“I am not afraid,” replied Miss Macks. “Plenty of people stay; Mr. Jackson says so. It is only the rich who go away, and we are not rich. We have been through hot summers in Tuscolee, I can tell you!” Then, without asking leave this time, as if she was determined to have an opinion from him before he departed, she took from a portfolio some of the work she had done under Mr. Jackson’s instruction.
Noel saw at once that the Englishman had not kept his word. He had not put her back upon the alphabet, or, if he had done so, he had soon released her, and allowed her to pursue her own way again. The original faults were as marked as ever. In his opinion all was essentially bad.
He looked in silence. But she talked on hopefully, explaining, comparing, pointing out.
“What does Mr. Jackson think of this?” he said, selecting the one he thought the worst.
“He admires the idea greatly; he thinks it very original. He says that my strongest point is originality,” she answered, with her confident frankness.
“He means—ah—originality of subject?”
“Oh yes; my execution is not much yet. But that will come in time. Of course, the subject, the idea, is the important thing; the execution is secondary.” Here she paused; something seemed to come into her mind. “I know you do not think so,” she added, thoughtfully, “because, you know, you said”—and here she quoted a page from one of his art articles with her clear accuracy. “I have never understood what you meant by that, Mr. Noel; or why you wrote it.”
She looked at him questioningly. He did not reply; his eyes were upon one of the sketches.
“It would be dreadful for me if you were right!” she added, with slow conviction.
“I thought you believed that I was always right,” he said, smiling, as he placed the sketches on the table.
But she remained very serious.
“You are—in everything but that.”
He made some unimportant reply, and turned the conversation. But she came back to it.
“It would be dreadful,” she repeated, earnestly, with the utmost gravity in her gray eyes.
“I hope the long summer will not tire you,” he answered, irrelevantly. “Shall I not have the pleasure of saying good-bye—although that, of course, is not a pleasure—to Mrs.—to your mother?”
He should have made the speech in any case, as it was the proper one to make; but as he sat there he had thought that he really would like to have a look at the one guardian this young girl was to have during her long, lonely summer in Rome.
“I will tell her. Perhaps when she hears that you are going away she will feel like coming in,” said Miss Macks.
She came back after some delay, and with her appeared a matron of noticeable aspect.
“My mother,” she said, introducing her (evidently Noel was never to get the name); “this is Mr. Noel, mother.”
“And very glad I am to see you, sir, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Spurr, extending her hand with much cordiality. “I said to Ettie that I’d come in, seeing as ’twas you, though I don’t often see strangers nowadays on account of poor health for a long time past; rheumatism and asthma. But I feel beholden to you, Mr. No-ul, because you’ve been so good to Ettie. You’ve been real kind.”
Ettie’s mother was a very portly matron of fifty-five, with a broad face, indistinct features, very high color, and a breathless, panting voice. Her high color—it really was her most noticeable feature—was surmounted by an imposing cap, adorned with large bows of scarlet ribbon; a worsted shawl, of the hue known as “solferino,” decked her shoulders; under her low-necked collar reposed a bright blue necktie, its ends embroidered in red and yellow; and her gown was of a vivid dark green. But although her colors swore at each other, she seemed amiable. She was also voluble.
Noel, while shaking hands, was considering, mentally, with some retrospective amusement, his condition of mind if this lady had accepted his invitations to visit the galleries.
“You must sit down, mother,” said Miss Macks, bringing forward an easy-chair. “She has not been so well as usual, lately,” she said, explanatorily, to Noel, as she stood for a moment beside her mother’s chair.
“It’s this queer Eye-talian air,” said Mrs. Spurr. “You see I ain’t used to it. Not but what I ain’t glad to be here on Ettie’s account—real glad. It’s just what she needs and oughter have.”
The girl put her hand on her mother’s shoulder with a little caressing touch. Then she left the room.
“Yes, I do feel beholden to you, Mr. No-ul. But, then, she’ll be a credit to you, to whatever you’ve done for her,” said Mrs. Spurr, when they were left alone. “Her talunts are very remarkable. She was the head scholar of the Young Ladies’ Seminary through four whole years, and all the teachers took a lot of pride in her. And then her paintings, too! I’m sorry you’re going off so soon. You see, she sorter depends upon your opinion.”
Noel felt a little stir at the edges of his conscience; he knew perfectly that his opinion was that Miss Macks, as an artist, would never do anything worth the materials she used.
“I leave her in good hands,” he said.
After all, it was Jackson’s responsibility, not his.
“Yes, Mr. Jackson thinks a deal of her. I can see that plain!” answered Mrs. Spurr, proudly.
Here the daughter returned, bringing a little notebook and pencil.
“Do you know what these are for?” she said. “I want you to write down a list of the best books for me to read this summer, while you are gone. I am going to work hard; but if I have books, too, the time won’t seem so long.”
Noel considered a moment. In one way her affairs were certainly none of his business; in another way they were, because she had thrust them upon him.
“I will not give you a list, Miss Macks; probably you would not be able to find the books here. But I will send you, from Paris or London, some things that are rather good, if you will permit me to do so.”
