CHAPTER XV.

To the Piazza San Marco, in all its beauty and grandeur,--the richest jewel of the Adriatic's bride,--we must now turn. It is about nine at night; and beneath the long lines of arcades the gay shops and _caffès_ are brilliantly lighted up. Their illumination--for, indeed, it is like one--contrasts well with the darkness of the great Piazza upon which they give; for, although from the centre of every arch--and there are in all nearly a hundred--there juts out a gracefully-curved branch, bearing a lighted lamp, they are but as faint glimmers in that vast space, making mysterious solemn shade of all around, especially, as now, when there is no moon to be seen in the deep blue and star-spangled vault above. The dark mass of San Marco's basilica, the _campanile_, the adjoining Piazzetta, with the Ducal Palace, the two columns of oriental marble, surmounted by the bronze lion of St. Mark and the statue of St. George, still guarding that port where, in days of old, so many proud galleys sailed in triumph; and opposite, across the Grand Canal's dark watery road, rising as if from the water's midst, the dim outlines of San Giorgio in Maggiore and Santa Maria di Salute:--it is, indeed, a combination unrivalled in the world!

In the centre of the Piazza an Austrian band is playing; and round the _caffès_ are seated crowds of people sipping coffee or eating ices. Among them are Mrs. Adair, Flora, and Marie Arbi.

When last we saw them they were in Florence with the Blakes and Pentons; but now they are alone, and their friends far on their way towards England.

During the time they spent there, Mr. Barkley was much attracted by Marie, and was constantly at her side; that is, as constantly as he could be without rendering his attentions marked. He invariably tried to keep either with her or with Flora, on the principle, it may be supposed, that if one cannot be with the especial favourite, the next best thing is to be with her intimate friend; at all events, it prevented observations being made. Had there appeared to be anything serious in his manner, Mrs. Adair would naturally have considered herself obliged to interfere, as Marie must be given up to the de St. Severans free from any entanglement; but Mr. Barkley managed so well that it would have been difficult to say which he liked best, Flora or Marie, although they were nearly three weeks in Florence, and met almost every day.

But what were Mr. Barkley's real feelings? Was he only amusing himself, or was it something deeper? Yes, it was something deeper; he loved Marie as he had never loved before or would ever love again, even though he should not marry her, which was very probable, as there would be many difficulties in the way, and he was one who was more likely to succumb to difficulties than to bear up against and conquer them.

He was the only son of an Irish nobleman, who--as unfortunately so many do in the sister island--had lived beyond his income, got his property deeply into debt, and trusted to his son's making a rich marriage in order to clear it. Edmund Barkley himself, in a vague way, gave in to this idea. He thought that fortune would be a most desirable addition to the charms of the future lady of his choice; but, being fastidious to a fault, he had hitherto found all the heiresses of his acquaintance unattractive, and answered the parental urgings to his marrying quickly with, "Time enough, father; the right heiress has not appeared yet. And if she should not appear at all,--well, I suppose, as a _pis aller_, I must take one of those whom you have named; but to make up my mind to that will require a good long run of freedom." So he kept his liberty, and went from flower to flower until he met Marie, and--never imagining that the little unsophisticated African girl could really touch his world-proved heart--he dashed into a brisk general flirtation with her; when, one day, to his great dismay, a sad truth dawned upon him. He caught himself dreaming day-dreams of Marie presiding in his ancestral halls, and charming everybody around her with her _naïve_ grace, and her sweet, wild voice warbling her simple ballads, which she sang with such feeling that all who love music rather as the highest expression of language than of harmonised and learned combinations--as speaking to the heart rather than the judgment--would prefer her singing to that of the finished pupil of a fashionable London master. Marie's history, too, had taken a strong hold of his imagination; and even more,--although, perhaps, unknown to himself,--there was a feeling that this little creature, so unequal to himself in intelligence and education, had acted with a degree of strength and heroism of which he was incapable; so that, almost involuntarily, he looked up to her as something above him, loving her at the same time with the protecting love of a man for gentleness and innocence.

This discovery set him thinking:--"Marie has no position, and of course not much fortune; she is not even St. Severan's child, so he may not give her anything.... It will never do for me; I must think no more about her in this way. Adieu, then, sweet Marie; would that it could be otherwise, but it cannot. So, once more adieu, my bright little fairy!"

