"I have listened to you with all the admiration of an artist, although with some patience, since I cannot admit your starting-point—namely, that you have an unerring source of tradition and knowledge. There are few subjects, however, in which I feel so wide an interest: so let us return to it again on another occasion. We have forgotten time: it is already one o'clock, and we ought to be with the Padre in half-an-hour, as that is the best time for seeing the convent; and I suppose you would not be willing to leave this gallery without having a look at the two pictures which you said you would keep for a 'bonne bouche?'"
"Certainly not. I must have a look, as you say—if nothing more. Let us go to them."
If Mr. Barkley was pleased with the "Last Judgment," which closes the "Life of our Lord," what must have been his delight with that later one, and with the "Descent from the Cross?"
After a little time spent in admiring these two masterpieces, our friends proceeded to San Marco, and found the Padre at home. He received them most graciously, and took them over the convent, sparing no trouble in showing Mr. Barkley everything of interest, and especially the matchless frescoes of il Beato.
When they had made the tour of the convent, they were shown the relics of Savonarola, the church, and its exquisitely illuminated choir books. Having now seen all San Marco's treasures, they thanked the good Padre for the great pleasure he had afforded them, and took an affectionate leave of him.
As they walked home, Mr. Blake said—
"You will confess, I suppose, that the relics of Savonarola rightly belong to us; that soaring spirit, who could not submit to injustice and tyranny in the person of Alexander VI., and so became the forerunner of the great emancipation of mind which was brought about a century later. Savonarola is truly one of our most illustrious forerunners and martyrs."
"His brother—our kind friend, the Padre—would not like to hear you so slander him! The whole life of our great Dominican,—all his teaching,—his public acknowledgment of the supremacy of the Pope, accepting his absolution on the way to death,—all will rise up against you. We have no lack of reformers of morals; but we have no reformers of Divine dogmas amongst us. The life of the illustrious Savonarola has yet to be written; but if you will read one, published not long ago by Villari, and which is already in English, you will hardly have the courage to talk of Savonarola as one of your 'forerunners and martyrs.' He died as he lived, in the unity of the Christian faith."
Mr. Blake looked at his watch, and exclaimed—
"I declare it is three o'clock! and I promised to be at home by that time. I had no idea it was so late!"
"Nor had I. So it seems that all our battling only made the time fly?"
"Indeed it did. I have seldom spent a shorter or a pleasanter morning."
"Thanks. Then I hope you will feel inclined to spend another in the same way very soon."
"Shall it be to-morrow?"
"Most willingly! At the same time as to-day?"
"If you please. And now I must say good-bye, and hasten home to keep my appointment with the young ladies."
"With many thanks."
CHAPTER XI.
Loitering amidst the artistic haunts of Firenze la bella, we seem to have forgotten some of our Roman acquaintances, who, when leaving the Eternal City, took the southern instead of the northern direction.
We know already that Naples, or its neighbourhood, was the Eltons' destination; it was also that of the three gentlemen who played so prominent a part at their ball. How strange it is that such a trio should have fixed on going to the same place, each moved by motives so unlike those of the others!
Mr. Earnscliffe went there because he wanted change of scene, and thought Naples the most interesting;—Mr. Lyne, because it was a part of his plan to visit the south of Italy before returning to France; had Flora Adair accepted him, he would have done so with her, as his bride; now he would do so alone, for he was far too methodical to allow a disappointment to interfere with any of his arrangements;—Mr. Caulfield's motive was to meet the Eltons, and he wished to get there before them, in order that the "dragoness" might not be able to say he had followed them.
Mr. Earnscliffe chose Capri. He liked boating excessively, and would sometimes spend hours alone in his little craft, accompanied by a poor fisherman called Paolo, whom he had engaged as his boatman, and who interested him greatly by his free and amusing tattle. Mr. Earnscliffe was fond of mixing in this way with the people in foreign countries. Thereby he learned their habits and thoughts; and although among his equals he was considered as haughty and proud, such thoughts were never entertained of him by his inferiors. With them his generosity and readiness to help any one in real distress, combined with an evident determination not to let himself be imposed upon, caused him to be truly liked and respected. He thought about difference of position and inequality of fortune just in the same way as he did of the creation around him—namely, that all was full of inexplicable mystery. Reason told him that when he and Paolo came into the world there was no real distinction between them; it appeared unaccountable why the one was born in a wretched hovel and was only to have rags to cover him, whilst the other first saw light in a luxurious chamber, and servants waiting ready to serve him. He would often sit looking at Paolo, as he lolled with careless grace in some part of the boat, singing or reciting something with all the characteristic animation of his country, and wondered what each would have been had their conditions been reversed,—had Paolo been the highly-born rich man, and he the poor lowly fisherman. This train of thought would often lead him to ask, "Why do these inexplicable contrasts exist?" Then, with a gesture of impatience, he would begin sometimes to row vigorously, much to the wonder of the indolent Italian, who saw no cause for this sudden display of energy.
Mr. Earnscliffe's equals in the social scale were not unjust when they called him haughty and overbearing; so he was, to them: an open scoffer, indeed, at many of their opinions, and even at their faith; but to the poor he was all gentleness, he respected their religion, and even their superstitions he refrained from ridiculing. Intolerance towards persons of his own rank, or above it, was a marked feature in his character; if one of these had not cultivated his mind—if he were not all that he thought a man ought to be, he looked upon him with contempt, and considered himself merely obliged to treat him with cold politeness. To the poor, on the contrary, he was most indulgent, because he felt that fortune had denied to them all the advantages which she had given to the rich. The poor are forced to toil incessantly to gain their daily bread, they have scarcely any means of acquiring knowledge, of seeing and knowing what is good and true, and therefore it was that he, who in his own sphere would turn into ridicule the most solemn observances of Christianity, never even smiled at any practices, or cast a shadow of ridicule towards the feelings, of these poor Capri fisherpeople.
One day an acquaintance of his came to Capri, and he proposed that they should go out in his boat. As they got to the shore they found Paolo there playing with a beautiful little girl of about nine years old, who, as soon as she saw them coming, ran towards Mr. Earnscliffe. He caught her up in his arms, seated her on his shoulder, and carried her back to Paolo, who, with a gratified look, said, "Come è buono sua eccellenza!" and then turned to get the boat ready.
"You will come with us, Paolo," said Mr. Earnscliffe.
"Bene, signore; but would their excellencies wait a moment while I take la ragazzina to her mother; she is so precious!"
