“Through the long days, the long days and the years,
What will my loved one be,
Parted from me, parted from me,
Through the long days and years?”
The lady who had been strolling with Dorothy had stopped to speak to some one, and for the moment the young wife, who had reached the end of the honeysuckle path, was alone. Mackenzie came up quietly and stood beside her as the song went on. When it had ended, she looked up at him.
“Do you like it so much?” she asked, in surprise, as she saw, in the starlight, the expression of his face.
“It’s because I have so much more than I ever dreamed of having, Dorothy,” he answered, in a low tone, just touching her hair in the shadow. “A year ago—do you remember? That same song, on the terrace? It expressed what I felt; for then I had no hope. But now—”
Here a voice from the group of ladies said, “Mr. Mackenzie will know; ask him.” And Mackenzie, returning to the light, was the attentive host again. Waddy, meanwhile, crossed the grass quickly to the honeysuckle path.
He was the last to take leave; when Mackenzie returned, after escorting Mrs. North and Mrs. Tracy to the Villa Dorio, he was still in the garden with Dorothy.
Fifteen minutes later, through the open windows of Mrs. North’s chamber there came the sound of steps.
“Waddy,” said Charlotte Tracy, peeping through the closed blinds, and recognizing his figure. “He has outstayed everybody.”
“You are no longer afraid of him, I trust?” inquired Mrs. North.
“Certainly not,” said the older lady with decision. After a moment she added, “She must always amuse herself, I suppose.”
“She has the very best of safeguards.”
“Now there you go, with your cold-blooded judgments, Laura! Dorothy has as deep feelings as anybody. I don’t know where you get your knowledge of her; you are her step-mother, it is true; but I have been with her as constantly as you have for years.”
“Quite so. May I ask how well you knew her father?”
“I don’t care!” was Charlotte’s reply. She left the room with majesty. The majesty lasted through the hall, and into her own chamber, as she reflected, “I have feelings. And Dorothy has feelings. But Laura is a stone!” At this moment she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror, and majesty collapsed. “Do I look like that? Do I? Stout, short-nosed?” And she sank down on a sofa overwhelmed. But presently a laugh broke through her discomfiture. “The very next crumpled little old man I see, I’ll be nice to him! I’ll ask who is his favorite poet, and I’ll get him to quote—yes, even if it’s Byron!” Mrs. Tracy’s favorite author was Ibsen.
“You will do it if I wish, won’t you, Alan?” said Dorothy the next day.
“Why, if you really wish it—if you think it best—” began Mackenzie.
“She doesn’t in the least,” interposed Mrs. North. “Don’t indulge her so; you will spoil her.”
Mackenzie’s eyes turned towards his wife.
“Don’t look at me to see whether mamma is right,” said Dorothy, laughing; “invent an opinion of your own about me—do! But let us have something striking; consider me capable of murder, for instance, not of mere commonplace selfishness. Every woman is capable of murder once; I am perfectly sure of it.”
“My dear,” said Mackenzie, expostulatingly.
“I don’t know whether I could quite do it with my own hands,” Dorothy went on, stretching out her palms and looking at them. “But Felicia Philipps could; yes, with her long fingers. Brrrr!” And she rushed to her husband and hid her face on his arm.
She had her way, which was not a murder, but a ball. Soon afterwards there was a summer-night party at Belmonte, with music and dancing; the tower and the garden, illuminated, were visible for miles roundabout, like a fairy-land on the dark hill. Then followed excursions, long drives, and, more frequently, long rides; for Dorothy had taken to riding. Mackenzie accompanied the riding-parties cheerfully. But Dorothy was often far in advance with one of the younger cavaliers.
“I believe I should come back from the dead, Alan, to see you pounding along, always at the very end of the procession, with Miss Jane Wood,” said the young wife one day. “I know you don’t care much about riding. But why do you always escort Miss Jane? She must weigh one hundred and eighty.”
