A Startling Disclosure.
'_Tis even thus:
In that I live I love; because I love
I live: Whate'er is fountain to the one
Is fountain to the other._
--TENNYSON.
[Illustration: CLOISTER, MUSEUM OF SAN MARCO, FLORENCE.]
Many days of great distress followed. Everything else was forgotten in
the tense waiting. There were moments of half consciousness when
Malcom's only words were "All right, mother." It seemed as if even in
that second of plunging to save the child he yet thought of his mother,
and realized how she would feel his danger. But happily, as time wore
on, the jarred brain recovered from the severe shock it had received,
and gradually smiles took the place of anxious, questioning looks, and
merry voices were again heard, and the busy household life was resumed.
Although Malcom could not accompany them, the proposed visit to the old
monastery, San Marco, for study of Fra Angelico's paintings was made by
the others.
As they wandered through the long corridors, chapel, refectory, and the
many little cells, now vacant, from the walls of which look forth soft,
fair faces and still fresh, sweet colors laid there almost five hundred
years ago by the hand of the painter-monk, they talked of his devotion,
of his unselfish life and work; of his rejection of payment for his
painting, doing it unto God and not unto men. They talked of his
beginning all his work with prayer for inspiration, and how, in full
faith that his prayer had been answered, he absolutely refused to alter
a touch his brush had made; and of the old tradition that he never
painted Christ or the Virgin Mary save on his knees, nor a crucifixion
save through blinding tears; and their voices grew very quiet, and they
looked upon each fresco almost with reverence.
"Fra Angelico stood apart from the growth of art that was taking place
about him," said Mr. Sumner. "He neither affected it nor was affected by
it. We should call him to-day an 'ecstatic painter'--one who paints
visions; the Italians then called him 'Il Beato,' the blessed. There are
many other works by him,--although a great part, between forty and
fifty, are here. You remember the _Madonna and Child_ you saw in the
Uffizi Gallery the other day, on whose wide gold frame are painted those
angels with musical instruments that are reproduced so widely and sold
everywhere. You recognized them at once, I saw. Then, a few pictures
have been carried away and are in foreign art galleries, as I told you
the other day. During the last years of his life the Pope sent for him
to come to Rome, and there he painted frescoes on the walls of some
rooms in the Vatican Palace. From that city he went to Orvieto, a little
old city perched on the top of a hill on the way from Florence to Rome,
in whose cathedral he painted a noble _Christ_, with prophets, saints,
and angels. He died in Rome."
"And was he not buried here?" asked Barbara; "here in this lovely inner
court, where are the graves of so many monks?"
"No. He was buried in Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, a church close by the
Pantheon in Rome, and the Pope himself wrote his epitaph. But it is
indeed a great pity that he could not lie here, in the very midst of so
many of his works, and where he lived so long."
"Did Fra Angelico live before or after the prophet Savonarola, uncle?"
asked Margery. "We came here a little time ago with mother to visit the
latter's cell, and the church, in connection with our reading of
'Romola.'"
"He lived before Savonarola, about a hundred years. So that when
Savonarola used to walk about through these rooms and corridors, he saw
the same pictures we are now looking at."
* * * * *
"I say, uncle, don't you think I am having the best part of this, after
all?" brightly asked Malcom, the following day, as Mr. Sumner entered
the wide sunny room where he was lying on the sofa, propped up by
cushions, while Barbara, Bettina, and Margery were clustered about him
with their hands full of photographs of Fra Angelico's paintings, and
all trying to talk at once. "The girls have told me everything; and I am
almost sure I shall never mistake a Fra Angelico picture. I know just
what expression he put into his faces, just how quiet and
as-if-they-never-could-be-used his hands are, and how straight the folds
of his draperies hang, even though the people who wear them are dancing.
I know what funny little clouds, like bundles of cigars, his Madonnas
sit upon up in the heavens.
"I am not quite sure, uncle dear, but I like your instructions best when
second-hand," he laughingly added. "Betty has made me fairly love the
old fellow by her stories of his unearthly goodness. Was it not fine to
refuse money for his work, and to decline to be made archbishop when the
Pope asked him; and to recommend a brother monk for the office? I think
he ought to be called _Saint_ Angelico."
[Illustration: FRA ANGELICO. UFFUZI GALLERY, FLORENCE.
GROUP OF ANGELS. FROM CORONATION OF THE VIRGIN.]
"Some people have called him the 'St. John of Art,'" Mr. Sumner
replied, with a bright smile at Malcom's enthusiasm. "I am not sure but
yours is the better name, however."
