by Grant Allen
‘Delighted to see you, Mr. Audouin,’ the colonel said stiffly, in a voice which at once belied its own spoken welcome. ‘And you too, Mr. — ur — Mr. —— — —’
‘Winthrop, papa,’ Gwen suggested blandly; and Hiram was grateful to her even for remembering it.
‘Winthrop, of course,’ the colonel accepted with a decorous smile, as who should gracefully concede that Hiram had no doubt a sort of right in his own small way to some kind of cognomen or other. ‘And are you still painting, Mr. Winthrop?’
‘I am,’ Hiram answered shortly. [The subject was one that did not interest him.] ‘And you, Miss Russell? Have you come here to spend the winter?’
‘Oh yes,’ Gwen replied, addressing herself, however, rather to Audouin than to Hiram. ‘You see we haven’t forgotten our promise. But we’re not stopping at the hotel this time, we’re at the Villa Panormi — just outside the town, you know, on the road to the Ponte Molle.
A cousin of ours, a dear stupid old fellow — —’
‘Gwen, my dear! now really you know — the Earl of Beaminster, Mr. Audouin.’
‘Yes, that’s his name; Lord Beaminster, and a dear old stupid as ever was born, too, I can tell you. Well, he’s taken the Villa Panormi for the season; it belongs to some poor wretched creature of a Roman prince, I believe (his grandfather was lackey to a cardinal), who’s in want of money dreadfully, and he lets it to my cousin to go and gamble away the proceeds at Monte Carlo. It’s just outside the Porta del Popolo, about a mile off; and the gardens are really quite delightful. You must both of you come there very often to see us.’
‘But really, Gwen, we must ask Beaminster first, you know, before we begin introducing our friends to him,’ the colonel interjected apologetically, casting down a furtive and uneasy glance at Hiram’s costume, which certainly displayed a most admired artistic disorder. ‘We ought to send him to call first at Mr. — ur — Winthrop’s studio.’
‘Of course,’ Gwen answered. ‘And so he shall go this very afternoon, if I tell him to. The dear old stupid always does whatever I order him.’
‘If we continue to take up the pavement in this way,’ Audouin put in gravely, ‘we shall get taken up ourselves by the active and intelligent police officers of a redeemed Italy. Which way are you going now, Miss Russell? towards the Piazza? Then we’ll go with you if you will allow us. — Hiram, my dear fellow, if you’ll permit me to suggest it, it’s very awkward walking four abreast on these narrow Roman side-walks — pavements, I mean; forgive the Americanism, Miss Russell. Yes, that’s better so. And when did you and the colonel come to Rome. Now tell me?’
In a moment, much to Hiram’s chagrin, and the colonel’s too, Audouin had managed to lead the way, tête-à-tête with Gwen, shuffling off the two others to follow behind, and get along as best they might in the background together. Now the colonel was not a distinguished conversationalist, and Hiram was hardly in a humour for talking, so after they had interchanged a few harmless conventionalities and a mild platitude or two about the weather, they both relapsed into moody silence, and occupied themselves by catching a scrap every now and then of what Gwen and Audouin were saying in front of them.
‘And that very clever Mr. Churchill, too, Mr. Audouin! I hear he’s getting on quite wonderfully. Lord Beaminster bought one of his groups, you know, and brought him into fashion — partly by my pushing, I must confess, to be quite candid — and now, I’m told, he’s commanding almost any price he chooses to ask in the way of sculpture. We haven’t seen him yet, of course, but I mean papa and my cousin to look him up in his own quarters at the very earliest opportunity.’
‘Oh, a clever enough young artist, certainly, but not really, Miss Russell, half so genuine an artist in feeling as my friend Win-throp.’
Hiram could have fallen on his neck that moment for that half-unconscious piece of kindly recommendation.
A few steps further they reached the corner of the Via de’ Condotti, and Gwen paused for a second as she looked across the street, with a little sudden cry of recognition. A handsome young man was coming round the corner from the Piazza di Spagna, with a gipsy-looking girl leaning lightly on his arm, and talking to him with much evident animation. It was Colin and Minna, going out together on Minna’s second holiday, to see the wonders of the Vatican and St. Peter’s.
‘Mr. Churchill!’ Gwen cried, coming forward cordially to meet him. ‘What a delightful rencontre! We were just talking of you.