“She is a little timid, I think,” answered Mackenzie; “at least, I have fancied so. She only goes to see to Miss Hatherbury.”
“As you see to me?”
Mackenzie liked long walks.
“But walking is so dull. And the people who take long walks have such an insufferable air of superiority,” commented Dorothy. “Not that you have come to that, Alan; with you it’s just simple vanity.”
And making the motion of turning up trousers at the bottom, she crossed the garden, holding her riding-whip like a cane, with her shoulders put back, her head run out a little, and a long step with a dip in the middle of it—the whole an amusing caricature of her husband’s gait when starting on a long excursion. Mackenzie had taught himself that gait; he had even been a little proud of it. But now he joined irrepressibly in his wife’s merriment, as she loped down the broad walk, and then came running back to him with her own light swiftness.
Occasionally, however, she went with him for a stroll. One day late in the afternoon they passed Villa Dorio together. The sun, low in the west, was shining on all the square Tuscan towers that dot the hill-tops in every direction. May was now more than half spent, and the air was like that of July in Northern countries. The ladies of Villa Dorio saw them go by; Dorothy’s straw hat was hanging by its ribbons from her arm.
“He hates to have her out without her hat,” remarked Mrs. Tracy, leaning forward to watch them for a moment.
“Well, in that dress, she doesn’t look more than fourteen,” answered Mrs. North.
Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie went on down the hill. When they came to the first zigzag, they left the main road, and, turning, crossed a grassy little piazza; beyond, clinging to the side of the hill, with a cluster of cypresses before it like tall green candles, is the small church of San Vito, commanding a magnificent sweep of the valley below. As they passed, San Vito’s chimes rang the Angelus, swinging far out from the open belfry against the sky with all the abandon of Italian bells, which seem forever joyous—almost intoxicated—even for the dead. San Vito’s has a path of its own which follows a narrow shelf overhanging the valley; the two pedestrians turned down this path. As the bells ceased, Dorothy began to sing:
“Ring out across the sunset sky, Angelus—”
“Go on; go on,” said Mackenzie, delightedly.
“Oh, I can’t sing.”
“Dear, I think you could; your voice is so sweet. If you would take lessons—”
“Well, by-and-by. We have lots of time for everything, Alan.” When they came to the turn where there is a rustic shrine she paused. “I won’t go any farther, I think. But don’t stop because I do; you like your walk. Go on, and come back through the olive groves just beyond Belmonte; I will be waiting for you at our wall.”
“I don’t like to leave you here alone.”
“Not under the shrine? What’s more, here is the priest.”
The priest of San Vito’s was coming down the path. He was an old man, with a large, sensible face, and a somewhat portly person dressed in well-brushed black. He aided his steps with a cane. His bearing was serene and dignified. As he passed, Mackenzie saluted him, raising his hat.
“For a Unitarian,” said Dorothy, after the worthy man had gone by, “aren’t you showing a good deal of courtesy? But you would be courteous to any religion; you would respect the fetich of a South Sea Islander. Do you know, Alan, that you have too many respects? Please go now, so that you can be back the sooner.” Mackenzie, who had been leaning ag
ainst the parapet, turned and began to go down the descent. His wife followed him for a step or two, in order to brush some mortar from his sleeve. “You see it is I that must keep you respectable—in spite of your respects.”
How pretty she was! They were alone under the high wall. “My darling,” he murmured. And Dorothy, laughing, raised herself on tiptoe to kiss him.
Half an hour later, when he reached the wall near Belmonte, there was no Dorothy. He went within. The signora had gone to Villa Dorio, the servant said. He came out and followed her thither. Yes, Dorothy had been there; but Waddy Brunetti had happened in, and they had strolled down as far as San Vito’s.
Mackenzie did not say, “But she has just been to San Vito’s.” He sat talking with the ladies for twenty minutes or more; then he remarked, offering it as a suggestion for their approval, “I think I will walk on to San Vito’s and meet them.”
