NEXT.
Lieut. Worthington's leave had nearly expired. He must rejoin his
ship; but he waited till the last possible moment in order to help his
sister through the move to Albano, where it had been decided that Amy
should go for a few days of hill air before undertaking the longer
journey to Florence.
It was a perfect morning in late March when the pale little invalid was
carried in her uncle's strong arms, and placed in the carriage which was
to take them to the old town on the mountain slopes which they had seen
shining from far away for so many weeks past. Spring had come in her
fairest shape to Italy. The Campagna had lost its brown and tawny hues
and taken on a tinge of fresher color. The olive orchards were budding
thickly. Almond boughs extended their dazzling shapes across the blue
sky. Arums and acanthus and ivy filled every hollow, roses nodded from
over every gate, while a carpet of violets and cyclamen and primroses
stretched over the fields and freighted every wandering wind with
fragrance.
When once the Campagna with its long line of aqueducts, arches, and
hoary tombs was left behind, and the carriage slowly began to mount the
gradual rises of the hill, Amy revived. With every breath of the fresher
air her eyes seemed to brighten and her voice to grow stronger. She held
Mabel up to look at the view; and the sound of her laugh, faint and
feeble as it was, was like music to her mother's ears.
Amy wore a droll little silk-lined cap on her head, over which a downy
growth of pale-brown fuzz was gradually thickening. Already it showed a
tendency to form into tiny rings, which to Amy, who had always hankered
for curls, was an extreme satisfaction. Strange to say, the same thing
exactly had happened to Mabel; her hair had grown out into soft little
round curls also! Uncle Ned and Katy had ransacked Rome for this
baby-wig, which filled and realized all Amy's hopes for her child. On
the same excursion they had bought the materials for the pretty spring
suit which Mabel wore, for it had been deemed necessary to sacrifice
most of her wardrobe as a concession to possible fever-germs. Amy
admired the pearl-colored dress and hat, the fringed jacket and little
lace-trimmed parasol so much, that she was quite consoled for the loss
of the blue velvet costume and ermine muff which had been the pride of
her heart ever since they left Paris, and whose destruction they had
scarcely dared to confess to her.
So up, up, up, they climbed till the gateway of the old town was passed,
and the carriage stopped before a quaint building once the residence of
the Bishop of Albano, but now known as the Hôtel de la Poste. Here they
alighted, and were shown up a wide and lofty staircase to their rooms,
which were on the sunny side of the house, and looked across a walled
garden, where roses and lemon trees grew beside old fountains guarded by
sculptured lions and heathen divinities with broken noses and a scant
supply of fingers and toes, to the Campagna, purple with distance and
stretching miles and miles away to where Rome sat on her seven hills,
lifting high the Dome of St. Peter's into the illumined air.
Nurse Swift said that Amy must go to bed at once, and have a long rest.
But Amy nearly wept at the proposal, and declared that she was not a bit
tired and couldn't sleep if she went to bed ever so much. The change of
air had done her good already, and she looked more like herself than for
many weeks past. They compromised their dispute on a sofa, where Amy,
well wrapped up, was laid, and where, in spite of her protestations, she
presently fell asleep, leaving the others free to examine and arrange
their new quarters.
Such enormous rooms as they were! It was quite a journey to go from one
side of them to another. The floors were of stone, with squares of
carpet laid down over them, which looked absurdly small for the great
spaces they were supposed to cover. The beds and tables were of the
usual size, but they seemed almost like doll furniture because the
chambers were so big. A quaint old paper, with an enormous pattern of
banyan trees and pagodas, covered the walls, and every now and then
betrayed by an oblong of regular cracks the existence of a hidden door,
papered to look exactly like the rest of the wall.
These mysterious doors made Katy nervous, and she never rested till she
had opened every one of them and explored the places they led to. One
gave access to a queer little bathroom. Another led, through a narrow
dark passage, to a sort of balcony or loggia overhanging the garden. A
third ended in a dusty closet with an artful chink in it from which you
could peep into what had been the Bishop's drawing-room but which was
now turned into the dining-room of the hotel. It seemed made for
purposes of espial; and Katy had visions of a long line of reverend
prelates with their ears glued to the chink, overhearing what was being
said about them in the apartment beyond.
The most surprising of all she did not discover till she was going to
bed on the second night after their arrival, when she thought she knew
all about the mysterious doors and what they led to. A little
unexplained draught of wind made her candle flicker, and betrayed the
existence of still another door so cunningly hid in the wall pattern
that she had failed to notice it. She had quite a creepy feeling as she
drew her dressing-gown about her, took a light, and entered the narrow
passage into which it opened. It was not a long passage, and ended
presently in a tiny oratory. There was a little marble altar, with a
kneeling-step and candlesticks and a great crucifix above. Ends of wax
candles still remained in the candlesticks, and bunches of dusty paper
flowers filled the vases which stood on either side of them. A faded
silk cushion lay on the step. Doubtless the Bishop had often knelt
there. Katy felt as if she were the first person to enter the place
since he went away. Her common-sense told her that in a hotel bedroom
constantly occupied by strangers for years past, some one _must_ have
discovered the door and found the little oratory before her; but
common-sense is sometimes less satisfactory than romance. Katy liked to
think that she was the first, and to "make believe" that no one else
knew about it; so she did so, and invented legends about the place which
Amy considered better than any fairy story.
