on our return from the cathedral i spent the early portion of the morning in writing letters to some college friends at heidelberg, not forgetting at the same time to send to my uncle's butler telling him to procure another copy of the standard of the date july 2nd, and to forward it to rivoli.
my uncle, occupying himself with the files of the newspaper in question, was deep in the mazes of politics, and favoured daphne now and then with extracts from the oratory of statesmen out of office, to the effect that the country was on the eve of ruin, and that nothing but a speedy return of the opposition to power would ever set matters right—statements which my uncle, who favoured the opposition, regarded as profoundly true.
daphne yawned at the impending fall of her country without seeming to be much impressed thereby; and finally, putting on her hat, she exclaimed it was a beautiful morning for a stroll, and sauntered leisurely out, expressing a wish that i would follow her as soon as my letters were finished.
this i did, and walked down the mountain path in quest of her. not having seen her by the time i had reached the haunted well, and not knowing in what direction to look for her, i flung myself down on a grassy bank behind the fountain, beneath the shadows of the overhanging foliage, determined to devote five minutes to a cigar before proceeding further.
[pg 129]
the day was sunny, the breeze soft and warm, the waters of the fountain rippled pleasantly, and the shadows danced to and fro on the greensward. repose in the shade was much more agreeable than walking in the sunlight, and i found my five minutes extending to ten, and, while dreamily thinking that it was time to resume my quest, i dropped off to sleep.
how long i continued in a state of repose i cannot tell. i was aroused by the sound of voices; and, glancing out from my covert, i saw daphne and angelo standing beside the fountain. the artist was labouring under some deep emotion: his dark hair hung negligently over his brow and eyes; his attire was in a frayed and disarranged state; for disorder and melancholy he looked a very hamlet.
evidently neither he nor daphne was aware of my proximity. i hesitated to play the spy, but by doing so i might obtain a clue to angelo's expulsion from the communion—a clue that probably could be obtained in no other way, since his affection for daphne might induce him to impart to her what he would withhold from my uncle and myself. this thought acted as a salve to my conscience, and, drawing my head within the foliage, i resolved to remain a silent and hidden spectator of the interview, in direct contravention of my promise to daphne not to leave her alone with the artist. it was not a very honourable position i candidly admit. but i paid the penalty for it, by overhearing that which made me most miserable.
"i am afraid, miss leslie," the artist was saying—and his voice sounded so strange and hoarse that i scarcely recognised it to be his—"that the incident that happened this morning in the cathedral has tended to prejudice me in your esteem."
daphne's silence seemed to imply assent to this.
[pg 130]
"if it be this that causes you to look on me with a different face, it admits of an easy explanation. father ignatius recognised in you the original of my madonna. he considers me guilty of sacrilege. my refusal to atone for it at the confessional excludes me from the communion of the church. you know what these priests are, miss leslie," he continued with a sneer. "meat in lent, absence from confessional, a thousand similar trifles, are deadly sins in their eyes."
daphne still maintained silence. he took from his bosom a crucifix and kissed it.
"on this crucifix, image of our god in agony, holiest symbol of the catholic faith, i swear by my hope of salvation that i speak truth when i say that my exclusion from the mass rests on no other ground than the one i have stated."
i did not believe him; and if he had repeated his statement twenty times, and sworn it on his crucifix twenty times, i would not have believed him. a subtle stroke on his part, this: to represent to daphne that his tribute to her beauty had cost him nothing less than—'the communion of the saints!' it might move her to pity, and we all know to what pity is akin.
"i am sorry," said daphne, "that i am the cause—the innocent cause," with a stress on the adjective, "of your suffering the church's censure."
and then came a long pause, during which both stood looking at each other: he with undisguised love and admiration, she with evident distrust and fear. each seemed afraid to break the silence.
"miss leslie," he continued, speaking slowly, as if it were difficult to find words, and his breathing came thick and heavy, "you can guess why in painting that picture i was enabled, in the absence of the original, to reproduce your features with such fidelity?"
[pg 131]
"i cannot tell."
this was a falsehood on her part—a pardonable one, perhaps. she knew the reason as well as he did, and dreaded what was coming. at last, after another long pause, came the momentous declaration:
"it was love that aided my memory."
with his hands tremulously clasped, he bent forward, his dark eyes fixed on daphne's face. hers were bent on the ground. i had never seen her looking more beautiful.
"yes," repeated angelo, speaking with more ease now, as if his avowal of love had removed the restraint from his speech, "it was love that aided my memory. it was love, if classic story speak truth, that drew the first portrait."
it was characteristic of him that even in his lovemaking he could not wholly avoid reverting to his adored art.