About this time people who frequented the Cascine Gardens and other
popular drives in and about Florence began to notice with interest an
elegant equipage containing a tall, slender, pale young man, two
beautiful, brown-eyed girls, and oftentimes either a gray-haired woman
in black or a sunny-haired young girl. It had been purchased by Howard,
and daily he wished Barbara and Bettina to drive with him. Indeed, it
now seemed as if the young man's thoughts were beginning to centre
wholly in this household; and suddenly warned by a few words spoken by
Malcom, Mrs. Douglas became painfully conscious that a more than mere
friendly interest might prompt such constant and lavish attentions. With
newly opened eyes, she saw that while Howard generously gave to them all
of such things as he could in return for their hospitality, yet there
was a something different in his manner toward Barbara and Bettina.
Their room was always bright and fragrant with the most costly flowers,
and not a wish did they express but Howard was eager to gratify it.
She was troubled; and since the air of Florence was beginning to take
on the chill of winter--to become too cold for such an invalid as
Howard--she ventured one day, when they happened to be alone together,
to ask him if he would soon go farther south for the winter.
"Malcom told me you had stopped for only a time here on your way to the
south of Italy," she added.
The color rushed in a torrent over Howard's pale face, and he did not
speak for a minute; then, turning abruptly to her, said:--
"I cannot go away from Florence, Mrs. Douglas. Do you not see, do you
not know, how I have loved Barbara ever since I first saw her? You must
have seen it, for I have not been able sometimes to conceal my feelings.
They have taken complete possession of me. I think only of her day and
night. I have often thought I ought to tell you of it. Now, I am glad I
have. Do you not think she will sometime love me? She _must_. I could
not live without it." And his voice, which had trembled with excitement,
suddenly faltered and broke.
Poor Mrs. Douglas strove for words.
"You must not let her know this," she finally said. "She is only a
little girl whom her father and mother have entrusted to me. What would
they say if they knew how blind I have been! Why, you have known her
but a few weeks! You must be mistaken. It is a fancy. It will pass away.
Conquer yourself. Go away. Oh, do go away, Howard, for a time at least!"
"I cannot, I will not. Mrs. Douglas, I have never longed for a thing in
my life but it has come to me. I long for Barbara's love more than I
ever wished for any other thing in the world. She must give it to me.
Oh, were I only well and strong, I know I could compel it."
"Listen to me, Howard. I know that Barbara has never had one thought of
this. Her mind is completely occupied with her study, the pleasures and
the novelties that each day is bringing her. She does not conceal
anything. She has no reason to do so. She and Bettina are no silly girls
who think of a lover in every young man they meet. They are as sweet and
fresh and free from all sentimentalities as when they were children.
Barbara would be frightened could she hear you talk,--should she for a
moment suspect how you feel. You must conceal it; for your own sake, you
must."
"I will not show what I feel any more than I already have. I will not
speak to Barbara yet of my love. Only let me stay here, where I can see
her every day. Do not send me away. Mrs. Douglas, you do not know how
lonely my life has been--without brother or sister--without father or
mother. It has been like a bit of Paradise to go in and out of your
household; and to think--to hope that perhaps Barbara would sometime
love me and be with me always. My love has become a passion, stronger
than life itself. Look at me! Do you not believe my words, Mrs.
Douglas?"
As Mrs. Douglas lifted her eyes and looked full into the delicate,
almost transparent face so swept by emotion, and met the deathless fire
of Howard's brilliant eyes, she felt as never before the frailty of his
physical life, and wondered at the mighty force of his passionate will.
The conviction came that she was grappling with no slight feeling, but
with that which really might mean life or death to him.
An unfathomable sympathy filled her heart.
"I can talk no more," she said, gently taking in her own the young man's
hand. "I will accept your promise. Come and go as you have, dear Howard.
But always remember that very much depends on your keeping from Barbara
all knowledge of your love."
As soon as it was possible, Mrs. Douglas, as was her wont when in any
anxiety, sought a conference with her brother. After telling him all,
there was complete silence for a moment. Then Mr. Sumner said:--
"And Barbara,--how do you think Barbara feels? For she is not a child
any longer. How old were you, my sister, when you were married? Only
nineteen--and you told me yesterday that we must celebrate Barbara's and
Bettina's eighteenth birthday before very long, and Barbara is older
than her years--more womanly than most girls of her age."
"She has never had a thought of this, I am confident. Of course, she may
have known, have felt, Howard's admiration of her; but I doubt if the
child has ever in her life had the slightest idea of the possible
existence of any such feeling as he is cherishing. It is not ordinary,
Robert, it is overwhelming; you know we have seen his self-will shown in
many ways. The force of his emotion and will now is simply tremendous.
