Robert Sumner Fights a Battle.
_So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When duty whispers low, Thou must,
The youth replies, I can._
--EMERSON.
[Illustration: SAN FRANCESCO, ASSISI.]
Barbara and Bettina had not realized how near they were to Assisi until
talk of driving thither began. In their study of art St. Francis had
figured quite largely, because the scenes in his life were such favorite
ones for representation by the old masters. They had read all about him,
and so were thoroughly prepared for the proposed trip to the home of
this most important old saint.
Bettina was in a fever of excitement. Drive to Assisi! Drive to the home
of St. Francis! Go through the streets in which he played when a little
boy; walked and rode when a prodigal young man, clad in the richest,
most extravagant attire he could procure; from which he went out in his
martial array; out of which he was taken prisoner when Perugia conquered
Assisi! Drive, perhaps, along that very street in which, after his
conversion, he met the beggar with whom he changed clothes, giving him
the rich garments, and himself putting on the tatters! Or along which
his disappointed father followed him in the fury of persecution, after
he had given his life to poverty and deeds of love! Look upon Mount
Subasio, whither he so loved to retire for prayer! See those very scenes
in the midst of which he and his brethren lived six or seven hundred
years ago! Could it be possible that she and Barbara were about to do
this? It was almost as exciting as when the first thought of coming to
Italy had entered their minds.
Finally the morning came; and through the winding valley they drove
fifteen miles, until they arrived at the church Santa Maria degli
Angeli, situated on a plain at the foot of the hill on which sits
Assisi. This immense church contains the Portiuncula,--that little
chapel so dear to St. Francis, in which he founded the Franciscan order
of monks, and in which he died,--and is a veritable Mecca, to which
pilgrimages are made from all parts of the Roman Catholic world.
They spent some time here in visiting the different spots of interest
within the church; in going out to see the tiny garden, where grow the
thornless rose-bushes with blood-stained leaves, according to the old
tradition, at which they were permitted to look through glass; and in
listening to the rambling talk of a transparent-faced old monk in brown,
Franciscan garb, who waxed more and more daring as he watched the
interested faces of the party, until his tales of the patron saint grew
so impossible that even poor Bettina's faith was sorely tried, and
Malcom stole furtive glances at her to see how she bore it all.
At length they were free, and went on up the hill to the city. They
stopped at a little hotel whose balcony commanded a magnificent view of
the country, lingered a while, lunched, and then went out to visit the
great double church of San Francesco, beneath which the saint is buried,
and where are notable frescoes by Cimabue and Giotto.
When all was over, and they were taking their carriages for Perugia, Mr.
Sumner said to his sister: "If you do not mind, I will drive in the
other carriage," and so took his seat with Barbara, Bettina, and Malcom.
All felt a little tired and were silent for a time, each busy with his
own thoughts. Finally Barbara asked, in a thoughtful tone:--
"Did you notice the names on the leaves of the travellers' book at the
hotel? I glanced over the opposite page as I wrote mine, and among the
addresses were Australia, Germany, Norway, England, and America."
"I noticed it," answered Mr. Sumner, "and of course, like you, could not
help asking myself the question, 'Why do travellers from all parts of
the Christian world come to this small city, which is so utterly
unimportant as the world reckons importance?' Simply because a good man
was once born, lived, and died here. Surely one renews one's faith in
God and humanity as one thinks of this fact."
"May not the paintings alone draw some visitors?" asked Malcom, after
thinking for a few moments of his uncle's words.
"But even then we must allow that the paintings would not have been here
if it were not for the saint; so it really amounts to about the same
thing, doesn't it?" answered his uncle, smiling.
"What a pity it is," said Bettina, thinking of the garrulous old monk
who so evidently desired to earn his _lira_, "that people will add so
much that is imaginary when there is enough that is true. It is a shame
to so exaggerate stories of St. Francis's life as to make them seem
almost ridiculous."
When their drive was nearly over and they were watching the ever nearing
Perugia, Malcom turned toward Mr. Sumner with a serious look and
said:--
"Uncle Robert, these Italian cities are wonderfully interesting, and I
think I have never enjoyed anything in my life so much as the fortnight
since we left Florence and, of course, the time we were there; and yet I
would not for worlds live here among them."
Then, as Mr. Sumner looked inquiringly at him, he continued, with an
excited flush: "What is there in them that a man could get hold of to
help, anyway? It seems to me as if their lives have been all lived, as
if they now are dead; and how can any new life be put into them? Look at
these villages we have been passing through! What power can make the
people wish for anything better than they have, can wake them up to make
more of the children than the parents are? In the present condition of
people and government, how can any man, for instance, such as you are,
really accomplish anything? How would one go about it? Now at home, you
know, if one is only man enough, he can have so much influence to make
things better; can give children better schools; can give people books;
can help lift the low-down into a higher place. He can help in making
all sorts of reforms, can be a _leader_ in such things. He can go into
politics and try to make them cleaner."
