“Those letters are the voice of his soul,” I said. “It really wants to
pay up and be honest.”
She saw my meaning and wept, and said, as soon as she could speak:
“Perhaps, in the sight of God, he has already paid his debts.”
“An honorable delirium isn't quite enough,” I said, “but it does show
that his soul is acquiring good habits.”
“I'm so happy that you think so,” she answered.
“Yes, I'd rather have him now with all his past than any count I have
seen in Italy. There are all kinds of pasts, but Muggs is ashamed of
his--that's something! Of course it isn't safe to jump at conclusions,
but it looks as if the love of a decent woman had done a good deal for
him.”
I left her with a happy smile on her face, and way down in me I could
hear my soul laughing at the wise old country lawyer who had got Muggs
so securely placed in his rogue's gallery. He had been reading law in a
better book than any on his shelves. I had once smiled when I had read
in one of Mr. Chesterton's essays that “Christianity looks for the
honest man inside the thief.” I said to myself that I had never seen the
honest man aforementioned. But here he was at last. I described him to
Betsey.
“The love of that woman has done it,” said she.
“The love of a good woman is a big thing,” I answered, as I put my arm
around her. “Kind o' like the finger o' Jesus touching the eyes o' the
blind--that's the way it looks to me.”
Next day we drove to Naples. Good-by, Rome, city of lovely shapes and
jeweled walls and golden ceilings, graveyard of races and empires,
paradise of saints and industrious marryers! How's that for a
valedictory? Well, you see, I bought a guitar, and it's time I began to
practise.
Naples is different. It's a kind of theater. There the very poor play
the part of the starving mendicant as soon as they are able to walk; the
cheap tradesman plays the self-sacrificing saint; the fairly well-to-do
man plays the part of a millionaire with his trap and horses on the Via
Roma, and every driver plays the tyrant. The song of the lash, which had
its part in the ancient music of Persia, fills the air of the old city.
It worried us, and we went to Sicily and spent a month at Taormina--a
place of which I do not dare to speak for fear of dropping into poetry,
and when I drop into poetry I make a good deal of a splash, as you may
have observed, and it takes me a week to get dry. Norris fell in love
with it, and so did the ladies. I wondered how I was going to get them
to move, but not for long.
Gwendolyn and I, sitting alone in the old Greek theater one lovely
afternoon, had the talk for which I had been watching my chance.
We sat looking out between the time-worn columns at Ætna and the sea.
“I'm tired of ancient history!” said she, closing her guide-book.
“Let's try modern history,” I suggested. “If you will let me be
your Baedeker for a minute I should like to point out to you a noble
structure in America which is 'clothed in majestic simplicity.'”
“What is it?” she asked, eagerly.
“The character of Richard Forbes,” I answered. “There's one fact in his
history of supreme importance to you and me.”
“Only one!” she exclaimed.
“At least one,” I answered. “It is this: for years he has known every
unpleasant fact in the story of your father's life.”
“Uncle Soc,” she interrupted, with a look of joy in her face, “is it--is
it really true, or are you just saying it to please me?”
“It's really true,” I said. “When I can't help it I tell the truth. I'm
never reckless or immoderate in the use of it, for there's no sense in
giving it out in chunks so big that they excite suspicion. I'm kind o'
careful with the truth when I tell ye that Richard Forbes is better than
all the statues and paintings and domes and golden ceilings in Italy.”
“Uncle Soc, do you think that you could get rooms for us on the next
steamer,” she asked.
“Oh, what's your hurry?” I demanded.
She rose and said, with a proud, imperious gesture:
“Me for the United States!”
“I've already engaged the rooms, for I knew what would happen after we
had had our talk,” I said.
We were waiting to take our steamer in Naples. The day after we reached
there Mrs. Fraley called to see us. She had read in a Roman newspaper
that we were at Bertolini's, and she had come over to talk with me
“about a dreadful occurrence.” She had raised the spondoolix, and Miss
Muriel had achieved the count. They had lived in paradise for three
weeks and four days when the count got mad at Muriel and actually beat
her over the shoulders with his riding-whip. It was all because the
dear child had turkey-trotted with a young Englishman at a ball. She
had meant no harm--poor thing!--all the girls were learning these
new-fangled dances. Mrs. Fraley had naturally objected to the count's
use of the whip, whereupon he had shown her the door and bade her leave
his apartments. So she with the beautiful feet had been compelled to
walk out of the place which her bounty had provided and go back to the
dear old boarding-house. Muriel had followed her. They knew not what to
do. Would I please advise her?
“You've done the right thing,” I said. “Keep away from him. He'll be
using his cane next. The whip is a good thing, but not if it comes too
late in life.”
“But how about my money?” she asked. “I can't afford to lose that.”
“My dear madame, you have already lost it. You may as well charge that
to the educational fund. To some people knowledge comes high. I had a
good reason for advising you against this marriage. In our land every
home is a little republic that plays its part in the larger republics of
the town and the county, and the affairs of each home and the welfare
of its inhabitants are the concern of all. Here every home is a little
independent kingdom. Its master is its king. His will is mostly its law.
When he gets mad his whip or his cane may fall upon the transgressor.
It's the old feudal spirit--the ancient habit of thought and hand. Of
course in most countries wife-beating is forbidden, but generally the
woman knows better than to complain, for she finds that it doesn't pay.
So she cringes and obeys and holds her tongue. In America that sort of
thing doesn't go. If a man tries it, the republic of the town gets hold
of him right away. Really, I'd about as soon have the rights of a goat
as the rights of a woman in Europe. In spite of that she's often well
treated.”
I was interrupted by the porter's clerk, who came with a telegram. It
was from Muriel, and it said:
_Please tell my aunt to return immediately._
_We have made up, and are very, very happy, and we shall both be
delighted to see her._