There was a pause in the conversation when he entered. His bride arose,
advanced to meet him, and took his hand warmly. He let a keen passing
glance rest for a moment on the noble face which looked up so frankly
to his, and then approached her mother, who greeted him heartily, and
bent forward in her easy-chair to shake his hand. Like her daughter,
she was still dressed in black; but wore her hair gathered under a grey
gauze cap, whilst Mary's brown locks were kept in order by a narrow
black ribbon across her brow. Her father, too, received him kindly, and
introduced him to two gentlemen, strangers, who were seated at the
brightly-lighted table. They were Englishmen, brothers, old friends of
the house, who had arrived from England but shortly before. For their
convenience, the conversation was carried on in English.
"You are late, dear Theodore," said the mother; "we wanted you whilst
we were describing to our friends the last hours of poor Edward. My
poor eyes did their duty but feebly then, and Mary and her father were
both ill, as you know. We all felt the loss more than you did, for you
hardly knew him; and so you were the most self-possessed, and better
able to realize what rests upon our memories only as a horrible
agitated dream, even now almost incredible!"
Theodore felt a reluctance to talk. The quiet, of the room, the feeling
of agitation with which he entered, strange faces, and a strange
tongue, all oppressed him in the highest degree. And now, at this same
moment, when he had but just been face to face with an existence so
full of magical bliss, he was expected to describe the death-bed of
poor Edward to strangers.
They thought that it was his sorrow that prevented his answering. He
had seated himself near Mary, and gazed long on her delicate, pale
brow. Its unruffled, snowy stillness disturbed him. Her blue eyes, that
beamed clear, and happy, and calmly, had to-day lost their power over
him. He felt distinctly that it was his own incapacity which prevented
his enjoying this noble face as formerly, that made him no longer wait
longingly for each word from those charming lips, or feel each smile
penetrate into his inmost soul. He struggled for awhile against this
insensibility, which caused him bitter agony,--it was in vain!
She was conscious of the existence of some struggle going on within
him; but the presence of the others prevented her grasping closer, by
her fervent participation in its sorrows, the heart which was
separating itself from her.
One of the strangers asked about the monument which was intended to be
erected to Edward. Theodore roused himself, and mentioned that that
very day he had entrusted the work to a friend, of whose character and
circumstances he gave a slight sketch. Mary's parents knew more of him;
but the disjointed picture did not seem to satisfy the stranger.
"It were to be wished,"' he said, "that this man could be conscious of
some trace of Edward's inner nature in his own being, so that he might
be able to identify himself with the delicate form and short blessed
life of our lost friend, as something beloved. He seems to be, from
your description, a violent, inflexible man, to whom nothing can be
more incomprehensible than our Edward's idea of living only for others,
and of shaping his last sigh into a wish for the happiness of those he
loved."
"He is rough and energetic," answered Theodore; "but the beautiful
affects him, and he looks upon what is noble with reverence and awe. I
remarked, when I read Homer to him, how powerfully the idyllic, I might
say the feminine, passages of the poem moved him."
"Possibly because they accorded more with his artistic fulness than the
barren uniformity of battle and danger. And yet it is one thing to
possess a mind capable of being affected by certain common-place,
natural, heathen emotions, and another to have one by which the
blessings of our religion are appreciated. Edward was a Christian; your
friend at best is but a professing Roman Catholic."
"I cannot deny," interrupted the mother, "that I have thought much on
this point already. Before we intrust a work like this, which we have
all so much at heart, to a stranger, it were at least advisable to have
a sketch made which we could discuss and decide upon."
"I know him, dearest mother," said Theodore, emphatically. "If it were
his custom to throw his first ideas upon a scrap of paper, it would be
easy enough to discuss the matter with him; but he always prefers,
first, to work up his subject in clay of the intended size; and he has,
besides, particularly entreated that in this case he may be permitted
to labour for a time without letting any one see it. That it depends
upon your approval, he knows already."
Then there ensued a pause, in which the rather excitedly-spoken words
of the young man echoed disagreeably. Mary went to the piano and
endeavoured to charm away the discord with music. Only with Theodore
was it ineffectual. The simple ballad had no power over one in whose
ear the maddening tones of the tambourine again awoke spectrally, and
the echo of the marvellous song of the chorister overwhelmed the pure
voice. He saw Bianchi's firm gaze fastened upon him, and heard again
the words, "There will be a miracle performed!" And here, where he was
now, all was strange, and tame, and wonderless.
After the song, Mary seated herself again by his side. She spoke German
to him; she asked about his amusements and his employments, about
Bianchi. He talked absently, and thus half-confusedly, as if to
himself, he told her about the osteria and the girl's dancing. As he
glanced up from time to time, he marked a clouded tension over the
delicate brows. The conversation between them died away. The father
asked about English families, on which subject the guests talked
eagerly. It was without interest to Theodore, and so he became again
absorbed by his whirling thoughts. At last he departed. The strangers
had taken up their residence with Mary's parents. It seemed to him as
though he were doubly driven unhappy from this circle which once was
his own--doubly--by himself and by others.