But she had been brought up as though she had many thousands; studiedly quiet as her life had been, studiedly simple as her attire always was, in every other respect her existence had been arranged as though a large fortune certainly awaited her. This had been the mother’s idea; she had been sure from the beginning that a large fortune did await her daughter. It now appeared that she had been right.
“I don’t know what you thought of me for bringing a fellow-countryman down upon you yesterday in that unceremonious way, Mrs. Churchill,” Bartholomew was saying. “But I wanted to do something for him—I met him at the top of your lane by accident; it was an impulse.”
“Oh, I’m sure—any friend of yours—” said Fanny, looking into the teapot.
Bartholomew glanced round the little circle on the rug, with an expression of dry humor in his brown eyes. “You didn’t any of you like him—I see that,” he said.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Well, he is rather a commonplace individual, isn’t he?” said Dallas, unconsciously assuming the leadership of this purely feminine household.
“I don’t know what you mean by commonplace; but yes, I do, coming from you, Dallas. Rod has never been abroad in his life until now; and he’s a man with convictions.”
“Oh, come, don’t take that tone,” said Mark Ferguson; “I’ve got convictions too; I’m as obstinate about them as an Englishman.”
“What did your convictions tell you about Rod, then, may I ask?” pursued Bartholomew.
“I didn’t have much conversation with him, you may remember; I thought he had plenty of intelligence. His clothes were—were a little peculiar, weren’t they?”
“Made in Tampa, probably. And I’ve no doubt but that he took pains with them—wanted to have them appropriate.”
“That is where he disappointed me,” said Gordon-Gray—“that very appearance of having taken pains. When I learned that he came from that—that place in the States you have just named—a wild part of the country, is it not?—I thought he would be more—more interesting. But he might as well have come from Clerkenwell.”
“You thought he would be more wild, you mean; trousers in his boots; long hair; knives.”
All the Americans laughed.
“Yes. I dare say you cannot at all comprehend our penchant for that sort of thing,” said the Englishman, composedly. “And—er—I am afraid there would be little use in attempting to explain it to you. But this Mr. Rod seemed to me painfully unconscious of his opportunities; he told me (when I asked) that there was plenty of game there—deer, and even bears and panthers—royal game; yet he never hunts.”
“He never hunts, because he has something better to do,” retorted Bartholomew.
“Ah, better?” murmured the Englishman, doubtfully.
Bartholomew got up and took a chair which was nearer Fanny. “No—no tea,” he said, as she made a motion towards a cup; then, without further explaining his change of position, he gave her a little smile. Dallas, who caught this smile on the wing, learned from it unexpectedly that there was a closer intimacy between his hostess and Bartholomew than he had suspected. “Bartholomew!” he thought, contemptuously. “Gray—spectacles—stout.” Then suddenly recollecting the increasing plumpness of his own person, he drew in his out-stretched legs, and determined, from that instant, to walk fifteen miles a day.
“Rod knows how to shoot, even though he doesn’t hunt,” said Bartholomew, addressing the Englishman. “I saw him once bring down a mad bull, who was charging directly upon an old man—the neatest sort of a hit.”
“He himself being in a safe place meanwhile,” said Dallas.
“On the contrary, he had to rush forward into an open field. If he had missed his aim by an eighth of an inch, the beast—a terrible creature—would have made an end of him.”
“And the poor old man?” said Eva.
“He was saved, of course; he was a rather disreputable old darky. Another time Rod went out in a howling gale—the kind they have down there—to rescue two men whose boat had capsized in the bay. They were clinging to the bottom; no one else would stir; they said it was certain death; but Rod went out—he’s a capital sailor—and got them in. I didn’t see that myself, as I saw the bull episode; I was told about it.”
“By Rod?” said Dallas.
“By one of the men he saved. As you’ve never been saved yourself, Dallas, you probably don’t know how it feels.”
“He seems to be a modern Chevalier Bayard, doesn’t he?” said good-natured Mark Ferguson.
