looked down at our own city. He said this, for he loved the tower that
Giotto had planned and had seen half built before his death. “Ever
hear,” said Mr. Wake, “of how the little Giotto was found, and how he
was helped to become the great artist that he was?”
I hadn’t, and I said so. Viola thought she had, but she said she forgot
so _many_ things, when Mr. Wake questioned her a little.
“Well,” he said, “since Viola has forgotten, and Jane frankly admits
she doesn’t know, indulge an old man in his love of the telling of
picturesque stories.”
“I _love_ them,” I said, for I really did. His stories were about
people who had lived and died, and they never had Irish or Hebrew or
Swedish people in them to make him try a dialect. I don’t care so very
much for that sort. And Mr. Wake didn’t even _try_ to be funny, which
is unusual in a man.
“Well,” he said, as he took off his hat and mopped his brow, “one day
when Cimabue, who was a great artist, and a fine chap, was strolling
through the country he came to a clearing in which a little boy was
tending sheep. And perhaps because he was in an ill humor--probably
thinking all art was going to the bad, for he was a critic too,
you know, and critics have thought that since the beginning of
paint--anyway, I feel that an ill humor set upon him, and that he was,
because of it, minded to stop, and divert himself by talking a bit to a
little country lad.
“And he said ‘Hello,’ in Italian of course, and the little boy answered
‘Master, I salute you--’ and Cimabue drew near. And when near, he
looked down at a rock upon which the little boy had drawn a picture
with a bit of soft, crumbling stone. The picture was good, and Cimabue
felt a thrill sweep over him--the selfsame sort of thrill that I feel
when Sam shows my dull eyes a bit of his genius--and he took the little
boy with him, after he saw his _people_, and the little boy grew up to
paint pictures of people. Before he painted--early in thirteen hundred,
legend has it, all the pictures had been of stiff, remote, too holy
Saints. But little Giotto, who had learned love and wisdom of the
fields and trees and birds and beasts, painted Madonnas who smiled, and
little babies who held out their arms to be taken, and proud Josephs
who seem to say, ‘Please look at _my_ family.’ . . . Painted, what
Ruskin called, ‘Mamma and Papa and the baby.’ . . . I thank you, ladies
and gentleman,” he ended, with mock ceremony, “for your kind attention!”
Then he paused outside of a wall that had once been pink, but had been
washed by the rain and faded by sun until it was only a faint peach in
a few sheltered spots, and here he rang a bell.
Soon after he did this, a girl opened the gate for us, greeted Mr. Wake
and us all with real sweetness, and we trooped into his garden. And I
was glad to see it, for I loved Mr. Wake and I wanted to see where he
lived, but I would have enjoyed it in any case, for it was--without
exception--the prettiest place I had ever seen.
There were high walls all around it except on the side that looked
down upon Florence. Here the view was interrupted, rather edged, by
groups of tall, slender cypress trees, and here was a low, marble
balustrade. . . . There were vines and clumps of foliage, and in the
center of the lower terrace a little fountain with a laughing cupid in
its center. . . . And there were wicker chairs with hoods on them--Sam
said that they were called beach chairs--and there was a yellow awning
with a bright blue star on it, which had once been the sail of a
Venetian fishing craft. . . . I cannot describe it. . . . While I was
there I could only feel it, and hope I wouldn’t wake. . . . I sank down
in a chair that had a footstool near it, and looked down the green
hillside, toward the city of towers.
“Like it?” asked Sam, as he dropped on the footstool, and after my nod,
lit a cigarette.
“Oh,” I murmured.
“Didn’t exaggerate, did I?” he went on.
“No,” I answered, “you _couldn’t_.” Then Mr. Wake came up, followed
by Viola who was murmuring, “En_chant_ing,” “A_dor_able,” and “Too
_heav_enly,” one right after the other. And after he had come to stand
smiling down at me, I mentioned Miss Sheila for the first time.
“Mr. Wake,” I said, “My fairy godmother would love this more than I can
say. It’ll seem strange to you, but she has talked to me of a place
like this. She _really_ has.”
“Look here,” said Mr. Wake to Sam, “you and Viola go hunt up some tea,
will you--”
And Sam said, “Of course,” and stood up.
“And show Viola your last picture,” Mr. Wake added, “and _take your
time to it_!”
“Yes, _Sir_,” said Sam, and very nicely, considering the fact that he
and Viola don’t get on very well.
After he had gone, Mr. Wake took out his cigarette case and lit a
cigarette, and then sat down on the end of a chaise longue.
