University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

Mrs. Cleverly had been several days in Florence;
and, in the drawing-room of the suite of furnished apartments
which she had taken for the season, were collected
four or five persons, who, though they had seemed to
come very naturally together, were of very varied character
and sympathies. It was the evening of the court
reception and ball. Paul's friend the princess had kindly
offered to present his two countrywomen, while the English
minister was to present Miss Ashly; and they were
all here assembled, as the most convenient point of reunion,
and were to have a cup of tea together before starting for
the palace.

There was a restraint on the spirits of the company.
The stiffness of the court costumes, seeming so out of
place around a private tea-table, had something to do
with it—the English minister and Paul, of course, in
their full diplomatic uniforms, and Mrs. Cleverly and
the princess in an array of ornament unusual even for

themselves. But Miss Ashly, who was staying with the
Palefords, had been accompanied to town by her friend
Sybil (to pass the night with her at Mrs. Cleverly's,
and take her back, after the court-ball, to Casa G—),
and, there, at the table, she now sat, in her dress of the
deepest mourning, an unconscious contrast of sadness that
was almost like a reproof to the gay adornments around
her.

It was not without some difficulty that Mary Evenden
had been persuaded to make one of the party, that night
She had no taste for gaiety, particularly of the ceremonious
and ostentatious kind, and usually begged off, not
only from Mrs. Cleverly's acceptances of hospitalities, but
from the operas and public amusements, in the various
cities through which they had passed. Consistency was
one of her leading traits; and, as a humble clergyman's
daughter, she made the choice always which her father's
eye would approve—her natural taste, moreover, being
almost exclusively artistic, and nothing giving her pleasure,
in the way of amusement, unless tributary to this. To her
constantly expressed wish that she might be allowed, by
her friend, to be her private companion only, taking
advantage of their stay in different places to see what
was collected of the arts for study and improvement,
but otherwise wholly unobserved and uncared for, Mrs.
Cleverly was usually considerately yielding—but of this

court-ball, in a palace which was the very sanctuary of
Art, the good chaperon had made a point. She was sure
Mary would be agreeably surprised with the splendors she
would see, and thank her afterwards for having insisted
upon her going.

Silent and ill at ease sat Mary, under that reluctant
preparation for pleasure, however. While the restraint,
upon the others of the circle, merely made them more
coldly courteous and self-possessed, it was, to her, an
embarrassment that amounted to an awkwardness. She
held herself in a constrained position, robbed of all her
natural grace by the dress to which she was so unaccustomed;
and over her features, in which there was
usually so calm and healthful a distribution of color,
there was now a feverish flush, confusing and obscuring
altogether the intellectual delicacy of the expression.
Of that spiritual elevation of beauty, which Paul had
described so glowingly a few days before to the princess,
and which his imagination had kept so long, as the
cherished ideal by which all others were excluded from
his heart, there was now scarce a trace! Mary Evenden
—he was mortified and irritated to see—looked even
common-place and inferior.

But, with every effort to shut at least the eyes of his
taste and imagination, it was impossible not to see the
contrast that was beside her. Sybil Paleford, from

various incidental causes, had probably never before been
so beautiful—certainly, to Paul, had never seemed so
miraculously supplied with all he had before thought
possible as heightening additions to her beauty. Among
these over-gay costumes, her deep mourning had, in the
first place, a singularly marked impressiveness; but, to
her peculiar character of loveliness, it was, in itself, of
all possible adornments, the most harmoniously becoming.
In the two or three happy combinations of costume and
expression which had, already, to his artist eye, made
this marvellously fair creature seem as complete as
Nature could allow one mortal to be, there was still
room for the shade of thoughtful sadness, which now,
so touchingly and so intellectually, overspread her tranquillity
of feature. It was the charm (he could not but
allow) which he had thought belonged alone to Mary
Evenden—the look of the soul ever uppermost, and the
outer form and its senses quite forgot! Yet there they
now were—side by side—Mary Evenden and Sybil Paleford—and
how could the comparison between them,
unfavorable in all points to the one he was most bound
to prefer, be denied or resisted?