“He’s modern, but no Bayard. He’s a modern and a model pioneer—”
“Pioneers! oh, pioneers!” murmured Gordon-Gray, half chanting it.
None of the Americans recognized his quotation.
“He’s the son of a Methodist minister,” Bartholomew went on. “His father, a missionary, wandered down to Florida in the early days, and died there, leaving a sickly wife and seven children. You know the sort of man—a linen duster for a coat, prunella shoes, always smiling and hopeful—a great deal about ‘Brethren.’ Fortunately they could at least be warm in that climate, and fish were to be had for the catching; but I suspect it was a struggle for existence while the boys were small. David was the youngest; his five brothers, who had come up almost laborers, were determined to give this lad a chance if they could; together they managed to send him to school, and later to a forlorn little Methodist college somewhere in Georgia. David doesn’t call it forlorn, mind you; he still thinks it an important institution. For nine years now—he is thirty—he has taken care of himself; he and a partner have cleared this large farm, and have already done well with it. Their hope is to put it all into sugar in time, and a Northern man with capital has advanced them the money for this Italian colonization scheme: it has been tried before in Florida, and has worked well. They have been very enterprising, David and his partner; they have a saw-mill running, and two school-houses already—one for whites, one for blacks. You ought to see the little darkies, with their wool twisted into twenty tails, going proudly in when the bell rings,” he added, turning to Fanny.
“And the white children, do they go too?” said Eva.
“Yes, to their own school-house—lank girls, in immense sun-bonnets, stalking on long bare feet. He has got a brisk little Yankee school-mistress for them. In ten years more I declare he will have civilized that entire neighborhood.”
“You are evidently the Northern man with capital,” said Dallas.
“I don’t care in the least for your sneers, Dallas; I’m not the Northern man, but I should like to be. If I admire Rod, with his constant driving action, his indomitable pluck, his simple but tremendous belief in the importance of what he has undertaken to do, that’s my own affair. I do admire him just as he stands, clothes and all; I admire his creaking saw-mill; I admire his groaning dredge; I even admire his two hideously ugly new school-houses, set staring among the stumps.”
“Tell me one thing, does he preach in the school-houses on Sundays and Friday evenings, say?” asked Ferguson. “Because if he does he will make no money, whatever else he may make. They never do if they preach.”
“It’s his father who was the minister, not he,” said Bartholomew. “David never preached in his life; he wouldn’t in the least know how. In fact, he’s no talker at all; he says very little at any time; he’s a doer—David is; he does things. I declare it used to make me sick of myself to see how much that fellow accomplished every day of his life down there, and thought nothing of it at all.”
“And what were you doing ‘down there,’ besides making yourself sick, if I may ask?” said Ferguson.
“Oh, I went down for the hunting, of course. What else does one go to such a place for?”
“Tell me a little about that, if you don’t mind,” said the Englishman, interested for the first time.
“M. de Verneuil
wants us all to go to the Deserto some day soon,” said Fanny; “a lunch party. We shall be sure to enjoy it; M. de Verneuil’s parties are always delightful.”
III
The end of the week had been appointed for Pierre’s excursion.
The morning opened fair and warm, with the veiled blue that belongs to the Bay of Naples, the soft hazy blue which is so different from the dry glittering clearness of the Riviera.
Fanny was mounted on a donkey; Eva preferred to walk, and Mademoiselle accompanied her. Pierre had included in his invitation the usual afternoon assemblage at the villa—Dallas, Mark Ferguson, Bartholomew, Gordon-Gray, and David Rod.
For Fanny had, as Dallas expressed it, “taken up” Rod; she had invited him twice to dinner. The superfluous courtesy had annoyed Dallas, for of course, as Rod himself was nothing, less than nothing, the explanation must lie in the fact that Horace Bartholomew had suggested it. “Bartholomew was always wrong-headed; always picking up some perfectly impossible creature, and ramming him down people’s throats,” he thought, with vexation.
Bartholomew was walking now beside Fanny’s donkey.