After these musings he took up a novel which lay on the table; but Marie would not be dismissed from his thoughts in this summary manner. He saw her face multiplied in the pages of the book instead of its printed characters. He closed it and thought he would try a little music. He went into the saloon, where there was a piano, and began to play some of his favourite reveries; but insensibly he glided into the melodies which Marie used to sing, and which he knew so well. Then the sound of her soft voice began to ring in his ear; and he ceased to play that he might better listen to those clear young tones which were sounding, not on his ear, but in his heart.... "Devil take it!" he exclaimed aloud, and starting up from the piano; "I have never allowed myself to be really caught by this little wilding! Yet it looks horribly like it.... I see I must keep away from her!"

He shut down the piano, and went back to his own room; then he took up the novel again, muttering, "Novels must certainly be gone to the bad when they can't amuse a man for half-an-hour! I remember the time when I could sit for hours over them." Mr. Barkley did not seem to remember that he, perhaps, was changed rather than the novels.

There came a knock at the door. He lazily drawled out, "_Entrate_." In came his sister with her cloak on, and, seeing him lying in an armchair in his dressing-gown, with a novel in his hand, she exclaimed--

"What are you about, Edmund? Are you not coming?"

"Where, may I ask?"

"You cannot have forgotten that the Adair and Blake party have got permission to see San Donato--Demidoff's Villa--and have asked us to go with them? We are to call for one of the girls at eleven. You know, the laying out of the grounds is said to be very beautiful, and the house itself gorgeous. There are collections of paintings, statues, and I know not what, to say nothing of the charms of _living statues_, Master Edmund--eh?"

Here was a test for his newly-formed resolution of avoiding Marie. What a pleasant vista his sister's words had called up, of wandering in the grounds of San Donato with Marie--getting purposely separated from the others, and only finding them after a needlessly long search; but it was just what he ought to keep clear of; and he felt irritated with Mrs. Penton for thus putting the temptation before him. However, he would be strong--he would sternly resist it--and in accordance with this determination he answered gruffly--

"I can't go and expose myself to such a sun as this. I have a headache."

Mrs. Penton turned round from the survey which she had been making of herself in the glass, and looked at him laughingly as she said--

"What's up now, Edmund? Have the little African's charms palled already?"

"Damn it!" he muttered, with uncontrollable irritation.

"Damn what, Edmund?" asked his sister, laughing more than ever. "San Donato or me? or perhaps the little African?"

"How tiresome you are, Maria! I told you that I could not go because I had a headache, and the sun is so awfully strong to-day."

"Of which I believe as much as you do. You were quite well an hour ago. The headache is nothing but a sham. Perhaps you have got some new _innamorata_; but come: the little African is not so bad after all. She will do once in a way; and you know at first you certainly were a little _épris_ in that quarter."

"For pity's sake, Maria, go to San Donato, and leave me in peace! How teasing women can be! What a happy fellow I am not to have a wife!"

"It strikes me, my dear sir, that you are anything but a _happy_ fellow this morning. Now I am going; but tell me first, what has made you so bearish?"

"If I am bearish, I think the best thing you can do is to get out of my way at once."

"I quite agree with you. You might tear me to pieces if I remained much longer in your den; but I daresay, when this fit has passed over, you will regret that you did not come with us. Indeed, I should not be astonished if you were to follow us, if only for the pleasure such a vain creature would take in seeing the little African's bright eyes look brighter still when you appear."

Mrs. Penton retreated after this sally, but called out from the door--

"Good-bye, dear! I hope some kind fairy will soon transform you back to a man! Shall I send the little African to you? and then you and she could play 'Beauty and the Beast' over again?"

She closed the door as Mr. Barkley dashed his book into the opposite corner of the room, and began to walk up and down in a state of laughable irritation, declaring that women were the plagues of a man's life, and that he wished they were all kept locked up and out of the way, as in the East. Having given utterance to this charitable wish towards the fair sex, he threw off his dressing-gown, dragged on a coat, and, seizing his hat, he went out and walked to the Belle Arti, quite forgetful of his asserted headache and dread of the sun. Beato Angelico, at least, could not fail to absorb his attention.