The carriages were announced, and leave was to be
taken of the one not included in the gay party; and the
actual resentment that Paul felt, at the disparagement contained
in this picture of contrast, might have shown itself

in his colder good-night and less cordial pressure of the
hand—but there was a keen observer on the watch. The
princess, his friend and confidant, had seen the comparison,
as well as he. She knew that, with the natural generosity
of affection, he would seek to compensate to Mary for the
chance wrong she was thus suffering, and that this, both
as a tenderness to her and an undeserved slight to Sybil,
would be a hindrance to their well-laid plans for present
neutrality. Taking Paul by the arm, therefore, she became
an inevitable interruption to anything but a formal good-night,
while she prevented his very possible offering of
that arm to Mary—and (quite unconscious of the dramatic
extent of the chaperonage which she was thus sharing with
the princess) Mrs. Cleverly, in an eventful minute or two
more, was on her way to the palace, with her party.

To the imaginative sculptress, the web of destiny, thus
being woven, had assumed quite the excitement of a
romance; but her sympathies had changed sides, since
the morning over their work—when Paul had made confession
of his embarrassments. She had, at that time, felt
more interested for his fate as connected with Miss Paleford—thinking
it the love with which, on a whole, he was
likeliest to be happy. But, on the first day after the arrival
of his friends, Paul had taken Mary to the studio of
“Signor Valerio,” with full initiations into the secrets of
the place; and to the spells of Art which there had all

their magic, and for which her whole life had so prepared
her, he had delivered her over—his own engrossing work
at the other studio (according to the princess's plan) being
pleaded as his excuse for long mornings of absence.

But while, to the enthusiastically artistic girl, this romantic
opportunity of play for her leading passion was like a
strange fulfillment of a dream, Mary was, herself, a subject
of close study and interest to her new friend. She and the
princess, in fact, were curiously adapted for a sudden and
unreserved intimacy. One was by nature what the other
had become by completeness of culture—one had never
learned what the other had spent her life in unlearning.
Both were absolutely unaffected and simple—the link of
resemblance which thus united them, however, being the
meeting of two extremes. The princess, alone, of course
understood the riddle. To the wild-flower American girl,
the precious gem of character which so imitated her own
was as natural as herself; and, with the most confiding
unconsciousness, she made herself as much at home in the
studio of the high-born sculptress as she would have done
in Paul's attic with his mother.

In the exquisite appreciation of her genius, by so fresh-hearted
and innocent a creature, the princess had found an
enchantment that was new, even to herself. She had cultivated,
hitherto, an Eden of solitude, on this point. Paul
was the first, from her own level of society, who had been

admitted to the full knowledge of her artistic life; but (of
the other sex, and a citizen of the gay world which she
strove to shut out)—he was, of course, somewhat to be
guarded against as a flatterer—who might turn into a
lover; and, particularly as an admirer of her genius,
whose admiration of beauty in statuary might be colored
insensibly by passion. But, of the lovely forms which she
had created with such skill of hand and such patient
breathing of inspired thought into marble, here was what
seemed like an embodiment of the very light of heaven
that fell upon them—like the very atmosphere that enveloped
them, taking shape and telling fondly of its privilege
and pleasure. For truth and completeness, indeed, Mary's
impressions were just such as light and air might receive
and tell of. The princess felt that never could exist, in
this world, praise and appreciation so pure and precious!

Mary's own genius sprang at once to this new field of
Art. Sculpture had been a study kept always, till now,
out of reach of her familiar knowledge and sympathies.
She had thus, however, passed through its most valuable
novitiate—discipline of hand and eye by practice with the
pencil. It was as a scholar by whom all the elements had
been well acquired, that she was ready for this branch of
Art; and the luxuriousness of the school in which she now
found herself, the beauty of the models with which she was
at liberty to pass her hours, and the generous willingness