She said he was very kind. Her face brightened.
“If she has appreciation enough to comprehend what I send her,” he thought, “perhaps in the end she will have a different opinion about my ‘kindness’!”
Soon afterwards he took leave. The next day he went to Paris.
II
The events of Raymond Noel’s life, after he left Rome that spring, were various. Some were pleasant, some unpleasant; several were quite unexpected. Their combinations and results kept him from returning to Italy the following winter, and the winter after that he spent in Egypt. When he again beheld the dome of St. Peter’s he remembered that it lacked but a month of two full years since he had said good-bye to it; it was then April, and now it was March. He established himself in some pleasant rooms, looked about him, and then began to take up, one by one, the old threads of his Roman life—such, at least, as remained unbroken. He found a good many. Threads do not break in Rome. He had once said himself that the air was so soft and historic that nothing broke there—not even hearts. But this was only one of his little speeches. In reality he did not believe much in the breaking of hearts; he had seen them stretch so!
It may be said with truth that Noel had not thought of Miss Macks for months. This was because he had had other things to think of. He had sent her the books from Paris, with an accompanying note, a charming little note—which gave no address for reply. Since then his mind had been otherwise occupied. But as he never entirely forgot anything that had once interested him, even although but slightly (this was in reality a system of his; it gave him many holds on life, and kept stored up a large supply of resources ready for use when wanted), he came, after a while, on the canvas of his Roman impressions, to the figure of Miss Macks. When he came to it he went to see her; that is, he went to the street of the Hyacinth.
Of course, she might not be there; a hundred things might have happened to her. He could have hunted up Horace
Jackson; but, on the whole, he rather preferred to see the girl herself first—that is, if she was there. Mrs. Lawrence, the only person among his acquaintances who had known her, was not in Rome. Reaching the street of the Hyacinth, he interrogated the old woman who acted as portress at the lower door, keeping up at the same time a small commerce in fritters; yes, the Americans were still on the fourth floor. He ascended the dark stairway. The confiding little “Ettie” card was no longer upon the door. In its place was a small framed sign: “Miss Macks’ School.”
This told a story!
However, he rang. It was the same shrill, ill-tempered little bell, and when the door opened it was Miss Macks herself who opened it. She was much changed.
The parlor had been turned into a school-room—at present empty of pupils. But even as a school-room it was more attractive than it had been before. He took a seat, and spoke the usual phrases of a renewal of acquaintance with his accustomed ease and courtesy; Miss Macks responded briefly. She said that her mother was not very well; she herself quite well. No, they had not left Italy, nor indeed the neighborhood of Rome; they had been a while at Albano.
The expression of her face had greatly altered. The old direct, wide glance was gone; gone also what he had called her over-confidence; she looked much older. On the other hand, there was more grace in her bearing, more comprehension of life in her voice and eyes. She was dressed as plainly as before; but everything, including the arrangement of her hair, was in the prevalent style.
She did not speak of her school, and therefore he did not. But after a while he asked how the painting came on. Her face changed a little; but it was more in the direction of a greater calm than hesitation or emotion.
“I am not painting now,” she answered.
“You have given it up temporarily?”
“Permanently.”
“Ah—isn’t that rather a pity?”
She looked at him, and a gleam of scorn filtered into the glance.
“You know it is not a pity,” she said.
He was a little disgusted at the scorn. Of course, the only ground for him to take was the ground upon which she stood when he last saw her; at that time she proposed to pass her life in painting, and it was but good manners for him to accept her intentions as she had presented them.
“I never assumed to be a judge, you know,” he answered. “When I last had the pleasure of seeing you, painting was, you remember, your cherished occupation!”
“When you last had the pleasure of seeing me, Mr. Noel,” said Miss Macks, still with unmoved calm, “I was a fool.”
Did she wish to go into the subject at length? Or was that merely an exclamation?
“When I last had the pleasure of seeing you, you were taking lessons of Mr. Jackson,” he said, to give a practical turn to the conversation. “Is he still here? How is he?”
“He is very well, now. He is dead.”
(She was going to be dramatic then, in any case.)
He expressed his regret, and it was a sincere one; he had always liked and respected the honest, morose Englishman. He asked a question or two. Miss Macks replied that he had died here in the street of the Hyacinth—in the next room. He had fallen ill during the autumn following Noel’s departure, and when his illness grew serious, they—her mother and herself—had persuaded him to come to them. He had lived a month longer, and died peacefully on Christmas Eve.
“He was one of the most honest men I ever knew,” said Noel. Then, as she did not reply, he ventured this: “That was the reason I recommended him when you asked me to select a teacher for you.”
“Your plan was made useless by an unfortunate circumstance,” she answered, with an evident effort.
“A circumstance?”
“Yes; he fell in love with me. If I did not consider his pure, deep, and devoted affection the greatest honor of my life I would not mention it. I tell you because it will explain to you his course.”