Before he left them Lieutenant Worthington had a talk with his sister
in the garden. She rather forced this talk upon him, for various
things were lying at her heart about which she longed for explanation;
but he yielded so easily to her wiles that it was evident he was not
averse to the idea.
"Come, Polly, don't beat about the bush any longer," he said at last,
amused and a little irritated at her half-hints and little feminine
_finesses_. "I know what you want to ask; and as there's no use
making a secret of it, I will take my turn in asking. Have I any chance,
do you think?"
"Any chance?--about Katy, do you mean? Oh, Ned, you make me so happy."
"Yes; about her, of course."
"I don't see why you should say 'of course,'" remarked his sister, with
the perversity of her sex, "when it's only five or six weeks ago that I
was lying awake at night for fear you were being gobbled up by that
Lilly Page."
"There was a little risk of it," replied her brother, seriously. "She's
awfully pretty and she dances beautifully, and the other fellows were
all wild about her, and--well, you know yourself how such things go. I
can't see now what it was that I fancied so much about her, I don't
suppose I could have told exactly at the time; but I can tell without
the smallest trouble what it is in--the other."
"In Katy? I should think so," cried Mrs. Ashe, emphatically; "the two
are no more to be compared than--than--well, bread and syllabub! You can
live on one, and you can't live on the other."
"Come, now, Miss Page isn't so bad as that. She is a nice girl enough,
and a pretty girl too,--prettier than Katy; I'm not so far gone that I
can't see that. But we won't talk about her, she's not in the present
question at all; very likely she'd have had nothing to say to me in any
case. I was only one out of a dozen, and she never gave me reason to
suppose that she cared more for me than the rest. Let us talk about this
friend of yours; have I any chance at all, do you think, Polly?"
"Ned, you are the dearest boy! I would rather have Katy for a sister
than any one else I know. She's so nice all through,--so true and sweet
and satisfactory."
"She is all that and more; she's a woman to tie to for life, to be
perfectly sure of always. She would make a splendid wife for any man.
I'm not half good enough for her; but the question is,--and you haven't
answered it yet, Polly,--what's my chance?"
"I don't know," said his sister, slowly.
"Then I must ask herself, and I shall do so to-day."
"I don't know," repeated Mrs. Ashe. "'She is a woman, therefore to be
won:' and I don't think there is any one ahead of you; that is the best
hope I have to offer, Ned. Katy never talks of such things; and though
she's so frank, I can't guess whether or not she ever thinks about them.
She likes you, however, I am sure of that. But, Ned, it will not be wise
to say anything to her yet."
"Not say anything? Why not?"
"No. Recollect that it is only a little while since she looked upon you
as the admirer of another girl, and a girl she doesn't like very much,
though they are cousins. You must give her time to get over that
impression. Wait awhile; that's my advice, Ned."
"I'll wait any time if only she will say yes in the end. But it's hard
to go away without a word of hope, and it's more like a man to speak
out, it seems to me."
"It's too soon," persisted his sister. "You don't want her to think
you a fickle fellow, falling in love with a fresh girl every time you
go into port, and falling out again when the ship sails. Sailors have
a bad reputation for that sort of thing. No woman cares to win a man
like that."
"Great Scott! I should think not! Do you mean to say that is the way my
conduct appears to her, Polly?"
"No, I don't mean just that; but wait, dear Ned, I am sure it is
better."
Fortified by this sage counsel, Lieutenant Worthington went away next
morning, without saying anything to Katy in words, though perhaps eyes
and tones may have been less discreet. He made them promise that some
one should send a letter every day about Amy; and as Mrs. Ashe
frequently devolved the writing of these bulletins upon Katy, and the
replies came in the shape of long letters, she found herself conducting
a pretty regular correspondence without quite intending it. Ned
Worthington wrote particularly nice letters. He had the knack, more
often found in women than men, of giving a picture with a few graphic
touches, and indicating what was droll or what was characteristic with
a single happy phrase. His letters grew to be one of Katy's pleasures;
and sometimes, as Mrs. Ashe watched the color deepen in her cheeks
while she read, her heart would bound hopefully within her. But she was
a wise woman in her way, and she wanted Katy for a sister very much; so
she never said a word or looked a look to startle or surprise her, but
left the thing to work itself out, which is the best course always in
love affairs.
