A deep tide of colour dyed Hera’s cheeks, and, without making other reply, she turned her head and gazed upon the sparkling electric lamps of a village that was sailing by. A moment more, and she rose, but only to bid him good-night and withdraw to the compartment prepared for her. Tarsis followed her with his eyes, an amused smile on his lips, and when she had disappeared he took a cigar from the box, lighted it, and threw himself into a long-cushioned chair. For an hour he stayed there, meditative, cheerful, while the train wound and climbed and burrowed its way across the Alps.
In the late afternoon they rolled into a gloomy terminal station of the French capital. It had been a day of rain clouds with short-lived intervals of clear sky; and while on their way to an obscure but aristocratic hotel on the left bank of the Seine they saw Paris in one of her happiest moments—a period of sunshine between showers. There was an air of gladness about the passing throngs—a momentary lift of spirits imparted by the smiling heavens; the wet pavements glistened, as did the oil-cloths of cabmen and gendarmes, and the moving life everywhere gave forth a lightened resonance. But before they reached the hotel umbrellas were up, and Paris was cross again.
So the weather served them nearly every hour of their week’s stay. Tarsis made no effort to reapproach the theme of “tender regard,” and Hera seemed to enter heartily into the enjoyment of the amusements he provided. The opera had no auditor more pleased than she, and when they drove in the Bois—between showers—she saw so many things in the spring’s unfolding, and talked about them so brightly, that Tarsis found himself interested for once in the wonders of nature’s workshop. She had put on the armour of contentment, believing he would perceive that she wore it not only in kindness but from a sense of duty consequent upon the giving of her hand. She believed that he would comprehend as well that it was meant no less for self-defence than for self-effacement. Upon his keenness of intellect she had counted, and not in vain. He read her declaration as clearly as if she had written it in the plainest of Tuscan words: The lot he had chosen was the one by which he must abide; her armour of contentment was so frail that it might be broken by even an essay on his part at disturbing the status quo to which he had agreed. All this he appreciated and made believe to accept as her immutable law.
The wedding journey took its course over the English Channel. In London Hera found many letters from Italy. From Aunt Beatrice there were four precisely written pages, over which the sage spinster had spread her dictum, with a fine tone of authority, on the amenities of wifehood. The letter from Don Riccardo breathed tenderness and sympathy, but proved a fresh reminder of the frail nature that was her father’s. He charged her that the Barbiondi were not made for slavery. Never must she sink under the burden of her marriage. If ever it became too heavy to bear with honour she must cast it off, come what might. Well he knew the sacrifice she was making. Was the father’s heart to be deceived because the daughter was too brave to come to him with her trouble? Ah, no!
“Beloved Hera,” he went on, “your absence tears my heart. Oh, fate! Why could it not have spared us enough to live in our humble peace? But no—ah, well, why weep over the irreparable? A chi tocca, tocca. Is it not so? With my warmest blessing and prayers most ardent for your happiness, I am your affectionate
“Babbo.”
Hera was able to utter a heartfelt thanksgiving that her father had not urged her to the marriage. She was glad he had done nothing in that affair to lessen the respect for him which she mingled with her love. There was a letter from a comrade of the Brianza—the little Marchioness di Tramonta; she wrote from the eminence of almost a year of married life. Letters from girl friends—dainty missives in cream and lilac—conveyed glowing wishes for a bright future.
Typewritten letters in printed envelopes had haunted Tarsis from the hour of his arrival in Paris. And now they pursued him to London. Thanks to the eclipse of the honeymoon, he found opportunity to read and answer many of them, as well as to spend a part of the day in Lombard street on “urgent matters of business,” as he explained to his bride.
Hera sent her father a most cheerful reply. “To-day,” she said, in closing, “I have had an interesting experience in dreary London. I promised you to pay a visit to the Duchess of Claychester. I did so this afternoon, and I am glad indeed. You did not tell me, babbo, that the Duchess is one of those English ladies of whom we read in Italy because of their work among the poor. We had luncheon in her house in Cavendish Square, then went to a place called a ‘settlement,’ of which she is chief patroness. It is a large modern building in the midst of the most squalid section of Marylebone—a quarter, I am told, that for human wretchedness is worse than the East End one hears so much about in the novels. My heart turned sick at the sights. Is it possible that we have anything so bad in Milan? Signor Forza told me of the poor of our Porta Ticinese quarter and I have heard about them from others. I have never been there, yet I cannot believe it equals the miserable life of this London slum. Now, what I saw gave me an idea. And what do you think it is? That I may be useful in the world! Yes, and in the way that the Duchess of Claychester is; but among our own people in Milan. I learned all that I could about the work.
“They have women called ‘visitors’ who go to the homes of the poor people, and with one of these I went for an hour or more. It was an experience I shall never forget. She told me that she had to employ rare tact sometimes, because there were men and women in the slums who objected to being ‘elevated’ or ‘ameliorated.’ It was so that my guide expressed it. We had a striking proof of the fact in one place. The family consisted of a very small woman, a very large man, and two wee girls. That they were in need anyone could see. As soon as we entered the man acted like a hunted animal at bay. The visitor was a woman of severe manner, and I must say that I did not detect in the way she went about this case any of that ‘rare tact’ which she said was so necessary. ‘Charity!’ the man roared back at her (I give it in his own language), ‘who asks yer bloody charity? What we wants is justice, we do. An’ justice we’ll ’ave some day, yer bet yer boots!’ He shook his fist in the visitor’s face, and his wife tugged at his coat, saying: ‘Be-ive yerself, ’Enry; be-ive yerself!’