"Certainly," answered Mr. Earnscliffe, "I would not for worlds expose my little Anina to any danger." He bent down and kissed her, saying, "Addio, carina!"
As Paolo and Anina turned away, Mr. Earnscliffe's companion, Mr. Elliot, said, "Well, you do appear in a new character here, Earnscliffe!"
"I was not aware that you did me the honour of studying my character so well as to know what is old or new in it," was the reply, with a haughty look; "but is not Anina a beautiful little creature?"
"Yes, very much so indeed; but what did the man mean by saying, 'She is so precious,' and at the same time looking up to heaven in that strange manner."
"Ask Paolo to tell you; the story will sound far better from his lips than from mine."
Paolo returned, and they all got into the boat. Soon after they were fairly afloat, Mr. Earnscliffe said, "Paolo, my friend wants to know why you said that Anina was so precious—will you tell him?"
"With pleasure, illustrissimo," and his eyes looked the pleasure which his words expressed, for he was always happy and proud to talk of Anina; "but," he added, "perhaps it will weary his excellency, as he knows it all so well."
"Not at all—I never tire of hearing about her."
The father's face lit up with pleasure as he said, "The signor must know, then, that last year there was great distress in our poor island—so much so that the poorer fishermen, like myself, were hardly able to live. In the month of April our great trial fell upon us: our eldest child, a boy about a year older than Anina, sickened and died. Our little Anina herself began to fade too; she grew weaker and weaker, and lay in the sun all day hardly moving or speaking. One day the doctor happened to pass, and my wife asked him for charity's sake to examine la poverina. He did so, and said, 'She is sinking from weakness, and I fear in this time of distress there is but little hope for her.'
"That evening, as we sat outside looking at the child's little pale face and closed eyes, lying as she was in her mother's arms, we shuddered to think how soon those eyes might be closed, like our other darling's, never, alas! to open again. All at once Maria, my wife, exclaimed, 'Take me to Sorrento to-morrow, Paolo, that we may go to the shrine there and pray to the Madonna to save our child.'
"'Via! Maria, via! Have I not already prayed to the Madonna and the saints, as only a despairing father could pray, and all in vain,' was my answer.
"'Hush! marito mio,' she cried, 'if thou speakest so we are lost—only take me to Sorrento, and thou shalt see what the Madonna will do for us. She must hear me. Take me, Paolo! Oh take me!'
"I could not refuse poor Maria, although I thought it all fruitless—Santissima Madre di Dio mi perdoni."
Paolo took off his cap and crossed himself; but he did not see Mr. Elliot's smile, and he continued—
"Accordingly we started for Sorrento the next morning. A neighbour had promised to look after the child, so we were not uneasy at leaving her for the time.
"As we went up to the church my wife was full of hope, but I was gloomy and dejected. We heard Mass, and then I said to Maria, 'I am going into the town, but I will come back for thee.'
"I had determined to try to get a small loan from some of those to whom I was in the habit of selling fish, but they all talked of the bad times, and bestowed only their pity upon me.
"I went back for my wife, and we returned to the boat; then I exclaimed, 'Fine things thy Madonna has done for us! I have been to every one whom I know in the town, and I have not got a carlino.'
"Maria answered me gently that she was sure the Madonna would not fail us if I would only have trust and patience. I heard it all in silence. When we reached the shore I did not follow her out of the boat. She turned and asked, 'Paolo, art thou not coming? The little one will miss her father—il babbo.'
"'Why should I go?' I retorted. 'To see the child die? I'd rather trust to the waves than to thy Madonna. I'll put out to sea.'
"'If she is to die, then must I see her die all alone? Art thou going to desert me, Paolo?'
"Poor Maria! These words made me feel how cruel I had been to her; and jumping out of the boat, I joined her, saying, 'Come then, we will watch her together.'
"When we got near to the house, we saw our good neighbour leaning over la bambina, and clasping her hands. I grasped my wife's arm, and exclaimed, 'è morta!'
"With a cry, Maria darted forward, calling, 'Maddalena, Maddalena, dica di grazia non è morta mia bambina!'
"'Morta! No. See what the Madonna has given her!' And Maddalena held up two gold pieces.
"Maria gave me one look of joy and triumph; then she knelt down by her child and covered her with kisses. As for me, no words could express my remorse. I fell upon my knees and asked forgiveness of Iddio e Sua Santissima Madre.
"After a little time, and when we had all become a little calm again, Anina told us that a beautiful lady with golden hair came to her and asked her what was the matter with her? She answered that she had long been ill, and was dying like her little brother, because her parents were too poor to get what was necessary for her; and they had gone to Sorrento to pray to the Madonna that she might get well again. The lady kissed her, and, putting the two gold pieces into her hand, said, 'Tell il babbo e la madre that the Madonna sent these to them.' And then she went away. 'I felt so happy,' added the little one, 'because I knew then that it was the Madonna herself who had been with me!'
"You will not be surprised to hear, eccellenza, that we all wept for joy over the precious child whom the Madonna had visited and saved to us!"
Mr. Elliot laughed, and said, "That is an exceedingly well made up story, my good man; but you don't expect me to believe——"
"Stop," interrupted Mr. Earnscliffe, in a tone of indignation; "it is the action of a coward to laugh at a man who neither in words nor action has the power to answer you!"
"Earnscliffe, you insult me!"
"If I do, I am ready to answer for it. All that, however, is not for the present time; now, the least you can do is to allow me to explain away, as well as I can, your ill-timed merriment. Shall I do so?"
Mr. Elliot quailed before his haughty gaze, and muttered, "As you like; the fellow is not worth so many words between gentlemen."
"The 'fellow,' as you call him, is, perhaps, the superior of the two gentlemen;" his lips did not say "of one of them, certainly," but his eyes looked it; and without giving Mr. Elliot time to make any rejoinder, he turned to Paolo, and said—
"This gentleman wished to test the truth of what you have related by appearing to ridicule it. But I have explained to him how undoubtedly true it is, and he begs that you will finish the story."
The conversation between the two gentlemen had been carried on in English; but Paolo had watched their faces, and had rightly interpreted their different expressions. So he answered, "Come piace a sua eccellenza," looking pointedly at Mr. Earnscliffe, and laying a strong emphasis on the singular pronoun. He then went on to relate Anina's story.
"The child quickly recovered with the good things we were able to obtain for her. The first time that she followed me down to the boat, as she used to do when her poor brother and I were going out to fish, I felt beside myself with happiness; and you may be sure, illustrissimo, that a morning or evening never passes without my returning thanks to the Santissima Madonna, who has been so good to us, and that after the wicked things which I had said of her.