Little Amy's improvement at Albano was something remarkable. Mrs. Swift
watched over her like a lynx. Her vigilance never relaxed. Amy was made
to eat and sleep and walk and rest with the regularity of a machine; and
this exact system, combined with the good air, worked like a charm. The
little one gained hour by hour. They could absolutely see her growing
fat, her mother declared. Fevers, when they do not kill, operate
sometimes as spring bonfires do in gardens, burning up all the refuse
and leaving the soil free for the growth of fairer things; and Amy
promised in time to be only the better and stronger for her hard
experience.
She had gained so much before the time came to start for Florence, that
they scarcely dreaded the journey; but it proved worse than their
expectations. They had not been able to secure a carriage to themselves,
and were obliged to share their compartment with two English ladies, and
three Roman Catholic priests, one old, the others young. The older
priest seemed to be a person of some consequence; for quite a number of
people came to see him off, and knelt for his blessing devoutly as the
train moved away. The younger ones Katy guessed to be seminary students
under his charge. Her chief amusement through the long dusty journey was
in watching the terrible time that one of these young men was having
with his own hat. It was a large three-cornered black affair, with sharp
angles and excessively stiff; and a perpetual struggle seemed to be
going on between it and its owner, who was evidently unhappy when it was
on his head and still more unhappy when it was anywhere else. If he
perched it on his knees it was sure to slide away from him and fall with
a thump on the floor, whereupon he would pick it up, blushing furiously
as he did so. Then he would lay it on the seat when the train stopped at
a station, and jump out with an air of relief; but he invariably forgot,
and sat down upon it when he returned, and sprang up with a look of
horror at the loud crackle it made; after which he would tuck it into
the baggage-rack overhead, from which it would presently descend,
generally into the lap of one of the staid English ladies, who would
hand it back to him with an air of deep offence, remarking to her
companion,--
"I never knew anything like it. Fancy! that makes four times that hat
has fallen on me. The young man is a feedgit! He's the most feegitty
creature I ever saw in my life."
The young _seminariat_ did not understand a word she said; but the
tone needed no interpreter, and set him to blushing more painfully than
ever. Altogether, the hat was never off his mind for a moment. Katy
could see that he was thinking about it, even when he was thumbing his
Breviary and making believe to read.
At last the train, steaming down the valley of the Arno, revealed fair
Florence sitting among olive-clad hills, with Giotto's beautiful
Bell-tower, and the great, many-colored, soft-hued Cathedral, and the
square tower of the old Palace, and the quaint bridges over the river,
looking exactly as they do in the photographs; and Katy would have felt
delighted, in spite of dust and fatigue, had not Amy looked so worn out
and exhausted. They were seriously troubled about her, and for the
moment could think of nothing else. Happily the fatigue did no permanent
harm, and a day or two of rest made her all right again. By good
fortune, a nice little apartment in the modern quarter of the city had
been vacated by its winter occupants the very day of their arrival, and
Mrs. Ashe secured it for a month, with all its conveniences and
advantages, including a maid named Maria, who had been servant to the
just departed tenants.
Maria was a very tall woman, at least six feet two, and had a splendid
contralto voice, which she occasionally exercised while busy over her
pots and pans. It was so remarkable to hear these grand arias and
recitatives proceeding from a kitchen some eight feet square, that Katy
was at great pains to satisfy her curiosity about it. By aid of the
dictionary and much persistent questioning, she made out that Maria in
her youth had received a partial training for the opera; but in the end
it was decided that she was too big and heavy for the stage, and the
poor "giantess," as Amy named her, had been forced to abandon her
career, and gradually had sunk to the position of a maid-of-all-work.
Katy suspected that heaviness of mind as well as of body must have stood
in her way; for Maria, though a good-natured giantess, was by no means
quick of intelligence.
"I do think that the manner in which people over here can make homes for
themselves at five minutes' notice is perfectly delightful," cried Katy,
at the end of their first day's housekeeping. "I wish we could do the
same in America. How cosy it looks here already!"
It was indeed cosy. Their new domain consisted of a parlor in a corner,
furnished in bright yellow brocade, with windows to south and west; a
nice little dining-room; three bedrooms, with dimity-curtained beds; a
square entrance hall, lighted at night by a tall slender brass lamp
whose double wicks were fed with olive oil; and the aforesaid tiny
kitchen, behind which was a sleeping cubby, quite too small to be a good
fit for the giantess. The rooms were full of conveniences,--easy-chairs,
sofas, plenty of bureaus and dressing-tables, and corner fireplaces like
Franklin stoves, in which odd little fires burned on cool days, made of
pine cones, cakes of pressed sawdust exactly like Boston brown bread cut
into slices, and a few sticks of wood thriftily adjusted, for fuel is
worth its weight in gold in Florence. Katy's was the smallest of the
bedrooms, but she liked it best of all for the reason that its one big
window opened on an iron balcony over which grew a Banksia rose-vine
with a stem as thick as her wrist. It was covered just now with masses
of tiny white blossoms, whose fragrance was inexpressibly delicious and
made every breath drawn in their neighborhood a delight. The sun
streamed in on all sides of the little apartment, which filled a
narrowing angle at the union of three streets; and from one window and
another, glimpses could be caught of the distant heights about the
city,--San Miniato in one direction, Bellosguardo in another, and for
the third the long olive-hung ascent of Fiesole, crowned by its gray
cathedral towers.