“My dear,” he said, “I’ve a long story to tell you. . . . And you must
be kind and remember that it is the first time I have ever told it,
and that--the telling it is hard because--I care so--deeply. . . .
But I guess you’d best know, and why I don’t want to meet your--your
Miss Sheila. I believe you’d best know, for you will wonder why I am
so rude, if I don’t explain. . . . The garden, by the way, is the kind
Miss Sheila would like because--long, long years ago--when I was young
in heart and body--she talked of a garden like this, to me--her lover.”
He paused to stare down upon Florence for some moments, and then, after
he had drawn a deep breath, he went on.
“About twenty years ago,” he said, “when I was a boy, and named
Terrence O’Gilvey--and right off the sod, Jane--I came to New York.
I had done a bit of writing or two, even then, and I went on a paper;
and, because of my Irish manner I think, my little things took. Anyway,
the first thing I knew a well-known newspaper man named Ford, and then
the Danas and some others began to believe in me and to be kind to me,
and I knew I had got hold of the first rung anyway, and I was mighty
happy. I thought I was as happy as any man could be until I met Sheila
Parrish, and then I was in hell . . . and yet . . . happier than I had
ever been before--and, faith, all because I was so deep in love with
her!
“It was a quick business, Jane. She smiled gently, and I was gone. I
wanted to get down and let her use my vest for a doormat; I wanted
several other things that might seem extravagant to one of your solid
small tread and common sense, but none of them were enough extravagant
nor enough of an outlet for all that she had taught me to feel.
“Well, she was good to me. And she let me come to see her, and I
sent her posies, and I wrote her what I am afraid were rhymes, and
no more--but by all the Saints, child, what I felt! And then one day
Heaven opened, and she--she stretched out her lovely hands to me, and
she said, ‘You are more than a dear Irish boy, Terry; I believe you are
a man, and I believe I will listen to your story--’”
He stopped speaking, and I put my hand out, and laid it on his--I was
_so_ sorry for him!
For a moment we sat like this, and then he went on.
“She had a younger brother,” he said, “God rest his soul! He was
bad--as reckless and vicious a youth as has ever been my unhappy
fortune to see, and how _he hurt Sheila_. I saw it, and I suffered a
thousand times for her. I’d find her with tears on her cheeks, and know
that some new devilishness had cropped out. And I railed, as youth will
rail, Jane, and it drove her from me. . . . When, (a long story this,
but I can’t seem to shorten it) after she had set the date for our
wedding, her younger brother was found to have tuberculosis, and she
said that I must wait, while she went west with him and fought with him
for health, I lost control of every brake I had, and I went to pieces.
“And well, I remember it! Her standing in the high ceilinged drawing
room of the old New York home, and saying, ‘Well, Terry, if you make me
choose, I can do only one thing. I cannot evade duty. My brother may
not last a year--’ and I turned and went--
“And the next day I wrote her, but I had no answer. And that was the
end of it, and of everything, and you see, now, why I can’t--meet her.”
“Why did you change your name!” I asked. I am too dull to say the
appropriate thing, so I usually ask or say what I really want to.
“An Uncle wanted to adopt me . . . . He was a lonely old chap; I had no
one, and I thought he was mighty pathetic, until he died and left me a
more than fair sized fortune, (A great thing to have, Jane, by the way,
if you’ve a fancy for writing books!) and then, well I thought he was a
humbug, but I was grateful, and I have been ever since--”
He stood up and smiled down at me. No one who hadn’t known him for long
would have thought his smile stiff, or forced, but I knew that it was.
“But are you over caring for her?” I asked. “I didn’t know if it were
very real, that it would change--”
“I am not,” he answered, “what you term ‘over it,’ and there is no
changing for me, but for my peace I think less of it and of the hopes
that the boy named Terrence O’Gilvey sent up to his gods.”
Then, Viola and Sam came wandering back to stand on the upper terrace
uncertainly, and Mr. Wake called to them.
“Come on down,” he said, “we’re ready for our tea--”
And then a maid who wore a scarlet waist, and a black skirt with
scarlet bands around it, a little white cap on her head, and a Roman
striped scarf around her waist, came toward us with a big tray which
she set on a table that Sam brought up.
It was very, very pretty. . . . But it suddenly seemed hollow. . . .
I wondered whether it were always hollow for Mr. Wake. . . . And I
thought how nice it would be if pretty Miss Sheila were smiling at him
from across the table, and knew, without asking, how many lumps of
sugar he would take, and whether his tea should be strong or weak.
