MISS JUNO
BY
CHARLES WARREN STODDARD
_Copyright_, 1903, by A. M. Robertson Reprinted from FOR THE PLEASURE OFHIS COMPANY
I
THERE was an episode in the life of Paul Clitheroe that may possiblythrow some little light upon the mystery of his taking off; and inconnection with this matter it is perhaps worth detailing.
One morning Paul found a drop-letter in the mail which greeted himdaily. It ran as follows:
DEAR OLD BOY:
Don't forget the reception tomorrow. Some one will be here whom I wish you to know.
Most affectionately,
HARRY ENGLISH.
The "tomorrow" referred to was the very day on which Paul received thesweet reminder. The reception of the message somewhat disturbed hiscustomary routine. To be sure, he glanced through the morning journal asusual; repaired to the Greek chop-house with the dingy green walls, thesmoked ceiling, the glass partition that separated the guests from akitchen lined with shining copper pans, where a cook in a white papercap wafted himself about in clouds of vapor, lit by occasional flashesof light and ever curling flames, like a soul expiating its sins in aprescribed but savory purgatory. He sat in his chosen seat, ignored hisneighbors with his customary nonchalance, and returned to his room, asif nothing were about to happen. But he accomplished little, for he feltthat the day was not wholly his; so slight a cause seemed to change thewhole current of his life from hour to hour.
In due season Paul entered a street car which ran to the extreme limitof San Francisco. Harry English lived not far from the terminus, and tothe cozy home of this most genial and hospitable gentleman the youthwended his way. The house stood upon the steep slope of a hill; theparlor was upon a level with the street,--a basement dining-room belowit,--but the rear of the house was quite in the air and all of the rearwindows commanded a magnificent view of the North Bay with its islandsand the opposite mountainous shore.
"Infinite riches in a little room," was the expression which cameinvoluntarily to Paul's lips the first time he crossed the threshold ofThespian Lodge. He might have said it of the Lodge any day in the week;the atmosphere was always balmy and soothing; one could sit therewithout talking or caring to talk; even without realizing that one wasnot talking and not being talked to; the silence was never ominous; itwas a wholesome and restful home, where Paul was ever welcome andwhither he often fled for refreshment.
The walls of the whole house were crowded with pictures, framedphotographs and autographs, chiefly of theatrical celebrities; both"Harry," as the world familiarly called him, and his wife, were membersof the dramatic profession and in their time had played many parts inalmost as many lands and latitudes.
There was one chamber in this delightful home devoted exclusively to thepleasures of entomology, and there the head of the house passed most ofthe hours which he was free to spend apart from the duties of hisprofession. He was a man of inexhaustible resources, consummate energy,and unflagging industry, yet one who was never in the least hurried orflurried; and he was Paul's truest and most judicious friend.
The small parlor at the Englishes was nearly filled with guests whenPaul Clitheroe arrived upon the scene. These guests were not sittingagainst the wall talking at each other; the room looked as if it wereset for a scene in a modern society comedy. In the bay window, a bowerof verdure, an extremely slender and diminutive lady was discoursingeloquently with the superabundant gesticulation of the successfulsociety amateur; she was dilating upon the latest production of a minorpoet whose bubble reputation was at that moment resplendent with localrainbows. Her chief listener was a languid beauty of literaryaspirations, who, in a striking pose, was fit audience for the littlelady as she frothed over with delightful, if not contagious, enthusiasm.
Mrs. English, who had been a famous belle--no one who knew her now wouldfor a moment question the fact--devoted herself to the entertainment ofa group of silent people, people of the sort that are not onlycolorless, but seem to dissipate the color in their immediate vicinity.The world is full of such; they spring up, unaccountably, in locationswhere they appear to the least advantage. Many a clever person who woulddelight to adorn a circle he longs to enter, and where he would behailed with joy, through modesty, hesitates to enter it; while others,who are of no avail in any wise whatever, walk bravely in and findthemselves secure through a quiet system of polite insistence. Among thelatter, the kind of people to be merely tolerated, we find, also, thelarge majority.
Two children remarkably self-possessed seized upon Paul the moment heentered the room: a beautiful lad as gentle and as graceful as a girl,and his tiny sister, who bore herself with the dignity of a little ladyof Lilliput. He was happy with them, quite as happy as if they were asold and experienced as their elders and as well entertained by them,likewise. He never in his life made the mistake that is, alas, made bymost parents and guardians, of treating children as if they were littlesimpletons who can be easily deceived. How often they look with scornupon their elders who are playing the hypocrite to eyes which are, forthe most part, singularly critical! Having paid his respects to thosepresent--he was known to all--Paul was led a willing captive into thechamber where Harry English and a brother professional, an eccentriccomedian, who apparently never uttered a line which he had not learnedout of a play-book, were examining with genuine enthusiasm certain casesof brilliantly tinted butterflies.
The children were quite at their ease in this house, and no wonder;California children are born philosophers; to them the marvels of thesomewhat celebrated entomological collection were quite familiar; againand again they had studied the peculiarities of the most rare andbeautiful specimens of insect life under the loving tutelage of theirfriend, who had spent his life and a small fortune in gathering togetherhis treasures, and they were even able to explain in the prettiestfashion the origin and use of the many curious objects that weredistributed about the rooms.
Meanwhile Mme. Lillian, the dramatic one, had left her bower in the baywindow and was flitting to and fro in nervous delight; she had much tosay and it was always worth listening to. With available opportunitiesshe would have long since become famous and probably a leader of hersex; but it was her fate to coach those of meaner capacities who wereultimately to win fame and fortune while she toiled on, in genteelpoverty, to the end of her weary days.
No two women could be more unlike than this many-summered butterfly, asshe hovered among her friends, and a certain comedy queen who was posingand making a picture of herself; the latter was regarded by thesociety-privates, who haunted with fearful delight the receptions atThespian Lodge, with the awe that inspired so many inexperienced peoplewho look upon members of the dramatic profession as creatures of anotherand not a better world, and considerably lower than the angels.
