A Startling Disclosure.
'Tis even thus:
In that I live I love; because I love
I live: Whate'er is fountain to the one
Is fountain to the other.
—Tennyson.
CLOISTER, MUSEUM OF SAN MARCO, FLORENCE.
Many days of great distress followed. Everything else was forgotten in the tense waiting. There were moments of half consciousness when Malcom's only words were "All right, mother." It seemed as if even in that second of plunging to save the child he yet thought of his mother, and realized how she would feel his danger. But happily, as time wore on, the jarred brain recovered from the severe shock it had received, and gradually smiles took the place of anxious, questioning looks, and merry voices were again heard, and the busy household life was resumed.
Although Malcom could not accompany them, the proposed visit to the old monastery, San Marco, for study of Fra Angelico's paintings was made by the others.
As they wandered through the long corridors, chapel, refectory, and the many little cells, now vacant, from the walls of which look forth soft, fair faces and still fresh, sweet colors laid there almost five hundred years ago by the hand of the painter-monk, they talked of his devotion, of his unselfish life and work; of his rejection of payment for his painting, doing it unto God and not unto men. They talked of his beginning all his work with prayer for inspiration, and how, in full faith that his prayer had been answered, he absolutely refused to alter a touch his brush had made; and of the old tradition that he never painted Christ or the Virgin Mary save on his knees, nor a crucifixion save through blinding tears; and their voices grew very quiet, and they looked upon each fresco almost with reverence.
"Fra Angelico stood apart from the growth of art that was taking place about him," said Mr. Sumner. "He neither affected it nor was affected by it. We should call him to-day an 'ecstatic painter'—one who paints visions; the Italians then called him 'Il Beato,' the blessed. There are many other works by him,—although a great part, between forty and fifty, are here. You remember the Madonna and Child you saw in the Uffizi Gallery the other day, on whose wide gold frame are painted those angels with musical instruments that are reproduced so widely and sold everywhere. You recognized them at once, I saw. Then, a few pictures have been carried away and are in foreign art galleries, as I told you the other day. During the last years of his life the Pope sent for him to come to Rome, and there he painted frescoes on the walls of some rooms in the Vatican Palace. From that city he went to Orvieto, a little old city perched on the top of a hill on the way from Florence to Rome, in whose cathedral he painted a noble Christ, with prophets, saints, and angels. He died in Rome."
"And was he not buried here?" asked Barbara; "here in this lovely inner court, where are the graves of so many monks?"
"No. He was buried in Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, a church close by the Pantheon in Rome, and the Pope himself wrote his epitaph. But it is indeed a great pity that he could not lie here, in the very midst of so many of his works, and where he lived so long."
"Did Fra Angelico live before or after the prophet Savonarola, uncle?" asked Margery. "We came here a little time ago with mother to visit the latter's cell, and the church, in connection with our reading of 'Romola.'"
"He lived before Savonarola, about a hundred years. So that when Savonarola used to walk about through these rooms and corridors, he saw the same pictures we are now looking at."
"I say, uncle, don't you think I am having the best part of this, after all?" brightly asked Malcom, the following day, as Mr. Sumner entered the wide sunny room where he was lying on the sofa, propped up by cushions, while Barbara, Bettina, and Margery were clustered about him with their hands full of photographs of Fra Angelico's paintings, and all trying to talk at once. "The girls have told me everything; and I am almost sure I shall never mistake a Fra Angelico picture. I know just what expression he put into his faces, just how quiet and as-if-they-never-could-be-used his hands are, and how straight the folds of his draperies hang, even though the people who wear them are dancing. I know what funny little clouds, like bundles of cigars, his Madonnas sit upon up in the heavens.
"I am not quite sure, uncle dear, but I like your instructions best when second-hand," he laughingly added. "Betty has made me fairly love the old fellow by her stories of his unearthly goodness. Was it not fine to refuse money for his work, and to decline to be made archbishop when the Pope asked him; and to recommend a brother monk for the office? I think he ought to be called Saint Angelico."
FRA ANGELICO. UFFUZI GALLERY, FLORENCE. GROUP OF ANGELS. FROM CORONATION OF THE VIRGIN.
"Some people have called him the 'St. John of Art,'" Mr. Sumner replied, with a bright smile at Malcom's enthusiasm. "I am not sure but yours is the better name, however."
