THE HOME-COMING OF THE REBEL.
The covered gallery which ran along the back of the house was flooded
in the afternoon with sunshine. Here, as the day declined, I loved to
pace, basking in the warmth and rejoicing in the brightness, for mild
and clear as the day might be out of doors, within the thick-walled
palace it was always mirk and chill.
The long, high wall of the gallery was covered with pictures--chiefly
paintings of dead and gone Brogi--most of them worthless, taken singly;
taken collectively, interesting as a study of the varieties of family
types.
Here was Bianca, to the life, painted two centuries ago; the old
Marchese looked out from a dingy canvass 300 years old at least, and
a curious mixture of Romeo and his sister disported itself in powder
amid a florid eighteenth century family group. Conspicuous among so
much indifferent workmanship hung a genuine Bronzino of considerable
beauty, representing a young man, whose charming aspect was scarcely
marred by his stiff and elaborate fifteenth century costume. The dark
eyes of this picture had a way of following one up and down the gallery
in a rather disconcerting manner; already I had woven a series of
little legends about him, and had decided that he left his frame at
night, like the creatures in "Ruddygore," to roam the house as a ghost
where once he had lived as a man.
Opposite the pictures, on which they shed their light, was a row of
windows, set close together deep in the thick wall, and rising almost
to the ceiling. They were not made open, but through their numerous and
dingy panes I could see across the roofs of the town to the hills, or
down below to where a neglected bit of territory, enclosed between high
walls, did duty as a garden.
In one corner of this latter stood a great ilex tree, its massive grey
trunk old and gnarled, its blue-green foliage casting a wide shadow.
Two or three cypresses, with their broom-like stems, sprang from the
overgrown turf, which, at this season of the year, was beginning to be
yellow with daffodils, and a thick growth of laurel bushes ran along
under the walls. An empty marble basin, approached by broken pavement,
marked the site of a forgotten fountain, the stone-crop running riot
about its borders; the house-leek thrusting itself every now and then
through the interstices of shattered stone. Forlorn, uncared for as was
this square of ground, it had for me a mysterious attraction; it seemed
to me that there clung to it through all change of times and weathers,
something of the beauty in desolation which makes the charm of Italy.
It was about four o'clock on Thursday afternoon, and I was wandering up
and down the gallery in the sunshine.
I was alone for the first time during the last three days, and was
making the best of this brief respite from the gregarious life to
which I saw myself doomed for some time to come. The ladies were out
driving, paying calls and making a few last purchases for the coming
festivities. In the evening Andrea was expected, and an atmosphere of
excitement pervaded the whole household.
"They are really fond of him, it seems," I mused; "these people who, as
far as I can make out, are so cold."
Then I leaned my forehead disconsolately against the window, and had a
little burst of sadness all by myself.
The constant strain of the last few days had tired me. I longed
intensely for peace, for rest, for affection, for the sweet and simple
kindliness of home.
I had even lost my interest in the coming event which seemed to
accentuate my forlornness.
What were other people's brothers to me? Let mother or one of the girls
come out to me, and I would not be behindhand in rejoicing. "No one
wants me, no one cares for me, and I don't care for any one either,"
I said to myself gloomily, brushing away a stray tear with the back
of my hand. Then I moved from the window and my contemplation of the
ilex tree, and began slowly pacing down the gallery, which was getting
fuller every minute of the thick golden sunlight.
But suddenly my heart seemed to stop beating, my blood froze, loud
pulses fell to throbbing in my ears. I remained rooted to the spot with
horror, while my eyes fixed themselves on a figure, which, as yet on
the further side of a shaft of moted sunlight, was slowly advancing
towards me from the distant end of the gallery.
"Is it the Bronzino come to life?" whispered a voice in the back
recess of my consciousness. The next moment I was laughing at my own
fears, and was contemplating with interest and astonishment the very
flesh-and-blood presentiment of a modern gentleman which stood bowing
before me.
"I fear I have startled you," said a decidedly human voice, speaking
in English, with a peculiar accent, while the speaker looked straight
at me with a pair of dark eyes that were certainly like those of the
Bronzino.
"Oh, no; it was my own fault for being so stupid," I answered rather
breathlessly, shaken out of my self-possession.