"A year went by, and the eve of the day in which our bambina had that blessed vision, Maria said to me, 'Paolo, thou must take us to Sorrento to-morrow.'
"'With all my heart,' I answered; for had I not learned to have as much trust in our blessed Patroness as my wife? The winter had been hard again, and we were very poor; but the child was well, and how could we complain? God knows what is best for us! So the next morning we set out for Sorrento with our little favoured one; and who shall be able to say how happy we were, as we thought of our trouble there on the same day a year before!
"After our return, on the evening of that same day, about the Ave Maria, my wife and I were sitting outside our door, and the child had wandered away among the rocks, when suddenly we heard her voice, and, looking up, we saw her in the arms of sua eccellenza. He gave her to my wife, and said that as he walked along, he heard a sound of crying, and saw at a little distance a child seated on a rock, and holding one foot in her hand. He asked her what ailed her, and she answered by taking away her hand from her foot; and he saw that it was cut, and bleeding fast. She had slipped, and fallen on a sharp piece of rock! God reward sua eccellenza! He bound up her wounded foot, and carried her, while she pointed out the way, to my cottage. Sua eccellenza then turned to me, and asked if I knew any one from whom he could hire a boat, and said that he also wanted a boatman to manage and take care of it for him. I replied that he could not do a greater act of charity than to take me, and that he could have my boat, too, only it was rather old and weather-beaten for un gran signore like him. He said that the boat being old did not signify, as he would probably buy one if he remained at Capri; and that he would take me on trial. And he has been graciously pleased to keep me in his service ever since. O santissima Madre di Dio! how much do we owe thee! When our precious bambina was dying from want, you came from heaven and gave her the gold which saved her life, and on the anniversary of that happy day you sent us a good angel, sua eccellenza!"
Paolo ceased speaking; but, with all the impetuosity of an Italian, he seized one of Mr. Earnscliffe's hands and pressed it to his lips. Mr. Earnscliffe flushed. He felt that Mr. Elliot was laughing at this scene; and one of his weak points was a horror of ridicule even from those whom he despised. Yet he would not hurt Paolo by showing that his demonstrative gratitude annoyed him; so he said gently, "Grazie, amico, ritorneremo adesso!"
Mr. Elliot exclaimed in a bantering tone, "Why, you are the eighth wonder of the world, Earnscliffe; and what a fool I was to be angry with you just now, when you were so ready to strangle me for laughing at that wretched fisherman's absurd story about the Madonna. You must confess, however, that you are about the last person whom one could have expected to act so. I myself have heard you hold up to scorn the worship of idols before dignitaries of the Romish Church,—before men whose position, one might have thought, would have prevented you from attempting to ridicule their creed in their presence. Yet you were ready to fight with me for venturing to laugh at the same thing in this fisherman!"
An expression of unutterable contempt was visible in Mr. Earnscliffe's face as he replied—
"Can you not understand that one should laugh at anything so false and absurd as this species of idolatry in those who ought to know better, and yet respect it, yes, religiously, in a man to whom has been denied the means of knowing what is and what is not true? If you cannot, I pity you; but it is vain to answer you. All I can say is that I would rather have died than have acted as you have done to-day."
"Upon my word, Earnscliffe, if ever any man had a right to quarrel with another, I have that right now."
"Then use it by all means, if you like, although I cannot see what you would gain by it."
"I believe you are right there, and you are so strange a mortal that one may as well let you alone. I declare it would not astonish me to hear you say that you considered that fellow there to be a more respectable personage than Monseigneur N——, brother to an English Earl, and covered with honours and distinctions!"
"Of course I do,—one of them is respectable, because he is true; the other is not, because he is a hypocrite."
Here appeared Mr. Earnscliffe's ill-formed intolerance. He could not understand that men of education and great intelligence could sincerely believe what appeared to him to be folly, and therefore it was hypocrisy. In the world around him he saw so much falseness and self-interestedness, that he became a harsh judge of his fellows. Had he exercised towards them only a small portion of the indulgence which he extended to the untaught and to the poor, he would have seen many virtues which in his sweeping severity he overlooked.
When they reached the shore they saw a party from Sorrento disembarking, and Mr. Elliot recognised some intimate friends of his. They begged him to join them, but he pleaded his engagement to dine with his friend Earnscliffe.
"Even so," they answered; "could you not stroll with us a little before you dine?"
"Excuse me for a moment then;" and turning to Mr. Earnscliffe he said, "I believe my absence would be more agreeable to you than my company until dinner time, and, perhaps, even then you would rather dispense with it!"
"Nay," he rejoined, laughing, "I am not quite so bad as that. I do not ask people to dine with me and then wish to get rid of them. My invited guest shall always find a welcome at my table if he chooses to accept it. Do we say adieu then, or au revoir?"
"Au revoir,—se piace a sua eccellenza," and with a gay glance at Paolo he turned and followed his friends.
The dinner had been ordered for two, but Mr. Earnscliffe now determined to add another guest in the person of the resident doctor, with whom he had a slight acquaintance.
A little before the time appointed Mr. Elliot returned from his walk in high spirits, and was introduced to Doctor Molini, who spoke English; so they conversed generally in that language.
As they sipped their coffee and had lighted their cigars after dinner, Mr. Earnscliffe alluded to the story which they had heard in the morning, and said that Dr. Molini was the gentleman of whom Paolo had spoken as having seen the child in her illness; upon which Mr. Elliot exclaimed, "Then, Dr. Molini, perhaps, you can tell us the truth as to how they got that money, instead of the story that Paolo related about a beautiful golden-haired lady, dressed in white, appearing to the child and giving it to her?"
"Signore, I can only confirm what he said; it is all perfectly true."
"You surely cannot mean to tell me that the Madonna brought down the gold pieces from heaven!"
"De facts are, as I said before, all true, but not de inference which dese poor people draw, dat it was de Madonna who appeared to Anina. I happened to walk dat way; I saw a beautiful lady in white and wid golden hair speak to de child, kiss her, den go away. I was curious,—I did follow her until I saw her run to a signore and lean upon his shoulder, as he sat on a rock drawing. I knew dey were English, and raising de hat, I said dat I hoped il signore et la signora were pleased wid our poor island. Il signore said, 'Yes, very much.' Den la signora asked if I could tell her anything about a lovely little child she had just seen. I said I was de doctor of Capri and knew de child, but dat I feared she would die from weakness, her parents being very poor, and de bad time had made it hard for dem to live. La signora said she was glad to learn it, and as I was a doctor, perhaps, I would look at de child sometimes and see her cared for, and she put money into my hand. It was not wonderful for de child to call her de Madonna, she was so beautiful; her hat and cloak were on a rock by de signore, and her hair sparkled like bright gold in de sun. I suppose she was his bride,—I tink so. He told me dey must return to Naples, and wished me buon giorno, and la signora said, 'Please not to forget de pretty child, and I shall be grateful to you.' I answered, putting my hand on my heart, dat it was a happiness to me to serve so gracious a lady. Il signore looked impatient, and as if he did not want me to stay, so I left dem, but I have never forgotten her or de charge she left to my care."