"yes," he continued, "it was love that inspired the production of my madonna. madonna!" he exclaimed in scornful tones, as if in contempt of his religion. "i know of no madonna save you—your worship excludes all other. the saints are forgotten when i gaze on your face. you alone are my divinity. visit my studio, and see how many pictures there are of that face which troubles me by day and haunts my dreams by night. look in my desk, and see how many letters there are addressed to miss leslie—written, but never sent. miss leslie, you must know how much i love you! o, do not say that you do not return the feeling!"
his cloak dropped back from his shoulders as he extended his arms in a pleading manner toward my cousin, his bronzed, handsome face glowing as i have seen the face of a greek statue glow in the quivering[pg 132] sunset. he was not ignorant of his own personal charms, and his present attitude, acquired perhaps in the atelier of the artist, was purposely adapted to display the statuesque grace of his figure.
daphne did not speak a word. i knew what her answer would be, and i knew that her reticence arose from her dread of the effect which that answer might have on the passionate nature of the artist. she had seen something of his nature that morning in the cathedral, and divined but too well that his love was of the character that turns by a leap to hatred.
"i love you," he repeated—"how deeply no words of mine can tell! the months that have separated us have been to me a torture. i cannot rest apart from you. i have come from england expressly to see you. i am here now to ask you to be mine. i had intended to stay long with, or near you, and seek to win my way gradually into your heart, but i can be silent no longer. who can forge chains for love, and say, 'to-day thou shalt be dumb; to-morrow thou shalt speak?' forgive me if my language seems wild. we italians do not love so coldly as your english youth; we are all passion and flame. if i am precipitate, if i am rash, if i am mad, blame not me, but blame the beauty that has made me so."
he checked the flow of his words; they seem poor and commonplace enough on paper. it must have been the tone in which they were uttered, and the aid they received from his sparkling eyes and dramatic gestures, that made them sound like eloquence at the time.
daphne, her drooping eyes fixed on the ground, stood beside the tree overhanging the fountain, still and silent as a statue. to say "no" to any request, however trifling, was always a source of pain to her; how much[pg 133] more now when it would give despair to the one it was addressed to!
"ah, heaven! how beautiful you are! what a picture you would make!" one might have thought from the manner in which he dwelt on the word "picture" that he wanted her for no other purpose than to minister to his art. "will you not speak, daphne?"
she sought refuge in evasion.
"give me time—a day—to reflect. i will reply to you by—by letter."
"no, no—a thousand times, no! not for worlds will i endure another such night as last in an agony of suspense and doubt. let me have your answer here and now. this avowal cannot be a surprise to you. what woman was ever loved without knowing it? did you not understand my action yesterday when i knelt before your picture? could you not interpret the look in my eyes the first time they saw your face? that day marked an era in my art. for years i had been seeking to paint a face that should be the very ideal of beauty, and my hand had failed to delineate the shadowy conceptions of my mind; but at last the ideal face shone upon me. my dream of beauty was realised in a living form. with that bright form by my side to inspire my pencil——"
the artist paused, stopped by the expression on daphne's face. surely in the presence of the bird the net is spread in vain? angelo's desire for daphne was prompted quite as much by art as by love. she would be a priceless acquisition to his studio, would serve as a beautiful model for his princesses, his nymphs, and his angels. so absorbed was he in his passion for art that he could see nothing objectionable or ludicrous in his avowal. do all artists make love[pg 134] in this fashion, i wonder? the thought of my own beautiful daphne posing in various attitudes, and in various stages of dressing, before this demon of an artist, in order that he might produce some exquisite masterpiece for the delectation of a gaping public, so set my nerves a-quivering that i all but rushed from my hiding-place for the purpose of hurling him into the fountain. great was my joy to hear daphne's reply, given in a voice that was tinged slightly with sarcasm:
"mr. vasari," and she inclined her dainty head, "i thank your for the honour you do me in selecting me as your model——"
"ah, you are cruel," the artist stammered. "it is not for art alone i love you."
"but, believe me, it can never be as you wish."
"ah, why, daphne? say not that you hate me."
"you forget that i am to be captain willard's wife."
angelo started. so did i, for these words were a complete revelation to me. i had thought that she had all but forgotten george, and that i was gradually replacing his image. her utterance completely dispelled this illusion.
with a strange heaviness of heart that increased each moment, i continued to listen to the dialogue. angelo's pleading expression had changed to one of surprise and contempt.
"captain willard?" he exclaimed. "surely you do not think of him now—he who deserted you on your bridal morning! he is not worthy of you."
"deserted me?" repeated daphne. "yes—but not forever, i feel sure. he has left me only for a time. whatever the crime was in which he became involved—for crime i suppose it must have been—i am certain that it was none of his causing. if there be any truth[pg 135] in my dreams he will yet return to explain the mystery of his absence, to vindicate his character, and to take me for his wife."
she spoke with such a look shining from her eyes, with so proud a trust in the faith of her absent hero, in such a tone of conviction, that i (thinking only of my own faint—very faint—prospect of winning her) trembled, lest her words should be the heralds of a stern reality. some dark shadows dancing suddenly across the greensward between her and angelo, accompanied by a rustling sound as of a footstep, gave me a start as great as if the ghost of george had suddenly risen up before me.