It was astonishing how easily everything fell into train about the
little establishment. Every morning at six the English baker left two
small sweet brown loaves and a dozen rolls at the door. Then followed
the dairyman with a supply of tiny leaf-shaped pats of freshly churned
butter, a big flask of milk, and two small bottles of thick cream, with
a twist of vine leaf in each by way of a cork. Next came a _contadino_
with a flask of red Chianti wine, a film of oil floating on top to keep
it sweet. People in Florence must drink wine, whether they like it or
not, because the lime-impregnated water is unsafe for use without some
admixture.
Dinner came from a _trattoria_, in a tin box, with a pan of coals inside
to keep it warm, which box was carried on a man's head. It was furnished
at a fixed price per day,--a soup, two dishes of meat, two vegetables,
and a sweet dish; and the supply was so generous as always to leave
something toward next day's luncheon. Salad, fruit, and fresh eggs Maria
bought for them in the old market. From the confectioners came loaves of
_pane santo_, a sort of light cake made with arrowroot instead of flour;
and sometimes, by way of treat, a square of _pan forte da Siena_,
compounded of honey, almonds, and chocolate,--a mixture as pernicious
as it is delicious, and which might take a medal anywhere for the sure
production of nightmares.
Amy soon learned to know the shops from which these delicacies came.
She had her favorites, too, among the strolling merchants who sold
oranges and those little sweet native figs, dried in the sun without
sugar, which are among the specialties of Florence. They, in their
turn, learned to know her and to watch for the appearance of her little
capped head and Mabel's blond wig at the window, lingering about till
she came, and advertising their wares with musical modulations, so
appealing that Amy was always running to Katy, who acted as
housekeeper, to beg her to please buy this or that, "because it is my
old man, and he wants me to so much."
"But, chicken, we have plenty of figs for to-day."
"No matter; get some more, please do. I'll eat them all; really, I
will."
And Amy was as good as her word. Her convalescent appetite was something
prodigious.
There was another branch of shopping in which they all took equal
delight. The beauty and the cheapness of the Florence flowers are a
continual surprise to a stranger. Every morning after breakfast an old
man came creaking up the two long flights of stairs which led to Mrs.
Ashe's apartment, tapped at the door, and as soon as it opened, inserted
a shabby elbow and a large flat basket full of flowers. Such flowers!
Great masses of scarlet and cream-colored tulips, and white and gold
narcissus, knots of roses of all shades, carnations, heavy-headed trails
of wistaria, wild hyacinths, violets, deep crimson and orange
ranunculus, _giglios_, or wild irises,--the Florence emblem, so deeply
purple as to be almost black,--anemones, spring-beauties, faintly tinted
wood-blooms tied in large loose nosegays, ivy, fruit
blossoms,--everything that can be thought of that is fair and sweet.
These enticing wares the old man would tip out on the table. Mrs. Ashe
and Katy would select what they wanted, and then the process of
bargaining would begin, without which no sale is complete in Italy. The
old man would name an enormous price, five times as much as he hoped to
get. Katy would offer a very small one, considerably less than she
expected to give. The old man would dance with dismay, wring his hands,
assure them that he should die of hunger and all his family with him if
he took less than the price named; he would then come down half a franc
in his demand. So it would go on for five minutes, ten, sometimes for a
quarter of an hour, the old man's price gradually descending, and Katy's
terms very slowly going up, a cent or two at a time. Next the giantess
would mingle with the fray. She would bounce out of her kitchen, berate
the flower-vender, snatch up his flowers, declare that they smelt badly,
fling them down again, pouring out all the while a voluble tirade of
reproaches and revilings, and looking so enormous in her excitement that
Katy wondered that the old man dared to answer her at all. Finally,
there would be a sudden lull. The old man would shrug his shoulders, and
remarking that he and his wife and his aged grandmother must go without
bread that day since it was the Signora's will, take the money offered
and depart, leaving such a mass of flowers behind him that Katy would
begin to think that they had paid an unfair price for them and to feel a
little rueful, till she observed that the old man was absolutely dancing
downstairs with rapture over the good bargain he had made, and that
Maria was black with indignation over the extravagance of her ladies!
"The Americani are a nation of spend-thrifts," she would mutter to
herself, as she quickened the charcoal in her droll little range by
fanning it with a palm-leaf fan; "they squander money like water. Well,
all the better for us Italians!" with a shrug of her shoulders.