Two hours passed swiftly by; nothing ever jarred upon the guests in thishouse; the perfect suavity of the host and hostess forbade anything likeantagonism among their friends; and though such dissimilar elementsmight never again harmonize, they were tranquil for the time at least.
The adieus were being said in the chamber of entomology, which wassomewhat overcrowded and faintly impregnated with the odor of _corrosivesublimate_. From the windows overlooking the bay there was visible theexpanse of purple water and the tawny, sunburnt hills beyond, whilepale-blue misty mountains marked the horizon with an undulating outline.A ship under full sail--a glorious and inspiring sight--was bearing downbefore the stiff westerly breeze.
Mme. Lillian made an apt quotation which terminated with a Delsarteangesture and a rising inflection that seemed to exact something fromsomebody; the comedienne struck one of her property attitudes, soirresistibly comic that every one applauded, and Mme. Lillian laughedherself to tears; then they all drifted toward the door. As mankind ingeneral has much of the sheep in him, one guest having got as far as thethreshold, the others followed; Paul was left alone with the Englishesand those clever youngsters, whose coachman, accustome
d to waitingindefinitely at the Lodge, was dutifully dozing on the box seat. Thechildren began to romp immediately upon the departure of the last guest,and during the riotous half-hour that succeeded, there was a fresharrival. The door-bell rang; Mrs. English, who was close at hand, turnedto answer it and at once bubbled over with unaffected delight. Harry,still having his defunct legions in solemn review, recognized a cheery,un-American voice, and cried, "There she is at last!" as he hastened tomeet the newcomer.
Paul was called to the parlor where a young lady of the ultra-blondetype stood with a faultlessly gloved hand in the hand of each of herfriends; she was radiant with life and health. Of all the young ladiesPaul could at that moment remember having seen, she was the mostexquisitely clad; the folds of her gown fell about her form like thedrapery of a statue; he was fascinated from the first moment of theirmeeting. He noticed that nothing about her was ever disarranged; neitherwas there anything superfluous or artificial, in manner or dress. Shewas in his opinion an entirely artistic creation. She met him with aperfectly frank smile, as if she were an old friend suddenly discoveringherself to him, and when Harry English had placed the hand of thisdelightful person in one of Paul's she at once withdrew the other, whichMrs. English fondly held, and struck it in a hearty half-boyish mannerupon their clasped hands, saying, "Awfully glad to see you, Paul!" andshe evidently meant it.
This was Miss. Juno, an American girl bred in Europe, now, after yearsof absence, passing a season in her native land. Her parents, who hadtaken a country home in one of the California valleys, found in theironly child all that was desirable in life. This was not to be wonderedat; it may be said of her in the theatrical parlance that she "filledthe stage." When Miss. Juno dawned upon the scene the children grewgrave, and, after a little delay, having taken formal leave of thecompany, they entered their carriage and were rapidly driven homeward.
If Paul and Miss. Juno had been formed for one another and were now, atthe right moment and under the most favorable auspices, broughttogether for the first time, they could not have mated more naturally.If Miss. Juno had been a young man, instead of a very charming woman,she would of course have been Paul's chum. If Paul had been a youngwoman--some of his friends thought he had narrowly escaped it and didnot hesitate to say so--he would instinctively have become herconfidante. As it was, they promptly entered into a sympatheticfriendship which seemed to have been without beginning and wasapparently to be without end.
They began to talk of the same things at the same moment, often utteringthe very same words and then turned to one another with little shouts ofunembarrassed laughter. They agreed upon all points, and aroused eachother to a ridiculous pitch of enthusiasm over nothing in particular.
Harry English beamed; there was evidently nothing wanted to complete hishappiness. Mrs. English, her eyes fairly dancing with delight, couldonly exclaim at intervals, "Bless the boy!" or, "What a pair ofchildren!" then fondly pass her arm about the waist of Miss. Juno--whichwas not waspish in girth--or rest her hand upon Paul's shoulder with ashow of maternal affection peculiarly grateful to him. It was withdifficulty the half-dazed young fellow could keep apart from Miss. Juno.If he found she had wandered into the next room, while he was engagedfor a moment, he followed at his earliest convenience, and when theireyes met they smiled responsively without knowing why, and indeed notcaring in the least to know.
They were as ingenuous as two children in their liking for one another;their trust in each other would have done credit to the Babes in theWood. What Paul realized, without any preliminary analysis of his mindor heart, was that he wanted to be near her, very near her; and that hewas miserable when this was not the case. If she was out of his sightfor a moment the virtue seemed to have gone from him and he fell intothe pathetic melancholy which he enjoyed in the days when he wrote agreat deal of indifferent verse, and was burdened with the convictionthat his mission in life was to make rhymes without end.
In those days, he had acquired the habit of pitying himself. Theemotional middle-aged woman is apt to encourage the romantic young manin pitying himself; it is a grewsome habit, and stands sturdily in theway of all manly effort. Paul had outgrown it to a degree, but there isnothing easier in life than a relapse--perhaps nothing so natural, yetoften so unexpected.
Too soon the friends who had driven Miss. Juno to Thespian Lodge andpassed on--being unacquainted with the Englishes--called to carry heraway with them. She was shortly--in a day or two in fact--to rejoin herparents, and she did not hesitate to invite Paul to pay them a visit.This he assured her he would do with pleasure, and secretly vowed thatnothing on earth should prevent him. They shook hands cordially atparting, and were still smiling their baby smiles in each other's faceswhen they did it. Paul leaned against the door-jamb, while the genialHarry and his wife followed his new-found friend to the carriage, wherethey were duly presented to its occupants--said occupants promising toplace Thespian Lodge upon their list. As the carriage whirled away,Miss. Juno waved that exquisitely gloved hand from the window and Paul'sheart beat high; somehow he felt as if he had never been quite so happy.And this going away struck him as being a rather cruel piece ofbusiness. To tell the whole truth, he couldn't understand why she shouldgo at all.
