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.