Malcom had spoken out of his heart, and, in sympathy with him, Bettina
squeezed Barbara's hand under the cover.
Barbara, however, was looking at Mr. Sumner, and her quick eyes had
noted the sensitive change of expression in his; the startled look of
surprise that first leaped into them, and the steady pain that followed.
An involuntary glance at Barbara told him that she recognized his pain
and longed to say something to help, but she could not; and it was
Bettina who, after a moment's silence, said gently:--
"I am sure you are right, Malcom, but I think I could live all my life
in this dear, beautiful Italy if all whom I love were with me."
Malcom did not for a moment think that his words would so touch his
uncle. He had spoken from his own stand-point, with thought of himself
alone, and would have been amazed indeed could he have known what a
steady flame within his uncle's mind his little spark had kindled.
* * * * *
"What is the matter with Miss Sherman?" whispered Malcom in Margery's
ear, as, soon after dinner, they went out upon the terrace close to
their hotel to look at the moon rising over the distant hills.
That young lady had disappeared as soon as they arose from the table,
and Mrs. Douglas had sent Margery to her room to tell her they were
going out, but she had declined to accompany them.
"Mother thinks she is not feeling quite well," answered Margery, drawing
Malcom's face close to her own; "but I think she is vexed about
something."
The truth was that Miss Sherman was as nearly cross as she dared to be.
Were she with father and sister, instead of Mrs. Douglas's party, why!
then she could give vent to her feelings; and what a relief it would be!
But now she was trying her best to conquer them, or, rather, to hide
them; but the habit of a lifetime will not easily give way on occasion.
She had never been so happy in her life as since she left Florence with
Mrs. Douglas. Wherever she was, wherever she went, there was Mr. Sumner,
always full of most courteous consideration for her as his sister's
guest. She had been so happy that her sweetness and gentleness were
irresistible, and again and again had Mrs. Douglas congratulated herself
on having found such an enjoyable companion; and Mr. Sumner felt
grateful to her for enhancing his sister's happiness.
But to-day a change had taken place in the satisfactory tide of affairs.
Mr. Sumner had been willing--more than that--had _chosen_ to drive all
the way back from Assisi in the carriage with Malcom, Barbara, and
Bettina, and it was all she could do to hide her chagrin and
displeasure.
Mrs. Douglas, with her usual kind judgment, had decided that she was not
quite well, and throughout the drive had respected her evident desire
for silence, though she wondered a little at it.
So while she and Margery were talking about good St. Francis, whose
heart overflowed with love to every living creature--mankind, animals,
birds, and flowers, and whose whole life was given up to their
service--Miss Sherman hugged close her little jealous grievance and,
brooding over it, gave no thought to the associations of the place they
had just visited, or to the glorious Italian landscape through which
they were passing.
It was not that she really loved Mr. Sumner after all; that is, not as
some women love, for it was not in her nature to do so; but she did wish
to become his wife; and this had been her supreme thought during all the
months since she had met him. Lately the memory of his agitation when
Barbara had passed him that evening of the party had disagreeably
haunted her. It had so moved her that, truth to tell, she mourned over
Howard's death more because it served to withdraw an obstacle between
these two than for any other reason. That mere girl, she thought, might
prove a formidable rival. All the more had it seemed so, since she daily
saw what a lovely, noble young woman Barbara really was, and how worthy
a companion, even for Mr. Sumner.
So every moment he had devoted to herself or had seemed to choose to be
in her own society, was an especial cause for self-congratulation. But
now she furtively clinched her little gloved hand, and the lids lowered
over her beautiful eyes as they grew hard, and she did not wish to talk.
"I wonder what is the matter with Lucile" (for so Miss Sherman had
begged to be called), Mrs. Douglas queried with herself that night, and
sought among the events of the day for some possible explanation. "She
seems as if hurt by something." Suddenly the thought flashed into her
mind: "Can it be because Robert left us to drive with the others? Can it
be that she has learned to care for him so much as that?" And her
woman's nature overflowed with sympathy at the suggestion of such an
interpretation.
She had not forgotten the desire that crept into her heart that morning
of the day they spent at Fiesole; and now came the glad belief that if
Miss Sherman had really learned to love her brother, it must be that in
time he would feel it, and yield to the sweetness of her affection. She
did not wonder that Lucile should love her darling brother. Indeed, how
could any woman help it? And she was so sensitive that she might acutely
feel even such a little thing as his not returning in the carriage with
them. And her quietness might have been caused by the disappointment.
She would be herself the next morning; and Mrs. Douglas resolved to be
only kinder and more loving than ever to her.
And, indeed, the next morning the clouds were all dissipated, and Miss
Sherman accepted, with her usual sweet smile, her portion of the flowers
that Mr. Sumner brought to the ladies of his party.
