Constance Fenimore Woolson

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

  He did not finish the sentence, for she had turned from him suddenly, and was walking across the dusky space in the centre of the great temple whose foundations were so grandly laid six centuries ago.

  But he followed her and stopped her, almost by force, taking both her hands in his. “You must not do this,” he said; “you must not marry in that way. It is dangerous; it is horrible; for you, it is a crime.” Then, as he stood close to her and saw two tears well over and drop from her averted eyes, “Margaret! Margaret!” he said, “rather than that, it would have been better to have married even me.”

  She drew her hands from his, and covered her face; she was weeping.

  “Is it too late?” he whispered. “Is there a possibility— I love you very deeply,” he added. And, cold and indifferent as Florence considered him, his voice was broken.

  When they came round to the ray again, he gave the blind beggar all the small change he had about him; the old man thought it was a paper golconda.

  “You owe me another circuit,” he said; “you did not speak through fully half of the last one.”

  So they went around a second time.

  “Tell me when you first began to think about me,” he said, as they passed the choir. “Was it when you read that letter?”

  “It was an absurd letter.”

  “On the contrary, it was a very good one, and you know it. You have kept it?”

  “No; I burned it long ago.”

  “Not so very long! However, never fear; I will write you plenty more, and even better ones. I will go away on purpose.”

  They crossed the east end, under the great dome, and came around on the other side.

  “You said some bitter things to me in that old amphitheatre, Margaret; I shall always hate the place. But after all—for a person who was quite indifferent—were you not just a little too angry?”

  “It is easy to say that now,” she answered.

  They went down the north aisle.

  “Why did you stop and leave the room so abruptly when you were singing that song I asked for—you know, the ‘Semper Fidelis’?”

  “My voice failed.”

  “No; it was your courage. You knew then that you were no longer ‘fidelis’ to that former love of yours, and you were frightened by the discovery.”

  They reached the dark south end.

  “And now, as to that former love,” he said, pausing. “I will never ask you again; but here and now, Margaret, tell me what it was.”

  “It was not ‘a fascination’—like yours,” she answered.

  “Do not be impertinent, especially in a church. Mrs. Lovell was not my only fascination, I beg to assure you; remember, I am thirty-six years old. But now—what was it?”

  “A mistake.”

  “Good; but I want more.”

  “It was a will-o’-the-wisp that I thought was real.”

  “Better; but not enough.”

  “You ask too much, I think.”

  “I shall always ask it; I am horribly selfish; I warn you beforehand that I expect everything, in the most relentless way.”

  “Well, then, it was a fancy, Trafford, that I mistook for—” And the Duomo alone knows how the sentence was ended.

  As they passed, for the third time, on their way towards the door, the mural tablet to Giotto, Morgan paused. “I have a sort of feeling that I owe it to the old fellow,” he said. “I have always been his faithful disciple, and now he has rewarded me with a benediction. On the next high-festival his tablet shall be wreathed with the reddest of roses and a thick bank of heliotrope, as an acknowledgment of my gratitude.”

  It was; and no one ever knew why. If it had been in “the season,” the inquiring tourists would have been rendered distracted by the impossibility of finding out; but to the native Florentines attending mass at the cathedral, to whom the Latin inscription, “I am he through whom the lost Art of Painting was revived,” remains a blank, it was only a tribute to some “departed friend.”

  “And he is as much my friend as though he had not departed something over five centuries ago,” said Trafford; “of that I feel convinced.”

  “I wonder if he knows any better, now, how to paint an angel leaning from the sky,” replied Margaret.

  “Have you any idea why Miss Harrison invented that enormous fiction about you?” he said, as they drove homeward.

  “Not the least. We must ask her.”

  They found her in her easy-chair, beginning a new stocking. “I thought you were in Tadmor,” she said, as Trafford came in.

  “I started; but came back to ask a question. Why did you tell me that this young lady was going to be married?”