He felt it more and more, as he sat at dinner with his old friends, theEnglishes, and ate with less relish than common the delicious Yorkshirepudding and drank the musty ale. He felt it as he accompanied hisfriends to the theater, where he sat with Mrs. English, while shewatched with pride the husband whose impersonations she was never wearyof witnessing; but Paul seemed to see him without recognizing him, andeven the familiar voice sounded unfamiliar, or like a voice in a dream.He felt it more and more when good Mrs. English gave him a nudge towardthe end of the evening and called him "a stupid," half in sport and halfin earnest; and when he had delivered that excellent woman into the careof her liege lord and had seen them securely packed into the horse-carthat was to drag them tediously homeward in company with a greatmultitude of suffocating fellow-sufferers, he felt it; and all the wayout the dark street and up the hill that ran, or seemed to run, intoouter darkness--where his home was--he felt as if he had never been theman he was until now, and that it was all for _her_ sake and through_her_ influence that this sudden and unexpected transformation had cometo pass. And it seemed to him that if he were not to see her again,very soon, his life would be rendered valueless; and that only to seeher were worth all the honor and glory that he had ever aspired to inhis wildest dreams; and that to be near her always and to feel that hewere much--nay, everything--to her, as before God he felt that at thatmoment she was to him, would make his life one long Elysium, and todeath would add a thousand stings.
II
Saadi had no hand in it, yet all Persia could not outdo it. The wholevalley ran to roses. They covered the earth; they fell from loftytrellises in fragrant cataracts; they played over the rustic arbors likefountains of color and perfume; they clambered to the cottage roof andscattered their bright petals in showers upon the grass. They were ofevery tint and texture; of high and low degree, modest or haughty as thecase might be--but roses all of them, and such roses as California alonecan boast. And some were fat or _passe_, and more's the pity, but allwere fragrant, and the name of that sweet vale was Santa Rosa.
Paul was in the garden with Miss. Juno. He had followed her thither withwhat speed he dared. She had expected him; there was not breathing-spacefor conventionality between these two. In one part of the garden sat anartist at his easel; by his side a lady somewhat his senior, but of thetype of face and figure that never really grows old, or looks it. Shewas embroidering flowers from nature, tinting them to the life, andrivaling her companion in artistic effects. These were the parents ofMiss. Juno--or rather not quite that. Her mother had been twice married;first, a marriage of convenience darkened the earlier years of her life;Miss. Juno was the only reward for an age of domestic misery. Aclergyman joined these parties--God had nothing to do with the compact;it would seem that he seldom has.
A separation very naturally and veryproperly followed in the course of time; a young child was the onlypossible excuse for the delay of the divorce. Thus are the sins of thefathers visited upon the grandchildren. Then came a marriage of love.The artist who having found his ideal had never known a moment'sweariness, save when he was parted from her side. Their union wasperfect; God had joined them. The stepfather to Miss. Juno had alwaysbeen like a big brother to her--even as her mother had always seemedlike an elder sister.
Oh, what a trio was that, my countrymen, where liberty, fraternity andequality joined hands without howling about it and making themselves anuisance in the nostrils of their neighbors!
Miss. Juno stood in a rose-arbor and pointed to the artists at theirwork.
"Did you ever see anything like that, Paul?"
"Like what?"
"Like those sweet simpletons yonder. They have for years been quiteoblivious of the world about them. Thrones might topple, empires riseand fall, it would matter nothing to them so long as their gardenbloomed, and the birds nested and sung, and he sold a picture once in anage that the larder might not go bare."
"I've seen something like it, Miss. Juno. I've seen fellows who neverbothered themselves about the affairs of others,--who, in short, mindedtheir own business strictly--and they got credit for being selfish."
"Were they happy?"
"Yes, in their way. Probably their way wasn't my way, and their kind ofhappiness would bore me to death. You know happiness really can't bepassed around, like bon-bons or sherbet, for every one to taste. I hatebon-bons: do you like them?"
"That depends upon the quality and flavor--and--perhaps somewhat uponwho offers them. I never buy bon-bons for my private and personalpleasure. Do any of you fellows really care for bon-bons?"
"That depends upon the kind of happiness we are in quest of; I mean thequality and flavor of the girl we are going to give them to."
"Have girls a flavor?"
"Some of them have--perhaps most of them haven't; neither have they formnor feature, nor tint nor texture, nor anything that appeals to a fellowof taste and sentiment."
"I'm sorry for these girls of yours----"
"You needn't be sorry for the girls; they are not my girls, and not oneof them ever will be mine if I can help it----"
"Oh, indeed!"
"They are nothing to me, and I'm nothing to them; but they arejust--they are just the formless sort of thing that a formless sort offellow always marries; they help to fill up the world, you know."
"Yes, they help to fill a world that is overfull already. Poor Mama andEugene don't know how full it is. When Gene wants to sell a picture andcan't, he thinks it's a desert island."
"Probably they could live on a desert island and be perfectly happy andcontent," said Paul.
"Of course they could; the only trouble would be that unless some onecalled them at the proper hours they'd forget to eat--and some daythey'd be found dead locked in their last embrace."
"How jolly!"
"Oh, very jolly for very young lovers; they are usually such fools!"
"And yet, I believe I'd like to be a fool for love's sake, Miss. Juno."
"Oh, Paul, you are one for your own,--at least I'll think so, if youwork yourself into this silly vein!"
Paul was silent and thoughtful. After a pause she continued.
"The trouble with you is, you fancy yourself in love with every new girlyou meet--at least with the latest one, if she is at all out of theordinary line."