But the night just passed would never be forgotten by Robert Sumner, and
had marked a vital change in his life. He had walked the floor of his
moonlighted room until the early morning hours, his thoughts given
wholly to the great subject Malcom's unconscious words had opened within
his mind. Could it be that unconsciously, through weakness, he had
yielded himself to a selfish course of living? He, whose one aim and
ideal had ever been to give his life and its opportunities for the
benefit of others? Had his view been a narrow one, when he had so longed
that it should be wide and ever wider?
It really began to seem so in the pitiless glare of the light now thrown
upon it. He had surely been living for his fellow-men. He had been
striving to make his own culture helpful to those who were less happy in
opportunity. But had his outlook been far and wide enough? Had not the
personal sorrow to which he had yielded narrowed to his eyes the
world,--_his_ world, in which God had put him? Living on here in his
loved Italy, the knowledge he had gained was being sent out to aid those
who already had enough to enable them to follow into the higher paths he
opened. His pictures, every one of which had grown out of his own heart,
were bearing messages to those whose eyes were opened to read. But what
of the great mass of humanity, God's humanity too, which was waiting for
some one to awaken the very first desires for culture? For some one to
open, never so little, the blind eyes? As Malcom had said, no one, no
foreigner certainly, could ever reach this class of people in Italy. The
Church and the heavy hand of past centuries of ignorance forbade this.
But what of the great young land across the waters where he had been
born--his own land--the refuge of the poor of all countries of the
earth, even of his dear Italy? Surely no power of influence there could
be forbidden. The good that wealth, culture, and art, guided by a heart
consecrated to humanity, could work was limitless there.
He now saw that his personal sorrow, his own selfish grief, had come
between all this and himself for six long years. In deep humiliation he
bowed himself; and looking out over the great plain at his feet, in
which lay Assisi and the paths the worn feet of St. Francis and his
brethren had so often trod six centuries ago, now all gilded with the
light of the same moon that was shining over the distant land of his
birth, Robert Sumner pledged his life anew to God and his fellow-man,
and determined that his old grief should be only a stepping-stone to a
larger service; that, keeping Italy and her treasures in his life only
as a recreation and a source of inspiration, he would hereafter live in
his own America.
In the peace of mind that came after the struggle, which was no slight
one, he slept and dreamed,--dreamed of the fair girl he had so loved
with all the force of his young, strong nature, and whom he had so long
mourned. She smiled upon him, and into her smile came the lovelight he
had seen in Barbara's eyes that birthday evening, and then she changed
into Barbara, and he awoke with the thought of the wistful look she had
given him the afternoon before when Malcom's words wounded.
In the morning, as he gave the flowers he had chosen expressly for her,
and their hands for a moment met, the remembrance of this dream flashed
into his mind, and Barbara, surprised, felt a momentary lingering of his
touch.
After breakfast Mrs. Douglas declared her intention to spend the morning
in writing letters, and advised the others to follow her example.
"You know we go to Rome to-morrow, and I prophesy no one of us will feel
like sparing much time for writing during our first days there," she
said.
Barbara and Bettina spent an hour on their home-letter, then stole away
alone, and finding a secluded spot on the grand terrace in front of
their hotel, sat down, with the great valley before them. The blue sky,
so clear and blue, was full of great white puffs of cloud whose shadows
were most fascinating to watch as they danced over the plain,--now
hiding a distant city,--now permitting just a gleam of sunshine to gild
its topmost towers; and anon flitting, leaving that city-crowned summit
all in light, while another was enveloped in darkness.
They talked long together, as only two girls who love each other can
talk--of the sky and the land; of the impressions daily received; of the
thoughts born of their present daily experiences; of the home friends
from whom they were so widely separated. Then they grew silent, giving
themselves to the dreamy beauty of the scene.
By and by Barbara, her eyes dark with unwonted feeling, turned
impulsively to her sister and began to talk of that which had been so
often in her mind,--her visit to Howard just before he died. Something
now impelled her to tell that of which she had before kept silence. Her
voice trembled as she described the scene--the eyes that spoke so much
when the voice was already forever silent--and the wonderful love she
saw in them when she gave the tender kiss.
"He did love you, did he not, Bab dear?" said Bettina, in a hushed,
awestricken voice.
"Should you ever have loved him?" she asked timidly after a pause,
looking at her sister as if she were invested with a new, strange
dignity, that in some way set her apart and hallowed her.
"No, dear, I am sure--not as he loved me. I wish, oh! so much, that I
could have made him happy; but since I know that could never have been,
do you know, Betty, I am beginning to be glad that he has gone from us;
that I can never give him any more pain. I never before dreamed what it
may be to love. You know, Betty, we have never had time to think of such
things; we have been too young. Somehow," and her fingers caressed the
roses in her belt, "things seem different lately."