Alas for il Beato! His pictures could teach no grand lessons to his admirer to-day. His beautiful angels, lovingly leading the enfranchised spirits of their earthly charges over flower-clad meadows to the heavenly Jerusalem, only suggested to Mr. Barkley how delightful it would be to be wandering thus in the shady alleys of San Donato with Marie; and he felt more than half inclined to curse his folly in having refused to go.... At last, tired even of Beato Angelico, he left the Accademia; and as he walked home, he began to think seriously that he had behaved like a fool. "After all," said he to himself, "St. Severan might give her a fortune, and then I don't see why I should not marry her! Why should not an African chief be as good as an Irish one? and that's all my father is, I suppose. In any case, the birth question would easily be got over, if it were not for that damned money; and if it were not for my father, I would marry her, fortune or no fortune. But that is all for the future: there is no good in making one's self miserable about it now. 'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.'... If I thought that Maria would not tease me unmercifully, I declare I would do as she said--follow them to San Donato. By-the-bye, though, the sun has got all clouded over, and dread of its heat was my excuse for not going; now that it has disappeared, I can go without any sacrifice of dignity, and I am glad to see that Maria does not think I really care for little Marie; if she did, she would try to keep me away from her, instead of laughing at me about her.... And so here goes for a pleasant day." He called a carriage, and drove to San Donato.

Thus ended Mr. Barkley's resolution to avoid Marie, and thenceforth he struggled no more against the stream, but let himself float gently down, enjoying the present, and, as far as possible, shutting out all thought of the future. The spoiled child of his family and of the world, he was too much accustomed to self-indulgence to refrain from pleasing himself because of the possible pain which he might inflict on others,--in fact, he never thought about it. Intentionally, he would not render any one unhappy,--how much less Marie; yet he was in a very fair way of so doing by this thoughtless gratification of his own wishes....

At length arrived the last evening of their stay in Florence. The Adairs and the Blakes spent it at the Pentons'. Marie, as usual, sang a good deal; but she remained seated at the piano after she had ceased singing, until Flora went over to say that it was time to go away, when the latter saw to her astonishment that Marie's eyes were full of tears, and Mr. Barkley--he had been standing by her all the time trifling with the music--was looking down at her with a very unmistakable expression of intense interest. He tried to say something light about the pain of leave-taking in general; but as Flora raised her eyes from the tearful Marie, and looked earnestly at him, he coloured, and exclaimed in a low tone--

"Forgive me, Miss Adair! I know that I ought to have kept away, and I tried--indeed, I did!--but it was too strong for me!"

"I do not know what all this means, Mr. Barkley," answered Flora, gravely; "but it appears to me difficult to explain satisfactorily. Mignonne, dry up those tell-tale tears, we are going now."

"Oh, Flore!"--and Marie leaned her head against Flora as she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.

"For your own sake, Marie, try not to let it be seen that this leave-taking affects you so much," whispered Flora, and, turning to Mr. Barkley, she spoke to him for a few moments on some indifferent subject, so as to give Marie time to recover herself; then, seeing that she had dried up the tears and only looked pale and dejected, she said, "Come now, Mignonne," and they joined the others who were wishing the Pentons good-bye.

Mr. Barkley said he would walk home with them, and took care to get Flora to himself. He then told her that he had yielded to the temptation of being with Marie, persuading himself that perhaps he might be able to marry her after all; and as a salve to his conscience, he had determined not to utter one word of love to her. The last evening, however, had been too much for him, he forgot all but his love and his yearning desire to know if it were returned. He now bitterly blamed himself for not having had the strength to go away at first, and, more than all, for his conduct on that evening.

"It was particularly reprehensible in you, Mr. Barkley," answered Flora, "to speak to Marie as you have done, knowing that she is not with her own friends."

"I know it, Miss Adair, and, until this evening, I assure you that I scrupulously avoided"--and this was literally true--"anything like love-making."

"Even so, Mr. Barkley, your determination not to _speak_ of love to her was only a splitting of hairs; you felt that you loved her, and were not without hope that she might respond to that feeling; nevertheless, although you know that you could--_would_ is perhaps the more fitting word--not ask her to marry you now, you continued to seek her society. Was it honourable?"

"I can only say again, I know but too well how much I am to blame, but will you make no excuse for the power of temptation?... Believe me, I would give worlds to marry her."

"You would give worlds to marry her," replied Flora, with a bitter smile, "yet there is no real impediment; surely there is a strange inconsistency in this? God knows how far _I_ would go in excusing any yielding to strong temptation, but I _cannot_ excuse any one for inflicting pain on another when it only requires a resolute act of his will to avoid it."

