take hands in
unending wedlock. Into the noblest of all, up the echoing stone stairs,
down which the feet of the masters have for ever ceased to tread, they
enter. As we all know, it has been given to the city of Genoa--lovely
queen-city meriting so great a gift--by the dying hand of its latest
possessor, the last of that high and beautiful race--if we may judge of
the dead by their pictures--who paced its floors, and went forth in
final funeral pomp through its worthy-to-be-imperial portals.
Burgoyne and Byng are standing before the great Vandyke. The custode,
opening a shutter, and throwing wider a door, casts a brighter ray of
light for the staring Britons--several others have joined themselves to
our friends--to gape at it by. What does the stately gentleman on his
great white horse, whom Vandyke has made able to set at naught death's
effacement, think of them, as the custode slowly swings him forward on
his hinges, so that the day-beams may bring out more clearly still the
arresting charm of his serious face, his outstretched arm, and grave,
gallant bearing? Looking at him, whose heart among us is not besieged by
an ache of longing that that "young and princely" gentleman on the brave
white charger should ride down to us out of his frame, and bring back
his world with him? probably not a better world than ours, but surely,
surely a handsomer one.
After awhile the other tourists drift away, but the two men still stand
and gaze. Into Burgoyne's mind has come a sense of disgust with the
present, a revolt against steam trams and the Cromwell Road--most
perfect symbol of that bald, unending, vulgar ugliness, which, in some
moods, must seem to everyone the dominant note of nineteenth-century
life. The light-hearted Byng, who always takes his colour from his
surroundings, is hushed into a silence that is almost reverent too.
"What a difference there is between his Italian and his English
pictures," he says presently. "Do you remember the Marchesa Balbi, and
those divine Balbi children in the Grosvenor, last year? Oh, no!
by-the-bye, you were in America. The fog seemed to get into his brush
whenever he painted an Englishwoman, always excepting Henrietta Maria,
who was not an Englishwoman, and whom he was obviously rather in love
with."
"Is that a piece of scandal of your own invention, or is it founded on
fact?" asks Burgoyne, rousing himself, and looking over his shoulder
towards the entrance to the next frescoed, mirrored, pictured room,
whence he hears the sound of approaching voices. In his eye is an idle
and mechanical curiosity, mixed with vexation that his short respite
from his fellow-countrymen is ended; in this case, it is
fellow-countrywomen, for the tones that are nearing are those of a
woman, a woman who is saying in a key of satisfaction, "Oh, here it is!
I thought I remembered that it was in this room."
At the same moment the speaker, as well as the person addressed, came
into sight; and in an instant out of Burgoyne's eye has raced away the
lack-lustre curiosity, and has given way to an expression of something
beyond surprise, of something more nearly verging on consternation; and
yet, after all, there is nothing very astonishing in the fact that it is
Mrs. Le Marchant who is the woman in search of the Vandyke. There is
nothing more surprising in her being at Genoa than in his being there
himself. At that mart of nations it can never be matter for wonder to
meet anyone; but who is this to whom her observation is addressed? It is
not Mr. Le Marchant, it is not a man at all; it is a slight woman--
"White as a lily, and small as a wand"--
like Lance's sister, dressed with that neat, tight, gray-tinted
simplicity, severe yet smart, which marks the well-bred Englishwoman on
her travels. Is it one of the younger ones, who has grown up so
startlingly like her? Miriam? Rose? or is it, can it be, the dead
Elizabeth?