"your faith is womanly, sublime, but—misplaced. he will never return. he has left you forever. think no more of him. there is one who loves you a thousand times more deeply than captain willard ever did; compared with mine, his love was but as ice. ah, daphne! say that you will be mine. i will gladly wait years for you, content to hold a second place in your affections, if in the event of captain willard's non-return you will offer me a little hope."
"mr. vasari, it cannot be, even if george were never to return. be he living or dead, i will remain faithful to his memory."
my mental gloom increased as i listened to these firmly spoken words. daphne little thought she was wounding two hearts by her remarks.
"daphne, i would not hurt your feelings, but have you never considered that captain willard may have left you for another? if i could show you that this is the case, would you still remain faithful to his memory? will you not rather show your scorn of him by listening to another lover—me?"
there was little in angelo's remarks to suggest[pg 136] the reminiscence, and yet by some inexplicable mental process i found my mind reverting to the episode of the veiled lady. daphne's cheek grew white and her lip quivered at the idea suggested by the italian, but she replied proudly:
"i will never believe that he was faithless."
"if i could prove that he left you for another—" began the artist.
it was now daphne's turn to become the suppliant.
"oh, why do you say this? you talk as if you knew something of him. if you have any knowledge of him, tell me, for pity's sake! do you know where he is?"
"first, my question requires an answer. if i could prove that he left you for another, what would be your answer to me then?"
in the interval that elapsed between the question and the reply i could have counted sixty. the deep silence was broken only by the ripple of the fountain. i almost thought i could hear her heart beating against her breast. but the question must be answered, and drawing her dress around her with a grace which charmed while it maddened the artist, and raising her head with the proud dignity of a queen, she replied:
"since you force me to speak out, and are determined to have an answer from me, listen to it. i do not love you, and—forgive me if my words seem harsh; better a cold truth than a sweet falsehood—it is better that you should know now, once and for all, i could never love you—never, never, never!"
there could be no mistaking the meaning of those cold, deliberate words. it pained her to say them, and i believe she would have burst into a flood of tears; but she repressed her emotion, lest it should encourage angelo to a more earnest persistency of his suit.
[pg 137]
the effect of her refusal on the artist was singular in the extreme. at first he trembled, in every limb, and i could distinctly see drops of perspiration glistening on his brow. then, as he realised all the bitterness of his position, and that the lovely woman before him was lost to him forever and ever, and that if they were to live a thousand years on the earth she would still be as cold to him as she was at that moment, he lifted his arms with a slow motion and extended them towards her, and for some moments he maintained this position, petrified to rigidity, staring at her with ghastly look and glassy eye. his attitude was the very apotheosis of despair.
i marvelled at his emotion. my own sense of disappointment on hearing daphne express her determination to remain faithful to george was exquisitely bitter, but, bitter as it was, it was apparently but a tithe of the pain felt by the artist.
several times he tried to speak, but no words came from his dry lips. it was painful to see him going through the mockery of speaking, yet unable to produce a sound. it was as if the dead, touched by some galvanic apparatus, were trying to assume the mechanism of life, and when at last he did speak his strange hollow voice aided the illusion.
"miss leslie, you surely cannot—cannot mean that!"
"indeed i do," was the cold reply.
scarcely able to keep his feet, the artist moved backward till he touched the trunk of a tree, where he leaned for support. the sight of his misery touched daphne to the quick, and she cried impulsively:
"o mr. vasari, i am sorry for you; but i cannot love you. i cannot forget george. believe me, it[pg 138] pains me to have to say this. try to think it is for the best."
she placed her hand timidly on his arm; but he swung it off with so dark an expression on his face that i had almost thrown myself between them.
"i want not your pity," he exclaimed scornfully, turning the fire of his eyes on her, "if i cannot have your love!"
and, ignoble at heart, he began now to sneer at the prize he found beyond his reach.
"and so," he continued in a bitter tone, "rather than accept the love of one who can immortalise you by his pencil you prefer to be a living cenotaph whose sad aspect testifies the esteem set upon her by her first lover!"
dropping his sneering tone for one of fierce anger, he added:
"you must have some less fanciful reason for rejecting me than this absurd attachment to—to a shadow. tell me, do you not love another?"
"mr. vasari, you have no right to question me thus. you have received your answer, and this meeting may as well end, since it seems now that insult is to be my portion."
and she turned proudly to go.
