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diff --git a/29512-h/29512-h.htm b/29512-h/29512-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f7f36c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/29512-h/29512-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11843 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Olive in Italy, by Moray Dalton. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + a {text-decoration: none;} + + img {border: none;} + + em {font-style: italic;} + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-style: normal; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot{margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; padding-top: .5em; padding-bottom: .5em;} + .amends {margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px; padding: 1em;} + .tpage {border: 5px double black;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + .tdl {text-align: left; vertical-align: top;} /* left top align cell */ + .tdrb {text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom;} /* right bottom align cell */ + .tdc {text-align: center; vertical-align: bottom; padding-top: 1.5em;} /*center align cell */ + .tdlsc {text-align: left; vertical-align: bottom; font-variant: small-caps;} /* left align cell small caps font */ + .tdbb {border-bottom: solid 2px black;} + + .sig {text-align: right; margin-right: 4em;} /* signature of letter aligned right */ + + .xlrgfont {font-size: 200%;} + .lrgfont {font-size: 120%;} + .smlfont {font-size: 90%;} + + .padtop {padding-top: 3em;} + .smlpadt {padding-top: 1.5em;} + .lrgpadt {padding-top: 7em;} + .smlpadb {padding-bottom: 1.5em;} + .padbase {padding-bottom: 3em;} + .lrgpadb {padding-bottom: 7em;} + + .oquote {margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 30%;} + + .byline {padding-left: 1em; padding-top: 1em; font-size: 150%; font-variant: small-caps;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive in Italy, by Moray Dalton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Olive in Italy + +Author: Moray Dalton + +Release Date: July 25, 2009 [EBook #29512] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVE IN ITALY *** + + + + +Produced by Mark C. Orton, Sam W. and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<div class="figcenter padtop padbase" style="width: 398px;"> +<img src="images/olive01.jpg" width="398" height="600" +alt="Front cover of book" /> +</div> + + + + +<table class="tpage" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="40%" summary="title page"> + <tr> + <td class="tdbb"> +<h1 class="smlpadt smlpadb">OLIVE ...<br /> +IN ITALY</h1> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="byline">By MORAY DALTON</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdbb"> +<div class="figcenter lrgpadt lrgpadb" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/olive02.jpg" width="350" height="125" +alt="Decoration" /> +</div> + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="center lrgfont smlpadt smlpadb"> +London<br /> +<b>T. FISHER UNWIN</b><br /> +MCMIX + </td> + </tr> +</table> + + + +<p class="center padtop padbase">[<i>All Rights Reserved</i>]</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="oquote"> +<p>“For in the hand of the Lord there is a cup, +and the wine is red; it is full mixed, and He +poureth out of the same. As for the dregs +thereof: all the ungodly of the earth shall drink +them....”</p> +</div> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[xv]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" width="30%" summary="Table of contents"> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="2">BOOK I.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrb" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdlsc">Siena</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="2">BOOK II.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdlsc">Florence</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdc" colspan="2">BOOK III.</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdlsc">Rome</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td> + </tr> +</table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> + +<h1 class="padtop">OLIVE IN ITALY</h1> + + + +<h2 class="padtop">BOOK I.—SIENA</h2> + + + +<h3 class="padtop">CHAPTER I</h3> + + +<p>“I believe that Olive Agar is going to tell +you that she can’t pay her bill,” said the landlady’s +daughter as she set the breakfast tray +down on the kitchen table.</p> + +<p>“Good gracious, Gwen, how you do startle +one! Why?”</p> + +<p>“She began again about the toast, and I +told her straight that you always set yourself +against any unnecessary cooking. Meat and +vegetables must be done, I said, but those +who can’t relish bread as it comes from the +baker’s, and plain boiled potatoes, can go +without, I said. Then she says, of course +I must do as my mother tells me, and would I +ask you to step up and see her presently.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you were a bit too sharp with +her.”</p> + +<p>The girl sniffed resentfully. “Good riddance +if she goes,” she called after her mother.</p> + +<p>Mrs Simons knocked perfunctorily at the +dining-room door.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +A young voice bade her come in. “I +wanted to tell you that I heard from my +cousins in Italy this morning. I am going to +stay with them for a little, so I shall be leaving +you at the end of the week.”</p> + +<p>The landlady’s cold stare was disconcerting. +There was a distinct note of disapproval in her +voice as she answered, “I do not know much +about Italy.” She seemed to think it not +quite a seemly subject, yet she pursued it. +“I should have thought it was better for a +young lady without parents or friends to find +some occupation in her own country.”</p> + +<p>Olive smiled. “Ah, but I hate boiled +potatoes, and I think I shall love Italy and +Italian cooking. You remember the Athenians +who were always seeking some new thing? +They had a good time, Mrs Simons.”</p> + +<p>“I hope you may not live to wish those +words unsaid, miss,” the woman answered +primly. “You have as good as sold your +birthright, as Esau did, in that speech.”</p> + +<p>“He was much nicer than Jacob.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, miss, how can you! But, after all, I +suppose you are not altogether one of us since +you have foreign cousins. What’s bred in +the bone comes out in the flesh they say.”</p> + +<p>“I am quite English, if that is what you +mean. My aunt married an Italian.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Simons’s eyes had wandered from the girl’s +face to the heavy chandelier tied up in yellow +muslin, and thence, by way of “Bubbles,” +framed in tarnished gilt, to the door. “Ah, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +well, I shall take your notice,” she said +finally.</p> + +<p>She went down again into the kitchen. “I +never know where to have her,” she complained. +“There’s something queer and +foreign about her for all she says. What’s +bred in the bone! I said that to her face, and +I repeat it to you, Gwendolen.”</p> + +<p>Mrs Simons might have added that adventures +are to the adventurous. Olive’s father +was Jack Agar, of the Agars of Lyme, and he +married his cousin. If Mrs Simons had known +all that must be implied in this statement she +might have held forth at some length on the +subject of heredity, and have traced the girl’s +dislike of boiled potatoes to her great-great-uncle’s +friendship with Lord Byron, and her +longing for sunshine to a still more remote +ancestress, lady-in-waiting to a princess at the +court of Le Roi Soleil.</p> + +<p>Adventures to the adventurous! The +Agars were always aware of the magnificent +possibilities of life and love, and inclined to +ignore the unpleasant actualities of existence +and the married state; hence some remarkable +histories, and, in the end, ruin. Olive was +the last of the old name. Jack Agar had died +at thirty, leaving his wife and child totally +unprovided for but for the little annuity that +had sufficed for dress in the far-off salad days, +and that now must be made to maintain them. +Olive was sent to a cheap boarding-school, +where she proved herself a fool at arithmetic; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +history, very good; conduct, fair; according +to her reports. She was not happy there. +She hated muddy walks and ink-stained +desks and plain dumpling, and all these things +seemed to be an essential part of life at Miss +Blake’s.</p> + +<p>She left at eighteen, and thereafter she and +her mother lived together in lodgings at +various seaside resorts within their means, +practising a strict economy, improving their +minds at the free library, doing their own dressmaking, +and keeping body and soul together +on potted meats, cocoa and patent cereals. +Mary Agar rebelled sometimes in secret, +regretting the lack of “opportunities,” <i>i.e.</i>, +of possible husbands. She would have been +glad to see her daughter settled. The Agars +never used commonsense in affairs of the +heart. Her own marriage had been very +foolish from a worldly point of view, and her +sister Alice had run away with her music-master.</p> + +<p>“In those days girls had a governess at +home and finished with masters, and young +Signor Menotti came twice a week to our +house in Russell Square to teach Alice the +guitar and mandoline. We shared singing +and French lessons, but she had him to herself. +He was very good-looking, dark, and rather +haggard, and just shabby enough to make one +sorry for him. When Alice said she would +marry him mamma was furious, but she was just +of age, and she had a little money of her own, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +an annuity as I have, and she went her own +way. They were married at a registry office, +I think, and soon afterwards they went to his +home in Italy. Mamma never forgave, but +Alice and I used to write to each other, and +her eldest child was called after me. I don’t +know how it turned out. She never said she +was unhappy, but she died after eight years, +leaving her three little girls to be brought up +by their father’s sister.”</p> + +<p>Olive knew little more than this of her aunt. +Further questioning elicited the fact that +Signor Menotti’s name was Ernesto.</p> + +<p>“The girls are your cousins, Olive dear, +and you have no other relations. I should like +to see them.”</p> + +<p>“So should I.”</p> + +<p>Olive knew all about the annuity, but she +had not realised until her mother died quite +suddenly, of heart failure after influenza, what +it means to have no money at all. She was +dazed with grief at first, and Mrs Simons was +as kind as could be expected and did not thrust +the weekly bill upon her on the morning after +the funeral, though it was due on that day. +But lodgers are not supposed to give much +trouble, and though death is not quite so +heinous as infectious disease or ink spilt on the +carpet it is still distinctly not a thing to be +encouraged by too great a display of sympathy, +and Olive was soon made to understand that it +behoved her to seek some means of livelihood, +some way out into the world.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +No proverb is too hackneyed to be comforting +at times, and the girl reminded herself +that blood is thicker than water as she looked +among her mother’s papers for the Menotti +address. They were her cousins, birds of a +feather. She wrote them a queer, shy, charming +letter in strange Italian, laboriously learnt +out of a grammar, and then—since some days +must elapse before she could get any answer—she +conscientiously studied the advertisement +columns of the papers. She might be a nursery +governess if only she could be sure of herself +at long division, or—horrid alternative—a +useful help. Mrs Simons suggested a shop.</p> + +<p>“You have a nice appearance, miss. +Perhaps you would do as one of the young +ladies in the drapery department, beginning +with the tapes and thread and ribbon counter, +you know, and working your way up to the +showroom.”</p> + +<p>But Olive altogether declined to be a young +lady.</p> + +<p>She waited anxiously for her cousins’ letter, +and it meant so much to her that when it came +she was half afraid to open it.</p> + +<p>It was grotesquely addressed to the</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>Genteel Miss Agar Olive,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Marsden Street, 159,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Brighton,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Provincia di Sussex,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Inghilterra.</span></p> +</div> + +<p>The post-mark was Siena. It was stamped +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +on the flap, which was also decorated with a +blue bird carrying a rose in its beak, and was +rather strongly scented.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Cousin</span>,—We were so pleased and +interested to hear from you, though we +greatly regret to have the news of our aunt’s +death. Our father’s sister lives with us since +we are orphans. She is a widow and has no +children of her own. If you can pay us +fifteen lire a week we shall be satisfied, and we +will try to get you pupils for English. Kindly +let us know the date and hour of your arrival.—Believe +us, yours devotedly,</p> + +<p class="sig">“<span class="smcap">Maria</span>, <span class="smcap">Gemma</span> and <span class="smcap">Carmela</span>.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Olive read it carefully twice over, and then +sat down at the table and began to scribble +on the back of the envelope. She convinced +herself that three times fifteen was forty-five, +and that so many lire amounted to not quite +two pounds. Then there was the fare out to +be reckoned. Finally, she decided that she +would be able to get out to Italy and to live +there for three weeks before she need call +herself penniless.</p> + +<p>She went to the window and stood for a +while looking out. The houses opposite and +all down the road were exactly alike, all +featureless and grey, roofed with slate, three-storied, +with basement kitchens. Nearly +every one of them had “Apartments” in gilt +letters on the fanlight over the front door. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> +It was raining. The pavements were wet and +there was mud on the roadway. The woman +who lived in the corner house was spring-cleaning. +Olive saw her helping the servant +to take down the curtains in the front room. +Dust and tea-leaves and last year’s cobwebs. +It occurred to her that spring would bring a +recurrence of these things only if she became a +useful help, as she must if she stayed in +England and earned her living as best she could—only +these and nothing more. The idea was +horrible and she shuddered at it. “I shall +go,” she said aloud. “I shall go.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + + +<p>Olive, advised by a clerk in Cook’s office, +had taken a through ticket to Siena, third +class to Dover, first on the boat, second in +France and Italy. She got to Victoria in +good time, had her luggage labelled, secured +a corner seat, and, having twenty minutes to +spare, strolled round the bookstall, eyeing the +illustrated weeklies and the cheap reprints. +The blue and gold of a shilling edition of Keats +lay ready to her hand and she picked it up +and opened it.</p> + +<p>The girl, true lover of all beauty, flushed +with pleasure at the dear, familiar word music, +the sound of Arcadian pipes heard faintly +for a moment above the harsh roar of London. +For her the dead poet’s voice rose clearly +through the clamour of the living; it was like +the silver wailing of a violin in a blaring discord +of brass instruments.</p> + +<p>She laid down the book reluctantly, and +turning, met the eager eyes of the man who +stood beside her. He had just bought an +armful of current literature, and his business +at the bookstall was evidently done, yet he +lingered for an appreciable instant. He, too, +was a lover of beauty, and in his heart he was +saying, “Oh, English rose!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +He did not look English himself. He wore +his black hair rather longer than is usual in +this country, and there was a curiously vivid +look, a suggestion of fire about him, which is +conspicuously lacking in the average Briton, +whose ambition it is to look as cool as possible. +His face was thin and his eyes were deep set, +like those of Julius Cæsar—in fact, the girl +was strongly reminded of the emperor’s bust +in the British Museum. He looked about +thirty-five, but might have been older.</p> + +<p>All this Olive saw in the brief instant during +which they stood there together and aware of +each other. When he turned away she bought +some magazines, without any great regard for +their interest or suitability, and went to take +her place in the third-class compartment she +had selected.</p> + +<p>He would travel first, of course. She +watched his leisurely progress along the +platform, and noted that he was taller than +any of the other men there, and better-looking. +His thin, clean-shaven face compelled attention; +she saw some women looking at him, +and was pleased to observe that he did not +even glance at them. Then people came hurrying +up to the door of her compartment to say +good-bye to some of her fellow-travellers, and +she lost sight of him.</p> + +<p>The train started and passed through the +arid wilderness of backyards that lies between +each one of the London termini and the clean +green country.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +Olive fluttered the pages of her magazine, +but she felt disinclined to read. She was +pretty; her brown hair framed a rose-tinted +face, her smile was charming, her blue eyes +were gay and honest and kind. Men often +looked at her, and it cannot be denied that the +swift appraisement of masculine eyes, the +momentary homage of a glance that said “you +are fair,” meant something to her. Such +tributes to her beauty were minor joys, to be +classed with the pleasure to be derived from +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">marrons glacés</i> or the scent of violets, but the +remembrance of them did not often make her +dream by day or bring a flush to her cheeks.</p> + +<p>She roused herself presently and began to +look out of the window with the remorseful +feeling of one who has been neglecting an old +friend for an acquaintance. After all, this was +England, where she was born and where her +mother had died, and she was leaving it perhaps +for ever. She tried to fix the varying +aspects of the spring in her mind for future +reference; the tender green of the young +larches in the plantation, the pale gold of +the primroses, and the flowering gorse close +to the line, the square grey towers of the village +churches, even the cold, pinched faces of the +people waiting on the platforms of the little +stations. Italy would be otherwise, and she +might never see these familiar things again.</p> + +<p>When the train rushed out on to the pier +at Dover she dared not look back at the white +cliffs, but kept her eyes resolutely seaward. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +The wind was high, and she heard that the +crossing would be rough. Cæsar was close +behind her, and she caught a glimpse of him +going aft as she made her way to the ladies’ +cabin.</p> + +<p>She lay down on one of the red velvet +divans in the stuffy saloon, and closed her +eyes as she had been advised to do, and in ten +minutes her misery was complete.</p> + +<p>“If you are going to be ill nothing will stop +you,” observed the sympathetic stewardess. +“It is like Monte Carlo. Most people have a +system, and sometimes they win, but they are +bound to lose in the end. Champagne, munching +biscuits, patent medicines, lying down as +you are now. It is all vanity and vexation of +spirit, my dear.”</p> + +<p>Olive joined feebly in her laugh. “I feel +better now. Are we nearly there?”</p> + +<p>“Just coming into harbour.”</p> + +<p>“Thank heaven!”</p> + +<p>When Olive crawled up on deck her one idea, +after her luggage, was to avoid anyone who +had seemed to admire her. She could not +bear that the man should see her green face, +and she was grateful to him for keeping his +distance in the crush to get off the boat, and +for disappearing altogether in the station. A +porter in a blue linen blouse piloted her to the +waiting train, and she climbed into the compartment +labelled “Turin,” and settled herself +in a window seat.</p> + +<p>The country between Calais and Paris can +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +only be described as flat, stale and unprofitable +by a beauty lover panting for the light and +glow and colour of the South, and Olive soon +got a book out of her bag and began to read. +Her only fellow-passenger, a middle-aged +English lady with an indefinite face, spoke +to her presently. “You are reading a French +novel?”</p> + +<p>“No, it is in Italian. <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">La Città Morta</i>, by +Gabriele D’Annunzio. I want to rub up my +few words of the language.”</p> + +<p>“Is he not a very terrible writer?”</p> + +<p>Olive was so tired of the disapproving note. +“He writes very well, and his descriptions are +gorgeous. Of course he is horrid sometimes, +but one can skip those parts.”</p> + +<p>“Do you?”</p> + +<p>Olive smiled. “No, I do not,” she said +frankly, “but I don’t enjoy them. They +make me tired of life.”</p> + +<p>“Is not that rather a pity?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps; but you have to sift dirt to find +diamonds, don’t you? And this man says +things that are worth tiaras sometimes.”</p> + +<p>“Surely there must be Italian authors who +write books suitable for young people in a +pretty style?”</p> + +<p>“A pretty style? No doubt. But I don’t +read them.”</p> + +<p>The older woman sighed, and then smiled +quite pleasantly. “I suppose you are clever. +One of my nieces is, and they find her rather a +handful. Will you try one of my sandwiches?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +Olive produced her biscuits and bananas, +and they munched together in amity. After +all, an aunt might be worse than stupid, and +this one was quite good-natured, and so kind +that her taste in literature might be excused. +There were affectionate farewells at the Paris +station, where she got out with all her accumulation +of bags and bundles.</p> + +<p>The train rushed on through the woods +of Fontainebleau and across wide plains intersected +by poplar-fringed canals. As the +evening mists rose lights began to twinkle in +cottage windows, and in the villages the church +bells were ringing the prayer to the Virgin. +Olive had laid aside her book some time since, +and now, wearying of the grey twilit world, +she fell asleep.</p> + +<p>Jean Avenel, too, had watched the waning +of the day from his place in a smoking first for +a while, before he got up and began to prowl +restlessly about the corridors. “She will be +so tired if she does not eat,” he said to himself. +“They ought not to let a child like that travel +alone. I wonder—” He walked down the +corridor again, but this time he looked into +each compartment. He saw three Englishmen +and an American playing whist, Germans +eating, and French people sleeping, and at last +he came upon his rose. A small man, mean-featured +and scrubby-haired, was seated +opposite to her, and his shining eyes were fixed +upon her face. She had taken off her hat and +was holding it on her lap, and Jean saw that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +she was clutching at it nervously, and that she +was pale. He understood that it was probably +her first experience of the Italian stare, deliberate, +merciless, and indefinitely prolonged. +She flushed as he came forward, and her eyes +were eloquent as they met his. He sat down +beside her.</p> + +<p>“Please forgive me,” he said quietly, “but +I can see this man is annoying you. Shall I +glare him out of the place? I can.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, please do,” she answered. “He has +frightened me so. He was talking before you +came.”</p> + +<p>The culprit already looked disconcerted and +rather foolish, and now, as Jean leant forward +and seemed about to speak to him, he began +to be frightened. He fidgeted, thrusting his +hands in his pockets, looking out of the +window, humming a tune. His ears grew red. +He tried to meet the other man’s level gaze +and failed. He got up rather hurriedly. The +brown eyes watched him slinking out before +they allowed themselves a second sight of the +rose.</p> + +<p>“Thank you so much,” said Olive. “I +feel as if you had killed a spider for me, or +an earwig. He was more like an earwig. +He must have come in here while I was +asleep.”</p> + +<p>“A deported waiter going back to his native +Naples, I imagine,” Jean said. “They ought +not to have let you travel alone.”</p> + +<p>She smiled. “I am a law unto myself.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +“That is a pity. Will you think me very +impertinent if I confess that I have been +watching over you—at a respectful distance—ever +since we left Victoria? I do not approve +of children wandering—”</p> + +<p>She tilted her pretty chin at him. “Children! +So you have made yourself into a sort of +G.F.S. for me?”</p> + +<p>“You know,” he said gravely, “we have +a mutual friend.” He drew a blue and gold +volume from an inner pocket.</p> + +<p>Olive flushed scarlet, but she only said, +“Oh, Keats!”</p> + +<p>She looked at his hands as they turned the +pages; they were clever and kind, she thought, +and she wondered if he was an artist or a +doctor. Those fingers might set a butterfly’s +wing, and yet they seemed very strong. She +did not know she had sighed until he said, +“Am I boring you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no,” she answered eagerly. “Please +don’t go yet unless you want to. But tell me +why you bought that book?”</p> + +<p>“If you could have seen yourself as I saw +you, you would understand,” he answered. +“I once saw a woman on my brother’s estate +pick up a piece of gold on the road. She had +never had so much money without earning +it in her life before, I suppose. At any rate +she kissed it, and her face was radiant. She +was old and ugly and worn by her long days of +toil in the fields, and you— Well, in spite of +the differences you reminded me of her, and I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> +am curious to know which poem of Keats +brought that swift, rapt light of joy.”</p> + +<p>“It was ‘White hawthorn and the pastoral +eglantine’—”</p> + +<p>Jean found the place and marked the +passage before returning the book to his pocket. +“Now,” he said, “you will come with me and +have some dinner.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + + +<p>Many women are shepherded through all life’s +journeyings by their men—fathers, brothers, +husbands—who look out their trains for them, +put them in the care of guards, and shield +them from all contact with sulky porters and +extortionate cabmen. Olive, who had always +to take her own ticket and fight her own and +her mother’s battles, now tasted the joys of +irresponsibility with Avenel. He compounded +with Customs officials, who bowed +low before him, he took part in the midnight +scramble for pillows at Modane, emerging +from the crowd in triumph with no less +than three of the coveted aids to repose under +his arm, and he saw Olive comfortably settled +in another compartment with two motherly +German women, and there left her.</p> + +<p>At Turin he secured places in the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">diretto</i> +to Florence, and sent his man to the buffet for +coffee and rolls, and the two broke their fast +together.</p> + +<p>“Italy and the joy of life,” Olive said +lightly, as she lifted her cup, and he looked at +her with melancholy brown eyes that yet held +the ghost of a smile.</p> + +<p>“The passing hour,” he answered; adding +prosaically, “This is good coffee.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> +Referring to the grey silvery trees whose +name she bore he assured her that he did not +think she resembled them. “They are old and +you seem eternally young. You should have +been called Primavera.”</p> + +<p>She laughed. “Ah, if you had been my +godfather—”</p> + +<p>“I should not have cared to have held you in +my arms when you were a bald-headed baby,” +he answered with perfect gravity.</p> + +<p>Apparently he always said what he thought, +but his frankness was disconcerting, and Olive +changed the subject.</p> + +<p>“Is Siena beautiful?”</p> + +<p>“It is a gem of the Renaissance, and you +will love it as I do, I know, but I wish you +could have seen Florence first. My brother +has a villa at Settignano and I am going there +now. The fruit trees in the orchard will be all +white with blossom. You remember Romeo’s +April oath: ‘By yonder moon that tips with +silver all these fruit-tree tops—’”</p> + +<p>They lunched in the station restaurant at +Genoa, and there he bought the girl a basket +of fruit. “A poor substitute for the tea you +will be wanting presently,” he explained. +“You have no tea-basket with you? You will +want one if you are going to live with Italians.”</p> + +<p>“I never thought of it.”</p> + +<p>“May I send you one?” he asked eagerly. +“Do let me.”</p> + +<p>Olive flushed with pleasure. No one had +been so kind to her since her mother died. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +Evidently he liked her—oh! he liked her very +much. She suddenly realised how much she +would miss him when they parted at Florence +and she had to go on alone. It had been so +good to be with someone stronger than herself +who would take care of her. He had seemed +happy too, and she thought he looked younger +now than he did when she first saw him standing +by the bookstall at Victoria station.</p> + +<p>“It is very good of you,” she said. “I +should like it. Thank you. I—I shall be +sorry to say good-bye.”</p> + +<p>He met her wistful eyes gravely. “I +should like you to know that I shall never +forget this day,” he said. “I shall never +cease to be grateful to you for being so—for +being what you are. My wife is different.”</p> + +<p>“Your wife—”</p> + +<p>“I don’t live with her.”</p> + +<p>He took a card from his case presently and +scribbled an address on it. “I dare not hope +that I shall ever hear from you again, but that +is my name, and letters will always be forwarded +to me from my brother’s place. If +ever I could do anything—”</p> + +<p>She faltered some word of thanks in an uncertain +voice. She felt as if something had +come upon her for which she was unprepared, +some shadow of the world’s pain, some flame +of its fires that flickered at her heart for a +moment and was gone. She was suddenly +afraid, not of the brown eyes that were fixed +so hungrily upon her face, but of herself. She +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +could hear the beating of her own heart. The +pity of it—the pity of it! He was so nice. +Why could not they be friends—</p> + +<p>The night had fallen long since and they +were nearing Florence.</p> + +<p>“Don’t forget to change at Empoli,” he +said. “I will send my man on as far as that +to look after you. Will you let me kiss you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>He came over and sat on the seat by her +side. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you,” +he said gently, and then, seeing her pale, he +drew back. “No, I won’t. It would not be +fair. Oh, I beg your pardon! It will be +enough for me to remember how good you +were.”</p> + +<p>The train passed into the lighted station, +and he stood up and took his hat and coat +from the rack before he turned to her once +more.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> + + +<p>“Has anyone seen our cousin?” asked Gemma +as she helped herself to <i>spaghetti</i>.</p> + +<p>Her aunt shrugged her fat shoulders. “No! +The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">donna di servizio</i> is mistress here, and she +has ordained that the cousin shall not be disturbed. +She has even locked the door, and +she carries the key in her pocket.”</p> + +<p>“It is true,” old Carolina said placidly. +She was accustomed to join in the conversation +at table when she chose, and Italian +servants are allowed great freedom of speech. +“You were all in your beds when Giovanni +Scampo drove her here in his cab this morning +or you would have seen her then. The poor +child is half dead with fatigue. Let her sleep, +I say. There are veal cutlets to come, +Signorina Maria; will you have more <i>spaghetti</i>?”</p> + +<p>“A little more.”</p> + +<p>The old woman shook her head. “You +eat too much.”</p> + +<p>The Menotti lived in a small stuffy flat on +the third floor of 25, Piazza Tolomei. It had +the one advantage of being central, but was +otherwise extremely inconvenient. The +kitchen was hot and airless, and the servant +had to sleep in a dark cupboard adjoining, in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +an atmosphere compounded of the scent of +cheese, black beetles and old boots. There +were four bedrooms besides, all opening on to +the dining-room; and a tiny drawing-room, +seldom used and never dusted, was filled to +overflowing with gilt furniture and decorative +fantasies in wool work.</p> + +<p>The Menotti did not entertain. They met +their friends at church, or at the theatre, or in +the Lizza gardens, where they walked every +evening in the summer. No man had ever seen +them other than well dressed, but in the house +they wore loose white cotton jackets and old +skirts. They were <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en déshabillé</i> now, though +their heads were elaborately dressed and their +faces powdered, and Maria’s waist was considerably +larger than it appeared to be when she +was socially “visible.”</p> + +<p>“I must breathe sometimes,” she said.</p> + +<p>The three girls were inclined to stoutness, +but Gemma drank vinegar and ate sparingly, +and so had succeeded in keeping herself slim +hitherto, though she was only three years +younger than Maria, who was twenty-nine +and looked forty.</p> + +<p>Carmela was podgy, but she might lace or +not just as she pleased. No one would look +at her in any case since her kind, good-humoured, +silly face was marked with smallpox.</p> + +<p>Gemma was the pride of her aunt and the +hope of the family. The girls were poor, and +it is hard for such to find husbands, but she +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +had recently become engaged to a young +lawyer from Lucca, who had been staying with +friends in Siena when he saw and fell in love +with the girl whom the students at the University +named the “Odalisque.”</p> + +<p>Hers was the strange, boding loveliness of a +pale orchid. She had no colour, but her +curved lips were faintly pink, as were the +palms of her soft, idle hands. “I shall be +glad when she is married,” her aunt said +often. “It is very well for Maria or Carmela +to go through the streets alone, but Gemma +is otherwise, and I cannot be always running +after her. Then her temper ... <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio mio!</em>”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps it is the vinegar,” suggested +Carolina rather spitefully.</p> + +<p>“No. She wants a husband.”</p> + +<p>When the dinner was over Signora Carosi +went to her room to lie down, and her two +elder nieces followed her example, but Carmela +passed into the kitchen with Carolina.</p> + +<p>“You will let me see the cousin,” she said, +wheedling. “Gemma thinks she will be ugly, +with great teeth and a red face like the +Englishwomen in the Asino, but I do not +believe it.”</p> + +<p>“If the signorina is hoping for a miracle of +plainness she will be unpleasantly surprised,” +said the old woman, and her shrivelled face was +as mischievous as a monkey’s as she drew the +key of Olive’s room from her pocket. “I am +going to take her some soup now, and you shall +come with me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +It is quite impossible to be retiring, or even +modest, in the mid-Victorian sense, in flats. +A bedroom cannot remain an inviolate sanctuary +when it affords the only means of access +to the bathroom or is a short cut to the +kitchen. Olive had had some experience of +suburban flats during holidays spent with +school friends, and had suffered the familiarity +that breeds weariness in such close quarters. +As she woke now she was unpleasantly aware +of strangers in the room.</p> + +<p>“Only a lover or a nurse may look at +a woman while she sleeps without offence,” +she said drowsily. “It is an unpardonable +liberty in all other classes of the population. +Are you swains, or sisters of mercy?” +She opened her eyes and met Carmela’s puzzled +stare with laughter. “I was saying that when +one is ill or in love one can endure many +things,” she explained in halting Italian.</p> + +<p>“Ah,” Carmela said uncomprehendingly, +“I am never ill, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">grazia a Dio</i>, but when Maria +has an indigestion she is cross, and when +Gemma is in love her temper is dreadful. +Perhaps, being a foreigner, you are different. +Are you tired?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am, rather, but go on talking to +me. I am not sleepy.”</p> + +<p>Carmela, nothing loth, drew a chair to the +bedside. “You need not get up yet,” she +said comfortably. “We always lie down +after dinner until five, and later we go for a +walk. You will see the Via Cavour full of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +people in the evening, officers and students, +and mothers with daughters to be married, +all walking up and down and looking at each +other. Orazio Lucis first saw Gemma like +that, and he followed us home, and then found +out who we were and asked questions about us. +Every day we saw him in the Piazza, smoking +cigarettes, and waiting for us to go out that he +might follow us, and Gemma would give him +one look, and then cast down her eyes ... +so!” Carmela caricatured her sister’s +affectation of unconsciousness very successfully, +and looked to Olive and Carolina for +applause.</p> + +<p>The servant grinned appreciation. “Yes, +the signorina is very <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">civetta</i>. I, also, have +seen her simpering when the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">avvocato</i> has been +here, but she soon gets tired of him, and then +her face is as God made it.”</p> + +<p>Olive dressed herself leisurely when they +had left her, and unpacked her clothes and her +little store of books. Her cousins, coming to +fetch her soon after six o’clock, found her +ready to go out, but so absorbed in a guide-book +of Siena that she did not hear Maria’s +knock at the door.</p> + +<p>She had resolved that she would apply art +and archæology as plasters to the wound life +had given her already. She would stay her +heart’s hunger with moods and tenses, but +not of the verb “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">amare</i>.” Learning and +teaching, she might make her mind lord of her +emotions.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +She came forward rather shyly to meet her +cousins. The three together were somewhat +overpowering, flounced and frilled alike, and +highly scented. Maria and Carmela fat, +pleasant and profuse; Gemma silent, with +dark resentful eyes and scornful lips that never +smiled at other women.</p> + +<p>“You will show me the best things?” +Olive said eagerly when they had all kissed +her. “I want to see the Duomo first, and +then the Palazzo Vecchio—but that is only open +in the mornings, is it? And this is the Piazza +Tolomei, so the house where Pia lived must be +quite near.”</p> + +<p>Gemma stared, but made no attempt to +answer, and Maria looked confused.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid you will find us all very stupid, +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cara</i>,” said Carmela, apologetically. “We +only go to the Duomo to pray, and as to +museums and picture-galleries— And perhaps +I had better tell you now, at once, +that we do not want to learn English. We +have got you several lessons through friends, +but Maria and Carmela say they will not +fatigue themselves over a foreign language, +and I—”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” began Olive, “I thought—”</p> + +<p>Gemma interrupted her. “A thousand +thanks,” she said rudely. “We are not +school children; we read about Pia dei Tolomei +years ago at the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Scuola Normale</i>, but we do +not consider her an amusing subject of conversation +now.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +The rose in Olive’s cheeks deepened. “I +shall soon learn to know your likes and dislikes,” +she said, “and to understand your +manners.”</p> + +<p>“I hope so,” answered Gemma as she left +the room. Maria hurried after her, but the +younger sister caught at Olive’s hand.</p> + +<p>“You must not listen to Gemma. Come, +we will walk together. Let her go on; she +cannot forgive your nose for being straight.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> + + +<p>A large parcel addressed to Miss Agar was +brought to the house a few weeks later. Olive +was out giving a lesson when it came, and +Gemma turned it over, examining the post-mark +and the writing.</p> + +<p>“Shall I open it and see what is inside? +She would never know.”</p> + +<p>Carmela was horrified. “How can you +think of such a thing!”</p> + +<p>“Besides, it is sealed,” added Maria.</p> + +<p>These two liked their cousin well enough, +and when they wished to tease the Odalisque +they called her “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carina</i>” and praised her +fresh prettiness. It was always so easy to +make Gemma angry, and lately she had been +more capricious and difficult than ever. Her +sisters were continually trying to excuse +her.</p> + +<p>“She is so nervous,” Maria said loyally, +but her paraphrase availed nothing. Olive +understood her cousin and disliked her extremely, +though she accorded her a reluctant +admiration.</p> + +<p>She came in now with her books—an English +grammar and a volume of translations—under +her arm, and seeing that Gemma was watching +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +her, she took her parcel with a carefully expressionless +phrase of thanks to Carmela, +who was anxious to cut the string, and carried +it into her room unopened. It was the tea-basket +Jean Avenel had promised her. She +read the enclosed note, however, before she +looked at it.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“I am going to America and then to Russia. +Do not quite forget me. If ever you need +anything write to my brother, Hilaire Avenel, +Villa Fiorelli, Settignano, near Florence, and +he will serve you for my sake as he would for +your own if he knew you. I think I have +played better since I have known you, my +rose. One must suffer much before one can +express the divine sorrow of Chopin. I said +I would not write, but some promises are made +to be broken. Can you forgive me?</p> + +<p class="sig">“<span class="smcap">Jean Avenel.</span>”</p> +</div> + +<p>America and Russia ... the divine sorrow +of Chopin ... I have played better.... He +was a pianist then, and surely a great one. +Olive remembered the slender brown hands +that had seemed to her so supple and so +strong. But the name of Avenel was strange +to her, and she was sure she had never +seen it on posters, or in the papers and +magazines that chronicle the doings of musical +celebrities.</p> + +<p>She took the tea-things out of the basket +one by one and looked at them with pleasure. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +The sugar box and the caddy and the spoon +were all of silver, and engraved with her initials, +and the cup and saucer were painted with +garlands of pale roses.</p> + +<p>Tears filled her eyes as she sat down at the +little table in the window and began to write.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“You have sent me a tea equipage fit for +an empress! It is perfect, and I do not know +how to thank you. Yes. I forgive you for +writing. Have I really helped you to play? +I am so glad. You say Chopin, so I suppose +it is the piano? I must tell you that I remember +all the stories you told me of Siena, +and they add to the interest of my days. I +give English lessons, and am making enough +money to keep myself, but in the intervals of +grammar and ‘<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">I Promessi Sposi</i>’ (no less than +three of my pupils are translating that interminable +romance into so-called English) I +study the architecture of the early Renaissance +in the old narrow streets, and gaze upon +Byzantine Madonnas in the churches. The +Duomo is an archangel’s dream, and I like to +go there with my cousins and steep my soul +in its beauty while they say their prayers and +fan themselves. One of them is pretty and +she hates me; the other two are stout and kind +and empty-headed, and their aunt is nothing—a +large, heavy nothing—”</p> +</div> + +<p>Olive laid down her pen. “What will he +think if I write him eight pages? That I want +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +to begin a correspondence? I do, but he must +not know it.”</p> + +<p>She tore her letter up into small pieces +and wrote two lines on a sheet of note-paper.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“Thank you very much for your kind +present and for what you say. Of course I +forgive you ... and I shall not forget.—Yours +sincerely,</p> + +<p class="sig">“<span class="smcap">Olive Agar</span>.”</p> +</div> + +<p>She went to the window and threw the torn +scraps of the first letter out into the street, +and then she sat down again and began to cry; +not for long. Women who know how precious +youth is understand that tears are an expensive +luxury, and they are sparing of +them accordingly. They suffer more in the +stern repression of their emotions than do +those who yield easily to grief, but they keep +their eyelashes and their complexions.</p> + +<p>Olive bathed her eyes presently and smoked +a cigarette to calm her nerves. She was +going out that evening to dine with her +favourite pupil and his mother, and she knew +they would be distressed if she looked ill or +sad.</p> + +<p>Aurelia de Sanctis had had troubles enough +of her own. She had married a patriot, a man +with a beautiful eager face and a body spent +with disease, and a fever that never left him +since the days when he lurked in the marshes +of the Maremma, crouched in a tangle of wet +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +reeds and rushes, and watching for the flash +of steel in the sunshine.</p> + +<p>Austrian bayonets ... he raved of them in +his dreams, and called upon the names of +comrades who had rotted in prisons or died +in exile. His young wife nursed him devotedly +until he died, leaving her a widow at +twenty-seven. She had a small pension from +the Government, and she worked at dressmaking +to eke it out.</p> + +<p>Her only child had grown up to be a hopeless +invalid. He could not go to school, so he lay +all day on the sofa by the window in the tiny +sitting-room and helped his mother with her +sewing. His poor little bony hands were very +quick and dexterous.</p> + +<p>In the evenings he read everything he could +get hold of, books and newspapers. The professors +from the University, who came to see +him and were kind to him for his father’s sake, +told each other that he was a genius and that +his soul was eating up his frail body. They +wondered, pitifully, what poor Signora Aurelia +would do when—</p> + +<p>The mother was hopeful, however. “He +takes such an interest in everything that I +think he must have a strong vitality though +he seems delicate,” she said.</p> + +<p>He had expressed a wish to learn English, +and when Signora Aurelia first heard of Olive +she wrote asking her to come and see her. The +De Sancti lived a little way outside the Porta +Romana, on the edge of the hill and outside the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +town, and Maria advised her cousin not to go +there.</p> + +<p>“It is so far out on a hot dusty road, and +you will grow as thin and dry as an old hen’s +drumstick if you walk so much. And I know +the signora is poor and will not be able to pay +well.”</p> + +<p>Olive went, nevertheless. Signora Aurelia +herself opened the door to her and showed +evident pleasure at seeing her. The poor +woman had been beautiful, and now that she +was worn by time and sorrow she still looked +like a goddess, exiled to earth, and altogether +shabby—a deity in reduced circumstances—but +none the less divinely fair and kind. Her +great love for her child had so moulded her +that she seemed the very incarnation of +motherhood. So might Ceres have appeared +as she wandered forlornly in search of her lost +Persephone, gentle, weary, her fineness a little +blunted by her woes.</p> + +<p>“Are you the English signorina? Come +in! My son will be so pleased,” she said as +she led the girl into the room where Astorre +was working at embroidery.</p> + +<p>Olive saw a boy of seventeen sewing as he +lay on the sofa. There were some books on +the floor within his reach, and a glass of +lemonade was set upon the window-sill, but he +seemed quite absorbed in making fine stitches. +He looked up, however, as they came in and +smiled at his mother.</p> + +<p>“I have nearly finished,” he said. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +“Presently I shall read the sonnet, ‘<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Pace non +trovo, e non ho da far guerra</i>,’ to refresh +myself.”</p> + +<p>“This is the signorina who teaches English, +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">nino mio</i>.”</p> + +<p>His face lit up at once and he held out +his hand. “I have already studied the +grammar, but the pronunciation ... ah! +that will be hard to learn. Will you help me, +signorina?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, indeed I will. We will read and talk +together, and soon you will speak English +better than I can Italian.”</p> + +<p>As she spoke and smiled her heart ached to +see the hollowness of his cheeks and the lines +of pain about his young mouth. She guessed +that his poor body was all twisted and deformed +under the rug that covered it. Signora +Aurelia took her out on to their little terrace +garden before she left. Twenty miles and +more of fair Tuscan earth lay at their feet, +grey olive groves and green vineyards, and the +hills beyond all shimmering in the first heat of +spring. Olive exclaimed at the beauty of the +world.</p> + +<p>“Yes. On summer evenings Astorre can +lie here and watch what he calls the pageant +of the skies. The poor child is so fond of +colour. I know you will be very patient with +him, signorina. He is so clever, but some +days he is in pain, and then he gets tired and +so cannot learn so well. You have kindly +promised to come twice a week, but I must tell +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> +you that I am not rich—” She looked at Olive +wistfully.</p> + +<p>The girl dared not offer to teach Astorre for +nothing. “I can see your son will be a very +good pupil,” she said hastily. “Would one +lire the lesson suit you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” the signora said with evident +relief. “But are you sure that is enough? +You must not sacrifice yourself, my dear—”</p> + +<p>“It will be a pleasure to come,” Olive said +very sincerely.