“Yes, do,” said Mrs. North. “And make that foolish Dorothy put on her hat.”
“It is as warm as midsummer. And the air is perfectly dry, I think; no dew,” Mackenzie answered.
“He defends her even when she vexes him,” commented Charlotte Tracy, after he had gone.
“He might as well be amiable, seeing that he cannot be interesting,” Mrs. North responded.
Dorothy was not at San Vito’s. And she had not gone down the zigzags of the carriage-road; he went down to see. He returned to Belmonte. It was now late twilight. But there was still a band of orange light in the west, and, outlined against it, on the top of the tower, were two figures. He recognized them instantly—Dorothy and young Brunetti.
Dorothy waved her hand to him through one of the embrasures. “Send up some one with candles,” she called.
“With what?”
“Can-dles; it’s too dark now to come down without lights. But don’t send immediately; wait fifteen minutes more, so that we can see the moon rise. And, Alan!”
“Yes?”
“Please tell them that Mr. Brunetti will stay and dine with us.”
IV
On the 29th of December of this same year, 1882, Reginald Illingsworth was paying a visit to Mrs. Sebright.
“What a career that little girl will have!” he said, with deep gustatory appreciation.
Before this, for half an hour, he had been making remarks of a nature best described by the following examples: “That excellent fellow, Mackenzie! You can’t think how I miss him!” “There is something so tragic in such a death—a man who had everything to live for!” “How could they go to Rome! That pernicious Roman fever is the curse of Italy.” “Those poor ladies! Directly I heard they had returned to Belmonte, I went up at once to inquire and to leave cards; it is a stricken house!” Having said everything that decorum required, he now finally allowed himself to bring out the thought which was in reality filling his mind: “What a career that little girl will have! Only nineteen, and so very pretty, so charming. He has left her everything without a condition (save in the event—most improbable at her age—of her dying without children, in which case it goes back to his own relatives), and I am told that he had nearly eight millions of dollars; that is, one million six hundred thousand pounds! They are shrewd in their American way—those ladies; Mrs. North is very shrewd. And mark my words, madam, that little girl will make one of the great matches yet; not pinchbeck; something really good!” (His “good” had a deeply solid sound.)
This same afternoon the following words were exchanged in another quarter of Florence:
“Rose, dear,” said Miss Jane Wood, “you will go up again to-morrow, won’t you, to see poor Dorothy?”
“I have been twice—all that is necessary for appearances, Aunt Jane. Why should I bother Dorothy now?”
“Sympathy—” began Miss Jane.
“Sympathy! She is in a position to extend it to me. I think she is the very luckiest girl I have ever heard of in my life. All another girl can do in the face of such luck as that is to keep away from it, and not think about it—if she can.”
Miss Jane Wood: “I am astonished!”
Miss Maria: “! ! ! !”
That evening, at Belmonte, Dorothy walked and walked about the drawing-room; now she stopped at a table, took up something and put it down again; now she moved a statuette to another position; now she gazed at the etchings on the wall as though she had never seen them before; now she added pine-cones to the already blazing fire, kneeling on the rug with the hot flame scorching her face; finally she went to the window, and, parting the curtains, stood looking out. It was a dark night without stars; in addition to the freezing temperature, the wind was fierce; it drove furiously against the windows of the villa, it came round the corner of the tower with a shriek like that of a banshee.
“It’s dreadfully cold,” said the girl at last, as if speaking to herself.
“Surely not here?” replied Mrs. Tracy. Dorothy came wandering back to the fire, and then the aunt drew her down by her side. “Dear child, don’t keep thinking of Rome,” she whispered. “He is not there; there is nothing there but the lifeless clay.” And she kissed her.
“Try not to be so restless, Dorothy,” said Mrs. North, from her warm corner. “You have walked about this room all day.”