“Yes, it explains,” said Noel. As he spoke there came across him a realization of the whole of the strength of the love such a man as Horace Jackson would feel, and the way in which it would influence him. Of course, he saw to the full the imperfection of her work, the utter lack of the artist’s conception, the artist’s eye and touch; but probably he had loved her from the beginning, and had gone on hoping to win her love in return. She was not removed from him by any distance; she was young, but she was also poor, friendless, and alone. When she was his wife he would tell her the truth, and in the greatness of his love the revelation would be naught. “He was a good man,” he said. “He was always lonely. I am glad that at last he was with your mother and you.”
“His goodness was simply unbounded. If he had lived he would have remained always a faithful, kind, and respectful son to my dear mother. That, of course, would have been everything to me.” She said this quietly, yet her tone seemed to hold intention.
For a moment he thought that perhaps she had married the Englishman, and was now his widow. The sign on the door bore her maiden name, but that might have been an earlier venture.
“Had you opened your school at that time?” he asked. “I may speak of it, since, of course, I saw the sign upon the door.”
“Not until two months later; I had the sign made then. But it was of little use; day-schools do not prosper in Rome; they are not the custom. I have a small class twice a week, but I live by going out as day-governess. I have a number of pupils of that kind; I have been very successful. The old Roman families have a fancy for English-speaking governesses, you know. Last summer I was with the Princess C——, at Albano; her children are my pupils.”
“Her villa is a delightful one,” said Noel; “you must have enjoyed that.”
“I don’t know that I enjoyed, but I learned. I have learned a great deal in many ways since I saw you last, Mr. Noel. I have grown very old.”
“As you were especially young when you saw me last it does not matter much,” he answered, smiling.
“Yes, I was especially young.” She looked at him soberly. “I do not feel bitterly towards you,” she continued. “Strange! I thought I should. But now that I see you in person it comes over me that, probably, you did not intend to deceive me; that not only you tried to set me right by selecting Mr. Jackson as my teacher, but again you tried when you sent me those books. It was not much to do! But knowing the world as I now know it, I see that it was all that could have been expected. At first, however, I did not see this. After I went to Mr. Bellot, and, later, to Mr. Salviati, there were months when I felt very bitterly towards you. My hopes were false ones, and had been so from the beginning; you knew that they were, yet you did not set me right.”
“I might have done more than I did,” answered Noel. “I have a habit of not assuming responsibility; I suppose I have grown selfish. But if you went to Bellot, then it was not Jackson who told you?”
“He intimated something when he asked me to marry him; after that his illness came on, and we did not speak of it again. But I did not believe him. I was very obstinate. I went to Mr. Bellot the 1st of January; I wished him to take me as pupil. In answer he told me that I had not a particle of talent; that all my work was insufferably bad; that I better throw away my brushes and take in sewing.”
“Bellot is always a brute!” said Noel.
“If he told the truth brutally, it was still the truth; and it was the truth I needed. But even then I was not convinced, and I went to Mr. Salviati. He was more gentle; he explained to me my lacks; but his judgment was the same. I came home; it was the 10th of January, a beautiful Roman winter day. I left my pictures, went over to St. Peter’s, and walked there under its bright mosaics all the afternoon. The next day I had advertisements of a day-school placed at the bankers’ and in the newspapers. I thought that I could teach better than I could sew.” All this she said with perfect calm.
“I greatly admire your b
ravery, Miss Macks. Permit me to add that I admire, even more, the clear, strong, good sense which has carried you through.”
“I had my mother to think of; my—good sense might not have been so faithful otherwise.”
“You do not think of returning to America?”
“Probably not; I doubt if my mother could bear the voyage now. We have no one to call us back but my brother, and he has not been with us for years, and would not be if we should return; he lives in California. We sold the farm, too, before we came. No; for the present, at least, it is better for us to remain here.”
“There is one more question I should like to ask,” said Noel, later. “But I have no possible right to do so.”
“I will give you the right. When I remember the things I asked you to do for me, the demands I made upon your time, I can well answer a few questions in return. I was a miracle of ignorance.”
“I always did you justice in those respects, Miss Macks; all that I understood at once. My question refers to Horace Jackson: I see you appreciated his worth—which was rare—yet you would not marry him.”
“I did not love him.”
“Did any of his relatives come out from England?” he said, after a moment of silence.
“After his death a cousin came.”
“As heir to what was left?”
“Yes.”
“He should have left it to you.”
“He wished to do so. Of course, I would not accept it.”
“I thank you for answering. My curiosity was not an idle one.” He paused. “If you will permit me to express it, your course has been very brave and true. I greatly admire it.”
“You are kind,” said Miss Macks.
There was not in her voice any indication of sarcasm. Yet the fact that he immediately thought of it made him suspect that it was there. He took leave soon afterwards. He was smarting a little under the sarcasm he had divined, and, as he was, it was like him to request permission to come again.
For Raymond Noel lived up with a good deal of determination to his own standard of what was manly; if his standard was not set on any very fine elevation of self-sacrifice or heroism, it was at least firmly established where it did stand, and he kept himself fairly near it. If Miss Macks was sarcastic, he had been at fault somewhere; he would try to atone.
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