</p> + +<p>The acquaintance soon ripened into a +triangular friendship. The signora grew to +love the girl because she amused Astorre and +was never obviously sorry for him, or too +gentle with him, as were some of the well-meaning +people who came to see the boy. +“An overflow of pity is like grease exuding,” +he said once. “I hate it.”</p> + +<p>He was very old for his years. He had read +everything apparently, and he discussed +problems of life and death with the air of a +man of forty. He had no illusions about +himself. “I shall die,” he said once to Olive +when his mother was not in the room. “My +father gave me a spirit that burns like Greek +fire and a body like—like a spent shell.”</p> + +<p>The easy, desultory lessons were often prolonged, +and then the girl stayed to dinner and +played dominoes afterwards with him or with +his mother until ten o’clock, when old Carolina +came to fetch her home. The withered little +serving-woman was voluble, and always +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +cheerfully ready to lighten the way with +descriptions of the last moments of her +children. She had had thirteen, and two were +still surviving. “One grows accustomed, +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">signorina mia</i>—”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> + + +<p>“You have been crying,” Astorre said abruptly.</p> + +<p>Olive leant against the balustrade of the +little terrace. She was watching the fireflies +that sparkled in the dusk of the vineyards +in the valley below. A breeze had risen +from the sea at sunset, and it stirred the leaves +of the climbing roses and brought a faint +sound of convent bells far away. Some stars +shone in the clear pale sky.</p> + +<p>Dinner had been cleared away, and Signora +Aurelia had gone in to finish a white dress she +was making for a bride. Olive had offered to +help her. “I would rather you amused yourself +with Astorre. I can see you are tired,” +she had answered as she left them together.</p> + +<p>“You have been crying,” the boy repeated +insistently.</p> + +<p>She smiled at him then. “May I not shed +tears if I choose?”</p> + +<p>“I must know why,” he answered.</p> + +<p>“Oh, a castle in Spain.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her searchingly. “And a +castellan?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I want a man, and I cannot have +him. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ecco!</em>”</p> + +<p>She did not expect him to take her seriously, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +but he was often perversely inclined. “Of +course,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, +“all women want a man or men. Do you +think I have been lying here all these years +without finding that out? That need is the +mainspring of life, the key to heaven, and the +root of all evil. If—if I were different someone +would want me—” His voice broke.</p> + +<p>Olive looked away from him. “How still +the night is,” she said. “The nightingales +are singing in the woods below, Astorre. Do +you hear them?”</p> + +<p>“I am not deaf,” he answered in a muffled +voice, “I hear them. Will you hear me?”</p> + +<p>Watching her closely he saw that she shrank +from him. “Do not be afraid,” he said +gruffly. “I am not going to be a fool. No +man on earth is worth your tears. That is +all I wanted to say.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, child, you are young for all your +wisdom. I was not sorry for him but for +myself.”</p> + +<p>“Liar!” he cried petulantly, and then +caught at her hand. “Forgive me! Come +now and read me a sonnet of your Keats and +then translate it to me.”</p> + +<p>Obediently she stooped to pick up the book. +The flame of the little lamp on the table at his +side burned steadily.</p> + +<p>He lay with closed eyes and lips that moved, +repeating the words after her. “It is very +good to listen to your voice while you are +here with me alone under the stars,” he said +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> +presently. “Tell me, does this man love +you?”</p> + +<p>She was silent.</p> + +<p>“Does he love you?”</p> + +<p>“I think he did, but perhaps he has forgotten +me now.”</p> + +<p>“I love you,” the boy said deliberately.</p> + +<p>“I cannot come again if you talk like this, +Astorre.”</p> + +<p>“I shall never say it again,” he answered, +“but I want you to remember that it is so, +because it may comfort you. Such words +never come amiss to women. They feed on +the hunger of our hearts.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t say that!” she cried. “It is true +that I like you to be fond of me, and I love +you. In the best way, Astorre—oh, do believe +that it is the best way!”</p> + +<p>“With your soul, I suppose? Do you +think I am an angel because I am a cripple?” +he asked bitterly.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry—”</p> + +<p>“Poor little girl,” he said more gently, “I +have hurt you instead of comforting you, as I +meant to do. But how can I give what is not +mine? How can I cry ‘Peace,’ when there +is no peace? You will suffer still when I am +at rest.”</p> + +<p>The boy’s mother put down her work +presently and came out to them, and the three +sat silently watching the moon rise beyond the +hills. It was as though a veil had been withdrawn +to show the glimmer of distant streams, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +the white walls of peasant dwellings set among +their vines, the belfry tower of an old Carthusian +monastery belted in by tall dark +cypresses, and the twisted shadows thrown by +the gnarled trunks and outstanding roots of +the olive trees.</p> + +<p>“All blue and silver,” cried the girl after a +while. “Thank God for Italy!”</p> + +<p>“She has cost her children dear,” the elder +woman answered, sighing. “Beyond that +rampart of hills lies the Maremma, and +swamps, marshes, forests are to be drained +now, they say, and made profitable. You will +see some peasants from over there in our +streets at the time of the Palio. Poor souls! +They are so lean and haggard and yellow that +their bones seem to be piercing through their +discoloured skins.”</p> + +<p>“The Palio! I think Signor Lucis is +coming to Siena to see it,” Olive said.</p> + +<p>“Is that the man your cousin Gemma is to +marry?” the dressmaker asked curiously. +“I had heard that she was engaged, but one +hears so many things. Do you like her?”</p> + +<p>“Not very much, but really I see very little +of her. I am out all day teaching.”</p> + +<p>The door-bell clanged as the girl rose to go. +“That is Carolina come for her stray sheep,” +she said, smiling. “They will not believe that +I can come home by myself at night.”</p> + +<p>“They are quite right. If your aunt’s +servant did not come for you I should take +you back to the Piazza Tolomei myself.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> +“You forget that I am English.”</p> + +<p>Olive never attempted to explain her code; +she stated her nationality and went on her +way. Her first pupils had all been young girls, +but as it became known that she was really +English her circle widened. The prior of a +Dominican convent near San Giorgio, and two +privates from a regiment of Lancers stationed +in the Fortezza, came to her to be taught, and +some of Astorre’s friends, students at the +University, were very anxious for lessons, and +as the Menotti refused to have them in their +house Olive had to hire a room to receive +them.</p> + +<p>The aunt disapproved. “It is not right,” +she said, and when Olive assured her that she +could not afford to lose good pupils she shook +her large head.</p> + +<p>“You will go your own way, I suppose, but +do not bring your men here. I cannot have +soldiers scratching up the carpet with their +spurs, or monks dropping snuff on it.”</p> + +<p>Olive’s days were filled, and she, having no +time for the self-tormentings of idle women, +was content to be not quite unhappy. She +needed love and could not rest without it, and +she was at least partially satisfied. Astorre +and his mother adored her, thought her perfect, +held her dear. All her pupils seemed to like +her, and some of the students brought her +little gifts of flowers, and packets of chocolate +and almond-rock that Maria ate for her. The +prior gave her a plaster statuette of St +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +Catherine. “She was clever, and so are you,” +he said.</p> + +<p>“Carmela, I am not really <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">antipatica</i>?”</p> + +<p>“What foolishness! No.”</p> + +<p>“Why does Gemma hate me then? No one +else does, or if they do they hide it, but she +looks daggers at me always.”</p> + +<p>Carmela had been invited to tea in her +cousin’s bedroom. The water did not boil +yet, but her mouth was already full of cake.</p> + +<p>“What happened the other night when +Gemma let you in?” she mumbled.</p> + +<p>“Did she say anything to you?”</p> + +<p>“No, but I am not blind or deaf. You have +not spoken to each other since.”</p> + +<p>Olive lifted the kettle off the spirit lamp. +“You like it weak, I know.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and three lumps of sugar. Tell me +what happened, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cara</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Well, as I came up the stairs that night I +noticed a strong scent of tobacco—good +tobacco. Sienese boys smoke cheap cigarettes, +and the older men get black Tuscan +cigars, but this was different. It reminded me +of— Oh, well, never mind. When I came +to the first landing I felt sure there was someone +standing close against the wall waiting +for me to go by, and yet when I spoke no one +answered. You know how dark it is on the +stairs at night. I could not see anything, but +I listened, and, Carmela, a watch was ticking +quite near me, by my ear. I could not move +for a moment, and then I heard Carolina +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> +calling—she was with me, you know, but she +had gone up first—and I got up somehow. +Gemma let us in. She said she had been +asleep, and I noticed that her hair was all +loose and tumbled. I told her I fancied there +was someone lurking on the stairs, and she +said it must have been the cat, but I knew from +the way she said it that she was angry. She +lit her candle and marched off into her own +room without saying good-night, and I was +sorry because I have always wanted to be +friends with her. I thought I would try to say +something about it, so I went to her door and +knocked. She opened it directly. ‘Go away, +spy,’ she said very distinctly, and then I grew +angry too. I laughed. ‘So there was a man +on the stairs,’ I said.”</p> + +<p>Carmela stirred her tea thoughtfully. +“Ah!” she said. “How nice these spoons +are. I wish you would tell me who gave +them to you.”</p> + +<p>She helped herself to another cake. “Gemma +is difficult, and we shall all be glad +when September comes and she is safely +married. She is lazy. You have seen us of +a morning, cutting out, basting, stitching at +her wedding clothes, while she sits with her +hands folded. Are you coming out with us +this evening?”</p> + +<p>The Menotti strolled down to the Lizza +nearly every day after the <i>siesta</i>, and Carmela +often persuaded her cousin to accompany +them. The gardens were set on an outlying +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +spur of the hill on which the wolf’s foster son, +Remus, built the city that was to be fairer +than Rome. The winter winds, coming +swiftly from the sea, whipped the laurels into +strange shapes, shook the brown seed pods +from the bare boughs of the acacias, and froze +the water that dripped from the Medicean +balls on the old wall of the Fortezza. Even +in summer a little breeze would spring up +towards sunset, and the leaves that had +hung heavy and flaccid on the trees in the +blazing heat of noon would be stirred by it to +some semblance of life, while the shadows +lengthened, and the incessant maddening +scream of the locusts died down into silence. +The gardens were a favourite resort. As the +church bells rang the Ave Maria the people +came to them by Camollia and San Domenico, +to see each other and to talk over the news of +the day.</p> + +<p>Smart be-ribboned nurses carrying babies +on white silk cushions tied with pink or blue +rosettes, young married women with their +children, stout mothers chaperoning the +elaborate vivacity of their daughters, occupied +seats near the bandstand, or lingered about +the paths as they chattered and fanned themselves +incessantly to the strains of the Intermezzo +from <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Cavalleria Rusticana</i> or some +march of Verdi’s. A great gulf was fixed +between the sexes on these occasions. The +young men congregated about the base of +Garibaldi’s statue; more or less gilded youths +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> +devoted to “le Sport,” wearing black woollen +jerseys and perforated cycling shoes, while +lady-killers braved strangulation in four-inch +collars. There were soldiers too, cavalry +lieutenants, slender, erect, and very conscious +of their charms, and dark-faced priests, who +listened to the music carefully with their eyes +fixed on the ground, as being in the crowd but +not of it. Olive watched them all with +mingled amusement and impatience. If only +the boys would talk to their friends’ sisters +instead of eyeing them furtively from afar; +if only the girls would refrain from useless +needlework and empty laughter. They +talked incessantly and called every mortal—and +immortal—thing <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carina</i>. Queen Margherita +was <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carina</i>, and so was the new cross-stitch, +and so was this blue-eyed Olive. Yes, +they admitted her alien charm. She was +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">strana</i>, too, but they did not use that word +when she was there or she would have rejoiced +over such an enlargement of their +vocabulary.</p> + +<p>“They are amiable,” she told Astorre, +“but we have not one idea in common.”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” he said, “can one woman ever praise +another without that ‘but’? Do you think +them pretty?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes, but one does not notice them when +Gemma is there.”</p> + +<p>“That is the pale one, isn’t it? I have +heard of her from the students, and also from +the professors of the University. One of my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> +friends raves about her Greek profile and her +straight black brows. He calls her his silent +Sappho, but I fancy Odalisque is a better +name for her. There is no brain or heart, is +there?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she answered uncertainly. +“She seldom speaks to anyone, never to me.”</p> + +<p>“She is jealous of you probably.”</p> + +<p>The heats of July tried the boy. He was +not so well as he had been in the spring, and +lately he had not been able to help his mother +with her needlework. The hours of enforced +idleness seemed very long, and he watched for +Olive’s coming with pathetic eagerness. She +never failed to appear on Tuesdays and Saturdays, +though the lessons had been given up +since his head ached when he tried to learn. +Signora Aurelia met her always at the door +with protestations of gratitude. “You amuse +him and make him laugh, my dear, because +you are so fresh, and you do not mind what +you say. It is good of you to come so far in +the sun.”</p> + +<p>The girl’s heart ached to see the haggard +young face so white against the dark velvet of +the piled-up cushions. The deep grey eyes +lit up with pleasure at the sight of her, but she +found it hard to meet their yearning with a +smile.</p> + +<p>Sometimes she found old men sitting with +him, grave and potent signiors, professors from +the University, who, on being introduced, +beamed paternally and asked her questions +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +about Oxford and Cambridge. There were +bashful youths too, who blushed when she +entered and rose hurriedly with muttered +excuses. If they could be induced to stay, +Olive, seeing that it pleased Astorre to see +them shuffling their feet and writhing on their +chairs in an agony of embarrassment before +her, did her best to make them uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>“Your friends are all so timid,” she said. +He looked at her with a kind of triumph, a +pride of possession.</p> + +<p>“They do not understand you as I do. +Fausto admires you, but you frighten him.”</p> + +<p>“Is he Gemma’s adorer?” she asked with +a careful display of indifference.</p> + +<p>“Yes, he is always <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">amoroso</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! Does he smoke?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Why?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, nothing,” she said. She did not +really believe that the man on the stairs could +have been Fausto. Gemma would not look +twice at such a harmless infant now. When +she was forty-five, perhaps, she might smile on +boys, but at twenty-six—</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> + + +<p>Olive sat in her little bedroom correcting +exercises.</p> + +<p>It was the drowsy middle of the afternoon +and the heat was intense. All the grey-green +and golden land of Tuscany lay still and helpless +at the mercy of the sun. The birds had +long ceased singing, and only the thin shrilling +of the locusts broke the August silence. The +parched earth was pale, and great cracks that +only the autumn rains could fill had opened on +the hillsides, but the ripening maize lay snug +within its narrow sheaths of green, and the +leaves of the vines hid great bunches of purpling +grapes. In the fields men rested awhile +from their labours, and the patient white oxen +stood in the shade of the mulberries, while the +sunburnt lads who drove them bathed their +tired bodies in the stream, or lay idly in the +lush grass at the water’s edge.</p> + +<p>In the town the walls of houses that had +fronted the morning sun were scorching to the +touch, and there was no coolness even in the +steep northward streets that were always in +shadow, or in the grey stone-paved courts of +the palaces. There were few people about at +this hour, and the little stream of traffic had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +run dry in the Via Cavour. A vendor of +melons drew his barrow close up to the +battered old column in the Piazza Tolomei, +and squatted down on the ground beside +it. “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Cocomeri! Fresc’ e buoni!</em>” he cried +once or twice, and then rolled over and went to +sleep. A peasant girl carrying a basket of +eggs passed presently, and she looked wistfully +at the fruit, but she did not disturb his +slumbers.</p> + +<p>“Is that the aunt of your friend’s mother? +No, it is the sister of my niece’s governess.” +Olive laid down her pen. She was only +partially dressed and her hair hung loosely +about her bare white shoulders. The heat +made hairpins seem a burden and outer garments +superfluous. “My niece’s governess is +the last. Thank Heaven for that!” she said, +and she sat down on the brick floor to take off +her stockings. Gemma’s <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fidanzato</i>, her lawyer +from Lucca, was coming to Siena for a week. +He would lodge next door and come in to the +Menotti for most of his meals, and already +poor old Carolina was busy in the hot, airless +kitchen, beating up eggs for a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">zabajone</i>, +and Signora Carosi had gone out to buy +ice for the wine and sweet cakes to be handed +round with little glasses of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vin</i> Santo or +Marsala.</p> + +<p>Carmela came into her cousin’s room soon +after four o’clock. “I have just taken Gemma +a cup of black coffee. Her head aches +terribly.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +“I heard her moving about her room in the +night,” Olive answered, and she added, under +her breath, “Poor Gemma!”</p> + +<p>Carmela lowered her voice too. “Of +course Maria and I know that you see what is +going on as well as we do. There is some +man ... she lets down a basket from her +window at nights for letters, and I believe +she meets him when my aunt thinks she has +gone to Mass. It is dreadful. How glad +we shall be when she is safely married and +away.”</p> + +<p>“Who is the man?”</p> + +<p>“Hush! I don’t know. Do you hear the +beating of a drum? One of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Contrade</i> is +coming.”</p> + +<p>The two girls ran to the window, and Olive +opened the green shutters a little way that +they might see out without being seen. The +day of the Palio was close at hand, and the +pages and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> of the rival parishes, whose +horses were to run in the race, were already +going about the town. Olive never tired of +watching the flash of bright colours as the +flags were flung up and deftly caught again, +and she cried out now with pleasure as the +little procession moved leisurely across the +piazza.</p> + +<p>“I wonder why they come here,” Carmela +said, as the first <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfiero</i> let the heavy folds of +silk ripple about his head, twisted the staff, +seemed to drop it, and gathered it to him again +easily with his left hand. The page stood +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +aside with a grave assumption of the gilded +graces of the thirteenth century. He was +handsome in his dress of green and white and +scarlet velvet.</p> + +<p>“Why does he look up here?”</p> + +<p>Olive laughed a little. “He is the son of +the cobbler who mends my boots,” she +whispered. “He is trying to learn English +and I have lent him some books, and that is +why he has come to do us honour. I think +it is charming of him.”</p> + +<p>She took a white magnolia blossom from a +glass dish on her table. “Shall I be mediæval +too?”</p> + +<p>The boy raised smiling eyes as the pale +flower came fluttering down to him. One of +the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> laughed aloud.</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">O Romeo, sei bello!</em>”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Son’ felice!</em>” he answered, and he kissed +the waxen petals ardently.</p> + +<p>Olive softly clapped her hands together. +“Is he not delicious! What an actor! Oh, +Italy!”</p> + +<p>Now that the performance was over the +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> strolled across the piazza to the barrow +that was still drawn up by the column. +“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Cocomeri! Fresc’ e buoni!</em>”</p> + +<p>“I never know what will please you,” +Carmela said as she sat down. “But foreigners +always like the Palio. You will see many +English and Americans and Germans on the +stands.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I love it all. Yesterday I passed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +through the Piazza del Campo and saw the +workmen putting palings all about the centre, +and hammering at the stands, while others +strewed sand on the course and fastened +mattresses to the side of the house by San +Martino.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fantini</i> are often thrown there and +flung against the wall. If there were no +mattresses ... crack!” Carmela made a +sound as of breaking bones and hummed a few +bars of Chopin’s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Marche Funèbre</i>.</p> + +<p>Olive shuddered. “You are an impressionist, +Carmela. Two dabs of scarlet and a +smear—half a word and a shrug of the +shoulders—and you have expressed a five-act +tragedy. I think you could act.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I am not clever; I should never be +able to remember my part.”</p> + +<p>“You would improvise,” Olive was beginning, +when Carmela sprang up and ran to the +window again.</p> + +<p>“It is Orazio!” she cried. “He has come +in a cab.”</p> + +<p>The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vetturino</i> had pulled his horse up with a +jerk of the reins after the manner of his kind; +the wretched animal had slipped and he was +now beating it about the head with the butt +end of his whip. His fare had got out and was +looking on calmly.</p> + +<p>Olive hastily picked up one of her shoes and +flung it at them. It struck the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vetturino</i> +just above the ear. “A nasty crack,” +she said. “His language is evidently frightful. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +It is a good thing I can’t understand it, +Carmela.”</p> + +<p>She looked down at the angry, bewildered +men, and the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vetturino</i>, catching a glimpse of +the flushed face framed in a soft fluff of brown +hair, shook his fist and roared a curse upon it.</p> + +<p>“Touch that horse again and I’ll throw a +jug of boiling water over you,” she cried as +she drew the green shutters to; and then, in +quite another tone, “Oh, Giovanni, be good. +What has the poor beast ever done to you?” +She turned to Carmela. “I know him. His +wife does washing for Signora Aurelia,” she +explained.</p> + +<p>A slow grin overspread the man’s heavy +face as he rubbed his head.</p> + +<p>“Mad English,” he said, and then looked +closely at the coin the Lucchese had tendered +him.</p> + +<p>“Your legal fare,” Orazio began pompously.</p> + +<p>“Santo Diavolo—”</p> + +<p>“I am a lawyer.”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Si capisce!</em> Will you give the signorina +her shoe?” He handed it to Orazio, who took +it awkwardly.</p> + +<p>“The incident is closed,” Olive said as she +came back to her cooling tea. “I hope there +is a heaven for horses and a hell for men. +Oh, how I hate cruelty! Carmela, if that is +Orazio I must say I sympathise with Gemma. +How could any woman love a mean, narrow-shouldered, +whitey-brown paper thing like +that?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> +“It is a pity,” sighed Carmela as she moved +towards the door. “But after all they are all +alike in the end. I must go now to help Maria +lace. I pull a little, and then wait a few +minutes. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">È un martirio!</em>”</p> + +<p>“Why does she do it?”</p> + +<p>“Why does an ostrich bury its head in the +sand? Why does a camel try to get through +the eye of a needle? (But perhaps he does +not.) I often tell her fat cannot be hidden, +but she will not believe.”</p> + +<p>When Olive went into the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">salotto</i> a few +minutes before seven she found the family +assembled. Signor Lucis rose from his place +at Gemma’s side as the aunt uttered the +introductory formula. He brought his heels +together and bowed stiffly from the waist, +and when Olive gave him her hand in English +fashion he took it limply and held it for a +moment before he dropped it. His string-coloured +moustache was brushed up from a +loose-lipped mouth, and he showed bad teeth +when he smiled.</p> + +<p>“The signorina speaks Italian?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, does she come from London?”</p> + +<p>“I had no settled home in England.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! The sun never shines there?”</p> + +<p>She laughed. “Not as it does here,” she +admitted. “Where is my shoe?”</p> + +<p>“It was yours then?” he said with an +attempt at playfulness. “Gemma has been +quite jealous of the unknown owner, but she +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +says it is much larger than any of hers.” The +girls’ eyes met but neither spoke, and Orazio +babbled on, unheeding: “Her feet are <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carini</i>, +and I can span her ankle with my thumb and +forefinger; but you are small made too, +signorina.”</p> + +<p>Carolina poked her head in at the door. +“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Al suo comodo è pronto</i>,” she said, referring +to the dinner, and hurried away again to dish +up the veal cutlets.</p> + +<p>The young man contrived to remain behind +in the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">salotto</i> for a moment and to keep Gemma +with him. Olive looked at them as they took +their places at table, and she understood that +the girl had had to submit to some caress. +She looked sick and her lips were quite white, +and if Lucis had been a man of quick perceptions +he would have realised, her face must +have shown him, that she loathed him. He +was dense, however, and though he commented +on her silence later on it was evident that he +attributed it to shyness.</p> + +<p>Olive, thinking to do well, flung herself into +the conversational breach. Her cousins had +nothing to say, and the aunt’s thoughts were +set on the dinner and cumbered with much +serving. So she talked to him as in duty +bound, and he seemed inclined to banter her.</p> + +<p>Her feet, her temper, her relations with +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vetturini</i>. He was execrable, but she would +not take offence.</p> + +<p>After dinner they all sat in the little <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">salotto</i> +until it was time to go to the theatre, and still +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> +Olive talked and laughed with Orazio, teaching +him English words and making fun of his pronunciation +of them. Gemma watched her +sombrely and judged her by her own standards, +and Carmela caught at her cousin’s arm +presently as they passed down the crowded +Via Cavour together.</p> + +<p>“Why did you make her so angry? She +will always hate you now. I did not know +you were <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">civetta</i>.”</p> + +<p>Olive looked startled. “Angry? What do +you mean?”</p> + +<p>“Why did you speak so much to Orazio? +Gemma thought you wanted to take her +husband from her and she will not forgive.”</p> + +<p>“Why, I could see it made her ill to look +at him and that she shrank from his touch, and +I did as I would be done by. I distracted his +attention.”</p> + +<p>Carmela laughed in spite of herself. “Oh, +Olive, and I thought you were so clever. Do +you not understand that one can be jealous of +a man one does not love? I know that though +I am stupid. All Italians are jealous. You +must remember that.”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry,” Olive said ruefully after a +pause. “I see you are right. She will never +believe that I wanted to help her. If only you +could persuade her to give up Orazio. Surely +the other man would come forward then. You +and Maria talk of getting her safely married +and away, but I see farther. There can be no +safety in union with the wrong man—”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +Carmela shook her head. “She wants a +husband,” she said stolidly, “and Orazio will +make a good one. You do not understand us, +my dear. You can please yourself with +dreams and fancies, but we are different.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3> + + +<p>Olive was careful to sit down with Carmela +on one side of their box on the second tier, +leaving two chairs in front for the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fidanzati</i>, +but the young man made several efforts to +include her in the conversation and she understood +that she had put herself in a false +position. Orazio had misunderstood her +because her manners were not the manners of +Lucca, and he knew no others. It annoyed +her to see that he plumed himself on his conquest, +but her sense of humour enabled her to +avoid his glances with a good grace, especially +as she realised that she had brought them on +herself.</p> + +<p>She felt nothing but pity for her cousin now. +It would be terrible to marry a man like that, +she thought, and she wondered that so many +women could rush in where angels feared to +tread. She believed that there were infinite +possibilities of happiness in the holy state of +matrimony, but it seemed to her that perhaps +the less said of some actualities the better.</p> + +<p>Carmela was right. At this time she +pastured on dreams and fancies. Her +emotions were not starved, but they were +kept down and only allowed to nibble. She +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> +thought often of the man who had been kind +to her, and sometimes she wished that he had +kissed her. It would have been something to +remember. Often, if she closed her eyes, she +could almost cheat herself into believing him +there close beside her, his brown gaze upon her, +his lips quivering with a strange eagerness +that troubled her and yet made her glad. +Jean Avenel. It was a good name.</p> + +<p>He had gone to America and she assured +herself that he must have forgotten her, but +she did not try to forget him. She nursed +the little wistful sorrow for what might +have been, as women will, and would not +bind up the scratch he had inflicted. Already +she had learned that some pain is +pleasant, and that a stinging sweetness may +be distilled from tears. Sometimes at night, +when it was too hot to sleep and she lay +watching the fine silver lines of moonlight passing +across the floor, she asked herself if she +would see him again, and when, and how, and +wove all manner of cobweb fancies about what +might be.</p> + +<p>She ripened quickly as fruit ripens in the +hot sunshine of Italy; her lips were more +sweetly curved and coloured, and her blue +eyes were shadowed now. They were like +sapphires seen through a veil.</p> + +<p>Maria gave her the opera-glasses and she +raised them to scan the house. It was a gala +night and the theatre was hung with flags and +brilliantly illuminated. There were candles +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +everywhere, and the great chandelier that hung +from the ceiling was lit. The heat was stifling, +and the incessant fluttering of fans gave the +women in the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">parterre</i> and in the crowded +boxes a look of unrest that was belied by their +placid, expressionless faces. Many glanced up +at the Menotti in their box. There was some +criticism of Gemma’s Lucchese.</p> + +<p>“He is ugly, but she could not expect to get +a husband here where she is so well known. +They say—”</p> + +<p>“The Capuan Psyche and a rose from the +garden of Eden,” said a man in the stage box, +who had discerned Olive’s fresh, eager prettiness +beyond the pale beauty of the Odalisque.</p> + +<p>He handed the glasses to his neighbour. +“Choose.”</p> + +<p>“The <i>rôle</i> of Paris is a thankless one; it +involved death in the end for the shepherd +prince.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but you are not a shepherd prince.”</p> + +<p>The man addressed was handsome as a faun +might be and as a tiger is. Not sleek, but +lean and brown, with hot, insolent eyes and a +fine and cruel mouth. A great emerald +sparkled on the little finger of his left hand. +He was one of the few in the house who wore +evening dress, and he was noticeable on that +account, but he had been standing talking +with some other men at the back of his box +hitherto. He came forward now and Gemma +saw him. Her set lips relaxed and seemed to +redden as she met his bold, lifted gaze, but as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +his eyes left hers and he raised his glasses to +stare past her at Olive her face contracted +so that for the moment she was almost ugly.</p> + +<p>The performance was timed to begin at nine, +but at twenty minutes past the hour newsvendors +were still going to and fro with bundles +of evening papers, and the orchestra was represented +by a melancholy bald-headed man with +a cornet. The other musicians came in +leisurely, one by one, and at last the conductor +took his place and the audience settled +down and was comparatively quiet while the +Royal March was being played. The orchestra +had begun the overture to <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Rigoletto</i> when some +of the men who stood in the packed arena +behind the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">palchi</i> cried out and their friends in +other parts of the house joined in. They +howled like wolves, and for a few minutes the +uproar was terrific, and Verdi’s music was +overwhelmed by the clamour of voices until +the conductor, turning towards the audience, +said something inaudible with a deprecating +bow and a quick movement of his hands.</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ora, zitti!</em>” yelled a voice from the +gallery.</p> + +<p>Silence was instant, and the whole house rose +and stood reverently, listening to a weird and +confused jumble of broken chords that yet +could stir the pulses and quicken the beating +of young hearts.</p> + +<p>Olive had risen with the rest. “What is it?” +she whispered to Maria.</p> + +<p>“Garibaldi’s Hymn.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +It seemed a red harmony of rebellious souls, +climbing, struggling, clutching at the skirts of +Freedom. The patter of spent shot, the +heavy breathing of hunted fugitives, the +harsh crying of dying men, the rush of feet +that stumbled as they came over the graves +of the Past; all these sounds of bygone strife +rang, as it were, faintly, beyond the strange +music, as the sea echoes, sighing, in a +shell.</p> + +<p>Signora Aurelia had told Olive how in the +years before Italy was free and united under the +king, when Guiseppe Verdi was a young man, +the students would call his name in the theatre +until the house rang to the cry of “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Viva +Verdi! Viva Verdi!</em>” A little because they +loved their music-maker, more because V. E. R. D. I. +meant Vittor Emanuele, Re D’Italia, +and they liked to sing his forbidden praises +in the very ears of the white-coat Austrians.</p> + +<p>They had their Victor. Had he not +sufficed? Olive knew that the authorities +scarcely countenanced the playing of the +Republican hymn. Was it because it made +men long for some greater ruler than a king, or +for no ruler at all? Freedom is more elusive +even than happiness. Never yet has she +yielded herself to men, though she makes large +promises and exacts sacrifices as cruel as ever +those of Moloch could have been. Her altars +stream with blood, but she ... she is talking, +or she is pursuing, or she is on a journey, or +peradventure she sleepeth ... and her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +prophets must still call upon her and cut themselves +with knives.</p> + +<p>As the curtain went up Olive leant forward +that she might see the stage. It was her first +opera. Music is a necessity in Italy, but in +England it is a luxury, and somehow she and +her mother had never been able to afford even +seats in the gallery at Covent Garden.</p> + +<p>Now all her thoughts, all her fancies, were +swept away in the flood of charming melody. +The story, when she understood it, shocked +and repelled her. It seemed strange that +crime should be set to music, and that one +should have to see abduction, treachery, vice, +and a murder brutally committed in full view +of the audience, while the tenor sang the +lightest of all his lyrics: “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">La donna è mobile</i>.”</p> + +<p>Gemma asked for an ice during the second +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entr’acte</i>, and Orazio hurried out to get one for +her at the buffet. The girl looked tired, +but she was kind to her lover in her silent, +languid way, listening to his whispered +inanities, and allowing him to hold her hand, +though her flesh shrank from the damp clamminess +of his grasp, and she hated his nearness +and wished him away.</p> + +<p>The man who sat alone now in the stage +box could see no flaw in her composure, and she +seemed to him as perfectly calm as she was +perfectly beautiful, though he had noticed +that not once had she looked towards the stage. +She kept her eyes down, and they were +shadowed by the long black lashes. Ah, she +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +was beautiful! The man’s lean brown face +was troubled and he sighed under his breath. +He went out in the middle of the third act, +and he did not come back again.</p> + +<p>After a while Gemma moved restlessly. +“Orazio, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">per carità</i>! Your hand is so hot and +sticky! I shall change places with Carmela,” +she said. She released her fingers from the +young man’s grasp with the air of one crushing +a forward insect or removing a bramble from +the path, and she actually beckoned to her +sister to come.</p> + +<p>Orazio flushed red and he seemed about to +speak as Carmela rose from her seat, but the +aunt interposed hurriedly.</p> + +<p>“Sit still, Gemma, you are tired or you +would not speak so. The lights hurt your +eyes and make your head ache.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am tired,” the girl said wearily. +“I slept ill last night. Forgive me, Orazio, +if I was cross. I am sorry.”</p> + +<p>Her dull submission touched Olive with a +sudden sense of pity and of fear, but Orazio +was blind and deaf to all things written +between the lines of life, and he could not +interpret it.</p> + +<p>“I do not always understand you,” he said +stiffly, and he would not relax until presently +she drew nearer to him of her own accord.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3> + + +<p>The Vicolo dei Moribondi is the narrowest of +all the steep stone-paved streets that lead from +the upper town to the market-place of Siena, +and the great red bulk of the Palazzo Pubblico +overshadows it. Olive had come that way +once from the Porta Romana, and seeing the +legend: “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Affitasi una camera</i>” displayed in +the doorway of one of the shabby houses, had +been moved to climb the many stairs to see the +room in question.</p> + +<p>It proved to be a veritable eyrie, large, bare, +passably clean, and very well lighted. From +the window she saw the hillside below the +church of San Giuseppe, a huddle of red +roofs and grey olive orchards melting into a +blue haze of distance beyond the city walls, +and the crowning heights of San Quirico. +Leaning out over the sill of crumbling stone +she looked down into the Vicolo as into a well.</p> + +<p>The rent was very low, and the woman who +had the room to let seemed a decent though a +frowsy old soul, and so the matter was settled +there and then, and Olive had left the house +with the key of her new domain in her pocket.</p> + +<p>She had bought a table and two chairs and +a shelf for her books at a second-hand furniture +shop near the Duomo, and had given her first +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> +lesson there two days later, and soon the quiet +place seemed more like home to her than the +stuffy flat in the Piazza Tolomei. What +matter if she came to it breathless from climbing +five flights of stairs? It was good to be +high up above the stale odours of the streets. +The window was always open. There were no +woollen mats to be faded or waxen fruits to +be melted by the sun’s heat. A little plaster +bust of Dante stood on the table, and Olive +kept the flowers her pupils gave her, pink +oleander blossoms and white roses from the +terrace gardens, in a jar of majolica ware, but +otherwise the place was unadorned.</p> + +<p>“It is like a convent,” Carmela said when +she came there with Maria and her aunt for an +English tea-drinking.</p> + +<p>Signora Carosi had sipped a little tea and +eaten a good many of the cakes Olive had +bought from the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">pasticceria</i>. “The situation +is impossible,” she remarked, as she brushed +the crumbs off her lap.</p> + +<p>“The stairs are a drawback,” Olive admitted, +not without malice, “but fortunately +my pupils are all young and strong.”</p> + +<p>“You are English. I always say that when +I am asked how I can permit such things. +‘What would you? She teaches men grammar +alone in an attic. I cannot help it. She is +English.’”</p> + +<p>Gemma had been asked to come too on this +occasion, but she had excused herself. She so +often had headaches when the others were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +going out, and they would leave her lying +down in her room. When they came back she +was always up and better, and yet she seemed +feverish and strange. Then sometimes of a +morning, when Maria and the aunt had gone +out marketing, and Carmela, shapeless and +dishevelled in her white cotton jacket, was +dusting or ironing, the beautiful idle sister +would come out of her room, dressed for the +street and carrying a prayer-book. Carmela +would remonstrate with her. “You are not +going alone?”</p> + +<p>“Only to mass.”</p> + +<p>On the morning of the fifteenth of August +she did not go with the others to the parish +church at six o’clock, but she was up early, +nevertheless. She wrote a letter, and presently, +having sealed it, she dropped it out of +the window. A boy who had been lingering +about the piazza since dawn, and staring up at +the close-shuttered fronts of the tall houses, +picked it up and ran off with it. When Maria +and Carmela came back with their aunt soon +after seven they drank their black coffee in the +kitchen before going to their rooms to rest. +Carolina took Olive’s breakfast in to her on a +tray when they were gone. The English girl +had milk with her coffee and some slices of +bread spread with rancid butter. Gemma +lay in wait for the old woman and stopped her +as she came from the kitchen.</p> + +<p>“Find out what she is going to do to-day,” +she whispered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> +Carolina nodded and her shrivelled monkey +face was puckered into a smile. She came +back presently. “She is going to the Duomo +and then to <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">colazione</i> with the De Sancti. +She will go with Signora Aurelia to see the +Palio and only come back here to supper.”</p> + +<p>Gemma went back to her room to finish her +dressing. She put on a pink muslin frock and +a hat of white straw wreathed with roses and +leaves. Surely her beauty should avail to give +her all she desired, light and warmth always, +diamonds and fine laces, and silks to clothe +her and give her grace, and the possession of +the one man’s heart, with his name and a place +in the world beside him. Surely she was not +destined to live with Orazio and his tiresome +mother, penned up in a shabby little house in +Lucca, and there growing old and hideous. +She sat before her glass thinking these thoughts +and waiting until she heard Olive’s quick, light +step in the passage and then the opening and +shutting of the front door. Carolina was in +the kitchen and the others had gone to lie +down, but she went into the dining-room and +listened for a moment there before she ventured +into her cousin’s room. She had often +been in to pry when alone in the flat, and she +knew where to look for the key of the attic in +the Vicolo. Olive always kept it in a corner +of the table drawer and it was there now. +Gemma smiled her rare slow smile as she put +it in her purse. There was a photograph of her +aunt—Olive’s mother—on the dressing-table, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> +and a Tauchnitz edition of Swinburne’s <i>Atalanta +in Calydon</i> lay beside it, the embroidered +tassel of the marker being one of Astorre’s +pitiful little gifts. She swept them off on to +the floor and poured the contents of the ink-stand +over them. She had acted on a spiteful +impulse, and she was half afraid when she saw +the black stream trickling over the book and +blotting out the face of the woman who had +been of her kin. It seemed unlucky, a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">malore</i>, +and she was vexed with herself. She looked +into the kitchen on her way out. “Carolina, +if they ask where I am I have gone to church.”</p> + +<p>The old woman nodded. “Very well, signorina, +but you are becoming too devout. +<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Bada, figlia mia!</em>”</p> + +<p>Siena is a city dedicated to the Virgin, and +the feast of her Assumption is the greatest of +all her red-letter days. The streets had +echoed at dawn to the feet of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contadini</i> coming +in by the Porta Romana, the Porta Camollia, +the Porta Pespini. The oxen had been fed and +left in their stalls; there was no ploughing in +the fields on this day, no gathering of figs, no +sound of singing voices and laughter in the +vineyards. The brown wrinkled old men and +women, the lithe, slender youths in their suits +of black broadcloth—wood gods disguised by +cheap tailoring—all had left their work and +come many a mile along the dusty roads +and across fields to the town for the dear +Madonna’s sake, and to see the Palio. The +country girls had all new dresses for the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ferragosto</i> and they strutted in the Via Cavour +like little pigeons pluming themselves in the +sunshine. They were nearly all pretty, and +the flapping hats of Tuscan straw half hid and +half revealed charming curves of cheek and +chin, little tip-tilted noses, soft brown eyes. +Many of the townsfolk were out too on this +day of days and the streets were crowded with +gay, vociferous people. There was so much to +see. The old picture-gallery was free to all, +and the very beggars might go in to see the +sly, pale, almond-eyed Byzantine Madonne in +their gilt frames, and Sodoma’s tormented +Christ at the Pillar with the marks of French +bullets in the plaster. All the palaces too were +hung with arras, flags fluttered everywhere, +church bells were ringing.</p> + +<p>Gemma passed down a side street and +went a little out of her way to avoid the +Piazza del Campo, but she had to cross the +Via Ricasoli, and the crowd was so dense there +that she was forced to stand on a doorstep +for a while before she could get by.</p> + +<p>“What are they all staring at?” she asked +impatiently of a woman near her.</p> + +<p>“It is the horse of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Montone</i>! They are +taking him to be blessed at the parish church.”</p> + +<p>The poor animal was led by the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fantino</i> who +was to ride him in the race, and followed by +the page. He was small and lean and grey, +with outstanding ribs and the dry scar of an +old wound on his flank. The people eyed him +curiously. “An ugly beast!” “Yes, but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> +you should see him run when the cognac is in +him.”</p> + +<p>Gemma began to be afraid that she would +be late, and that He might find the door shut +and go away again, and she pushed her way +through the crowd and hurried down the +Vicolo and into the house numbered thirteen. +She was very breathless, being tightly laced +and unused to so many stairs, and she +stumbled a little as she crossed the threshold. +She was glad to sit down on one of the chairs +by the open window. The bare room no +longer seemed conventual now that its unaccustomed +air was stirred by the movement of +her fan and tainted by the faint scent of her +violet powder.