And here are other friends, you see, besides — Mr. Winthrop, my father, and Mr. Audouin.’ Minna stood half aside in a little embarrassment, wondering who on earth the grand lady could be (she had penetration enough to recognise at once that she was a grand lady) talking so familiarly with our Colin.
‘Miss Howard-Russell!’ Colin cried on his side, taking her hand warmly. ‘Then you’ve come back again! I’m so glad to see you! And you too, Mr. Audouin; this is really a great pleasure. — Miss Russell, I owe you so many thanks. It was you, I believe, who sent my first patron, Lord Beaminster, to visit my studio.’
‘Oh, don’t speak of it, please, Mr. Churchill. It’s we who owe you thanks rather, for the pleasure your beautiful group of Autumn has given us. And dear stupid old Lord Beaminster used to amuse everybody so much by telling them how he wanted you to put a clock-dial in the place of the principal figure, until I managed at last to laugh him out of it. I made his life a burden to him, I assure you, by getting him to see how very ridiculous it was of him to try to spoil your lovely composition.’
They talked for a minute or two longer at the street corner, Gwen explaining once more to Colin how she and the colonel had come as Lord Beaminster’s guests to the Villa Panormi; and meanwhile poor little Minna stood there out in the cold, growing redder every second, and boiling over with indignation to think that that horrid Miss Howard-Russell should have dropped down upon them from the clouds at the very wrong moment, just on purpose to make barefaced love so openly to her Colin.
It was Gwen herself, however, who first took notice of Minna, whom she saw standing a little apart, and looking very much out of it indeed among so many greetings of old acquaintances. ‘And your friend?’ she said to Colin kindly. ‘You haven’t introduced her to us yet. May we have the pleasure?’ And she took a step forward with womanly gentleness to relieve the poor girl from her obvious embarrassment.
‘Excuse me, Minna dear,’ Colin said, taking her hand and leading her forward quietly.
‘My cousin, Miss Wroe: Miss Howard-Bussell, Colonel Howard-Russell, Mr. Audouin, Mr. Winthrop.’
Minna bowed to them all stiffly with cheeks burning, and then fell back again at once angrily into her former position.
‘And have you come to Rome lately, Miss Wroe?’ Gwen asked of her with genuine kindness. ‘Are you here on a visit to your cousin, whose work we all admire so greatly?’
‘I came a week ago,’ Minna answered defiantly, blurting out the whole truth (lest she should seem to be keeping back anything) and pitting her whole social nonentity, as it were, against the grand lady’s assured position.
‘I came a week ago; and I’m a governess to a little Russian girl here; and I’m going to stop all the winter.’
‘That’ll be very nice for all of us,’ Gwen put in softly, with a look that might almost have disarmed Minna’s hasty suspicions. ‘And how exceedingly pleasant for you to have your cousin here, too! I suppose it was partly on that account, now, that you decided upon coming here?’
‘It was,’ Minna answered shortly, without vouchsafing any further explanation.
‘And where are you going now, Mr. Churchill?’ Gwen asked, seeing that Minna was clearly not in a humour for conversation. ‘Are you showing your cousin the sights of Rome, I wonder?’
‘Exactly what I am doing, Miss Russell. We’re going now to see the Vatican.’
‘Oh, then, do let us come with you! I should like to go too. I do love going through the galleries with an artist who can tell one all about them!’
/> ‘But, Gwen, my dear, Beaminster’s lunch hour ——
‘Oh, bother Lord Beaminster’s lunch hour, papa! Hire somebody to go and tell him we’ve been detained and can’t possibly be back by lunch-time. I want to go and see the Vatican, and improve the opportunity of making Miss Wroe’s better acquaintance.’ Minna bowed again with bitter mock solemnity.
So they all went to the Vatican, spoiling poor little Minna’s holiday that had begun so delightfully (for she and Colin had talked quite like old times on their way from the Via Clementina), and tiring themselves out with strolling up and down those eye-distracting corridors and galleries. It was a queer game of cross questions and crooked answers all round between them. Audouin, flashing gaily as of old, and scintillating every now and then with little bits of crisp criticism over pictures or statues, was trying all the time to get a good talk with Gwen Howard-Russell, and to oust from her side the unconscious Colin. Gwen, smiling benignly at Audouin’s quaintly worded sallies, was doing her best to call out Colin’s opinions upon all the works in the Vatican off-hand. Hiram, only anxious to avoid being bored by the Colonel’s vapid remarks upon the things he saw (he called Raphaels and Guidos and Titians alike ‘pretty, very pretty’), was chiefly engaged in overhearing the conversation of the others. And Minna, poor little Minna, to whom Colin paid as much assiduous attention as the circumstances permitted, was longing all the time to steal away and have a good cry about the horrid goings on of that abominable Miss Howard-Russell.
