Chapter Seven.
A Sunday in Florence.
No one who has not seen Tuscany in its golden autumn can have any idea of its deepest, its most enchanting beauty. For, whatever men say, autumn in these colder northern lands carries, in every gorgeous tint and flaming leaf, a profound melancholy. A shiver of coming winter creeps over you in spite of yourself; it is a farewell, a dirge which comes sighing through the crimson and yellow woods, where the leaves are dropping to decay. In Italy there is no such sadness. Winter there is, to be sure—wind and snow, and sharpness of frost; but through it all the sun is laughing out, wonderful colours glow; spring, hope, youth, are never lost, or even for a moment forgotten. And therefore autumn brings no dread, only its own rich fruition and the joy of fulfilled toil.
As they drove down from the villa into Florence on the Sunday morning, the beauty of the time seemed at its height. The road, after descending between the high walls over which here and there the roses thrust themselves, branched off and ran gaily down to the Arno and to Florence through bordering vineyards, where the purple and yellow grapes hung in luminous clusters between the intense fresh green of their leaves as they tossed themselves from one tall tree to another against a clear brightness of sky. All round lay the soft and delicate glory of the mountains, and below them the town glowed white in the sunshine, even the cool shadows on the towers and walls gleaming with a strange translucent golden pink. There are no words for such colours; they burn and blend, everything is touched with an enchanter’s wand; it is only when you try to hold them fast, or come away to our cold greens and greys, that you learn something of their power.
Oliver Trent had done his utmost to get Bice again by herself, but she had as yet contrived to avoid him, and he was a good deal more disquieted by her doing so than he ventured to show; for hers was not a nature which it would be safe to stir into opposition, or to attempt to intimidate, and he had studied her closely enough to be aware that she would resent nothing so much as suspicion or distrust. Every hour that passed endangered his plans, and yet he could do nothing but wait. He was even obliged to see them drive off to Casa Giulia after service without him, as he was to go to other friends, and to meet them afterwards at Miss Cartwright’s. All that he could do was to whisper into Bice’s ear, as he put her into the carriage, “Remember,” and then he stood and watched them go with a black cloud on his face, which he no longer troubled himself to mask.
Bice’s spirits rose as they left him behind; at any rate, she was free for a few hours. The sun was shining, the bands were playing, all Florence was alive with gaiety, and the girl’s Italian blood leapt into answering life. Something else, too, there was, another spring of joy, none the less real that it was hidden away from touch or sight—was she not going where Jack would be? would she not at least see him, and hear his kind voice? He had not helped her as she had hoped, she acknowledged to herself. She could read in his face only strong condemnation of Clive and contempt for his weakness, and condemnation and contempt seemed to leave the burden just where it was before. But she forgot all that now. She was content to ask herself no questions, to take the joy of the moment. She had seen him in the distance, at church, with some ladies; and as she thought of him, such a sweet and gentle expression stole into her face, that the people who looked at her smiled with the ready sympathy of their country.
“She is a girl, and she is happy,” said old Bertuccia, who on week-days sits in the Borgo Ognissanti, near the church, selling her flowers and vegetables.
A brown old man who was standing by chuckled.
“Altro! But where is he?” he said, and they all laughed.