Mark Ferguson led the party, as it moved slowly along the narrow paved road that winds in zigzags up the mountain; Eva, Mademoiselle, Pierre, Dallas, and Rod came next. Fanny and Bartholomew were behind; and behind still, walking alone and meditatively, came Gordon-Gray, who looked at life (save for the hunting) from the standpoint of the Italian Renaissance. Gordon-Gray knew a great deal about the Malatesta family; he had made a collection of Renaissance cloak clasps; he had written an essay on the colors of the long hose worn in the battling, leg-displaying days which had aroused his admiration, aroused it rather singularly, since he himself was as far as possible from having been qualified by nature to shine in such vigorous society.
Pierre went back to give some directions to one of the men in the rear of their small procession.
When he returned, “So the bears sometimes get among the canes?” Eva was saying.
“But then, how very convenient,” said Pierre; “for they can take the canes and chastise them punctually.” He spoke in his careful English.
“They’re sugar-canes,” said Rod.
“It’s his plantation we are talking about,” said Eva. “Once it was a military post, he says. Perhaps like Ehrenbreitstein.”
“Exactly,” said Dallas, from behind; “the same massive frowning stone walls.”
“There were four one-story wooden barracks once,” said Rod; “whitewashed; flag-pole in the centre. There’s nothing now but a chimney; we’ve taken the boards for our mill.”
“See the cyclamen, good folk,” called out Gordon-Gray.
On a small plateau near by a thousand cyclamen, white and pink, had lifted their wings as if to fly away. Off went Pierre to get them for Eva.
“Have you ever seen the bears in the canes yourself?” pursued Eva.
“I’ve seen them in many places besides canes,” answered Rod, grimly.
“I too have seen bears,” Eva went on. “At Berne, you know.”
“The Punta Palmas bears are quite the same,” commented Dallas. “When they see Mr. Rod coming they sit up on their hind legs politely. And he throws them apples.”
“No apples; they won’t grow there,” said Rod, regretfully. “Only oranges.”
“Do you make the saw-mill go yourself—with your own hands?” pursued Eva.
“Not now. I did once.”
“Wasn’t it very hard work?”
“That? Nothing at all. You should have seen us grubbing up the stumps—Tipp and I!”
“Mr. Tipp is perhaps your partner?” said Dallas.
“Yes; Jim Tipp. Tipp and Rod is the name of the firm.”
“Tipp—and Rod,” repeated Dallas, slowly. Then with quick utterance, as if trying it, “Tippandrod.”
Pierre was now returning with his flowers. As he joined them, round the corner of their zigzag, from a pasture above came a troop of ponies that had escaped from their driver, and were galloping down to Sorrento; two and two they came rushing on, too rapidly to stop, and everybody pressed to one side to give them room to pass on the narrow causeway.
Pierre jumped up on the low stone wall and extended his hand to Eva. “Come!” he said, hastily.
Rod put out his arm and pushed each outside pony, as he passed Eva, forcibly against his mate who had the inside place; a broad space was thus left beside her, and she had no need to leave the causeway. She had given one hand to Pierre as a beginning; he held it tightly. Mademoiselle meanwhile had climbed the wall like a cat. There were twenty of the galloping little nags; they took a minute or two to pass. Rod’s out-stretched hands, as he warded them off, were seen to be large and brown.
Eva imagined them “grubbing up” the stumps. “What is grubbing?” she said.
“It is writing for the newspapers in a street in London,” said Pierre, jumping down. “And you must wear a torn coat, I believe.” Pierre was proud of his English.
He presented his flowers.
Mademoiselle admired them volubly. “They are like souls just ready to wing their way to another world,” she said, sentimentally, with her head on one side. She put her well-gloved hand in Eva’s arm, summoned Pierre with an amiable gesture to the vacant place at Eva’s left hand, and the three walked on together.