  “Well, isn’t she?” said Miss Harrison, laughing. “Sit down, you two, and confess your folly. Margaret has been ill all summer with absolute pining—yes, you have, child, and it is a woman’s place to be humble. And you, Trafford, did not look especially jubilant, either, for a man who has been immensely amused during the same space of time. I did what I could for you by inventing a sort of neutral ground upon which you could meet and speak. It is very neutral for the other man, you know, when the girl is going to be married; he can speak to her then as well as not! I was afraid last night that you were not going to take advantage of my invention; but I see that it has succeeded (in some mysterious way out in all this rain) better than I knew. It was, I think,” she concluded, as she commenced on a new needle, “a sort of experiment of mine—a Florentine experiment.”

  Trafford burst into a tremendous laugh, in which, after a moment, Margaret joined.

  “I don’t know what you two are laughing at,” said Miss Harrison, surveying them. “I should think you ought to be more sentimental, you know.”

  “To confess all the truth, Aunt Ruth,” said Trafford, going across and sitting down beside her, “Margaret and I have tried one or two of those experiments already!”

  At the Château of Corinne

  * * *

  ON the shores of Lake Leman there are many villas. For several centuries the vine-clad banks have been a favorite resting-place for visitors from many nations. English, French, Germans, Austrians, Poles, and Russians are found in the circle of strangers whose gardens fringe the lake northward from Geneva, eastward from Lausanne, and southward from Vevey, Clarens, and Montreux. Not long ago an American joined this circle. The American was a lady named Winthrop.

  Mrs. Winthrop’s villa was not one of the larger residences. It was an old-fashioned square mansion, half Swiss, half French, ending in a high-peaked roof, which came slanting sharply down over several narrowed half-stories, indicated by little windows like dove-perches—four in the broadest part, two above, then one winking all alone under the peak. On the left side a round tower, inappropriate but picturesque, joined itself to the square outline of the main building; the round tower had also a peaked roof, which was surmounted by a contorted ornament of iron somewhat resembling a letter S. Altogether the villa was the sort of a house which Americans are accustomed to call “quaint.” Its name was quaint also—Miolans la Tour, or, more briefly, Miolans. Cousin Walpole pronounced this “Miawlins.”

  Mrs. Winthrop had taken possession of the villa in May, and it was now late in August; Lake Leman therefore had enjoyed her society for three long months. Through all this time, in the old lake’s estimation, and notwithstanding the English, French, Germans, Austrians, Poles, and Russians, many of them titled, who were also upon its banks, the American lady remained an interesting presence. And not in the opinion of the old lake only, but in that also of other observers, less fluid and impersonal. Mrs. Winthrop was much admired. Miolans had entertained numerous guests during the summer; to-day, however, it held only the bona fide members of the family—namely, Mrs. Winthrop, her cousin Sylvia, and Mr. H. Walpole, Miss Sylvia’s cousin. Mr. H. Walpole was always called “Cousin Walpole” by Sylvia, who took
comfort in the name, her own (a grief to her) being neither more nor less than Pitcher. “Sylvia Pitcher” was not impressive, but “H. Walpole” could shine for two. If people supposed that H. stood for Horace, why, that was their own affair.

  Mrs. Winthrop, followed by her great white dog, had strolled down towards the lake. After a while she came within sight of the gate; some one was entering. The porter’s lodge was unoccupied save by two old busts that looked out from niches above the windows, much surprised that no one knew them. The new-comer surveyed the lodge and the busts; then opened the gate and came in. He was a stranger; a gentleman; an American. These three items Mrs. Winthrop’s eyes told her, one by one, as she drew nearer. He now caught sight of her—a lady coming down the water-path, followed by a shaggy dog. He went forward to meet her, raising his hat. “I think this is Mrs. Winthrop. May I introduce myself? I am John Ford.”

  “Sylvia will be delighted,” said Mrs. Winthrop, giving her hand in courteous welcome. “We have been hoping that we should see you, Mr. Ford, before the summer was over.”

