[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!"