clasped. The touch shook Claudia; she sank down beside the bed and hid
her face.
"Stay; it is far better," whispered the wife. "Then it will be over. By
going away you will only think about it the more."
"Yes, I know. But--"
"I will answer for all. I know you better than--you know yourself. When
you see us together, it will be different to you. Stay, to please me."
"Very well," murmured the girl.
They kissed each other, and she rose. When she had reached the door Mrs.
Lenox spoke again. "Of course, you know that I quite understand that it
is only a girl's fancy," she said, with a tender lightness. This was her
offering to Claudia.
On the evening of the seventh day after the funeral Stephen Lenox came
back; he had sent a despatch to his wife from Conegliano, and Blake was
therefore able to meet him at Mestre, and tell him what had happened. He
went directly home, and the others did not see him until the next
evening. Then he came across to the larger palace. Blake was there; he
kept himself rather constantly with Mrs. Marcy now, perhaps to direct
that lady's somewhat wandering inspirations. For this occasion he had
warned her that she must not be too sympathetic, that she must be on her
guard. So Mrs. Marcy was "on her guard;" she only took out her
handkerchief four times; she even talked of the weather. Claudia
scarcely spoke. Blake himself conducted the conversation, and filled all
the gaps. They could naturally say a good deal about the health of Mrs.
Lenox, as that lady had been obliged to keep her room for the three
preceding days. Lenox did not stay long; he said he must go back to his
wife. As he rose he gave the small portfolio he had brought with him to
Claudia. "I don't think they were Titians," he said. "But I sketched
them for you as well as I could."
Mrs. Marcy thought this an opportunity; she took the portfolio, and
exclaimed over each picture. Blake, too, put up his eye-glass to look at
them. Lenox said a word or two about them and waited a moment longer;
then he went away. Claudia had not glanced at them.
He never knew of her visit to his wife; those are the secrets women keep
for each other, unto and beyond the grave.
What passed when he came home was simple enough. His wife cried when she
saw him; she had not cried before. She told him the history of the
little boy's last hours, and of all he had said, and of the funeral.
Then they had talked a while of her health, and then of future plans.
"I ought to have remembered that you were anxious about him even before
I went away," said Lenox, going back abruptly to the first subject. He
was standing by the window, looking out; this was an hour after his
return.
"But he had been ill so many times. No, it was something we could not
foresee, and as such we must accept it. I wanted you to go--don't you
remember? I urged your going. You must not blame yourself about it."
"But I do," answered her husband.
"I cannot allow you to; I shall never allow it. To me, Stephen, all you
do is right; I wish to hear nothing that could even seem otherwise. I
trust you entirely, and always shall."
He turned. She was lying back in an easy-chair, supported by pillows. He
came across and sat down beside her, his head bent forward, his elbows
resting on his knees, his face in his hands. He did not speak.
"Because I know that I can," added the wife.
That was all.
They stayed on together in Venice through another two weeks. Mrs. Lenox
improved daily, and was soon able to go about with them. She seemed,
indeed, to bloom into a new youth. "It is the reaction after the long,
wearing care of that child," explained Mrs. Marcy. "And isn't it
beautiful to see how devoted he is to her, and how careful of her in
every way? But I have always noticed what a devoted husband he was,
haven't you?"
These two ladies and Mr. Blake were going to Baden-Baden. But the others
were going back to America. "We may return some time," said Lenox; "but
at present I think we want a home."
"I wish we could have stayed on together always, just as we are now,"
sighed the sentimental lily, smoothing the embroidered edge of her
handkerchief. "_Such_ a pleasant party, and of just the right size;
these last two weeks have been so perfect!"
The time for parting came. The three who were going to Baden-Baden were
to leave at dawn, and they had come across to Mrs. Lenox's parlor to
spend a last hour. Claudia talked more than usual, and talked well; she
looked brilliant.
At the end of the second hour the good-byes began in earnest.
Everything that was appropriate was said, Blake, in particular,
delivering himself unblushingly of one long fluent commonplace after
another. They were to meet again--oh, very soon; they were to visit each
other; they were to write frequently--one would have supposed, indeed,
that Blake intended to send a daily telegraphic despatch. At last the
lily, having kept them all standing for twenty minutes, bestowed upon
Mrs. Lenox a final kiss, and really did start, the two gentlemen and
Claudia accompanying her down the long hall. But the hall was dark, and
Claudia was behind; without the knowledge of the others she slipped
back.
Mrs. Lenox was standing where they had left her. When she saw the girl
returning, pale, repressed, all the sparkle gone, she went to her, and
put her arms round her; Claudia laid her head down upon the other's
shoulder. Thus they stood for several moments in silence. Then, still
without speaking, Claudia went away.
When Mrs. Marcy reached the stairway which led down to her own
apartment, on the other side of the hall bridge, "Why, where is
Claudia?" she said.
"Here I am," said her niece, appearing from the darkness.
"You will come down with us for a moment, won't you, Mr. Lenox?"
suggested the lily. "Just for one _last_ look?"
"Do not ask him," said Claudia, smiling; "he is worn out! We have
already extended that look over two long hours. Good-bye, Mr. Lenox; and
this time, I think, is really the last."
* * * * *
BY CONSTANCE F. WOOLSON.
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Constance Fenimore Woolson may easily become the novelist
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Front Yard, by Constance Fenimore Woolson