</p> + +<p>Outside, in the market-place, the country +women were sitting in the shade of their +enormous red and blue striped umbrellas +beside their stalls of fruit, while the people who +came to buy moved to and fro from one to the +other, beating down prices, chaffering eagerly +with little cries of “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Per carità!</em>” and “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio +mio!</em>” shrugging their shoulders, moving +away, until at last the peasants would abate +their price by one soldo. A clinking of coppers +followed, and the green peaches and small black +figs would be pushed into a string bag with a +bit of meat wrapped in a back number of the +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Vedetta Senese</i>, a half kilo of <i>pasta</i>, and perhaps +a tiny packet of snuff from the shop +where they sell salt and tobacco and picture +postcards of the Pope and La Bella Otero.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> +In the old days the scaffold and the gallows +had been set up there, and the Street of the +Dying had earned its name then, so many +doomed wretches had passed down it from the +Justice Hall and the prisons to the place of +expiation. Weighed down by chains they had +gone reluctantly, dragging their feet upon +their last journey, trying to listen to the +priest’s droning of prayers, or to see some +friendly face in the crowd.</p> + +<p>The memory of old sorrows and torments lay +heavy sometimes here on those who had eyes +to see and ears to hear the things of the past, +and Olive was often pitifully aware of the +Moribondi. Rain had streamed down their +haggard faces, washing their tears away, the +sun had shone upon them, dazzling their tired +eyes as they turned the corner where the cobbler +had his stall now, and came to the place from +whence they might have their first glimpse +of the scaffold. Poor frightened souls! But +Gemma knew nothing of them, and she would +have cared nothing if she had known. She +was not imaginative, and her own ills and the +present absorbed her, since now she heard the +man’s step upon the stair.</p> + +<p>“You have come then,” she cried.</p> + +<p>He made no answer, but he put his arms +about her, holding her close, and kissed her +again and again.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER X</h3> + + +<p>“Filippo! Let me go! Let me breathe, +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carissimo</i>! I want to speak to you.”</p> + +<p>He did not seem to hear her. He had +drawn the long steel pins out of her hat and had +thrown the pretty thing down on the floor, +and the loosened coils of shining hair fell over +his hands as his strong lips bruised the pale, +flower-like curves of her mouth.</p> + +<p>Filippo had loved many women in the only +way possible to him, and they had been won +by his brutality and his insolence, and by the +glamour of his name. The annals of mediæval +Italy were stained with blood and tears +because of the Tor di Rocca, and their loves +that ended always in cruelty and horror, and +Filippo had all the instincts of his decadent +race. In love he was pitiless; no impulses of +tenderness or of chivalry restrained him, and +his methods were primeval and violent. +Probably the Rape of the Sabines was his ideal +of courtship, but the subsequent domesticity, +the settling down of the Romans with their +stolen wives, would have been less to his taste.</p> + +<p>“Filippo!” Gemma cried again, and this +time he let her go.</p> + +<p>“You may breathe for one minute,” he said, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +looking at his watch. “There is not much +time.”</p> + +<p>He drew the chair towards the table and +sat down. “Come!” he said imperatively, +but she shook her head.</p> + +<p>“Ah, Filippo, I love you, but you must +listen. Did you see my <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fidanzato</i> in our box +at the theatre last night?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and I am glad he is so ugly. I shall +not be jealous. You must give me your +address in Lucca,” he said coolly.</p> + +<p>Her face fell. “You will let me marry him? +You—you do not mind?”</p> + +<p>He made a grimace. “I do not like it, but +I cannot help it.”</p> + +<p>“But he makes me sick,” she said tremulously. +“I hate him to touch me.”</p> + +<p>It seemed that her words lit some fire in +him. His hot eyes sparkled as he stretched +out his arms to her. “Ah, come to me now +then.”</p> + +<p>She stood still by the table watching him +fearfully. “Filippo, I hoped—I thought you +would take me away.”</p> + +<p>“It is impossible. I cannot even see you +again until after Christmas. It will be safer—better +not. But in January I will come to +Lucca, and then—”</p> + +<p>He hesitated, weighing his words, weighing +his thought and his desire.</p> + +<p>“And then?” she said.</p> + +<p>He looked at her closely, deliberately, +divining the beauty that was half hidden from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> +him. Her parted lips were lovely, and the +texture of her white skin was satin smooth as +the petals of a rose; there was no fault in the +pure oval of her face, in the line of her black +brows. He could see no flaw in her now, and +he believed that she would still seem unsurpassably +fair after a lapse of time.</p> + +<p>“Then, if you still wish it, I will take you +away. You shall have a villa at San Remo—”</p> + +<p>“I understand,” she said hurriedly, and she +covered her face with her hands.</p> + +<p>She had hoped to be the Princess Tor di +Rocca, and he had offered to keep her still as +his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">amica</i>. Presently, if she wished it and it +still suited him, he would set her feet on the +way that led to the streets. “Then if you +wish it—” To her the insult seemed to lie in +the proposed delay. She loved him, and she +had no love for virtue. She loved him, and +if he had urged her to go with him on the +instant she would have yielded easily. But +she must await his convenience; next year, +perhaps; and meanwhile she must go to +Lucca, she must be married to the other man.</p> + +<p>She was crying, and tears oozed out between +her fingers and dripped on the floor. “He is +horrible to me,” she said brokenly.</p> + +<p>Filippo rose then and came to her; he loved +her in his way, and she moved him as no +woman had done yet.</p> + +<p>“Why need you marry him? Do not. +Wait for me here and I will surely come for +you,” he said as he drew her to him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +She hid her face on his shoulder. “I dare +not send him away,” she whispered. “All +Siena would laugh at me, and I should be +ashamed to be seen. No other man would +ever take me after such a scandal. Besides, +you know I must be married. You know +that, Filippo! And if you did not +come—”</p> + +<p>“I shall come.”</p> + +<p>She clung to him in silence for a while before +she spoke again.</p> + +<p>“Why not until January?”</p> + +<p>“You will be good if I tell you?” he asked +when he had kissed her.</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes; only hold me.”</p> + +<p>“Gemma, you must know that I am poor. +I have told you often how the palace in +Florence is shabby, eaten up with moth and +rust. The Villa at Certaldo is falling into +ruins too. I am poor.”</p> + +<p>“You have an automobile, servants, horses; +you stay here at the best hotel.”</p> + +<p>“I should not be poor for a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contadino</i> but I +am for a prince,” he said impatiently and with +emphasis. “Believe me, I want money, and I +must have it. I cannot steal it or earn it, or +win it in the lottery unfortunately, so I must +marry it.”</p> + +<p>She cowered down as though he had struck +her, and made an effort to escape from him, +but he held her fast. She tried to speak, but +the pain in her throat prevented her from +uttering an articulate sound.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> +“Do not think of the woman,” he said +hurriedly. “You need not. I do not. Once +I am married I shall go my own way, of +course, but her father is in Naples now, and +he is a tiresome old fool.”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Santissimo Dio!</em>” she gasped presently. +“When—when—”</p> + +<p>“In December.”</p> + +<p>“Is she beautiful?”</p> + +<p>He laughed as he gave the answer she hoped +for. “She is an American,” he added, “and +it sets one’s teeth on edge to hear her trying +to talk Italian. Her accent! She is a small +dry thing like a grasshopper.”</p> + +<p>“I wish she was dead.”</p> + +<p>He set himself to soothe and comfort her, +but it was not easy.</p> + +<p>“I might as well be ugly,” she cried again +and again.</p> + +<p>It was the simple expression of her defeat. +The beauty she had held to be a shield against +sorrow and a key to the garden of delights was +but a poor thing after all. It had not availed +her, and she had nothing else. She was +stripped now, naked, alone and defenceless in a +hard world.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carissima</i>, be still. Have patience. I +love you, and I shall come for you,” whispered +Tor di Rocca, and she tried to believe him, +and to persuade herself that the flame in his +brown eyes would burn for her always.</p> + +<p>Slowly, as the passion of grief ebbed, the +tide of love rose in her and flushed her wan, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +tear-stained face and made it beautiful. The +door of the room was opened, but neither she +nor the man heard it, or saw it closed again. +It was their last hour, this bare room was their +world and they were alone in it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XI</h3> + + +<p>The table was set for lunch out on the terrace +where Astorre lay gazing upon his Tuscany, +veiled in a shimmering haze of heat and +crowned with August blue. The best coffee +cups of majolica ware had been set out, and +signora had made a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">zabajone</i> in honour of +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ferragosto</i>. It was meant to please Olive, who +was childishly fond of its thick yellow sweetness, +but she seemed restless and depressed; +Astorre looked ill, and his mother’s eyes were +anxious as they dwelt on him, and so the +dainty was eaten in silence, and passed away +unhonoured and unsung as though it were +humble pie or a funeral baked meat.</p> + +<p>Later in the afternoon, when the signora had +gone to lie down, Astorre began to ask questions.</p> + +<p>“Is your face hot?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—no—what makes you think—”</p> + +<p>“You are flushed,” he said bluntly, “and +you will not meet my eyes. Why? Why?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t ask,” she answered. “I cannot +tell you.”</p> + +<p>The haggard, aquiline face changed and +hardened. “Someone has been rude to you, +or has frightened you.”</p> + +<p>“No.” She moved away to escape the inquisition +of his eyes. “Some of these plants +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +want water. I shall fetch some.” She was +going in when he called to her.</p> + +<p>“Olive,” he said haltingly. “Perhaps we +ought to have told you before. My mother +heard of some people who want an English +governess from a friend of hers who is a music +mistress in Florence. They are rich and +would pay well, and we should have told you +when we heard of it, three days ago, but I could +not bear the thought of your leaving Siena +while—while I am still here. But if those +people in the Piazza Tolomei are unkind—”</p> + +<p>She came back then and sat down beside +him. “I do not want to leave Siena,” she +said gently.</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” he answered, and added: +“It will not be for long. Why should I pretend +to you?” he went on. “I have suffered, +but now I have no pain at all, only I am very +weak. Look!”</p> + +<p>He held up his hand; it was yellowish white +and so thin as to be almost transparent, and it +seemed to Olive to be most pathetic because +it was not very small or very finely made. It +held the broken promise of power, she thought +sorrowfully, and she stroked the outstretched +palm gently as though it were a half-frozen +bird that she would bring to life again.</p> + +<p>He closed his eyes, smiling. “Ah, your +little fingers are soft and warm.”</p> + +<p>“You were at the theatre last night,” he +said presently. “Fausto saw you. How do +you like your cousin’s <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fidanzato</i>?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +“Not at all.”</p> + +<p>“Olive, do you know that they say strange +things about the Odalisque? I am afraid there +will be trouble if her Lucchese hears—”</p> + +<p>“I do not care to hear that nickname,” +she said coldly. “It is impertinent and +absurd.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, do not let go of my hand,” he implored. +“Keep on stroking it. I love it! I +love it! If I were a cat you would hear me +purring. Tell me about England and Shakespeare +and Shelley. Anything. I will be +good.”</p> + +<p>“I—I have not brought the book I promised +you. I would have fetched it on my +way here, but—but I had not the key. I am +sorry, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">nino</i>. Yes, let us talk of nice things.”</p> + +<p>She was quick to relent, and soon seemed to +be herself again, and he kept his fever-bright +eyes on her, watching her as in the old days +men may have watched the stars as they +waited for the dawn that was to see them pass +by the Vicolo dei Moribondi.</p> + +<p>Soon, very soon, Signora Aurelia would +come out to them, and she would stay beside +her son while Olive went to put on her hat, +and then they would say “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Addio</i>” and leave +him. And perhaps he would indeed go to +God, or to some place where he would see the +dear ones no more. The boy’s beautiful lips +were shut close, but the grey eyes darkened +and dilated painfully.</p> + +<p>“Astorre! Are you ill? Do not look so. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +Oh, I will not go to the Palio. I will stay with +you.”</p> + +<p>“No, you must go, and to-morrow you can +tell me all about it. But will you kiss me +now? Do.”</p> + +<p>“You need not ask twice, dear Astorre,” +she whispered, as she leant over him and +touched his forehead with her lips.</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ma che!</em>” he said ungratefully. “That’s +nothing. Kiss me properly and at once.”</p> + +<p>When the boy’s mother came out on to the +terrace a moment later Olive’s blue eyes were +full of tears and the rose flush of her cheeks +had deepened, but she looked at her friend very +kindly as she uttered the word he had been +afraid to hear.</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Addio!</em>”</p> + +<p>The Piazza del Campo was crowded as the +Signora Aurelia and Olive passed through it to +their seats on the second best stand, and the +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i> were clearing the course. The +thousands of people in the central space, who +had been chewing melon seeds, fanning themselves, +and talking vociferously as they waited, +grew quieter, and all began to look one way +towards the narrow street from whence the +procession should appear.</p> + +<p>Olive sat wedged between Signora Aurelia +and an old country priest whose shabby +soutane was stained with the mud his housekeeper +should have brushed off after the last +rains, a fortnight before. He had a kind, worn +face that smiled when Olive helped him put +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> +his cotton umbrella in a safe place between +them.</p> + +<p>“I shall not need it yet,” he said. “But +there is a storm coming. Do you not feel the +heaviness of the air, and the heat, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio mio</i>!”</p> + +<p>The deep bell of the Mangia tower tolled, +and then the signal was given, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">un colpo di +mortaletto</i>, and the pageant began.</p> + +<p>Slowly they came, the grave, armoured +knights riding with their visors up that all +might see how well the tanner, Giovanni, and +Enrico Lupi of the wine-shop, looked in chain +mail; gay, velvet-clad pages carrying the silk-embroidered +standards of their <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrade</i> with +all the fine airs of the lads who stand about the +bier of Saint Catherine in Ghirlandaio’s fresco +in the Duomo; lithe, slender <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> tossing +their flags, twisting them about in the carefully-concerted +movements that look so easy and +are so difficult, until the whole great Piazza +was girdled with fluttering light and colour, +while it echoed to the thrilling and disquieting +beat of the drums. Each <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrada</i> had its +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tamburino</i>, and each <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tamburino</i> beat upon his +drum incessantly until his arms tired and the +sweat poured down his face.</p> + +<p>Olive’s head began to ache, but she was +excited and happy, enjoying the spectacle as +a child enjoys its first pantomime, not thinking +but feeling, and steeping her senses in the +southern glow and gaiety that was all about +her. For the moment her cousin’s shame and +sorrow, and her friend’s pain seemed old, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +unhappy, far-off things, and she could not +realise them here.</p> + +<p>The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrada</i> of the Oca was the last to go by; +it was a favourite with the people because its +colours were those of the Italian flag, red, +white and green, and the Evvivas broke out as +it passed. Olive’s page, her cobbler’s son, +looked gravely up at her as he went by, and +she smiled at him and was glad to see that he +still wore the magnolia bud she had thrown him +in his hood of parti-coloured silk.</p> + +<p>Presently they were all seated—the knights +and pages with their standard-bearers and +esquires—on their own stand in the place of +honour before the great central gates of the +Palazzo Pubblico.</p> + +<p>“Now the horses will run,” explained the +signora. “Many people like this part best, +but I do not. Poor beasts! They are half +drunk, and they are often hurt or killed. The +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fantini</i> lash at each other with their hide +whips. Once I saw the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Montone</i> strike the +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Lupa</i> just as they passed here; the crimson +flashed out across his face, and in his pain he +pulled his horse aside, and it fell heavily +against the palings and threw him so that the +horse of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Bruco</i> coming on behind could not +avoid going over him. They said it was +terrible to see that livid weal across his mouth +as he lay in his coffin.”</p> + +<p>“He died then?”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ma! Sicuro!</em>”</p> + +<p>Olive looked up at the window where the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +Menotti should have been, and saw strange +faces there. They had not come then. They +had not, and Astorre could not. Astorre was +very ill ... the times were out of joint. Her +cousin’s shame and sorrow and her friend’s +pain seemed to come near again, and to be +once more a part of her life, and she saw “gold +tarnished, and the grey above the green.” +When the horses came clattering by, urged by +their riders, maddened by the roar of the +crowd, she tried to shut her eyes, but she could +not. The horse of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dragone</i> stumbled at +the turn by San Martino and the rider was +thrown, and another fell by the Chigi palace +as they came round the second time. Olive +covered her face with her hands. The thin, +panting flanks, marked with half-healed scars +and stained with sweat, the poor broken +knees, the strained, suffering eyes ...</p> + +<p>“Are you ill, signorina?” the old priest +asked kindly.</p> + +<p>“No, but the poor horses—I cannot look. +Who has won?”</p> + +<p>He rose to his feet. “The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Oca</i>!” he cried +excitedly. A great roar of voices acclaimed +the favourite’s victory, and when the spent +horse came to a standstill the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fantino</i> slipped +off its back and was instantly surrounded by +men and boys of his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrada</i>, dancing and +shouting with joy, kissing him on both cheeks, +pulling him this way and that, until the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i> +came up and took him away amongst +them.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +“The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Bruco</i> hoped to win,” the priest said, +“and the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Oca’s fantino</i> might get a knife in +his back if he were not taken care of.”</p> + +<p>Already the crowd was dispersing. The +victorious <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrada</i> had been given the painted +standard of the Palio, and were bearing it in +triumph to the parish church, where it would +remain until the next <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ferragosto</i>. The others +were going their separate ways, pages and +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> in silk doublets and parti-coloured hosen +arm-in-arm with their friends in black broadcloth, +standard-bearers smoking cigarettes, +knights unhelmed and wiping heated brows +with red cotton handkerchiefs.</p> + +<p>“I will go down the Via Ricasoli with you,” +Olive said.</p> + +<p>“It is I who should take you home.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I do not mind the crowd, and I know +you are anxious to get back to Astorre.”</p> + +<p>“Astorre—yes. Olive, you don’t think he +looks more delicate, do you?”</p> + +<p>The girl felt that she could not have +answered truly if her life had depended on her +veracity.</p> + +<p>“Oh, no,” she said. “He is rather tired, I +think. The heat tries him. He will be better +later on.”</p> + +<p>The poor mother seemed relieved.</p> + +<p>“You are right; he is always pale in the +summer,” she said, trying to persuade herself +that it was so. “You will come to-morrow +to tell him about the Palio?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, surely.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +There were to be fireworks later on at the +Fortezza and illuminations of the Lizza +gardens, so the human tide set that way and +left the outlying parts of the city altogether. +The quiet, tree-shadowed piazzetta before the +church of Santa Maria dei Servi was quite +deserted. Children played there in the +mornings, and old men and women lingered +there and sat on the wooden benches in the +sun, but they were all away now; the bells +had rung for the Ave Maria, the church doors +were closed, and the sacristan had gone to his +supper.</p> + +<p>A little mist had crept up from the valley; +steep red roofs and old walls that had glowed +in the sun’s last rays were shadowed as the +light waned, and black clouds came up from +the horizon and blotted out the stars.</p> + +<p>“Go home quickly now, Olive. There will +be a storm. The poor mad people will howl +to-night in the Manicomio. I hear them +sometimes when I am lying awake. Good-night, +my dear.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XII</h3> + + +<p>Olive was tired, and now that she was alone +she knew that she was also a little afraid, so +that she lingered on the way and went slowly +up the stairs of the house in the Piazza Tolomei. +Carmela answered her ring at the bell; her +face was swollen and her eyes were red with +crying, and the little lamp she carried shook +in her hand.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Olive,” she said, “Orazio says he will +not marry her. He has heard such things +about her from his friends, and even in the +Café Greco.... It is a scandal.”</p> + +<p>She put her lamp down on the floor, and +took out her handkerchief to wipe away the +tears that were running down her cheeks.</p> + +<p>Olive came in and shut the door after her.</p> + +<p>“Where is he?”</p> + +<p>“They are all in the dining-room. Aunt +sent Carolina out for the evening, and it is a +good thing, because of course in the kitchen +she could hear everything. He sent a message +to say he could not go to the Palio, and +Gemma’s head ached when she came back from +church, so we all stayed in. He came half an +hour ago—”</p> + +<p>“What does Gemma say?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing. She looks like a stone.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +“I must go through the dining-room to get +to my room,” Olive said uncertainly. “What +shall I do? Pass through very quickly or +wait here in the passage?”</p> + +<p>“Better go in,” advised Carmela. “They +may not even notice you. He keeps on talking +so loudly, and aunt and Maria are crying.”</p> + +<p>“Poor things! I am so sorry!”</p> + +<p>The two girls clung together for a moment, +and Olive’s eyes filled with tears as she kissed +her cousin’s poor trembling lips. Then Carmela +stooped to pick up her lamp and put it +out, and they went on together down the +passage.</p> + +<p>The lamp was lit on the table that Carolina +had laid for supper before she went out, and +the Menotti sat in their accustomed places as +though they were at a meal. Orazio Lucis +was walking to and fro and gesticulating. His +boots creaked, and the noise they made grated +on the women’s nerves as he talked loudly and +incessantly, and they listened. Maria kept +her face hidden in her hands, but Gemma held +herself erect as ever, and she did not move +when the two girls came in, though her sombre +eyes were full of shame.</p> + +<p>“What shall I say to my friends in Lucca?” +raved Orazio. “What shall I say to my +mother? Even if I still consented to marry +you she would not permit it; she would refuse +to live in the same house with such a person—and +she would be right. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Mamma mia!</em> She +is always right. She said, ‘The girl is beautiful, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> +but she has no money, and I tell you to +think twice.’ I have been trapped here by all +you women. You all knew.”</p> + +<p>He pointed an accusing finger at Signora +Carosi. She sobbed helplessly, bitterly, as she +tried to answer him, and Olive, who had waited +in the shadow by the door, hoping that he +would move on and enable her to pass into her +own room, came forward and stood beside her +aunt. She had thought she would feel abashed +before this man who had been wronged, but he +had made her angry instead, and now she +would not have left the room if he had asked +her, or have told him the truth if he had +begged for it.</p> + +<p>“Many girls have been offered me,” he +went on excitedly, “but I would not hear of +them because you were beautiful, and I +thought you would make a good wife. There +was Annina Giannini; she had five thousand +lire, and more to come, and now she is married +to a doctor in Lucca. I gave her up for you, +and you are dust of the streets.”</p> + +<p>Gemma flinched then as though he had +struck her. The insult was flagrant, and it +was time to make an end. She rose from her +chair slowly, as though she were very tired, +and filled her glass from the decanter on the +table with a hand that trembled so that half +the wine was spilled.</p> + +<p>“Orazio,” she said, and her dark eyes sought +his and held them so that he was compelled to +stand still looking at her. “Orazio, I hope +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +you and your ugly fool of a mother will die +slowly of a horrible disease, and be tormented +in hell for ever. May your flesh be covered +with sores while your bones rot and are gnawed +by worms. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Cosi sia!</em>”</p> + +<p>She crossed herself devoutly, and then +drank some of the wine and flung the glass over +her shoulder. It fell to the floor and crashed +to splinters.</p> + +<p>The man’s jaw dropped and his mouth fell +open, but he had no words to answer her. She +made a curious movement with her hands as +though she would cleanse them of some impurity, +and then turned and went quickly into +her own room. They all heard the bolts +drawn and the key turned in the lock.</p> + +<p>Olive was the first to speak, and her voice +sounded strange and unnatural to herself.</p> + +<p>“She has said her say and left us, Signor +Lucis. Will you not go too? You will not +marry her. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Benissimo!</em> We wish you good-evening.”</p> + +<p>“You are very easy, signorina <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mia</i>,” he +answered resentfully; “but I cannot forgive.”</p> + +<p>“Who asked your forgiveness?” she retorted. +“It is you who should beg our +pardon—you, who are so ready to believe the +tales that are told in the <i>cafés</i> and to come +here to abuse helpless women. You are a +coward, signore. Oh, how I hate men ... +Judges in Israel ... I would have them stoned +first. <em>What’s that?</em>”</p> + +<p>There was shouting in the street, and then +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +a loud knocking on the house door. The +women looked at each other with frightened +eyes.</p> + +<p>“What is it?”</p> + +<p>Carmela ran to Gemma’s door and shook the +handle, calling to her to come out. There was +no answer, and perhaps they had a dreadful premonition +of the truth even then; Olive left them +huddled together like frightened sheep. The +knocking still continued, and it sounded very +loud when she came out of the flat on to the +stairs. She was beside herself; that is, she +was aware of two Olives, one who spoke in a +strange voice and trembled, and was now going +down into the darkness, stumbling at nearly +every step and moaning incoherent prayers to +God, and one who watched and listened and +was surprised at what was said and done.</p> + +<p>When she opened the great house door a +man stood aside to let her come out. She +looked at him and knew him to be one of the +neighbours, and she wondered why he had run +out into the street in his shirt-sleeves. He +was pale, too, and looked ill, and he seemed +to want to speak to her, but she could not +listen.</p> + +<p>A crowd had collected about something +that was lying on the pavement near their +house wall; Olive looked up and saw Gemma’s +window opened wide, and then she knew what +it was. The people made way for her and let +her come to where the dead thing lay on its +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> +back with the knees drawn up. Some woman +had already covered the face with a handkerchief, +and dark blood was oozing out from +under it. Olive crouched down beside its +pitiful disarray.</p> + +<p>“Will someone help me carry her into the +house?” she said.</p> + +<p>No one answered her, and after a while she +spoke again.</p> + +<p>“Will someone fetch a doctor quickly?”</p> + +<p>“It is useless, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">figlia mia</i>; she is dead.”</p> + +<p>“At least”—her voice broke, and she had +to begin again, making a painful effort to +control the words that she might be quite +intelligible—“at least help me to carry her +in from the street. Is there no Christian +here?”</p> + +<p>Two <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i> came running up now, and +they made the people stand back so that a +space of pavement was left clear; the younger +man spoke to Olive.</p> + +<p>“We cannot move the body until the authorities +come, signorina. It must stay where it is, +but we shall guard it and keep the people off, +and you can fetch a sheet from the house to +cover it.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, God!” she said, “when will they +come?”</p> + +<p>He slightly shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“I do not know. We have sent to tell them. +In a few minutes, perhaps, or in two hours, +three hours.”</p> + +<p>“And we must leave her here?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +“Yes, signorina.”</p> + +<p>“I will get the sheet.”</p> + +<p>He helped her to rise from her knees. +Looking down she saw a stain of blood on her +skirt, and she clung to his arm for a moment, +swaying as though she would fall. There was +a murmur among the people of pity and sympathy. +“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Poveretta! Che disgrazia!</em>”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Coraggio!</em>” the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabiniere</i> said gently.</p> + +<p>Up again, up all the dark stairs, wondering +if the others knew and were afraid to come +down, wondering if there had been much pain, +wondering if it was not all a dreadful dream +from which she must wake presently. They +knew.</p> + +<p>The younger girl met her cousin at the door; +Maria had fainted, and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">la zia</i> was hysterical; +as to Orazio, he was sitting on the sofa crying, +with his mean, mouse-coloured head buried in +the cushions.</p> + +<p>“I looked out of your bedroom window as I +could not get into her room,” whispered +Carmela. “Oh, Olive, what shall we do?”</p> + +<p>“I am going to take down a sheet as they +will not let us bring her in. You can come +with me, and we will stay beside her and say +prayers.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes. Oh, Olive, that is a good idea.”</p> + +<p>The two came out into the street together +and spread the white linen covering carefully +over the stark body before they knelt, one on +each side. Of the thousands who had filled +the Piazzale at sunset hundreds came now to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> +see them mourning the broken thing that lay +between. Olive was aware of many faces, of +the murmuring of a great crowd, and shame +was added to the horror that held her fast. +She folded her hands and tried to keep her +eyes fixed upon them. Then she began to pray +aloud.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur +nomen tuum—</i>”</p> + +<p>The clear voice was tremulous at first, but it +gathered strength as it went on, and Carmela +said the words too. The men in the crowd +uncovered, and the women crossed themselves.</p> + +<p>Rain was falling now, slowly at first and in +heavy drops that splashed upon the stones, +and there was a threatening sound—a rumbling +of thunder—away in the south.</p> + +<p>Olive knew no more prayers in Latin, but +her cousin began the Miserere.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam +misericordiam tuam, et secundum multitudinem +miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam.</i>”</p> + +<p>Among the many who had come to look their +last upon the Odalisque were men who had +made free with her poor name, had been +unsparing in their utterance of the truth concerning +her and ready to drag her down, and +some of these moved away now shamefacedly, +but more stayed, and one after another took +up the words.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea: et a +peccato meo munda me.</i>”</p> + +<p>Gemma herself had trodden out the fire that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> +consumed her, but who could dare say of the +grey cold ashes, “These are altogether vile.”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Tibi soli peccavi, et malum coram te feci: +ut justificeris in sermonibus tuis et vincas cum +judicaris.</i>”</p> + +<p>She had sinned, and she had been punished; +she had suffered fear and shame.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor, lavabis +me, et super nivem dealbabor.</i>”</p> + +<p>There had been some taint in her blood, +some flaw in her will.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Cor mundum crea in me, Deus, et spiritum +rectum innova in visceribus meis.</i>”</p> + +<p>A dark-eyed slender boy, wearing the green +and white and scarlet of his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrade</i>, pushed +his way to the front presently. It was Romeo, +and he carried a great bunch of magnolia +blossoms.</p> + +<p>“Oh, signorina,” he said, half crying, “the +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> and I wanted to give you these because +you brought us good luck so that we won the +Palio. I little thought—”</p> + +<p>He stopped short, hesitating, and afraid to +come nearer. He thought she looked like one +of the stone angels that kneel on the sculptured +tombs in the Campo Santo; her face seemed +rough hewn in the harsh white glare of the +electric light, so deep were the shadows under +her eyes and the lines of pain about the praying +lips. His heart ached with pity for her.</p> + +<p>“Give them to me,” she said, and he was +allowed to come into the space that the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabiniere</i> +kept clear.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> +He thrust the bunch hurriedly into her +hands, faltering, “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio vi benedica</i>.”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Andatevi con Dio</i>,” she replied, and then +laid the pale flowers and the shimmering green +crown of leaves down upon the still breast. +“Gemma, if ever I hurt you, forgive me now!”</p> + +<p>It was raining heavily, and as the sheet +grew damp it clung more closely to the body +of the girl who lay there with arms outstretched +and knees drawn up as though +she were nailed to a cross.</p> + +<p>The boy still lingered. “You will be +drenched. Go into the house,” he urged. +Then, seeing he could not move her, he took +off his velvet embroidered cloak and put it +about her shoulders. A woman in the crowd +came forward with a shawl for Carmela.</p> + +<p>So the hours passed.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> + +<h2 class="padtop">BOOK II.—FLORENCE</h2> + + + +<h3 class="padtop">CHAPTER I</h3> + + +<p>October can be cold enough sometimes in the +Val d’Arno when the snow falls on the Apennines, +and the woods of Vallombrosa are sere, +and Florence, the flower city, lies then at the +mercy of the winds. Mamie Whittaker, who, +in her own phrase, “hated to be blown about +anyhow,” had not been out all day. She +lolled in an armchair before a crackling fire +of olive wood in the room that she “lit with +herself when alone,” though scarcely in the +Tennysonian sense. Hers was a vivid personality, +and older women who disliked her called +her flamboyant, and referred to an evident +touch of the tar-brush that would make her +socially impossible in America though it +passed unnoticed in Italy. Her age was +seventeen, and she dressed after Carmen to +please herself, and read Gyp with the same +intention. She was absorbed now in <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les +Amoureux</i>, and had to be told twice that her +cousin had come before she would look up.</p> + +<p>“Miss Marvel? Show her in.”</p> + +<p>She rose and went forward to greet her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +relative, whom she had not seen for some +years, and the two met at the door and kissed +each other with enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“Edna! My! Well, you have not grown +anyway. What a tiny thing! Come and sit +down right here.” She rang for tea while her +visitor slowly and rather shyly divested herself +of her sables and laid them on a side table. +Edna Marvel was the elder of the two by three +years, but she was so small that she seemed a +mere child. Her sallow little face resembled +that of a tired monkey, yet it had an elfin +charm, and her hands were beautiful as carved +toys of ivory made in the East for a king’s son +to play with. They might hold a man’s heart +perhaps, but Mamie did not notice them, her +own allurements being of more obvious description.</p> + +<p>She thought Edna was real homely, and her +spirits rose accordingly. “Where are you +staying?”</p> + +<p>“At the Bristol. Poppa guessed we would +take a villa later on if we felt like it.”</p> + +<p>Mamie rang again. “Bring some more +cakes, and tell Miss Agar to come and pour +out the tea.”</p> + +<p>“Who is Miss Agar?”</p> + +<p>“My companion, a sort of governess person. +She takes me out walks, and sits by when my +music-master comes, and so forth. She is new, +and she won’t do, but I may as well make her +useful while she stays.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> +“Why won’t she do?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she just won’t. Momma don’t +like her much, and I’m not singing her +praises.”</p> + +<p>Edna looked curiously at the slender girl in +the black dress who came in and took her +place at the table.</p> + +<p>She said “Good afternoon” in her pleasant +little voice.</p> + +<p>The governess person seemed rather surprised +that she should address her.</p> + +<p>“Good afternoon,” she replied. “Do you +take milk and sugar?”</p> + +<p>“Bring them round for us to help ourselves,” +dictated Mamie.</p> + +<p>Olive only smiled as she repeated her question, +but Edna was distressed at her cousin’s +rudeness, and her sensitive face was quite pink +as she hurriedly declined sugar. She came to +the table to fetch her cup, but Miss Whittaker +waited for hers to be brought to her.</p> + +<p>“How do you like this room, Edna? I had +it fixed up for myself, and everything in it is +mine.” She looked complacently up at the +hangings of primrose silk that hid the fifteenth +century frescoes on the walls.</p> + +<p>Her cousin hesitated. “I guess it must +have cost some.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. The Marchese does not like it. He +is so set on his worm-eaten old tapestries and +carved chairs, and he wanted momma to refurnish +the palace to match, but not she! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +Louis Quinze, she said, and Louis Quinze it is, +more or less. I tell the Marchese that if he is +so fond of the musty Middle Ages he ought to +go about in armour himself by rights. But +the old sinner is not really a bit romantic.”</p> + +<p>It occurred to Olive that the right kind of +governess would utter a word in season. “It +is not usual for young girls to refer to their +stepfathers as you do,” she said drily.</p> + +<p>“Wait until you know mine better,” Mamie +answered unabashed. “Last night he said +your complexion was miraculous. Next +thing he’ll try if it comes off. Are you coming +to dinner to-night, Edna?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, auntie asked us. The—the Prince +will be here, won’t he?”</p> + +<p>Mamie looked down her nose. “Oh, +yes,” she said carelessly. “Your beau +will come. People generally do when we +ask them. The food is all right, and we +have real good music afterwards sometimes. +You know Avenel stays in Florence whiles +because his brother has a Villa at Settignano. +Well, momma guessed she would get him to +play here for nothing once. Of course she +was willing to pay any money for him really, +but she just thought she would try it on. She +asked him to dinner with a lot of other people, +and made him take her in, though there were +two Neapolitan dukes among the guests. The +food was first-rate; she had told the cook to +do his best, and she really thought the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entrée</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> +would have made Vitellius sit up. It was +perfect. Well, afterwards she asked Avenel +to play, and he just smiled and said he could +not. Why, she said, he gave a recital the day +before for nothing, for a charity, and played +the people’s souls out of their bodies, made +them act crazy, as he always does. Couldn’t +he play for friendship? No, he said, he +couldn’t just then because one must be filled +with sorrow oneself before one can make others +feel, and he inferred that he had no room even +for regret. ‘I play Chopin on a biscuit,’ he +said.”</p> + +<p>“He must be rather a pig,” was Edna’s +comment.</p> + +<p>“Not a bit of it. Momma said he really +had not eaten much; in fact she had noticed +that he left a bit of that lovely <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entrée</i>. Perhaps +he is afraid of getting fat. Momma was +real mad with him.”</p> + +<p>Olive’s cheeks were flushed and her hands +trembled as she arranged the cups on the tray. +She was thankful for the shelter afforded by +the great silver tea-pot. Mamie’s back was +turned to her, but Edna seemed desirous of +including her in the conversation.</p> + +<p>“Have you heard Avenel, Miss Agar?” she +asked presently in her gentle, drawling way.</p> + +<p>“No. Is he very famous? I have never +heard of him as a pianist.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, his professional name is Meryon, of +course. He is billed as that and known all the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +world over, though he only began to play in +public three years ago when his wife left him. +She was always a horrid woman, and she made +him marry her when he was quite a boy, they +say. They say he plays to forget things as +other men take to drink. He has been twice +to New York, and I know a girl who says he +gave her a lock of his hair, but I don’t believe +her. It is dark brown, almost black, but I +guess she cut it off a switch. He’s not that +kind.”</p> + +<p>Olive said nothing.</p> + +<p>“You need not stay if you don’t want to,” +Mamie said unceremoniously. “Be ready to +come down after dinner. I might want you +to play my accompaniments.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t think why you say she won’t +do,” cried Edna when she was gone out +of the room. “I call her perfectly sweet. +Rather sad-looking, but just lovely.”</p> + +<p>Mamie sniffed. “Glad you admire her,” +she said.</p> + +<p>The governess was expected to appear at +luncheon, but dinner was served to her in +her own room, where she must sit in solitary +state, dressed in her best and waiting for a +summons, until eleven o’clock, when she might +assume that she would not be wanted and go +to bed. This evening Olive lingered rather +anxiously over her dressing, trying to make +the best of herself, since it seemed that she +was really to come down to-night into the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> +yellow drawing-room where she spent so many +weary hours of a morning listening to Mamie +scraping her Strad while the German who +was supposed to teach her possessed his soul +in patience. She put on her black silk dress. +It was a guinea robe bought at a sale in +Oxford Street the year before, a reach-me-down +garment for women to sneer at and +men to describe vaguely as something dark, +and she hated the poor thing.</p> + +<p>Most women believe that the men who like +them in cotton frocks would adore them in +cloth of gold, and are convinced that the +secret of Cleopatra’s charm lay in her extensive +wardrobe.</p> + +<p>Avenel. It had shocked Olive to hear his +name uttered by alien lips, as it hurt her to suppose +that he came often to the Palazzo Lorenzoni. +She would not suppose it, and, indeed, +nothing that Mamie had said could lead her to +think that he was a friend of the family. They +had clutched at him greedily, and he had repaid +with an impertinence. That was all.</p> + +<p>The third footman, whose duty it was to +attend upon her, brought two covered dishes +on a tray at eight o’clock, and soon after nine +he came again to fetch her.</p> + +<p>There was a superabundance of gorgeous +lackeys in the corridors that had been dusty +and deserted five years before, and a gigantic +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Suisse</i> stood always on guard now outside +the palace gates. The Marchesa would have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> +liked to have had outriders in her scarlet +livery when she went out driving in the +streets of Florence, but her husband warned +her that some mad anarchist might take her +for the Queen, and so she contented herself +with a red racing motor. The millions old +Whittaker had made availed to keep his +widow and the man who had given her a title +in almost regal state. They entertained +largely, and the Via Tornabuoni was often +blocked with the carriages and motors that +brought their guests. Olive, sitting alone in +her chilly bedroom, mending her stockings +or trying to read, heard voices and laughter +as the doors opened—harsh Florentine and +high English voices, and the shrill sounds of +American mirth—night after night. But the +Lorenzoni dined <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en famille</i> sometimes, as even +marquises and millionaires may do, and +there were but two shirt-fronts and comparatively +few diamonds in the great golden +shining room when she entered it.</p> + +<p>The Marchesa, handsome, hard-featured, +gorgeous in grey and silver, did not choose to +notice her daughter’s governess; she was +deep in talk with her brother-in-law; but +men could not help looking at Olive. Mr +Marvel stood up and bowed as she passed, +and the silent, saturnine Marchese stared. +His black eyes were intent upon her as she +came to the piano where Mamie was restlessly +turning over the music, and no one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> +watching him could fail to see that he was +making comparisons that were probably to +the disadvantage of his step-daughter.</p> + +<p>Fast men are not necessarily fond of the +patchouli atmosphere in their own homes, and +somehow Mamie seemed to reek of that scent, +though in fact she never used it. She was +clever and fairly well educated, and she had +always been sheltered and cared for, but she +was born to the scarlet, and everything she +said and did, her way of walking, the use she +made already of her black eyes, proclaimed +it. To-night, though she wore the red she +loved—a wonderful, flaring frock of chiffon +frills and flounces—she looked ill, and her dark +face was sullen.</p> + +<p>“The beastly wind has given me a stiff +neck,” she complained. “Here, I want to +have this.”</p> + +<p>She chose a coon’s lullaby out of the pile +of songs, and Olive sat down obediently and +began the accompaniment. It was a pretty +little ditty of the usual moony order, and +Mamie sang it well enough. Mr Marvel +looked up when it was over to say, “Thank +you, my dear. Very nice.”</p> + +<p>“It is a silly thing,” Mamie answered ungraciously. +“I’ll sing you a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">canzonetta</i> now.”</p> + +<p>She turned over the music, scattering +marches and sonatas, and throwing some of +them on the floor in her impatience. Olive, +wondering at her temper, presently divined +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> +the cause of it. The folding doors that led +into the library were half closed. No lamps, +but a flicker of firelight and the hush of +lowered voices, Edna’s pleasant little pipe +and a man’s brief, murmured answers, and +there were short spaces of silence too. The +American girl and her prince were there.