Mr. Elliot laughed at this specimen of foreign forwardness and English reserve as he answered, "Well, we shall not quarrel with you for having been a little curious, as it has procured us the pleasure of learning the truth about the story, which is really a most interesting and remarkable one. But"—turning to Mr. Earnscliffe—"I must leave you now, for, as you know, my time is running close."
"Stay a moment, I will get my hat and walk down to the shore with you; perhaps Dr. Molini will accompany us?"
"I should like it very much but I have a call to make, so I must wish you felice notte now."
The good little doctor took his departure after much bowing, and Mr. Earnscliffe and his friend set out on their walk. After some desultory chat the former asked, "Are there many English at Sorrento now?"
"Yes," replied the other, "the hotels are said to be very full;—by the way, there were two acquaintances of yours staying at my hotel in Naples, which I only left the day before yesterday,—Mr. Caulfield and Mr. Lyne."
"Mr. Lyne! Is it possible that he is in Naples? Are you quite sure of it?"
"Very possible indeed, my dear friend. I saw him there two days ago."
"You amaze me: but is he not going back to Rome? Is he not going to be married?"
"Married! I should say not; and he certainly is not returning to Rome, since he starts in a few days for Sicily."
They had reached the shore, and Mr. Elliot added—
"Do you wish to know if there is any probability of his being married; he seems to interest you so much?"
"Thank you, no; he does not interest me in the least. I was merely astonished to hear of his being in Naples, for in Rome he was said to be on the eve of marriage with an English lady there."
"Addio then. Come and see me at Sorrento some day,—it will be a change for you."
"You are very kind, but I do not want change; I like my island solitude. Good-bye." And Mr. Earnscliffe turned immediately away as the boatman pushed off.
CHAPTER XII.
The next morning found Mr. Earnscliffe still wondering how it was that Mr. Lyne came to be in Naples, and what had become of Flora Adair. Was it possible that she had refused Mr. Lyne? He felt a little startled at finding how much these thoughts occupied his mind; but, as he had often done before, he tried to persuade himself that he was quite indifferent to her proceedings personally, and that it was merely for the sake of the possible good of human nature in woman that he wished to know if she had been true and high-minded enough to reject this offer. What delicious self-deception! Had Mr. Earnscliffe said to himself, "If Mary Elton, instead of Flora Adair, were in question, should I be so interested in the possible good of human nature in woman, and care so very much to discover how she had acted?" But he asked himself no such question. It would have been an unsatisfactory way of putting the case; whereas, by placing it under the head of a laudable desire to acquire knowledge of human nature, it was quite another matter, and in that light he felt himself free to dwell upon it, and even actively to endeavour to unravel the mystery. Yet he could not succeed in finding a clear starting point for his investigations.
He wandered about without any settled object, or sat upon a rock with a book in his hand; but its pages remained unturned, and not even Anina, who well knew his favourite rocky perch, and seldom failed to join him there, could win from him now anything more than an absent smile; and having exhausted all her pretty little wiles to attract his attention, she at last went and stood beside him and asked, "Is il caro signore ill?"
The child's question roused him, and, drawing her to him, he said, "No, carina, I am not ill, I was only thinking."
"Thinking, signore," repeated Anina slowly, as if that word gave her the idea of a very mystic operation indeed.
"Yes, thinking, little lady; and would she like to know about what?"
"Di grazie, signore."
"Well, then, I was thinking of going to Napoli."
"A Napoli? but il mio caro signore will return; he is not going away?"
"No, carissima, I am not going away; I will take il babbo with me, and we shall be back again to-night if possible. Will your eccellenzina give me leave to go?"
"Yes," she answered, laughing merrily at the new title which he gave her; "il signore may go, as he says he will be home to-night, and"—like a true child, in Italy or elsewhere—"perhaps he will bring Anina something pretty from Napoli."
"It is not impossible that he might do so. What would her eccellenzina be pleased to wish for?"
"There are beautiful Madonne at Napoli, signore," she said timidly, "and the one I have is bruttissima,—unworthy of the Madonna who has done so much for me."
Mr. Earnscliffe pretended to be very intent on the examination of a flower which was growing at a little distance from him. He did not know how to answer the child. He felt that it was too much, not only to tolerate superstition, but actually to encourage it by giving Anina an image: and yet he did not like to disappoint her. He raised his eyes, and they met her soft liquid ones, so earnestly and pleadingly fixed on his face, that he could not bear to pain her, and he said, "You shall have your Madonna, carissima."
She threw her arms round his neck, declaring that never was anybody so good as he was, and "was he not also very fond of the Madonna?"
This was going from bad to worse, and he thought that the only thing to be done was to put an end to the conversation, so, without answering her question, he said, "Come, carina, we must go and tell il babbo to get ready."
"But is not il signore very fond of the Madonna?" she repeated with childish persistence.... How constantly he was tempted to tell her that all this was false, and try to teach her something nearer to truth, but he was always stopped by the thought that he himself could not explain clearly to her what truth was, and that when he left Capri he would only have rendered her unhappy, and different from all her own people; thus her faith in the Madonna and the Saints remained untarnished. Surely his good angel must have been whispering in his ear when he refrained from saying a disparaging word upon a subject which naturally irritated him, and which was so often brought before him by Anina in her lively affection for the Madonna. After a few moments' hesitation he replied, "We must ever love all that is good and beautiful, just as one loves you, carina, as long as you are such a dear, good little child...."
"But il signore will go away some day, and then he will forget Anina," she said, looking up gravely at him.
"Ah, carina, you will be more likely to forget than I shall. You will have other and dearer ones to love you, while I——," he stopped suddenly, and muttered in English, "What a fool I am making of myself!" Letting go Anina's hand, he walked on quickly, saying, "Here is il babbo." She stood still for a moment looking at him with a puzzled air, then away she ran to tell her mother that il signore had promised to bring her a beautiful Madonna from Napoli.
