CHAPTER IV.
There was a pause in the conversation when he entered. His bride arose, advanced to meet him, and took his hand warmly. He let a keen passing glance rest for a moment on the noble face which looked up so frankly to his, and then approached her mother, who greeted him heartily, and bent forward in her easy-chair to shake his hand. Like her daughter, she was still dressed in black; but wore her hair gathered under a grey gauze cap, whilst Mary's brown locks were kept in order by a narrow black ribbon across her brow. Her father, too, received him kindly, and introduced him to two gentlemen, strangers, who were seated at the brightly-lighted table. They were Englishmen, brothers, old friends of the house, who had arrived from England but shortly before. For their convenience, the conversation was carried on in English.
"You are late, dear Theodore," said the mother; "we wanted you whilst we were describing to our friends the last hours of poor Edward. My poor eyes did their duty but feebly then, and Mary and her father were both ill, as you know. We all felt the loss more than you did, for you hardly knew him; and so you were the most self-possessed, and better able to realize what rests upon our memories only as a horrible agitated dream, even now almost incredible!"
Theodore felt a reluctance to talk. The quiet, of the room, the feeling of agitation with which he entered, strange faces, and a strange tongue, all oppressed him in the highest degree. And now, at this same moment, when he had but just been face to face with an existence so full of magical bliss, he was expected to describe the death-bed of poor Edward to strangers.
They thought that it was his sorrow that prevented his answering. He had seated himself near Mary, and gazed long on her delicate, pale brow. Its unruffled, snowy stillness disturbed him. Her blue eyes, that beamed clear, and happy, and calmly, had to-day lost their power over him. He felt distinctly that it was his own incapacity which prevented his enjoying this noble face as formerly, that made him no longer wait longingly for each word from those charming lips, or feel each smile penetrate into his inmost soul. He struggled for awhile against this insensibility, which caused him bitter agony,--it was in vain!
She was conscious of the existence of some struggle going on within him; but the presence of the others prevented her grasping closer, by her fervent participation in its sorrows, the heart which was separating itself from her.
One of the strangers asked about the monument which was intended to be erected to Edward. Theodore roused himself, and mentioned that that very day he had entrusted the work to a friend, of whose character and circumstances he gave a slight sketch. Mary's parents knew more of him; but the disjointed picture did not seem to satisfy the stranger.
"It were to be wished,"' he said, "that this man could be conscious of some trace of Edward's inner nature in his own being, so that he might be able to identify himself with the delicate form and short blessed life of our lost friend, as something beloved. He seems to be, from your description, a violent, inflexible man, to whom nothing can be more incomprehensible than our Edward's idea of living only for others, and of shaping his last sigh into a wish for the happiness of those he loved."
"He is rough and energetic," answered Theodore; "but the beautiful affects him, and he looks upon what is noble with reverence and awe. I remarked, when I read Homer to him, how powerfully the idyllic, I might say the feminine, passages of the poem moved him."
"Possibly because they accorded more with his artistic fulness than the barren uniformity of battle and danger. And yet it is one thing to possess a mind capable of being affected by certain common-place, natural, heathen emotions, and another to have one by which the blessings of our religion are appreciated. Edward was a Christian; your friend at best is but a professing Roman Catholic."
"I cannot deny," interrupted the mother, "that I have thought much on this point already. Before we intrust a work like this, which we have all so much at heart, to a stranger, it were at least advisable to have a sketch made which we could discuss and decide upon."
"I know him, dearest mother," said Theodore, emphatically. "If it were his custom to throw his first ideas upon a scrap of paper, it would be easy enough to discuss the matter with him; but he always prefers, first, to work up his subject in clay of the intended size; and he has, besides, particularly entreated that in this case he may be permitted to labour for a time without letting any one see it. That it depends upon your approval, he knows already."
Then there ensued a pause, in which the rather excitedly-spoken words of the young man echoed disagreeably. Mary went to the piano and endeavoured to charm away the discord with music. Only with Theodore was it ineffectual. The simple ballad had no power over one in whose ear the maddening tones of the tambourine again awoke spectrally, and the echo of the marvellous song of the chorister overwhelmed the pure voice. He saw Bianchi's firm gaze fastened upon him, and heard again the words, "There will be a miracle performed!" And here, where he was now, all was strange, and tame, and wonderless.
After the song, Mary seated herself again by his side. She spoke German to him; she asked about his amusements and his employments, about Bianchi. He talked absently, and thus half-confusedly, as if to himself, he told her about the osteria and the girl's dancing. As he glanced up from time to time, he marked a clouded tension over the delicate brows. The conversation between them died away. The father asked about English families, on which subject the guests talked eagerly. It was without interest to Theodore, and so he became again absorbed by his whirling thoughts. At last he departed. The strangers had taken up their residence with Mary's parents. It seemed to him as though he were doubly driven unhappy from this circle which once was his own--doubly--by himself and by others.