From the minute Minna had seen Gwen, and heard what manner of things Gwen had to say to Colin, she forgot straightway all her fears about the Italian Cecca creature, and recognised at once with a woman’s instinct that her real danger lay in Gwen, and in Gwen only. It was with Gwen that Colin was likely to fall in love; Gwen, with her grand manners and her high-born face and her fine relations, and her insinuating, intoxicating adulation. How she made up to him and praised him! How she talked to him about his genius and his love of beauty! How she tried to flatter him up before her own very face! Miss Gwen was beautiful; that much Minna couldn’t help grudgingly admitting. Miss Gwen had a delightful self-possession and calmness about her that Minna would have given the world to have rivalled. Miss Gwen had everything in her favour. No wonder Colin was so polite and courteous to her; no wonder poor little trembling Minna was really nowhere at all beside her. And then she had done Colin a great service; she had recommended Lord Beaminster and many other patrons to go and see his studio. Ah me! how sad little Minna felt that evening when she tried to compare her own small chances with those of great, grand, self-possessed Miss Howard-Russell! If only Cohn loved her! But he had as good as said himself that he didn’t love her — not worth speaking of: he had said he kissed her ‘strictly as a cousin.’
As Gwen and the colonel drove back in a hired botto to the Villa Panormi in the cool of the evening, Gwen said to her papa quite innocently, ‘What a charming young man that delightful Mr. Churchill is really! Did. you notice how kind and attentive he was to that funny little cousin of his in the brown bonnet? Only a governess, you know, come to Rome with a Russian family; and yet he made as much of her, almost, as he did of you and me and Mr. Audouin! So thoughtful and good of him, I call it; but there — he’s always such a perfect gentleman. I dare say that’s the daughter of some washerwoman or somebody down at Wootton Mandeville, and he pays her quite as much attention as if she were actually a countess or a duchess.’
‘You don’t seem to remember, Gwen,’ the colonel answered grimly, ‘that his own father was only a kitchen gardener, and that he himself began life, I understand, as a common stonecutter.’
‘Nonsense!’ Gwen replied energetically.
‘You seem to forget on the other hand, papa, that he was born a great sculptor, and that genius is after all the only true nobility.’
‘It wasn’t so when I was a boy,’ the colonel continued, with a grim smile; ‘and I fancy it isn’t so yet, Gwen, in our own country, whatever these precious Yankee friends of yours may choose to tell you.’
CHAPTER XXXIII. CECCA.
A fortnight later, Signora Cecca walked sulkily down the narrow staircase of the handsome Englishman’s little studio. Signora Cecca was evidently indulging herself in the cheap luxury of a very bad humour. To an Italian woman of Cecca’s peculiarly imperious temperament, indulgence in that congenial exercise of the spleen may be looked upon as a real and genuine luxury. Cecca brooded over her love and her wrath and her jealousy as thwarted children brood over their wrongs in the solitude of the bedroom where they have been sent to expiate some small everyday domestic offence in silence and loneliness. The handsome Englishman had then a sweetheart, an innamorata, in his own country, clearly; and now she had come to Rome, the perfidious creature, on purpose to visit him. That was a contingency that Cecca had never for one moment counted upon when she left her native village in Calabria and followed the unknown sculptor obediently to Rome, where she rose at once to be the acknowledged queen of the artists’ models.
Not that Cecca had ever seriously thought, on her own part, of marrying Colin. Mother of heaven, no! for the handsome Englishman was a heretic and a foreigner; and to marry him would have been utterly shocking to all Cecca’s deepest and most ingrained moral and religious feelings. For Cecca was certainly by no means devoid of principle. She would have stuck a knife into you in a quarrel as soon as look at you: she would have poisoned a rival remorselessly in cold blood under the impelling influence of treacherous Italian jealousy without a moment’s hesitation, but she would have decidedly drawn a sharp line at positively marrying a foreigner and a heretic. No, she didn’t want to marry Colin. But she wanted to keep him to herself as her own private and particular possession: she wanted to have him for her own without external interference: she wanted to prevent all other women from having anything to say or to do with her own magnificent handsome Englishman. He needn’t marry her, of course, but he certainly mustn’t be allowed to go and marry any other woman.
