University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

It was not for several days, after the interview described
in the last chapter, that Paul received, from one of the
hotels upon the Arno, the expected message, announcing
the arrival of his friends. The death of Mrs. Paleford
had meantime occurred, as anticipated; and, with the
proffer of aid and sympathy which his intimacy with
the family called upon him to make—his reception of
them on their return with the body to Florence, and his
almost filial share in the melancholy arrangements and

last offices to the dead—the delay and its leisure had
been timely, and the interval had been sufficiently en
grossed with thought and feeling. He had followed the
lost mother to the grave with an emotion which the two
chief mourners (ignorant of the dying bequest that was
now so heavy on his heart) could but little understand.

Like the parting of a dark cloud, however, was the
sudden gleam of light into his mind with the news
that Mary Evenden had come; and it was not difficult
for one of his elastic temperament to throw all sad
thoughts behind him as he hurried rapidly to the hotel
where he was to see, once more, the face that had been
dearest to him through years of romantic boyhood. It
was not in Florence that he walked, as he made his
way eagerly through the crowd. A memory of home
glowed like a halo around him, shutting out all that
was not filled with the presence of his mother's voice and
smile.

On arriving at the hotel, Paul impatiently followed
the waiter by whom he sent up his name, and a glimpse
through the opening door showing him the well-known
features of Mrs. Cleverly, he entered at the same moment
that he was announced. A rush forward, and a kiss of
respectful tenderness upon the held-out hand of the dear
and kind matron, and he turned hurriedly to take Mary
like a sister to his arms—but the movement was suddenly

paralysed, and, with an instant's hesitation, a bow of
ceremony took the place of the intended caress! There
were two ladies beside his old friend at the breakfast-table—one
of them Mary, but the other the Miss Ashly
of his long-cherished dread—the cold-eyed English girl
who had first given the alarm to his boyish pride of
nature!

“You remember Miss Ashly, whom you met at my
house?” said Mrs. Cleverly, thinking it necessary to reintroduce
Paul, as she saw his hesitation.

He relinquished the warm pressure of Mary's hand
which he now held in his own, and very formally renewed
his salutation to the politely undisturbed lady.
With the icy bar which her presence had so abruptly
put upon his overflowing heart, conversation, even with
Mary, was now stiffened to the formalities of courtesy.

Mrs. Cleverly, during her short stay in London (it was
afterwards explained to Paul) had fallen in with her old
friends the Ashlys, and, with the pleasant accounts which
they had been lately receiving from Florence, Miss Mildred
expressed a desire to put herself under the convoy
of the American party and join her aunt in Italy—a
proposition, of course, very readily acceded to. In their
letters written on the way, this addition to their company
had not been mentioned, however; and thus, accidentally
and without warning, Mary had brought with her the very

barrier which mysteriously divided her from Paul at his
departure for Europe!

Paul, when his first greetings were over, made a fourth
at the table; but, in spite of the glow of affectionate
welcome at his heart, longing for expression, he was
conscious of an irresistible influence upon his manners.
He was the polished and indifferent attaché, even in
questioning and listening to Mary Evenden alone. There
was a presence at the table which no one else felt or
understood, and to which he had been mysteriously subject,
before, and was now subject, again.

Miss Ashly had very quietly confessed to not remembering
having met Mr. Fane; and to her, for the first
half hour, he was evidently but a stranger—an American
gentleman with whom she had no topic in common—
though one to whom she was bound to be civil, from
his intimacy with her friends. She sat, half-absently,
pushing the crumbs about in her plate, with a fork held
daintily in her taper fingers, and giving but limited
attention to the exchange of home news and personal
inquiry going on around her. At one of the rotations
of politeness, however, by which it became due to the
third lady that some remark should be addressed to her
also, Paul alluded to the Palefords, and their bereavement.

“Ah, you know the Palefords?” she said, with her fork

held still, for a moment, while she opened those large grey
eyes upon the stranger.

The mention of the mourning scenes in which he had
taken part led to other matters in connection with the
subject, and it soon became evident to Miss Ashly that
Mr. Fane had a very minute intimacy of knowledge as
to her old friends and their circumstances. Paul could
not but notice, however, as he made some reference to
the celebration of the birth-day, that his listener's eagerness
to hear something of her brother's share in that
festivity became very keen, and that her interest in
Sybil was of an affectionate tenderness which betrayed,
to his sharpened perception, a sympathy in the secret
of a love. He was very sure, from an incidental remark
or two, that young Ashly had taken his sister into his
confidence, and it was encouraging to the hopes of Paul
for the brother's success, that there had evidently been
no mention to her of himself, the rival of that day.
With the account of the entertainments at the English
embassy, and the many particulars relative to Colonel
Paleford, and to her brother's gaieties in Florence, it
grew clearer every moment that the points of mutual
interest between Miss Mildred and Mr. Fane were more
numerous than was at first anticipated; and the conversation
at the breakfast-table, at last, was entirely given over
to these two, so much the least acquainted.