</p> + +<p>The Marchese had raised his eyebrows +at the first words of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">canzonetta</i>, and at +the end of the second verse he was smiling +broadly.</p> + +<p>“Little devil!” he said.</p> + +<p>No one heard him. His wife was showing +her brother-in-law some of her most treasured +bits of china. She was quite calm, as though +her knowledge of Italian was fair the Neapolitan +dialect was beyond her. Mr Marvel, of +course, knew not a syllable of any language +but his own, and the slang of Southern gutters +was as Greek to Olive. Their placidity +amused the Marchese, and so did the thought +of the little scene that he knew was being +enacted in the library.</p> + +<p>“Shall we join the others now, Edna, +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carissima</i>?”</p> + +<p>“If—if you like.”</p> + +<p>He nearly laughed aloud as he saw the +silk curtains drawn. The Prince stood aside +to allow Edna to pass in first, and Olive, +glancing up momentarily from the unfamiliar +notes, saw the green gleam of an emerald on +the strong brown hand as the brocaded folds +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +were lifted up. Her own hands swerved, +blundered, and she perpetrated a hopeless +discord.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” she said confusedly.</p> + +<p>Mamie shrugged her shoulders. “Never +mind,” she answered lightly. “The last +verse don’t matter anyway. Come to here, +Edna. Momma wants to hear your fiddle-playing.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, play us something, my dear.”</p> + +<p>The little girl came forward shyly.</p> + +<p>As the Prince and the Marchese stood +together by the fireplace at the other end of +the long room Mamie joined them. “You +sang that devil’s nocturne inimitably,” observed +her stepfather, drily. “I am quite +sorry to have to ask you not to do it again.”</p> + +<p>“Not again? Why not?”</p> + +<p>She perched herself on the arm of one of the +great gilt chairs. The Prince raised his eyes +from the thoughtful contemplation of her +ankles to stare at her impudent red parted +lips.</p> + +<p>“Why not! Need I explain, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cara</i>? It +was delicious; I enjoyed it, but, alas!” He +heaved an exaggerated sigh and then laughed, +and the young man and the girl shared in his +merriment.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry to make so many mistakes,” +Olive said apologetically as she laboured +away at her part of an easy piece arranged +for violin and piano.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> +“Oh, it is nothing. I have made ever so +many myself, and I ought to have turned the +page for you.”</p> + +<p>The gentle voice was rather tremulous.</p> + +<p>“That was charming,” pronounced the +Marchesa. “Now that sonata, Edna. I am +so fond of it.”</p> + +<p>“Very well, auntie.”</p> + +<p>The Prince had gone into the billiard-room +with his host, and Mamie was with them. +They were knocking the balls about and +laughing ... laughing.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + + +<p>In the Cascine gardens the lush green grass of +the glades was strewn with leaves; soon the +branches would be bare, or veiled only in +winter mists, and the Arno, swollen with rain, +ran yellow as Tiber. It was not a day for +music, but the sun shone, and many idle +Florentines drove, or rode, or walked by the +Lung’Arno to the Rajah’s monument, passing +and repassing the bench where Olive sat +with Madame de Sarivière’s stout and elderly +German Fräulein. Mamie was not far away; +flamboyant as ever in her frock of crimson +serge, her black curls tied with ribbon and +streaming in the wind, she was the loud centre +of a group of girls who played some running +game to an accompaniment of shrill cries and +little screams of laughter.</p> + +<p>“Do you like young girls?” Olive asked +the question impulsively, after a long silence.</p> + +<p>“I am fond of my pupils; they are good +little things, rather foolish, but amiable. +But I understand your feeling, my poor Miss +Agar. Your charge is—”</p> + +<p>Olive hesitated. “It is a difficult age; +and she has the body of twenty and the sense +of ten. I am putting it very badly, but—but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +I was hateful years ago too. I think one +always is, perhaps. I remember at school +there were self-righteous little girls; they +were narrow and intolerant, easily shocked, +and rather bad-tempered. The others were +absurdly vain, sentimental, sly. All that +comes away afterwards if one is going to be +nice.”</p> + +<p>“They are female but not yet womanly. The +newly-awakened instincts clamour at first for +a hearing; later they learn to wait in silence, +to efface themselves, to die, even,” answered +the Fräulein, gravely.</p> + +<p>A victoria passed, then some youths on +bicycles, shouting to each other and ringing +their bells. They were riding all together, but +they scattered to let Prince Tor di Rocca go by. +He was driving tandem, and his horses were +very fresh. Edna was with him, her small wan +face rather set in its halo of ashen blonde hair +and pale against the rich brown of her sables.</p> + +<p>When they came by the second time Mamie +called to her cousin. The Prince drew rein, +and the groom sprang down and ran to the +leader’s head.</p> + +<p>“My, Edna, how cold you look! It’s three +days since I saw you, but I guess Don Filippo +has been doing the honours. Have you seen +all the old galleries and things? Momma said +she noticed you and uncle in a box at the +Pergola last night.”</p> + +<p>She stood by the wheel, and as she looked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> +up, not at Edna but at the Prince, he glanced +smilingly down at her and then away +again.</p> + +<p>“We are going back to the hotel now,” +Edna said. “Will you come and have +tea, Mamie? Is that Miss Agar over there? +Ask her if you may, and if she will come +too.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t need to ask her,” the girl answered, +but she went back nevertheless and spoke to +Olive.</p> + +<p>“Can the groom take the cart home, +Filippo? We will walk back with them.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Bellina is in spirits, but she will not +run away from Giovanni,” he said, trying +not to seem surprised that she should curtail +their drive.</p> + +<p>They crossed the wide gravelled space +outside the gardens and walked towards the +town by the Lung’Arno. Already the cypresses +of San Miniato showed black against +the sky, and the reflected flame of sunset was +dying out in the windows of the old houses at +the river’s edge. All the people were going +one way now, and leaving the tree-shadowed +dusk for the brightly-lit streets, Via Tornabuoni, +all palaces and antiquity shops, and +Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where the band +would play presently.</p> + +<p>The two American girls walked together +with Don Filippo and Olive followed them. +Edna held herself very erect, but Mamie +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +seemed almost to lean backwards. She +swayed her hips as she went and swung her +short skirts, and there was affectation and a +feverish self-consciousness in her every movement. +Olive could not help smiling to herself, +but she remembered that at school she had +been afflicted with the idea that a pout—the +delicious <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">moue</i> of fiction—became her, +and so she was inclined to leniency. Only +seventeen.</p> + +<p>The Prince wore riding gloves, and so the +green gleam of his emerald was hidden from +her. If only she could be sure that she had +seen him before. What then? Nothing—if +she could think that he would always be kind +to gentle little Edna.</p> + +<p>Just before they reached the hotel Miss +Marvel joined her, leaving her cousin to go on +with Don Filippo, and began to talk to +her.</p> + +<p>“The river is just perfect at this hour. Our +sitting-room has a balcony and I sat there last +night watching the moon rise over San +Miniato. I guess it looked just that way +when Dante wrote his sonnets. Beatrice +must have been real mad with him sometimes, +don’t you think so? She must have been +longing to say, ‘Come on, and don’t keep +talking.’ But she was a nice high-minded +girl, and so she never did. She simply +died.”</p> + +<p>“If she died for him she must have been a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> +fool,” Olive said shortly. Her eyes were fixed +on the Prince’s broad back. He was laughing +at some sally of Mamie’s.</p> + +<p>Edna was shocked. “Don’t you just worship +Dante?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes,” answered the elder girl. “He +was a dear, but even he was not worth that. +At least, I don’t know. He was a dear; +but I was thinking of a girl I knew ... +perhaps I may tell you about her some +day.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, do,” Edna said perfunctorily. She +was trying to hear what her cousin was saying +to Filippo, and wishing she could amuse him +as well. They passed through the wide hall +of the hotel and went up in the lift. The +Marvels’ private sitting-room was on the +second floor. They were much too rich to +condescend to the palms and bamboo tables +and wicker chairs of the common herd, and +tea was served to Edna and her guests in a +green and white boudoir that was, as the +Marchesa might have said, more or less Louis +Seize.</p> + +<p>Mr Marvel came in presently, refusing tea, +but asking leave to smoke, and the Prince, +gracefully deferential to his future father-in-law, +listened to the little he had to say, +answering carefully in his perfect English.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir. There is a great deal of poverty +here. On my Tuscan estates too. Alas! +yes.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +Mamie sat near him, and in the flickering +red light of the fire she looked almost +pretty. Filippo’s eyes strayed towards her +now and then. Edna came presently to +where Olive rested apart on the wide +cushioned window-seat. “Will you have +some more tea?”</p> + +<p>“No, thank you. I think we must be going +soon. The Marchesa will not like it if we stay +out too long.”</p> + +<p>Edna hesitated. “I wanted to ask you a +silly question. Had you ever seen the Prince +before last week?”</p> + +<p>There was the slightest perceptible pause +before Olive answered, “No, never. Why +do you ask?”</p> + +<p>“I thought you looked as if you had somehow +that night at the Lorenzoni palace. +When we came in you were at the piano, and +I thought you looked queer—as if—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no,” Olive said again, but she wondered +afterwards if she had done right.</p> + +<p>On their way home Mamie drew her attention +to a poster, and she saw the name of +Meryon in great orange letters on a white +ground.</p> + +<p>“He will be here before Christmas. I’ll +let you come with me to hear him play if you +are good,” she said, and she took the elder +girl’s hand in hers and pinched it. “I could +race you home down this side street, but I +suppose I must not.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +She was gay and good-humoured now, and +altogether at her best, and Olive tried hard +to like her, but she could not help seeing that +the triumph that overflowed in easy, shallow +kindness was an unworthy one.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + + +<p>Olive sat alone at the end of one of the tiers +of the stone amphitheatre built into the hill +that rises, ilex clad, to the heights of San +Giorgio. Some other women were there, +mothers with young children, nurses and +governesses dowdily dressed as she was in +dark-coloured stuffs, but she knew none of +them.</p> + +<p>Mamie seldom cared to come to the old Boboli +gardens. Its green mildewed terraces and +crumbling deities of fountain and ilex grove +had no charm for her, and as a rule she and her +friends preferred the crowded Lung’Arno and +Cascine on the days when there was music, +but this Thursday she had suggested that they +should come across the river.</p> + +<p>“Daisy Vereker has promised to meet me, +and as she is only here a week on her way to +school in Paris I should hate to disappoint +her.”</p> + +<p>The two girls were lingering now about +the grass arena, talking volubly, whispering, +giggling. Miss Vereker’s maid, a yellow-haired +Swiss, sat not far off with her knitting, +and every now and then she called harshly to +her charge to know the time.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> +Olive sat very still, her hands clasped, +her eyes fixed on the far horizon. She loved +the old-world silence that was only broken +by the dripping of water in the pools. No +birds sang here, no leaves fell at the waning +of the year. The seasons had little power over +stained marble and moss, cypress, and ilex +and olive, and as spring brought no riot of +green and rose and gold in flower, so autumn +took nothing away. Surely there were ghosts +in the shadowed avenues, flitting in and out +among the trees, joining hands to dance “<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">la +ronde</i>” about the pool of Neptune. Gay +abbés, cavaliers, beautiful ladies of the late +Renaissance, red-heeled, painted, powdered; +frail, degenerate children of the hard-headed +old Florentine citizens pictured in the frescoes +of Giotto and Masaccio. No greater shades +could come to Boboli.</p> + +<p>Florence was half hidden by the great +yellow bulk of the Pitti palace, but Olive +could see the slender, exquisite white and rose +tower of Giotto, and the mellowed red of the +cathedral’s dome against the faint purple of +the hills beyond Fiesole, and she looked at +them in preference to the contorted river gods +and exuberant nymphs of the fountain in the +royal courtyard close by.</p> + +<p>After a while she opened her book and began +to read. Presently she shivered; her jacket +was thin, and the air grew chilly as the afternoon +waned, but her reading absorbed her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> +and she was surprised, when at last she raised +her eyes, to see that the Pitti palace was +already dark against the sky. Nurses and +children were making their way out, and soon +those who lingered would hear stentorian +shouts from the gardeners, “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ora si chiude!</em>” +and they too would leave by one or other of +the gates.</p> + +<p>Olive climbed down into the arena. Mamie +was nowhere in sight, and Daisy Vereker and +her maid were gone too. Olive, thinking +that perhaps they might have gone up to the +fountain of Neptune, began to climb the hill. +She asked an old man who was coming down +from there if he had seen two young ladies, +one dressed in red.</p> + +<p>“No, signorina.”</p> + +<p>She hurried back to the arena and spoke to +a woman there. “Have you seen a young +lady in red with black curls?”</p> + +<p>She answered readily: “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sicuro!</em> She +went towards the Porta Romana half an hour +ago. I think the other signorina was leaving +and she wished to accompany her a part of +the way. There was an older person with +them.”</p> + +<p>Olive’s relief was only momentary; it +sounded well, but one might walk to the +Porta Romana and back twice in the time. +Soon the gates would be closed, and if she +had not found Mamie then, and the gardeners +made her leave with the others, what should +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> +she do? She suspected a trick. The girl +had a mischievous and impish humour that +delighted in the infliction of small hurts, and +she might have gone home, happy in the +thought that her governess would get a +“wigging,” or she might be hiding about +somewhere to give her a fright.</p> + +<p>Olive went up the steep path towards the +Belvedere, hoping to find her there. That +part of the garden was not much frequented, +and the white bodies and uplifted arms of the +marble gods gleamed ghostly and forlorn +in the dusk of the ilex woods that lay between +the amphitheatre and the gate.</p> + +<p>She went on until she saw a glimmer of red +through the close-woven branches. Mamie +was there in the dark wood, and she was not +alone. A man was with her, and he was +holding her easily, as if he knew she would not +go yet, and laughing as she stood on tiptoe +to reach the fine cruel lips that touched +hers presently, when he chose that they +should.</p> + +<p>Olive turned and ran up the path to the +top of the hill, and there she stood for a +while, trying to get her breath, trying to be +calm, and sane and tolerant, to see no harm +where perhaps there was none after all. And +yet the treachery and the deceit were so +flagrant that surely no condonation was +possible. She felt sick of men and women, +and of life itself, since the greatest thing in it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +seemed to be this hateful, miscalled love that +preceded sorrow and shame and death. Was +love always loathsome to look upon? Not +in pictures or on the stage, where it was represented +as a kind of minuet in which the +man makes graceful advances to a woman +who smiles as she draws away, but in real +life—</p> + +<p>“Not real love,” she said to herself. +“Oh, God, help me to go on believing in +that.”</p> + +<p>Raising her eyes she saw the evening star +sparkling in a wide, soft, clear space of sky. It +seemed infinitely pure and remote, and yet +somehow good and kind, as it had to Dante +when he climbed up out of hell.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle.</i>”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ora si chiude!</em>” bawled a gardener from +the Belvedere.</p> + +<p>Mamie came hurrying up the path towards +the hill. “Oh, are you there?” she said in +some confusion. “I went some of the way +to the other gate with Daisy.”</p> + +<p>“I was beginning to be afraid you were +lost, so I came along hoping to meet you,” +answered Olive.</p> + +<p>She said nothing to the girl of what she +had seen. It would have been useless; +nothing could alter or abash her inherent +unmorality. But after dinner she wrote a +note to Edna and went out herself to +post it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +The answer came at noon on the following +day. Miss Marvel would be at home and +alone between three and four and would be +pleased to see Miss Agar then; meanwhile +she remained very sincerely her friend.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> + + +<p>“Why do you tell me this now?” asked Edna. +“The other day when I asked you if you had +known him before you said you had not.”</p> + +<p>“Something that has happened since then +determined me.”</p> + +<p>Edna’s room was full of flowers, roses, +narcissi and violets, and the air was heavy +with their scent. Filippo had never failed in +his <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">petits soins</i>. It was so easy to give an +order at the florist’s, and the bill would come +in presently, after the wedding, and be paid in +American dollars. There were boxes of sweets +too; and a volume of Romola, bound in white +and gold, lay on the table. Edna had been +looking at the inscription on the fly-leaf when +Olive came in. “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carissima</i>” he had written, +and she had believed him, but that was half an +hour ago. Now her small body was shaken +with sobs, her face was stained with tears +because that faith she had had was dying.</p> + +<p>The chill at her heart made her feel altogether +cold, and she edged her chair nearer to +the fire, and put her feet up on the fender.</p> + +<p>“I wish I could feel it was not true, but +somehow though I have been so fond of him I +have not trusted him. Well, your cousin was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +beautiful, and perhaps he had known her a +long time before he knew me. He wanted to +say good-bye kindly. He was entangled—such +things happen, I know. He could not +help what happened afterwards. That was +not his fault.”</p> + +<p>Olive could not meet her pleading eyes. +“I thought something like that last week,” +she said. “And that is why I kept silence; +but now I know he would make you unhappy +always. Oh, forgive me for hurting you so.” +She came and knelt down beside the little +girl, and put her arms about her. “Don’t +cry, my dear. Don’t cry.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Olive, I was so fond of him! Now tell +me what has happened since.”</p> + +<p>“Put your hands in mine. There, I will rub +the poor tiny things and warm them. They are +so pretty. Yesterday, in the Boboli gardens, +I missed your cousin, and when I went to look +for her I saw her with the Prince. He held her +and was kissing her.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” Edna sprang to her feet. “That +settles it. Mamie is common and real homely, +and if he can run after her I have done +with him. I could have forgiven the other, +especially as she is dead, but Mamie! Gracious! +Here he is!”</p> + +<p>He came into the room leisurely, smiling, +very sure of his welcome. Olive met the hot +insolence of his stare steadily, and Edna +turned her back on him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> +“Olive,” she said, “you speak to him. +Tell him—ask him—” Her gentle voice broke.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter?” he asked carefully.</p> + +<p>“I saw you twice in Siena last summer. +Do you remember <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Rigoletto</i> at the Lizza +theatre? You were in the stage box. You +wore evening dress, and I saw that emerald +ring you have now on your finger. The next +day you met my Cousin Gemma in my room +in the Vicolo dei Moribondi. Do you remember +the steep dark stairs and the white +walls of the bare place where you saw her +last?”</p> + +<p>He made no answer, and there was still a +smile on his lips, but his eyes were hard. +Edna was looking at him now, but he seemed +to have forgotten her.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you loved her,” Olive said +slowly. “Do you remember the faint pink +curve of her mouth, the little cleft in her chin, +and her hair that was so soft and fine? There +were always little stray curls on the white +nape of her neck. I came to my room that +morning to fetch a book. When I had climbed +the stairs I found that I had not the key with +me, but the door was unlocked and I saw her +there with a man, and I saw the green gleam +of an emerald.”</p> + +<p>Men have such a power of silence. No +woman but would have made some answer +now, denying with a show of surprise, making +excuses, using words in one way or another.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> +“They were talking about you in the town, +though I think they did not know who you +were—at least I never heard your name—and +that night Gemma’s <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fidanzato</i> told her he would +not marry her. You know best what that +meant to her. She rushed into her own room +and threw herself out of the window. Ah, +you should have seen the dark blood oozing +through the fine soft curls! She lay dead +in the street for hours before they took her +away.”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Santissimo Dio!</em> Is this true?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Gemma—I never knew it—” His face +was greatly altered now, and he had to +moisten his lips before he could speak.</p> + +<p>“I could have forgiven that,” Edna said +tremulously after a while. “But not yesterday. +Your kisses are too cheap, Filippo.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” he said hoarsely. “So Gemma’s +cousin saw that too. It was nothing, meant +nothing. Edna, if you can pardon the other, +surely—”</p> + +<p>“It was nothing; and it proved that Mamie +is nothing, and that you are nothing—to me. +That is the end of the matter.”</p> + +<p>He winced now at the contempt underlying +her quiet words, and when she took off +her ring and laid it on the table between +them he picked it up and flung it into the fire.</p> + +<p>“I do not take things back,” he said +savagely.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> +When he had left the room Edna began to +cry again. “I believe he is suffering now, +but not for me. Would he care if I killed +myself? I guess not. I am not pretty, only +my hands, and hands don’t count.”</p> + +<p>Olive tried to comfort her.</p> + +<p>“Poppa shall take me away right now. I +have had enough of Europe, and so I shall tell +him when he comes in. Must you go now? +Well, good-bye, my dear, and thank you. +You are white all through, and I am glad you +have acted as you have, though it hurts now. +If ever I marry it shall be an American ... +but I was real fond of Filippo.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> + + +<p>Cardinal Jacopo of Portugal was buried in +a side chapel of the church of San Miniato +al Monte, and his counterfeit presentment, +wrought in stone, lies on the tomb Rossellino +made for him. Rossellino, who loved to carve +garlands of acanthus and small sweet <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">amorini</i>, +has conferred immortality on some of the men +whose tombs he adorned in <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">basso-rilièvo</i>, and +they are remembered because of him; but +the cardinal has another claim. He is +beautiful in himself as he rests there, his +young face set in the peace that passes all +understanding, his thin hands folded on his +breast.</p> + +<p>Mourners were kneeling in the central aisles +of the church, and women carrying wreaths +passed through it on their way to the Campo +Santo beyond, for this was the day of All +Souls, and there were fresh flowers on the +new graves, and little black lamps were lit on +those that were grass grown and decked only +with the bead blossoms that are kept in glass +cases and need not be changed once a year. +The afternoon was passing, but still Olive +lingered by the cardinal’s monument. Looking +at him understandingly she saw that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +there had been lines of pain about the firm +mouth. He had suffered in his short life, he +had suffered until death came to comfort him +and give him quiet sleep. The mother-sense +in her yearned over him, lying there straight +and still, with closed eyes that had never seen +love; and, womanlike, she pitied the accomplished +loneliness that yet seemed to her the +most beautiful thing in the world. The old +familiar words were in her mind as she looked +down upon this saint uncanonised: “Cleanse +the thoughts of my heart by the inspiration of +thy Holy Spirit!” and she remembered +Astorre, for whose sake she had come to this +church to pray. Once when she had been +describing a haggard St Francis in the Sienese +gallery to him, he had said: “Ah, women +always pity him and admire his picturesque +asceticism, but if married men look worried +they do not notice it. Their troubles are no +compliment to your sex.”</p> + +<p>Poor Astorre had not been devout in any +sense, but he had written his friend a long +letter on the day after Gemma’s suicide, and +he had asked for her prayers then. “Fausto +told me how you knelt there in the street +beside the dead Odalisque and said the Pater-noster +and the Miserere. Perhaps you will +do as much for me one day. Your prayers +should help the soul that is freed now from +the burden of the flesh. I cannot complain +of flesh myself, but my bones weigh and I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +shall be glad to be rid of them. Come and +see me soon, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carissima</i> ...”</p> + +<p>The next morning his mother sent for the +girl, but when she came into the darkened +room where he lay he had already passed away.</p> + +<p>“He asked for you, but he would not see +a priest. You know they refused to bury his +father because he fought for united Italy. +Ah! Rome never forgets.”</p> + +<p>After the funeral Signora Aurelia had sold +her furniture and gone away, and she was +living now with a widowed sister in Rome. +The Menotti had left Siena too and had gone +to Milan, and Olive, not caring to stay on alone +in the place where everyone knew what had +happened, had come to the Lorenzoni in +Florence. She had had a letter from Carmela +that morning.</p> + +<p>“We like Milan as the streets are so gay, +and the shops are beautiful. We should have +got much better mourning here at Bocconi’s +if we could have waited, but of course that +was impossible. Our apartment is convenient, +but small and rather dark. Maria hopes you +are fatter. She is going to send you some +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">panforte</i> and a box of sugared fruits at Christmas. +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">La Zia</i> has begun to crochet another +counterpane; that will be the eighth, and we +have only three beds. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Pazienza!</em> It amuses +her.”</p> + +<p>Though Olive was not happy at the Palazzo +Lorenzoni, she could not wish that she had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +stayed with her cousins. She felt that their +little life would have stifled her. Thinking of +them, she saw them, happier than before, +since poor Gemma had not been easy to live +with, and quite satisfied to do the same things +every day, waddling out of a morning to +early mass and the marketing, eating and +sleeping during the noon hours, and in the +evenings going to hear the music <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">in piazza</i>.</p> + +<p>Olive was not happy. She was one of those +women whose health depends upon their +spirits, and of late she had felt her loneliness +to be almost unbearable. Her youth had +cried for all, or nothing. She would have +her love winged and crowned; he should come +to her before all the world. Never would she +set her foot in secret gardens, or let joy come +to her by hidden ways, but now she faced the +future and saw that it was grey, and she was +afraid.</p> + +<p>It seemed to her that she was destined to +live always in the Social Limbo, suspended +between heaven and earth, an alien in the +drawing-room and not received in the kitchen. +One might as well be <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">déclassée</i> at once, she +thought, and yet she knew that that must be +hell.</p> + +<p>If Avenel came to Florence and sought +her out would she be weak as Gemma had +been, light as Mamie was? Olive knelt for +a while on the stones, and her lips moved, +though her prayer was inarticulate.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> +Sunset was burning across the Val d’Arno, +and the river flowed as a stream of pure gold +under the dark of the historic bridges. +Already lights sparkled in the windows of the +old houses over the Ponte Vecchio, and the +bells of all the churches were ringing the Ave +Maria as she passed through the whining crowd +of beggars at the gate of the Campo Santo +and went slowly down the hill. The blessed +hour of peace and silence was over now, and +she must trudge back through the clamorous +streets to be with Mamie, to meet the +Marchese’s horribly observant eyes, and to be +everlastingly quiet and complacent and useful. +She was paid for that.</p> + +<p>She was going up to her room when the +lodge porter ran up the stairs after her with a +letter. “For you, signorina.”</p> + +<p>It was from Edna.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Olive</span>”—she had written,—“I +could not wait for trains so papa has hired a +car, and we shall motor straight to Genoa +and catch the boat there. I want to go home +to America pretty badly.—Your loving friend,</p> + +<p class="sig">“<span class="smcap">Edna</span>.</p> + +<p>“<i>P.S.</i>—I am still right down glad you told +me.—E. M.”</p> +</div> + +<p>One of the servants came to Olive’s room +presently.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +“La Signora Marchesa wishes to see you at +once in her boudoir.”</p> + +<p>The Marchesa had come straight from the +motor to her own room, her head was still +swathed in a white veil, and she had not even +taken off her heavy sable coat. She had +switched on the light on her entrance, and now +she was searching in the drawers of her bureau +for her cheque-book.</p> + +<p>“Ah, well, gold perhaps,” she said after a +while, impatiently, as she snapped open the +chain purse that hung from her wrist. “Is +that you, Miss Agar?”</p> + +<p>Olive, seeing her counting out her money, +like the queen in the nursery rhyme, had +stopped short near the door. She paled a +little as she understood this must be the +sequel to what she had done, but she held her +head high, and there was a light of defiance +in the blue eyes.</p> + +<p>“I have to speak to you very seriously.”</p> + +<p>The Marchesa, a large woman, was slow +and deliberate in all her movements. She +took her place on a brocaded settee with the +air of a statue of Juno choosing a pedestal, +and began to draw off her gloves. “I greatly +regret that this should be necessary.” She +seemed prepared to clean Augean stables, +and there was something judicial in her aspect +too, but she did not look at Olive. “You +know that I took you into my house on the +recommendation of the music-teacher, Signora +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> +Giannini. It was foolish, I see that now. +It has come to my knowledge that you had no +right to enter here, no right to be with my +daughter.” She paused. “You must understand +perfectly what I mean,” she said impressively.</p> + +<p>“No, I do not understand,” the girl said. +“Will you explain, Marchesa?”</p> + +<p>“Can you deny that you were involved in +a most discreditable affair in Siena before you +came here? That your intrigue—I hate to +have to enter into the unsavoury details, Miss +Agar, but you have forced me to it—that +your intrigue with your cousin’s <i>fiancé</i> drove +her to suicide, and that you were obliged to +leave the place in consequence?”</p> + +<p>“It is not true.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, but your cousin killed herself?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Her lover was in the house at the time, +and you were there too?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“You were at the theatre the night before +and everyone noticed that he paid you great +attention?”</p> + +<p>“He? Oh,” cried Olive, “how horrible, +and how clever!”</p> + +<p>The hard grey eyes met hers for a moment.</p> + +<p>The girl’s pale face was flushed now with +shame and anger. “So clever! Will you +congratulate the Prince for me, Marchesa?” +she said very distinctly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> +“You are impertinent. Of course, I cannot +keep you. My daughter—”</p> + +<p>The Marchesa saw her mistake as she made +it and would have passed on, but Olive was +too quick for her. She smiled. “Your +daughter! I do not think I can have harmed +her.”</p> + +<p>“You can take your money; I have left +it there for you on the bureau. Please pack +your boxes and be off as soon as possible.”</p> + +<p>“I am to leave to-night? It is dark +already, and I have no friends in Florence.”</p> + +<p>The Marchesa shrugged her shoulders. “I +can’t help that,” she said.</p> + +<p>Olive went slowly out into the hall, and stood +there hesitating at the head of the stairs. She +scarcely knew what to do or where to turn, +but she was determined not to stay longer +than she could help under this roof. She +went down to the porter’s lodge in the paved +middle court.</p> + +<p>“Gigia!”</p> + +<p>The old woman came hobbling out to greet +her with a toothless smile. “Ah, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">bella +signorina</i>, there are no more letters for you +to-night. Have you come to talk to me for a +little?”</p> + +<p>“I am going away,” the girl answered +hurriedly. “Will your husband come in to +fetch my luggage soon? At eight o’clock?”</p> + +<p>Gigia laid a skinny hand on Olive’s arm, +and her sharp old eyes blinked anxiously +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> +as she said, “Where are you going, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">nina +mia</i>?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“Not to the Prince?”</p> + +<p>“Good heavens! No!”</p> + +<p>“Ah, the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrona</i> is hard—and you are +pretty. I thought it might be that, perhaps. +Don Filippo is like his old wolf of a +father, and young lambs should beware of +him.”</p> + +<p>“Can you tell me of some quiet, decent +rooms where I can go to night?”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sicuro!</em> My husband’s brother keeps +the Aquila Verde, and you can go there. +Giovanni will give you his best room if he +hears that you come from us, and he will not +charge too much. I am sorry you are going, +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cara</i>.”</p> + +<p>Olive squeezed her hand. “Thank you, +Gigia. You are the only one I am sorry to +say good-bye to. I shall not forget you.”</p> + +<p>The Marchese was coming down the stairs +as Olive went up again. He smiled at her +as he stood aside to let her pass. “You are +late, are you not? I shall not tell tales but +I hope for your sake that my wife won’t see +you.”</p> + +<p>“She won’t see me again. I am going,” she +answered.</p> + +<p>He would have detained her. “One +moment,” he said eagerly, but she was not +listening. “I shall miss you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> +After all she heard him. “Thank you,” she +said gravely.</p> + +<p>A door was closed on the landing below, and +the master of the house glanced at it apprehensively. +He was not sure—</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> + + +<p>The Aquila Verde was the oldest of the tall +houses in the narrow Vicolo dei Donati; the +lower windows were barred with iron worn by +the rains of four hundred years, and there +were carved marble pillars on either side of +the door. The façade had been frescoed once, +and some flakes of colour, red, green and +yellow, still adhered to the wall close under the +deep protecting eaves.</p> + +<p>“It was a palace of the Donati once,” the +host explained to Olive as he set a plate of +steaming macaroni swamped in tomato sauce +before her.</p> + +<p>“I thought it might have been a convent, +because of the long paved corridors and this +great room that is like a refectory.”</p> + +<p>“No, the Donati lived here. Dante’s wife, +Gemma, perhaps. Who knows!”</p> + +<p>Ser Giovanni took up a glass and polished +it vigorously with the napkin he carried always +over his arm before he filled it with red +Chianti. He had never had a foreigner in his +house before, but he had heard many tales +about them from the waiters in the great +Anglo-American hotels on the Lung’Arno, +and he knew that they craved for warmth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> +and an unlimited supply of hot water and tea. +Naturally he was afraid of them, and he was +also shy of stray women, but Olive was pretty, +and he was a man, and moreover a Florentine, +and his brother had come with her and had +been earnest in his recommendations, so he +was anxious to please her. “There is no +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">dolce</i> to-night,” he said apologetically. “But +perhaps you will take an orange.”</p> + +<p>When Olive went up to her room presently +she found a great copper jar of hot water +set beside the tiny washstand. The barred +window was high in the thickness of the stone +wall and the uncarpeted floor was of brick. +The place was bare and cold as a cell, but the +bed, narrow and white as that of Mary Mother +in Rossetti’s picture, invited her, and she +slept well. She was awakened at eight o’clock +by a young waiter who brought in her coffee +and rolls on a tray. She was a little startled +by his unceremonious entrance, but it seemed +to be so much a matter of course that she +could not resent it. He took the copper jar +away with him. “The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrone</i> says you will +want some more water,” he said smilingly.</p> + +<p>“Yes. But—but if you bring it back you +can leave it outside the door.”</p> + +<p>The coffee was not good, but it was hot, and +the rolls were crisp and delicious, and Olive +ate and drank happily and with an excellent +appetite. No more listening to mangled scales +and murdered nocturnes and sonatas, no more +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> +interminable meals at which she must sit +silent and yet avoid “glumness,” no more +walking at Mamie’s heels.</p> + +<p>She was free!</p> + +<p>Presently she said to herself, more soberly, +that nevertheless she must work somehow to +gain her livelihood. Yes, she must find work +soon. The Aquila Verde would shelter and +feed her for six lire a day. Her last month’s +salary of eighty lire had been paid her four +days ago, and she had already spent more +than half of it on things she needed, new boots, +an umbrella, gloves, odds and ends. This +month’s money had been given her last night, +and she had left a few lire for the servant who +had always brought up her dinner to her +room, and had made Gigia a little present. +The cabman had bullied her into giving him +two lire. She had about one hundred remaining +to her. Sixes into one hundred.... +Working it out carefully on the back of an old +envelope she found that she might live on her +means for sixteen days, and then go out into +the streets with four lire in her pocket—no, +three, since she could scarcely leave without +giving a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mancia</i> to the young man whom she +now heard whistling “Lucia” in the corridor.</p> + +<p>“The hot water, signorina.”</p> + +<p>“A thousand thanks.”</p> + +<p>Surely in a few days she would find work. +It occurred to her that she might advertise. +“Young English lady would give lessons. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> +Terms moderate. Apply O. A., Aquila Verde.” +She wrote it out presently, and took it herself +to the office of one of the local papers.</p> + +<p>“I have saved fifteen centesimi,” she +thought as she walked rather wearily back +by the long Via Cavour.</p> + +<p>Three days passed and she was the poorer +by eighteen lire. On Sunday she spent the +morning at the Belle Arti Gallery. Haggard +saints peered out at her from dark corners. +Flora smiled wistfully through her tears; +she saw the three strong archangels leading +boy Tobias home across the hills, and Angelico’s +monks and nuns meeting the Blessed Ones in +the green, daisied fields of Paradise, and for a +little while she was able to forget that no one +seemed to want English lessons.</p> + +<p>On Monday she decided that she must leave +the Aquila Verde if she could find anyone to +take her for four, or even three lire a day. +She went to Cook’s office in the Via Tornabuoni; +it was crowded with Americans come +for their mails, and she had to wait ten +minutes before one of the young men behind +the counter could attend to her.</p> + +<p>“What can I do for you?”</p> + +<p>“Can you recommend me to a very cheap +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pension</i>?”</p> + +<p>She noticed a faint alteration in his manner, +as though he had lost interest in what she was +saying, but when he had looked at her again he +answered pleasantly, “There is Vinella’s in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> +the Piazza Indipendenza, six francs, and there +is another in the Via dei Bardi, I think; but +I will ask. Excuse me.”</p> + +<p>He went to speak to another clerk at the +cashier’s desk. They both stared across at +her, and she fancied she heard the words, +pretty, cheap enough, poor.</p> + +<p>“There is a place in the Via Decima kept by +a Frau Heylmann. I think it might suit you, +and I will write the address down. It is really +not bad and I can recommend it as I am +staying there myself,” he added ingenuously. +He seemed really anxious to help now, and +Olive thanked him.</p> + +<p>As she went out she met Prince Tor di Rocca +coming in. Their eyes met momentarily and +he bowed. It seemed strange to her afterwards +when she thought of it, but she fancied +he would have spoken if she had given him an +opportunity. Did he want to explain, to tell +more lies? She had thought him too strong +to care what women thought of him once they +had served him and been cast aside. True, +she was not precisely one of these.</p> + +<p>The Via Decima proved to be one of the wide +new streets near the Porta San Gallo. No. +38 was a pretentious house, a tenement +building trying to look like a palace, and it +was plastered over with dingy yellow stucco. +Olive went through the hall into a courtyard +hung with drying linen, and climbed up an +outside iron staircase to the fifth floor. There +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> +was a brass plate on the Frau’s door, and +Canova’s Graces in terra cotta smirked in +niches on either side. The large pale woman +who answered the bell wore a grey flannel +dressing-gown that was almost buttonless, +and her light hair was screwed into an absurdly +small knot on the nape of her neck.</p> + +<p>“You want to be taken <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en pension</i>? Come +in.”</p> + +<p>She led the way into a bare and chilly +dining-room; the long table was covered +with black American cloth that reminded +Olive of beetles, but everything was excessively +clean. There was a framed photograph +of the Kaiser on the sideboard. In a +room beyond someone was playing the violin.</p> + +<p>“How many are you in family?”</p> + +<p>“I am alone.”</p> + +<p>The Frau looked down at the gloved hands. +“You are not married?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>The woman hesitated. “You would be out +during the day?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” Olive said hopefully. “I shall +be giving lessons.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, well, perhaps— What would you +pay?”</p> + +<p>“I am poor, and I thought you would say as +little as possible. I should be glad to help you +in the house.”</p> + +<p>“There is a good deal of mending,” the +Frau said thoughtfully; “and you might clean +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> +your own room. Shall we say twenty-four +lire weekly?”</p> + +<p>The playing in the other room ceased, and +a young man put his head in at the door. +“<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Mutter</i>,” he said, and then begged her +pardon, but he did not go away.</p> + +<p>Olive tried not to look at him, but he was +staring at her and his eyes were extraordinarily +blue. He was pale, and his wide brows and +strong cleft chin reminded her of Botticelli’s +steel-clad archangel. He wore his smooth fair +hair rather long too, in the archangelic manner, +he—</p> + +<p>“Paid in advance,” Frau Heylmann said +very sharply. Then she turned upon her son. +“What do you want, Wilhelm?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I can wait,” he said easily.</p> + +<p>She snorted. “I am sorry I cannot receive +you,” she said to the girl. “I am not +accustomed to have young women in my +house. No.”</p> + +<p>She waddled to the door and Olive followed +her meekly, but she could not keep her lips +from smiling. “I do not blame you,” she +said as she passed out on to the landing. +“Your son is charming.”</p> + +<p>The woman looked at her more kindly now +that she was going. “He is beautiful,” she +said, with pride. “Some day he will be great. +<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Ach!</i> You should hear him play!”</p> + +<p>Olive laughed. “You would not let me.”</p> + +<p>She could not take this rebuff seriously, but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> +as she trudged the streets in the thin cold rain +that had fallen persistently all that morning +her sense of humour was blunted by discomfort. +The long dark, stone-paved hall +that was the restaurant of the Aquila Verde +seemed cold and cheerless. At noon it was +always full of hungry men devouring macaroni +and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vitello alla Milanese</i>, and the steam of hot +food and the sound of masticating jaws +greeted Olive as she came in and took her place +at a little table near the stove.</p> + +<p>The young waiter, Angelo, brought her a cup +of coffee after the cheese and celery. “It +gives courage,” he said. “And I see you need +that to-day, signorina.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> + + +<p>Olive saw the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrone</i> of the Aquila Verde +that night before she went to her room and +told him she was leaving.</p> + +<p>His face fell. “Signorina! I am sorry! +I told Angelo to bring hot water every time, +always, when you rang. Have you not been +well served?”</p> + +<p>She reassured him on that point and went +on to explain that she was going to live alone. +“I have made arrangements,” she added +vaguely. “A man will come with a truck +to take my box away to-morrow morning.”</p> + +<p>And the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrone</i> was too much a man of +his world to ask any more questions.</p> + +<p>There had been no rooms vacant in the +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pension</i> in Piazza Indipendenza. The manservant +who answered the door had recommended +an Italian lady who took paying +guests, and Olive had gone to see her, but her +rooms were small, dark and dingy, and they +smelt overpoweringly of sandal wood and rancid +oil. The shabbily-smart <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrona</i> had been +voluble and even affectionate. “I am so fond +of the English,” she said. “My husband is +much occupied and I am often lonely, but we +shall be able to go out together and amuse +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> +ourselves, you and I. I had been hoping to +get an invitation to go to the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Trecento</i> ball at +the Palazzo Vecchio, but Luigi cannot manage +it. Never mind! We will go to all the +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Veglioni</i>. I love dancing.” She looked complacently +down at her stubby little feet in +their down-at-heel beaded slippers.</p> + +<p>Olive had been glad to get away when she +heard the impossible terms, but the afternoon +was passing, and when she got to the house +in the Via dei Bardi she saw bills of sale +plastered on its walls and a litter of straw and +torn paper in the courtyard. The porter +came out of his lodge to tell her that one of the +daughters had died.</p> + +<p>“They all went away, and the furniture was +sold yesterday.”</p> + +<p>As Olive had never really wished to live +and eat with strangers she was not greatly +depressed by these experiences, but she was +cold and tired, and her head ached, and when +on her way back to the Aquila Verde she saw +a card, “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Affitasi, una camera, senza mobilia</i>,” +in the doorway of one of the old houses in the +Borgo San Jacopo, she went in and up the long +flight of steep stone stairs without any definite +idea of what she wanted beyond a roof to +shelter her.</p> + +<p>A shrivelled, snuffy old woman showed her +the room. It was very large and lofty, and +it had two great arched windows that looked +out upon the huddled roofs of Oltr’Arno. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> +The brick floor was worn and weather-stained, +as were the white-washed walls.</p> + +<p>“It was a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">loggia</i>, but some of the arches +have been filled in and the others glazed. Ten +lire a month, signorina. As to water, there is +a good fountain in the courtyard.”</p> + +<p>Olive moved in next day.</p> + +<p>Heaven helps those who help themselves, +she thought, as she borrowed a broom from +her landlady to sweep the floor. The morning +was fine and she opened the windows wide +and let the sun and air in. At noon she went +down into the Borgo and bought fried <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">polenta</i> +for five soldi and a slice of chestnut cake at the +cook shop, and filled her kettle with clear cold +water from the fountain in the courtyard.</p> + +<p>Later, as she waited for the water to boil +over her little spirit lamp, she made a list of +absolute necessaries. She had paid a month’s +rent in advance, and fifty-three lire remained +to her. Fifty-three lire out of which she must +buy a straw mattress, a camp-stool, two +blankets, some crockery and soap.</p> + +<p>She went out presently to do her shopping +and came back at dusk. She was young +enough to rather enjoy the novelty of her +proceedings, and she slept well that night on +the floor, pillowless, and wrapped in her coarse +brown coverings; and though the moon shone +in upon her through the unshuttered windows +for a while she did not dream or wake until the +dawn.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +Olive tried very hard to get work in the days +that followed, and she went twice to the +registry office in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele.</p> + +<p>“Ah, you were here before.” A stout +woman came bustling out from the room +behind the shop to speak to her the second +time. “There is nothing for you, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">signorina +mia</i>. The ladies who come here will not take +anyone without a character, and a written +reference from Milan or Rome is no good. I +told you so before. Last winter Contessa +Foscoli had an English maid with a written +character—not from us, I am glad to say—and +she ran away with the chauffeur after a +fortnight, and took a diamond ring and the +Contessa’s pearls with her. If you cannot tell +me who you were with last I shall not be able +to help you.”</p> + +<p>“The Marchesa Lorenzoni,” Olive said.</p> + +<p>The woman drew in her breath with a hissing +noise, then she smiled, not pleasantly. “Why +did you not say so before? I have heard of +you, of course. The little English girl! Well, +I can’t help you, my dear. This is a registry +office.”</p> + +<p>Olive walked out of the shop at once, but +she heard the woman calling to someone in the +room at the back to come and look at her, and +she felt her cheeks burning as she crossed the +road. “The little English girl!” What were +they saying about her?</p> + +<p>One morning she went into one of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> +English tea-rooms. It was kept by two +elderly maiden ladies, and one of them came +forward to ask her what she wanted. The +Pagoda was deserted at that hour, a barren +wilderness of little bamboo tables and chairs, +tea-less and cake-less. The walls were distempered +green and sparsely decorated with +Japanese paper fans, and Olive noticed them +and the pattern of the carpet and remembered +them afterwards as one remembers the frieze, +the engravings, the stale periodicals in a +dentist’s waiting-room.</p> + +<p>“Do—do you want a waitress?”</p> + +<p>The older woman’s face changed. Oh, that +change! The girl knew it so well now that she +saw it ten times a day.</p> + +<p>“No. My sister and I manage very well, +and we have an Italian maid to do the washing +up.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” Olive said, faltering. “You +don’t know anyone who wants an English girl? +I have been very well educated. At least—”</p> + +<p>“I am afraid not.”</p> + +<p>Poor Olive. She was an unskilled workwoman, +not especially gifted in any way or +fitted by her upbringing to earn her daily +bread. Long years of her girlhood had been +spent at a select school, and in the result she +knew a part of the Book of Kings by heart, +with the Mercy speech from the <i>Merchant of +Venice</i> and the date of the Norman Conquest. +Every day she bought the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Fieramosca</i>, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> +she tried to see the other local papers when +they came out. Several people advertised +who wanted to exchange lessons, but no one +seemed inclined to pay. Once she saw names +she knew in the social column.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“The Marchese Lorenzoni is going to +Monte Carlo, and he will join the Marchesa and +Miss Whittaker in Cairo later in the season.”</p> + +<p>“Prince Tor di Rocca is going to Egypt for +Christmas.”</p> +</div> + +<p>It was easy to read between the lines.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3> + + +<p>Florence, in the great days of the Renaissance, +bore many men whom now she delights +to honour, and Ugo Manelli was one of these. +He helped to build a bridge over the Arno, he +had his palace in the Corso frescoed by +Masaccio, he framed sumptuary laws, and he +wrote sonnets, charming sonnets that are still +read by the people who care for such things. +The fifth centenary of his birthday, on the +twenty-eighth of November, was to be kept +with great rejoicings therefore. There were +to be fireworks and illuminations of the streets +for the people, and a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Trecento</i> costume ball +at the Palazzo Vecchio for those who had +influence to procure tickets and money to pay +for them.</p> + +<p>Mamie, greatly daring, proclaimed her intention +of wearing the “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">umile ed onesto +sanguigno</i>” of Beatrice.</p> + +<p>“You will be my Dante, Don Filippo? +Momma is going in cloth of gold as Giovanna +degli Albizzi.”</p> + +<p>The Marchese looked inquiringly at the +Prince. “Shall you add to the gaiety of +nations, or at least of Florence?”</p> + +<p>The young man shrugged his broad shoulders. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +“I suppose so.” He was well established as +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cavalier servente</i> now in the Lorenzoni household, +and it was understood that Mamie would +be a princess some day. The girl was so +young that the engagement could scarcely +be announced yet.</p> + +<p>“I guess we must wait until you are +eighteen, Mamie,” her mother said. “Keep +him amused and don’t be exacting or he’ll +quit. He is still sore from his jilting.”</p> + +<p>“I can manage him,” the girl boasted, but +she had no real influence over him now. The +forbidden fruit had allured him, but since it +was his for the gathering it seemed sour—as +indeed it was, and he was not the man to +allow himself to be tied to the apron-strings of +a child. When he was in a good humour he +watched his future wife amusedly as she +metaphorically and sometimes literally danced +before him, but he discouraged the excess of +audacity that had attracted him formerly, +perhaps because he scarcely relished the idea +of a Princess Tor di Rocca singing, “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">O che la +gioia mi fè morir</i>.”</p> + +<p>Probably he regretted gentle, amenable +Edna. At times he was grimly, impenetrably +silent, and often he said things that would have +wounded a tender heart past healing. Fortunately +there were none such in the Palazzo +Lorenzoni.</p> + +<p>“I shall be ridiculous as the Alighieri, and +you must forgive me, Mamie, if I say that one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> +scarcely sees in you a reincarnation of Monna +Beatrice.”</p> + +<p>“Red is my colour,” the girl answered +rather defiantly.</p> + +<p>The Marchese laughed gratingly.</p> + +<p>Filippo dined with the Lorenzoni on the +night of the ball. He wore the red <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">lucco</i>, but +had declined to crown himself with laurel. +His gaudy Muse, however, had no such +scruples, and her black curls were wreathed +with silver leaves. The Prince was not the +only guest; there was a slender, flaxen-haired +girl from New York dressed after Botticelli’s +Judith, an artillery captain as Lorenzo dei +Medici, and another man, a Roman, in the +grey of the order of San Francesco.</p> + +<p>“Poppa left for Monte this morning,” +Mamie explained over the soup. “He +reckoned dressing up was just foolishness, but +the fact is armour is hot and heavy, and he +would have had to pass from trousers into +greaves. He has not got the right kind of legs +for parti-coloured hosen, someway.”</p> + +<p>The Piazza della Signoria was crowded as it +had been on that dreadful May day when +Girolamo’s broken body was burnt to ashes +there; as it was on the afternoon of the Pazzi +conspiracy, when a bishop was hanged from +one of the windows of the old Palazzo. But +the old order had changed, giving place to new +even here, and the people had come now +merely to see the fine dresses; there was no +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> +thought of murder, though there might be +some picking of pockets. The night was still +and cold, and the white, round moon that had +risen above the roof of the Loggia dei Lanzi +shone, unclouded, upon the restless human +sea that divided here and there to let the +carriages and motors pass. The guests +entered by the side door nearest the Uffizi, +and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i> kept the way clear. The +crowd was dense thereabouts, and the people +pushed and jostled one another, leaned +forward, and stood on tiptoe to see the brocaded +ladies in their jewelled coifs and the men, +hooded and strange, in their gay mediæval +garb.</p> + +<p>The Marchesa’s cloth of gold drew the +prolonged “Oh!” of admiration that is only +accorded to the better kind of fireworks, and +hearing it, she smiled, well satisfied. Mamie +followed with Filippo. Her dress of rose-coloured +brocade was exquisite. It clung to +her and seemed to be her one and only garment; +one could almost see the throb of her heart +through the thin stuff. She let her furred +cloak fall as she got out of the car and then +drew it up again about her bare arms and +shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Who is the black-curled scarlet thing?”</p> + +<p>“Beatrice.”</p> + +<p>“What! half naked! She is more like one +of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">donnine</i> in the <i>Decameron</i>.”</p> + +<p>Her Dante, overhearing, hurried her up the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> +steps. His eyes were bright with anger in +the shadow of his hood, but they changed and +darkened as he caught sight of one girl’s face +in the crowd. At the foot of the grand staircase +he turned, muttering some excuse and +leaving Mamie and her mother to go up alone, +and hurried back and out into the street. He +stood aside as though to allow some newcomers +to pass in. The girl he had come to +see was close to him, but she was half hidden +behind a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabiniere’s</i> broad epauletted +shoulders.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Scusi</i>,” murmured the Prince as he leant +across the man to pull at her sleeve. “I +must see you,” he said urgently. “When? +Where?”</p> + +<p>“When you like,” she answered, but her +eyes were startled as they met his. “No. +27 Borgo San Jacopo. The only door on the +sixth landing.”</p> + +<p>“Very well. To-night, then, and in an +hour’s time.”</p> + +<p>The press of incoming masqueraders screened +them. The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabiniere</i> knew the Prince by +sight, and he listened with all his might, but +they spoke English, and he dared not turn to +stare at the girl until the tall figure in the red +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">lucco</i> had passed up the steps and gone in +again, and by that time she had slipped away +out of sight.</p> + +<p>Filippo came to the Borgo a little before +midnight and crossed the dingy threshold of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> +No. 27 as the bells of the churches rang out the +hour. The old street was quiet enough now +but for the wailing of some strayed and starving +cats that crept about the shadowed courts +and under the crumbling archways, and the +departing cab woke strange echoes as it rattled +away over the cobble stones.</p> + +<p>The only door on the sixth landing was +open.</p> + +<p>“What are you doing here?” Filippo said, +wonderingly, as he groped his way in. The +room was in utter darkness but for one ray of +moonlight athwart it and the faint light of +the stars, by which he saw Olive leaning +against the sill of one of the unshuttered +windows, and looking, as it seemed, towards +him.</p> + +<p>“Come in,” she said. “You need not be +afraid of falling over the furniture. There is +not much.”</p> + +<p>“You seem partial to bare attics.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! you are thinking of my room in the +Vicolo dei Moribondi.”</p> + +<p>“Yes!” he said as he came towards her +from the door. “I cannot rest, I cannot forget. +For God’s sake tell me about the end! I +have been to Siena since I heard, but I dared +not ask too many questions. Was she—did +she suffer very much before she died? +Answer me quickly.”</p> + +<p>“Throw back your hood,” she said. “Let +me see your face.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +Impatiently he thrust the folds of white +and scarlet away and stood bare-headed. She +saw that his strong lips quivered and that his +eyes were contracted with pain.</p> + +<p>“No, she died instantly. They said at the +inquest that it must have been so.”</p> + +<p>“Her face—was she—” his voice broke.</p> + +<p>“I did not see it. It was covered by a +handkerchief,” she said gently. “Don’t! +Don’t! I did not think you would suffer so +much.”</p> + +<p>“I suffer horribly day and night. Love is +the scourge of the world in the hands of the +devil. That is certain. She is buried near +the south wall of the Campo Santo. Oh, God! +when I think of her sweet flesh decaying—”</p> + +<p>Olive, scarcely knowing what she did, caught +at his hand and held it tightly.</p> + +<p>“Hush, oh, hush!” she said tremulously. +She felt as though she were seeing him racked. +“I do believe that her soul was borne into +heaven, God’s heaven, on the day she died. +She was forgiven.”</p> + +<p>“Heaven!” he cried. “Where is heaven? +I am not guilty of her death. She was a fool +to die, and I shall not soon forgive her for leaving +me so. If she came back I would punish +her, torment her, make her scream with pain—if +she came back—oh, Gemma!—<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carissima</i>—”</p> + +<p>The hard, hot eyes filled with tears. He +tried to drag his hand away, but the girl held +it fast.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> +“You are kind and good,” he said presently +in a changed voice. “I am sorry if I did you +any harm with the Lorenzoni, but the woman +told me she meant to send you away in any +case because of the Marchese.”</p> + +<p>Then, as he felt the clasp of her fingers +loosening about his wrist, “Don’t let go,” he +said quickly. “Is he really going to take you +to Monte Carlo with him?”</p> + +<p>“Does his wife say so? Do you believe +it?”</p> + +<p>He answered deliberately. “No, not now. +But you cannot go on living like this.”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>He was right. She could not go on. Her +little store of coppers was dwindling fast, so +fast that the beggars at the church doors +would soon be richer than she was. And she +was tired of her straits, tired of coarse food +and a bare lodging, and of the harsh, clamorous +life of the streets. The yoke of poverty was +very heavy.</p> + +<p>Filippo drew a little nearer to her. “I +could make you love me.”</p> + +<p>“Never.”</p> + +<p>He made no answer in words but he caught +her to him. She lay for a moment close in +his arms, her heart beating on his, before she +cried to him to let her go.</p> + +<p>He released her instantly. “Well?”</p> + +<p>“I must light the lamp,” she said unsteadily. +She was afraid now to be alone with him in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +dim, starlit room, and she fumbled for the +matches. He stood still by the window +waiting until the little yellow flame of the +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">lucerna</i> burnt brightly on the floor between +them, then he smiled at her, well pleased at her +pallor. “You see it would be easy,” he +said.</p> + +<p>She answered nothing.</p> + +<p>“I am going to Naples to-morrow by the +afternoon train. Will you come with me? +We will go where you like from there, to Capri, +or to Sicily; and you will help me to forget, +and I will teach you to live.”</p> + +<p>There was silence between them for a while. +Olive stared with fascinated eyes at this tall, +lithe man whose red <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">lucco</i>, falling in straight +folds to his feet, became him well. The upper +part of his face was in shadow, and she saw +only the strong lines of the cleft chin, and the +beautiful cruel lips that smiled at her as though +they knew what her answer must be.</p> + +<p>She was of those who are apt to prefer one +hour of troubled joy to the long, grey, eventless +years of the women who are said to be happy +because they have no history, and it seemed +to her that the moment had come when she +must make a choice. This love was not what +she had dreamed of, longed for; other lips, +kinder and more true, should have set their +seal on her accomplished womanhood. She +knew that this that was offered was a perilous +and sharp-edged thing, a bright sheath that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +held a sword for her heart, and yet that heart +sang exultantly as it fluttered like a wild bird +against the bars of its cage. It sang of youth +and life and joy that cares not for the morrow.</p> + +<p>It sang.</p> + +<p>Filippo watched her closely and he saw that +she was yielding. Her lips parted, and instinctively +as he came towards her she closed +her eyes so nearly that he saw only a narrow +line of blue gleaming between her lashes. +But as he laid his hands upon her shoulders +something awoke within her, a terror that +screamed in her ears.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid,” she said brokenly. “Leave +me and come back to-morrow morning if you +will. I cannot answer you now.”</p> + +<p>As he still held her she spoke again. “If I +come to you willingly I shall be more worth +having, and if you do not go now I will never +come. I will drown myself in the Arno.”</p> + +<p>“Very well. I will come to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>When he was gone she went stumblingly +across the room to the mattress on the floor +in the farthest corner, and threw herself down +upon it, dressed as she was.</p> + +<p>There was no more oil in the little lamp, and +its flame flickered and went out after a while, +leaving her in the dark. The clocks were +striking two. Long since the moon had set +behind the hills and now the stars were fading, +or so it seemed. There was no light anywhere.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> +Olive did not sleep. Her frightened +thoughts ran to and fro busily, aimlessly, like +ants disturbed, hither and thither, this way +and that. He could give her so much. +Nothing real, indeed, but many bright counterfeits. +For a while she would seem to be cared +for and beloved. Yes, but if the true love +came she would be shamed. She knew that +her faith in Dante’s Amor, his lord of terrible +aspect, made his coming possible. The men +and women who go about proclaiming that +there is no such person because they have +never seen him were born blind. Like those +prosy souls who call the poets mad, they +mistake impotence for common sense.</p> + +<p>Besides, the first step always costs so dear, +and now that he was gone and she could think +of him calmly she knew that she was afraid +of Filippo Tor di Rocca. He was cruel. +Then among the forces arrayed against him +there was the desire of that she called her +soul to mortify her flesh, to beckon, to lead +by stony ways to the heights of sacrifice. +She could not be sure where that first step +would lead her, she could not be sure of herself +or gauge the depths to which she might +fall.</p> + +<p>“Oh, God!” she said aloud. “Help me! +Don’t let things be too difficult.”</p> + +<p>The hours of darkness were long, but the +grey glimmering dawn came at last with a +pattering of rain against the uncurtained +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> +window. Olive rose as soon as it was light, +and before eight she had eaten the crust of +bread she had saved for her breakfast and +was gone out. On her way down the stairs +she met her landlady and spoke to her.</p> + +<p>“If anyone comes to see me will you tell +them that I have gone out, and that I do not +know when I shall come in again. And if +anything is said about my going away you can +say that I have changed my mind and that I +shall not leave Florence.”</p> + +<p>She would not cross the river for fear of +meeting Filippo in any of the more-frequented +streets on the other side, so she went down the +Via della Porta Romana and out by the gates +into the open country beyond. She walked +for a long time along muddy roads between the +high walls of vineyards and olive orchards. +She had an umbrella, but her skirts were +draggled and splashed with mire and the water +came through the worn soles of her thin shoes. +She had nothing to eat and no money to buy +food. There were some coppers in her purse, +but she had forgotten to bring that. It was +windy, and as she was toiling up the steep hill +to Bellosguardo her umbrella blew inside out. +She threw it down by the side of the road and +went on, rather glad to be rid of it and to feel +the rain on her face. She had two hands now +to hold her skirt and that was better. Soon +after noon she knocked at the door of a +gardener’s cottage and asked for something +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +to eat; she was given a yellow lump of +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">polenta</i> and a handful of roast chestnuts +and she sat down on a low wall by the roadside +to devour them. She did not think much +about anything now, she could not even feel +that she cared what happened to her, but she +adhered to the resolution she had made to +keep out of the way until Tor di Rocca had +left Florence. She could not sit long. It was +cold and she was poorly clad, so poorly that +the woman in the cottage had believed her +to be a beggar. The Prince would have had +to buy her clothes before he could take her +away with him.</p> + +<p>She wandered about until nightfall and then +made her way back to the house in the Borgo, +footsore and cold and wretched, but still the +captain of her soul; ragged, but free and in no +man’s livery.</p> + +<p>The landlady heard her coming slowly up +the stairs and came out of her room to speak +to her.</p> + +<p>“A gentleman called for you this morning. +I told him you were gone out and that you had +changed your mind about leaving Florence, +and at first he seemed angry, and then he +laughed. ‘Tell her we shall meet again,’ +he said. Then another came this afternoon +in an automobile and asked if you lived here, +and when I said you were out he said he +would come again this evening. He left his +card.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +Olive looked at it with dazed eyes. Her +pale face flushed, but as she went on up the +stairs the colour ebbed away until even her +lips were white. She had to rest twice before +she could reach her own landing, and when +she had entered her room she could go no +farther than the door. She fell, and it was +some time before she could get up again, but +she still held the card crumpled in her hand.</p> + +<p>“Jean Avenel.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3> + + +<p>The Villa Fiorelli is set high among the olive +groves above the village of Settignano. There +are Medicean balls on a shield over the great +wrought-iron gates, and the swarthy splendid +banker princes appear as the Magi in the faded +fresco painting of the Nativity in the chapel. +They have knelt there in the straw of the +stable of Bethlehem for more than four hundred +years. The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">nobili</i> of Florence were used to +loiter long ago on the terrace in the shade of +the five cypresses, and women, famous or +infamous, but always beautiful, listened to +sonnets said and songs sung in their honour +in the scented idleness of the rose garden. The +villa belonged first to handsome, reckless +Giuliano, the lover of Simonetta and others, +and the father of a Pope, and when the +dagger thrusts of the Pazzi put an end to his +short life his elder brother and lord, Lorenzo, +held it for a while before he sold it to the +Salviati. So it passed through many hands +until at last Hilaire Avenel bought it and +filled it with the books and armour that he +loved. There were Spanish suits, gold-chased, +in the hall, Moorish swords and lances, +and steel hauberks on the staircase, and stray +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> +arquebuses, greaves and gauntlets everywhere. +They were all rather dusty, since +Hilaire was unmarried; but he was well +served nevertheless. He was not a sociable +person, and no Florentine had ever partaken +of a meal with him, but it was currently reported +that he sat through a ten-course +dinner every night of his life, crumbling the +bread at the side of his plate, and invariably +refusing to partake of nine of the dishes that +were handed in form by the old butler.</p> + +<p>“It’s real mean of your brother to keep his +lovely garden shut up all through the spring,” +the Marchesa Lorenzoni had said once to Jean, +and he had replied, “Well, it is his.”</p> + +<p>That seemed final, but the present Marchesa +and late relict of Jonas P. Whittaker of Pittsburg +was not so easily put off. She was apt +to motor up to Settignano more than once in +the May month of flowers; the intractable +Hilaire was never at home to her, but she +revenged herself by multitudinous kind inquiries. +He was an invalid, but he disliked to +be reminded of his infirmities almost as much +as he did most women and all cackle about the +weather.</p> + +<p>Jean lived with him when not playing +Chopin at the ends of the earth, and when the +two were together the elder declared himself +to be perfectly happy. “I only want you.”</p> + +<p>“And your first editions and your Cellini +helmet.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> +When Jean came back from his American +tour his brother was quick to notice a change +in him, and when on the day after his Florentine +concert he came in late for a dinner which +he ate in silence, Hilaire spoke his mind. They +were together in the library. Jean had taken +a book down from the shelves but he was not +reading it.</p> + +<p>“Bad coffee.”</p> + +<p>“Was it?”</p> + +<p>Hilaire was watching his brother’s face. +It seemed to him that there were lines in it +that he had not seen before, and the brown +eyes that gazed so intently into the fire were +surely very tired.</p> + +<p>He began again rather awkwardly. “You +have been here a week, Jean.”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Did the concert go off well?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well enough. As usual.”</p> + +<p>“You went away alone in the Itala car +before nine this morning and you came back +scarcely an hour ago. What is the matter? +Is there some new trouble? Jean, dear man, +I am older than you; I have only you. What +is it?”</p> + +<p>Jean reached out for his tobacco pouch. +“Hilaire,” he said very gravely, after a pause, +which he occupied in filling his pipe. “You +remember I asked you to do anything, anything, +for a girl named Olive Agar. You have never +heard from her or of her?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> +“Never.”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” he sighed, “I have been to Siena. +There was some affair—early in September +she came to Florence, to the Lorenzoni of all +people in the world.”</p> + +<p>Hilaire whistled.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know,” the younger man said +gloomily, as though he had spoken. “That +woman! What she must have suffered in +these months! Well, she left them suddenly +at the beginning of November.”</p> + +<p>“Where is she now?”</p> + +<p>“That’s just it. I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“Why did she leave Siena?”</p> + +<p>“There was some trouble—a bad business,” +he answered reluctantly. “She lived with +some cousins, and one of them committed +suicide. She came away to escape the horror +and all the talk, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, I need not ask why she left the +Lorenzoni woman. No girl in her senses +would stay an hour longer than she could help +with her.”</p> + +<p>“Hilaire, I think I half hoped to see her +at the concert yesterday. When I came on +the platform I looked for her, and I am sure I +should have seen her in that crowd if she had +been there. She is different, somehow. I +played like a machine for the first time in my +life, I think, and during the interval the +manager asked me why I had not given the +nocturne that was down on the programme. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> +I said something about a necessary alteration +at the last moment, but I don’t know now +what I did play. I was thinking of her. A +girl alone has a bad time in this world.”</p> + +<p>“You are going to find her? Is she in love +with you?”</p> + +<p>Jean flushed. “I can’t answer that.”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right. What I really wanted +to know was if you cared for her. I see you +do. Oh, Lord!” The older man sighed +heavily as he put down his coffee-cup. “I +wish you would play to me.”</p> + +<p>Jean went into the music-room, leaving the +folding doors between open, and sat down at +the piano. There was no light but the moon’s, +and Hilaire saw the beloved head dark against +the silvery grey of the wall beyond. The +skilled hands let loose a torrent of harmonies.</p> + +<p>“Damn women!” said Hilaire, under cover +of the fortissimo.</p> + +<p>He spent some hours in the library on the +following day re-arranging and dusting his +books, lingering over them, reading a page +here and there, patting their old vellum-bound +backs fondly before he returned them to their +shelves. They absorbed him, and yet the +footman bringing in his tea on a tray heard +him saying, “I must not worry.”</p> + +<p>Jean had always come to him with his +troubles ever since he was a child, and the +worst of all had been brought about by a +woman. That was years ago now. Hilaire +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> +had been away from England, and he had +come back to find his brother aged and +altered—and married.</p> + +<p>They had got on so well together without +women in these latter years that Hilaire had +hoped they might live and die in peace, but it +seemed that it was not to be. Jean had gone +out again in the car to look for his Olive. +Well, if she made him happy Hilaire thought +they might get on very well after all. But +he had forebodings, and later, he sat +frowning at the white napery and glittering +glass and silver reflected in the polished +walnut wood of his well-appointed table, and +he refused soup and fish with unnecessary +violence. Jean loved this girl and she could +make him happy if she would, but would she? +She was evidently not of a “coming-on disposition”; +she was good, and Jean was, +unfortunately, still married to the other.</p> + +<p>It had been raining all day. The wind +moaned in the trees and sighed in the chimney, +and now and again the blazing logs on the +hearth hissed as drops fell on them from +above.</p> + +<p>“There is a good fire in the signorino’s +dressing-room, I hope. He has been out all +day, and it is so stormy that—”</p> + +<p>“The signorino has come in, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">eccellenza</i>. +He—he brought a lady with him. She seemed +faint and ill, and I sent for the gardener’s wife +to come and look after her. I have given her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> +the blue room, and the housekeeper is with +her now. She was busy with the dinner when +she first came.” The old butler rubbed his +hands together.</p> + +<p>“I hope I did right,” he said after a pause.</p> + +<p>Hilaire roused himself. “Oh, quite right, +of course. She will want something to eat.”</p> + +<p>“I have sent up a tray—”</p> + +<p>“Ah, when?”</p> + +<p>“He—here he is.”</p> + +<p>The old man drew back as Jean came in. +“I am sorry to be late, Hilaire.”</p> + +<p>“It does not matter.”</p> + +<p>Thereafter both sat patiently waiting for +the end of a dinner that seemed age-long. +When, at last, they were alone Jean rose to +his feet; he was very pale and his brown eyes +glittered.</p> + +<p>“Did Stefano tell you? I have found her +and brought her here.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she has come, has she?”</p> + +<p>“You think less of her for that. Ah, you +will misjudge her until you know her. Wait.”</p> + +<p>He hurried out of the room.</p> + +<p>Hilaire stood on the hearth with his back to +the fire. He repeated his formula, but there +was a not unkindly light in his tired eyes, +and when presently the door was opened and +the girl came in he smiled.</p> + +<p>The club foot, of which he was nervously +conscious at times, held him to his place, but +she came forward until she was close to him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> +“You are his brother,” she began. “I—what +a good fire.”</p> + +<p>She knelt down on the bear skin and +stretched her hands to the blaze. Hilaire +noticed that she was excessively thin; the +rose-flushed cheeks were hollow and the curves +of the sweet cleft chin too sharp. He looked +at her as she crouched at his feet; the nape +of the slim neck showed a very pure white +against the shabby black of her dress, there +were fine threads of gold in the soft brown +tangle of her hair.</p> + +<p>Jean was dragging one of the great armchairs +closer.</p> + +<p>“You are cold,” he said anxiously. “Come +and sit here.”</p> + +<p>She rose obediently.</p> + +<p>“Have you had any dinner?” asked +Hilaire.</p> + +<p>“Yes; they brought me some soup in my +room. I am not hungry now.”</p> + +<p>She spoke very simply, like a child. Jean had +rifled all the other chairs to provide her with +a sufficiency of cushions, and now he brought +her a footstool.</p> + +<p>“I think I must take my shoes off,” she +said. “So cold—you see they let the water +in, and—”</p> + +<p>“Take them off at once,” ordered Hilaire, +and he watched, still with that faint smile in +his eyes, as Jean knelt to do his bidding.</p> + +<p>“That’s very nice,” sighed the girl. “I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> +never knew before that real happiness is just +having lots to eat and being warm.”</p> + +<p>The two men looked at each other.</p> + +<p>“I have often wondered about you,” she +said to Hilaire presently. “Your eyes are +just like his. I think if I had known that I +should have had to come before; but you see I +promised Cardinal Jacopo of Portugal—in +San Miniato—that I would not. What am I +talking about?” Her voice broke and she +covered her face with her hands.</p> + +<p>“Oh, my God!” Jean would have gone +to her, but his brother laid a restraining hand +on his arm.</p> + +<p>“Leave her alone,” he said. “She will be +all right to-morrow. It’s only excitement, +nervous exhaustion. She must rest and eat. +Wait quietly and don’t look at her.”</p> + +<p>Jean moved restlessly about the room; +Hilaire, gravely silent, seemed to see nothing.</p> + +<p>So the two men waited until the girl was +able to control her sobs.</p> + +<p>“I am so sorry,” she said presently. “I +have made you uncomfortable; forgive +me.”</p> + +<p>“Will you take a brandy-and-soda if I give +it you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, if you think it will do me good.”</p> + +<p>Hilaire limped across to the sideboard. +He was scarcely gone half a minute, but when +he came back with a glass of the mixture he +had prescribed he saw his brother kneeling +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> +at the girl’s side, his arms about her, his face +hidden in the folds of her skirt.</p> + +<p>“Jean! Get up!” he said very sharply. +“Pull yourself together.”</p> + +<p>Olive sat stiffly erect; her swollen, tear-stained +lids hid the blue eyes, her pale, quivering +lips formed words that were inaudible.</p> + +<p>Hilaire ground his teeth. “Get up!”</p> + +<p>After a while the lover loosed his hold; he +bent to kiss the girl’s feet; then he rose and +went silently out of the room. Hilaire +listened for the closing of another door before +he rang the bell.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER X</h3> + + +<p>For some days and nights Olive lived only to +eat and sleep. When she woke it was to hear +a kind old voice urging her to take hot milk +or soup, to see a kind old face framed in white +hair set off by black lace lappets; and yet +whenever she closed her eyes at first she was +aware of a passionate aching echo of words said +that was sad as the sound of the sea in a shell. +“I love you—I love you—” until at last sleep +helped to knit up the ravelled sleave of +care.</p> + +<p>Every morning there were fresh roses for +her.</p> + +<p>“The signorino hopes you are better.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, much better, thank you.” And after +a while a day came when she felt really strong +enough to get up. She dressed slowly and +came down and out on to the terrace. The +crumbling stones of the balustrade were moss-grown, +as was the slender body of the bronze +Mercury, poised for flight and dark against +the pale illimitable blue of the December sky. +Hilaire Avenel never tried to make Nature +neat; the scarlet leaves of the Virginia creeper +came fluttering down and were scattered on +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> +the worn black and white mosaic of the pavement; +they showed like fire flickering in the +sombre green of the cypresses. Beyond and +below the garden, the olive and ilex woods, +and the steep red roofs of Settignano, lay +Florence, a city of the plain, and wreathed in +a delicate mist. There was the great dome +of Santa Maria dei Fiori; the tortuous silver +streak that was Arno, spanned by her bridges; +there was Giotto’s tower, golden-white and rose +golden, there the campanile of the Badia, the +grim old Bargello, and the battlemented walls +of the Palazzo Vecchio; farther still, across +the river, the heights of San Miniato al Monte, +Bellosguardo, and Mont’ Oliveto, cypress +crowned.</p> + +<p>Two white rough-coated sheep-dogs came +rushing up the steps from the garden to greet +Olive with sharp barks of joy, and Hilaire was +not slow to follow. Olive still thought him +very like his brother, an older and greyer +Jean.</p> + +<p>“I have been so looking forward to showing +you the garden,” he said hurriedly in his kind +eagerness to put her at her ease. “There +are still a few late chrysanthemums, and you +will find blue and white violets in the grass by +the sundial.”</p> + +<p>They passed down the steps together and +through the green twilight of the orange +groves, and came to a little fountain in the +midst of a space of lawn set about with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> +laurels. Hilaire threw a biscuit into the +pool, and the dark water gleamed with silver +and gold as the fish rushed at it.</p> + +<p>“I flatter myself that all the living things +in this garden know me,” he said. “I bar +the plainer kinds of insects and scorpions, of +course; but the small green lizards are charming, +aren’t they?”</p> + +<p>“Mamie Whittaker had one on a gold chain. +She used to wear it sometimes.”</p> + +<p>“She would,” he said drily. “The young +savage! Better go naked than torture harmless +things.”</p> + +<p>“This place is perfect,” sighed Olive; and +then, “You have no home in France?”</p> + +<p>“We should have; but our great-grandfather +was guillotined in Paris during the +Terror, and his wife and child came to England. +Years later, when they might have +gone back they would not. Why should +they? Napoleon had given the Avenel +estates to one of his ruffians, who had since +seceded to the Bourbon and so made all secure. +Besides, they were happy enough. Marie +Louis Hilaire gave music lessons, and the +Marquise scrubbed and cooked and patched +their clothes—she, who had been the Queen’s +friend, and so they managed to keep the little +home together. Presently the young man +married, and then Jean Marie appeared on the +scene. We have a picture of him at the age +of five, in a nankeen frock and a frill. Our +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +mother was a Hungarian—hence Jean’s music, +I suppose—and there is Romany blood on +that side. These are our antecedents. You +will not be surprised at our vagaries now?”</p> + +<p>Olive smiled. “No, I shall remember the +red heels of Versailles, English bread and +butter, and the gipsy caravan.”</p> + +<p>“Jean has fetched your books from the +Monte di Pietà. Marietta found the tickets +in your coat pocket. You don’t mind?”</p> + +<p>Looking at her he saw her eyes fill with +tears, and he hurried on: “No rubbish, I +notice. Are you fond of reading?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“I was wondering if you would care to +undertake a work for me.”</p> + +<p>“I should be glad to do anything,” she said +anxiously.</p> + +<p>“I have some thousands of books in the +villa. Those I have collected myself I know—they +are all in the library—but there are +many that were left me by my father, and +others that came from an uncle, and they +are all piled up in heaps in the empty rooms +on the second floor. I want someone to sort +them out, catalogue, and arrange them for +me. Would you care to do it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, indeed.”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right then,” he said hastily. +“I’ll get a carpenter in at once to put up some +more shelves ready for them. And I think +you had better stay on in the villa, if you +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> +don’t mind. It will be more convenient. +The salary will be two hundred lire a month, +paid in advance.”</p> + +<p>“Your kindness—I can’t express my gratitude—” +she began tremulously.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense! This is a business transaction, +and I am coming out of it very well. I +should not get a man to do the work for that +absurdly small sum. I am underpaying you +on purpose because I hate women.”</p> + +<p>Olive laughed. “Commend me to misogynists +henceforth.”</p> + +<p>She wanted to begin at once, but her host +assured her that he would rather she waited +until the shelves were put up.</p> + +<p>“You will have to sort them out several +times, according to date, language and subject. +Perhaps Jean can help you when he +returns. He is away just now.”</p> + +<p>Watching her, he saw the deepening of the +rose.</p> + +<p>“I—I can’t remember exactly what happened +the night I came, Mr Avenel. You +know I had not been able to find work, and +though my <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrona</i> was kind she was very +poor too. She pawned my things for me, +but they fetched so little, and I had not had +anything to eat for ever so long when he came. +He has not gone away because of me, has +he?”</p> + +<p>Hilaire threw the fish another biscuit; it +fell among the lily leaves at the feet of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> +the weather-stained marble nymph of the +fountain.</p> + +<p>“I must decline to answer,” he said gravely, +after a pause. “I understand that you are +twenty-three and old enough therefore to +judge for yourself, and I do not intend to +influence either you or Jean, if I can help it. +You will be perfectly free to do exactly what +you think right, my dear girl. I will only +give you one bit of advice, and that is, look +at life with your eyes wide open. Don’t +blink! This is Friday, and Jean is coming to +see you on Wednesday.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XI</h3> + + +<p>Olive told herself that Hilaire was very good +to her in the days that followed. He came +sometimes into the room where she was, to +find her sitting on the floor amid the piles of +books she was trying to reduce to some kind of +order.</p> + +<p>“You do not get tired? I am afraid they +are rather dusty.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, not at all,” she assured him. She +was swathed in a blue linen apron of Marietta’s +and had tied a cotton handkerchief over her +hair. “I like to feel I am doing something +for you,” she said. “I wish—you have been—you +are so kind.”</p> + +<p>On the Wednesday morning she covered +some of the books with brown paper and +pasted labels on their backs. She tried not +to listen for the creaking of the great gates as +they swung open, for the grating of wheels +against the stones, for Jean’s voice calling to +his brother, for his quick step upon the stair, +but she heard all as she wrote <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Vita Nuova</i> on +the slip intended for an early edition of the +<i>Rape of the Lock</i>, and put the <i>Decameron</i> +aside with some sermons and commentaries +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> +that were to be classified as devotional literature. +He did not come to her then, but she +was desperately afraid that he might. “I +am not ready ... not ...”</p> + +<p>When, later, she came into the dining-room +she seemed to be perfectly at her ease. Jean’s +eyes had been fixed on the door, and they met +hers eagerly as she came forward. “Are +you better?” he asked, and then bit his lip, +thinking he had said the wrong thing.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes. But—but you look pale and +thinner.”</p> + +<p>Her little air of gay indifference fell away +from her. As he still held her hand she felt +the tears coming and longed to be able to run +upstairs and take some more sal volatile, but +Hilaire came to the rescue.</p> + +<p>“Well, let’s have lunch,” he said. “I +hate tepid food.”</p> + +<p>When they had taken their places Jean +gave the girl a letter.</p> + +<p>“It came for you to the Lorenzoni. I +called at the porter’s lodge this morning and +Ser Gigia gave it me.”</p> + +<p>“Such a waste of good things I never saw,” +the butler said afterwards to his wife. “As +you know, the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrone</i> never eats more than +enough to fill a bird, but I have seen the +signorino hungry, and the young lady too. +To-day, however, they ate nothing, though +the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">frittata</i> was fit to melt in one’s mouth. I +should not have been ashamed to set it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> +before the Archangel Gabriel, and he would +have eaten it, since it is certain that the +Blessed One has never been in love.”</p> + +<p>After the meal, to which no one indeed +had done justice, Hilaire explained that he +was going to write some letters.</p> + +<p>The younger man looked at Olive. “Come +with me,” he said abruptly. “I want to +play to you.”</p> + +<p>“I want to hear you,” she said as she rose +from the table.</p> + +<p>He followed her into the music-room and +shut the door. “Well?”</p> + +<p>She chose to misunderstand him. “It is +charming. Just what a shrine of sound +should be.”</p> + +<p>The grand piano stood out from the grey-green +background of the walls beyond, there +was a bronze statuette of Orpheus with his +lute on a twisted Byzantine column of white +and gold mosaic, and a long cushioned divan +set on one side broke the long lines of light on +the polished floor.</p> + +<p>“What are you going to play?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Nothing, at present,” he said, smiling at +her. “I want to talk to you first. You are +not frightened?”</p> + +<p>“No.” She sat on the divan and he stood +before her, looking down into her eyes.</p> + +<p>“I think I had better try to tell you about +my wife,” he said. “May I sit here? And +may I smoke?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> +“Yes.” She drew her skirts aside to make +room for him next to her. “I want to hear +you,” she said again.</p> + +<p>“Imagine me, a boy of twenty-two, convalescing +in country lodgings after an illness +that seemed to have taken the marrow out +of my bones. Hilaire was in Japan, and I—a +callow fledgling from the nest—was very +sick and sorry for myself. There were some +people living in rather a large house at the +other end of the village who took notice of me. +They were the only ones, and I have thought +since that my acquaintance with them really +did for me with everyone else. They were +not desirable—but—well, I was too young, +and just then too physically weak to avoid +their more pressing attentions. Old Seldon +was one of those flushed, swollen men whose +collars seem always to be too small for them. +He tried to be pleasant, but it was not a great +success. There were two daughters at home, +and Gertrude was the eldest. She had been +married, and the man had died, leaving her +penniless. As you may suppose she had not +come back to veal. I was sorry for her then +because she seemed a good sort, and she was +very kind to me; she was five years my +senior—”</p> + +<p>“Go on,” Olive said.</p> + +<p>“I used to go to the house nearly every +evening. She sang well, and I used to play +her accompaniments, while the old man hung +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> +about the sideboard. He never left us alone, +and the younger girl, Violet, used to meet the +rector’s son in the stables then. I heard that +afterwards. They lived anyhow, and owed +money to all the tradespeople round.</p> + +<p>“One night I was awakened by a knocking +outside; my landlady slept at the back, and +she was deaf besides, so I went down myself. +The wind put my candle out as I opened the +door, but I saw a woman standing there in +the rain, and I asked her what she wanted. +She made no answer, but pushed past me into +the passage, and went into my sitting-room. +I followed, of course.</p> + +<p>“Well, perhaps you have guessed that it was +Gertrude. Her yellow hair hung down and +about her face; she was only half dressed, +and her bare arms and shoulders were all +wet. Her skirts were torn and stained with +mud. She told me her father had turned her +out of the house in a drunken fury and she had +come to me. Even then I wondered why she +had not gone to some woman—surely she might +have found shelter—however, she had come +to me. I was going to call up my landlady, +but she would not allow it because she said +that no one but I need ever know. She would +creep home through the fields soon after +sunrise and her sister would let her in. The +old man would be sleeping heavily.... The +end of it was that I let her go up to my room +while I lay on the sofa in the little parlour. