“I shall not go if you will permit what I have asked.”
“Isn’t it rather suddenly planned?” she said, ironically. “You did not know we were coming.”
“Very suddenly. I have thought of it only since yesterday.”
They had strolled into a narrow path which led by one of those patches of underwood of which there are several in the Cascine—little bosky places carefully preserved in a tangled wildness which is so pretty and amusing to American eyes, accustomed to the stretch of real forests.
“You don’t know how I love these little patches,” said Miss Stowe. “There is such a good faith about them; they are charming.”
“You were always fond of nature, I remember. I used to tell you that art was better.”
“Ah! did you?” she said, her eyes following the flight of a bird.
“You have forgotten very completely in one year.”
“Yes, I think I have. I always forget, you know, what it is not agreeable to remember. But I must go back; Aunt Ruth will be waiting.” They turned.
“I will speak more plainly,” said Morgan. “I went to England during July last—that is, I followed Mrs. Lovell. She was in Devonshire. Quite recently I have learned that she has become engaged in—Devonshire, and is soon to be married there. I am naturally rather down about it. I am seeking some other interest. I should like to try your plan for a while, and build up an interest in—you.”
Miss Stowe’s lip curled. “The plans are not alike,” she said. “Yours is badly contrived. I did not tell you beforehand what I was endeavoring to do!”
“I am obliged to tell you. You would have discovered it.”
“Discovered what a pretence it was? That is true. A woman can act a part better than a man. You did not discover! And what am I to do in this little comedy of yours?”
“Nothing. It is, in truth, nothing to you; you have told me that, even when you made a great effort towards that especial object, it was impossible to get up the slightest interest in me. Do not take a violent dislike to me; that is all.”
“And if it is already taken?”
“I shall have to conquer that. What I meant was—do not take a fresh one.”
“There is nothing like precedent, and therefore I repeat your question: what if you should succeed—I mean as regards yourself?” she said, looking at him with a satirical expression.
“It is my earnest wish to succeed.”
“You do not add, as I did, that in case you do succeed you will of course never see me again, but that at least the miserable old feeling will be at rest?”
“I do not add it.”
“And at the conclusion, when it has failed, shall you tell me that the cause of failure was—the inevitable comparisons?”
“Beatrice is extremely lovely,” he replied, turning his head and gazing at the Arno, shining through an opening in the hedge. “I do not attempt to pretend, even to myself, that she is not the loveliest woman I ever knew.”
“Since you do not pretend it to yourself you will not pretend it to me.”
She spoke without interrogation; but he treated the words as a question. “Why should I?” he said. And then he was silent.
“There is Aunt Ruth,” said Miss Stowe; “I see the horses. She is probably wondering what has become of me.”
“You have not altogether denied me,” he said, just before they reached the carriage. “I assure you I will not be in the least importunate. Take a day or two to consider. After all, if there is no one upon whom it can really infringe (of course I know you have admirers; I have even heard their names), why should you not find it even a little amusing?”
Miss Stowe turned towards him, and a peculiar expression came into her eyes as they met his. “I am not sure but that I shall find it so,” she answered. And then they joined Miss Harrison.
The day or two had passed. There had been no formal question asked, and no formal reply given; but as Miss Stowe had not absolutely forbidden it, the experiment may be said to have been begun. It was soon reported in Florence that Trafford Morgan was one of the suitors for the hand of the heiress; and, being a candidate, he was of course subjected to the searching light of Public Inquiry. Public Inquiry discovered that he was thirty-eight years of age; that he had but a small income; that he was indolent, indifferent, and cynical. Not being able to find any open vices, Public Inquiry considered that he was too blasé to have them; he had probably exhausted them all long before. All this Madame Ferri repeated to Miss Harrison, not because she was in the least opposed to Mr. Morgan, but simply as part of her general task as gatherer and disseminator.
“Trafford Morgan is not a saint, but he is well enough in his way,” replied Miss Harrison. “I am not at all sure that a saint would be agreeable in the family.”
Madame Ferri was much amused by this; but she carried away the impression also that Miss Harrison favored the suitor.
In the meantime nothing could be more quiet than the manner of the supposed suitor when he was with Miss Stowe. He now asked questions of her; when they went to the churches, he asked her impressions of the architecture; when they visited the galleries, he asked her opinions of the pictures. He inquired what books she liked, and why she liked them; and sometimes he slowly repeated her replies.
This last habit annoyed her. “I wish you would not do that,” she said, with some irritation. “It is like being forced to look at one’s self in a mirror.”
“I do it to analyze them,” he answered. “I am so dense, you know, it takes me a long time to understand. When you say, for instance, that Romola is not a natural character because her love for Tito ceases, I, who think that the unnatural part is that she should ever have loved him, naturally dwell upon the remark.”
“She would have continued to love him in life. Beauty is all powerful.”
“I did not know that women cared much for it,” he answered. Then, after a moment, “Do not be too severe upon me,” he added; “I am doing my best.”