“It’s because I’m so tired; I am so tired that I cannot keep still,” Dorothy answered.
“I think a change would be a good thing for all of us,” Mrs. North went on. “We could go to Cannes for two months; we could be as quiet at Cannes as here.”
Dorothy looked at her with vague eyes, as if waiting to hear more.
“It is warmer there. And then there is the sea—to look at, you know,” pursued Mrs. North, seeing that she was called upon to exhibit attractions.
“Egypt would be my idea,” said Mrs. Tracy. “A dahabeeyah on the Nile, Dorothy. Camels; temples.”
Dorothy listened, as if rather struck by this idea also.
“But Egypt would be a fearful trouble, Charlotte,” objected Mrs. North. “Who is going to get a good dahabeeyah for us at this time of year?”
“Don’t spoil it. I’ll get twenty,” responded the other lady.
And then there was a silence.
“Well, Dorothy, are you going to leave it to us to decide?”
“Yes, mamma,” Dorothy answered. Her eyes had grown dull again; she sat listening to the wind as if she had forgotten what they were talking about.
“It’s decided, then. We will go to Cannes,” remarked Mrs. North, serenely.
Her Aunt Charlotte’s discomfited face drew a sudden laugh from the niece. And this laughter, once begun, did not cease; peal succeeded peal, and Dorothy threw herself back on the cushions of the sofa, overcome with merriment. Mrs. North glanced towards the doors to see if they were well closed. But Charlotte Tracy was so glad to hear the sound again that she did not care about comments from the servants; Dorothy’s face, dull and tired, above the dead black of the widow’s attire, had been like a nightmare to her.
They went to Cannes. And Mrs. North’s suggested “two months” had now lengthened, in her plans, to three. But before two weeks had passed they were again at Belmonte.
“Now that we have made one fiasco, Charlotte, and taken that horrible journey, all tunnels, twice within twenty days, we must not make another; we must decide to remain where we are for the present. If Dorothy grows restless again, be firm. Be firm, as I shall be.”
“Surely we ought to be indulgent to her now, Laura?”
“Not too much so. Otherwise we shall be laying up endless bother for ourselves. For we have a year of hourly employment before us, day by day. In the way of seeing to her, I mean.”
“She will not make us the least trouble,” said Mrs. Tracy, indignantly.
“I am not finding fault with her. But she cannot help her age, can she? She is exceedingly young to be a widow, and she has a large fortune; but
for a year, at any rate, if I know myself, gossip shall not touch my daughter.”
“A year? I’ll guarantee ten,” said Mrs. Tracy, still indignant.
“I don’t care about ten; three will do. Yes, I see you looking at me with outraged eyes. But there’s no need. I liked Alan as much as you did; I appreciated every one of his good points. With all that, you cannot pretend to say that you believe Dorothy really loved him. She was too young to love anybody. The love was on his side, and you were as much surprised as I was when she took a fancy to accept it.”
Mrs. Tracy could not deny this. But she belonged to that large class of women who, from benevolent motives, never acknowledge unwelcome facts. “I think you are perfectly horrid!” she said.
Dorothy, back at Belmonte, was troublesome only in the sense of being always in motion. Having exhausted the garden, she began to explore the country. She went to Galileo’s tower; to the lonely little church of Santa Margherita; the valley of the Ema knew her slender black figure. Once she crossed the Greve, and, following the old Etruscan road, climbed to the top of the height beyond, where stands the long, blank Shameless Villa outlined against the sky.
“Do you know, I am afraid I am lame,” said Mrs. Tracy, the morning after this long tramp to the Shameless.
“Well, why do you go? One of us is enough,” answered Mrs. North.
To the walks Dorothy now added lessons in German and Italian. Mrs. North drove down to Florence and engaged Fräulein Bernstein and Mademoiselle Scarletti. Next, Dorothy said that she wished to take lessons in music.
“A good idea. You ought to play much better than you do,” said her mother.
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