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> +The horsehair bolster was deucedly hard, but +I was young, and when I did get off I slept +well. When I woke it was nearer eight than +seven, and I had just scrambled up when my +landlady came in. One look at her face was +enough. I understood that Gertrude had +overslept herself too.</p> + +<p>“The sequel was hateful. There was a +frightful scandal, of course; the father raved, +the women cried, the rector talked to me +seriously, and—Olive, mark this—Gertrude +would not say anything. I married her and +we came away.”</p> + +<p>“It was a trap,” cried Olive.</p> + +<p>“We had not one single thing in common, +and you know when there is no love sex is +a barrier set up by the devil between human +souls. After some years of mutual misery I +brought her here. Poor Hilaire has hated +respectable women ever since—she was that, if +that counts when there is nothing else. Just +virtue, with no saving graces. She is living in +London now, is much esteemed, and regularly +exceeds her allowance.”</p> + +<p>“Was she pretty?”</p> + +<p>Jean had let his pipe go out, and now he +relit it. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I suppose so. +Frizzy hair and all that. I fancy she has +grown stout now. She is the kind that +spreads.”</p> + +<p>“Life is all so hateful,” sighed the girl. +Jean moved away from her and went to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> +window. Hilaire was limping across the +terrace towards the garden steps. When he +was gone out of sight Jean came back into +the room.</p> + +<p>“My brother is unhappy too. The woman +he loved died. Oh, Olive, are we to be lonely +always because the law will not give me a +divorce from the woman who was never really +my wife, never dear to me or near to me as +you are? Joy is within our reach, a golden +rose on the tree of life, and it is for you to +gather it or to hold your hand. Don’t answer +me yet for God’s sake. Wait!”</p> + +<p>He went to the piano and opened it.</p> + +<p>Rain ... rain dripping on the roof through +the long hours of night, and the weary moaning +of the wakeful wind. Thronging memories +of past years, past youth, past joy, past +laughter echoing and re-echoing in one man’s +hungry heart. Light footsteps of children +never to be born ... and then the heavy +tread of men carrying a coffin, and the last +sound of all—the clanging of an iron door....</p> + +<p>The grave ... the grave ... it held the +boy who had loved her, and presently, surely, +it would hold this man too, sealing his kind +lips with earth, closing his brown eyes in an +eternal darkness.</p> + +<p>He played, as thousands had said, divinely, +not only with his hands but with his soul. +The music that had been a work of genius +became a miracle when he interpreted it, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> +indeed it seemed that virtue went out of him. +His face was drawn and pale and a pulse beat +in his cheek. Olive, gazing at him through +a blur of tears, knew that she had never longed +for anything in her life as she longed now to +comfort this pain expressed in ripples, and low +murmurings, and great crashing waves of the +illimitable sea of sound. Her heart ached +with the pity that is a woman’s way of loving, +and as he left the piano she rose too. He +uttered a sort of cry as she swayed towards +him, and clasped her in his arms.</p> + +<p>“I love you,” he said, his lips so close to +hers that she felt rather than heard the +words.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XII</h3> + + +<p>Jean came to the villa a little before noon on +the following day. Hilaire, who was in the +library, heard his voice in the hall calling the +dogs, heard him whistling some little song +tune as he opened and shut all the doors one +after the other.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“‘<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">O l’amor e’ come un nocciuola</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Se non se apre non si può mangiarla—</i>’”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“Hilaire, where are you? I thought I +should find you on the terrace this fine morning. +Where is she?” he added eagerly as he +laid a great bunch of roses down on the table. +“Is her headache better? Has not she come +down yet?”</p> + +<p>He looked across the room to where his +brother’s grey head just showed above the +high carved back of his chair.</p> + +<p>“Hilaire! Why don’t you answer?”</p> + +<p>In the silence that ensued he distinctly heard +the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece +and the falling of the soft wood ashes in the +grate; the beating of his own heart sounded +loud to him. One of the dogs was scratching +at the door and whining to be let in.</p> + +<p>“Hilaire.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> +“She is gone.”</p> + +<p>“Gone?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. She left this letter for you.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, give it to me.” He opened and read +it hurriedly.</p> + +<p>“I thought you meant dead at first,” he +said. His brown eyes had lost the light that +had been in them and were melancholy as +before; he stood still by the table looking +down upon his roses. They would fade, and +she would never see them now. Never ... +never ...</p> + +<p>“Come and sit by the fire and let’s talk it over +quietly,” said Hilaire. “Oh, damn women,” +he mumbled as he drew at his pipe—the fifth +that morning. It was the first time in a +week that he had uttered his pet expletive. +“What does she say?”</p> + +<p>“You can read her letter.”</p> + +<p>“Would she mind?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no,” Jean said bitterly. “She loves +you—what she calls loving—next best after +me. She told me so.”</p> + +<p>Hilaire carefully smoothed the crumpled, +blotted page out on his knee.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“<span class="smcap">My dearest Jean</span>,—I am going away +because I am a coward. I dare not live with +you, and I dare not ask you to forgive me. +Last night as I lay awake I thought and +thought about my feeling for you and I was +sure that it was love. I used to think of you +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> +often last summer and to wonder where you +were and what you were doing, and I hoped +you had not forgotten me. I did not love you +then, but I suppose my thoughts of you kept +my heart’s door open for you, and certainly +they helped to keep out someone else who +came and tried to get admittance. Oh, one +must suffer to keep love perfect, but isn’t it +worth while? You may not believe me now +when I say that if I cared for you less I should +stay, but it is true. Oh, Jean, even when we +were so happy for a few minutes yesterday +something in me looked beyond into the years +to come and was afraid. Not of you; I trust +you, dearest; but of the world. Men would +stare at me and laugh and whisper together, +and women would look away, and I know I +should not be able to bear it. I am not brave +like that. Oh, every word I write must hurt +you, I know. Remember that I love you +now and shall always. Good-bye.—Your</p> + +<p class="sig">“<span class="smcap">Olive</span>.”</p> +</div> + +<p>“I should keep this.”</p> + +<p>“I am going to. Hilaire, did you know she +was going? Did she tell you?”</p> + +<p>The older man answered quietly: “Yes, +I knew, and I sent her to the station in the +motor. I had promised a strict neutrality, +Jean, and she was right to go. Some women, +good women, may be strong enough to bear +all the suffering that is entailed upon them by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> +a known irregularity in their lives. She is +not. It would probably have killed her +though I am not saying that she would not +have been happy sometimes, when she could +forget her shame.”</p> + +<p>Jean flinched as though his brother had +struck him. “Don’t use that word.”</p> + +<p>“Well, what else would it be? What else +would the world call it? And women listen +to what the world says. ‘Good name in man +or woman is the immediate jewel of their +souls’; Othello said something like that, +and it’s often true. Besides, you know, this +woman is pure in herself, and from what she +told me I understand that she has seen something +of the seamy side of love lately—enough +to inspire her with dread. She is afraid, and +her fear is exquisite; a very fine and rare thing. +It is the bloom on the fruit and should not +be brushed off with an ungentle hand. Poor +child! Don’t blame her as she blames herself +or I shall begin to think she is too good for +you.”</p> + +<p>Jean sat leaning forward staring into the +fire.</p> + +<p>“Do you realise that when I brought her +here it was from starvation in a garret? +Where is she going? What will she do? +Oh, God! The poor little slender body! Do +you remember she said it was happiness just +to be warm and have enough to eat?”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right,” Hilaire said hastily. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> +“She is going to a good woman, a friend she +made in Siena. The letter you brought was +from her, and she wrote to say she had been ill +and wished Olive could come and be with her +for a while.”</p> + +<p>“I see! And she was glad to get away.”</p> + +<p>“My dear man, did you really think she +would be so easily won? She loves you, and +you not only made love to her yesterday +afternoon; you played to her—I heard you—and +I knew she would have to say ‘Yes’ to +everything. Now she says ‘No,’ but you +must not think she does not care.” Hilaire +got up, came across to where his brother sat, +and laid a caressing hand on his shoulder. +“Dear Jean, will it comfort you to hear me +swear she means every word of that letter? +It’s not all over. You will come together +in the end. Her poor blue eyes were drowned +in tears—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t,” Jean said brokenly. The +hard line of his lips relaxed. He hid his face +in his hands.</p> + +<p>Hilaire went out of the room.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p> + +<h2 class="padtop">BOOK III.—ROME</h2> + + + +<h3 class="padtop">CHAPTER I</h3> + + +<p>Olive was alone in the compartment of the +train that bore her away from Florence and +from Jean. She had a book; it lay open on her +lap, and she had tried to read, but the lines all +ran together and the effort to concentrate her +thoughts made her head ache. She was very +unhappy. It seemed to her that now indeed +life was emptied of all sweets and the taste +of it was as dust and ashes in her mouth. +She was leaving youth and joy behind; or +rather, she had killed them and left a man to +bury them. At Orvieto she nearly broke +down. It would be so easy to get out and +cross over to the other platform and there +await the next train back to Florence. She +had her hand upon the handle of the door +when a boy with little flasks of wine in a +basket came up and asked her to buy, and as +she answered him she heard the cry of “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Partenza!</em>” +It was too late; the moment had +passed, and after a while she knew that she +was glad she had not yielded. She was doing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> +the right thing. What was the old French +motto? “<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Fais ce que doit, advienne que pourra.</i>” +The brave words comforted her a little. She +was very tired, and presently she slept.</p> + +<p>She was awakened by the discordant yells +of the Roman <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">facchini</i> on the station platform. +One of them carried her box to the office of +the Dogana, but a large party of Americans +had come by the same train and the officials +were too busily engaged in turning over the +contents of their innumerable Saratogas to do +more than scrabble in chalk on the side of her +shabby leather trunk and shake their heads at +the proffered key, and soon she was in a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vettura</i> +clattering down the wide new Via Nazionale.</p> + +<p>Signora de Sanctis lived with her sister in +one of the old streets in the lower part of the +city near the Pantheon—the Via Arco della +Ciambella. The houses there are built on the +foundations of the Baths of Agrippa, and a +brick arch, part of the great Tepidarium, remains +to give the street its name. The poor +fragment has been Christianised; a wayside +altar sanctifies it, and a little painted shrine to +the Madonna adorns the base. The buildings +on that side are small and mean and overshadowed +by the great yellow palace of the +Spinola opposite. Olive’s friends lived over +a wine shop, but the entrance was some way +down the street.</p> + +<p>“Fortunately, my dear,” as they remarked, +“though really the place is very quiet. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> +People go outside the gates to get +drunk.”</p> + +<p>Both the women seemed glad to see her. +Her room was ready and a meal had been prepared +and the cloth laid at one end of the +work-table. The younger sister was a dressmaker +too, and the floor was strewn with +scraps of lining and silk. A white dress lay on +the sofa, carefully folded and covered with a +sheet of tissue paper.</p> + +<p>“You look tired, Olive. Were you not +happy in Florence?”</p> + +<p>The girl admitted that the Lorenzoni had +not been very kind to her. She had left them +and had been living on her savings. It had +been hard to find other employment. “I want +to work,” she said. “You will let me help +you, and I hope to get lessons.”</p> + +<p>She asked to be allowed to wash the plates +and dishes and put them away in the tiny +kitchen. She was in a mood to bear anything +better than the idleness that left room for +her own sad thoughts, and she wished that +they would let her do some sewing. “I am +not good at needlework, but I can hem and +put on buttons,” she pleaded.</p> + +<p>Signora Giulia smiled at her. She was +small, and she had a pale, dragged look and +many lines about her weak eyes. “No, +thank you, my dear. I have a girl apprentice +who comes during the day, and I do the cutting +out and designing and the embroidery myself. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> +You must not tire yourself in the kitchen +either. We have an old woman in to do +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mezzo servizio</i>.”</p> + +<p>It was nine o’clock, and the narrow streets +were echoing now to the hoarse cries of the +newsvendors: “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Tribuna!</em>” “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Tribuna!</em>”</p> + +<p>“I will go and unpack then, and to-morrow +I shall find some registry offices and try to +get English lessons.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, go, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">nina</i>, and sleep well. You look +tired. You must get stronger while you are +with us.”</p> + +<p>For a long time she could not sleep. In the +summer she had played with the thought of +love, and then she had been able to close her +eyes and feel Jean Avenel close beside her, +leaning towards her, saying that she must not +be afraid, that he would not hurt her. It had +been a sort of game, a childish game of make-believe +that seemed to hurt no one, not even +herself. But now she was hurt indeed; +the remembrance of his kisses ached upon her +lips.</p> + +<p>When Tor di Rocca had asked her to go +away with him she had felt that it might be +worth while, that it would be pleasant to be +cared for and loved, to eat and drink and +die on the morrow, but the man himself had +been nothing to her. A means to an +end.</p> + +<p>She had been wholly a creature of blind +instincts, the will to live, to creep out of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> +dark into the sunshine that is inherent in the +animal, fighting against that other impulse, +trying to root up that white fragile flower, +watered throughout the centuries with blood +and tears and rare and precious ointment, +that thorn in some women’s hearts, their +pale ideal of inviolate purity.</p> + +<p>The spirit had warred against the flesh, and +the spirit had won then and now. It had +won, but not finally. She was dismayed to +find that temptation was a recurrent thing. +Every morning when she woke it returned to +her. It would be so easy to write “Dearest, +come to me.” It would be so easy to make +him happy. She thought little of herself now +and much of Jean. Would he stay on with +his brother or go away again? Had she hurt +him very much? Would he forget her? Or +hate her?</p> + +<p>During the day she trudged the streets of +Rome and grew to know them well. Here, +as in Florence, no one wanted to pay for +learning, no one wanted an English girl for +anything apparently. If she had been Swiss, +and so able to speak three languages incorrectly, +she might have found a place as +nursery-governess; as it was, the people in +the registry offices grew tired of her and she +was afraid to go to them too often.</p> + +<p>There was little for her to do in the house. +The old woman who came in did the cleaning, +and they lived on bread and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ricotta</i> cheese +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> +and a cabbage soup that was easily prepared, +but sometimes she was able to help +with the sewing, and now and then she +was allowed to take the finished work +home.</p> + +<p>“It is not fit! They will take you for an +apprentice, a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sartina</i>.”</p> + +<p>Olive laughed rather mirthlessly at that. +“I am not proud,” she said.</p> + +<p>“I sat up until two last night to finish the +Contessa’s dress. She is always in a hurry. +If only she would pay what she owes,” sighed +the dressmaker.</p> + +<p>Olive promised to bring the money back with +her, and she waited a long while in the stuffy +passage of the Contessa’s flat. There were +imitation Abyssinian trophies on the walls, +lances and daggers and shields of lathe and +cardboard and painted paper. The husband +was an artillery captain, and his sword stood +with the umbrellas in the rack, the only real +thing in that pretentious armoury.</p> + +<p>The Contessa came out to her presently. +She was a large woman, and as she was angry +she seemed to swell and redden and gobble as +turkeys do.</p> + +<p>“Are you the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">giovinetta</i>? You will take +this dress away. It is not fit to put on.” +She held the bodice in her hand, and as she +spoke she shook it in Olive’s face. “The +stitches are all awry; they are enormous; +and half the embroidery is blue and the other +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> +half green. I shall make her pay for the +material. The dress is ruined, and it is the +last she shall make for me. She must pay me, +and you must tell her so.”</p> + +<p>Olive collected her scattered wits. “If +the Signora Contessa would allow me to look,” +she said.</p> + +<p>The stitches were very large, and her heart +sank as she examined them. The poor women +had toiled so over this work, stooping over it, +straining their tired eyes. “I think we can +alter it to your satisfaction, but I must ask +you to be indulgent, signora. I will bring it +back the day after to-morrow, if that will suit +you.” She folded the bodice carefully and +wrapped it in the piece of paper she had +brought it in, fastening the four corners with +pins.</p> + +<p>“The skirt goes well?”</p> + +<p>“It will do,” the Contessa admitted as she +turned away. “Anacleto!”</p> + +<p>A slender, dark-eyed youth emerged from +the shadows at the far end of the passage, +bringing a sound and smell of frying with him. +His bare brown arms were floury and he wiped +them on his striped cotton apron as he came +forward to open the door. He wore a white +camellia thrust behind one ear.</p> + +<p>“It would be convenient—Signora Manara +would be glad if you could pay part of her +account,” faltered Olive.</p> + +<p>The Contessa stopped short. “I could, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> +but I will not,” she said emphatically. “She +does her work too badly.”</p> + +<p>The young servant grinned at the girl as +she passed out. She was half-way down the +stairs when he came out on to the landing and +leaned over the banisters.</p> + +<p>“Never! Never!” he called down to her. +“They never pay anyone. I am leaving +to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>The white camellia dropped at her feet. +She smiled involuntarily as she stooped to +gather up the token. “Men are rather +dears.”</p> + +<p>She met Ser Giulia coming down the stairs +of their house. The little woman looked +quickly at the bundle she carried as she asked +why it had been brought back.</p> + +<p>“She wants it altered! <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio mio!</em> And +I worked so hard at it. How much of the +money has she given you?”</p> + +<p>“She has given nothing; I hope she will +pay when I take the work back.”</p> + +<p>But the other began to cry. “Perhaps the +stitches are large,” she said, sobbing. “I +know my eyes are weak. No one will pay +me, and I owe the baker more than ten lire. +Soon we shall have to beg our bread in the +streets.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t,” Olive said hurriedly. “Don’t. +I have been with you more than a month and +I have not found work yet, but I will not be +a burden to you much longer. I shall find +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +something to do soon and then you need not +do so much and we shall manage better.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, child, I know you do your best.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t cry then. I will get money somehow. +Don’t be afraid.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> + + +<p>Olive sat idly on one of the benches near the +great wall in the Pincian gardens. She had +been to an office in the Piazza di Spagna and +had there been assured for the seventh time +that there was nothing on the books. “If +the signorina were a cook now, there are many +people in need of cooks,” the young man +behind the counter had said smilingly, and +she had thanked him and come away. What +else could she do?</p> + +<p>It was getting late, and a fading light +filtered through the bare interwoven branches +of the planes. The shadows were lengthening +in the avenues and grass-bordered paths where +the seminarists had been walking in twos and +threes among the playing children. They +were gone now, the grave-faced young men in +their black soutanes and broad beaver hats; +all the people were gone.</p> + +<p>“O Pasquina! <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Birichina!</em>”</p> + +<p>Olive, turning her head, saw a young +woman and a child coming towards her. The +little thing was clinging to its mother’s skirts, +stumbling at every step, whining to be taken +up, and now she dropped the white rabbit +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> +muff and the doll she was carrying into a +puddle.</p> + +<p>“O Pasquina!”</p> + +<p>The child stared open-mouthed as Olive +came forward and stooped to pick up the +fallen treasures, and though tears were running +down her little face she made no outcry.</p> + +<p>“See, the beautiful lady helps you,” the +mother said hastily, and she sat down on the +bench at Olive’s side and lifted the baby on +to her lap to comfort her.</p> + +<p>“She is tired. We have been to the Campo +Marzo to buy her a fine hat with white +feathers,” she explained.</p> + +<p>Olive looked at her with interest. She was +not at all pretty; her round snubby face was +red and she had a bruise on her chin, and yet +she was somehow attractive. Her small, +twinkling blue eyes were so kind, and her +hair was beautiful, smooth, shining, and +yellow as straw. She wore no hat.</p> + +<p>Her name was Rosina. The signorino was +always very good, and he gave her an afternoon +off when she asked for it. On Christmas +night, for instance, she had drunk too much +wine, and she had fallen down in the street +and hurt herself. The next day her head +ached so, and when the signorino saw she +was not well he said she might go home and +sleep. She had been working for him six +weeks. What work? She seemed surprised +at the question.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> +“I am a model. My face is ugly, as you +see,” she said in her simple, straightforward +way; “but otherwise I am beautiful, and I +can always get work with sculptors. The +signorino is an American and he has an unpronounceable +name. He is doing me as Eve, +crouched on the ground and hiding my head +in my arms. After the Fall, you know. Have +you been to the Andreoni gallery? There is a +statuette of me there called ‘Morning.’ This +is the pose.”</p> + +<p>She clasped her hands together behind her +head, raising her chin a little. Olive observed +the smooth long throat, the exquisite lines of +the shoulders and breast and hips. Pasquina +slipped off her mother’s knees.</p> + +<p>“Are you well paid?”</p> + +<p>“It depends on the artist. Some are so +poor that they cannot give, and others will +not. The schools allow fifteen soldi an hour, +but the signorino is paying me twenty-five +soldi. In the evenings I sing and dance +at a <i>caffè</i> near the station.”</p> + +<p>Olive hesitated. “Do—do artists ever +want models dressed?”</p> + +<p>Rosina looked at her quickly. “Oh, yes, +when they are as pretty as you are. But you +are well educated—one sees that—it is not +fit work for such as you.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind that,” Olive said eagerly. +“How does one begin being a model? I will +try that. Will you help me?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> +Rosina beamed at her. “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sicuro!</em> We +will go to Varini’s school in the Corso if you +like. The woman in the newspaper kiosk +in the Piazza di Spagna knows me, and I can +leave Pasquina with her. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">An’iamo!</em>”</p> + +<p>The two girls went together down the wide, +shallow steps of the Trinità dei Monti with the +child between them.</p> + +<p>Poor little Pasquina was the outward and +visible sign of her mother’s inward and hopelessly +material gracelessness; she symbolised +the great gulf fixed between smirched Roman +Rosina and Jean’s English rose in their +different understanding of their own hearts’ +uses. Olive believed love to be the way +to heaven; Rosina knew it, or thought she +knew it, as a means of livelihood.</p> + +<p>The model was very evidently not only +familiar with the studios. The cabmen on the +rank in the piazza hailed her with cries of +“Rosi”; she was greeted by beggars at the +street corners, dustmen, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i>, crossing-sweepers, +and Olive was not wholly unembarrassed. +Yet Rosina escaped the vulgarity +of some who might be called her betters as the +world goes by being simply natural. When +she was amused she laughed aloud, when she +was tired she yawned as openly and flagrantly +as any duchess. In manners extremes meet, +and the giggle and the sneer are the disastrous +half measures of the ill-bred, the social +greasers. Rosina had never been sly in her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> +life; she was ever as simply without shame as +Eve before the Fall, and lawless because she +knew no law. The darkness of Northern +cities is tainted and cold and cannot bring +forth such kindly things as the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">rosine</i>—little +roses—that spring up in the warm, sweet +Roman dust.</p> + +<p>“Here is Varini’s.”</p> + +<p>They passed through a covered passage into a +little garden overgrown with laurels and gnarled +old pepper trees; there was a fountain with +gold fish, and green arums were springing up +about a broken faun’s head set on a pedestal +of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">verd’ antico</i>. Some men were standing +together in the path, a pretty dark-eyed +peasant girl with them. They all turned to +stare, and the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cioccara</i> put out her tongue +as Olive went by. Rosina instantly replied +in kind.</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ohè! Fortunata! Benedetta ragazza!</em> +Resting as usual? Does Lorenz still beat +you?”</p> + +<p>She described the antecedents and characteristics +of Lorenz.</p> + +<p>The slower-witted country girl had a more +limited vocabulary. Her eyes glared in the +shadow of her white coif. “Ah,” she gasped. +“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Brutta bestia!</em>” and she turned her back.</p> + +<p>The men laughed, and Rosina laughed with +them as she knocked on a green painted door +in the wall. It was opened by a burly, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> +bearded man, tweed-clad, and swathed in a +stained painting apron.</p> + +<p>“Oh, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Professore</i>, here is a friend of mine +who wants work.”</p> + +<p>“Come in,” he said shortly, and they followed +him into a large untidy studio. A +Pompeian fruit-seller in a black frame, a study +for a Judgment of Paris on a draped easel, +and on another easel the portrait of an old +lady just begun. There were stacks of canvases +on the floor and on all the chairs.</p> + +<p>“Turn to the light,” the artist said +brusquely; and then, as Olive obeyed him, +“Don’t be frightened. You are new, I see. +You are so pink and white that I thought you +were painted. You are not Italian?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“What, then?”</p> + +<p>She was silent.</p> + +<p>He smiled. “Ah, well, it does not matter. +You can come to the pavilion on Monday at +five and sit to the evening class for a week. +You understand? Wait a minute.” He +went to the door and called one of the young +men in from the garden.</p> + +<p>“Here is a new model, Mario. I have +engaged her for the evening class. What do +you think of her?”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carina assai</i>,” approved Mario. He was +a round-faced, snub-nosed youth with clever +brown eyes set very far apart, and a humorous +mouth. “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carina assai!</em>” he repeated.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> +“Fifteen soldi the hour, from five to seven-thirty,” +said the professor. “Come a little +before the time on Monday; the porter will +show you what costume you must wear and I +shall be there to pose you.”</p> + +<p>“Now I shall take you to M’sieur Michelin,” +Rosina said when they had left Varini’s. +“He is looking for a type, and perhaps you +will please him. He is <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">strano</i>, but good +always, and he pays well.”</p> + +<p>“It is not tiring you?”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ma che!</em> I must see that you begin well +and with the right people. Some painters are +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">canaglia</i>. Ah, I know that,” the girl said +with a little sigh and a shrug of her shoulders.</p> + +<p>They went by way of the Via Babuino +across the Piazza di Spagna, and up the little +hill past the convent of English nuns to the +Villa Medici. Rosina rang the gate-bell, and +the old braided Cerberus admitted them +grumblingly. “You are late. But if it is +M’sieur Camille—”</p> + +<p>Camille Michelin, bright particular star of +the French Prix de Rome constellation, lived +and worked in one of the more secluded garden-studios +of the villa; it was deep set in the ilex +wood, and the girls came to it by a narrow +winding path, box-edged, and strewn with +dead leaves. A light shone in one of the upper +windows; the great man was there and he +came down the creaking wooden stairs himself +to open the door.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> +“Who is it? Rosina? I have put away +the Anthony canvas for a month and I will +let you know when I want you again.”</p> + +<p>“But, signorino, I have brought you a +type.”</p> + +<p>“What!” he said eagerly, in his execrable +Italian. “Fresh, sweet, clean?”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sicuro.</i>”</p> + +<p>“I do not believe you. You are lying.”</p> + +<p>Camille was picturesque from the crown of +his flaxen head to the soles of his brown boots; +his pallor was interesting, his blue eyes remarkable; +he habitually wore rust-coloured +velveteen; he smoked cigarettes incessantly. +All men who knew and loved his work saw in +him a decadent creature of extraordinary +charm; and yet, in spite of his “Aholibah,” his +“Salome,” and his horribly beautiful, unfinished +study of Fulvia piercing the tongue +of Cicero, in spite of his Byron-cum-Baudelaire +after Velasquez and Vandyke exterior +he always managed to be quite boyishly simple +and sincere.</p> + +<p>“Where is she?” Then, as his eyes met +Olive’s, he cried, “Not you, mademoiselle?” +His surprise was as manifest as his pleasure. +“My friends have sworn that I could never +paint a wholesome picture. Now I will show +them. When can you come?”</p> + +<p>“Monday morning.”</p> + +<p>“Do not fail me,” he implored. “Such +harpies have been here to show themselves +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> +to me; fat, brown, loose-lipped things with +purple-shadowed eyes. But you are perfect; +divine bread-and-butter. They think they +are clean because they have washed in soap +and water, but it is the stainless soul I want. +It must shine through my canvas as it does +through Angelico’s.”</p> + +<p>“I hope I shall please you,” faltered the +girl. “I—I only pose draped.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her quickly. “Very well,” +he said, “I will remember. It is your head +I want. You are not Roman; have you sat +to any other man here?”</p> + +<p>“No. I am going to Varini’s in the evenings +next week.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! Well, don’t let anyone else get +hold of you. Gontrand will be trying to snap +you up. He is so tired of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cioccare</i>. What +shall I call you?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing. I have no name.”</p> + +<p>“I shall give you one. You shall be called +child. Come at nine and you will find the +door open.” He fumbled in his pockets for +some silver. “Here, Rosina, this is for the +little one.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> + + +<p>The virtue that bruises not only the heel of +the Evil One but the heart of the beloved is +never its own reward. The thought of Jean’s +aching loneliness oppressed Olive far more than +her own. She believed that she had done +right in leaving him, but no consciousness of +her own rectitude sustained her, and she was +pitifully far from any sense of self-satisfaction. +Her head hung dejectedly in the cold light +of its aureole. Sometimes she hated herself +for being one of the dull ninety-and-nine who +never stray and who need no forgiveness, +and yet she clung to her dear ideal of love +thorn-crowned, white, and clean.</p> + +<p>She had hoped to be able to help her +friends, but that hope had faded, and she had +been very near despair. There was something +pathetic now in her intense joy at the +thought of earning a few pence. She lied to +the kind women at home because she knew +they would not understand. They might +believe the way to the Villa Medici to be the +primrose path that leads to everlasting fire—they +probably would if they had ever heard of +Camille. She told them she had found +lessons, and the wolf seemed to skulk growlingly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> +away from the door as she uttered the +words.</p> + +<p>“You need not be afraid of the baker now,” +she told Ser Giulia. “He shall be paid at the +end of the week.”</p> + +<p>Her waking on the Monday morning was +the happiest she had known since she left +Florence. She was to help to make beautiful +things. Her part would be passive; but +they also serve who only stand and wait. +She was not of those who see degradation in +the lesser forms of labour. Each worker is +needed to make the perfect whole. The men +who wrought the gold knots and knops of the +sanctuary, who wove the veil for the Holy +of Holies, were called great, but the hewers +of wood and carriers of water were temple +builders too, even though their part was but +to raise up scaffoldings that must come down +again, or to mix the mortar that is unseen +though it should weld the whole. Men might +pass these toilers by in silence, but God would +surely praise them.</p> + +<p>Praxiteles moulded a goddess in clay, and +we still acclaim him after the lapse of some two +thousand years. What of the woman who +wearied and ached that his eyes might not +fail to learn the least sweet curve of her? +What of the patient craftsmen who hewed out +the block of marble, whose eyes were inflamed, +whose lungs were scarred by the white dust +of it? They suffered for beauty’s sake—not, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> +as some might say, because they must eat +and live. Even slaves might get bread by +easier ways. But, very simply for beauty’s +sake.</p> + +<p>Olive might have soon learnt how vile such +service may be in the studios of any of the +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">canaglia</i> poor Rosina knew, but Camille, that +sheep in wolf’s clothing, was safe enough. +What there was in him of perversity, of brute +force, he expended in the portrayal of his +subtly beautiful furies. His art was feverishly +decadent, and those who judge a man by his +work might suppose him to be a monster of +iniquity. He was, in fact, an extremely +clever and rather worldly-wise boy who loved +violets and stone-pines and moonlight with +poetical fervour, who preferred milk to champagne, +and saunterings in green fields to +gambling on green cloth.</p> + +<p>That February morning was cloudless, and +Rome on her seven hills was flooded in sunshine. +The birds were singing in the ilex +wood as Olive passed through, and Camille +was singing too in his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">atelier</i>:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Derrière chez mon père</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Vive la rose.</i>’<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Il y a un oranger</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Vive ci, vive là!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Il y a un oranger,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Vive la rose et le lilas!</i>”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“I was afraid you would be late.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> +“Why?” she asked, smiling, as she came to +him across the great room.</p> + +<p>“Women always are. But you are not a +woman; you are an angel.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her closely. The strong north +light showed her smooth skin flawless.</p> + +<p>“The white and rose is charming,” he said. +“And I adore freckles. But your eyes are too +deep; one can see that you have suffered. +There is too much in them for the innocent +baa-lamb picture I must paint.”</p> + +<p>Her face fell. “I shan’t do then?”</p> + +<p>“Dear child, you will,” he reassured her. +“I shall paint your lashes and not your eyes. +Your lashes and a curve of pink cheek. Now +go behind that screen and put on the sprigged +cotton frock you will find there, with a muslin +fichu and a mob cap. I have a basket of +wools here and a piece of tapestry. The sort +of woman I have never painted is always doing +needlework.”</p> + +<p>Camille spent half the morning in the +arrangement of the accessories that were, as +he said, to suggest virtuous domesticity; then +he settled the folds of the girl’s skirt, the turn +of her head, her hands. At last, when he was +satisfied, he went to his easel and began to +work. Olive had never before realised how +hard it is to keep quite still. The muscles +of her neck ached and her face seemed to grow +stiff and set; she felt her hands quivering.</p> + +<p>Hours seemed to pass before his voice broke +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> +the silence. “I have drawn it in,” he +announced. “You can rest now. Come down +and see some of my pictures.”</p> + +<p>He showed her his “Salome,” a Hebrew +mænad, whose scarlet, parted lips ached for +the desert dreamer’s death; “Lucrezia Borgia,” +slow-smiling, crowned with golden hair; and +a rough charcoal study for Queen Eleanor.</p> + +<p>“I seem to see you as Henry’s Rosamund,” +he said. “I wonder—the haunting shadow of +coming sorrow in blue eyes. You have +suffered.”</p> + +<p>“I am hungry,” she answered.</p> + +<p>He looked at his watch. “Forgive me! +It is past noon. Run away, child, and come +back at two.”</p> + +<p>The day seemed very long in spite of +Camille’s easy kindness, and the girl shrank +from the subsequent sitting at Varini’s.</p> + +<p>“Why do you pose for those wretched +boys?” grumbled the Prix de Rome man. +“After this week you must come to me only. +I must paint a Rosamund.”</p> + +<p>At sunset she hurried down the hill to the +Corso, and came by way of the corridor and +garden to the pavilion. The porter took her +into a dingy little lumber-filled passage and +left her there. A soiled pink satin frock was +laid ready for her on a broken chair. As she +put it on she heard a babel of voices in the +class-room beyond, and she felt something +like stage-fright as she fumbled at the hooks +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> +and eyes; but a clock struck the hour presently, +and she went in then and climbed on to +the throne. At first she saw nothing, but after +a while she was aware of a group of men who +stood near the door regarding her.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carina.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Yes, a fine colour, but too thin.”</p> + +<p>When the professor came in he made her sit +in a carved chair, and gave her a fan to hold. +The men moved about, choosing their +places, and were silent until he left them with +a gruff “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Felice notte</i>.” Olive noticed the lad +who had been called in to Varini’s studio to +see her; the boy who sat next him had a round, +impudent face, and when presently she yawned +he smiled at her.</p> + +<p>“I will ask questions to keep you awake, +but you must answer truly. Have you taken +a fancy to anyone here?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t dislike you or Mario.”</p> + +<p>They rose simultaneously and bowed. “We +are honoured. But why? Bembi here is +a fine figure of a man.”</p> + +<p>“Enough!” growled Bembi. “You talk +too much.”</p> + +<p>During the rest Olive went to look at the +boys’ work; it was brilliantly impressionistic. +The younger had evidently founded himself on +Mario, and Mario was, perhaps, a genius.</p> + +<p>They came and sat down, one on either side +of her.</p> + +<p>“Why are you pretending to be a model?” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> +whispered Mario. “We can see you are not. +Are you hiding from someone?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head. “I am earning my +bread,” she answered. “Be kind to me.”</p> + +<p>“We will.” He patted her bare shoulder +with the air of a grandfather, but his brown +eyes sparkled.</p> + +<p>“Why are some of the men so old, and +why is some of the work so—”</p> + +<p>“Bad.” Mario squinted at Bembi’s black, +smudged drawing. “I will tell you. That +bald man in the corner is seventy-two; +painting is his amusement, and he loves +models. He wants to marry Fortunata, but +she won’t have him because he is toothless. +Once, twenty-five years ago, he sold a watercolour +for ten lire and he has never forgotten +it.”</p> + +<p>“Really because he is toothless?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, he is mad too, and she is afraid of +him. Cesare and I are the only ones here +who will make you look human. It is a pity, +as you are really <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carina</i>.”</p> + +<p>He patted her shoulder again and pinched +her ear, and Cesare passed his arm about her +waist. She struggled to free herself.</p> + +<p>“Let her go!” cried the other men, and, +flushed and dishevelled, she took refuge on the +throne. The pose was resumed, and the room +settled down to work again.</p> + +<p>She kept very still, but after a while the +tears that filled her eyes overflowed, ran down +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> +her cheeks, and dripped upon the hand that +held the fan.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry,” cried Mario.</p> + +<p>“And I.”</p> + +<p>“Forgive me.”</p> + +<p>“And me.”</p> + +<p>“I was a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mascalzone</i>!”</p> + +<p>“And I.”</p> + +<p>“Forgive them for our sakes,” growled +Bembi, “or they will cackle all night.”</p> + +<p>Olive laughed a little in spite of herself, +but she was very tired and they had hurt her. +The marks of Cesare’s fingers showed red still +on her wrist, and the lace of the short sleeve +was torn.</p> + +<p>Mario clattered out of the room presently, +and came back with a glass of water for her. +“I am really sorry,” he whispered as he gave +it. “Do stop crying.”</p> + +<p>After all they had not meant any harm. +She was a little comforted, and the expressed +contrition helped her.</p> + +<p>“I shall be better soon,” she said gently.</p> + +<p>When she got home to the apartment in Via +Arco della Ciambella there were lies to be told +about the lessons, the pupils, the hours. +The fine edge of her exaltation was already +blunted, and she sighed at the thought of her +morning dreams; sighed and was glad; the +first steps had not cost much after all, and +she had earned five lire and fifteen soldi.</p> + +<p>The lamp was lit in the little sitting-room, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span> +and Ser Giulia was there, cutting out a skirt +on the table very carefully, in a tense silence +that was broken only by the click of the +scissors and the rustle of silk.</p> + +<p>“I have lost confidence in myself,” she said +as she fastened the shining lengths together +with pins. “This <em>is</em> the right side of the +material, isn’t it, my dear? I can’t see.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, this is right. Let me stitch the seams +for you. Where is Signora Aurelia?”</p> + +<p>“She has gone to bed. Her head ached. +She—she does not complain, but I think +she needs more sun and air than she can get +here.”</p> + +<p>Olive looked at her quickly. “You ought +to go away and rest, both of you.”</p> + +<p>“Our brother in Como would be glad to +have us with him, but it is impossible at +present. I paid our rent a few days ago—three +months in advance.”</p> + +<p>“I will go to the house-agent in the Piazza +di Spagna to-morrow. It should not be +difficult to get a tenant, and at the end of the +time the furniture could be warehoused, or +you could sell it.”</p> + +<p>Ser Giulia hesitated. “What would you +do then, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">figliuola mia</i>?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I can take care of myself,” the girl said +easily.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> + + +<p>After the first week Olive went only to +Camille’s <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">atelier</i>. He was working hard at +his “<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">étude blanche</i>,” but no one had been +allowed to see it, except, of course, M’sieur +le Directeur.</p> + +<p>“I almost wish I had asked you to come +always heavily veiled. The other men are +all mad about you, and Gontrand tells me he +wants you to give him sittings for the head +of an oread, but he cannot have you. You +are mine.”</p> + +<p>“Is he a lean, black-bearded man?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“He spoke to me the other day as I was +coming through the garden, and asked me if +you were really painting a ‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">jeune fille</i>’ +picture. I said you were painting a picture, +and he would probably see it when you had +your show in April.”</p> + +<p>Camille laughed. “Good child! We must +keep up the mystery.” He flung down his +brushes. “I cannot work any more to-day. +Will you come with me for a drive into the +Campagna?”</p> + +<p>She hesitated. “I am not sure—”</p> + +<p>“Come as my little brother.” He took +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> +off his linen painting sleeves, and began to +dabble his fingers in a pan of turpentine. +“My little brother! Do you know that the +Directeur thinks you are charming, and he +wonders that I do not love you.”</p> + +<p>“I am glad you do not,” she said, colouring. +“If you did—”</p> + +<p>He was lighting a cigarette. “If I did?” +The little momentary flame of the match was +reflected in his blue eyes.</p> + +<p>“I should go away and not come back +again.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I do not,” he said heartily. “I care +for you as St Francis did for his pet sparrow. +So now put your hat on and I will go down +and get a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vettura</i> with a good horse.”</p> + +<p>He was a creature of moods, and so young +in many ways that he appealed to the girl as +Astorre had done, by the queer, pathetic little +flaws in his manhood. Some days he worked +incessantly from early morning until the +light failed at his picture, but there were +times when he seemed unable even to look at +it. He made several studies in charcoal for +“Rosamund.”</p> + +<p>“It is an inspiration,” he said excitedly +more than once. “The rose of the world +that can only be reached by love—or hate—holding +the clue.”</p> + +<p>He had promised an American who had +bought a picture of his the year before that he +would do some work for him in Venice in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> +spring. “Very rash of me,” he said fractiously. +“The ‘Jeune Fille’ would have been +quite enough for me to show, and it is dreadful +to have to leave it unfinished now.” And +when Gontrand tried to persuade him to let +him have Olive during his absence he was, +as the girl phrased it, quite cross. “I have +seen enough of that. Last year in the Salon +St Elizabeth of Hungary, and Clytemnestra, +and Malesherbe’s <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vivandière</i> were one and the +same woman. Besides, oreads are nearly +related to Bacchantes, Gontrand, and I am +not going to allow my little sewing-girl to +be mixed up with people of that sort.”</p> + +<p>He made Olive promise not to sit for any +of the other men at the Villa Medici.</p> + +<p>“I shall work at Varini’s in the evenings,” +she said. “And one of the men there wants +me to come to his studio in the Via Margutta +three mornings a week. He is a Baron von +something.”</p> + +<p>The Frenchman’s face lightened. “Oh, +that German! I know him. I saw a landscape +of his once. It looked as if several +tubes of paint had got together and burst. +What else will you do?”