It is five o'clock, the hour fixed for the expedition to Certosa, and in
the _entresol_ of 12 bis, Piazza d'Azeglio, Mrs. and Miss Le Marchant
are sitting--hatted, gloved, and _en-tout-cas-ed_--in expectation of the
arrival of their double escort. Elizabeth's afternoon has, so far, not
been a lazy one, as her little cousin Bertie and his dog have again been
good enough to pay her a lengthy visit, and the former has insisted upon
a repetition of the musical performance of the other day, though with
truncated rites. Without the powerful aid of Byng, Elizabeth has found
it a task considerably beyond her strength to hold a large collie,
poised on his hind-legs, on a music-stool. He has jumped down
repeatedly, and now lies on his back--an attitude in which experience
has taught him he is less attackable than in any other--sawing the air
with his fore-paws, and lifting his lip in a deprecating grin.
"Where is Mr. Byng?" cries Bertie fretfully, baulked in his efforts to
make his wily victim resume the perpendicular. "I want Mr. Byng! Why
does not Mr. Byng come?"
"Perhaps if you went to the window," suggests Mrs. Le Marchant, in that
patiently coaxing voice in which we are wont to address a tiresome child
on a visit, instead of the buffet which we should bestow upon it were it
resident--"perhaps if you went to the window and looked out, you would
see him coming round the corner of the Piazza."
The suggestion is at once accepted, and the child, balancing his fidgety
body on a chair, and craning his neck over the window-ledge, is shouting
shrill pieces of information as to the passers-by to his friends within
the room. Presently he shrieks out in triumph:
"I see him! He is just coming into sight! He is walking so fast! No!"--a
moment later, with a changed and disgusted note, as a nearer view
corrects the first impression--"it is not he at all! It is only the
other one!"
"_Only the other one!_" It is quite impossible that the sound of the
child's voice can reach down to the open portal of No. 12 bis, at which
Jim has now arrived, and it is also certain that neither of the ladies
whom he has come to visit is likely to word her surprise at his having
arrived alone with the frank brutality which is confined to the
utterances of infancy; and yet Jim, as he presents himself, announced by
Annunziata, the hard-featured possessor of a lovely name, is quite as
conscious, as if he had overheard the boy's slighting remark, of being
"only the other one!"
Before he can begin his apologies, the eager little boy has run up to
him.
"Where is Mr. Byng? I want Mr. Byng! Why has not he come? Elizabeth
wants Mr. Byng!"
At this last clause Burgoyne is conscious of a dark, hot flush rising to
his face, and, partly to hide it, partly to avoid seeing what the effect
of his communication may be upon her for whom it is meant, he stoops
over the child, addressing his answer to him:
"Mr. Byng is very sorry, very sorry indeed, but he cannot come."
"Cannot come! Why cannot he come?"
"Because he has gone to meet his mammy," replies Jim, trying to speak in
a light and playful voice; "she is to arrive unexpectedly in Florence
to-day; no good boy would leave his mammy when she had come all the way
from England to see him, would he?"
But to this fustian and copy-book generality the young gentleman
addressed is too angry to reply.
"It is a great disappointment to Byng; he bid me tell you what a great
disappointment it is to him!" says Jim, turning to the two ladies, and
looking apologetically from one to the other.
Elizabeth's head is averted; but on her mother's features he sees, or
fancies he sees, slight evidences of a feeling not unlike relief.
"It is not of the least consequence," she says cheerfully; "we can go
any other day just as well."
Burgoyne's heart sinks. In these last sentences he too surely traces
signs of the evasive and would-be-retrograde nature which has all along
characterized Mrs. Le Marchant's relations with him. It has seemed to
him that he has been looking forward to the expedition with sensations
of almost unmixed dread, and yet, now that he seems to be going to be
delivered from it, what he experiences certainly does not come under the
head of elation.
"You wish to give up the excursion?" he asks, in a tone which he
honestly tries to make as neutral and colourless as he can.
"Well, I thought so--we thought so, did not we, Elizabeth?"
The person thus addressed lifts her head, and all over her features he,
eagerly scanning them, sees written a warm acquiescence in her motherly
decision, an acquiescence which, as her eyes meet his--his, in which his
disappointment is written a good deal more plainly than he is
aware--changes slowly and sweetly into indecision.