She made no reply.
“I thought certainly you would have answered, ‘By contrast?’” he said, smiling. “But you are not so satirical as you were. I cannot make you angry with me.”
“Have you tried?”
“Of course I have tried. It would be a step gained to move you—even in that way.”
“I thought your experiment was to be all on one side?” she said. They were sitting in a shady corner of the cloisters of San Marco; she was leaning back in her chair, following with the point of her parasol the lines of the Latin inscription on the slab at her feet over an old monk’s last resting-place.
“I am not so consistent as I should be,” he answered, rising and sauntering off, with his hands in the pockets of his short morning-coat, to look at St. Peter the Martyr.
At another time they were in the Michael Angelo chapel of San Lorenzo. It was past the hour for closing, but Morgan had bribed the custode to allow them to remain, and the old man had closed the door and gone away, leaving them alone with the wondrous marbles.
“What do they mean?” he said. “Tell me.”
“They mean fate, our sad human fate: the beautiful Dawn in all the pain of waking; the stern determination of the Day; the recognition of failure in Evening; and the lassitude of dreary, hopeless sleep in Night. It is one way of looking at life.”
“But not your way?”
“Oh, I have no way; I am too limited. But genius takes a broader view, and genius, I suppose, must always be sad. People with that endowment, I have noticed, are almost always very unhappy.”
He was sitting beside her, and, as she spoke, he saw a little flush rise in her cheeks; she was remembering when Mrs. Lovell had used the same words, although in another connection.
“We have never spoken directly, or at any length, of Beatrice,” she said, suddenly. “I wish you would tell me about her
.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here and now; Lorenzo shall be your judge.”
“I am not afraid of Lorenzo. He is not a god; on the contrary, he has all our deepest humanity on his musing face; it is for this reason that he impresses us so powerfully. As it is the first time you have expressed any wish, Miss Stowe, I suppose I must obey it.”
“Will it be difficult?”
“It is always difficult, is it not, for a man to speak of an unhappy love?” he said, leaning his elbow on the back of the seat, and shading his eyes with his hand as he looked at her.
“I will excuse you.”
“I have not asked to be excused. I first met Mrs. Lovell in Sicily. I was with her almost constantly during five weeks. She is as lovable as a rose—as a peach—as a child.” He paused.
“Your comparisons are rather remarkable,” said Miss Stowe, her eyes resting upon the grand massiveness of Day.
“They are truthful. I fell in love with her; and I told her so because there was that fatal thing, an opportunity—that is, a garden-seat, starlight, and the perfume of flowers. Of course these were irresistible.”
“Indeed?”
“Do not be contemptuous. It is possible that you may not have been exposed to the force of the combination as yet. She rebuked me with that lovely, gentle softness of hers, and then she went away; the Sicilian days were over. I wrote to her—”
He was sitting in the same position, with his hand shading his eyes, looking at her; as he spoke the last phrase he perceived that she colored, and colored deeply.
“You knew the story generally,” he said, dropping his arm and leaning forward. “But it is not possible you saw that letter!”
She rose and walked across, as if to get a nearer view of Day. “I admire it so much!” she said, after a moment. “If it should stretch out that great right arm, it could crush us to atoms.” And she turned towards him again.
As she did she saw that he had colored also; a deep, dark flush had risen in his face, and covered even his forehead.
“I am safe—very safe!” he said. “After reading such a letter as that, written to another woman, you are not likely to bestow much regard upon the writer, try as he may!”
Miss Stowe looked at him. “You are overacting,” she said, coldly. “It is not in your part to pretend to care so soon. It was to be built up gradually.”
“Lorenzo understands me,” he said, recovering himself. “Shall I go on?”
“I think I must go now,” she answered, declining a seat; “it is late.”
“In a moment. Let me finish, now that I have begun. I had thought of returning to America; indeed, Beatrice had advised it; she thought I was becoming expatriated. But I gave it up and remained in Italy because I did not wish to appear too much her slave (women do not like men who obey them too well, you know). After this effort I was consistent enough to follow her to England. I found her in—Devonshire, lovelier than ever; and I was again fascinated; I was even ready to accept beforehand all the rules and embargo of the strictest respect to the memory of Mr. Lovell.”
Miss Stowe’s eyes were upon Day; but here, involuntarily, she glanced towards her companion. His face remained unchanged.
“I was much in love with her. She allowed me no encouragement. But I did not give up a sort of vague hope I had until this recent change. Then, of course, I knew that it was all over for me.”
“I am sorry for you,” replied Miss Stowe after a pause, still looking at Day.
“Of course I have counted upon that—upon your sympathy. I knew that you would understand.”
“Spare me the quotation, ‘A fellow-feeling,’ and so forth,” she said, moving towards the door. “I am going; I feel as though we had already desecrated too long this sacred place.”
“It is no desecration. The highest heights of art, as well as of life, belong to love,” he said, as they went out into the cool, low hall, paved with the gravestones of the Medici.
