"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."