Mr. Earnscliffe told Paolo to have the boat ready in about half an hour, as he wished to go to Naples, and as the wind was so fair he preferred to sail rather than to take the steamer.
In this visit to Naples he had no fixed plan of action; he had not even determined whether he would call on any of his acquaintances there, yet he had a vague notion that in some way or other he would see Mr. Lyne, although at the same time he had not the slightest idea of how he was to gain any information from him. He could not ask him a single question about what was uppermost within him, yet he could not rest without making an effort in that direction. Suddenly it occurred to him that the Eltons might know something about it. He recalled the day at the Catacombs, thought of Mary Elton's eagerness to tell him that Flora was going to be married to Mr. Lyne; perhaps she might now be equally ready to tell him why the marriage had not taken place. It was possible that she might not know, but it was a chance, and so he would try to find out their address and call upon them.
As soon as he arrived in Naples he went to the Hotel de la Grande Bretagne, and asked if Mr. Caulfield and Mr. Lyne were staying there.
"Yes," answered the waiter, "but they are out. Will the signore leave a card?"
"It is unnecessary," replied Mr. Earnscliffe, "as I shall probably meet them; but perhaps you can give me some information about an English family of the name of Elton, who have been in Naples for the last two or three weeks?"
The waiter repeated the name with tolerable correctness, and after thinking for a few moments he said, una signora e due signorine had stopped there for a few days, and had afterwards taken a villa in the neighbourhood,—did the signore think that these were his friends?
Mr. Earnscliffe remembered having heard that Charles Elton was obliged to return to his regiment when his mother and sisters were going to Naples, therefore it most probably was Mrs. Elton and the two young ladies of whom the waiter spoke; so he asked to see the visitors' book, and found that his supposition was correct. The address of their present residence was written after their names; and, having gained all the information he required, he rewarded the waiter's services, and desired him to call a carriage, in which he then drove to the villa.
Having reached the gate, Mr. Earnscliffe alighted, saying that he would walk up; and discharging the man, he entered.
The villa was situated about half way up one of the hills which rise behind Naples, and which command so lovely a view. Our friend stood still for a moment gazing upon it; as he did so he thought he heard a sound of voices, and looked round in the direction whence the sound seemed to come. He saw nothing, however, but a thick hedge; but on approaching it he discovered that it bordered a pretty secluded walk, which it shaded effectually from the sun. It looked very inviting, and he followed it, until he came to a spot where the hedge formed a sort of bow, and there, sitting on a stone bench, he saw Mary Elton. There was a table before her, and she leaned upon it with crossed arms and her head bent upon them. By her side knelt Helena, who had thrown one arm round her sister's waist, and with the other hand she tried to draw away the crossed arms which hid her face.
Did Mary hear Mr. Earnscliffe's step, or did she feel that he was looking at her? However that may be, she raised her head suddenly and saw him standing before her. Starting to her feet, the blood rushed to her face, crimsoning it all over; but it receded as quickly, and left her as pale almost as marble as she exclaimed, "Mr. Earnscliffe!" and then stood looking at him in silent amazement.
He smiled, and putting out his hand to her he said, "I came to call upon Mrs. Elton, but as I entered the gate I thought I heard voices in this direction, and that the sound of my own name caught my ear, so I took this walk instead of going direct to the house. I hope I have not intruded."
"Surely you need not fear to be looked upon as an intruder here," answered Mary, with a slightly faltering voice; "mamma will be delighted to see you."
"Of course she will," added Helena, shaking hands with him; "but where have you come from, Mr. Earnscliffe? I declare you appeared before us in so ghost-like a manner that Mary and I have not yet recovered from the shock."
"I see that I have startled Miss Elton very much," he replied, looking fixedly at Mary, who was still very pale; "yet I should have thought that she was less afraid of ghostly apparitions than you. But on this occasion you have shown more courage."
"Nevertheless," answered Mary, quietly, "I am less afraid of such things than Helena, and at all events, as I need scarcely say, I did not look upon your sudden appearance as supernatural; but I have been suffering from a nervous headache all day, and anything unexpected would have startled me for the moment."
"Then I regret having given you a start," he said, still looking inquiringly at her, as if he did not think that the effect was quite justified by the cause assigned.
"Pray do not say a word more about it, now that it is over. I dare say the start may do me good—as an electric shock. Let us go to the house."
"But all this time, Mr. Earnscliffe," interposed Helena, "you have not answered my question as to where you came from. To me it seemed as if you had dropped from the clouds."
"I did not drop from the clouds, but a friendly wind wafted me across the sea, and a chariot bore me through the air to the gate of your villa."
"Why you must be a demi-god, to have winds and chariots in attendance to bear you where you will. Are you a magician, Mr. Earnscliffe?"
"Neither, Miss Helena; but surely this is no more wonderful than dropping from the clouds as you suggested, and, as in politeness bound, I answered you in your own language."
"What a provoking man you are! You always manage to make it appear that you are right whether you are or not. But now please to answer me rationally."
"Well, then, I came from Capri, where I have been staying since I left Rome, intending to spend an afternoon in Naples. I heard that you were residing in the neighbourhood, and asked at the Hotel de la Grande Bretagne if they knew your address, and as you may judge by seeing me here, my question was answered in the affirmative."
Mary turned aside her head in order to hide the flush of pleasure which she could not keep down at hearing this proof of his anxiety to see them, and Helena said, "How wonderfully condescending it was of you to take the trouble to seek us out!"
"Nay, I could not well spend a day in Naples and not call upon you, for I had not time to do so in Rome after your ball."
"There is more of your provokingness. You will never allow one to imagine that you pay a compliment."
"Surely the Misses Elton must be surfeited with compliments, and therefore could not care for, or expect any, from a half-hermit like myself."
"Oh! a compliment is always acceptable when one can flatter one's self that it is true, and you, I suppose, would not deign to say anything which was not strictly so."
"Certainly not." He turned to Mary and said somewhat abruptly, "I hear that Mr. Lyne is here. Was it then a groundless on dit that he was going to marry Miss Adair?"
Poor Mary! What a blow this was to all her rising hopes, founded on the fact of his having shown anxiety to find them out. This question revealed to her the true motive of his visit. The revulsion of feeling was too great to allow her to speak at once, and Helena said, "Oh no, but Flora would not——"
"Helena!" interrupted Mary, sharply; "you are treading on my dress," and she laid her hand heavily on her sister's arm. Helena looked astonished, but remained silent, and Mr. Earnscliffe said—
"You were saying, Miss Helena, that Miss Adair 'would not——' Pray finish the sentence."