‘If I were a jealous fool,’ Cecca thought to herself in her own vigorous Calabrian patois, ‘I should run away and leave him outright, and make Bazzoni’s fortune all at once by letting him model from me. But I’m not a jealous fool, and I don’t want, as the proverb says, to cut off my own right hand merely in order to fling it in the face of my rival. The English signorina loves the handsome Englishman — that’s certain. Then, mother of God, the English signorina will have to pay for it. Dear little Madonna della Guardia, help me to cook her stew for her, and you shall have tapers, ever so many tapers, and a couple of masses too in your own little chapel on the headland at Monteleone. There is no Madonna so helpful at a pinch as our own Madonna della Guardia at Monteleone. Besides, she isn’t too particular. She will give you her aid on an emergency, and not be so very angry with you after all, because you’ve had to go a little bit out of your way, perhaps, to effect your purpose. Blood of St. Elmo, no: she took candles from the good uncle when he shot the carabiniere who came to take him up over the affair of the ransom of the American traveller; and she protected him well for the candles too, and he has never been arrested for it even to this very minute.
The English signorina had better look out, by Bacchus, if she wants to meddle with Cecca Bianchelli and Madonna della Guardia at Monteleone. Besides, she’s nothing but a heretic herself, if it comes to that, so what on earth, I should like to know, do the blessed saints in heaven care for her?’
Signora Cecca stood still for a moment in the middle of the Via Colonna, and asked herself this question passionately, with a series of gesticulations which in England might possibly have excited unfavourable attention. For example, she set her teeth hard together, and drew an imaginary knife deliberately across the throat of an equally imaginary aerial rival. But in Rome, where people are used to gesticulations, nobody took the slightest notice of them.
‘She has been four times to the studio already,’ Signora Cecca went on to herself, resuming her homeward walk as quietly as
if nothing at all had intervened to diversify it: ‘and every time she comes the handsome Englishman talks to her, makes love to her, fondles her almost before my very eyes. And she, the basilisk, she loves him too, though she pretends to be so very coy and particular: she loves him: she cannot deceive me: I saw it at once, and I see it still through all her silly transparent pretences. She cannot take in Cecca Bianchelli and Madonna della Guardia at Monteleone. She loves him, the Saracen, and she shall answer for it. No other woman but me shall ever dare to love the handsome Englishman.
‘The other English signorina, to be sure, she loves him too: but then, pooh, I don’t care for her, I don’t mind her, I’m not afraid of her. The Englishman doesn’t love her, that’s certain. She’s too cold and white-faced. He loves the little one. The little one is prettier; she has life in her features; she might almost be an Italian girl, only she’s too insipid. She shall answer for his loving her. I hate her; and the dear little Madonna shall have her candles.’
As she walked along, a young man in a Roman workman’s dress came up to her wistfully, and looked in her face with a doubtful expression of bashful timidity. ‘Good morning, Signora Cecca,’ he said, with curiously marked politeness. ‘You come from the Englishman’s studio, I suppose? You have had a sitting?’
Cecca looked up at him haughtily and coldly. ‘You again, Giuseppe,’ she said, with a toss of her beautiful head and a curl of her lip like a tragedy Cleopatra. ‘And what do you want with me? You’re always bothering me now about something or other, on the strength of some slight previous boyish acquaintance.’
The young man smiled her back an angry smile, Italian fashion. ‘It’s Giuseppe now, I suppose,’ he said, with a sniff: ‘it used to be Beppo down there yonder at Monteleone. I shall have to take to calling you in your turn “Signora Francesca,” I’m thinking: you’ve grown too fine for me since you came to Rome and got among your rich sculptor acquaintances. A grand trade indeed, to sit half the day, half uncovered, in a studio for a pack of Englishmen to take your figure and make statues of you! I liked you far better, myself, when you poured the wine out long ago at the osteria by the harbour at Monteleone.’