and courtesy of the accomplished teacher at her side, gave
it all an inexpressible fascination for her. She commenced
her first lesson, in moulding the clay, on the first day that
Paul left her with “Signor Valerio;” and, in the three or
four long mornings that she had now passed in an atmosphere
so exquisitely to her taste, there had been compressed
almost the happiness of a life-time. And it was not strange
that, after one of these mornings of unembarrassed completeness
of enjoyment, the preparation for a court ball—
with the stiffness of unaccustomed dress, the adornment by
borrowed jewels, and the necessity (as she thought) of different
manners and conversation—was, to Mary, little better
than a painful bewilderment. It had taken all the
gratitude that she felt for Mrs. Cleverly, to yield to the
good lady's wishes by the consent to go, but it required
more nerve than she could command to appear like herself
under restraints which, to body and mind, were so wholly
distasteful.

The arrival and entree had their usual routine of awkwardness
for the inexperienced, and, in looking on at the
presentation, Paul could not but see a second contrast very
unfavorable to Mary in the quiet ease and self-possessed
grace and dignity of Miss Ashly; but, the ceremony over,
he had thought to draw aside his embarrassed playmate
and friend, and, stationed at some unobserved point of
view, pass his evening in diverting her thoughts with

comments on the scene and its characters. He made his
way, accordingly, to the side where the presented guests
fell back from the immediate neighborhood of the Grand
Duke, and was about offering his arm to Mary.

“Pardon me!” said the Princess, stepping between them,
with a playful imitation of a gentleman's bow, “Signor
Valerio is to have the honor! And, my dear Fane,” she
continued, in an under tone, as he made room for her,
“please, do not approach us again till the close of the ball.
I will myself see that Miss Evenden is amused, and, for
this evening, you chance to be the worst company she can
have!”

And, taking Mary off to one of the raised seats at the
end of the long hall, she seated herself by her side, and
began what she understood better than almost anybody
else in the world—making the most of what enchantments
came along with music and the hours.

Paul discovered, presently, after a short fit of absent-mindedness,
that he was in very close neighborhood to
Miss Ashly. She smiled as his eyes met hers.

“You look very inconsolable, Mr. Fane!” she said; “but
the princess thinks, probably, that Miss Evenden has come
abroad for something else beside seeing her own countrymen.”

“Consolable, I assure you,” said Paul, offering his arm
very promptly, “if I may be allowed to plead that the

same barrier does not prevent my playing the happy
shadow to Miss Ashly.”

“I was just going to propose the same thing to you, in
substance,” she said, emphasizing the play of words upon
his expression—“that is to say, I was wishing your company,
and for more substantial reasons than either making
you happy as a shadow, or securing attention to myself. I
wish, in fact, to interest you in the happiness of a certain
third person.”

Paul expressed his assent simply by a grave earnestness
of look and movement, as he led the way to a promenade
through the less crowded rooms. He was, for the moment,
uncertain of his position. Miss Ashly had been three or
four days at Casa G—, and he did not know how much
more she had learned, in that time, of his intimacy with
the family. He was not even certain, as yet, whether they
had chanced to mention to her what they themselves
knew—who it was that had painted the portraits of Miss
Paleford and Miss Winifred. Her first remark relieved
him upon this latter point, however.

“To defer my important request, for a moment,” she
said, “may I ask whether you have executed the commission
with which I troubled you—making an engagement
for my sittings, with your friend the painter?”

Paul drew a breath of relief. It was important for the
completeness of the secret experiment of his life—(the

experiment he shamed to own, which had been to him of
keener zest, thus far, than the trials of love or genius)—
that, to Miss Ashly's confidence, and to whatever degree of
intimacy she was likely to allow upon a common ground
of acquaintance, he should first try his claim as a gentleman.
As an artist, and especially as one to whom she
was herself to sit for a portrait, there might be condescention
in her politeness, or there might be vanity in the
desire to please. He wished, for this evening, at least, to
be upon the mere footing which society would ordinarily
give him, as to any question of relative position, and—this
ground-work now settled—he had nothing to do, of course,
but to be as agreeable as was any way possible to Miss
Ashly, who (unsuspicious of the problem she was solving)
leaned at present so confidingly on his arm.