"By heavens, Miss Adair, it is true that I would give worlds to many Marie--I beg your pardon--Miss Arbi; and I would do so, fortune or no fortune, were I my own master, but my father would disinherit me if I married in opposition to his wishes; he has already told me so, and I could not ask any one to marry me on nothing."

"I don't believe that your father would disinherit you, Mr. Barkley, you, his only son, his idol, and the future lord. But pray do not imagine that I want you to marry Marie. I only speak thus because it is laughable to hear a _man_ say that he cannot ask one whom he professes to love, to marry him unless she has a certain number of thousands, because, forsooth, his father will disinherit him! But as far as regards Marie, I would greatly prefer that you did not marry her, unless it be that her affections are very deeply engaged, and this I hope there is no great fear of. You have not treated her well, Mr. Barkley, and I do not think that you are suited to each other. I doubt if your happiness would be of very long duration."

"Oh, Miss Adair!"

"Spare me a lover's rhapsody, please, and take a word of advice from me: try to forget Marie, as I trust and believe she will forget you;--but here we are at the hotel, so good-bye."

"You are dreadfully hard upon me, Miss Adair, but it is no use to talk of forgetting. I love Marie, and shall ever love her, truly!"

"Then act like a man gifted with a free will," answered Flora, as she entered the hotel.

Flora and Marie slept in the same room, so, before going to bed, the former heard a tearful confession of love and sorrow from poor gentle little Marie. The wretched weakness of her lover's conduct seemed to have no effect upon her, although to Flora it appeared despicable, and she thought to herself, "Such an one would not do for me; he whom I shall love must be strong and great, even in his faults. He must be one of whom I could say

'He was a man, take him for all in all, We shall not look upon his like again.'

However, it must be my work now to comfort poor Mignonne."

She endeavoured to rouse her by talking of her dear papa, Monsieur de St. Severan; of how grieved he would be if she were to return to him after so many years, looking pale and melancholy, when he expected to see her in the bloom of youth and happiness; and urged her, for his sake--and for all their sakes--to struggle against this, her first experience of love's trials.

At length Marie said--speaking French, as she invariably did when very earnest, but we will give the substance in the vernacular--"Yes, Flora, I know it is very wrong to grieve so, to repine at what I suppose God sees is good for me. I know that I ought to be content to be unhappy if He wills it, but it is very hard at first, Flora...."

"Hard? Oh how hard, first or last! But you bear it like a saint, Mignonne! _I_ could not bear it as you do; it would be a hard struggle with me to submit to the power which deprived me of the person I loved best, even before I had known the bliss of being his companion."

"Ah! It is very nice to be happy," murmured Marie through her tears, "but, if _le bon Dieu_ sees that it is better for us not to be so, we ought to be satisfied, ought we not?"

"Ay, and it is comparatively easy for a little angel like you to be so, but for me it would be a fierce battle...." Were Flora's words prophetic? "However, that has nothing to do with the present hour, the duty of which is for you to go to bed, dearest."

Marie's tears broke out afresh, but she allowed Flora to unfasten her gown and help to undress her. When she was in bed Flora kissed her and said good-night. Marie clasped her arms round her, and drawing her face down to her own, murmured, "Flore, what should I do without you?"

"Better, perhaps, than with me, Mignonne," answered Flora, somewhat brusquely, in order to hide the inclination which she herself felt to cry. Marie's gentleness in her sorrow was so plaintive. "I am not saint enough to know how to console you with religion as another might do, I can only feel for and with you, darling, so good-night again."

At last Marie sobbed herself to sleep like a tired child, and next morning the hurry and fuss of departure prevented her sad face and red eyes from being observed. It was not a pleasant morning to Flora; she was losing her friend Maria Blake, and she knew that she should miss her sadly. On Marie she looked as one does on a pretty, loving child, but she could not make a companion of her as of Mina,--and how great is the loss of one with whom we can talk on the different subjects that most occupy our thoughts,--one with whom we can really have an interchange of ideas!... This Marie certainly could not be to Flora, for she did not think much on any subject, or read much except of light literature. She had no lack of intelligence and quickness, but she was by nature averse to application; she worked beautifully and was very fond of it,--it did not hinder her from giving vent to all her innocent gaiety of disposition in chattering about all sorts of little nothings. These were the things which made Flora think that Marie was not suited to Mr. Barkley; she would be to him a little attendant, loving, laughing sprite, ready to work for him, to do anything for him, in short, but to be a real companion to him; and Flora feared that when the first charm of Marie's beauty and caressing manner had become familiar to him, he would tire of living without one who could interest herself in, and, as it were, take part in, his pursuits, and that by degrees he would begin to leave her alone, and seek elsewhere that interchange of ideas which he could not have with her.