About this time people who frequented the Cascine Gardens and other popular drives in and about Florence began to notice with interest an elegant equipage containing a tall, slender, pale young man, two beautiful, brown-eyed girls, and oftentimes either a gray-haired woman in black or a sunny-haired young girl. It had been purchased by Howard, and daily he wished Barbara and Bettina to drive with him. Indeed, it now seemed as if the young man's thoughts were beginning to centre wholly in this household; and suddenly warned by a few words spoken by Malcom, Mrs. Douglas became painfully conscious that a more than mere friendly interest might prompt such constant and lavish attentions. With newly opened eyes, she saw that while Howard generously gave to them all of such things as he could in return for their hospitality, yet there was a something different in his manner toward Barbara and Bettina. Their room was always bright and fragrant with the most costly flowers, and not a wish did they express but Howard was eager to gratify it.
She was troubled; and since the air of Florence was beginning to take on the chill of winter—to become too cold for such an invalid as Howard—she ventured one day, when they happened to be alone together, to ask him if he would soon go farther south for the winter.
"Malcom told me you had stopped for only a time here on your way to the south of Italy," she added.
The color rushed in a torrent over Howard's pale face, and he did not speak for a minute; then, turning abruptly to her, said:—
"I cannot go away from Florence, Mrs. Douglas. Do you not see, do you not know, how I have loved Barbara ever since I first saw her? You must have seen it, for I have not been able sometimes to conceal my feelings. They have taken complete possession of me. I think only of her day and night. I have often thought I ought to tell you of it. Now, I am glad I have. Do you not think she will sometime love me? She must. I could not live without it." And his voice, which had trembled with excitement, suddenly faltered and broke.
Poor Mrs. Douglas strove for words.
"You must not let her know this," she finally said. "She is only a little girl whom her father and mother have entrusted to me. What would they say if they knew how blind I have been! Why, you have known her but a few weeks! You must be mistaken. It is a fancy. It will pass away. Conquer yourself. Go away. Oh, do go away, Howard, for a time at least!"
"I cannot, I will not. Mrs. Douglas, I have never longed for a thing in my life but it has come to me. I long for Barbara's love more than I ever wished for any other thing in the world. She must give it to me. Oh, were I only well and strong, I know I could compel it."
"Listen to me, Howard. I know that Barbara has never had one thought of this. Her mind is completely occupied with her study, the pleasures and the novelties that each day is bringing her. She does not conceal anything. She has no reason to do so. She and Bettina are no silly girls who think of a lover in every young man they meet. They are as sweet and fresh and free from all sentimentalities as when they were children. Barbara would be frightened could she hear you talk,—should she for a moment suspect how you feel. You must conceal it; for your own sake, you must."
"I will not show what I feel any more than I already have. I will not speak to Barbara yet of my love. Only let me stay here, where I can see her every day. Do not send me away. Mrs. Douglas, you do not know how lonely my life has been—without brother or sister—without father or mother. It has been like a bit of Paradise to go in and out of your household; and to think—to hope that perhaps Barbara would sometime love me and be with me always. My love has become a passion, stronger than life itself. Look at me! Do you not believe my words, Mrs. Douglas?"
As Mrs. Douglas lifted her eyes and looked full into the delicate, almost transparent face so swept by emotion, and met the deathless fire of Howard's brilliant eyes, she felt as never before the frailty of his physical life, and wondered at the mighty force of his passionate will. The conviction came that she was grappling with no slight feeling, but with that which really might mean life or death to him.
An unfathomable sympathy filled her heart.
"I can talk no more," she said, gently taking in her own the young man's hand. "I will accept your promise. Come and go as you have, dear Howard. But always remember that very much depends on your keeping from Barbara all knowledge of your love."
As soon as it was possible, Mrs. Douglas, as was her wont when in any anxiety, sought a conference with her brother. After telling him all, there was complete silence for a moment. Then Mr. Sumner said:—
"And Barbara,—how do you think Barbara feels? For she is not a child any longer. How old were you, my sister, when you were married? Only nineteen—and you told me yesterday that we must celebrate Barbara's and Bettina's eighteenth birthday before very long, and Barbara is older than her years—more womanly than most girls of her age."