"But, Maria, it was only sixteen cents that we paid, and look at those
flowers! There are at least half a bushel of them."
"Sixteen cents for garbage like that! The Signorina would better let me
make her bargains for her. _Già! Già!_ No Italian lady would have paid
more than eleven sous for such useless _roba_. It is evident that the
Signorina's countrymen eat gold when at home, they think so little of
casting it away!"
Altogether, what with the comfort and quiet of this little home, the
numberless delightful things that there were to do and to see, and
Viessieux's great library, from which they could draw books at will
to make the doing and seeing more intelligible, the month at
Florence passed only too quickly, and was one of the times to which
they afterward looked back with most pleasure. Amy grew steadily
stronger, and the freedom from anxiety about her after their long
strain of apprehension was restful and healing beyond expression to
both mind and body.
Their very last excursion of all, and one of the pleasantest, was to the
old amphitheatre at Fiesole; and it was while they sat there in the soft
glow of the late afternoon, tying into bunches the violets which they
had gathered from under walls whose foundations antedate Rome itself,
that a cheery call sounded from above, and an unexpected surprise
descended upon them in the shape of Lieutenant Worthington, who having
secured another fifteen days' furlough, had come to take his sister on
to Venice.
"I didn't write you that I had applied for leave," he explained,
"because there seemed so little chance of my getting off again so soon;
but as luck had it, Carruthers, whose turn it was, sprained his ankle
and was laid up, and the Commodore let us exchange. I made all the
capital I could out of Amy's fever; but upon my word, I felt like a
humbug when I came upon her and Mrs. Swift in the Cascine just now, as I
was hunting for you. How she has picked up! I should never have known
her for the same child."
"Yes, she seems perfectly well again, and as strong as before she had
the fever, though that dear old Goody Swift is just as careful of her as
ever. She would not let us bring her here this afternoon, for fear we
should stay out till the dew fell. Ned, it is perfectly delightful that
you were able to come. It makes going to Venice seem quite a different
thing, doesn't it, Katy?"
"I don't want it to seem quite different, because going to Venice was
always one of my dreams," replied Katy, with a little laugh.
"I hope at least it doesn't make it seem less pleasant," said Mr.
Worthington, as his sister stopped to pick a violet.
"No, indeed, I am glad," said Katy; "we shall all be seeing it for
the first time, too, shall we not? I think you said you had never
been there." She spoke simply and frankly, but she was conscious of
an odd shyness.
"I simply couldn't stand it any longer," Ned Worthington confided to his
sister when they were alone. "My head is so full of her that I can't
attend to my work, and it came to me all of a sudden that this might be
my last chance. You'll be getting north before long, you know, to
Switzerland and so on, where I cannot follow you. So I made a clean
breast of it to the Commodore; and the good old fellow, who has a soft
spot in his heart for a love-story, behaved like a brick, and made it
all straight for me to come away."
Mrs. Ashe did not join in these commendations of the Commodore; her
attention was fixed on another part of her brother's discourse.
"Then you won't be able to come to me again? I sha'n't see you again
after this!" she exclaimed. "Dear me! I never realized that before. What
shall I do without you?"
"You will have Miss Carr. She is a host in herself," suggested Ned
Worthington. His sister shook her head.
"Katy is a jewel," she remarked presently; "but somehow one wants a man
to call upon. I shall feel lost without you, Ned."
The month's housekeeping wound up that night with a "thick tea" in honor
of Lieutenant Worthington's arrival, which taxed all the resources of
the little establishment. Maria was sent out hastily to buy _pan forte
da Siena_ and _vino d'Asti_, and fresh eggs for an omelette, and
chickens' breasts smothered in cream from the restaurant, and artichokes
for a salad, and flowers to garnish all; and the guest ate and praised
and admired; and Amy and Mabel sat on his knee and explained everything
to him, and they were all very happy together. Their merriment was so
infectious that it extended to the poor giantess, who had been very
pensive all day at the prospect of losing her good place, and who now
raised her voice in the grand aria from "Orfeo," and made the kitchen
ring with the passionate demand "Che farò senza Eurydice?" The splendid
notes, full of fire and lamentation, rang out across the saucepans as
effectively as if they had been footlights; and Katy, rising softly,
opened the kitchen door a little way that they might not lose a sound.
The next day brought them to Venice. It was a "moment," indeed, as Katy
seated herself for the first time in a gondola, and looked from beneath
its black hood at the palace walls on the Grand Canal, past which they
were gliding. Some were creamy white and black, some orange-tawny,
others of a dull delicious ruddy color, half pink, half red; but all, in
build and ornament, were unlike palaces elsewhere. High on the prow
before her stood the gondolier, his form defined in dark outline against
the sky, as he swayed and bent to his long oar, raising his head now and
again to give a wild musical cry, as warning to other approaching
gondolas. It was all like a dream. Ned Worthington sat beside her,
looking more at the changes in her expressive face than at the palaces.