“How many loads,” asked Sam as he picked up the sugar spoon.
“Two for me,” I answered.
“None,” said Viola who is afraid of fat.
“Where is Leslie?” asked Mr. Wake who had evidently just noticed her
absence.
“In the Boboli gardens,” answered Viola, on a guess that later proved
correct.
“Hum--hope she drove over. Aren’t they warning people at the bridges
to-day?” he ended, with a questioning look toward Sam who had gone down
to the town that morning. (On very hot days sentinels, who stand at the
entrance to the bridges, warn people against crossing them, for it is a
risk to do this during the middle hours of the day)
“No,” Sam replied, “I wandered over the Ponte Vecchio without a word
from any one--”
“The real heat will come soon,” Mr. Wake prophesied. “Think,” he went
on, “I’ll go to Switzerland in June.”
“Poor Miss Meek,” I put in, “hates the heat so and has to stay here--”
“Pshaw,” said Mr. Wake, “that is too bad--Look here,” he said quickly,
after a second’s pause, “I have some Italian friends who want a
governess; I believe they are going to Viareggio for the hot months.
Would she touch that?”
“She’d _love_ it,” I answered quickly, “she’s wanted a post for ages,
but it’s so hard to get one now, since every one’s so poor from the
war--”
“And fancy the little Italian beggars saying, ‘My eye! How jolly,’” put
in Sam.
Every one laughed. “Won’t hurt ’em,” said Mr. Wake easily, “for they
won’t know it’s not top notch proper and the latest thing! I’ll talk
to Lucca to-morrow, and after that I’ll let you know, Jane. Believe I
can fix it--”
And he did.
I thought of him a lot going down. So much that Sam thought I felt
badly from the heat. But the heat hadn’t made my depression. I had so
wanted Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake to know and like each other. They were
both lonely, and I loved them both and they seemed alike and suited
to like each other in lots of ways. And I could tell that Mr. Wake
needed Miss Sheila from the manner in which he had talked of her at the
beginning of our friendship. And now it was all over; I could never
present my dear friend to her, nor talk of my Fairy Godmother to him!
It did seem all wrong, but as Leslie and Viola both said, things turn
out as one doesn’t expect them to.
I had hoped--of course it was silly--but I had hoped a lot. And now
even my chance for hoping had disappeared.
“Are you sure,” asked Sam, “that the heat hasn’t done you up?”
“Sure,” I answered dully.
“He’s wild over you,” said Viola as we toiled up the stairs that we had
come to call “The last, long mile.” . . . We had sent Sam off at the
door, because he had to walk back to the Piazza del Duomo again to get
his car, and the town was still heavy and sultry with the heat that
the day had held.
“Nonsense!” I answered sharply.
“Yes, he is. We might have a double wedding--”
I was furious.
“I’m going home to play the organ in the First Presbyterian Church,”
I stated, “and to give music lessons, and I won’t have time to get
married for _years_!”
She laughed.
“I’m only eighteen,” I added, and with resentment.
“I’ll bet on twenty for you,” she said teasingly.
“Not before I’m twenty-one,” I answered before I thought, and then
I grew pink. Viola laughed, as Maria, the new maid, opened the door
for us. “Oh, he’ll get you,” she prophesied, “and he’ll court you
divinely. . . . It’s plain that he doesn’t like me, but I like and
admire him in spite of it. . . . And you know lots of women go right
along with their careers after marriage.”
I didn’t answer that, but I did know that if I ever did marry, my first
thought would be to follow, as nearly as I could, the fine career my
Mother had had and to make my husband as comfortable and as happy as
Mother had made Father. For I feel that that should come first.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said, sharply, after we had gone in the cool,
dim corridor, “I don’t want to have to think about it yet.”
“Sorry,” she said. And I said I was sorry I had been cross. Then the
Pension door opened again, and Leslie, followed by a tall, bronzed
man, came in. I liked his looks, and I was reassured for him, after I
met him, for he had something of Leslie’s manner--an almost lordly,
commanding, I-want-what-I-want-when-I-want-it-and-I-intend-to-get-it
air. I think a good many people who have had _too_ much money and have
been able to issue _too_ many orders get that. But if Leslie was going
to marry him--and I found soon she was--I knew he would need it.
He stayed for dinner and was very charming to every one, but most
charming to Leslie and after he left, Leslie came to my room to talk.
“Well?” she questioned from the doorway.
“I like him,” I answered, as she came toward me.
“I love him,” she said, and she said it as sensibly and openly as I had
ever heard her say anything, “and,” she continued, “he is going to let
me marry him.”