"She has never had a thought of this, I am confident. Of course, she may have known, have felt, Howard's admiration of her; but I doubt if the child has ever in her life had the slightest idea of the possible existence of any such feeling as he is cherishing. It is not ordinary, Robert, it is overwhelming; you know we have seen his self-will shown in many ways. The force of his emotion and will now is simply tremendous. Few girls could withstand it if fully exposed to its influence. There is all the more danger because the element of pity must enter in, because he is so evidently frail and lonely. I feel that I have been greatly in fault. I ought to have foreseen what might happen from admitting so freely into our home a young man of Howard's age and circumstances. I have never thought of Barbara and Betty otherwise than of my own Margery, and I know nothing in the world has ever been farther from good Dr. and Mrs. Burnett's minds than the possible involvement of one of their girls in a love-affair.
"And now I must write them something of this," she added, with a sigh. "It would not be right to keep secret even the beginnings of what might prove to be of infinite importance. Of course Howard's family, character, position, are above question; but his health, his exacting nature; his lack of so many qualities Dr. Burnett considers essential; the undesirability of such an entanglement! Oh! it would be only the beginning of sorrows should Barbara grow to care for him."
Poor Mrs. Douglas's face showed the sudden weight of care that had been launched upon her, as she anxiously asked:—
"What do you advise, Robert?"
"Nothing; only to go on just as we have been doing. Fill the days as full as we can, and trust that all will be right. It is best never to try to manage affairs, I believe."
And Barbara—how did Barbara feel? She could never have analyzed and put into definite thought the inner life she was leading during these days. Indeed, it is doubtful whether she had the slightest conception of the change that was gradually working within her. But rapidly she was putting away childish things, and "woman's lot" was coming fast upon her. Mrs. Douglas would have been astounded, indeed, could she, with her eyes of experience and wisdom, have looked into the heart of Barbara, whom she still called "child." That which the young girl could not understand would have been a revelation to her who had been a loving wife. With what an overwhelming pity would she have hastened to restore her to her parents before this hopeless love should grow any stronger, and she become aware of its existence!
Dr. Burnett's admiration for Robert Sumner was unbounded. He had known him from boyhood, and had always been his confidant, so far as an older man can be with a younger. Many times he had talked to his children about him—about his earnestness and sincerity of purpose—his high aims, and his willingness to spare no pains to realize them.
Barbara, who, perhaps, had been more than any other of the children her father's comrade, had listened to these tales and praises until Robert Sumner had become her ideal of all that was noble. No one had dreamed of such a thing, but so it was; and through all the excitement of preparation and through the journey to Italy, one of her chief anticipations had been to see this young man of whom her father had talked so much, and, herself, to learn to know him. The story of his marriage disappointment, which had led to his life abroad, and a notable adventure in Egypt, in which he had saved a woman's life, had added just that romance to his reputation as an artist and a writer on art that had seized hold of the young girl's imagination.
Now, as she was daily with him in the home, saw his affectionate care for his sister, Malcom, and Margery, and felt his good comradeship with them all, while in every way he was teaching them and inspiring them to do better things than they had yet accomplished, a passionate desire had risen to make herself worthy of his approbation. She wished him to think of her as more than a mere girl—the companion of none but the very young. She wished to be his companion, and all that was ardent and enthusiastic in her nature was beginning to rush, like a torrent that suddenly finds an outlet, into the channels indicated by him.
She did not realize this. But the absorbing study she was giving to the old pictures, the intensity of which was surprising to Bettina, was an indication of it. Her quick endeavor to follow any line of thought suggested by Mr. Sumner—and her restlessness when she saw the long conversations he and Miss Sherman would so often hold, were others. It seemed to her lately as if Miss Sherman were always claiming his time and attention—even their visit to Santa Maria del Carmine to study the frescoes by Masaccio, who was the next artist they were to learn about, had been postponed because she wished Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Sumner to go somewhere with her. Barbara did not like it very well.
But to Howard she gave little thought when she was away from him. He was kind, his flowers were sweet, but they were all over the house,—given to others as well as to herself. It was very good of him to take herself and Betty in his fine new carriage so often; but, perhaps,—if he did not so continually ask them,—perhaps,—they would oftener drive with Mr. Sumner and Malcom; and she knew Betty would like that better, as well as she herself.
She was often annoyed because he evidently "admired" her so much, as Betty called it, and did wish he would not look at her as he sometimes did; and she felt very sensitively the signs of irritation that were so apparent in him when anything prevented them from being with him as he wished. But she was very sorry for his loneliness; for his exile from home on account of ill-health; for the weakness that he often felt and for which no pleasures purchased by money could compensate. She was grateful for his kindness, and would not wound him for the world; so she frankly and graciously accepted all he gave, and, in return, tried to bring all the happiness she could into his days.