"The trouble with me is that I don't keep on loving the same girl longenough to come to the happy climax--if the climax _is_ to be a happyone; of course it doesn't follow that it is to be anything of the sort.I've been brought up in the bosom of too many families to believe in thelasting quality of love. Yet they are happy, you say, those two gentlepeople perpetuating spring on canvas and cambric. See, there is a smallcloud of butterflies hovering about them--one of them is panting infairy-like ecstasy on the poppy that decorates your Mama's hat!"
Paul rolled a cigarette and offered it to Miss. Juno, in a mild spiritof bravado. To his delight she accepted it, as if it were the mostnatural thing in the world for a girl to do. He rolled another and theysat down together in the arbor full of contentment.
"Have you never been in love?" asked Paul suddenly.
"Yes, I suppose so. I was engaged once; you know girls instinctivelyengage themselves to some one whom they fancy; they imagine themselvesin love, and it is a pleasant fallacy. My engagement might have gone onforever, if he had contented himself with a mere engagement. He was ayoung army officer stationed miles and miles away. We wrote volumes ofletters to each other--and they were clever letters; it was rather likea seaside novelette, our love affair. He was lonely, or restless, orsomething, and pressed his case. Then Mama and Gene--those ideallovers--put their feet down and would none of it."
"And you?"
"Of course I felt perfectly wretched for a whole week, and imaginedmyself cruelly abused. You see he was a foreigner, without money; he washeir to a title, but that would have brought him no advantages in thehousehold."
"You recovered. What became of him?"
"I never learned. He seemed to fade away into thin air. I fear I was notvery much in love."
"I wonder if all girls are like you--if they forget so easily?"
"You have yourself declared that the majority have neither form norfeature; perhaps they have no feeling. How do men feel about a brokenengagement?"
"I can only speak for myself. There was a time when I felt that marriagewas the inevitable fate of all respectable people. Some one wanted me tomarry a certain some one else. I didn't seem to care much about it; butmy friend was one of those natural-born match-makers; she talked theyoung lady up to me in such a shape that I almost fancied myself in loveand actually began to feel that I'd be doing her an injustice if Ipermitted her to go on loving and longing for the rest of her days. Soone day I wrote her a proposal; it was the kind of proposal one mightdecline without injuring a fellow's feelings in the least--and she didit!" After a thoughtful pause he continued:
"By Jove! But wasn't I immensely relieved when her letter came; such anice, dear, good letter it was, too, in which she assured me there hadevidently been a mistake somewhere, and nothing had been further fromher thoughts than the hope of marrying me. So she let me down mostbeautifully----"
"And offered to be a sister to you?"
"Perhaps; I don't remember now; I always felt embarrassed after thatwhen her name was mentioned. I couldn't help thinking what an infernalass I'd made of myself."
"It was all the fault of your friend."
"Of course it was; I'd never have dreamed of proposing to her if Ihadn't been put up to it by the match-maker. Oh, what a lot of miserablemarriages are brought on in just this way! You see when I like a girlever so much, I seem to like her too well to marry her. I think itwould be mean of me to marry her."
"Why?"
"Because--because I'd get tired after a while; everybody does, sooner orlater,--everybody save your Mama and Eugene,--and then I'd say somethingor do something I ought not to say or do, and I'd hate myself for it; orshe'd say something or do something that would make me hate her. Wemight, of course, get over it and be very nice to one another; but wecould never be quite the same again. Wounds leave scars, and you can'tforget a scar--can you?"
"You may scar too easily!"
"I suppose I do, and that is the very best reason why I should avoid theoccasion of one."
"So you have resolved never to marry?"
"Oh, I've resolved it a thousand times, and yet, somehow, I'm forevermeeting some one a little out of the common; some one who takes me bystorm, as it were; some one who seems to me a kind of revelation, andthen I feel as if I must marry her whether or no; sometimes I fear Ishall wake up and find myself married in spite of myself--wouldn't thatbe frightful?"
"Frightful indeed--and then you'd have to get used to it, just as mostmarried people get used to it in the cou
rse of time. You know it's avery matter-of-fact world we live in, and it takes very matter-of-factpeople to keep it in good running order."
"Yes. But for these drudges, these hewers of wood and drawers of water,that ideal pair yonder could not go on painting and embroidering thingsof beauty with nothing but the butterflies to bother them."
"Butterflies don't bother; they open new vistas of beauty, and they setexamples that it would do the world good to follow; the butterfly says,'my mission is to be brilliant and jolly and to take no thought of themorrow.'"
"It's the thought of the morrow, Miss. Juno, that spoils today forme,--that morrow--who is going to pay the rent of it? Who is going tokeep it in food and clothes?"
"Paul, you have already lived and loved, where there is no rent to payand where the clothing worn is not worth mentioning; as for the food andthe drink in that delectable land, nature provides them both. I don'tsee why you need to take thought of the morrow; all you have to do is totake passage for some South Sea Island, and let the world go by."
"But the price of the ticket, my friend; where is that to come from? Tobe sure I'm only a bachelor, and have none but myself to consider. Whatwould I do if I had a wife and family to provide for?"
"You'd do as most other fellows in the same predicament do; you'dprovide for them as well as you could; and if that wasn't sufficient,you'd desert them, or blow your brains out and leave them to provide forthemselves."
"An old bachelor is a rather comfortable old party. I'm satisfied withmy manifest destiny; but I'm rather sorry for old maids--aren't you?"
"That depends; of course everything in life depends; some of the mostbeautiful, the most blessed, the most bountifully happy women I haveever known were old maids; I propose to be one myself--if I live longenough!"
After an interlude, during which the bees boomed among thehoney-blossoms, the birds caroled on the boughs, and the two artistslaughed softly as they chatted at their delightful work, Paul resumed:
"Do you know, Miss. Juno, this anti-climax strikes me as beingexceedingly funny? When I met you the other day, I felt as if I'd met myfate. I know well enough that I'd felt that way often before, andpromptly recovered from the attack. I certainly never felt it in thesame degree until I came face to face with you. I was never quite sofairly and squarely face to face with any one before. I came herebecause I could not help myself. I simply had to come, and to come atonce. I was resolved to propose to you and to marry you without a cent,if you'd let me. I didn't expect that you'd let me, but I felt it myduty to find out. I'm dead sure that I was very much in love withyou--and I am now; but somehow it isn't that spoony sort of love thatmakes a man unwholesome and sometimes drives him to drink or to suicide.I suppose I love you too well to want to marry you; but God knows howglad I am that we have met, and I hope that we shall never really partagain."