"stay!" cried angelo, barring her passage. "you evade my question. you love another. nay, do not deny it. i will not accept your denial. i know who my rival is. let him beware. you may listen to his whispered words, smile at his kisses, receive his gifts; but never shall you go with him to the altar! rather will i see you dead by my own hand first!"
"oh, why do you talk so wildly? leave me and think no more of me. there are many women whose[pg 139] love is more worth winning than mine. try to forget me."
"forget you?" and he laughed bitterly. "there are many artists, but only one raphael; there are many women, but only one daphne. o daphne! dear, dear daphne!"—his manner changed at once from the fierceness of scorn to the softness of love, as, dropping on one knee, he held her struggling hands in his and covered them with kisses, "do not refuse me! you——"
"mr. vasari, it is not right to detain me against my wish. let go my hands."
he obeyed her, sprang to his feet, but continued his pleading tones:
"daphne, i beseech you to recall your decision. you asked for a day to consider. let me meet you here in twenty-four hours. i have been too precipitate. i surprise, frighten you. you were not prepared for this. give me your final answer to-morrow."
"i have given you my answer."
he looked at her beautiful face, so cold in its firmness to resist all entreaties, and then, turning as if to address an imaginary audience, said:
"can this cold statue really be the same maiden who but yesterday smiled at my gifts and blushed at my words? how quick a change has passed over her! yes," he continued, observing the colour that mounted to daphne's brow at these last words, "yes, blush at your actions of yesterday. you cannot deny that by your words and your smiles you have encouraged me to this confession."
"mr. vasari," she returned, speaking very humbly, with her eyes fixed on one pretty little foot that was shifting uneasily to and fro on the greensward, "i cannot deny that your attentions gave me pleasure.[pg 140] i am fond of admiration—perhaps too fond. i am only too sorry now that my vanity had led you to put a false interpretation on what was intended for friendship only, and must ask you to forgive me."
he looked with a wistful gaze at her fair face, but read no encouragement there. a long silence ensued during which he seemed to grow calmer and more resigned to his position.
"enough of this supplication," he muttered, folding his cloak around him with a moody, half-scornful air.
art had apparently humiliated itself too long in the presence of beauty.
"let us part friends," said daphne.
but he turned from the little hand offered to him in friendship. magnanimity did not form part of his character.
"will you not come and see us to-morrow?" said daphne, affecting not to notice the repulse.
"i leave rivoli to-day—this hour. you will see me no more."
"will you not say good-bye to my father and frank?"
a scornful gesture of refusal was his only reply, and, with a dark glance, he was preparing to depart when a motion from daphne stopped him.
"angelo," she said in a plaintive, supplicating voice, and using the christian name of the artist—she was loth to ask the question of him, and yet felt that she must—"angelo, answer me truly. if you know anything of captain willard—and your words just now seemed to imply that you do—tell me, i implore you, and i will be—your—your best friend," she added, as if sorry she could not offer him the highest place in her regard. "do you know where he is?"
[pg 141]
"do i know where he is?" repeated the italian with a peculiar laugh. he turned back, took a step nearer to daphne, and said:
"you are nearer to him now than you have been for months."
he seemed on the point of saying more, but, suddenly turning on his heel, he left her.
"o angelo, what do you mean?" she called out after him.
but the artist was now plunging down the mountain side, and if he heard her words, did not at any rate reply to them. daphne watched him sadly for a few moments, and then, turning away, began to ascend the zigzag path which led to the chalet. not wishing to let her know that i had been a spectator of the interview, i remained where i was, and gazed after the retreating figure of angelo, who was springing down from crag to crag in a manner that augured very little care for his own safety, his dark locks and long cloak swaying on the breeze.
i, frank willard, sitting there on that calm summer day amid the loveliest scenery of switzerland, rich in youth and health, endowed by my uncle with a competent fortune, and with nothing much to trouble my conscience, will seem to many an object of envy; and yet there i was, bewailing what i called my sad destiny, and sentimentally thinking myself the most unhappy of mankind.
daphne's avowal of her continued love for george had cast a gloom over me. was i again to tread the via dolorosa of hopeless love, and, as the melancholy student of heidelberg, to outwatch the stars once more on the solitary crags of the odenwald?
"living or dead, i will remain faithful to his memory."
[pg 142]
"you are nearer to him now than you have been for months."
these two sentences continued to haunt my mind all the way to the chalet. the artist's parting words seemed to imply that george was living at rivoli—an idea that had previously occurred to me. what would become of my love-dream if, on hearing that daphne was at rivoli, george should emerge from his seclusion with some strange but justifiable reason for his past conduct? would he do this, i wondered, or would he remain hidden in obscurity? a shadow fell across my path. i looked up, and the porch of the chalet fronted me with its legend, ominous, so it seemed to me, of some coming tragedy:
"he shall return!"