"I do not know," she answers, her gentle look clouded a little, and yet
kindly interrogating his; "if Mr. Burgoyne is willing to burden himself
with us; and Bertie must play at being a grown-up gentleman, and help to
take care of us! Bertie, will you play at being a grown-up gentleman?"
To this proposition Bertie assents warmly, and begins thrasonically to
recount to inattentive ears the high and singular deeds with which he
will celebrate his arrival at maturity. But, as Mrs. Le Marchant puts a
strenuous veto upon his adoption as escort, and as his nurse appears at
the same juncture to fetch him, he and his dog are presently removed;
and the other three set off without him.
Burgoyne has chartered a fiacre, with a horse as little lame as is ever
to be found in Florence, and in this vehicle they are presently rolling
along. None of them are in very exuberant spirits. Burgoyne is as well
aware as if her sensitive lips had put the fact into words, that for
Elizabeth the pleasure of the outing has evaporated with the absence of
Byng, and that it is only the soft-hearted shrinking of a sweet nature
from inflicting mortification on a fellow-creature that has set her
opposite to him in her white gown. He has never seen her dressed in
white before, and says to himself that it was for Byng's sake that she
has made herself so summer-fine. But even if it be so, it is not Byng
who is profiting by it. It is for him, not Byng, that the large Italian
light is glorifying its thin fabric. Lily-pure, snow-clean she looks,
sitting under her sunshade; and he sits over against her in a stupid
silence. It seems to him as if his only safety were in silence, as if,
did he speak at all, he must put into brutal words the brutal questions
that are dinging in his head, that seem knocking for utterance against
the gate of his set teeth.
"What is the 'screw loose'? How is she an 'unfortunate girl'? Why have
they 'never held up their heads since'? Since what?" He looks, in a
fierce perplexity, from one to the other of those delicately poised
heads, held aloft with such modest dignity. Surely it is beyond the
bounds of possibility that any heavily hideous shame or leaden disgrace
can ever have weighed upon them! Probably the intensity of his thought
has given an intensity to his look, of which he is unaware; for he
presently finds the soft veiled voice of Elizabeth--Elizabeth who has
hitherto been as mute as himself--addressing him:
"How very grave you look! I wonder what you are thinking of?"
The question, striking in so strangely pat, brings him back with a
start. For a second an almost overpowering temptation assails him to
tell her what is the object of his thought, to answer her with that
whole and naked truth which we can so seldom employ in our intercourse
with our fellow-men. But one glance at her innocent face, which has a
vague trouble in it, chases the lunatic impulse, though he dallies with
the temptation to the extent of saying:
"Would you really like to know? Do you really wish me to tell you?"
He looks at her penetratingly as he puts the question. Before either his
eyes or his manner she shrinks.
"Oh, no--no!" she cries with tremulous haste, "of course not! I was only
joking. What business have I with your thoughts? I never wish to know
people's thoughts; if their looks and words are kind, that is all that
concerns me!"
He relapses into silence; but her words, and still more the agitated
manner in which they are pronounced, make a vague yet definite addition
to the disquiet of his soul.
By setting off at so judiciously late an hour as five o'clock, they have
avoided the greater part of the flood of tourists which daily sets
towards Certosa, and which they meet, tightly packed in crowded
vehicles, sweeping Florence-wards in a choking cloud of white dust; so
that on reaching the Certosa Monastery, sitting so grandly on its
hilltop, they have the satisfaction of finding that it is temporarily
all their own--all their own but for the few white-frocked figures and
tonsured heads which an economico-democratic Government has left to hint
what in its palmy days was the state of that which is now only a
Government museum.
A burly monk receives them. He does not look at all a prey to the
pensive sorrow one would expect at the desecration of his holy things
and the dispersion of his fraternity. Probably, in his slow peasant mind
there is room for nothing but self-congratulation at his being one of
the few--only fifteen in all--left to end their days in the old home. He
leads them stolidly through chapels and refectory--the now too roomy
refectory, where the poor remnant of Carthusians dine together only on
Sundays--through meagrely furnished cells, in one of which he
matter-of-factly lets down the front flap of a cupboard to show what
forms his daily dining-table except on the happy Sunday, to which he
must look forward so warmly.