Venice was as new to him as to Katy; but she was a new feature in his
life also, and even more interesting than Venice. They seemed to float
on pleasures for the next ten days. Their arrival had been happily timed
to coincide with a great popular festival which for nearly a week kept
Venice in a state of continual brilliant gala. All the days were spent
on the water, only landing now and then to look at some famous building
or picture, or to eat ices in the Piazza with the lovely façade of St.
Mark's before them. Dining or sleeping seemed a sheer waste of time! The
evenings were spent on the water too; for every night, immediately after
sunset, a beautiful drifting pageant started from the front of the
Doge's Palace to make the tour of the Grand Canal, and our friends
always took a part in it. In its centre went a barge hung with
embroideries and filled with orange trees and musicians. This was
surrounded by a great convoy of skiffs and gondolas bearing colored
lanterns and pennons and gay awnings, and managed by gondoliers in
picturesque uniforms. All these floated and shifted and swept on
together with a sort of rhythmic undulation as if keeping time to the
music, while across their path dazzling showers and arches of colored
fire poured from the palace fronts and the hotels. Every movement of the
fairy flotilla was repeated in the illuminated water, every torch-tip
and scarlet lantern and flake of green or rosy fire; above all the
bright full moon looked down as if surprised. It was magically beautiful
in effect. Katy felt as if her previous sober ideas about life and
things had melted away. For the moment the world was turned topsy-turvy.
There was nothing hard or real or sordid left in it; it was just a fairy
tale, and she was in the middle of it as she had longed to be in her
childhood. She was the Princess, encircled by delights, as when she and
Clover and Elsie played in "Paradise,"--only, this was better; and, dear
me! who was this Prince who seemed to belong to the story and to grow
more important to it every day?
Fairy tales must come to ending. Katy's last chapter closed with a
sudden turn-over of the leaf when, toward the end of this happy
fortnight, Mrs. Ashe came into her room with the face of one who has
unpleasant news to communicate.
"Katy," she began, "should you be _awfully_ disappointed, should
you consider me a perfect wretch, if I went home now instead of in
the autumn?"
Katy was too much astonished to reply.
"I am grown such a coward, I am so knocked up and weakened by what I
suffered in Rome, that I find I cannot face the idea of going on to
Germany and Switzerland alone, without Ned to take care of me. You are a
perfect angel, dear, and I know that you would do all you could to make
it easy for me, but I am such a fool that I do not dare. I think my
nerves must have given way," she continued half tearfully; "but the very
idea of shifting for myself for five months longer makes me so miserably
homesick that I cannot endure it. I dare say I shall repent afterward,
and I tell myself now how silly it is; but it's no use,--I shall never
know another easy moment till I have Amy safe again in America and under
your father's care."
"I find," she continued after another little pause, "that we can go down
with Ned to Genoa and take a steamer there which will carry us straight
to New York without any stops. I hate to disappoint you dreadfully,
Katy, but I have almost decided to do it. Shall you mind very much? Can
you ever forgive me?" She was fairly crying now.
Katy had to swallow hard before she could answer, the sense of
disappointment was so sharp; and with all her efforts there was almost a
sob in her voice as she said,--
"Why yes, indeed, dear Polly, there is nothing to forgive. You are
perfectly right to go home if you feel so." Then with another swallow
she added: "You have given me the loveliest six months' treat that ever
was, and I should be a greedy girl indeed if I found fault because it is
cut off a little sooner than we expected."
"You are so dear and good not to be vexed," said her friend, embracing
her. "It makes me feel doubly sorry about disappointing you. Indeed I
wouldn't if I could help it, but I simply can't. I _must_ go home.
Perhaps we'll come back some day when Amy is grown up, or safely married
to somebody who will take good care of her!"
This distant prospect was but a poor consolation for the immediate
disappointment. The more Katy thought about it the sorrier did she feel.
It was not only losing the chance--very likely the only one she would
ever have--of seeing Switzerland and Germany; it was all sorts of other
little things besides. They must go home in a strange ship with a
captain they did not know, instead of in the "Spartacus," as they had
planned; and they should land in New York, where no one would be waiting
for them, and not have the fun of sailing into Boston Bay and seeing
Rose on the wharf, where she had promised to be. Furthermore, they must
pass the hot summer in Burnet instead of in the cool Alpine valleys; and
Polly's house was let till October. She and Amy would have to shift for
themselves elsewhere. Perhaps they would not be in Burnet at all. Oh
dear, what a pity it was! what a dreadful pity!