"Paul!"--Miss. Juno's rather too pallid cheeks were slightly tinged withrose; she seemed more than ever to belong to that fair garden, to havebecome a part of it, in fact;--"Paul," said she, earnestly enough,"you're an awfully good fellow, and I like you so much; I shall alwayslike you; but if you had been fool enough to propose to me I should havedespised you. Shake!" And she extended a most shapely hand that claspedhis warmly and firmly. While he still held it without restraint, headded:
"Why I like you so much is because you are unlike other girls; that isto say, you're perfectly natural."
"Most people who think me unlike other girls, think me unnatural forthat reason. It is hard to be natural, isn't it?"
"Why, no, I think it is the easiest thing in the world to be natural.I'm as natural as I can be, or as anybody can be."
"And yet I've heard you pronounced a bundle of affectations."
"I know that--it's been said in my hearing, but I don't care in theleast; it is natural for the perfectly natural person _not_ to care inthe least."
"I think, perhaps, it is easier for boys to be natural, than for girls,"said Miss. Juno.
"Yes, boys are naturally more natural," replied Paul with muchconfidence.
Miss. Juno smiled an amused smile.
Paul resumed--"I hardly ever knew a girl who didn't wish herself a boy.Did you ever see a boy who wanted to be a girl?"
"I've seen some who ought to have been girls--and who would have madevery droll girls. I know an old gentleman who used to bewail thedegeneracy of the age and exclaim in despair, 'Boys will be girls!'"laughed Miss. Juno.
"Horrible thought! But why is it that girlish boys are so unpleasantwhile tom-boys are delightful?"
"I don't know," replied she, "unless the girlish boy has lost the charmof his sex, that is manliness; and the tom-boy has lost the defect ofhers--a kind of selfish dependence."
"I'm sure the girls like you, don't they?'' he added.
"Not always; and there are lots of girls I can't endure!"
"I've noticed that women who are most admired by women are seldompopular with men; and that the women the men go wild over are littleappreciated by their own sex," said Paul.
"Yes, I've noticed that; as for myself my best friends are masculine;but when I was away at boarding-school my chum, who was immenselypopular, used to call me Jack!"
"How awfully jolly; may I call you 'Jack' and will you be my chum?"
"Of course I will; but what idiots the world would think us."
"Who cares?" cried he defiantly. "There are millions of fellows thisvery moment who would give their all for such a pal as you are--Jack!"
There was a fluttering among the butterflies; the artists had risen andwere standing waist-deep in the garden of gracious things; they werecoming to Paul and Miss. Juno, and in amusing pantomime announcing thatpangs of hunger were compelling their return to the cottage; the truthis, it was long past the lunch hour--and a large music-box which hadbeen set in motion when the light repast was laid had failed to catchthe ear with its tinkling aria.
All four of the occupants of the garden turned leisurely toward thecottage. Miss. Juno had rested her hand on Paul's shoulder and said in adelightfully confidential way: "Let it be a secret that we are chums,dear boy--the world is such an idiot."
"All right, Jack," whispered Paul, trying to hug himself in delight,'Little secrets are cozy.'"
And in the scent of the roses it was duly embalmed.
III
Happy is the man who is without encumbrances--that that is if he knowshow to be happy. Whenever Paul Clitheroe found the burden of the daybecoming oppressive he cast it off, and sought solace in a change ofscene. He could always, or almost always, do this at a moment's notice.It chanced, upon a certain occasion, when a little community of artistswere celebrating the sale of a great picture--the masterpiece of one oftheir number--that word was sent to Paul to join their feast. He foundthe large studio where several of them worked intermittently, highlydecorated; a table was spread in a manner to have awakened an appetiteeven upon the palate of the surfeited; there were music and dancing, andbacchanalian revels that went on and on from night to day and on tonight again. It was a veritable feast of lanterns, and not until thelast one had burned to the socket and the wine-vats were empty and thestudio strewn with unrecognizable debris and permeated with odors stale,flat and unprofitable, did the revels cease. Paul came to dine; heremained three days; he had not yet worn out his welcome, but he hadresolved, as was his wont at intervals, to withdraw from the world, andso he returned to the Eyrie,--which was ever his initial step toward theaccomplishment of the longed-for end.
Not very many days later Paul received the breeziest of letters; it wasone of a series of racy rhapsodies that came to him bearing the SantaRosa postmark. They were such letters as a fellow might write to acollege chum, but with no line that could have brought a blush to thecheek of modesty--not that the college chum is necessarily given to theinditing of such epistles. These letters were signed "Jack."
"Jack" wrote to say how the world was all in bloom and the rose-gardenone bewildering maze of blossoms; how Mama was still embroidering fr
omnature in the midst thereof, crowned with a wreath of butterflies andwith one uncommonly large one perched upon her Psyche shoulder andfanning her cheek with its brilliantly dyed wing; how Eugene wasreveling in his art, painting lovely pictures of the old SpanishMissions with shadowy outlines of the ghostly fathers, long sincedeparted, haunting the dismantled cloisters; how the air was like thebreath of heaven, and the twilight unspeakably pathetic, and they wereall three constantly reminded of Italy and forever talking of Rome andthe Campagna, and Venice, and imagining themselves at home again andPaul with them, for they had resolved that he was quite out of hiselement in California; they had sworn he must be rescued; he must returnwith them to Italy and that right early. He must wind up his affairs andset his house in order at once and forever; he should never go back toit again, but live a new life and a gentler life in that oldest and mostgentle of lands; they simply _must_ take him with them and seat him bythe shore of the Venetian Sea, where he could enjoy his melancholy, ifhe must be melancholy, and find himself for the first time provided witha suitable background. This letter came to him inlaid with rose petals;they showered upon him in all their fragrance as he read the inspiringpages and, since "Jack" with quite a martial air had issued a mandatewhich ran as follows, "Order No. 19--Paul Clitheroe will, upon receiptof this, report immediately at headquarters at Santa Rosa," he placedthe key of his outer door in his pocket and straightway departed withoutmore ado.