"Must not he love Sunday!" cries Elizabeth, with sparkling eyes. "Do not
you long to know what they have for dinner on Sundays? Do you think he
would mind telling us?"
Elizabeth's spirits are going up like quicksilver. It is evident,
despite the delicate melancholy of her face, that she is naturally of an
extremely joyous and enjoying nature, and gifted with a freshness of
sensation which belongs ordinarily rather to the green age at which Jim
first remembers her, than to the mature one which he knows for a
certainty that she has now reached. She is filled with such a lively and
surprised delight at all the little details of arrangement of the
monastic life that he is at last impelled to say to her, something
wonderingly:
"But you must have seen hundreds of monasteries before?"
"Not one."
"But there are, or were, such swarms of them all over Italy."
"I dare say. I was never in Italy before."
"Not really?"
She lifts up her hand, and waves it at him with an air of hasty
deprecation of further question, growing suddenly grave.
"Don't ask me whether I have been here or there, or whether I have done
this or that. I have never been anywhere or done anything."
Her desire for a cessation of all inquiries as to her doings is
obviously so earnest that Jim of course complies with it. Once or twice
before he has been struck by her strange want of acquaintance with facts
and phenomena, which would have come as a matter of course within the
range of observation of every woman of her age and station. Against his
will, a horrid recollection flashes upon him of a novel he had once
read, in which the hero exhibits a singular ignorance of any events or
incidents that had occurred within the ten years preceding the opening
of the story--an ignorance which towards the end of the third volume was
accounted for by its transpiring that he has spent the intervening
period in a convict prison! He drives the grotesque and monstrous idea
with scourges out of his mind; but it recurs, and recurs to be displaced
by another hardly less painful, if in some degree more probable. Can it
be possible that the crushing blow which has fallen upon the Le Marchant
family, and upon Elizabeth in particular, whitening the mother's hair,
and giving that tear-washed look to the daughter's sweet eyes--can it be
possible that that heavy stroke was insanity? Can Elizabeth have been
out of her mind? Can she have spent in confinement any of that past,
from all allusion to which she shies away with a sensitiveness more
shrinking than that of
"The tender horns of cockled snails"?
He is so much absorbed in his tormenting speculations about her that for
the moment he forgets her bodily presence; and it is only her voice, her
soft sane voice, that brings him back to a consciousness of it. They
have been led into a _salon_, in which, as their guide tells them, the
confraternity used to receive any "personage" that came to visit them.
Alas, no personage ever visits the poor frocked remnant now! It is a
charming lightsome room, that gives one no monastic idea, with pretty
airy fancies of flower-wreaths and arabesques, and dainty dancing
figures painted on wall and ceiling and doors. One of these latter is
half open, and through it comes an exquisite sudden view of the hills,
with their sharp-cut shadows and their sunlit slopes; of shining
Florence at their feet, of the laugh of young verdure, and the wedded
gloom and glory of cypress and poplar filling the foreground. Upon
Elizabeth's small face, turned suddenly towards him, seems reflected
some of the ineffable radiance of the Tuscan light.
"When next I dream of heaven," she says, in her tender, vibrating voice,
"it will be like this. Do you ever dream of heaven? I often do, and I
always wake crying because it is not true; but"--with a joyful change of
key--"I will not cry any more without better cause. Since I came here I
have found earth beautiful and delightful enough for me!"
He looks back at her, hardly hearing her words, but chiding himself
fiercely for the disloyal thought which he has entertained, however
unwillingly; the thought that the foul fiend of madness could ever, even
temporarily, have defiled the temple of those eyes whence reason and
feeling, so sweetly wedded, are shining out upon him, unworthy as he is
of their rays.
"Since you came here?" he repeats in a sort of dreamy interrogation;
"only since you came here?"
"You must not take me up so sharply!" she cries in a voice of playful
remonstrance, in which there is a lilt of young gaiety. "I warn you that
I will not be taken up so sharply! I did not say, '_only_ since I came
here!' I said, 'Since I came here!'"