Few girls could withstand it if fully exposed to its influence. There is
all the more danger because the element of pity must enter in, because
he is so evidently frail and lonely. I feel that I have been greatly in
fault. I ought to have foreseen what might happen from admitting so
freely into our home a young man of Howard's age and circumstances. I
have never thought of Barbara and Betty otherwise than of my own
Margery, and I know nothing in the world has ever been farther from good
Dr. and Mrs. Burnett's minds than the possible involvement of one of
their girls in a love-affair.
"And now I must write them something of this," she added, with a sigh.
"It would not be right to keep secret even the beginnings of what might
prove to be of infinite importance. Of course Howard's family,
character, position, are above question; but his health, his exacting
nature; his lack of so many qualities Dr. Burnett considers essential;
the undesirability of such an entanglement! Oh! it would be only the
beginning of sorrows should Barbara grow to care for him."
Poor Mrs. Douglas's face showed the sudden weight of care that had been
launched upon her, as she anxiously asked:--
"What do you advise, Robert?"
"Nothing; only to go on just as we have been doing. Fill the days as
full as we can, and trust that all will be right. It is best never to
try to manage affairs, I believe."
And Barbara--how did Barbara feel? She could never have analyzed and put
into definite thought the inner life she was leading during these days.
Indeed, it is doubtful whether she had the slightest conception of the
change that was gradually working within her. But rapidly she was
putting away childish things, and "woman's lot" was coming fast upon
her. Mrs. Douglas would have been astounded, indeed, could she, with her
eyes of experience and wisdom, have looked into the heart of Barbara,
whom she still called "child." That which the young girl could not
understand would have been a revelation to her who had been a loving
wife. With what an overwhelming pity would she have hastened to restore
her to her parents before this hopeless love should grow any stronger,
and she become aware of its existence!
Dr. Burnett's admiration for Robert Sumner was unbounded. He had known
him from boyhood, and had always been his confidant, so far as an older
man can be with a younger. Many times he had talked to his children
about him--about his earnestness and sincerity of purpose--his high
aims, and his willingness to spare no pains to realize them.
Barbara, who, perhaps, had been more than any other of the children her
father's comrade, had listened to these tales and praises until Robert
Sumner had become her ideal of all that was noble. No one had dreamed of
such a thing, but so it was; and through all the excitement of
preparation and through the journey to Italy, one of her chief
anticipations had been to see this young man of whom her father had
talked so much, and, herself, to learn to know him. The story of his
marriage disappointment, which had led to his life abroad, and a notable
adventure in Egypt, in which he had saved a woman's life, had added just
that romance to his reputation as an artist and a writer on art that had
seized hold of the young girl's imagination.
Now, as she was daily with him in the home, saw his affectionate care
for his sister, Malcom, and Margery, and felt his good comradeship with
them all, while in every way he was teaching them and inspiring them to
do better things than they had yet accomplished, a passionate desire had
risen to make herself worthy of his approbation. She wished him to think
of her as more than a mere girl--the companion of none but the very
young. She wished to be his companion, and all that was ardent and
enthusiastic in her nature was beginning to rush, like a torrent that
suddenly finds an outlet, into the channels indicated by him.
She did not realize this. But the absorbing study she was giving to the
old pictures, the intensity of which was surprising to Bettina, was an
indication of it. Her quick endeavor to follow any line of thought
suggested by Mr. Sumner--and her restlessness when she saw the long
conversations he and Miss Sherman would so often hold, were others. It
seemed to her lately as if Miss Sherman were always claiming his time
and attention--even their visit to Santa Maria del Carmine to study the
frescoes by Masaccio, who was the next artist they were to learn about,
had been postponed because she wished Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Sumner to go
somewhere with her. Barbara did not like it very well.
But to Howard she gave little thought when she was away from him. He was
kind, his flowers were sweet, but they were all over the house,--given
to others as well as to herself. It was very good of him to take herself
and Betty in his fine new carriage so often; but, perhaps,--if he did
not so continually ask them,--perhaps,--they would oftener drive with
Mr. Sumner and Malcom; and she knew Betty would like that better, as
well as she herself.
She was often annoyed because he evidently "admired" her so much, as
Betty called it, and did wish he would not look at her as he sometimes
did; and she felt very sensitively the signs of irritation that were so
apparent in him when anything prevented them from being with him as he
wished. But she was very sorry for his loneliness; for his exile from
home on account of ill-health; for the weakness that he often felt and
for which no pleasures purchased by money could compensate. She was
grateful for his kindness, and would not wound him for the world; so she
frankly and graciously accepted all he gave, and, in return, tried to
bring all the happiness she could into his days.