"WILL YOU MAKE ME VERY HAPPY?"
I rose early next morning, and without waiting for my breakfast, ran
downstairs, made Pasquale, the vague servant, open the door for me, and
I escaped into the sunshine.
In the long and troubled night just passed I had come to a
resolution--I would go home.
From first to last, I told myself, the experiment had been a failure.
From first to last I had been out of touch with the people with whom
I had come to dwell; the almost undisguised hostility of the last few
days was merely the culmination of a growing feeling.
In that atmosphere of suspicion, of disapprobation, I could exist no
longer. Defeated, indeed, but in no wise disgraced, I would return
whence I came. I would tell them everything at home, and they would
understand.
That I had committed some mysterious breach of Italian etiquette,
outraged some notion of Italian propriety, I could not doubt; but at
least I had been guilty of nothing of which, judged by my own standard,
I could feel ashamed.
But my heart was very heavy as I sped on through the streets,
instinctively making my way to the cathedral.
It was the second week in March, and the spring was full upon us. The
grass in the piazza smelt of clover, and here and there on the brown
hills was the flush of blossoming peach or the snow of flowering
almonds.
In the soft light of the morning, cathedral, tower, and baptistery
seemed steeped in a divine calm. Their beauty filled me with a great
sadness. They were my friends; I had grown to love them, and now I was
leaving them, perhaps for ever.
Pacing up and down, and round about, I tried to fix my thoughts on my
plans, to consider with calmness my course of action. But this was the
upshot of all my endeavours, the one ridiculous irrelevant conclusion
at which I could arrive--"He is certainly not engaged to Costanza."
As I came round by the main door of the cathedral for perhaps the
twentieth time, I saw Andrea walking across the grass towards me.
A week ago, I had never seen his face; now as I watched him advancing
in the sunlight, it seemed that I had known him all my life. Never was
figure more familiar, never presence more reassuring, than that of this
stranger. The sight of him neither disturbed nor astonished me; now
that he was here, his coming seemed inevitable, part of the natural
order of things.
"Ah, I have found you," he said quietly, and we turned together and
strolled towards the Campo Santo.
"Do you often come here?" He stopped and looked at me dreamily.
"Often, often. It is all so beautiful and so sad."
"It is very sad."
"Do you not see how very beautiful it is?" I cried, "that there is
nothing like it in the whole world? And I am leaving it, and it breaks
my heart!"
"You are going away?"
"Yes." I was calm no longer, but strangely agitated. I turned away, and
began pacing to and fro.
"Ah! they have not made you happy?" His eyes flashed as he came up to
me.
"No," I said, "I am not happy; but it is nobody's fault. They do not
like me, and I cannot bear it any more. It has never happened to
me before--no one has thought me very wonderful, very clever, very
beautiful, very brilliant; but people have always liked me, and if I am
not liked I shall die."
With which foolish outbreak--which astonished no one more than the
speaker--I turned away again with streaming eyes.
"Let us come in here," said Andrea, still with that strange calm in
voice and manner, and together we passed into the Campo Santo.
A bird was singing somewhere among the cypresses; the daffodils rose
golden in the grass; the strip of sky between the cloisters was
intensely blue.
"Miss Meredith," said Andrea, taking my hand, "will you make me very
happy--will you be my wife?"
We were standing in the grass-plot, face to face, and he was very pale.
His words seemed the most natural thing in the world. I ought, perhaps,
to have made a protest, to have reminded him of family claims and dues,
to have made sure that love, not chivalry, was speaking.
But I only said, "Yes," very low, looking at him as we stood there
among the tombs, under the blue heavens.
* * * * * *
"As you came down the gallery, in the sunlight, with the little grey
gown, and the frightened look in the modest eyes, I said to myself,
'Here, with the help of God, comes my wife!'"
I do not know how long we had been in the cloisters, pacing slowly,
hand in hand, almost in silence. The sun was high in the heavens, and
the bird in the cypresses sang no more.
"Do you know," cried Andrea, stopping suddenly, and laughing, "here is
a most ridiculous thing! What is your name? for I haven't the ghost of
an idea!"
"Elsie." I laughed, too. The joke struck us both as an excellent one.
"Elsie! Ah, the sweet name! Elsie, Elsie! Was ever such a dear little
name? What shall we do next, Elsie, my friend?"
"Take me to the mountains!" I cried, suddenly aware that I was tired to
exhaustion, that I had had no sleep and no breakfast. "Take me to the
mountains; I have longed, longed for them all these days!"
I staggered a little, and closed my eyes.
When I opened them he was holding me in his arms, looking down
anxiously at my face.
"Yes, we will go to the mountains; but first I shall take you home, and
give you something to eat and drink, Elsie."