CHAPTER XLIX. THE PALAZZO BALBI
The household of the Palazzo Balbi was unusually busy and active. There was a coming and a parting guest. Sir William himself was far too much occupied by the thoughts of his son's arrival to bestow much interest upon the departure of Captain Holmes. Not that this ingenious gentleman had failed in any of the requirements of his parasitical condition, nay, he had daily improved the occasion of his presence, and ingratiated himself considerably in the old Baronet's favor; but it is, happily, the lot of such people to be always forgotten where the real affections are in play. They while away a weary day, they palliate the small irritations of daily life, they suggest devices to cheat ennui, but they have no share in deeper sentiments; we neither rejoice nor weep with them.
“Sorry for your friend's illness!”—“Sincerely trust you may find him better!”—or, “Ah, it is a lady, I forgot; and that we may soon see you on this side of the Alps again!”—“Charming weather for your journey! “—“Good-bye, good-bye!”
And with this he shook his hand cordially enough, and forgot him.
“I'm scarcely sorry he's gone,” said May, “he was so deaf! And besides, papa, he was too civil,—too complaisant. I own I had become a little impatient of his eternal compliments, and the small scraps out of Shelley and Keats that he adapted to my address.”
“All the better for Charley, that,” said the old Baronet “You'll bear his rough frankness with more forgiveness after all this sugary politeness.” He never noticed how this random speech sent the blood to her cheeks, and made her crimson over face and neck; nor, indeed, had he much time to bestow on it, for the servant opened the door at the instant, and announced, “Captain Heathcote.” In a moment the son was in his father's arms. “My boy, my dear boy,” was all the old man could say; and Charles, though determined to maintain the most stoical calm throughout the whole visit, had to draw his hand across his eyes in secret.
“How well you look, Charley,—stouter and heavier than when here. English life and habits have agreed with you, boy.”
“Yes, sir. If I can manage to keep my present condition, I 'm in good working trim for a campaign; and you—tell me of yourself.”
“There is little to say on that subject. When men live to my term, about the utmost they can say is, that they are here.”
Though he tried to utter these words in a half-jocular tone, his voice faltered, and his lips trembled; and as the young man looked, he saw that his father's face was careworn and sad, and that months had done the work of years on him since they parted. Charles did his utmost to treat these signs of sorrow lightly, and spoke cheerfully and even gayly.