  They stood a few moments, and then went up the plane-tree avenue towards the house. Mrs. Winthrop spoke the usual phrases of the opening of an acquaintance with grace and ease; her companion made the usual replies. He was quite as much at his ease as she was, but he did not especially cultivate grace. Sylvia, enjoying her conversation with Cousin Walpole, sat just within the hall door; she was taken quite by surprise. “Oh, John, how you startled me! I thought you were in Norway. But how very glad I am to see you, my dear, dear boy!” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, with a moisture in her soft, faded, but still pretty eyes.

  Mrs. Winthrop remained outside; there were garden chairs in the small porch, and she seated herself in one of them. She smiled a little when she heard Sylvia greet this mature specimen of manhood as a “dear, dear boy.”

  Cousin Walpole now came forward. “You are welcome, sir,” he said, in his slender little voice. Then bethinking him of his French, he added, with dignity, “Welcome to Miaw-lins—Miaw-lins-lay-Tower.”

  Ford took a seat in the hall beside his aunt. She talked volubly: the surprise had excited her. But every now and then she looked at him with a far-off remembrance in her eyes: she was thinking of his mother, her sister, long dead. “How much you look like her!” she said at last. “The same profile—exact. And how beautiful Mary’s profile was! Every one admired it.”

  Ford, who had been gazing at the rug, looked up; he caught Mrs. Winthrop’s glance, and the gleam of merriment in it. “Yes, my profile is like my mother’s, and therefore good,” he answered, gravely. “It is a pity that my full face contradicts it. However, I live in profile as much as possible; I present myself edgewise.”

  “What do you mean, dear?” said Sylvia.

  “I am like the new moon,” he answered; “I show but a rim. All the rest I keep dark.”

  Mrs. Winthrop laughed; and again Ford caught her glance. What he had said of himself was true. He had a regular, clearly cut, delicately finished profile, but his full face contradicted it somewhat, showing more strength than beauty. His eyes were gray, without much expression, unless calmness can be called an expression; his hair and beard, both closely cut, were dark brown. As to his height, no one would have called him tall, yet neither would any one have described him as short. And the same phrasing might have been applied to his general appearance: no one would have called him handsome, yet neither would any one have classed him as ordinary. As to what is more important than looks, namely, manner, although his was quiet, and quite without pretension, a close observer could have discovered in it, and without much effort, that the opinions of John Ford (although never obtruded upon others) were in general sufficiently satisfactory to John Ford; and, furthermore, that the opinions of other people, whether accordant or discordant with his own, troubled him little.

  After a while all went down to the outlook to see the after-glow on Mont Blanc. Mrs. Winthrop led the way with Cousin Walpole, whose high, bell-crowned straw hat had a dignity which no modern head-covering could hope to rival.

  Sylvia followed, with her nephew. “You must come and stay with us, John,” she said. “Katharine has so much company that you will find it entertaining, and even at times instructive. I am sure I have found it so; and I am, you know, your senior. We are alone to-day; but it is for the first time. Generally the house is full.”

  “But I do not like a full house,” said Ford, smiling down upon the upturned face of the little “senior” by his side.

  “You will like this one. It is not a commonplace society—by no means commonplace. The hours, too, are easy; breakfast, for instance, from nine to eleven—as you please. As to the quality of the—of the bodily support, it is sufficient to say that Marches is housekeeper. You remember Marches?”

  “Perfectly. Her tarts no one could forget.”

  “Katharine is indebted to me for Marches,” continued Sylvia. “I relinquished her to Katharine upon the occasion of her marriage, ten years ago; for she was totally inexperienced, you know—only seventeen.”

  “Then she is now twenty-seven.”

  “I should not have mentioned that,” said Miss Pitcher, instinctively. “It was an inadvertence. Could you oblige me by forgetting it?”

  “With the greatest ease. She is, then, sensitive about her age?”