* * * * *
They swung in individual hammocks, Paul and "Jack," within therose-screened veranda. The conjugal affinities, Violet and Eugene, werelost to the world in the depths of the rose-garden beyond sight andhearing.
Said Jack, resuming a rambling conversation which had been interruptedby the noisy passage of a bee, "That particular bee reminds me of somepeople who fret over their work, and who make others who are seekingrest, extremely uncomfortable."
Paul was thoughtful for a few moments and then remarked: "And yet it isa pleasant work he is engaged in, and his days are passed in the fairestfields; he evidently enjoys his trade even if he does seem to bustleabout it. I can excuse the buzz and the hum in him, when I can't alwaysin the human tribes."
"If you knew what he was saying just now, perhaps you'd find him asdisagreeable as the man who is condemned to earn his bread in the sweatof his brow, and makes more or less of a row about it."
"Very likely, Jack, but these bees are born with business instincts, andthey can't enjoy loafing; they don't know how to be idle. Being as busyas a busy bee must be being very busy!"
"There is the hum of the hive in that phrase, old boy! I'm sure you'vebeen working up to it all along. Come now, confess, you've had that inhand for some little time."
"Well, what if I have? That is what writers do, and they have to do it.How else can they make their dialogue in the least attractive? Did youever write a story, Jack?"
"No, of course not; how perfectly absurd!"
"Not in the least absurd. You've been reading novels ever since you wereborn. You've the knack of the thing, the telling of a story, thedeveloping of a plot, the final wind-up of the whole concern, right atyour tongue's end."
"Paul, you're an idiot."
"Idiot, Jack? I'm nothing of the sort and I can prove what I've justbeen saying to you about yourself. Now, listen and don't interrupt meuntil I've said my say."
Paul caught hold of a branch of vine close at hand and set his hammockswinging slowly. Miss. Juno settled herself more comfortably in hers,and seemed much interested and amused.
"Now," said Paul, with a comical air of importance--"now, any one whohas anything at his tongue's end, has it, or _can_, just as well as not,have it at his finger's end. If you can tell a story well, and you can,Jack, you know you can, you can write it just as well. You have only totell it with your pen instead of with your lips; and if you will onlywrite it exactly as you speak it, so long as your verbal version is agood one, your pen version is bound to be equally as good; moreover, itseems to me that in this way one is likely to adopt the most naturalstyle, which is, of course, the best of all styles. Now what do you sayto that?"
"Oh, nothing," after a little pause--"however I doubt that any one, maleor female, can take up pen for the first time and tell a tale like apractised writer."
"Of course not. The practised writer has a style of his own, aconventional narrative style which may be very far from nature. Peoplein books very seldom talk as they do in real life. When people in booksbegin to talk like human beings the reader thinks the dialogue eithercommonplace or mildly realistic, and votes it a bore."
"Then why try to write as one talks? Why not cultivate the conventionalstyle of the practised writer?"
"Why talk commonplaces?" cried Paul a little tartly. "Of course mostpeople must do so if they talk at all, and they are usually the peoplewho talk all the time. But I have known people whose ordinaryconversation was extraordinary, and worth putting down in a book--everyword of it."
"In my experience," said Miss. Juno, "people who talk like books are aburden."
"They needn't talk like the conventional book, I tell you. Let them havesomething to say and say it cleverly--that is the kind of conversationto make books of."
"What if all that we've been saying here, under the rose, as it were,were printed just as we've said it?"
"What if it were? It would at least be natural, and we've been sayingsomething of interest to each other; why should it not interest a thirdparty?"
Miss. Juno smiled and rejoined, "I am not a confirmed eavesdropper, butI often find myself so situated that I cannot avoid overhearing whatother people are saying to one another; it is seldom that, under suchcircumstances, I hear anything that interests me."
"Yes, but if you knew the true story of those very people, all that theymay be saying in your hearing would no doubt possess an interest,inasmuch as it would serve to develop their history."
"Our conversation is growing a little thin, Paul, don't you think so? Wecouldn't put all this into a book."
"If it helped to give a clue to our character and our motives, we could.The thing is to be interesting: if we are interesting, in ourselves, byreason of our original charm or our unconventionality, almost anythingwe might say or do ought to interest others. Conventional people arenever interesting."
"Yet the majority of mankind is conventional to a degree; theconventionals help to fill up; their habitual love of conventionality,or their fear of the unconventional, is what keeps them in their place.This is very fortunate. On the other hand, a world full of people tooclever to be kept in their proper spheres, would be simply intolerable.But there is no danger of this!"
"Yes, you are right," said Paul after a moment's pause;--"you areinteresting, and that is why I like you so well."
"You mean that I am unconventional?"
"Exactly. And, as I said before, that is why I'm so awfully fond of you.By Jove, I'm so glad I'm not in love with you, Jack."
"So am I, old boy; I couldn't put up with that at all; you'd have to goby the next train, you know; you would, really. And yet, if we are towrite a novel apiece we shall be obliged to put love into it; love witha very large L."
"No we wouldn't; I'm sure we wouldn't."
Miss. Juno shook her golden locks in doubt--Paul went onpersistently:--"I'm dead sure we wouldn't; and to prove it, some dayI'll write a story without its pair of lovers; everybody shall be moreor less spoony--but nobody shall be really in love."