"I am Andrea Brogi," he said, with a little bow; "and I believe I have
the pleasure of addressing Miss Clarke?"
"I am Miss Meredith, your sister's governess," I answered, feeling
perhaps a little hurt that the substitution of one English teacher
for another had not been thought a matter of sufficient importance
for mention in the frequent letters which the family had been in the
habit of sending to America. Andrea, with great simplicity, went on to
explain his presence in the gallery.
"I am some hours before my time, you see. I had miscalculated the
trains between this and Livorno. Now don't you think this a nice
reception, Miss Meredith?" he went on, with a smile and a sadder
change of tone. "No one to meet me at the depôt, no one to meet me
at home! Father and brother at the club, mother and sister amusing
themselves in the town."
His remark scarcely seemed to admit of a reply; it was not my place to
assure him of his welcome, and I got out of the situation with a smile.
He looked at me again, this time more attentively. "But I fear you were
really frightened just now. You are pale still and trembling. Did you
think I was a ghost?"
"I thought--I thought you were the Bronzino come down from its frame,"
I answered, astonished at my own daring. The complete absence of
self-consciousness in my companion, the delight, moreover, of being
addressed in fluent English, gave me courage.
As I spoke, I moved over half-unconsciously to the picture in question.
Andrea, smiling gently, followed me, and planting himself before
the canvas contemplated it with a genuine naïve interest that was
irresistible.
I stood by, uncertain whether to go or stay, furtively regarding him.
"Was there ever such a creature," I thought; "with your handsome
serious face, your gentle dignified air for all the world like Romeo's;
with your sweet Italian voice and your ridiculous American accent--and
the general suggestion about you of an old bottle with new wine poured
in--only in this case by no means to the detriment of the bottle?"
At this point the unconscious object of my meditation broke in upon it.
"Why, yes," said Andrea, calmly, "I had never noticed it before, but I
really am uncommonly like the fellow."
As he spoke, he fixed his eyes, frank as a child's, upon my face.
As for me, I could not forbear smiling; whereupon Andrea, struck with
the humour of the thing, broke into a radiant and responsive smile. I
thought I had never seen any one so funny or so charming.
At this point a bell rang through the house. "That must be my mother,"
he said, growing suddenly alert. "Miss Meredith, you will excuse me."
I lingered in the gallery after he had left, but my forlorn and pensive
mood of ten minutes ago had vanished.
Rather wistfully, but with a certain excitement, I listened to the
confused sound of voices which echoed up from below.
Then I heard the whole party pass upstairs behind me, the heels of the
ladies clattering in a somewhat frenzied manner on the stones.
Annunziata was laughing and crying, the Marchesa was talking earnestly,
the young ladies scattered ejaculations as they went. Every now and
then I caught the clear tones of Andrea's voice.
At dinner that night there was high festival. Every one talked
incessantly, even Romeo and his father. We had a turkey stuffed with
chestnuts, and the Marchese brought forth his choicest wines. At the
beginning of the meal I had been introduced to the new arrival, and,
for no earthly reason, neither had made mention of the less formal
fashion in which we had become acquainted. Some friends dropped in
after dinner, and Andrea was again the hero of the hour--a rather
trying position, which he bore with astonishing grace. As for me, I sat
sewing in a distant corner of the room, content with my spectator's
place, growing more and more interested in the spectacle.
"That Costanza!" I thought, rather crossly, as I observed the handsome
Contessima smiling archly at Andrea above her fan. "I wonder how long
the little comedy will be a-playing? As for the end, that, I suppose,
is a foregone conclusion." Then I bent my head over my crewelwork
again. I was beginning to feel annoyed with Andrea for having passed
over our first meeting in silence; I was beginning also to wish I had
furred slippers like Bianca's, as a protection against the cold floor.
"Miss Meredith," said a voice at my elbow, "you are cold; your teeth
will soon begin to chatter in your head."
Then, before I knew what was happening, I was led from my corner, and
installed close to the kindling logs. And it was Andrea, the hero of
the day, who had done this thing; but had done it so quietly, so much
as a matter of course, as scarcely to attract attention, though the
Marchesa's eye fell on me coldly as I took up my new position.
"It really does make the place more alive," I reflected, as I laid my
head on my pillow that night. "I am quite glad the Marchesino is here.
And I wonder what he thinks of Costanza?"