Then, the first shock of surprise and discomfiture over, other ideas
asserted themselves; and as she realized that in three weeks more, or
four at the longest, she was to see papa and Clover and all her dear
people at home, she began to feel so very glad that she could hardly
wait for the time to come. After all, there was nothing in Europe quite
so good as that.
"No, I'm not sorry," she told herself; "I am glad. Poor Polly! it's no
wonder she feels nervous after all she has gone through. I hope I wasn't
cross to her! And it will be _very_ nice to have Lieutenant Worthington
to take care of us as far as Genoa."
The next three days were full of work. There was no more floating in
gondolas, except in the way of business. All the shopping which they had
put off must be done, and the trunks packed for the voyage. Every one
recollected last errands and commissions; there was continual coming and
going and confusion, and Amy, wild with excitement, popping up every
other moment in the midst of it all, to demand of everybody if they were
not glad that they were going back to America.
Katy had never yet bought her gift from old Mrs. Redding. She had
waited, thinking continually that she should see something more tempting
still in the next place they went to; but now, with the sense that there
were to be no more "next places," she resolved to wait no longer, and
with a hundred francs in her pocket, set forth to choose something from
among the many tempting things for sale in the Piazza. A bracelet of old
Roman coins had caught her fancy one day in a bric-à-brac shop, and she
walked straight toward it, only pausing by the way to buy a pale blue
iridescent pitcher at Salviate's for Cecy Slack, and see it carefully
rolled in seaweed and soft paper.
The price of the bracelet was a little more than she expected, and quite
a long process of bargaining was necessary to reduce it to the sum she
had to spend. She had just succeeded and was counting out the money when
Mrs. Ashe and her brother appeared, having spied her from the opposite
side of the Piazza, where they were choosing last photographs at Naga's.
Katy showed her purchase and explained that it was a present; "for of
course I should never walk out in cold blood and buy a bracelet for
myself," she said with a laugh.
"This is a fascinating little shop," said Mrs. Ashe. "I wonder
what is the price of that queer old chatelaine with the bottles
hanging from it."
The price was high; but Mrs. Ashe was now tolerably conversant with
shopping Italian, which consists chiefly of a few words repeated many
times over, and it lowered rapidly under the influence of her _troppo's_
and _è molto caro's_, accompanied with telling little shrugs and looks
of surprise. In the end she bought it for less than two thirds of what
had been originally asked for it. As she put the parcel in her pocket,
her brother said,--
"If you have done your shopping now, Polly, can't you come out for a
last row?"
"Katy may, but I can't," replied Mrs. Ashe. "The man promised to bring
me gloves at six o'clock, and I must be there to pay for them. Take
her down to the Lido, Ned. It's an exquisite evening for the water,
and the sunset promises to be delicious. You can take the time, can't
you, Katy?"
Katy could.
Mrs. Ashe turned to leave them, but suddenly stopped short.
"Katy, look! Isn't that a picture!"
The "picture" was Amy, who had come to the Piazza with Mrs. Swift, to
feed the doves of St. Mark's, which was one of her favorite amusements.
These pretty birds are the pets of all Venice, and so accustomed to
being fondled and made much of by strangers, that they are perfectly
tame. Amy, when her mother caught sight of her, was sitting on the
marble pavement, with one on her shoulder, two perched on the edge of
her lap, which was full of crumbs, and a flight of others circling round
her head. She was looking up and calling them in soft tones. The
sunlight caught the little downy curls on her head and made them
glitter. The flying doves lit on the pavement, and crowded round her,
their pearl and gray and rose-tinted and white feathers, their scarlet
feet and gold-ringed eyes, making a shifting confusion of colors, as
they hopped and fluttered and cooed about the little maid, unstartled
even by her clear laughter. Close by stood Nurse Swift, observant and
grimly pleased.
The mother looked on with happy tears in her eyes. "Oh, Katy, think
what she was a few weeks ago and look at her now! Can I ever be
thankful enough?"
She squeezed Katy's hand convulsively and walked away, turning her head
now and then for another glance at Amy and the doves; while Ned and Katy
silently crossed to the landing and got into a gondola. It was the
perfection of a Venice evening, with silver waves lapsing and lulling
under a rose and opal sky; and the sense that it was their last row on
those enchanted waters made every moment seem doubly precious.
I cannot tell you exactly what it was that Ned Worthington said to Katy
during that row, or why it took so long to say it that they did not get
in till after the sun was set, and the stars had come out to peep at
their bright, glinting faces, reflected in the Grand Canal. In fact, no
one can tell; for no one overheard, except Giacomo, the brown
yellow-jacketed gondolier, and as he did not understand a word of
English he could not repeat the conversation. Venetian boatmen, however,
know pretty well what it means when a gentleman and lady, both young,
find so much to say in low tones to each other under the gondola hood,
and are so long about giving the order to return; and Giacomo, deeply
sympathetic, rowed as softly and made himself as imperceptible as he
could,--a display of tact which merited the big silver piece with which
Lieutenant Worthington "crossed his palm" on landing.