"Helena ought to have said," returned Mary, without giving her sister time to speak, "that Flora could not have afforded to refuse such an offer as Mr. Lyne's; so perhaps she is engaged to him."
"That is not very probable, Miss Elton, as they have gone in contrary directions," answered Mr. Earnscliffe, drily; whilst he said to himself, "There is some motive here for trying to make me believe in this marriage, and it is evident I am not to be allowed to hear the truth about it, or why was the sister hindered from speaking? But I will know what the mystery is." His face assumed so stern and determined an expression that Helena exclaimed, "Why, Mr. Earnscliffe, you look as if you were struggling with some imaginary enemy, whom you are resolved to conquer!"
"It must, indeed, have been an imaginary one," he answered, smiling, but the smile was not a pleasant one, "as in reality I am walking with two young ladies, neither of whom could be supposed to be my enemy, or the enemy of anybody, I suppose; but you are right in thinking that were there any such struggle, I should be resolved to conquer. I am not so easily turned aside from any purpose, whatsoever it may be"—and his eyes rested for an instant on Mary.
She felt uneasy under the scrutiny; but fortunately for her they had reached the steps, and running up, she threw open both sides of the glass-door, saying, in imitation of Helen's gay, mocking manner—
"Welcome to Bel Vedere, O mighty conqueror!"
"That is a bad edition of me, Mary," said Helena, "and does not suit you at all,—does it, Mr. Earnscliffe?"
"We are unaccustomed to it in Miss Elton," he replied; "while in you it appears as if it could not be otherwise."
"You think so, of course. In your estimation I know that I am a mere butterfly, and incapable of any deeper feeling than the amusement of the moment."
"Such you say is my opinion; I cannot be so rude as to contradict you, however. I certainly never said or implied anything of the kind. But we are keeping Miss Elton waiting."
They had remained standing at the foot of the steps during this little skirmish of words; then they followed Mary into the deliciously cool stone-paved hall, and from it into the drawing-room. There, too, it was equally cool, for the floor was of marble; the furniture was of a pale amber, so that the light which pierced through the closely-shut persiennes was tinged with a soft golden hue; bouquets of roses gave a delicate perfume to the air; and through the open windows there came every now and then a slight breeze, laden with the scent of orange flowers.
Even Mr. Earnscliffe felt the charm of that room creeping over him. How strongly at that moment did he feel the refining power of woman's presence!—And involuntarily he sighed.
Mrs. Elton came down quickly. She seemed delighted to see him, and begged that he would partake of their four-o'clock refreshments, which were about to be served, and drive with them afterwards on the Riviera, and hear the band in the Villa Reale.
"Thank you. I shall be very happy to do so," he replied, thinking that he might chance to see Mr. Lyne there.
Shortly afterwards came coffee, cakes, fruit, creams, and light wines; and as soon as they had partaken of these, the ladies went to get ready for their drive.
CHAPTER XIII.
We left Mr. Earnscliffe alone in the drawing-room waiting for the return of the ladies, and during their absence that unfinished sentence of Helena's—"Flora would not—" occupied his thoughts. "Did she mean to say that Flora Adair would not accept Mr. Lyne?" His heart beat strangely fast as the conviction that it was so began to dawn upon him, and again he felt startled at his own feelings. But he would not stop to examine them now: he must first discover the whole truth. And once again he thought, "What can Mary Elton's motive be in not letting her sister speak?" He remembered her extraordinary agitation upon seeing him, and wondered what could have caused it. It was not possible to suppose that Mary wanted him as a desirable match for herself, as with her beauty and ample fortune he knew that a suitable marriage could be no difficulty for her. Why, then, should she waste her energies in trying to catch him?... Evidently it could not be that; yet he could think of no other reason for her extraordinary conduct. He was not a vain man: so it never occurred to him that the cause of all this was love for himself; besides, he hardly believed that women ever acted from any but interested motives,—thus he missed the solution of the riddle.
His musings were interrupted by the entry into the room of the subject of them. Mary came in and threw herself into an armchair, and as she lay back in it she looked so weary that Mr. Earnscliffe said—
"You look tired, Miss Elton."
"Tired? Yes. Tell me—you who are said to be a philosopher—have you found life to be so pleasant a thing that you have never been tired of it?" She did not give him time to answer, but went on hurriedly, "Is it not, on the contrary, made up of struggles which wear one out;—of vain efforts to win some longed-for object? And how great is the weariness which follows these struggles, when one sees that object slipping from one's grasp, and about to fall into the hands of one who has, perhaps, never fought for it!"
He looked at her in amazement as he exclaimed—
"You speak almost with the bitterness of experience, Miss Elton!"
"I speak of life in general. Is it not what I have said?"
"Yes, perhaps it is so,—at least, until we have learned that there is nothing in it worth struggling for!"
"But I do not think it true that there is nothing in life worth struggling for; nor in reality do you. Ay, there are things worth struggling for, and at this very moment you feel that there are!"
"Miss Elton!"
"I know that I astonish you greatly. You cannot understand that I should speak thus,—I, who am generally so calm and quiet. But there are times when one forgets conventionality, and everything else;—times when life becomes a burden, and one envies the Pagans, who saw no crime in laying it down voluntarily. We are given too much or too little light and faith—enough to prevent us from choosing between life and death, as they did, but not enough to prevent us from longing that we, too, had the power so to choose.... Ah! if one did not believe in eternal happiness or misery!"
At this moment, Mrs. Elton and Helena came in, and there would have been an awkward pause, had not Mary continued, with perfect coolness—
"Yes, as I was saying, happiness and misery—or rather, prosperity and misery—come into such close contact in Italy;—the palace and the hovel lean one against the other; the lady in costly velvets and the beggar-woman in rags walk side by side. Indeed, it is in southern lands alone that you see them thus face to face."
"That is quite true," observed Mrs. Elton. "In England the proper distinction of classes is admirably well marked."
"The carriage, ma'am," announced Thomas, opening the door.
"What a strange girl that is!" thought Mr. Earnscliffe, as he looked at Mary, who was seated opposite to him in the carriage. "She was speaking with all the earnestness of excited feeling when her mother entered the room, and at once she changed her tone and manner so completely, that one could scarcely believe it to be the same person who, a moment before, was talking bitterly and eagerly, with flashing eyes and hands twitching nervously...."
When they reached the Riviera they found it already crowded with gay equipages. No sooner, however, had they taken their place among the other carriages than Helena exclaimed, "How I should like to get out and walk in the Villa Reale; then I could see the programme of the music, and one enjoys listening to a band so much more when one knows what it is playing."