Thus, after they left Florence, it was rather a gloomy time for both girls, but the various sights of Bologna, Parma, Milan, and Padua--in each of which towns they made a short stay on their way to Venice--were good distractions, and Marie's light, buoyant nature was not one to which the absence of a loved one rendered everything sunless, so that sometimes she would be as gay as possible, although at others large tears might have been seen rolling slowly down her cheeks, as on the lovely night when she sat in the Piazza San Marco.

The band was playing a beautiful though somewhat sad serenade,--all conduced to a soft melancholy which was deeply felt by Flora as well as Marie; but her own name--"Miss Adair!"--pronounced by a voice whose music she loved, perhaps, too well, sent the blood flushing to her cheeks, and made her eyes sparkle as she exclaimed, "Mr. Earnscliffe!"

How inexpressibly sweet she thought his smile was as he shook hands with her. Then he turned to speak to Mrs. Adair and Marie. She felt too astonished, yet delighted, to speak, but Mrs. Adair said, "Well, this _is_ a surprise! We thought you were in Naples."

"So I was, but as I have not any ties to any one, or to any place, my movements are often sudden and changeable. I began to find it rather hot, so I determined not to spend the summer in Italy, but I wished, before leaving it, to have another look at Venice,--it is so beautiful. Is it not, Miss Adair?"

"Yes, this Piazza alone contains a world of beauty and interest."

"Quite true, it has indeed been the scene of stirring deeds. We have but to look upon that gorgeous Ducal Palace to recall them, and with a shudder we think of the fearful dungeons with which it is connected by the fatal Bridge of Sighs, and half expect to see the terrible state barge gliding swiftly and noiselessly to the dark Lagunes where some poor wretch is about to be consigned to a watery grave.... Oh, Venice is one vast romance!"

He looked at Flora as if he expected that she would continue the conversation; but she did not want to speak, she only wanted to be allowed to sit there and silently enjoy the luxury of listening to him. Finding that she did not answer, he said, "How strange it was that on the very night of my arrival I should chance to see you!"

These words recalled to her the night when she had last seen him, and she replied with a smile, "I wonder that you stopped to speak to us, as we are all ladies. Do you remember the harsh condemnation which you pronounced upon women in general at Mrs. Elton's ball? And I have not seen you since!"

"So, Miss Adair, you have not then forgotten my unfortunate speech to you?"

"I could not forget it, it was so sweeping and severe upon us."

"I fear I was very rude. Will you forgive me?"

"Personally, I have nothing to forgive, but as one of the sex, I must repeat, you were very unjust to us."

"I believe so _now_, sincerely; at least I know that there are exceptions to what I then said, as _you_"--his voice was lowered so that there should be no possibility of its reaching any other ears than hers--"proved on that very night; therefore, you, personally, have a great deal to forgive."

Flora blushed deeply as she looked up at him in wonder. "What can he have heard?" she asked herself.... Just then the band stopped playing and went away, so that this _sotto voce_ conversation could not be continued.

The loiterers in the Piazza now began to disperse. Mrs. Adair stood up as if she wished to go home, but Flora said, "How I should like to see the Lagunes at night!"

"Then let us go now," said Mr. Earnscliffe; "there could not be a better night for seeing them than this dark and starry one, and my gondola is at the steps of the Piazzetta. Shall it be so, Mrs. Adair?"

"The girls would like it," answered Mrs. Adair, "so I suppose we must go."

... What a happy closing to the evening did Flora find in that row in the gondola! How vividly did Mr. Earnscliffe's language call up the past,--the far-famed Doges of other days; the hapless Marino Faliero, the father of the Foscari; great "blind old Dondolo."... Byron and Shakespeare lent their aid; Shylock and Antonio seemed to walk again on the Rialto; ... bravos lurked behind dark buttresses for the coming of their victims; ... lovers fled in the close-curtained _gondole_ from cruel guardians to some freer shore.... Mr. Earnscliffe did indeed make Venice "one vast romance" to Flora, the spell of which was hardly broken by his taking leave of them on the steps of the Hotel Zucchese.