I laughed, and she joined me.
“It isn’t a joke,” she stated after a moment.
“I know it,” I answered.
“He said he had been worried ever since that New York visit, over
hurting me,” she went on, “and that, when I dismissed him, he realized
he had been stupid in not knowing before that I had grown up. And he
said, when he realized I was grown up, that he suddenly began to care
for me in a different way. And you know how I feel--”
(She fumbled for a pink linen handkerchief, wiped her eyes and then
blew her nose)
“And when I told him I’d cried over him, it almost killed him, but--he
liked it,” she ended.
I knew he would have liked it, because men all do thoroughly enjoy
hearing about women who cry because they love them (the men) which
seems funny when you consider that, if the same men see them cry, they
almost have a fit and are _far_ from comfortable. But, as I read in
some book, Life is one vast riddle.
“I’m very happy,” said Leslie, as she stood up. And I said I was very
glad and that I hoped she would keep on being so even after she was
married and settled down. And she said she expected to, and then she
said, in a quick, remembering way, “Oh--” and brought out an unstamped
note that was addressed to me by Miss Sheila.
“Ben brought this,” she said, “I think from New York; anyway he saw
Aunt Sheila somewhere--” and then she left, and I, alone, read the
note, which held surprising and nice news for me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A WALK ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON
Miss Sheila was at the Convent of San Girolamo, which is a hospital
that is managed by nuns, at Fiesole. And she had written me about her
plan to go there before the ship landed.
“I was very stupid and caught a little cold,”
(I saw in her pretty hand. Later I found out that she had come as close
to pneumonia as any one can!)
“and the ship’s doctor thinks I should rest a little while.
So I am going to San Girolamo where I spent a few happy weeks
when I was a girl and half ailing, and you, dear child, must
come to see me there. I am going to ask you not to tell Leslie
I am here just now. I am very much ashamed to confess it, but
the idea of much chatter appals me. Ben--who I imagine may see
her!--has promised to keep quiet until I am myself, and ready
to join in all the fun. And then--some parties!
“Meanwhile, my dear, only your quiet, small self, and I hope
I shall see you soon--Friday? You need not let me know if you
can’t come then, but if you can, be assured of a warm welcome
from your
“Loving
“SHEILA P.”
Of course I went, and as soon as I saw Miss Sheila I knew why she
was afraid of noise, for it was easy to see that she had been really
sick. She was quite as pretty as ever, but her skin looked too
transparent and it flushed too easily, and I noticed that small beads
of perspiration stood out on her smooth forehead and short upper lip,
simply from the little exertion and excitement of seeing me. As soon as
I noticed that, I talked, very slowly and steadily, about the valley
that lay below us, and I didn’t look at her until, after a silence, she
said:
“Jane--you are rather a marvelous child, do you know it? And a great
comfort. You have what made your mother the best nurse I have ever
known, a great deal of real _understanding_.”
Well, I didn’t agree with her, and I knew she was too kind, but I _did_
have enough understanding of her stretched, weak, shaky feeling to
know that it wasn’t the time to say--as Leslie or Viola would--“How
perfectly _sweet_ of you! I am _enchanted! Nothing_ could please me
more! But _why_ did you say that? _Won’t_ you explain?”
Instead I said “Thank you,” which may have given the impression that
I accepted all she said--however, that didn’t matter; the thing that
mattered was getting her to sit back in her deck chair and lose her
wound up feeling and really rest.
“How is it going?” she asked, after I had asked the name of a big
monastery that lay about half way down the hill below us.
“Very well,” I answered, “Mother wrote me that the music committee of
the Presbyterian Church are going to employ a substitute until I come
back; that they told Daddy I was really engaged. And Signor Paggi is
going to see that I have some lessons from an organist here to freshen
me up--I took organ lessons at home, you know--and no end of people
tell Mother that they are going to take lessons from me, and it’s all
very satisfactory, and so wonderful that sometimes I can’t believe it
is true!”
Miss Sheila smiled at me, said a warm, “Dear _child_!” and then I could
feel her draw into a shell. I think that she was afraid I would try to
thank her for all that she’d done, and that she wasn’t equal to it. So
I said, very quickly, “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” and she answered
with relief.
Then a sweet-faced sister came toward us between the rose bushes which
made a narrow path of the terrace up to the open spot where we sat.
