Poor Barbara's Trouble.
_O, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day;
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away._
--SHAKESPEARE.
[Illustration: A BIT OF AMALFI.]
Barbara and Bettina, sometimes accompanied by Mrs. Douglas, sometimes by
Malcom, usually by Margery, saw all the remaining and important art
treasures of Rome.
They studied long the Vatican and Capitol sculptures; went to the
Barberini Palace to see Raphael's _La Fornarina_, so rich in color; and,
close beside it, the pale, tearful face of Beatrice Cenci, so long
attributed to Guido Reni, but whose authorship is now doubtful; to the
doleful old church Santa Maria dei Capuccini, to see _St. Michael and
the Dragon_ by Guido Reni, in which they were especially interested,
because Hawthorne made it a rendezvous of the four friends in his
"Marble Faun," where so diverse judgments of the picture were
pronounced, each having its foundation in the heart and experience of
the speaker. They had been reading this book in the same way in which
they had read "Romola" in Florence, and each girl was now the happy
possessor of a much-prized copy, interleaved by herself with photographs
of the Roman scenes and works of art mentioned in the book.
They went to the garden-house of the Rospigliosi Palace to see on its
ceiling Guido Reni's _Aurora_, one of the finest decorative pictures
ever painted. And to the Accademia di San Luca to find the drawing by
Canevari after Van Dyck's portrait of the infant son of Charles I. in
the Turin Gallery, which is so often reproduced under the name of the
_Stuart Baby_. Not many pictures, great or small, escaped their eager
young eyes. They grew familiar with the works of Domenichino, Guercino,
Garofalo, Carlo Dolci, Sassoferrato, etc., and the days of their stay in
Rome rapidly passed by.
Mrs. Douglas was very desirous to take them for a few days to Naples, or
rather to the environments of Naples. To herself it would be a
pilgrimage of affection; and in those drives, loveliest in the world,
she would recall many precious memories of the past.
"I hesitated to speak of doing this before," said she, when she
suggested it to her brother, "because I have tried to make the whole
trip comparatively inexpensive, remembering the shortness of the dear
doctor's purse. Now, of course, this needs no consideration."
So they planned to go there for a short visit; and on their return it
would be time to pack their trunks for Florence, where they were to stop
two or three days before going northward toward Venice.
A morning ride from Rome to Naples during the early days of May is
idyllic. In the smiling sunshine they rushed on through wide meadows
covered with luxuriant verdure and vineyards flushed with delicate
greens. After they had passed Capua, which is magnificently situated on
a wide plain,--amphitheatre-like within its half-circle of lovely hills,
flanked behind by the Apennines,--Malcom said, as he finally drew in his
head from the open window and, with a very contented look, settled back
into a corner of the compartment, with one arm thrown about his mother's
shoulders:--
"It is no wonder that old Hannibal's army grew effeminate after the
soldiers had lived here for some months, and so was easily conquered.
Life could not have had many hardships in such a place as this.
"I declare!" he added with a laugh as he shook back the wind-blown hair
from his forehead; "it is difficult to realize these days in what
century one is living. My mind has been so full of ancient history
lately that I feel quite like an antique myself."
"I know," answered his uncle with a smile, "how life widens and
lengthens as thought expands under the influence of travel through
historic scenes. One may study history from books for a lifetime and
never realize it as he would could he, even for an hour, be placed upon
the very spot where some important event took place. What a fact
Hannibal's army of two thousand years ago becomes to us when we know
that these very mountain tops which are before us looked down upon
it,--that its soldiers idled, ate, and slept on this very plain."
Thus talking, almost before they knew, they came out upon the beautiful
Bay of Naples. They saw the little island of Capri, the larger Ischia
crowned with its volcanic mountains, and, between it and the point of
Posilipo, where once stood Virgil's villa, the tiny island Nisida (old
"Nesis"), whither Brutus fled after the assassination of Julius Cæsar;
where Cicero visited him, and where he bade adieu to his wife, Portia,
when he set sail for Greece.
"Looking out over this same bay, these same islands, Virgil sang of
flocks, of fields, and of heroes," said Mr. Sumner, following the former
line of thought, as he began to take from the racks above the valises
of the party.
Arrived at their hotel, which was situated in the higher quarters of the
city, they were ensconced in rooms whose balconied windows commanded
magnificent views of the softly radiant city, the bay, and, close at
hand, Mount Vesuvius, over which was hovering the usual cloud of smoke.
