IN VENICE.
Philip's recovery from the combined effects of low fever and
homesickness progressed so favorably that Sidney soon felt at liberty
to leave him in his mother's care, and return to London, where his
presence was becoming necessary. Venice was too much haunted by
painful reminiscences for him to care to linger in it, even if he had
the leisure to do so. He had been there once with Margaret, and had
found it so hateful that he had hurried her away after a day or two,
unable to endure its associations. There was no dread of this early
marriage coming to light; it was now nearly thirty years ago, and the
past had given no sign yet of rising in judgment against him. It was
only in a place like this, crowded with associations, and occasionally
when old Andrew Goldsmith spoke of her, that he ever thought of Sophy.
But the streets of Venice, singularly unlike the streets of any other
city--and it was the last city they were in--brought the recollection
of her to his mind with startling and sickening frequency. As soon as
Philip was pronounced convalescent, he could bear it no longer.
It was still the month of May, and Venice was at its loveliest. The
air was light, and soft, and warm, without too great heat. The little
party left behind by Sidney had nothing to do but float about the
border canals and the lagoons leading out to the sea all day long.
More often than anywhere else, they sailed to the Lido, and sat on the
sand-banks to breathe the keener and purer breezes blowing off the
Adriatic. They could not grow weary of watching for hours the fleet of
fishing boats flitting to and fro on the green waters, most of them
carrying gorgeous yellow sails with brown patterns on them, and stripes
of pale yellow and white along the edges--sails that were heirlooms in
the fishermen's families. Now and then a sail of the clearest white or
the faintest primrose was seen; and far away on the horizon, where the
sky was bluish gray, the distant sails looked of a deep bronze and
purple. All of them fluttered hither and thither as if they were large
and gorgeous butterflies hovering over the waves. It was a sight they
never wearied of. There was a rapture of delight in it for Dorothy
which caught Margaret and Philip into a keen participation in her
enjoyment; and the days passed by as if there was nothing else for them
to do but to glide slowly about in their gondola and see the churches
and palaces floating on the tranquil water, which so faithfully
reflected them in form and color.
It was but a brief pleasure, for as the month drew to an end a sudden
outburst of heat came on, bringing with it the danger of a return of
Philip's fever. Margaret called in the American doctor, and he ordered
an immediate retreat to the mountains.
"You will find it bracing enough in the Tyrol," he said, "and you
cannot do better than go for a month or so to the Ampezzo Valley. In
two days' time you will find yourself at Cortina, where you will obtain
fairly comfortable quarters. Or you might go to the Italian Lakes, if
you thought better."
"No; let us go to the Austrian Tyrol," said Philip.
"You must go to-morrow morning," continued the doctor.
"It only seems like a day since we came here," said Dorothy
regretfully, "one long beautiful day. I do not feel as if I had ever
been asleep."
"It is quite time then for you to be off," remarked the doctor; "you
will be falling ill if you stay much longer. Take my word for it, you
will enjoy the mountains as much as Venice when you get among them.
There is nothing like the Dolomites."
But when the doctor was gone Dorothy entreated for one more sail in a
gondola. The sun was set, and the heated air was fast growing cool.
The moon was at the full, and as they floated toward the lagoons, the
lights of the city behind them shone like jewels. The sound of music
reached their ears, softened by distance, from gayly illuminated
gondolas bearing bands of musicians up and down the Grand Canal. As
soon as they were beyond this sound, and only the faintest ripple of
the water against their gondola could be heard, Dorothy began to sing
snatches of old north-country ballads and simple old-fashioned songs,
in a soft undertone, with now and then a cadence of sadness in it,
which seemed to chime in with the pale light of the moon, and the dim
waters, and the dusky outlines of the city behind them. Margaret and
Philip listened in silence, for they were afraid she would stop if they
praised her.
"I feel so happy," she exclaimed, suddenly checking herself, as if she
had forgotten she was not alone.
"So am I," said Philip, laughing, with such a boyish laugh as his
mother had not heard for many months.
"And so am I," assented Margaret. "Oh! how good life is, even in this
world!"
"But why are we so seldom happy?" asked Philip.
"Why are you happy now?" she rejoined.
"I will tell you why I am happy," said Dorothy, leaning toward them, as
they sat opposite to her, and they saw her dark eyes shining in the
moonlight. "I am thinking of nothing but this one moment, and
everything is very good. The moon up there, and the little clouds in
the sky, and these waves rippling round us, and the happy air; and you
two whom I love and who love me. There is nothing here but what is
good."
"Why should we not oftener live in the present moment," said Margaret,
"instead of burdening it with the past and the future? God would have
us do so, as children do who have a father to care for them. He gives
us to-day; to-morrow he will give us another day, different, but as
much his gift as this. If we would only take them as he sends them,
one at a time, we should not be so seldom happy."
"I promise to try to do it," cried Dorothy, stretching out her hands
toward Margaret, but without touching her. "Philip, let us enter into
an agreement to be happy. Let us take each day singly as it comes, and
look upon it as a gift straight from God."
Philip did not speak, but Margaret said, as if to herself:
"My God! Thou art all love.
Not one poor minute 'scapes Thy breast
But brings a favor from above."
"I will try to believe it," said Philip; "but there is so much in life
that is not good. There are few days and hours like this."
They returned to the quay almost in silence, but not less happy because
their happiness had taken a tinge of solemnity. As they landed, and
the light of a lamp fell upon Margaret's face, there was a look of
serene gladness on it, such as neither Dorothy nor Philip had seen
before. It looked to them like the face of an angel, both strong and
happy.