"And why do you not gratify your desire? I need scarcely say that I should be most happy to escort you," said Mr. Earnscliffe.
"Thank you! Thomas, open the door."
"I will go with you," said Mary.
"But," interposed Mrs. Elton, "you surely will not leave me quite alone; you may as well stay with me now, Mary, and when Helena comes back you can take a turn, if Mr. Earnscliffe should not be tired of handing young ladies about."
"On the contrary, Miss Elton may count upon my being ready to accompany her."
Mary felt that she could not persist, so she reseated herself, saying, "Thank you, but I dare say that by the time Helena returns I may not feel inclined to trespass upon your readiness to oblige. You know that it is a woman's privilege to change her mind as often as she likes, and we have so few privileges that it would be unwise not to avail ourselves of them."
He merely smiled as he handed Helena out of the carriage, and offering her his arm, he led her into the Villa in order to see the programme, which was posted up close to where the band was playing. Mary soon lost sight of them amidst the crowd. Before they had come out she had given Helena a lecture upon her thoughtless way of speaking, and cited as an example of this what she was about to say on that very morning about Mr. Lyne and Flora Adair, declaring that even if she positively knew—which she could not—that Flora had refused Mr. Lyne, it was not right of her to speak of it.
"You are mistaken, Mary," answered Helena, "in saying that I could not know it. I do know it, for Harry's answers were so confused and contradictory when I asked him about his friend, that it was just as plain to me that he had been refused as if Harry had admitted it in so many words. Poor Harry! he thinks that it would be betraying his friend to tell even me; but with all his determination he has 'let the cat out of the bag'—he would have done much better to have told me in confidence; I should then be bound in honour not to divulge it."
"It matters not—you ought not to speak of it. What would Mr. Lyne think if he should hear it said that Flora Adair had refused him, and that the Misses Elton had said so? So please, Lena, to be more cautious in future."
"I will not speak of it, Mary, because it would, I see, annoy you; but why not have said candidly, 'Do not tell Mr. Earnscliffe,' for you know that it is not my saying generally that Mr. Lyne has been rejected which displeases you."
"What possible advantage could it be to me, Helena, that Mr. Earnscliffe should not know this? Do you suppose that it would make him like me any better? Absurd! But we must not get the character of being mauvaises langues. You said you would not speak of it again, and therefore I am sure you will not." So saying she left the room.
Even to Helena she could not bring herself to acknowledge to what meanness she could descend in order to keep Mr. Earnscliffe away from Flora Adair, and it was after this conversation that she went into the drawing-room looking so weary.
As she saw Mr. Earnscliffe and Helena leave the carriage together she thought, "What Lena said of Mr. Caulfield—that his very determination not to speak betrayed the secret—will be her own case now. She will mean to keep her word, yet Mr. Earnscliffe will know it, for he is determined to know as much as possible."
She was right: Mr. Earnscliffe was determined to find out the truth, yet he felt awkward about asking Helena; so by way of introduction he led the conversation back to Rome, and their ball, and chance favoured him. Helena inadvertently disclosed all that he wished to know. He exerted all his power to be agreeable in order to amuse her, and drew such laughable caricatures of the different people there that Helena forgot all restraint, and yielding to her natural delight in ridicule, she added many an absurd feature to Mr. Earnscliffe's pictures, until, carried away by the subject, she exclaimed, "But the hero of the night was Mr. Lyne. His air of confidence and triumph as he danced that last quadrille before the cotillon with Flora was delicious; then afterwards the poor rejected creature looked so crestfallen as he sneaked away that I could not help laughing at him. I met him near the door, and was so tempted to cut off his retreat and make him dance with me for the fun of teazing him; but I took pity upon him and let him escape."
"Then he did propose for Flo——, for Miss Adair, and she refused him?" said Mr. Earnscliffe, in a low thrilling tone.
"I said nothing about Mr. Lyne's proposing to Flora Adair," retorted Helena eagerly, and blushing deeply as she felt how imprudent she had been—that she had told the very thing which she had been desired not to tell.
"It is quite needless to make any explanations about it, Miss Elton. I am aware that you did not say that Mr. Lyne had been refused by Miss Adair," he answered, smiling.
Helena grew still more flushed as she cried out hotly, "You are unkind, ungenerous, man——" she was going to say manœuvring, but she stopped suddenly, feeling that getting angry about it was only betraying herself still further.
"How many more evil qualities have I displayed, Miss Elton?" he replied, with a slight laugh. "But here are two friends of yours."
She looked up and saw Mr. Lyne and Mr. Caulfield standing before her, the latter gazing at her with somewhat of a displeased air. A lover is not often particularly well pleased to see his beloved walking alone with another, and that a handsome, man! Helena understood it all at a glance; it quite restored her gaiety, and for the time being made her forget her vexation with herself and Mr. Earnscliffe. As she shook hands with the new-comers she thought to herself, "So you are jealous, Master Harry, are you?—then I shall have grand fun in teazing you." She had drawn her arm from Mr. Earnscliffe's, and stood with downcast eyes before Mr. Caulfield. Mr. Earnscliffe proposed that they should return to the carriage, but Helena objected, saying, "Surely it is pleasanter to walk about a little longer; and now that these gentlemen have joined us, one of them I dare say will allow me to walk with him, so that you, Mr. Earnscliffe, will be freed from the wearisome task of making me talk." She emphasised the latter words, and again an expression of annoyance passed over her features.
"It was not a wearisome task I assure you, Miss Elton,—very far from it; your conversation was most interesting to me."
"True, I suppose you did find it interesting for once." She turned away impatiently, and said in a low tone to Mr. Caulfield, "Come."
He required no second summons to join her, and they walked on together, Mr. Lyne and Mr. Earnscliffe following.
From what Helena had said Mr. Earnscliffe felt certain that Flora had refused Mr. Lyne, yet he wanted to have assurance made doubly sure; he longed to hear Mr. Lyne himself confirm it, for he found it very difficult to believe that a woman had acted so disinterestedly, and at the same time he wished ardently to be compelled to believe that Flora Adair had done so. But the difficulty was to make Mr. Lyne speak—how indirectly soever it might be—on the subject.... Again chance favoured him.
An Italian lady with her two daughters passed them and bowed to Mr. Lyne. Turning to his companion, he said, "Did you observe the plainer of those two girls? She has just returned from a convent for her month of probation before she enters as a nun."