"It wouldn't be a story, Paul."
"It would be a history, or a fragment of a history, a glimpse of a lifeat any rate, and that is as much as we ever get of the lives of thosearound us. Why can't I tell you the story of one fellow--of myself forexample; how one day I met this person, and the next day I met thatperson, and next week some one else comes on to the stage, and strutshis little hour and departs. I'm not trying to give my audience, myreaders, any knowledge of that other fellow. My reader must see forhimself how each of those fellows in his own w
ay has influenced me. Thestory is my story, a study of myself, nothing more or less. If thereader don't like me he may lay me down in my cloth or paper cover, andhave nothing more to do with me. If I'm not a hero, perhaps it's not somuch my fault as my misfortune. That people are interested in me, andshow it in a thousand different ways, assures me that _my_ story, notthe story of those with whom I'm thrown in contact, is what intereststhem. It's a narrow-gauge, single-track story, but it runs through adelightful bit of country, and if my reader wants to look out of mywindows and see things as I see them and find out how they influence mehe is welcome; if he doesn't, he may get off at the very next stationand change cars for Elsewhere."
"I shall have love in my story," said Miss. Juno, with an amusing touchof sentiment that on her lips sounded like polite comedy.
"You may have all the love you like, and appeal to the same oldnovel-reader who has been reading the same sort of love story for thelast hundred years, and when you've finished your work and your readerhas stood by you to the sweet or bitter end, no one will be any thewiser or better. You've taught nothing, you've untaught nothing----andthere you are!"
"Oh! A young man with a mission! Do you propose to revolutionize?"
"No; revolutions only roil the water. You might as well try to makewater flow up-hill as to really revolutionize anything. I'd beautify thebanks of the stream, and round the sharp turns in it, and weed it out,and sow water-lilies, and set the white swan with her snow-fleckedbreast afloat. That's what I'd do!"
"That's the art of the landscape gardener; I don't clearly see how it isof benefit to the novelist, Paul! Now, honestly, is it?"
"You don't catch my meaning, Jack; girls are deuced dull, you know,--Imean obtuse." Miss. Juno flushed. "I wasn't referring to the novel; Iwas saying that instead of writing my all in a vain effort torevolutionize anything in particular, I'd try to get all the good Icould out of the existing evil, and make the best of it. But let's nottalk in this vein any longer; I hate argument. Argument is nothing but alogical or illogical set-to; begin it as politely as you please, it isnot long before both parties throw aside their gloves and go in withnaked and bloody fists; one of the two gets knocked out, but he hasn'tbeen convinced of anything in particular; he was not in condition, thatis all; better luck next time."
"Have you the tobacco, Paul?" asked Miss Juno, extending her hand. Thetobacco was silently passed from one hammock to the other; each rolled acigarette, and lit it. Paul blew a great smoke ring into the air; hiscompanion blew a lesser one that shot rapidly after the larger halo, andthe two were speedily blended in a pretty vapor wraith.
"That's the ghost of an argument, Jack," said Paul, glancing above. Heresumed: "What I was about to say when I was interrupted"--this was hispet joke; he knew well enough that he had been monopolizing theconversation of the morning--"what I was about to say was this: my novelshall be full of love, but you won't know that it is love--I mean theevery-day love of the every-day people. In my book everybody is going tolove everybody else--or almost everybody else; if there is any sort of amisunderstanding it sha'n't matter much. I hate rows; I believe in thetruest and the fondest fellowship. What is true love? It is bosomfriendship; that is the purest passion of love. It is the only love thatlasts."
There was a silence for the space of some minutes; Paul and Miss. Junowere quietly, dreamily smoking. Without, among the roses, there was theboom of bees; the carol of birds, the flutter of balancing butterflies.Nature was very soothing, she was in one of her sweetest moods. The twofriends were growing drowsy. Miss. Juno, if she at times betrayed afeminine fondness for argument, was certainly in no haste to provokePaul to a further discussion of the quality of love or friendship;presently she began rather languidly:
"You were saying I ought to write, and that you believe I can, if I willonly try. I'm going to try; I've been thinking of something thathappened within my knowledge; perhaps I can make a magazine sketch ofit."
"Oh, please write it, Jack! Write it, and send the manuscript to me,that I may place it for you; will you? Promise me you will!" The boy wasquite enthusiastic, and his undisguised pleasure in the prospect ofseeing something from the pen of his pal--as he loved to call Miss.Juno--seemed to awaken a responsive echo in her heart.
"I will, Paul; I promise you!"--and the two struck hands on it.
IV
When Paul returned to the Eyrie, it had been decided that Miss. Juno wasto at once begin her first contribution to periodic literature. She hadfound her plot; she had only to tell her story in her own way, just asif she were recounting it to Paul. Indeed, at his suggestion, she hadpromised to sit with pen in hand and address him as if he were actuallypresent. In this way he hoped she would drop into the narrative stylenatural to her, and so attractive to her listeners.
As for Paul Clitheroe, he was to make inquiry among his editorialfriends in the Misty City, and see if he might not effect somesatisfactory arrangement with one or another of them, whereby he wouldbe placed in a position enabling him to go abroad in the course of a fewweeks, and remain abroad indefinitely. He would make Venice hisheadquarters; he would have the constant society of his friends; thefellowship of Jack; together, after the joint literary labors of theday, they would stem the sluggish tide of the darksome canals andexchange sentiment and cigarette smoke in mutual delight. Paul was towrite a weekly or a semi-monthly letter to the journal employing him asa special correspondent. At intervals, in the company of his friends, oralone, he would set forth upon one of those charming excursions sofruitful of picturesque experience, and return to his lodgings on theSchiavoni, to work them up into magazine articles; these would later, ofcourse, get into book form; from the book would come increasedreputation, a larger source of revenue, and the contentment of successwhich he so longed for, so often thought he had found, and so seldomenjoyed for any length of time.