At the close of the afternoon Barbara and Bettina stood long on their
own window-balcony. The scene was fascinating--even more so than they
had dreamed.
"There is but one Naples, as there is but one Rome and one Florence,"
said Barbara softly. "Each city is grandly beautiful in its own
individual way, but for none has nature done so much as for Naples."
In silence they watched the sunset glow and the oncoming twilight, until
the call for dinner sounded through the halls.
"I fear to leave it all," said Bettina, turning reluctantly away, "lest
we can never find it again."
The next three days were crowded to the brim. One was spent in going to
the top of Vesuvius; another in the great Museum, so interesting with
its remains of antique sculptures, so destitute of important paintings;
the third in driving about the city, to San Martino, and around the
point of Posilipo, ending with a visit to Virgil's tomb.
Then came the Sabbath, and they attended morning service in the
Cathedral,--in the very chapel of San Januarius which is decorated with
pictures by Domenichino, Guido Reni, and Lanfranco, the completion of
which was prevented by the jealousy of the Neapolitan painters.
The next morning they went to Pompeii, where in the late afternoon
carriages were to meet them for beginning the drive through
Castellammare, Sorrento, and Amalfi to La Cava.
The absorbing charm of Pompeii, whose resurrection began after nearly
seventeen centuries of burial and is yet only partial, at once seized
them,--all of them,--for, visit the ruined city often as one may, yet
the sight of its worn streets with their high stepping-stones, its
broken pavements, its decorated walls, its shops,--all possess such an
atmosphere of departed life that its fascination is complete, and does
not yield to familiarity.
After hours of wandering about with their guide, seeing the points of
most interest,--the beautiful houses recently excavated, the homes of
Glaucus, of Pansa, of Sallust, of Orpheus, of Diomedes and very many
others; the forum, temples, and amphitheatre--they sat long amid the
ruins, looking at the fatal mountain, so close at hand, and the
desolation at its foot, and meditated upon the terrors of that fearful
night.
Malcom read aloud the story as related by Pliny, a volume of whose
letters he had put into his pocket, and Margery recited some lines of a
beautiful sonnet on Pompeii which she had once learned, whose author she
did not remember:--
"No chariot wheels invade her stony roads;
Priestless her temples, lone her vast abodes,
Deserted,--forum, palace, everywhere!
Yet are her chambers for the master fit,
Her shops are ready for the oil and wine,
Ploughed are her streets with many a chariot line,
And on her walls to-morrow's play is writ,--
Of that to-morrow which might never be!"
The spell was not broken until Mr. Sumner, looking at his watch,
declared it was quite time they should return to the little hotel, take
an afternoon lunch, and so be ready when the carriages should await
them.
The beauty of the drive from Naples to the Bay of Salerno has been set
forth, by many writers, in prose and song and poem, and remembering
this, Barbara's and Bettina's faces were radiant with expectation as
they started upon it. Malcom and Margery were in the carriage with them;
the atmosphere was perfection; the sun shone with just the right degree
of heat; the waters of the beautiful Bay of Naples were just rippling
beneath the soft breeze, and seventeen miles of incomparable loveliness
lay between them and Sorrento, where they were to spend the night. What
wonder they were happy!
Just as they were entering the town of Castellammare (the ancient
Stabiæ, where the elder Pliny perished) the carriage containing Mrs.
Douglas, Miss Sherman, and Mr. Sumner, which had thus far followed them,
dashed past, and its occupants were greeted with a merry peal of
laughter from the four young voices.
"How joyous they are!" exclaimed Mrs. Douglas, her own face reflecting
their happiness. "You look envious, Robert."
Then, turning to Miss Sherman, she added: "I never tire of watching
Barbara and Bettina these days. I believe they are two of the rarest
girls in the world. Nothing has yet spoiled them, and I think nothing
ever will. It has been one of the sweetest things possible to see their
little everyday charities since they have had money in abundance.
Before, they felt that every dollar their parents spared them was a
sacred trust to be used just for their positive needs. Now, their
evident delight in giving to the flower-girls, to the street-gamins, to
the beggars, to everything miserable that offers, is delightful."
"Do you think Barbara will know how to be wise in the spending of her
money?" asked Miss Sherman, with a constrained smile.