"Indeed! poor girl! so she is to be a victim to this horrible custom in your Catholic countries of sending plain or portionless girls into a convent! Yet, after all, I don't know that it is a great deal worse than our own system of selling women in marriage, save inasmuch as that we use no force. But then—alas that it should be so!—it is not necessary for us to use force,—our women are only too ready to be sold if the bidding be but high enough, too ready to become the property of any man who can give them wealth or position, with or without love on their sides. To me, this appears to be the lowest of all degradation, and the sanction which the world's rules gives to it can make no real difference. It is merely legitimatized degradation, yet I half believe that all women are capable of submitting to it."
"Surely you are mistaken," answered Mr. Lyne earnestly; "there are many women far above anything of that kind. You must not forget that, on principle, many persons disapprove of ardent love as an ill-regulated feeling; therefore women often marry without what is called love, but they would not for worlds accept one whom they did not respect and look up to; and these surely are not to be condemned. There are others again whom no possible advantage would induce to marry without that intense love of which they dream."
"This is all very well in theory, but does not experience teach us the contrary? Could we name one woman out of all those whom we know who would really act so? Lives there the girl who, without an independence of her own, ever refused a rich man merely because she did not love him intensely? You know you could not point out one."
"Pardon me, I could."
"Really? truly?"—exclaimed Mr. Earnscliffe, laying his hand upon Mr. Lyne's arm.
"As really, as truly, as that I am walking with you."
"Thank you, Lyne, you don't know how much good you have done me; you have restored my belief in the truth and beauty of woman's nature, for even one true woman is sufficient to redeem the sex from general contempt.... Yet God knows I had reason to distrust them."
"Still you ought not to distrust all because some are unworthy."
"I feel that you are right, and again I thank you for having given back to me one of the old feelings of my youth."
To Mr. Lyne's calm, passionless temperament this lively gratitude seemed uncalled for, and he made no answer. After a few moments' silence Mr. Earnscliffe said, "We must return to the carriage. Mrs. Elton will think I have eloped with her daughter." Quickening his pace, he joined Mr. Caulfield and Helena, saying, "Miss Elton, I regret to break in upon a conversation which seems to engross you so much, but I really think we ought to return to Mrs. Elton."
"Very well," answered Helena in an impatient tone.
Mr. Earnscliffe fell back to his place by Mr. Lyne, but before they got within sight of the carriage Helena and her cavalier stopped apparently to examine a flower, and when the others came up she said, "Mr Lyne, I believe you are a good botanist, so come and tell me the name of this flower; and I also want to hear about your proposed tour in Sicily."
It was easy to see that the object of all this was to change the order of the procession, accordingly Mr. Earnscliffe walked on with Mr. Caulfield, while Helena and Mr. Lyne were occupied with the flower.
When they reached the carriage neither Mrs. Elton nor Mary seemed pleased at the addition to their party in the persons of Mr. Caulfield and Mr. Lyne. The two gentlemen, however, appeared not to observe it, and went up and shook hands with them. Mr. Earnscliffe handed Helena into the carriage, then said to Mary, "Now, Miss Elton, shall we have our walk?"
"Thank you, not now; I do not feel inclined to walk; but if you will return to dinner with us we can have a stroll in the evening."
"You are very kind," he replied, "and I shall be delighted to do so, if you will permit me to say adieu for the present. I must see my boatman and tell him at what hour to be ready for me."
"Could not Thomas do that?"
"No. I must go myself, for I promised to buy a present for my boatman's little daughter."
"Well then, au revoir! We dine at half-past six to-day, on account of some national fête to which our cook wants to go, so you have not too much time to spare."
"Nevertheless I shall be punctual—adieu."
Mrs. Elton turned to Mary and asked, "Is Mr. Earnscliffe gone?"
"For the present, yes; but he will return to dinner."
"Oh, that is all right," answered Mrs. Elton, without taking the trouble of lowering her voice so as to prevent the other gentlemen from hearing that Mr. Earnscliffe was going to dine with her; indeed she was rather glad to make Mr. Caulfield feel that he was in the way; had it not been for him she would have asked Mr. Lyne to dine, but, as it was, she could not ask him and leave his friend uninvited; it would have been too much.
At six the band went away, and the Eltons immediately afterwards.... When they reached home Mrs. Elton told Thomas that Mr. Earnscliffe was coming to dinner, and desired that as soon as he arrived he should be shown into a dressing-room. The ladies then disappeared.
Helena dreaded the dressing beyond measure, for she was sure that Mary would at once ask her about her walk, and what could she answer? In fear and trembling she entered her own and her sister's room; but Mary asked no questions: the mischief, she instinctively felt, had been done, and it was useless to reproach Helena. She dressed herself in silence; but her varying colour, and the trembling of her hands, showed how excited she was. Helena looked on with dismay. She found this silence worse than any scolding could have been, yet she was afraid to break it. To her great relief the bell rang for dinner, and she hastened downstairs. Mary followed her in a few moments, but went direct to the dining-room, and there she found the rest of the party.
It is said that "drowning people will catch at straws." Mary caught at the shred of a hope that, perhaps, after all, Mr. Earnscliffe was not quite lost to her, since he had accepted her invitation to dinner; especially as he had, no doubt, gained all the information he required; and, moreover, as he generally disliked society so much, there must be some motive for his staying.... It was a straw, indeed!
What would she have said if she had known that Mr. Earnscliffe only stayed from curiosity as to what her motive could be in trying to conceal from him the truth about Flora, as he thought it possible that during the evening something might occur to throw light upon it?
After dinner the girls proposed going out, to which their guest gladly assented. Mrs. Elton said she would remain in the house, as she felt a little tired. At the foot of the steps they met a peasant girl with bouquets, and Helena stopped to speak to her, as she had a shrewd suspicion that the bouquet girl did not come unsent. Mr. Earnscliffe and Mary went on and strolled into the alley where they had met in the morning.
Mary looked very handsome. The blue opera cloak which she had thrown round her shoulders showed off to advantage her brilliantly fair skin and auburn hair; and she could not help thinking, as she looked at herself in a glass on passing out, "How strange that he should prefer Flora Adair to me!... I am far more beautiful than she is. What can I do to keep him from her?"
With this question ringing in her ears she went out as we have said. She broke the silence after they entered the alley by saying "Are you going to remain at Capri?"
"I think not—I shall probably start in a day or two."
"And where do you intend to go?"
"I have not fixed upon any place as yet, but southern Italy is becoming too hot."
"And Venice, I suppose, will be cooler!" she answered, bitterly.
"I did not say that I was going to Venice?"