“Oh, then, you know my Aunt Winnie?” exclaimed
Miss Ashly, once more with pleased surprise, as some
reference was made to the Palefords' expectation of seeing
her, now that they were once more at Casa G—.

There was a little gratification of a love of mischief in
the grave quietness with which Paul showed his confidential
knowledge of Miss Winifred—her plans of travel,
her manner of passing her time, her recent impressions
of Italy, her newest likings and dislikings, health, spirits,
and other matters upon which her habitually reserved
letters left her relatives rather annoyingly in the dark.
That this American friend of Mrs. Cleverly's knew her
aunt more intimately than any gentleman of their acquaintance
at home, and that she had talked familiarly
to him of herself, in a way quite unprecedented for her
usual habits as known to her family, became gradually
more apparent to the astonished niece. The climax was
reached, however, by the reply to a question as to her
probable arrival in Florence.

“By her last letter to me,” said Paul, “I am to expect
her a week from to-day; and, by the way, I was to engage
for her the very apartments into which the landlord has
chanced to put you. She occupied them when here
before.”

Miss Ashly sat silent for a moment or two, manifestly

embarrassed how to suit her manner to one who was so
much less a stranger than she had thought him.

“Pardon me, Mr. Fane!” she said, at last, turning to
him with a smile and very frank opening of her large
calm eyes; “you seem to know everything—will you
allow me to ask you one more question? My brother,
when here, saw a portrait of Miss Paleford with which
he was very much delighted—so delighted, in fact, that
he wants pictures of us all by the same hand. My aunt,
I believe, has already sat to him, and I have half promised,
if I like hers, to sit to him myself. Do you know this
artist?”

Paul did not feel quite ready to give up the more
agreeable indefiniteness of his position as a chance acquaintance
of Miss Ashly's. To confess himself the artist
would give him a new part to play, and one for which he
felt that he required a little preparation.

“I know him very well,” he said, rising from the table,
after an instant's hesitation, “and I am quite sure, now I
think of it, that he would like, as soon as possible, to have
your opinion of that still unfinished portrait of your aunt.
His studio is near by, and, if you will allow me, I will send
over and get it.”

Paul rang for a servant, and, writing a line to Blivins
upon a card, dispatched him for the crayon—perseveringly
addressing his conversation to his American friends, during

the man's absence, so as not to be embarrassed with further
questions as to the unknown painter.

The messenger reappeared in a few minutes.

“You will excuse me,” said Paul, closing all except one
shutter, “if, as an amateur artist myself, I do my friend
the justice to arrange the windows artistically. The drawing
was made in this room, and we can give it its original
light, which is a great advantage.”

“What, were you present, then, at my aunt's sittings?”
exclaimed, with still another surprise, the puzzled English
girl.

“Yes; and I chanced to be consulted as to the pose of
the head,” Paul added, quietly, “so I can arrange it for
you with great precision!”

And, setting a chair on the spot where, a few days before,
had stood his easel, he placed the crayon in the exact light
in which it had been drawn.

Miss Ashly looked at it, steadily and in silence. It
was Paul's policy, of course, to show no more than a third
person's natural desire for the expression of her opinion,
but it was with difficulty he could now conceal his eagerness
of curiosity.

“It is a very graceful drawing,” said Mary, giving it,
evidently, very slight attention.

“Quite a lady-like person,” said Mrs. Cleverly.

Paul did not immediately remember that the picture

was to impress mainly by the character of its resemblance
to the original, and that his friends, having never seen
Miss Winifred Ashly, could be judges only of its mechanical
execution. He felt, somehow, a resentment at what
seemed to him the inappreciative coldness of Mary's
remark.

“I am sorry my father is not here to see this,” commenced
Miss Ashly, at last, in a kind of soliloquy, as she
leaned over the back of a chair, gazing at the picture;
“the ideal of our family physiognomy is so admirably
expressed!”

“But what do you think of it as a likeness?” Paul
asked, merely to cover, by an indifferent question, his
eagerness to hear her talk more upon the subject.

“Why, it is my aunt, certainly!” she replied, hesitatingly;
“but,” she continued, presently, with a smile, “it is
more as I should expect her to look, in Heaven, hereafter,
than as she seems to common eyes in our present
world.”

“So flattered, do you think?” said Paul.

“Not at all untruly flattered,” proceeded Miss Ashly,
seeing, evidently, with very much her brother's eyes, and
hitting, by this discriminating remark, the very edge of
Paul's demand for appreciation of his picture; “nothing is
added to the original elements of the expression. It is
truthfully, her face—wonderfully so—but, with an inspired

subtlety of art, heightened and spiritualized. I have seen
my aunt look as this does, when a fine passage of poetry
had been read to her, or when listening to the voluntary in
church, or even when improvising upon the piano, by herself;
but it is a rare look, and one a stranger is not at all
likely to see. How this charming artist ever detected it,
is one marvel to me, and it is a still greater marvel how
he had the skill to arrest and embody anything so momentary
and evanescent.”