The Deserto, though disestablished and dismantled, like many another monastery, by the rising young kingdom, held still a few monks; their brown-robed brethren had aided Pierre’s servant in arranging the table in the high room which commands the wonderful view of the sea both to the north and the south of the Sorrento peninsula, with Capri lying at its point too fair to be real—like an island in a dream.
“O la douce folie—
Aimable Capri!”
said Mark Ferguson. No one knew what he meant; he did not know himself. It was a poetical inspiration—so he said.
The lunch was delicate, exquisite; everything save the coffee (which the monks wished to provide: coffee, black-bread, and grapes which were half raisins was the monks’ idea of a lunch) had been sent up from Sorrento. Dallas, who was seated beside Fanny, gave her a congratulatory nod.
“Yes, all Pierre does is well done,” she answered, in a low tone, unable to deny herself this expression of maternal content.
Pierre was certainly a charming host. He gave them a toast; he gave them two; he gave them a song: he had a tenor voice which had been admirably cultivated, and his song was gay and sweet. He looked very handsome; he wore one of the cyclamen in his button-hole; Eva wore the rest, arranged by the deft fingers of Mademoiselle in a knot at her belt. But at the little feast Fanny was much more prominent than her daughter: this was Pierre’s idea of what was proper; he asked her opinion, he referred everything to her with a smile which was homage in itself. Dallas, after a while, was seized with a malicious desire to take down for a moment this too prosperous companion of his boyhood. It was after Pierre had finished his little song. “Do you ever sing now, Fanny?” he asked, during a silence. “I remember how you used to sing Trancadillo.”
“I am sure I don’t know what you refer to,” answered Fanny, coldly.
Another week passed. They sailed to Capri; they sailed to Ischia; they visited Pompeii. Bartholomew suggested these excursions. Eva too showed an almost passionate desire for constant movement, constant action. “Where shall we go to-day, mamma?” she asked every morning.
One afternoon they were strolling through an orange grove on the outskirts of Sorrento. Under the trees the ground was ploughed and rough; low stone copings, from whose interstices innumerable violets swung, ran hither and thither, and the paths followed the copings. The fruit hung thickly on the trees. Above the high wall which surrounded the place loomed the campanile of an old church. While they were strolling the bells rang the Angelus,
swinging far out against the blue.
Rod, who was of the party, was absent-minded; he looked a little at the trees, but said nothing, and after a while he became absent-bodied as well, for he fell behind the others, and pursued his meditations, whatever they were, in solitude.
“He is bothered about his Italians,” said Bartholomew; “he has only secured twenty so far.”
Pierre joined Fanny; he had not talked with her that afternoon, and he now came to fulfil the pleasant duty. Eva, who had been left with Mademoiselle, turned round, and walking rapidly across the ploughed ground, joined Rod, who was sitting on one of the low stone walls at some distance from the party. Mademoiselle followed her, putting on her glasses as she went, in order to see her way over the heaped ridges. She held up her skirts, and gave ineffectual little leaps, always landing in the wrong spot, and tumbling up hill, as Dallas called it. “Blue,” he remarked, meditatively. Every one glanced in that direction, and it was perceived that the adjective described the hue of Mademoiselle’s birdlike ankles.
“For shame!” said Fanny.
But Dallas continued his observations. “Do look across,” he said, after a while; “it’s too funny. The French woman evidently thinks that Rod should rise, or else that Eva should be seated also. But her pantomime passes unheeded; neither Eva nor the backwoodsman is conscious of her existence.”
“Eva is so fond of standing,” explained Fanny. “I often say to her, ‘Do sit down, child; it tires me to see you.’ But Eva is never tired.”
Pierre, who had a spray of orange buds in his hand, pressed it to his lips, and waved it imperceptibly towards his betrothed. “In everything she is perfect—perfect,” he murmured to the pretty mother.
“Rod doesn’t in the least mean to be rude,” began Bartholomew.
“Oh, don’t explain that importation of yours at this late day,” interposed Dallas; “it isn’t necessary. He is accustomed to sitting on fences probably; he belongs to the era of the singing-school.”
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