“Don’t you always think of them lying down below?” she said. “Giovanni in his armor, and Leonore of Toledo in her golden hair?”
“Since when have you become so historical? They were a wicked race.”
“And since when have you become so virtuous?” she answered. “They were at least successful.”
Time passed. It has a way of passing rapidly in Florence; although each day is long and slow and full and delightful, a month flies. Again the season was waning. It was now believed that Mr. Morgan had been successful, although nothing definite was known. It was remarked how unusually well Miss Stowe looked: her eyes were so bright and she had so much color that she really looked brilliant. Madame Ferri repeated this to Miss Harrison.
“Margaret was always brilliant,” said her aunt.
“Oh, extremely!” said Madame Ferri.
“Only people never found it out,” added Miss Harrison.
She herself maintained a calm and uninquiring demeanor. Sometimes she was with her niece and her niece’s supposed suitor, and sometimes not. She continued to receive him with the same affability which she had bestowed upon him from the first, and occasionally she invited him to dinner and to drive. She made no comment upon the frequency of his visits, or the length of his conversations upon the little balcony in the evening, where the plash of the fountain came faintly up from below. In truth she had no cause for solicitude; nothing could be more tranquil than the tone of the two talkers. Nothing more was said about Mrs. Lovell; conversation had sunk back into the old impersonal channel.
“You are very even,” Morgan said one evening. “You do not seem to have any moods. I noticed it last year.”
“One is even,” she replied, “when one is—”
“Indifferent,” he suggested.
She did not contradict him.
Two things she refused to do: she would not sing, and she would not go to the Boboli Garden.
“As I am especially fond of those tall, ceremonious old hedges and serene statues, you cut me off from a real pleasure,” said Morgan.
It was on the evening of the 16th of May; they were sitting by the open window; Miss Harrison was not present.
“You can go there after we have gone,” she said, smiling. “We leave to-morrow.”
“You leave to-morrow!” he repeated. Then, after an instant, “It is immensely kind to tell me beforehand,” he said, ironically. “I should have thought you would have left it until after your departure!”
She made no reply, but fanned herself slowly with the beautiful gray fan.
“I suppose you consider that the month is more than ended, and that you are free?”
“You have had all you asked for, Mr. Morgan.”
“And therefore I have now only to thank you for your generosity, and let you go.”
“I think so.”
“You do not care to know the result of my experiment—whether it has been a failure or a success?” he said. “You told me the result of yours.”
“I did not mean to tell you. It was forced from me by your misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstandings, because so slight that one cannot attack them, are horrible things. Let there be none between us now.”
“There is none.”
“I do not know.” He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the soft darkness of the Italian night. “I have one more favor to ask,” he said, presently. “You have granted me many; grant me this. At what hour do you go to-morrow?”
“In the afternoon.”
“Give me a little time with you in the Boboli Garden in the morning.”
“You are an accomplished workman, Mr. Morgan; you want to finish with a polish; you do not like to leave rough ends. Be content; I will accept the intention as carried out, and suppose that all the last words have been beautifully and shiningly spoken. That will do quite as well.”
“Put any construction upon it you please,” he answered. “But consent.”
But it was with great difficulty that he obtained that consent.
“There is really nothing you can say that I care to hear,” she declared, at last.
“The king is dead! My time is ended, evidently! But, as there is something you can say which I care to hear, I again urge you to consent.”
Miss Stowe rose, and passed through the long window into the lighted empty room, decked as usual with many flowers; here she stood, looking at him, as he entered also.
“I have tried my best to prevent it,” she said.
“You have.”
“And you still insist?”
“I do.”
“Very well; I consent. But you will not forget that I tried,” she said. “Good-night.”
The next morning at ten, as he entered the old amphitheatre, he saw her; she was sitting on one of the upper stone seats, under a statue of Diana.
“I would rather go to our old place,” he said, as he came up; “the seat under the tree, you know.”
“I like this better.”
“As you prefer, of course. It will be more royal, more in state; but, to be in accordance with it, you should have been clothed in something majestic, instead of that soft, yielding hue.”
“That is hardly necessary,” she answered.
“By which you mean, I suppose, that your face is not yielding. And indeed it is not.”
She was dressed in cream color from head to foot; she held open, poised on one shoulder, a large, heavily fringed, cream-colored parasol. Above this soft drapery and under this soft shade the darkness of her hair and eyes was doubly apparent.
He took a seat beside her, removed his hat, and let the breeze play over his head and face; it was a warm summer morning, and they were in the shadow.
“I believe I was to tell you the result of my experiment,” he said, after a while, breaking the silence which she did not break.
“You wished it; I did not ask it.”
If she was cool, he was calm; he was not at all as he had been the night before; then he had seemed hurried and irritated, now he was quiet. “The experiment has succeeded,” he said, deliberately. “I find myself often thinking of you; I like to be with you; I feel when with you a sort of satisfied content. What I want to ask is—I may as well say it at once—Will not this do as the basis of a better understanding between us?”
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