That such delicious praise could be uttered by the lips
he saw before him, was to Paul a surprise for which he
could scarce credit his senses! The indifference—almost
the scorn—of her whom he had felt to be the coldest and
proudest of her sex, changed to the very elixir of flattering
appreciation! He looked at Miss Ashly. The calm, grey
eye, which had seemed so icy and distant, was now fixed
softly and admiringly on his work—the very arch of pride
in that mouth so haughtily immovable was unbent to an
expression of susceptibility and sweetness.

“I have seen your brother's face when it had somewhat
of the same character,” said Paul, so bewildered that he
scarce knew what he uttered.

Miss Ashly stepped into her room, and returned in a
moment with a miniature.

“This,” she said, opening and handing it to Paul, “was
taken by one of the first miniature painters of Paris, and

we have thought it a good likeness of my brother. Yet, a
comparison of it, merely as a conception of character, with
that of my aunt, shows the difference which I feel to exist
between the two artists. One was a good workman, and
painted what he saw—the other was an inspired reader of
the soul.”

But a sudden thought entered Paul's brain, as he heard
these charming words, holding the miniature in his hand.

“Could you spare this little work of art,” he asked,
“for the few days of your proposed visit to the Palefords?
The contrast you have just drawn would interest the
painter of the other picture, and I should like”—

“Oh certainly, certainly!” she interrupted Paul by
exclaiming; “pray take it to him, if you please, for it will
show him exactly what I do not want, in his picture of
me. In my dull face” (she continued, smiling) “he might
not find it so easy to overcome the literalness of the
Ashly features.”

“Then you will sit to him?” echoed Paul.

“I should lose an invaluable opportunity, if I did not,”
she replied (as Mrs. Cleverly called to her to get ready for
some shopping they were to do together before sight-seeing),
“and, if you please, Mr. Fane, I will trouble you,
further, with the arrangement of this matter. If you will
express to him how delighted I am with my aunt's portrait,
and say that I will hold myself ready to sit at any

time that suits his convenience, after my return from Colonel
Paleford's, I will really be very much obliged to
you.”

Enchanted as he was with his success, thus far, Paul
buried his eyes in the miniature as the ladies left the
room—his genius fully at work already on the conception
with which it had inspired him. Guided by this faithful
copy of the features, and remembering the expression of
young Ashly's face as he saw him when he was gazing on
the portrait of Sybil, he felt that he could repeat, in a
sketch drawn even without the original, the triumph he
had achieved in the picture of Miss Winifred. He could
express with his pencil (what he could not in words) his
deeper reading of the character of Sybil's lover, and, by
presenting this to her, he could, perhaps, forward his
rival's suit, and, at the same time, do something toward the
reparation which he owed him. A very closely locked
door of his tangled destiny seemed opening with this new
opportunity.

“Shall we take a walk while they are gone!” suddenly
broke in a gentle voice upon his reverie.

The color flushed into Paul's face as he remembered
that he was alone with Mary—for the first time since so
long a parting, and requiring to be reminded of it!—and
with a confused vehemence, expressing rather more willingness
than was quite natural, he sprang to his feet with an

assent. The Ducal Gardens were close by—they had the
morning before them—it would be very delightful—would
Mary get her bonnet at once and come out in the noon
sun, so pleasant at that time of year!

But, over this confidential walk in the most beautiful
garden-wilderness of the world—a first unrestrained interview,
and between two so bound, by many a reason, to be,
then and thus, happier than in their whole lifetime before
—there hung, somehow, an insurmountable restraint!
Conversation, of course, was abundant enough, with the
inquiries that each had to make. Of mere information to
exchange, there was quite sufficient to occupy the time—
precluding, at least, the risk against which was given the
warning of his mother's letter—but, over and above the
choice of topics, and with no approach to love-making any
way likely or possible, there was still room for a sympathy
of the most tender confidingness and frankness; and this,
inexplicably and mortifyingly, Paul felt to be wanting!

One vampire thought after another was struggled with,
in the voiceless background of his mind, during that
haunted walk. The chance disparagement of the work of
his pencil by Mary, while another had so keenly appreciated
it—the presence of Miss Ashly with its unrevealable
secret of influence—the solemn bond resting upon him
with the dying words of Sybil's mother, and binding him
not to love the unsuspecting creature at his side—the

plot, which he had framed with the princess to prolong or
secure her sisterly indifference, and the policy that would
now be necessary for his own conduct, with these sacred
and opposing claims calling equally upon his most delicate
honor—these were phantoms present at his reunion with
Mary, and not the less chilling in their influence upon the
happiness of the hour, because her share in them must be
untold. He felt reproached by every look from her soft
eyes. In spite of every effort, he was conscious that he
seemed, to her, abrupt and unlike himself. And, at her
first expression of fatigue he was relieved, to turn once
more toward the streets, where the novel objects of a
strange city would preclude thought—leaving, presently,
at her room-door, the one whom, but a few hours before,
he would have said he most wished to see, of all persons
in the world, and (to his own astonishment as he realized
it), rejoicing to be alone.