Mrs. Ashe had begun to look for them long before they appeared, but I
think she was neither surprised nor sorry that they were so late. Katy
kissed her hastily and went away at once,--"to pack," she said,--and
Ned was equally undemonstrative; but they looked so happy, both of them,
that "Polly dear" was quite satisfied and asked no questions.
Five days later the parting came, when the "Florio" steamer put into the
port of Genoa for passengers. It was not an easy good-by to say. Mrs.
Ashe and Amy both cried, and Mabel was said to be in deep affliction
also. But there were alleviations. The squadron was coming home in the
autumn, and the officers would have leave to see their friends, and of
course Lieutenant Worthington must come to Burnet--to visit his sister.
Five months would soon go, he declared; but for all the cheerful
assurance, his face was rueful enough as he held Katy's hand in a long
tight clasp while the little boat waited to take him ashore.
After that it was just a waiting to be got through with till they
sighted Sandy Hook and the Neversinks,--a waiting varied with peeps at
Marseilles and Gibraltar and the sight of a whale or two and one distant
iceberg. The weather was fair all the way, and the ocean smooth. Amy was
never weary of lamenting her own stupidity in not having taken Maria
Matilda out of confinement before they left Venice.
"That child has hardly been out of the trunk since we started," she
said. "She hasn't seen anything except a little bit of Nice. I shall
really be ashamed when the other children ask her about it. I think I
shall play that she was left at boarding-school and didn't come to
Europe at all! Don't you think that would be the best way, mamma?"
"You might play that she was left in the States-prison for having done
something naughty," suggested Katy; but Amy scouted this idea.
"She never does naughty things," she said, "because she never does
anything at all. She's just stupid, poor child! It's not her fault."
The thirty-six hours between New York and Burnet seemed longer than all
the rest of the journey put together, Katy thought. But they ended at
last, as the "Lake Queen" swung to her moorings at the familiar wharf,
where Dr. Carr stood surrounded with all his boys and girls just as they
had stood the previous October, only that now there were no clouds on
anybody's face, and Johnnie was skipping up and down for joy instead of
grief. It was a long moment while the plank was being lowered from the
gangway; but the moment it was in place, Katy darted across, first
ashore of all the passengers, and was in her father's arms.
Mrs. Ashe and Amy spent two or three days with them, while looking up
temporary quarters elsewhere; and so long as they stayed all seemed a
happy confusion of talking and embracing and exclaiming, and
distributing of gifts. After they went away things fell into their
customary train, and a certain flatness became apparent. Everything had
happened that could happen. The long-talked-of European journey was
over. Here was Katy at home again, months sooner than they expected; yet
she looked remarkably cheerful and content! Clover could not understand
it; she was likewise puzzled to account for one or two private
conversations between Katy and papa in which she had not been invited to
take part, and the occasional arrival of a letter from "foreign parts"
about whose contents nothing was said.
"It seems a dreadful pity that you had to come so soon," she said one
day when they were alone in their bedroom. "It's delightful to have you,
of course; but we had braced ourselves to do without you till October,
and there are such lots of delightful things that you could have been
doing and seeing at this moment."
"Oh, yes, indeed," replied Katy, but not at all as if she were
particularly disappointed.
"Katy Carr, I don't understand you," persisted Clover. "Why don't you
feel worse about it? Here you have lost five months of the most
splendid time you ever had, and you don't seem to mind it a bit! Why,
if I were in your place my heart would be perfectly broken. And you
needn't have come, either; that's the worst of it. It was just a whim
of Polly's. Papa says Amy might have stayed as well as not. Why aren't
you sorrier, Katy?"
"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps because I had so much as it was,--enough to
last all my life, I think, though I _should_ like to go again. You can't
imagine what beautiful pictures are put away in my memory."
"I don't see that you had so awfully much," said the aggravated Clover;
"you were there only a little more than six months,--for I don't count
the sea,--and ever so much of that time was taken up with nursing Amy.
You can't have any pleasant pictures of _that_ part of it."
"Yes, I have, some."
"Well, I should really like to know what. There you were in a dark room,
frightened to death and tired to death, with only Mrs. Ashe and the old
nurse to keep you company--Oh, yes, that brother was there part of the
time; I forgot him--"
Clover stopped short in sudden amazement. Katy was standing with her
back toward her, smoothing her hair, but her face was reflected in the
glass. At Clover's words a sudden deep flush had mounted in Katy's
cheeks. Deeper and deeper it burned as she became conscious of Clover's
astonished gaze, till even the back of her neck was pink. Then, as if
she could not bear it any longer, she put the brush down, turned, and
fled out of the room; while Clover, looking after her, exclaimed in a
tone of sudden comical dismay,--
"What does it mean? Oh, dear me! is that what Katy is going to do next?"