"O, I must save you!" she cried, more to herself than to him. "Armand, my poor Armand, I do not cast off my friends like that..." She held out her hands, her eyes full of tears.
CHAPTER XV
(1)
Ensconced on the Tuscan slope of the Apennines, on the road from Bologna to Florence, stood an inn, frequented by travellers less for its comforts than for its convenient situation, and here, under a pergola, on a warm September morning of 1831, Tristram and Dormer were seated. The road, visible from their present position, clung desperately to the side of the mountain; down below was a torrent, faintly clamouring, and opposite rose another mountain wall, green and thickly wooded. At this wall Charles Dormer was now absently gazing, thinking of the spot, further back, from which they had seen, vast and indistinct, the plain of Lombardy, and beyond it, just visible above the horizon like a flock of small clouds, the summits of the Alps. For it was out of the Alps, after all, that they had come to see Florence.
The voyage had done him good, but as soon as they landed and he had begun to sightsee, his headaches came back again. Then he would abstain for a little—and try once more. Matters came at last to a climax in April, at Rome, and very unwillingly indeed he had obeyed the English doctor whom Tristram called in, and gone up to Switzerland for the summer. The air of the mountains and the quiet had worked something of a miracle, and so, having promised themselves, during their exile, that they would still fulfil their intention of seeing Florence, they had recrossed the Alps, proposing, after seeing that city, to take ship at Leghorn. But this morning Dormer, to whom this plan was chiefly due, being in the mood when one can survey oneself with a rather cynical amusement, was quite conscious that he was not now so burningly anxious to see Florence as he had been, for he was beginning to chafe to get back to Oxford. The long letter in his hand had not lessened that anxiety.
He looked across the table at Tristram, who was reading an old English newspaper. If he himself had gained physical health from his travels Tristram had equally come to a measure of spiritual. Dormer knew now that what he had hoped was the true explanation of Tristram's perplexity was indeed true, and that Tristram no longer felt a barrier between himself and the priesthood; in fact he was going to be ordained at Christmas.
"In how many weeks shall we be home again, did you say?" he asked suddenly.
Tristram raised a bronzed face from his newspaper. "In about six, I reckon. Why? Is anything the matter?"
"Oh, no," returned his friend. "I was only wondering if we could just get an idea of Florence in two or three days and then go on to Leghorn."
"But you have been wanting all the summer to be in Florence," said Tristram, laying down his paper.