</p> + +<p>“Rome, if you will lend me your Bædeker,” +she answered. “I shall begin with A and work +my way through Beatrice Cenci and the +Borgo Nuovo to the Corsini Gallery and the +Corso. Some of the letters may be rather +dull. I am so glad Apollo comes now.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> +He laughed. “M for Michelin. You will +be sure to admire me when my turn comes.”</p> + +<p>Olive was living alone now in a tall old house +in Ripetta. The two kind women who had +been her friends had left Rome and gone to +stay with their brother at Como. It was +evidently the best thing they could do, and +the girl had assured them that she was quite +well able to look after herself, but they had +been only half convinced by her reasoning. +She was English and she had done it before. +“That is nothing,” Ser Giulia said. “You +may catch a ball once, and the second time +it may slip through your fingers. And sometimes +Life is like the importunate widow +and goes on asking until one gives what one +should not.” She helped her to find a room, +and eked out the furniture from her own +little store. “Another saucepan, and a +kettle, and a blanket. And if lessons fail +you must come to us, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">figliuola mia</i>. My +brother’s house is large.”</p> + +<p>The girl had answered her with a kiss, but +though she loved them she was not altogether +sorry to see them go. She could never tell +them how she had earned the lire that paid +the baker’s bill. The truth would hurt them, +and she would not give them a moment’s pain +if she could avoid it, but she was not good at +lying. Even the very little white ones stuck +in her throat, and she was relieved to be no +longer under the necessity of uttering them.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> +The room she had taken was on the sixth +floor, and from the one narrow window she +could look across the yellow swirl of Tiber +towards Monte Mario. She had set up her +household gods. The plaster bust of Dante, +and her books, on the rickety wooden table +by her bedside, and, such as it was, this place +was home.</p> + +<p>Camille went by a night train, and Olive +began to “see Rome” on the following morning. +She took the tram to the Piazza Venezia +and walked from thence to the church of +Santa Maria Ara Coeli.</p> + +<p>The flight of steps to the west door is very +long, and she climbed slowly, stopping once +or twice to take breath and look back at the +crowded roofs and many church domes of +Rome, and at the green heights of the Janiculan +hill beyond, with the bronze figure of +Garibaldi on his horse, dominant, and very +clear against the sky.</p> + +<p>The cripple at the door lifted the heavy +leather curtain for her and she put a soldo into +his outstretched hand as she went in. The +church seemed very still, very quiet, after +the clamour of the streets. The acrid scent +of incense was as the breath of spent prayer. +Little yellow flames flickered in the shrine +lamps before each altar, but it was early yet +and for the moment no mass was being said. +An old, white-haired monk was sweeping +the worn pavement. He was swathed in a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> +blue linen apron, and his rusty brown frock +was tucked up about his ankles. A lean +black cat followed him, mewing, and now and +then he stopped his work to stroke it. There +was a great stack of chairs by the door, and a +few were scattered about the aisles and +occupied by stray worshippers, women with +handkerchiefs tied over their heads in deference +to St Paul’s expressed wishes, two or +three old men, and some peasants with +their market baskets. A be-ribboned nurse +carrying a baby had just come in to see the +Sacro Bambino, and Olive followed them +into the sacristy and saw the child laid down +before the bedizened, red-cheeked wooden +doll in the glass case. As they passed out +again the monk who was in attendance gave +Olive a coloured card with a prayer printed +on the back. She heard him asking what was +the matter with the little one. The woman +lifted the lace veil from the tiny face and +showed him the sightless eyes. He crossed +himself. “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Poveretto! Dio vi benedica!</em>”</p> + +<p>As Olive left the sacristy a tall man came +across the aisle towards her. It was Prince +Tor di Rocca.</p> + +<p>“This is a great pleasure,” he said. “But +not to you, I am afraid. You are not glad to +see me.”</p> + +<p>“I am surprised. I—do you often come +into churches?”</p> + +<p>He laughed. “I sometimes follow women +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +in. I saw you coming up the steps just now. +You are right in supposing that I am not +devout. I want to speak to you. Shall we +go out?”</p> + +<p>She looked for a way of escape but saw none.</p> + +<p>“If—very well,” she said rather helplessly.</p> + +<p>The hunchback woman at the south door +watched them expectantly as they came +towards her, and she brightened as she saw +the man’s hand go to his pocket. He threw +her a piece of silver as they passed out. He +was in a good humour, his fine lips smiling, a +glinting zest in his insolent eyes. He thought +he understood women, and he had in fact +made a one-sided study of the sex. He had +seen their ways of loving, he had listened to +the beating of their hearts; but of their +endurance, their long patience, their daily +life he knew nothing. He was like a man +who often wears a bunch of violets in his coat +until they fade, and yet has never seen, or +cared to see them, growing sparsely, small and +sweet, half hidden in leaves on a mossy bank +by the stream.</p> + +<p>Women amused him. He was seldom +much moved by them, and he pursued them +without haste or flurry, treading delicately like +Agag of old. He had little intrigues everywhere, +in Florence, in Naples, in Rome. +Young married women, girls walking demurely +with their mothers. He liked to know that +it was he who brought the colour to their +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> +cheeks and that their eyes sought him among +the crowd of men standing outside Aragno’s +in the Corso or on the steps of the club in the +Via Tornabuoni. Very often the affair would +be one of the eyes only, but sometimes it went +farther. Filippo’s procedure varied. Sometimes +he put advertisements in the personal +column of the Popolo Romano, and sometimes +he wrote notes. It was always very +interesting while it lasted. Occasionally affairs +overlapped, as when an appeal to F. to meet +Norina once more in the Borghese appeared +in print above F.’s request that the signorina +in the pink hat would write to him at the Poste +Restante.</p> + +<p>Olive had nearly yielded to him in Florence, +and then she had run away, she had sought +safety in flight. Evidently then his battle +had been nearly won. But she had reassembled +her forces, and he saw that it would +be all to fight over again, and that the issue +was doubtful.</p> + +<p>As they came into the little square piazza +of the Capitol she turned to him. “What +have you to say? I—I am in a hurry.”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry for that, but if you are going +anywhere I can walk with you, or we can take +a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vettura</i> and drive together.”</p> + +<p>She looked past him at the green shining +figure of Marcus Aurelius on his horse riding +between her and the sun, and said nothing.</p> + +<p>“I shall enjoy being with you even if you +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> +are inclined to be silent. You are so good to +look at.”</p> + +<p>His brazen stare gave point to his words. +Her face was no longer childish in its charm. +It had lost the first roundness of youth, but +had gained in expression. A soul seemed +to be shining through the veil of flesh—white +and rose-red flesh, divinely gilt with freckles—and +fluttering in the troubled depths of her +blue eyes. The nun-like simplicity of her +grey dress pleased him: it did not detract from +her; it left the eyes free to return to her face, +to dwell upon her lips.</p> + +<p>“Something has happened,” he said. +“There is another man. Are you married?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“I only came to Rome yesterday. Strange +that we should meet so soon. It seems that +there is a Destiny that shapes our ends after +all.”</p> + +<p>“You do not believe in free will?”</p> + +<p>He shrugged his shoulders. “I do not think +about such things.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” she said impatiently. “Is that +all you have to say? I suppose the Marchesa +and Mamie are here too.”</p> + +<p>He hesitated and seemed to lose some of +his assurance. “No, we quarrelled. The +girl is insupportable. She is engaged now to +a lord of sorts, an Englishman, and they are +still in Cairo.”</p> + +<p>“So you have lost her too.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span> +“It was your fault that Edna gave +me up. You owe me something for that. +And you behaved badly to me again—afterwards.”</p> + +<p>“I did not.”</p> + +<p>He laughed enjoyingly. “I trusted you +and you took advantage of a truce to run +away.”</p> + +<p>She moved away from him, but he followed +her and kept at her side.</p> + +<p>“I never asked you to trust me. I asked +you to come the next day for an answer. +You came and you had it.”</p> + +<p>“I came and I had it,” he repeated. “Did +the old woman give you my message?”</p> + +<p>“That we should meet again?”</p> + +<p>“That was not all. I said you would come +to me one day sooner or later.”</p> + +<p>They had paused at the top of the steps +that lead down from the Capitol into the +streets and are guarded by the gigantic +figures of Castor and Pollux, great masses of +discoloured marble set on pedestals on either +side. It was twelve o’clock, and a black +stream of hungry, desk-weary men poured +out of the Capitoline offices. Many turned +to look at the English girl as they hurried by, +and one passing close to her muttered “bella” +in her ear. She drew back as though she had +been stung. Filippo laughed again.</p> + +<p>“I only ask to be let alone,” she said. +“Can’t you understand that you remind me of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> +things I want to forget. I am ashamed, oh, +can’t you understand!”</p> + +<p>She left him and went to stand on the outskirts +of the crowd that had collected in front +of the cage in which the wolves are kept. +Evidently she hoped that he would go on, +but he meant to disappoint her, and when +she went down the steps he was close beside +her.</p> + +<p>“Why are you so unkind to me?” he said, +and as they crossed the road he held her +arm.</p> + +<p>She wrenched herself away, went up to the +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabiniere</i>, who stood at the corner, and +spoke to him. The man smiled tolerantly as +he glanced from her to Filippo. “Signorina, +I cannot help you.”</p> + +<p>She passed on down the street, knowing +that she was being followed, crossed the +Corso Vittorio Emanuele and took a tram in +the Piazza della Minerva. Tor di Rocca got +in too and sat down opposite to her. The conductor +turned to him first, and when she +proffered her four soldi she found that he +had paid for both. Her hand shook as she +put the money back in her purse, and her +colour rose. Filippo, quite at his ease, +leisurely, openly observant of her, whistled +“Lucia” softly to himself. Roses, roses all the +way, and all for him, he thought amusedly. +And yet she bore the ordeal well, betraying +no restlessness, keeping her eyes unswervingly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span> +fixed on the two lions of the advertisement +of Chinina Migone pasted on the glass +over his head. At the Ripetta bridge she +got out. He followed, saw her go into a house +farther down the street, and paused on the +threshold to take the number before he went +up the stairs after her. She heard him +coming. He turned the handle of the door, +but she had locked it and it held fast. He +knocked once and called to her. Evidently +he was not sure of her being within. There +was another room on the same landing, and +after a while he tried that.</p> + +<p>“Are you in there? <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carissima</i>, you are +wasting time. To-day or to-morrow, sooner or +later. Why not to-day, and soon?”</p> + +<p>A silence ensued. The girl had taken off +her hat and thrown it down upon the table. +She stood very still in the middle of the room +listening, waiting for him to go away again. +Her breath came quickly, and little pearls of +sweat broke out upon her forehead. His +persistence frightened her.</p> + +<p>He waited for an answer, and receiving none, +added, “Well, I will come again,” and so +went away.</p> + +<p>She stayed in until it was time to go to +Varini’s. It was not far, but she was flushed +and panting with the haste that she had made +as she put on the faded blue silk dress that +had been laid out ready for her on the one +broken chair in the dressing-room. Rosina +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> +came in to her presently from the professor’s +studio. She wore a man’s tweed coat and a +striped blanket wrapped about her, and she +was smoking a cigarette.</p> + +<p>“So you have come back to work here. +Your signorino at the Villa Medici is away?”</p> + +<p>“Only for a few days. He will not be gone +long. The picture is not finished. How is +Pasquina?”</p> + +<p>Rosina had come over to her and was +fastening the hooks of her bodice. “She is +very well. How pretty you are.” She rearranged +the laces at the girl’s breast and +caught up a torn piece of the silk with a pin. +“That is better. Have you been running? +You seem hot.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Rosina, I have been frightened. A +man followed me. I shall be afraid to go +home to-night.”</p> + +<p>The yellow-haired Trasteverina looked at +her shrewdly. “He knows where you live? +Have you only seen him once?”</p> + +<p>“He—he came and tried my door. I am +afraid of him.”</p> + +<p>Rosina nodded. “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Si capisce!</em> I will take +care of you. I have met so many <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mascalzoni</i> +in twenty years that I have grown used to +them. I will come home with you, and if any +man so much as looks at us I will scratch his +eyes out.”</p> + +<p>Through the thin partition wall they heard +the professor calling for his model. “I must +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span> +go,” she said hurriedly, but as she passed +out Olive caught at a fold of the enveloping +blanket.</p> + +<p>“Come here, I want you.” She flung her +arms about the other girl’s neck and kissed +her. “You are good! You are good!”</p> + +<p>She went into the class room and climbed +the throne as the men came clattering in to +take their places. The professor posed her.</p> + +<p>“So you have come back to us. Do not +let them spoil you at the Villa Medici—your +head a little higher—so.”</p> + +<p>The first drawing in of the figure is not a +thing to be taken lightly, and the silence was +seldom broken at Varini’s on Monday evenings. +The two boys, however, found it hard +to repress the natural loquacity of their +extreme youth.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Al lavoro</i>, Mario! What are you whispering +about? Cesare, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">zitto</i>!” Bembi stared +at them. “Their chins are disappearing,” +he said. “See their collars. Every day an +inch higher. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio mio!</em> Is that the way to +please women? I wear a flannel shirt and +my neck is as bare as a plucked chicken, and +yet I—” he stopped short.</p> + +<p>Mario laughed. “Women are strange,” +he admitted.</p> + +<p>“Mad!” cried Cesare, and then as Bembi +still smirked ineffably he appealed to Olive. +“Do you admire fowls wrapped in flannel +or <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">in arrosto</i>?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> +When she came out she found Rosina +waiting for her in the courtyard, a grey +shadow with smooth fair hair shining in the +moonlight. “The professor let me go at +eight so I dressed and came out here,” she +explained. “The dressing-room is full of +dust and spider’s webs. I told the porter +the other day that he ought to sweep it, but +he only laughed at me and said Domeniddio +made spiders long before he took a rib out of +Adam’s side to whip a naughty world.”</p> + +<p>“Who is the man?” she asked presently +as they walked along together. “Do I know +him?”</p> + +<p>“I do not think so. He is not an artist.”</p> + +<p>Rosina laid a hand upon her arm. “Is +that he?” she said.</p> + +<p>They had passed through one of the narrow +streets that lead from the Corso towards the +river and were come into the Ripetta.</p> + +<p>A tall man was walking slowly along on the +other side of the road. He did not seem to +have noticed the two girls, and yet as he +stopped to light a cigarette he was looking +towards them. A tram came clanging up, +the overhead wires emitting strange noises +peculiar to themselves, the gong ringing +sharply. Olive glanced up at the red painted +triangle fixed to the lamp-post at the corner. +“It will stop here. Quick! while it is +between us. Perhaps he has not seen—”</p> + +<p>They ran to her door and up the stairs +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> +together. “It has only just gone on,” cried +Rosina. “Have you got your key?”</p> + +<p>She stayed on the landing while Olive went +into the room and lit her candle. There was +no sound in the house at all, no step upon the +stair. As she peered down over the banisters +into the darkness below she listened intently. +The rustling of her skirt sounded loud in +the stillness, but there was nothing else.</p> + +<p>“He did not see us,” she said. “I shall +go now. Lock your door. <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Felice notte, +piccina.</i>”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> + + +<p>Camille, loitering on the terrace of the old +garden of the Villa Medici, was quick to hear +the creaking of the iron gate upon its hinges. +His pale face brightened as he threw away his +cigarette and he went down the path between +the ilex trees to meet his model.</p> + +<p>“You have come. Oh, I seem to have been +years away.”</p> + +<p>They went up the hill together. It was +early yet, and the city was veiled in fine mist +through which the river gleamed here and +there with a sharpness of steel. The dome +of St Peter’s was still dark against the greenish +pallor of the morning sky.</p> + +<p>“I am glad to be in Rome again. Venice +is beautiful, but it does not inspire me. It has +no associations for me. What do I care for the +Doges, or for Titian’s fat, golden-haired women +with their sore eyes—Caterina Cornaro and +the rest. Rome is a crystal in which I seem +to see faces of dear women, women who lived +and loved and saw the sun set behind that +rampart of low hills—Virginia, the Greek +slave Acte, Agnes, Cecilia, who sang as she +lay dying in her house over there in the +Trasteverine quarter. Ah, I shall go away +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> +and have the nostalgia of Rome to the end +of my life.” He paused to light another +cigarette. “Come and look at the picture. +I have not dared to see it again myself since +I came back last night.”</p> + +<p>The door of his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">atelier</i> was open; he +clattered up the steep wooden stairs and she +followed him. The canvas was set up on an +easel facing the great north light. Camille +went up to it and then backed away.</p> + +<p>“Well?”</p> + +<p>He was smiling. “It is good,” he said. +“I shall work on it to-day and to-morrow. +Get ready now while I prepare my palette.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her critically as she took her +place. The change in her was indefinable, +but he was aware of it. She seemed to be +listening.</p> + +<p>“Do you feel a draught from the door?” +he asked presently.</p> + +<p>“No, but I should like it shut.”</p> + +<p>“Nerves. You need a tonic and probably +a change of air and scene. There is nothing +the matter?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head. Camille was kind, +but he could not help her. He could not +make the earth open and swallow Tor di +Rocca, and sometimes she felt that nothing +less than that would satisfy her, and that +such a summary ending would contribute +greatly to her peace of mind.</p> + +<p>She had not seen the Prince for two days +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> +and she was beginning to hope that he had +gone away, but she was not yet able to feel +free of him. Rosina had come home with her +every night from Varini’s. Once he had +followed them, and twice he had come up the +stairs and knocked at the door. There had +been hours when she had been safe from him, +but she had not known them, and the strain, +the constant pricking fear of him, was telling +upon her. Every day youth and strength and +hope seemed to be slipping away and leaving +her less able to do and to endure. She dared +not look forward, as Camille did, to the end of +life. He would die in his bed, full of years +and honour, a great artist, a master, the +president of many societies, but she—</p> + +<p>Sometimes, as she stood facing the semi-circle +of men at Varini’s, and listened to the +busy scratching of charcoal on paper, to +Bembi’s heavy breathing, and to the ticking +of the clock, she wondered if she had done +wrong in taking this way of bread earning. +Certainly there could be no turning back. +The step, once taken, was irrevocable. If +artists employed her she would go on, but she +could get no other work if this failed. If this +failed there must be another struggle between +flesh and spirit, and this time it would be +decisive—one or other must prevail. Though +she dreaded it she knew it was inevitable.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Camille stood in need of her +ministrations. He had arranged to show his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> +work on the fifteenth of April, and now he +seemed to regard that date as thrice accursed. +Often when she came in the morning she +would find him prowling restlessly to and fro, +or sitting with his head in his hands staring +gloomily at the parquet flooring and sighing +like a furnace.</p> + +<p>“I hate having to invite people who do not +know anything, who cannot tell an etching +from an oil,” he said irritably. “I cannot +suffer their ridiculous comments gladly. I +would rather have six teeth pulled out than +hear my Aholibah called pretty. <em>Pretty!</em>”</p> + +<p>“They cannot say anything wrong about +the picture of me,” she said. “It is splendid. +M’sieur le Directeur says so, and I am sure it +is. And your Venice sketches look so well +on the screen.”</p> + +<p>“You must be there,” he moaned. “If +you are not there I shall burst into tears and +run away.” Then he laughed. “I am always +like this. You should see me in Paris on the +eve of the opening of the Salon. A pitiable +wreck! I had no angel to console me there.”</p> + +<p>He kissed her hands with unusual fervour.</p> + +<p>The girl had not really meant to come at +first, but she yielded to his persuasions. “I +will look after the food and drink then,” she +said, and she spent herself on the decoration +of the tea-table. They went to Aragno’s +together in the morning to get cakes and +bonbons.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span> +“What flowers?”</p> + +<p>She chose mimosa, and he bought a great +mass of the fragrant golden boughs, and a +bunch of violets for her.</p> + +<p>Camille knew a good many people in Rome, +and all those he had asked came. The Prix +de Rome men were the first arrivals. They +came in a body, and on the stroke of the hour +named on the invitation cards. Camille +watched their faces eagerly as they crowded +in and came to a stand before his picture; +they knew, and if they approved he cared +little for the verdict of all Rome.</p> + +<p>Gontrand was the first to break rather a +long silence.</p> + +<p>“Delicious!” he cried. “It is a triumph.”</p> + +<p>Camille flushed with pleasure as the others +echoed him.</p> + +<p>“The scheme of whites,” “The fine +quality,” “So pure.”</p> + +<p>One after the other they went across the +room to talk to the model, who stood by the +tea-table waiting to serve them.</p> + +<p>“You are wonderful, mademoiselle. If only +you would sit for me I might hope to achieve +something too.”</p> + +<p>“When M’sieur Michelin has done with +me,” she said. “You like the picture?”</p> + +<p>“It is adorable—as you are.”</p> + +<p>Other people were coming now. Camille +stayed by the door to receive them while his +friend Gontrand showed the drawings in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span> +portfolio, explained the Campagna sketches, +and handed plates of cake and sweets. When +Olive made fresh tea he brought her more +sliced lemons from the lumber room, where +Rosina was washing the cups.</p> + +<p>“I am useful but not disinterested. Persuade +Camille to let you sit for me.”</p> + +<p>“But you will not be here in the summer,” +she said wistfully.</p> + +<p>“Coffee, madame? These cakes are not +very sweet. Yes, I was M’sieur Michelin’s +model. Yes, it is a beautiful picture.”</p> + +<p>The crowd thinned towards six o’clock, +and there was no one now at the far end of +the room but a man who seemed to be looking +at the sketches on the screen. Olive thought +she might take a cup of tea herself, and she +was pouring it out when he turned and +came towards her. It was Tor di Rocca.</p> + +<p>“Ah,” he said smilingly, “the girl in +Michelin’s picture reminded me of you, but +I did not realise that you were indeed the +‘Jeune Fille.’ I have been away from +Rome these last few days. Have you missed +me?”</p> + +<p>His hot brown eyes lingered over her.</p> + +<p>“Don’t.”</p> + +<p>“I should like a cup of coffee.”</p> + +<p>Her hand shook so as she gave it to him +that much was spilled on the floor. She had +pitied him once; he remembered that as +he saw how she shrank from him. “Michelin +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> +has been more fortunate than I have,” he +said deliberately.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon.”</p> + +<p>“You seem to be at home here.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you must follow the bent of your +mind.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose I must,” he agreed as he stood +aside to let her pass. She had defied him that +night in Florence. “Never!” she had said. +And now he saw that she smiled at Camille +as she went by him into the further room, +and the old bad blood stirred in him and he +ached with a fierce jealousy.</p> + +<p>She had denied him. “Never!” she had said.</p> + +<p>As he joined the group of men by the door +Gontrand turned to him. “Ah, Prince, have +you heard that Michelin has already sold his +picture?”</p> + +<p>“I am not surprised,” the Italian answered +suavely. “If I was rich—but I am not. Who +is the happy man?”</p> + +<p>“That stout grey-haired American who +left half an hour since. Did you notice him? +He is Vandervelde, the great millionaire art +collector.”</p> + +<p>“May one ask the price?”</p> + +<p>“Eight thousand francs,” answered Camille. +He looked tired, but his blue eyes were very +bright. “I am glad, and yet I shall be sorry +to part with it.”</p> + +<p>“You will still have the charming original,” +the Prince said not quite pleasantly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> +There was a sudden silence. The men all +waited for Camille’s answer. Beyond, in the +next room, they heard the two girls splashing +the water, clattering the cups and plates.</p> + +<p>The young Frenchman paused in the act +of striking a match. He looked surprised. +“But this is the original. I have made no +copy.”</p> + +<p>“I meant—” The Prince stopped short. +After all, he thought, he goes well who goes +slowly.</p> + +<p>Camille was waiting. “You meant?”</p> + +<p>Tor di Rocca had had time to think. +“Nothing,” he said sweetly.</p> + +<p>Silence was again ensuing but Gontrand +flung himself into the breach.</p> + +<p>“The Duchess said she wanted her daughter’s +portrait painted.”</p> + +<p>“She said the same to me.”</p> + +<p>“Are you going to do it?”</p> + +<p>Camille suppressed a yawn. “I don’t +know. <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Qui vivra verra.</i>”</p> + +<p>He was glad when they were all gone, +Gontrand and Tor di Rocca and the rest, and +he could stretch himself and sigh, and sing +at the top of his voice:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">“‘Nicholas, je vais me pendre<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Qu’est-ce que tu vas dire de cela?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Si vous vous pendez ou v’vous pendez pas<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ça m’est ben egal, Mam’zelle.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Si vous vous pendez ou v’vous pendez pas<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, laissez moi planter mes chous!’”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> +When Olive came out of the inner room +presently he told her that he had sold the +“Jeune Fille.” “The Duchess has nearly +commissioned me to paint her Mélanie. It +went off well, don’t you think so? Come at +nine to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, if you want me. Good-night, M’sieur +Camille,” she said. “Are you coming, +Rosina?”</p> + +<p>“Why do you wait for her?” he asked +curiously. “I should not have thought you +had much in common.”</p> + +<p>“She is my friend. She knows I do not +care to be alone.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> + + +<p>When Olive came to the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">atelier</i> on the following +morning Camille was not there, but the +door was open and he had left a note on the +table for her.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“I have had a letter from the Duchess. +She is leaving Rome to-day but she wants +to see me before she goes. It must be about +her daughter’s portrait. I must go to her +hotel, but I shall drive both ways and be back +in half an hour. Wait for me.—C. M.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Olive took off her hat and coat as usual +behind the screen. She was choosing a book +from the tattered row of old favourites on the +shelf when she heard a step outside. She +listened, thinking that it was Camille, and +fearing that the commission had not been +given him. It was not like him to be so +silent.</p> + +<p>“I thought you would be singing—” she +stopped short.</p> + +<p>Filippo came on into the room.</p> + +<p>“M’sieur Michelin is out,” she said.</p> + +<p>“So the porter told me. You do not think +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span> +I want to see him. Will you come with me to +Albano to-day?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>“To-morrow, then. Why not?”</p> + +<p>“I have my work.”</p> + +<p>“Your work! I see you believe you can +do without me now. How long do you think +you will be able to earn money in this way? +All these men will be leaving Rome soon. The +schools will be closed until next October. +You will have to choose between the devil and +the deep sea—”</p> + +<p>“What is the good of talking about it?” +she said wearily. “I know I have nothing +to look forward to. I know that. Please +go away.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know that you have cost me more +than any other woman I have ever met? +You injured me; will you make no amends?”</p> + +<p>She laughed. “So you are the victim.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said passionately, “I told you +before that I suffered, and you believed me +then. Is it my fault that I am made like +this? Since that night in Florence when I +held you in my arms I have had no peace.”</p> + +<p>“You behaved very badly. I can’t think +why I let myself be sorry for you.”</p> + +<p>“Badly! Some men would, but I loved +you even then.”</p> + +<p>She looked wistfully towards the door. +“I wish you would go. There are so many +other women.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> +“I love you, I want you,” he answered, +and he caught her in his arms and held her +in spite of her struggles. “I have you!” +He forced her head down upon his breast and +kissed her mouth. She thought the hateful +pressure of his lips, the hateful fire of his eyes +would kill her, and when, at last, she wrenched +herself away she screamed with the despairing +violence of some trapped, wild thing.</p> + +<p>“Camille! Camille!”</p> + +<p>It seemed to her that if he did not hear her +this must be the end of all, and she suffered +an agony of terror. She thanked God as the +door below was flung to and he came running +up the stairs.</p> + +<p>The Prince let her go and half turned to +meet him, but Camille was not inclined to +parley. He struck, and struck hard. Filippo +slipped on the polished floor, tried to recover +himself, and fell heavily at the girl’s feet.</p> + +<p>He got up at once, and the two men stood +glaring at each other. Olive looked from +one to the other. “It was nothing. I am +sorry,” she said breathlessly. “He was trying +to—I was frightened. It was nothing, +really, but—but I am glad you came.”</p> + +<p>“So am I,” the Frenchman said grimly. +His blue eyes were grown grey as steel. “I +am waiting, Prince.”</p> + +<p>A little blood had sprung from Filippo’s +cut lip and run down his chin. He wiped it +with his handkerchief and looked thoughtfully +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> +at the stain on the white linen before he +spoke.</p> + +<p>“Who is your friend?”</p> + +<p>“René Gontrand.”</p> + +<p>“No, no!” cried the girl. “Filippo, it +was your fault. Can’t you be sorry and +forget? Camille!”</p> + +<p>“Hush, child,” he said, “you do not understand.”</p> + +<p>Tor di Rocca was looking at her now with +the old insolent smile in his red-brown eyes. +“Ah, you said ‘Never!’ but presently you +will come.”</p> + +<p>So he left them.</p> + +<p>Olive expected to be “poored,” but Camille, +as it seemed, deliberately took no notice of +her. She watched him picking a stick of +charcoal from the accumulation of odd +brushes, pens and pencils on the table.</p> + +<p>“What a handsome devil it is. Lean, +lithe and brown. He should go naked as a +faun; such things roamed about the primeval +woods seeking what they might devour. I +wish I had asked him to sit for me.”</p> + +<p>He went to his easel and began to sketch a +head on the canvas he had prepared for the +Rosamund. “He has the short Neronic +upper lip,” he murmured.</p> + +<p>Olive lost patience. “I wonder you had +the heart to risk spoiling its contour,” she said +resentfully.</p> + +<p>“With my fist, you mean?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> +“I—I am very sorry—” she began. He +saw that she was crying, and he was perplexed, +not quite understanding what she wanted of +him.</p> + +<p>“What am I to say to you?” He came +over and sat down beside her, and she let him +hold her hand. “I know so little—not even +your name. I have asked no questions, but +of course I saw— Why do you not go back +to your friends?”</p> + +<p>She dried her eyes. “I have cousins in +Milan, but I have lost their address, and they +would not be able to help me. I have burnt +my boats. I used to give lessons, but it was +not easy to find pupils, and then I met Rosina. +I cannot go back to being a governess after +being a model. I have done no wrong, but no +one would have me if they knew. You see +one has to go on—”</p> + +<p>“Have you known Tor di Rocca long? +He was here last winter. He has a villa +somewhere outside Rome. I think it belonged +to his mother. She was an Orsini.”</p> + +<p>“You are not going to fight him?”</p> + +<p>Outside, in the ilex wood, birds were calling +to one another. The sun gilded the green of the +gnarled old trees; it had rained in the night, +and the garden was sweet with the scent of +moist earth. The young man sighed. He +had meant to take his “little brother” into +the Campagna this April day to see the spring +pageant of the skies, to hear the singing of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> +larks high up at heaven’s gate, the tinkling of +sheep bells, the gurgling of water springs half +hidden in the green lush grass that grows in +the shadow of the ruined Claudian aqueducts.</p> + +<p>“Camille, answer me.”</p> + +<p>He got up and went back to his easel. +“You must run away now,” he said. “I +can’t work this morning. I think I shall +go to Naples for a few days, but I will let you +know when I return. We must get on with the +‘Rosamund.’”</p> + +<p>She went obediently to put on her hat, +but the face she saw reflected in the little +hanging mirror was pale and troubled. He +came with her to the door, and when she gave +him her hand he bent to kiss it. Her eyes +filled again with tears. He will be killed, she +thought, and for me.</p> + +<p>“Don’t fight! For my sake, don’t. I +shall begin to think that I am a creature of +ill-omen. They say some women are like +that; they have the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mal occhio</i>; they give +sorrow—”</p> + +<p>“That is absurd,” he said roughly, and then, +in a changed voice, “Good-bye, child.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> + + +<p>Olive walked home to Ripetta. She felt tired +and shaken, and unhappily conscious of some +effort that must be made presently.</p> + +<p>“He will be killed—and for me.” “For +me.” “For me.” She heard that echo +of her thought through all the clamour +of the streets, the shrill cries, the clatter of +hoofs, the rattling of wheels over the cobble +stones. She heard it as she climbed the stairs +to her room. When she had taken off her hat +and coat she poured some eau-de-cologne +with water into a cup and drank it—not this +time to Italy or the joy of life. She lay down +on her bed and stayed there for a while, +not resting, but thinking or trying to think.</p> + +<p>Was she really a sort of number thirteen, +a grain of spilt salt, ill-omened, disastrous? +Camille would not think so; but it seemed +to her that she had never been able to make +anyone happy, and that there must be some +taint in her therefore, some flaw in her nature.</p> + +<p>Now, here, at last, was a thing well worth +doing. She must risk her soul, lose it, perhaps, +or rather, exchange it for a man’s life. She +had hoarded it hitherto, had been miserly, +selfish, seeking to save the poor thing as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> +though it were a pearl of price. Now she +saw herself as the veriest rag of flesh parading +virtue, useless, comfortless, helpless, clinging +to her code, and justifying all the trouble she +gave to others by a reference to the impalpable, +elusive and possible non-existent +immortal and inner self she had held so dear. +She was ashamed. Ah, now at last she would +give ungrudgingly. Her feet should not falter, +nor her eyes be dimmed by any shadow of fear +or of regret, though she went by perilous ways +to an almost certain end.</p> + +<p>Soon after noon she got up and prepared +to face the world again, and towards three +o’clock she returned to the Villa Medici. +She had to ring the porter’s bell as the garden +gate was shut, and the old man came grumblingly +as usual.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Michelin will see no one. Did +he not tell you so this morning?”</p> + +<p>“But I have come for Monsieur Gontrand,” +she said.</p> + +<p>She hoped now above all things to find the +black Gascon alone in his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">atelier</i> near the +Belvedere. The first move depended upon +him, and there was no time to spare. She +determined to await his return in the wood if +he were out, but there was no need. He +opened his door at once in answer to her +knocking.</p> + +<p>“I have come—may I speak to you for a +moment?” she began rather confusedly. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> +looked tired and worried, and was so evidently +alarmed at the sight of her, and afraid of +what she was going to say next, that she could +hardly help smiling. “I want to ask you +two questions. I hope you will answer them.”</p> + +<p>“I should be glad to please you, mademoiselle, +but—”</p> + +<p>She hurried on. “First, when are they +going to fight? Oh, tell me, tell me! I know +you were to be with him. I know you are +his friend. Be mine too! What harm can it +do? I swear I will keep it secret.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, well, if you promise that,” he said. +“It is to be to-morrow afternoon.”</p> + +<p>“Where?”</p> + +<p>He shook his head. “I really cannot tell +you that.”</p> + +<p>“Well, the hour is fixed. It will not be +changed?”</p> + +<p>“No, the Prince preferred the early morning, +but Michelin has an appointment he must +keep with Vandervelde at noon.”</p> + +<p>“Nothing will persuade him to alter it +then?” she insisted.</p> + +<p>“Nothing.”</p> + +<p>“That is well,” she said sighing. “Good-bye, +M’sieur Gontrand. You—you will do +your best for Camille.”</p> + +<p>“You may rely on me,” he answered.</p> + +<p>She went down the steps of Trinità del +Monte, and across the Piazza di Spagna to the +English book-shop at the corner, where she +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span> +bought a <i>Roman Herald</i>. Three minutes +study of the visitors’ list sufficed to inform +her that the Prince was staying at the Hotel +de Russie close by. The afternoon was +waning, and already the narrow streets of the +lower town were in shadow; soon the shops +would be lit up and gay with the gleam of +marbles, the glimmer of Roman pearls and +silks, and the green, grotesque bronzes that +strangers buy.</p> + +<p>Olive walked down the Via Babuino past +the ugly English church, crossed the road, +and entered the hall of the hotel in the wake +of a party of Americans. They went on +towards the lift and left her uncertain which +way to turn, so she appealed to the gold-laced, +gigantic, and rather awful porter.</p> + +<p>“Prince Tor di Rocca?”</p> + +<p>He softened at her mention of the illustrious +name.</p> + +<p>“If you will go into the lounge there I will +send to see if the Prince is in. What name +shall I say?”</p> + +<p>“Miss Agar. I have no card with +me.”</p> + +<p>She chose a window-seat near a writing-table +at the far end of the room, and there +Filippo found her when he came in five +minutes later. He was prepared for anything +but the smile in the blue eyes lifted to his, +and he paled as he took the hand she gave +and raised it to his lips.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> +“Ah,” he said fervently, “if you were +always kind.”</p> + +<p>“You would be good?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“For a week, or a month? But you need +not answer me. Filippo, I should like some +tea.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” he said eagerly. “Forgive +me,” and he hurried away to order it.</p> + +<p>When he returned his dark face was radiant. +“Do you know that is the second time you +have called me by my name? You said +Filippo this morning. Ah, I heard you, and +I have thought of it since.”</p> + +<p>The girl hardened her heart. She realised—she +had always realised that this man was +dangerous. A fire consumed him. It was a +fire that blazed up to destroy, no pleasant +light and warmth upon the hearth of a good +life, but women were apt to flutter, moth-like, +into the flame of it nevertheless.</p> + +<p>He sat down beside her and took her hand +in his.</p> + +<p>“I know I was violent this morning; I +could not help myself. I am a Tor di Rocca. +It would be so easy for you to make me +happy—”</p> + +<p>She listened quietly.</p> + +<p>A waiter brought the tea and set it on a +little table between them.</p> + +<p>“You had coffee yesterday,” she said. “It +seems years ago.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span> +“I have forgotten yesterday, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Incipit vita +nuova</i>! Do you remember I came to you +dressed in Dante’s red <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">lucco</i>?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but you are not a bit like him.”</p> + +<p>She came to the point presently. “Filippo, +you say you want me?”</p> + +<p>“More than anything in this world.”</p> + +<p>Her eyes met his and held them. “Well, +if you will get out of fighting M’sieur Michelin +I will come to you—meet you—anywhere +and at any hour after noon to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, you make conditions.”</p> + +<p>“Of course.”</p> + +<p>“How can I get out of fighting him? The +man struck me, insulted me.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said, “and you know why!”</p> + +<p>“I have asked your pardon for that,” he +said with an effort that brought the colour +into his face.</p> + +<p>“Yes, but that is not enough. I don’t +choose that this unpleasantness should go +any further. Write a letter to him now—we +will concoct it together—and—and—I will be +nice to you.”</p> + +<p>She smiled at him, and there was no shadow +of fear or of regret in the blue eyes that +looked towards the almost certain end.</p> + +<p>“Well, I must be let down easily,” he said +unwillingly. “I am not going to lick his +boots.”</p> + +<p>They sat down at the writing-table together, +and she began to dictate. “Just scribble +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span> +this, and if it does you can make a fair copy +afterwards.</p> + +<p>“‘<span class="smcap">Dear Monsieur Michelin</span>,—On reflection +I understand that your conduct this +morning was justifiable from your point of +view, and I withdraw—’”</p> + +<p>Filippo laid down the pen. “I shall not +say that.”</p> + +<p>“Begin again then,” she said patiently.</p> + +<p>“‘I have been asked to write to you by a +third person whom I wish to please. She tells +me that this morning’s unpleasantness resulted +from a misunderstanding. She says she has +deceived you, and she hopes that you will +forgive her. I suppose from what she has +said that your hasty action was excusable, as +you thought her other than she is, and I +think that you may now regret it and agree +with me that this need go no farther—’”</p> + +<p>“This is better for me,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Yes.” She took the pen from him and +wrote under his signature: “You will be +sorry to know that your child is a liar. Try +to forget her existence.”</p> + +<p>“You can send it now by someone who +must wait for an answer,” she explained. “I +shall stay here until it comes.”</p> + +<p>“Very well,” he said sulkily, and he went +out into the hall to confer with the porter. +“An important letter, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Eccellenza</i>? A <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vetturino</i> +will take it for you—”</p> + +<p>Olive heard the opening and shutting of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span> +doors, the shrill whistle answered by harsh, +raucous cries, the rattling of wheels. Filippo +came back to her.</p> + +<p>“I have done my part.” Then, looking at +her closely, he saw that she was very pale. “Is +all you have implied and I have written +true?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“You must love him very much.”</p> + +<p>“I? Not at all, as you understand love.”</p> + +<p>The ensuing half-hour seemed long to the +girl; Filippo talked desultorily, but there +were intervals of silence. She was too tired +to attempt to answer him, and, besides, his +evident restlessness, his inattention, afforded +her some acrid amusement. He was like a +boy, eager in pursuit of the bird in the bush, +heedless of the poor thing fluttering, dying in +his hand. It was now near the dinner-hour, +and people were coming into the lounge to +await the sounding of the gong; from where +Olive sat she could see all the entrances and +exits—as in a glass darkly—in the clouded +surface of a mirror that hung on the wall and +reflected the white gleam of shirt fronts, the +shimmer of silks, and she was quick to note +that Filippo was interested in what she saw +as a pink blur.</p> + +<p>His love was as fully winged for flight as +any Beast of the book of Revelations; it was +swift as a sword to pierce and be withdrawn. +He could not be altogether loyal +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span> +for a day. Olive’s heart was filled with pity +for the women who had cared.</p> + +<p>When, at last, the answer to the letter +came, the Prince gave it to her to read. It +was very short, a mere scrawl of scarlet ink +on the brown, rough-edged paper that was +one of Camille’s affectations.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>“My zeal was evidently misplaced and I +regret its excess.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Olive was speechless; her eyes were dimmed, +her throat ached with tears. How easily he +believed the worst—this man who had been +her friend. She rose to go, but Filippo laid +a detaining hand upon her arm.</p> + +<p>“To-morrow.” He had already told her +where and when to meet him, and had given +her two keys.</p> + +<p>“Are you sure you want me?” she said +hurriedly. “There are so many women in +your life. You remind me of the South +American Republic that made—and shot—seventeen +presidents in six months.”</p> + +<p>He laughed. “Do I? You remind me +of an eel, or a little grey mouse trying +to get out of a trap. There is no way out, +my dear, unless, of course, you want me +to kill your Frenchman. I am a good +shot.”</p> + +<p>“I will come.”</p> + +<p>She looked for pink as she went out of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> +room, and saw a very pretty woman in rose-coloured +tulle sitting alone and near the +door.</p> + +<p>She had given ungrudgingly, unfaltering, +and there was no shadow of regret in her eyes; +it was nothing to her that he should care for +this other little body, for bare white shoulders +and a fluff of yellow hair. He had never been +more to her than a means to an end, and he +was to be that now.</p> + +<p>She took a tram from the Piazza del Popolo +to the Rotonda. There was a large ironmonger’s +shop at the corner; she remembered +having noticed it before. She went in and +asked to look at some of the pistols they had +in the window. Several were brought out +for her to see, and she chose a small one. +The young man who served her showed her +how to load it and pull the trigger. He +wrapped it in brown paper and made a loop +in the string for her to carry it by. She +thanked him.</p> + +<p>The bells of all the churches were ringing +the Ave Maria when she left the Hotel de +Russie an hour ago, and it was dark when +she reached her own room. The stars were +bright, shining through a rift of clouds that +hid the crescent moon. Olive laid the +awkwardly-shaped parcel she carried down +upon the table while she lit her candle. +Then she got her scissors and cut the string. +This was the key of a door through +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> +which she must pass. Death was the way +out.</p> + +<p>The little flame of the candle gleamed on +the polished steel. It was almost a pretty +thing, so smooth and shining. It was well +worth the money she had paid for it; it +was going to be useful, indispensable to-morrow.