  “Not in the least. Why should she be? Certainly no one would ever dream of calling twenty-seven old!” (Miss Pitcher paused with dignity.) “You think her beautiful, of course?” she added.

  “She is a fine-looking woman.”

  “Oh, John, that is what they always say of women who weigh two hundred! And Katharine is very slender.”

  Ford laughed. “I supposed the fact that Mrs. Winthrop was handsome went without the saying.”

  “It goes,” said Sylvia, impressively, “but not without the saying; I assure you, by no means without the saying. It has been said this summer many times.”

  “And she does not find it fatiguing?”

  The little aunt looked at her nephew. “You do not like her,” she said, with a fine air of penetration, touching his coat-sleeve lightly with one finger. “I see that you do not like her.”

  “My dear aunt! I do not know her in the least.”

  “Well, how does she impress you, then, not knowing her?” said Miss Pitcher, folding her arms under her little pink shawl with an impartial air.

  He glanced at the figure in front. “How she impresses me?” he said. “She impresses me as a very attractive, but very complete, woman of the world.”

  A flood of remonstrance rose to Sylvia’s lips; but she was obliged to repress it, because Mrs. Winthrop had paused, and was waiting for them.

  “Here is one of our fairest little vistas, Mr. Ford,” she said as they came up, showing him an oval opening in the shrubbery, through which a gleam of blue lake, a village on the opposite shore, and the arrowy, snow-clad Silver Needle, rising behind high in the upper blue, were visible, like a picture in a leaf frame. The opening was so narrow that only two persons could look through it. Sylvia and Cousin Walpole walked on.

  “But you have seen it all before,” said Mrs. Winthrop. “To you it is not something from fairy-land, hardly to be believed, as it is to me. Do you know, sometimes, when waking in the early dawn, before the prosaic little details of the day have risen in my mind, I ask myself, with a sort of doubt in the reality of it all, if this is Katharine Winthrop living on the shores of Lake Leman—herself really, and not her imagination only, her longing dream.” It is very well uttered, with a touch of enthusiasm which carried it along, and which was in itself a confidence.

  “Yes—ah—quite so. Yet you hardly look like a person who would think that sort of thing under those circumstances,” said Ford, watching a bark, with the picturesque lateen-sails of Lake Leman, cross his green-framed picture from east to west.

  Mrs. Winthrop l
et the hand with which she had made her little gesture drop. She stood looking at him. But he did not add anything to his remark, or turn his glance from the lateen-sails.

  “What sort of a person, then, do I look like?” she said.

  He turned. She was smiling; he smiled also. “I was alluding merely to the time you named. As it happened, my aunt had mentioned to me by chance your breakfast hours.”

  “That was not all, I think.”

  “You are very good to be interested.”

  “I am not good; only curious. Pray tell me.”

  “I have so little imagination, Mrs. Winthrop, that I cannot invent the proper charming interpretation as I ought. As to bald truth, of course you cannot expect me to present you with that during a first visit of ceremony.”

  “The first visit will, I hope, be a long one; you must come and stay with us. As to ceremony, if this is your idea of it—”

  “—What must I be when unceremonious! I suppose you are thinking,” said Ford, laughing. “On the whole, I had better make no attempts. The owl, in his own character, is esteemed an honest bird; but let him not try to be a nightingale.”

  “Come as owl, nightingale, or what you please, so long as you come. When you do, I shall ask you again what you meant.”

  “If you are going to hold it over me, perhaps I had better tell you now.”

  “Much better.”

  “I only meant, then, that Mrs. Winthrop did not strike me as at all the sort of person who would allow anything prosaic to interfere with her poetical, heartfelt enthusiasms.”

  She laughed gayly. “You are delightful. You have such a heavy apparatus for fibbing that it becomes fairly stately. You do not believe I have any enthusiasms at all,” she added. Her eyes were dark blue, with long lashes; they were very fine eyes.

  “I will believe whatever you please,” said John Ford.