"As to the wise ways of spending money," answered Mrs. Douglas, stealing
a glance at her brother's imperturbable face opposite, "everybody has
his own individual opinion. I, myself, feel sure of Barbara. Before her
money came, she had received the greater and far more important heritage
of a noble-minded ancestry and a childhood devoted to unselfish living
and the seeking of the highest things. During these eighteen years her
character has been formed, and it is so grounded that the mere
possession of money will not alter it. To my mind it is a happy thing
that Howard's money will be used in such a personal way as I think it
will be."
"Personal a way?" queried Miss Sherman.
"I mean personal as distinguished from institutional--you know his first
intention was to endow institutions. For instance, within a week after
Barbara received the lawyer's announcement, she consulted me as to how
she could best make provision for an old lady who has been for years
more or less of a pensioner of her father's family. The dear old woman
with a little aid has supported herself for many years, but lately it
has seemed as if she would have to give up the wee bit of a home she
loves so much and become an inmate of some great Institution, and this
would almost break her heart. Barbara was in haste to put enough money
at her disposal so that a good woman may be hired to come and care for
her so long as she shall live, and to provide for all her wants. Also
she remembered a poor young girl, once her and Betty's schoolmate, who
has always longed for further study, whose one ambition has been to go
to college. This was simply impossible, not even the strictest economy,
even the going without necessities, has gathered together sufficient
money for the expenses of a single year. Before we left Rome, Barbara
arranged for the deposit in the bank at home of enough money to permit
this struggling girl to look forward with certainty to a college course,
and wrote the letter which will bring her so much joy.
"Dear child!" she continued tenderly, after a pause; "the only bit of
money she has yet spent for herself was to get the spring outfits that
she and Betty have really needed for some time, but for which they did
not like to use their father's money.
"And I do believe," after another pause, "that the two girls' lives will
be passed as unostentatiously as if the money had not come to them."
"Why do you speak as if the money had come to both?" asked Miss
Sherman, with a curious inflection of the voice.
"Did I? I did not realize it. But I will not change my words; for,
unless I mistake much, the money will be Bettina's as much as Barbara's,
and this, because Barbara will have it so."
The words were hardly spoken by Mrs. Douglas when Mr. Sumner, who was
riding backward and so facing the following carriage, sprang up, crying
in a low, smothered tone of alarm, "Barbara!"
But Mrs. Douglas had not time to turn before he sank back saying:
"Excuse me. I must have been mistaken. I thought that something was the
matter; that Barbara had been taken ill."
Then he added, in explanation to his sister: "The carriage was so far
back, as it rounded a curve, permitting me to look into it, that I could
not see very distinctly."
Miss Sherman bit her lip and rode on in silence. Mr. Sumner's concern
for Barbara seemed painfully evident to her. She had much that was
disagreeable to think of, for it was impossible to avoid contrasting
herself with the picture of Barbara which Mrs. Douglas had drawn. She
thought of the sister at home who so patiently, year after year, had
given up her own cherished desires that she might be gratified; who had
needed, far more than she herself had, the change and rest of this year
abroad, but whom she had forced to return with the father, even though
she knew well it was her own duty to go,--how many such instances of
selfishness had filled her life!
She felt that she could almost hate this fortunate Barbara,
who so easily was gaining all the things she herself
coveted,--admiration,--wealth,--love? no, not if she could help it! and
she forced herself to smile, to praise the same qualities of heart that
Mrs. Douglas had admired; to talk pityingly of the miserable ones of
earth; adoringly of self-sacrificing, heroic deeds, and sympathizingly
of noble endeavor.
* * * * *
What had been the matter in the other carriage? After the burst of
gayety with which the three girls and Malcom had greeted the swifter
equipage as it rolled past theirs, nothing was said for some time, until
Malcom suddenly burst out with the expression of what had evidently been
the subject of his thought:--
"Girls, do you think that Uncle Robert is falling in love with Miss
Sherman?"
The question fell like a bombshell into the little group. Margery first
found a voice, but it was a most awed, repressed one:--
"Why, Malcom! _could_ he ever love anybody again? You know--oh! what
could make you think of such a thing? It is not like you to make light
of Uncle Robert's feelings."
"I am not doing so, Madge dear. Men can love twice. It would not hurt
Margaret should he learn to love some one else. And it would be ever so
much better for him. Uncle's life seems very lonely to me. Now he is
busy with us; but just think of the long years when he is living and
working over here all alone. Still, I am sure I would not choose Miss
Sherman for him. Yet I am not certain but it looks some like it. What do
you think, Betty?"