She carried a cup of chocolate for Miss Sheila, and she wanted to get
one for me, but I wouldn’t let her. Then she said, “Drink this, dear,”
to Miss Sheila; asked if she were tired, looked at me searchingly, and
then smiled and gave my shoulder a little pat, and went off in her
gentle, smooth way.
“They are so kind,” said Miss Sheila, “and sometimes I think that this
is the most beautiful spot in the world.”
I didn’t blame her for thinking so, (though her thinking so confessed
that she hadn’t seen Mr. Wake’s garden) for the place is most lovely.
It is, in some way connected with Cosimo I, it is said, and the Medici
coat of arms is to be found around in different spots. It is a very old
building, and it is, like everything else on the hillside, perched on
the slant with all its lovely gardens planted on steps. And down below
spreads out the country with little blazing yellow roadways, and pink
and tan villas, and groves of gentle green olive trees, and a church
and monastery that often send up the soft sound of bells. . . . And of
course the sunshine spreads over everything like a gold mantle, and the
little grey-green olive leaves shimmer under every small breeze that
comes along, and sometimes the song of a peasant girl rises. . . . And
of course there were rose leaves scattered on the terraces--blown from
this or that bush--and the scents of many flowers in the warm soft air.
I can’t describe it, but some day some one will describe it, and then
he will be able to build a villa that is richer and prouder and larger
than another one that the Medicis built out near Fiesole--the one where
Queen Victoria often visited--for a real description would make a real
fortune!
“You like it, don’t you!” asked Miss Sheila, after she had drunk the
chocolate and eaten the small biscuit, and I had set her cup down on
the soft, short grass. I nodded. It is hard for me to _say_ I like
things when I do like them very much.
“It has changed you,” said Miss Sheila, “there is a new light in your
eyes; the light of dreams, I think--and now tell me about things, your
friends, your work, and Signor Paggi--” and I did.
Of course I had to mention Mr. Wake, and each time I did I faltered and
grew conscious, although there was no reason for my doing this, since
Miss Sheila had not known Terrence Wake, but a boy who was Terrence
O’Gilvey.
He came up quite naturally through my hopes for Miss Meek, and Mr.
Wake’s plan for Mr. Hemmingway--he was going to let Mr. Hemmingway
stay in his villa for the summer months, which would be a great treat
for any one and heaven for a man who had lived for years in a dull
pension--and through his befriending Sam, who was doing so well, and
promising to do much more than well.
“How kind your Mr. Wake must be,” said Miss Sheila.
“He is,” I answered.
“I’d like to meet him,” she said.
“He’s dreadfully shy,” I responded, after that kind of a hard swallow
that rasps and scratches as it goes down.
“Heavens, and earth! No man ought to be afraid of an old woman like
me!” Miss Sheila mused.
“You aren’t old,” I put in, and almost sharply. “You have a prettier
skin than I have, and as Leslie said, your silver hair simply adds a
note of ‘chic.’”
Miss Sheila laughed. “That sounds like Leslie,” she commented, and
that led her to change the subject, for which I was grateful. “Odd, my
coming over with Ben Forbes, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, wasn’t it?”
“Nice man, really. Has something of the Grand Commander manner,
but--he’ll need it. Splendid arrangement I honestly think. . . . I want
to meet your Sam.”
“I want you to meet him. But he’s not mine,” I answered.
“But I hope you’ll marry some time,” said Miss Sheila. “Go home and
work a few years if you like, dear, but if you care for any one, and
any one cares for you, don’t let any one, or anything stand between
you; it doesn’t pay.” She paused a moment. “But,” she continued after
this little interval, “if love doesn’t come, I think that a profession
to which you really belong, and a work that would expand through your
own effort, and so grow more interesting to you all the time--I think
that this would be a good insurance against loneliness.”
I looked at her quickly as she spoke of loneliness. She was staring off
down below where there was a two wheeled, peasant cart lumbering up a
winding hill road; but I felt that she didn’t see that, nor even hear
the shrill, protesting squeaks that came from the unoiled hubs; and for
that moment she came as close to looking tired and faded as I had ever
seen her look.
“Sometimes,” she stated, in the crisp way she occasionally spoke,
“being an old maid is a _lonely_ business; especially when one is half
ill, Jane, and would like a man to tiptoe into the room and knock over
the waste basket, and get off a muffled ‘Damn,’ and poke the smelling
salts at you, and then wheeze out a loudly whispered, ‘Feeling _any
better_?’”
Her picture made me smile, but it made me feel _very_ sad for her, and
it all did seem so useless, when down the hill, not half a mile, Mr.
Wake was so lonely, too! But of course I could do nothing about it.