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, in spite of herself, she began to +think of her grave. It would be dug soon. +She would be brought to it in a black covered +cart. No prayers would be said, and there +would be no sound at all but that of the earth +falling upon the coffin.</p> + +<p>She sprang up, her face chalk white, her +eyes wide and dark with terror. She was +afraid, horribly afraid of this lonely and +violent end. Jean would never know that she +died rather than let another man—Jean +would never know—Jean—</p> + +<p>“I can’t! I can’t!” she said aloud +piteously.</p> + +<p>She was trembling so that she had to cling +to the banisters as she went down the stairs +to save herself from falling. There was a +post-office at the corner. She went in and +explained that she wanted to send a telegram. +The young woman behind the counter +glanced at the clock.</p> + +<p>“Where to? You have half an hour.”</p> + +<p>“To Florence.” She wrote it and gave +it in.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span> +“To <span class="smcap">Jean Avenel</span>, Villa Fiorelli, Settignano, +Florence.</p> + +<p>“If you would help me come if you can +to the Villino Bella Vista at Albano to-morrow +soon after noon; watch for me and follow +me in. I know it may not be possible, but +the danger is real to me and I want you so +much. In any case remember that my heart +was yours only.—<span class="smcap">Olive.</span>”</p> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3> + + +<p>Jean sat leaning forward that he might see +the road. The night was dark, starless, and +very wet, and he and the chauffeur were all +streaming with rain and splashed with liquid +mud that spattered up from the car wheels. +Now and again they rattled over the rough +cobble stones of a village street, but the way +for the most part lay through deep woods +and by mountain gorges. The roar of Arno in +flood, swollen with melted snows, and hurrying +on its way to the sea, was with them for a +while, but other sounds there were none save the +rustling of leaves in the coverts, the moaning +of wind in the tree-tops, the drip-drip of the +rain, and the steady throbbing of the car.</p> + +<p>When the darkness lightened to the grey +glimmer of a cheerless dawn Jean changed +places with the chauffeur; Vincenzo was a +careful driver, and he dared not trust his own +impatience any longer. His hands were +numbed with cold, and now he took off his +gloves to chafe them, but first he felt in his +inner pocket for the flimsy sheets of paper +that lay there safe against his heart.</p> + +<p>He had been sitting alone at the piano in +the music-room, not playing, but softly touching +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> +the keys and dreaming in the dark, when +Hilaire came in to him.</p> + +<p>“You need not write to her after all. She +has sent for you. Hear what she says.” He +stood in the doorway to read the message by +the light that filtered in from the hall. Jean +listened carefully.</p> + +<p>“The car—I must tell Vincenzo.” The +lines of the strong, lean face seemed to have +softened, and the brown eyes were very bright. +His brother smiled as he laid a kindly hand +upon his arm. “The car will be round soon. +I have sent word, and you have plenty of +time. Assure Olive of my brotherly regard, +and tell her that my books are still waiting to +be catalogued. If she will come here for a +while she will be doing a kindness to a lonely +man.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder what she is frightened of,” +Jean said thoughtfully, and frowning a little. +“She says ‘was yours’ too; I don’t like +that.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you must do your best for her,” +Hilaire answered in his most matter-of-fact +tone. “Be prepared.”</p> + +<p>Jean agreed, and when he went to get +ready he transferred a pistol from a drawer +of the bureau to his coat pocket. “I shall +bring her back with me if I can. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>The sun shone for a few minutes after its +rising through a rift in the clouds, but soon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span> +went in again; the rain still poured down, +and the distance was hidden in mist that clung +to the hillsides and filled each ravine and +cranny in the rocks. They were near Orvieto +when the car broke down; Vincenzo was out +on the road at once, but his master sat quite +still. He could not endure the thought of +any delay.</p> + +<p>“What is it? Will it take long?” He +had forced himself to wait a minute before +he asked the question, but still his lips felt +stiff, and all the colour had gone out of +them.</p> + +<p>The man reassured him. “It is nothing.”</p> + +<p>Jean went to help him, and soon they were +able to go on again.</p> + +<p>They came presently to the fen lands—the +Campagna that so greatly needs the magic +and glamour of the Roman sunshine, the +vault of the blue sky above, and the sound of +larks singing to adorn it. It seemed a desolate +and dreary waste, wind-swept, and shivering +under the lash of the rain on such a +morning as this, and the car was a very small +thing moving in that apparently illimitable +plain along a road that might be endless. +Jean saw a herd of the wild, black buffaloes +standing in a pool at the foot of a broken +arch of the Claudian aqueduct, and now and +again he caught a glimpse of fragments of +masonry, or a ruined tower, ancient stronghold +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span> +of one or other of the robber barons who +preyed on Rome-ward pilgrims in the age of +faith and rapine.</p> + +<p>They reached Albano soon after eleven +o’clock, and Jean left his man in the car while +he went in to the Ristorante of the Albergo +della Posta. He ordered a cup of coffee, and +sat down at one of the little marble tables near +the door to drink it. There was no one else +in the place at the moment.</p> + +<p>“Can you tell me the way to the Villino +Bella Vista?”</p> + +<p>The waiter looked at him curiously. “It +is down in the olive woods and quite near the +lake, and you must go to it by a lane from +the Galleria di Sopra, the upper road to Castel +Gandolfo.” After a momentary hesitation +he added, “<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Scusi!</em> But are you thinking +of taking it, signore?”</p> + +<p>Jean started. It had not occurred to him +that the house might be empty. “I don’t +know,” he answered cautiously. “Has it been +to let long?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” the man said. “The Princess +Tor di Rocca spent her last years there, alone, +and after her death the agent in Rome found +tenants. But lately no one has come to it, +even to see.” He lowered his voice. “The +place has a bad name hereabouts. The +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contadini</i>—rough, ignorant folk, signore—say +she still walks in the garden at moonrise, +waiting for the husband and son who never +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span> +came; and the women who go to wash their +linen in the lake will not come back that +way at night for fear of seeing her dead eyes +peering at them through the bars of the +gate.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that is very interesting,” Jean said +appreciatively. He finished his coffee, paid +for it with a piece of silver, and waited to light +a cigarette before he went out.</p> + +<p>Vincenzo sat still in the car, a model of +patient impassivity, but he turned a hungry +eye on his master as he came down the +steps.</p> + +<p>“You can go and get something to eat. +I shall drive up to the Galleria di Sopra, and +you must follow me there. You will find the +car at the side of the road. Stay with it until +I come, and if anyone asks questions you need +not answer them.”</p> + +<p>Jean drove up the steep hill towards the +lake. The rain was still heavy, and the +squalid streets of the little town were running +with mud. He turned to the left by the +Calvary at the foot of the ilex avenue by the +Capuchin church, and stopped the car some +way further down the road. The lane the +waiter had told him of was not hard to find. +It was a narrow path between high walls of +olive orchards; it led straight down to the +lake, and the entrance to the Villino was quite +close to the water’s edge. Nothing could be +seen of it from the lane but the name painted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span> +on the gate-posts and one glimpse of a shuttered +window, forlorn and viewless as a blind eye, +and half hidden by flowering laurels. Jean +looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to +twelve, and she had written “after noon,” +but he could not be sure that she had not +come already, and since he had heard the +name of Tor di Rocca he was more than ever +anxious to be with her.</p> + +<p>He tried the gate but it was locked; there +was nothing for it but to climb the wall, and +as he was light and active he scrambled over +without much difficulty and landed in a green +tangle of roses and wild vines. He knocked +at the house door, and stood for a while +listening to the empty answering echoes and +to the drip-drip of rain from the eaves. +Evidently there was no one there. He drew +back into the shrubberies; great showers of +drops were shaken down on him from the +gold-powdered mimosa blossoms that met +above his head; he shook himself impatiently, +like a dog that is disturbed while on guard. +From where he stood he could see the gate +and the grass-grown path that led from it to +the house. The time passed very slowly. He +looked at his watch four times in the next +fifteen minutes, and he was beginning to +wonder if he had not left Florence on a fool’s +errand when Olive came.</p> + +<p>He saw her fumbling with the key; it was +hard to turn in the rusty lock, and she had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span> +to close her umbrella and stand it against the +wall so as to have both hands free. The gate +swung open slowly, creaking on its warped +hinges. Jean noticed that she left it unlatched +and that she looked back over her shoulder +twice as she came down the path, as though +she thought someone might be following +her.</p> + +<p>She opened the house door with a key she +had and went in, and he came after her. He +stood for a moment on the threshold listening. +She was hurrying from room to room, opening +the shutters and the windows and letting in +the light and air; the doors banged after her, +and muslin curtains flapped like wings as the +wind blew them.</p> + +<p>His heart was beating so that he thought +she must hear it before she saw him, before +his step sounded in the passage. As he came +in she gave a sort of little cry and ran to him, +and he put his arms about her and kissed her +again and again; her dear lips that were wet +and cold with rain, her soft brown hair, the +curves of cheek and chin that were as sweet +to feel as to see. One small hand held the +lapel of his coat, and he was pleasantly aware +of the other being laid about his neck. She +had wanted him so much—and he had come.</p> + +<p>“Thank God, you are here, Jean. Oh, if +you knew how frightened I have been.”</p> + +<p>He kissed her once more, and then, framing +her face with his hands, he looked down into +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span> +her eyes. The blue eyes yearned to his, but +there was fear in them still, and he saw +the colour he had brought into her cheeks +fading.</p> + +<p>“I am not worth all the trouble I have +given you.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not,” he said, smiling. “Hilaire +sent you a long message, but I want to hear +what we are supposed to be doing here +first.”</p> + +<p>“Dear Hilaire!... Jean, you won’t be +angry?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t promise anything,” he said. “I +shall probably be furious. But in any case, +if it is going to be a long story we may as well +make ourselves at home.”</p> + +<p>“Not here! I must tell you quickly, +before he comes.”</p> + +<p>He noticed that she looked towards the +door, and he understood that she was listening +fearfully for the creaking of the gate, the +sound of footsteps on the path outside, the +turning of the key in the lock.</p> + +<p>“Tor di Rocca, I suppose? When is he +coming?”</p> + +<p>“Between one and two.”</p> + +<p>“We have at least half an hour then,” +he said comfortably, and drew her closer +to him with his arm about her shoulders.</p> + +<p>“When I first came to Rome I tried for +weeks to get something to do, but no one +seemed to want lessons. Then one day Signora +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span> +Aurelia’s sister told me how poor she was. +She cried, and I was very much upset because +I felt I was a burden, and that very afternoon +I found out a way of making money ... +Jean, you won’t be angry?”</p> + +<p>“No, dearest.”</p> + +<p>“I became a model—” She paused, but he +said nothing and she went on. “I sat for +one man only after the first week, and he was +always good and kind to me, always. He +painted a picture of me—I think you would +like it—and the day before yesterday he +had a show of his work. A lot of people +came. I did not see Prince Tor di Rocca, +but he was there, and after a while he +spoke to me. I had met him before and I +understood from what he said that Mamie +Whittaker had broken her engagement with +him.</p> + +<p>“The next morning M’sieur Camille had to go +out, and I was alone in the studio when the +Prince came in and tried to make love to me. +I was frightened, and I screamed, and just +then Camille returned, and he knocked him +down. He got up again at once. Nothing +much was said, and he went away, but I +understood that they were going to fight. I +went home and thought about it, and when +I realised that one or other of them might be +killed I felt I could not bear it.</p> + +<p>“I am so afraid of death, Jean. I try to +believe in a future life, but that will be different, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> +and I want the people I love in this one; just +human, looking tired sometimes and shabby, +or happy and pleased about things. I remember +my mother had a blue hat that +suited her, and I can’t think of it now without +tears, because I long to see her pinning it on +before the glass and asking me if it is straight, +and I suppose I shall never see or hear that +again, even if we do meet in heaven. Death +is so absolutely the end. If only people are +alive distance and absence don’t really matter; +there is always hope. And then, you know, +Camille is so brilliant; it would be a loss +to France, to the whole world, if he was +killed.”</p> + +<p>“What did you say his name was?”</p> + +<p>“Camille Michelin.”</p> + +<p>“I know him then. He came to me +once in Paris, after a concert, and fell on my +neck without an introduction. Afterwards +he painted my portrait.”</p> + +<p>“He is nice, isn’t he?” she said eagerly.</p> + +<p>He assented. “Well, go on. You could +not let them fight—”</p> + +<p>“I went to see the Prince at his hotel, +and I persuaded him to write a sort of +apology.”</p> + +<p>“You persuaded him. How?”</p> + +<p>“Jean, that man is the exact opposite of +the centurion’s servant; say ‘go’ and he +stays, ‘don’t do it’ and he does it. And I +once made the fatal mistake of telling him I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> +could never love him. He did not want me +to before, but now— He is a spoilt boy +who only cares for the fruit that is forbidden +or withheld. It is the scaling of the orchard +wall that he enjoys; if he could walk in by +the gate in broad daylight I am sure he never +would, or, at any rate, he would soon walk out +again. I promised to come here alone to +meet him, and not to tell Camille, and I have +kept my promise. If you knew how frightened +I was.... I thought you might be away, +and that Hilaire perhaps could not come in +your stead, though I knew he would if it were +possible.”</p> + +<p>The man left her then and went to +the window, where he stood looking out +upon the driving mist and rain that made +the troubled waters of the lake seem +grey, and shrouded all the wooded hills +beyond.</p> + +<p>“Suppose I had not come,” he said +presently. “What would you have done?”</p> + +<p>“You ask that?”</p> + +<p>He turned upon her. “Yes,” he said +hardly, “just that.”</p> + +<p>She took a small pistol from the pocket +of her loose sac coat and gave it to him.</p> + +<p>“So you were going to shoot him? I +thought—”</p> + +<p>She tried to still the quivering of her lips. +“No, myself. Oh, I am not really inconsistent. +I told you I was afraid of death. I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span> +will say all now and have done; I am afraid +of life too, with its long slow pains, and +most of all of what men call love. I don’t +want to go on,” she cried hysterically. “I +am sick. I don’t want to see, or hear, or +feel anything any more. I have had +enough. All this year I have struggled, +and people have been kind; but friendship +is a poor, weak thing, and love—love is +hateful.”</p> + +<p>She hid her face in her hands.</p> + +<p>“Rubbish!” he said, and then, in a changed +voice, “My darling, you will be better soon. +I must get you away from here.”</p> + +<p>Gently he drew her hands away from her +face and lifted them to his lips; the soft +palms were wet with tears.</p> + +<p>They were standing on the threshold of an +inner room. “You can go in here until I +have done with Tor di Rocca,” he said. +“But first I must tell you that Gertrude has +written to me asking me to get a divorce. +There is a man, of course, and the case will +not be defended. Olive, will you marry me +when I am free?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Jean, I—I am so glad.”</p> + +<p>“You will marry me then?” he insisted.</p> + +<p>“How thin you are, my dear. Just a very +nice bag of bones. Were—were you sorry +when I came away?”</p> + +<p>“You little torment,” he said. “Answer +me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> +“Ask again. I want to hear.”</p> + +<p>“Will you marry me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course.”</p> + +<p>A nightingale began to sing in the garden; +broken notes, a mere echo of what the stars +heard at night, but infinitely sweet as the soul +of a rose made audible; and as he sang a +sudden ray of sunshine shot the grey rain with +silver. It seemed to Jean that rose-sweetness +was all about him in this his short triumph +of love; that a flower’s heart beat against his +own, that a flower’s lips caressed the lean +darkness of his cheek. There were threads +of gold in the soft brown tangle of hair—gold +unalloyed as was the hard-won happiness that +made him feel himself invincible, panoplied +in an armour of joy that should defend them +from all slings and arrows. He was happy, +and so the world seemed full of music; there +was harmony in the swaying of tall dark +cypresses, moved by winds that strewed the +grass with torn petals of orange blossoms +from the trees by the lake side, in the clouds’ +processional, in the patter of rain on the green +shining laurel leaves.</p> + +<p>Laurels—his laurels had been woven in +with rue, and latterly with rosemary for dear +remembrance; he had never cared greatly +for his fame and it seemed worthless to him +now that he had realised his dream and +gathered his rose.</p> + +<p>He was impatient to be gone, to take the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span> +woman he loved out of this house of sad +memories, of empty echoes, of dust and rust +and decay. Already he seemed to feel the +rush of the cold night air, to hear the roar of +Arno, hurrying to the sea, above the steady +throbbing of the car; to see the welcoming +lights of home shining out of the dark at +the steep edge of the hills above Settignano.</p> + +<p>“About the Prince,” he said presently. +“Am I to fight him?”</p> + +<p>She started. “Oh, no! That would be +worse than ever. I thought you were too +English for that,” she said naïvely.</p> + +<p>He smiled. “Well, perhaps I am, but I +suppose there may be a bit of a scuffle. You +won’t mind that?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she said helplessly.</p> + +<p>A moment later they heard the gate +creak as it swung on its hinges. “He is +coming.”</p> + +<p>They kissed hurriedly, with, on her side, a +passion of farewell, and he would have made +her go into the room beyond, but she clung +to him, crying incoherently. “No ... no +... together ...”</p> + +<p>Tor di Rocca stopped short by the door; +the smile that had been in his hot eyes as +they met Olive’s faded, and the short, Neronic +upper lip lifted in a sort of snarl.</p> + +<p>“I don’t quite understand,” he said. +“How did you come here? This is my house, +Avenel.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span> +“I know it, and I do not wish to trespass +on your hospitality. You will excuse +us?”</p> + +<p>But the Prince stood in the way. “I am +not a child to be played with. I’ll not let +her go. You may leave us, however,” he +added, and he stood aside as though to let +him pass.</p> + +<p>Jean met his angry eyes. “The lady is +unwilling. Let that be the end,” he said +quietly.</p> + +<p>Olive watched the Italian fearfully; his +face was writhen, and all semblance of beauty +had gone out of it; its gnawing, tearing, +animal ferocity was appalling. When he +called to her she moved instinctively nearer +to Jean, and then with the swift prescience +of love threw herself on his breast, tried to +shelter him, as the other drew his revolver +and fired.</p> + +<p>Jean had his arm about her, but he let her +slip now and fall in a huddled heap at his feet. +She was safer there, and out of the way. The +two men exchanged several shots, but Jean’s +went wide; he was hampered by his heavy +motor coat, and the second bullet had scored +its way through his flesh before he could get +at his weapon; there were four in his body +when he dropped.</p> + +<p>Tor di Rocca leant against the wall; he +was unhurt, but he felt a little faint and sick +for the moment. Hurriedly he rehearsed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span> +what he should say to the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Questore</i> presently. +He had met the girl in this house of his; +Avenel, her lover, had broken in upon them; +he had shot her and fired at the Prince himself, +but without effect, and he had killed him in +self-defence.</p> + +<p>That was plain enough, but it was essential +that his should be the only version, and when +the smoke cleared away he crossed the room +to look at the two who must speak no word, +and to make sure.</p> + +<p>The man was still alive for all the lead in +him; Tor di Rocca watched, with a sort of +cruel, boyish interest in the creature he had +maimed, as slowly, painfully, Jean dragged +himself a little nearer to where the girl lay, +tried to rise, and fell heavily. Surely he was +dead now—but no; his hands still clawed at +the carpet, and when Tor di Rocca stamped +on his fingers he moaned as he tried to +draw them away. Olive lived too, but +her breathing was so faint that it would +be easily stifled; the pressure of his hand +even, but Filippo shrank from that. He +could not touch the flesh that would be +dust presently because of him. He hesitated, +and then, muttering to himself, went +to take one of the cushions from the window +seat.</p> + +<p>Out in the garden the nightingale had not +ceased to sing; the cypresses swayed in the +winds that shook the promise of fruit from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span> +the trees; the green and rose and gold of a +rainbow made fair the clouds’ processional. +The world was still full of music, of transitory +life and joy, of dreams that have an +ending.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3> + + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Via!</em>” said Vincenzo, and his black, oily +forefinger, uplifted, gave emphasis to his +words. “There are no such things as ghosts. +This princess of yours cannot be seen at +moonrise, or at any other time.”</p> + +<p>There is no room for faith in the swelled +head of young Italy, but the waiter was a +middle-aged man. He paused in the act of +re-filling the customer’s cup. “You do not +believe, then?”</p> + +<p>The Tuscan looked at him with all the +scarcely-veiled contempt of the North for the +South. “You tell me you are a Calabrian. +<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Si vede!</em> You listen to all the priests say; +you go down on your knees in the mud when +the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">frati</i> are carrying a wax doll about the +roads; you think a splinter of bone from the +ribs of some fool who would not enjoy life +while it lasted will cure a dropsy or a broken +leg; you hope the rain will stop because a +holy toe-nail is exposed on the altar. Ghosts, +visions, miracles!”</p> + +<p>Vincenzo Torrigiani was the son of a stone-cutter +in the village of Settignano, and he +had worked as a boy in the gardens of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span> +Villa Fiorelli. After a while the master had +noticed and had taken a fancy to him, chiefly +on account of his ever-ready and unusually +dazzling and expansive smile, and he had +been sent to a garage in Milan for six months. +The quick-witted Florentine learned a great +many things in a short time besides the +necessary smattering of mechanics and the +management of cars, and on his return he +displayed many new airs and graces in addition, +fortunately, to the same old smile. Later on +he spent the obligatory two years in barracks, +in a regiment of Bersaglieri, and came back +to Avenel’s service plus a still more varied +knowledge of the world, a waxed moustache, +and a superficial tendency to atheism. He +was always delighted to air his views, and he +fixed the shocked waiter now with a glittering +eye as he proceeded to recite his unbelief +at some length.</p> + +<p>“God is merely man’s idea of himself at his +best, and the devil is his idea of other people +at their worst,” he concluded.</p> + +<p>“Would you spend a night alone in this +haunted house?”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sicuro!</em>”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you will have to if your master +takes the place. He has gone to look at it.”</p> + +<p>Vincenzo gulped down the last of his coffee. +“I must go,” he said, but he was much too +Italian to understand that a man in a hurry +need not count his change twice over or +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> +bite every piece of silver to make sure +of it.</p> + +<p>It was nearly one o’clock when, having outdistanced +the pack of beggars that followed +at his heels through the narrow streets of the +town, he came out upon the broad, tree-shadowed +upper road. He had stopped for +a moment in the shelter of the high wall of the +Capuchin convent to light a cigarette, and +thereafter he went on unseeingly, in a brown +study. Had he or had he not paid two soldi +more than he should have done for the packet? +A Calabrian would cheat, if possible, of course.</p> + +<p>When, after much mental arithmetic, +Vincenzo solved the problem to his own +satisfaction the little scrap of bad tobacco in +its paper lining was smoked out. He looked +at his watch, a Christmas present from Jean, +and seeing that it was past the hour he began +to wonder. There were no ghosts, and in +any case they were not dangerous in broad +daylight. There were no ghosts, but what +was the signorino doing all this while in an +empty house? The car was there, drawn +up at the side of the road under the trees, and +Vincenzo fussed round it, pulling the tarpaulin +covers more over the seats; he had them in +place when it occurred to him to look underneath +for the fur rug. It was not there.</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio mio!</em>” he cried excitedly. “It has +been stolen.”</p> + +<p>Someone passing by must have seen it and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span> +taken it, probably someone with a cart, as it +would be heavy to carry. The thief could not +have gone far, and Vincenzo thought that if +he drove the car towards Castel Gandolfo he +might catch him, whoever he was—charcoal-burner +from the woods beyond Rocca di Papa, +peasant carting barrels of Frascati wine, or +perhaps a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">frate</i> from the convent. However, +he dared not attempt it as the signorino had +said “Wait.”</p> + +<p>After a few minutes of miserable uncertainty, +during which he invoked the assistance of the +saints—“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Che fare! Che fare! Santa +Vergine, aiutatemi!</em>” he decided to go and +find the signorino himself. He was half way +down the lane when he heard shots. He had +been hurrying, but he began to run then, +and the last echo had not died away when +he reached the gate of the Villino. It creaked +on its hinges as he passed in, but no one in the +house was listening for it now. He went in at +the door, and now he was very swift and silent, +very intent. There was a smell of powder in +the passage, and someone was moving about +in the room beyond. Vincenzo felt for the +long sharp knife in his hip pocket before he +softly turned the handle of the door.</p> + +<p>“Signore! What has happened?”</p> + +<p>Filippo Tor di Rocca started violently and +uttered a sort of cry as he turned to see the +man who stood on the threshold staring at +him. There was a queer silence before he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span> +spoke, moistening his lips at almost every +word.</p> + +<p>“I—I—you heard shots, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>The servant’s quick eyes noted the recent +disorder of the room: chairs overturned, +white splinters of plaster fallen from the ceiling, +a mirror broken. Into what trap had his +master fallen? What was there hidden behind +the table—on the floor? There were scrabbled +finger-marks—red marks—in the dust.</p> + +<p>“I was here with a lady whom I wished to +take this house when a man burst in upon us. +He shot her, and tried to shoot me, and I +drew upon him in self-defence.” The Prince +spoke haltingly. He had not been prepared +to lie so soon.</p> + +<p>“What are you doing with that cushion?”</p> + +<p>Filippo looked down guiltily at the frilled +thing he held. “I was going to put it under +her head,” he began, but the other was not +listening. He had come forward into the room +and he had seen. The huddled heap of black +and grey close at the Prince’s feet was human—a +woman—and he knew the young pale +face, veiled as it was in brown, loosened hair +threaded with gold. A woman; and the man +who lay there too, his dark head resting on her +breast, his lips laid against her throat, was his +master, Jean Avenel.</p> + +<p>He uttered a hoarse cry of rage. “Murderer! +You did it!”</p> + +<p>But Tor di Rocca had recovered himself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span> +somewhat and the bold, hard face was a mask +through which the red eyes gleamed wickedly. +“Fool!” he answered impatiently. “It was +as I said. The man was mad with jealousy. +There is his pistol on the floor. I am going +now to inform the authorities and to fetch +the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i>.”</p> + +<p>He went out, and Vincenzo did not try to +prevent him.</p> + +<p>“Signorino! signorino! answer me. +<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Madonna benedetta!</em> What shall I say to +Ser ’Ilario?” The little man’s face worked, +and tears ran down his cheeks as he knelt +there at his master’s side, stooping to feel for +the fluttering of the faint breath, the beating +of the pulse of life. Surely there was no mortal +wound—the shoulder—yes; and the side, +and the right arm, since all the sleeve was +soaked in warm blood.</p> + +<p>All those who have been dragged down into +the great darkness that shrouds the gate of +Death know that the first sense vouchsafed to +the returning soul is that of hearing. There +was a sound of the sea in Jean’s ears, a weary +sound of wailing and distress, through which +words came presently by ones and twos and +threes. Words that seemed a long way off, and +yet near, as though they were stones dropped +upon him from a great height: ... signorina +... not mortal ... healed ... care ... +twenty masses to the Madonna at the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Santissima +Annunziata</i> ...</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span> +Sight came next as the sea that had roared +about him seemed to ebb, leaving him still +on the shore of this world. He opened his +eyes and lay for a moment staring up at the +white ceiling until full consciousness returned, +and with it the sharp, stabbing pain of his +wounds, the acrid taste of blood in his mouth, +the remembrance of love. Olive.... Had +he not tried to reach her and failed? He +groaned as he turned his aching head now on +the pillow to see her where she lay.</p> + +<p>Vincenzo had cared for his master, had slit +up that red, wet sleeve with his sharp knife, +and had bandaged the torn flesh as well as he +was able; and now, very gently, but without +any skill, he was fumbling at the girl’s breast.</p> + +<p>Jean made an effort to speak but his lips +made no intelligible sounds at first. The +servant came running to him joyfully nevertheless. +“Signorino! You are better?”</p> + +<p>The kind brown eyes smiled through the +dimness of their pain.</p> + +<p>“Good Vincenzo ... well done. She +... she’s not dead?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, signorino—at least—I am not sure,” +the man faltered.</p> + +<p>“The wound is near the heart, is it not? +Lay her down here beside me and I will keep +it closed with my hand,” Jean said faintly. +“Lift her and lay her down here in the hollow +of my unhurt arm.”</p> + +<p>“No ... no!” she had cried. “Together.” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span> +No other man should touch her—if she died +it must be in his arms. How still she was, +how little warmth of life was there to cherish, +how small a fluttering of the dear heart under +his hand’s pressure....</p> + +<p>“Go now and get help.”</p> + +<p>Vincenzo made no answer, but his eyes +were like those of a faithful dog, anguished, +appealing, and he knelt to kiss the poor +fingers that had been bruised under that cruel +heel before he went out of the room.</p> + +<p>Very softly he closed and locked the door, and +then stood for a while in the close darkness of +the passage, listening. That devil—he wanted +them to die—suppose he should be lurking +somewhere about the house, waiting for the +servant to go that he might finish his work.</p> + +<p>The Tor di Rocca were hard and swift and +cruel as steel. That Duchess Veronica, who +had brought her husband the other woman’s +severed head, wrapped in fine linen of her own +weaving, as a New Year’s gift!—she had been +one of them. Then there had lived one Filippo +who kept his younger brother chained up to +the wall of some inner room of his Florentine +palace for seventeen years, until, at last, a +serving-man dared to go and tell of the sound +of blows in the night hours, the moaning, +the clank of a chain, and the people broke in, +and hanged the Prince from the wrought-iron +<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fanale</i> outside his own gate.</p> + +<p>Vincenzo knew of all these old, past horrors; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span> +the Florentines had made ballads of them, +and sang them in the streets, and one might +buy “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">L’Assassina</i>,” or “<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Il Fratello del +Principe</i>,” printed on little sheets of coarse +paper, on the stalls in the Mercato, for one +soldo. So, though the house was very still, +the little man drew his long knife and read +the motto scratched on the blade before he +climbed the stairs.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Non ti fidar a me se il cor ti manca.</i>”</p> + +<p>Hurriedly he passed through every room, +but there was no one there, and so he ran out +into the dripping green wilderness of torn +leaves and storm-tossed, drenched blossoms, +and up the lane, between the high walls of the +olive orchards, to the town.</p> + +<p>Don Filippo was really gone, and he was +waiting now on the platform of the Albano +station for the train that should take him +back to Rome. He was not, however, presenting +the spectacle of the murderer fleeing +from his crime. He was quite calm. The +heat and cruelty of the Tor di Rocca blood +flared in him, but it burned with no steady +flame. He had not the tenacity of his forefathers; +and so, though he might kill his +brother, he would not care to torment him +during long years. Hate palled on him as +quickly as love. He was content to leave +the lives of Jean Avenel and of Olive on the +knees of the gods.</p> + +<p>There was no pity, no tenderness in him to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span> +be stirred by the remembrance of blue eyes +dilated with fear, of loosened brown hair, of +the small thing that had lain in a huddled +heap at his feet, and he was not afraid of any +consequences affecting him. In Italy the plea +of jealousy covers a multitude of sins, and he +was sure that a jury would acquit him if he +were charged with murder.</p> + +<p>How many hundred years had passed since +Pilate had called for water to wash his hands! +Filippo—reminded in some way of the Roman +governor—felt that same need. His hands +were not clean—there was dust on them—and +it seemed that the one thing that really +might clog his thoughts and tarnish them +later on was the dust on a frilled cushion.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p> + +<h3>CHAPTER X</h3> + + +<p>To some men their world is most precious when +their arms may compass it. These are the +great lovers. It seemed to Jean now that it +mattered little whether this grey hour of rain +and silence preluded life or death. Presently +they would come to the edge of the +stream called Lethe, and then he, making a +cup of his hands, would give the woman he +loved to drink of the waters of forgetfulness, +and all remembrance of loneliness and tears, +and of the pain that ached now in his side +and in her shot breast would pass away.</p> + +<p>He looked down from a great height and +saw:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">“<i>the curled moon</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Was like a little feather</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Fluttering far down the gulf;</i>”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p>and the round world, a caught fly, wrapped +in a web of clouds, hung by a slender thread +of some huge spider’s spinning. There was +a dark mark upon it that spread and reddened +until it seemed to be a stain of blood on a +woman’s breast. She had been pale, but the +colour had come again when he had kissed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span> +her. It was gone now. Was it all in the red +that oozed between his fingers?</p> + +<p>In the twilight of his senses stray thoughts +fluttered and passed like white moths. Was +that the roar of voices? The hall was full and +they wanted him, but he could not play again. +Love was best. He would stay in the garden +with Olive.</p> + +<p>What were they asking for? A nocturne—yes; +it was getting dark, and the sea was +rising—that was the sound of the sea.</p> + +<p class="padtop">The doctor Vincenzo had brought in rose +from his knees and stood thoughtfully wiping +his hands on a piece of lint.</p> + +<p>“We must see about extracting the bullets +later on. One went clean through his arm +and so has saved us the trouble. As to her—I +am not sure—but I think the injury may +not be so serious as it now appears. She +was evidently stunned. She must have struck +her head against the table in falling.”</p> + +<p>“Can they be moved?” the servant asked +anxiously. “My master would not care to +stay on here. Can you take them into your +house, and—and not say anything?”</p> + +<p>The doctor hesitated. He was a bald, grey-whiskered +man, fat and flaccid. His cuffs +were frayed and there were wine-stains on his +shabby clothes. He was very poor.</p> + +<p>“I should inform the authorities,” he +said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span> +“Oh, I don’t think that is necessary. It +would be worth your while not to.”</p> + +<p>Jean’s fur coat had been thrown across a +chair. The doctor eyed it carefully. It was +worth more lire than he had ever possessed at +one time.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” he said. “The vineyard across +the lane is mine. We can go to my house that +way and take them through the gate without +ever coming out on to the road. I will go +and tell my housekeeper to get the rooms +ready.”</p> + +<p>Vincenzo’s face brightened. “I will go in +the car to-night to fetch the master’s brother. +He is very rich. It will be worth your while,” +he repeated.</p> + +<p>“He will be heavy to carry. Shall we be +able to do it alone?”</p> + +<p>“<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Via!</em>” cried the little man. “I am very +strong. Go now and come back soon.”</p> + +<p>When the other had left the room he crouched +down again on the floor at Jean’s feet. +“Signorino! Signorino! Speak to me! +Look at me!”</p> + +<p>But there was no voice now, nor any that +answered.</p> + +<p class="padtop">For a long while, it seemed, Jean was a spent +swimmer, struggling to reach a distant shore. +The cruel cross-currents drew him, great +waves buffeted him, and the worst of it was +they were hot. All the sea was bubbling and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span> +boiling about him, and the sound in his ears +was like the roar of steam. There were +creatures in the water, too; octopi, such as +he had seen caught in nets by the Venetian +fishermen and flung on the yellow sands of +the Lido. He saw their tentacles flickering +in the green curled edges of each wave that +threatened to beat him down into the depths.</p> + +<p>Vincenzo kept them off. He was always +there, sitting by the door, and when he was +called he came running to his master’s bedside.</p> + +<p>“Where is she? Don’t let her be drowned! +Don’t let the octopi get her! Vincenzo! +Vincenzo!” he cried, and the good fellow tried +to reassure him.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sia benedetto</i>, signorino! They shall not +have her. I will cut them in pieces with my +knife.”</p> + +<p>“What is the matter? I am quite well. +Is it only the tyre? There is Orvieto, and +the sun just risen. Is it still raining?”</p> + +<p>“No, signorino. The sun shines and it +has not rained for days. It will soon be +May.”</p> + +<p>Very slowly the tide of feverish dreams +ebbed, and Jean became aware of the iris +pattern on the curtains of the bed; of the ray +of sunlight that danced every morning on the +ceiling and passed away; of the old woman +who gave him his medicine. She was kind, +and he liked to see her sitting sewing by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span> +lamplight, and to watch her distorted shadow +looming gigantic in an angle of the wall. +Hilaire was there too, but sometimes he was +called away, and then Jean would hear his +uneven step going to and fro across an uncarpeted +floor, and the sound of hushed voices +in the next room.</p> + +<p>“Hilaire, is—is it all right?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, do not be afraid. Get well,” the +elder man answered, but Jean still lay with his +face turned to the wall. He was afraid. The +longing to see Olive, to hold her once more +in his arms, burned within him. He moved +restlessly and laid his clenched hands together +on the half-healed wound in his side.</p> + +<p>One night he slept soundly, dreamlessly, as a +child sleeps, and woke at dawn. He raised +himself on his elbow in the bed and looked +about him, and Vincenzo came to him at once +and asked him what he wanted.</p> + +<p>“Go out,” he said, “and leave me alone +for a while.”</p> + +<p>The green painted window-shutter was unfastened, +and it swung open in the little wind +that had sprung up. Jean saw the morning +star shining, and the widening rift of pale gold +in the grey sky above the hills. He heard +the stirring of awakened life. Birds fluttered +in the laurels. A boy was singing as he went +to his work among the vines by the lake +side:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ho da dirti tante cose.</i>”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span> +It seemed to Jean that he too had many +things to say to the woman he loved. He +called to her faintly, in a weak, hoarse voice: +“Olive!”</p> + +<p>After a while he heard her answering him +from the next room.</p> + +<p>“Jean! Oh, Jean!”</p> + +<p>He lay still, smiling.</p> + + +<p class="center smlfont padtop padbase">EDINBURGH<br /> +COLSTON AND CO. LIMITED<br /> +PRINTERS</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p class="center xlrgfont">THE BLUE LAGOON</p> + +<p class="center lrgfont">By <b>H. DE VERE STACPOOLE</b>,</p> + +<p class="center lrgfont">Author of “The Crimson Azaleas,” etc. 6s.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>The <i>Times</i> says: “Picturesque and original +... full of air and light and motion.”</p> + +<p>The <i>Daily Telegraph</i> says: “A hauntingly +beautiful story.”</p> + +<p>The <i>Globe</i> says: “Weirdly imaginative, +remote, and fateful.”</p> + +<p>The <i>Evening Standard</i> says: “A masterpiece.... +It has the gift of the most vivid +description that makes a scene live before +your eyes.”</p> + +<p>The <i>Sunday Times</i> says: “A very lovely +and fascinating tale, by the side of which +‘Paul and Virginia’ seems tame indeed.”</p> + +<p>The <i>Morning Leader</i> says: “It is a true +romance, with an atmosphere of true romance +which few but the greatest writers achieve.”</p> + +<p>The <i>World</i> says: “Original and fascinating.”</p> + +<p>The <i>Nottingham Guardian</i> says: “A +singularly powerful and brilliantly imagined +story.”</p> + +<p>The <i>Daily Chronicle</i> says: “Many able +authors, an unaccountable number, have +written about the South Sea Islands, but +none that we know has written so charmingly +as Mr. de Vere Stacpoole in ‘The Blue +Lagoon.’”</p> +</div> + + +<p class="center">T. FISHER UNWIN, 1 ADELPHI TERRACE, LONDON</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p class="center">T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher,</p> + +<p class="center lrgfont">WORKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD</p> + + +<p class="center smlpadt">I.</p> + +<p class="center xlrgfont">AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Crown 8vo.</i>, <i>cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="smlfont">“Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (<i>vide</i> first part of notice), +‘An Outcast of the Islands’ is perhaps the finest piece of fiction that has been +published this year, as ‘Almayer’s Folly’ was one of the finest that was published +in 1895.... Surely this is real romance—the romance that is real. +Space forbids anything but the merest recapitulation of the other living +realities of Mr. Conrad’s invention—of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer, +the one-eyed Babalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla—all novel, all +authentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad’s quality. He +imagines his scenes and their sequence like a master; he knows his individualities +and their hearts; he has a new and wonderful field in this East Indian +Novel of his.... Greatness is deliberately written; the present writer has +read and re-read his two books, and after putting this review aside for some +days to consider the discretion of it, the word still stands.”—<i>Saturday Review</i></p> +</div> + + +<p class="center smlpadt">II.</p> + +<p class="center xlrgfont">ALMAYER’S FOLLY</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Second Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo.</i>, <i>cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="center">“This startling, unique, splendid book.”</p> + +<p class="sig">Mr. <span class="smcap">T. P. O’Connor</span>, M.P.</p> +</div> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="smlfont">“This is a decidedly powerful story of an uncommon type, and breaks fresh +ground in fiction.... All the leading characters in the book—Almayer, his +wife, his daughter, and Dain, the daughter’s native lover—are well drawn, and +the parting between father and daughter has a pathetic naturalness about it, +unspoiled by straining after effect. There are, too, some admirably graphic +passages in the book. The approach of a monsoon is most effectively +described.... The name of Mr. Joseph Conrad is new to us, but it appears +to us as if he might become the Kipling of the Malay Archipelago.”—<i>Spectator</i></p> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p class="center"><span class="xlrgfont">THE BEETLE.</span> <span class="lrgfont">A MYSTERY</span></p> + +<p class="center">By <span class="lrgfont"><b>RICHARD MARSH</b></span>. Illustrated.</p> + +<p class="center">Eleventh Edition. 6s.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="smlfont">The <i>Daily Graphic</i> says: “‘The Beetle’ +is the kind of book which you put down +only for the purpose of turning up the gas +and making sure that no person or thing +is standing behind your chair, and it is a +book which no one will put down until +finished except for the reason above described.”</p> + +<p class="smlfont">The <i>Speaker</i> says: “A story of the most +terrific kind is duly recorded in this extremely +powerful book. The skill with which +its fantastic horrors are presented to us is +undeniable.”</p> +</div> + + +<p class="center smlpadt padbase">T. FISHER UNWIN, 1 ADELPHI TERRACE, LONDON</p> + + + +<div class="bbox"> +<p><b>Transcriber's Note</b></p> + +<p>Text in languages other than English is preserved as printed.</p> + +<p>Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.</p> + +<p>The following amendments have been made:</p> + +<div class="amends"> +<p>Page <a href="#Page_164">164</a>—Jocopo amended to Jacopo—"... one of the old houses in the +Borgo San Jacopo, ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_197">197</a>—mysogynists amended to misogynists—"Olive laughed. “Commend me +to misogynists henceforth.”"</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_216">216</a>—newsvenders amended to newsvendors—"... and the narrow streets +were echoing now to the hoarse cries of the newsvendors ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_228">228</a>—Babbuino amended to Babuino—"They went by way of the Via Babuino +across the Piazza di Spagna, ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_293">293</a>—anyrate amended to any rate—"... I am sure he never would, or, +at any rate, he would ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_297">297</a>—it's amended to its—"... its gnawing, tearing, animal ferocity +was appalling."</p> + +<p>Second advert page—decidely amended to decidedly—"This is a decidedly +powerful story ..."</p> +</div> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive in Italy, by Moray Dalton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVE IN ITALY *** + +***** This file should be named 29512-h.htm or 29512-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/1/29512/ + +Produced by Mark C. 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