"I--don't--know--what--I--do--think,--Malcom. You know how much I love
and admire your uncle. I do not think there are many women good enough
to be his wife."
Bettina thought, but did not say, that she could not love and admire
Miss Sherman, who had made it quite evident to Barbara and herself that
she cared nothing for them, save as they were under the care of Mrs.
Douglas; who had never given them any companionship, or, at least, never
had until during the past week or two, after she had learned that
Barbara was Howard's heiress.
Barbara drew her breath quickly and sharply. Could such a thing as this
be? was this to come? In her mind, Mr. Sumner was consecrated to the
dead Margaret, about whom she had thought so much,--the picture of
whose lovely face she had so often studied,--whose character she had
adorned with all possible graces! She listened, as in a dream, to
Bettina and Malcom. He _should_ not love any one else; or, if he
could--poor Barbara's heart was ruthlessly torn open and revealed unto
her consciousness. She felt that the others must read the tale in her
confused face.
Confused? No, Barbara, it was pale and still, as if a mortal wound had
been given.
Her head reeled, the world grew dark, and it was silence until she heard
Bettina saying frantically:--
"Bab, dear! are you faint? Oh! what is it?"
With an almost superhuman effort Barbara drew herself up and smiled
bravely, with white lips:--
"It is nothing--only a moment's dizziness. It is all over now."
This was what Mr. Sumner saw when he sprang up in alarm, and then in a
moment said: "Everything seems all right now."
But poor Barbara thought nothing could ever be right again. And when
their carriage drew up in the spacious courtyard of their hotel at
Sorrento, and Mr. Sumner, with an unusually bright and eager face, stood
waiting to help her alight, it was a frozen little hand that was put
into his, and he could not win a single glance from the eyes he loved
to watch, and from which he was impatient to learn if it were indeed
well with the owner.
To this day Barbara shudders at the thought or mention of the next four
or five days. And they were such rare days for enjoyment, could she have
forgotten her own heart:--across the blue waters to Capri, with a visit
by the way to the famous Blue Grotto; a whole day in that lovely town,
walking about its winding, climbing streets; the long drive from
Sorrento to quaint Prajano, with, on one hand, towering, rugged
limestone cliffs, to whose rough sides, every here and there, clings an
Italian village, and, on the other, the smiling, wide-spreading
Mediterranean; the little rowboat ride to Amalfi; the day full of
interest spent there; and then the drive close beside the sea toward
Palermo, terminated by a sharp turn toward the blue mountains among
which nestles La Cava; the railway ride back to Naples.
She struggled bravely to be her old self,--to hide everything from all
eyes. But she felt so wofully humiliated, for she now knew for the first
time that she loved Robert Sumner; loved him so that it was positive
agony to think that he might love another,--so that it was almost a pain
to remember that he had ever loved. What would he think should he
suspect the truth! And she was so fearful that her eyes might give a
hint of it that, try in as many ways as he could, Mr. Sumner could
never get a good look into them during these days. The kinder he was,
and the more zealously he endeavored to add to her comfort and
happiness, the more wretched she grew. She longed to get away from
everybody, even from Betty, lest her secret might become apparent to the
keen sisterly affection that knew her so intimately. She began to feel a
fierce longing for home and for father and mother; and the months which
must necessarily elapse before she could be there stretched drearily
before her.
Robert Sumner was perplexed and distressed. He had just begun to enjoy a
certain happiness. The struggle within himself was over, and he was
beginning to give himself up to the delight of thinking freely of
Barbara; of loving her; of feeling a sort of possession of her, though
he did not yet dream of such a thing as ever being to her more than he
now was,--a valued friend. There were so many years, and an experience
of life that counted far more than years, between them!
He had listened to his sister's conversation with Miss Sherman on the
way from Pompeii to Sorrento with an exultation which it would have been
difficult for him to account for. He gloried in the sweet unselfishness,
the simple goodness of the young girl. "My little Barbara," his heart
sang; and full of this emotion when they reached Sorrento, he allowed
the two ladies to go alone into the hotel, while he waited impatiently
to look into Barbara's face and to feel the touch of her hand.
But what a change! What could have wrought it? Before this, she had
always met his look with such frank sympathy! As the days passed on
without change, and his eyes, more than any others, noticed the struggle
to conceal her unhappiness, the mystery deepened.