All this was to be arranged,--or rather the means to which all this wasthe delightful end--was to be settled as soon as possible. Miss. Juno,having finished her story, was to send word to Paul and he was to hiehim to the Rose Garden; thereafter at an ideal dinner, elaborated inhonor of the occasion, Eugene was to read the maiden effort, while theauthor, sustained by the sympathetic presence of her admiring Mama andher devoted Paul, awaited the verdict.
This was to be the test--a trying one for Miss Juno. As for Paul, hefelt quite patriarchal, and yet, so genuine and so deep was his interestin the future of his protegee, that he was already showing symptoms ofanxiety.
The article having been sent to the editor of the first magazine in theland, the family would be ready to fold its aesthetic tent and depart;Paul, of course, accompanying them.
It was a happy thought; visions of Venice; the moonlit lagoon; thereflected lamps plunging their tongues of flame into the sea; the humidair, the almost breathless silence, broken at intervals by the baying ofdeep-mouthed bells; the splash of oars; the soft tripping measure ofhuman voices and the refrain of the gondoliers; Jack by his side--Jacknow in her element, with the maroon fez of the distinguished howadjitilted upon the back of her handsome head, her shapely finger-nailsstained with henna, her wrists weighed down with their scores oftinkling bangles! Could anything be jollier?
Paul gave himself up to the full enjoyment of this dream. Already heseemed to have overcome every obstacle, and to be reveling in thesubdued but sensuous joys of the Adriatic queen. Sometimes he had fledin spirit to the sweet seclusion of the cloistral life at San Lazaro.Byron did it before him;--the plump, the soft-voiced, mild-visagedlittle Arminians will tell you all about that, and take immense pleasurein the telling of it. Paul had also known a fellow-writer who hademulated Byron, and had even distanced the Byron record in one respectat least--he had outstayed his lordship at San Lazaro!
Sometimes Paul turned hermit, in imagination and dwelt alone upon thelong sands of the melancholy Lido; not seeing Jack, or anybody, save thewaiter at the neighboring restaurant, for days and days together. It wasimmensely diverting, this dream-life that Paul led in far
distantVenice. It was just the life he loved, the ideal life, and it wasn'tcosting him a cent--no, not a _soldo_, to speak more in the Venetianmanner.
While he was looking forward to the life to come, he had hardly time toperfect his arrangements for a realization of it. He was to packeverything and store it in a bonded warehouse, where it should remainuntil he had taken root abroad. Then he would send for it and settle inthe spot he loved best of all, and there write and dream and drink thewine of the country, while the Angelus bells ringing thrice a day awokehim to a realizing sense of the fairy-like flight of time just as theyhave been doing for ages past, and, let us hope, as they will continueto do forever and forever.
One day he stopped dreaming of Italy, and resolved to secure hisengagement as a correspondent. Miss. Juno had written him that hersketch was nearly finished; that he must hold himself in readiness toanswer her summons at a moment's notice. The season was advancing; notime was to be lost, etc. Paul started at once for the office of hisfavorite journal; his interview was not entirely satisfactory. Editors,one and all, as he called upon them in succession, didn't seemespecially anxious to send the young man abroad for an indefiniteperiod; the salary requested seemed exorbitant. They each made aproposition; all said: "This is the best I can do at present; go to theother offices, and if you receive a better offer we advise you to takeit." This seemed reasonable enough, but as their best rate was fifteendollars for one letter a week he feared that even the highly respectablesecond-class accommodations of all sorts to which he must confinehimself would be beyond his means.
Was he losing interest in the scheme which had afforded him so manyhours of sweet, if not solid, satisfaction? No, not exactly. Poverty wasmore picturesque abroad than in his prosaic native land. His song wasnot quite so joyous, that was all; he would go to Italy; he would take asmaller room; he would eat at the Trattoria of the people; he would makestudies of the peasant, the _contadini_. Jack had written, "There is piein Venice when we are there; Mama knows how to make pie; pie cannot bepurchased elsewhere. Love is the price thereof!" And pie is veryfilling. Yes, he would go to Europe on fifteen dollars per week and findparadise in the bright particular Venetian Pie!
V
After many days a great change came to pass. Everybody knew that PaulClitheroe had disappeared without so much as a "good-by" to his mostintimate friends. Curiosity was excited for a little while, but for alittle while only. Soon he was forgotten, or remembered by no one savethose who had known and loved him and who at intervals regretted him.
And Miss. Juno? Ah, Miss. Juno, the joy of Paul's young dreams! Havingbeen launched successfully at his hands, and hoping in her brave,off-hand way to be of service to him, she continued to write as much forhis sake as for her own; she knew it would please him beyond comparewere she to achieve a pronounced literary success. He had urged her towrite a novel. She had lightly laughed him to scorn--and had keptturning in her mind the possible plot for a tale. One day it suddenlytook shape; the whole thing seemed to her perfectly plain sailing; ifClitheroe had launched her upon that venturesome sea, she had suddenlyfound herself equipped and able to sail without the aid of any one.
She had written to Paul of her joy in this new discovery. Before herloomed the misty outlines of fair far islands; she was about to setforth to people these. Oh, the joy of that! The unspeakable joy of it!She spread all sail on this voyage of discovery--she asked for nothingmore save the prayers of her old comrade. She longed to have him nearher so that together they might discuss the situations in her story, oneafter another. If he were only in Venice they would meet daily overtheir dinner, and after dinner she would read to him what she hadwritten since they last met; then they would go in a gondola for amoonlight cruise; of course it was always moonlight in Venice! Wouldthis not be delightful and just as an all-wise Providence meant itshould be? Paul had read something like this in the letters which sheused to write him when he was divided against himself; when he began tofeel himself sinking, without a hand to help him. Venice was out of thequestion then; it were vain for him to even dream of it.
So time went on; Miss. Juno became a slave of the lamp; her work grewmarvelously under her pen. Her little people led her a merry chase; theywhispered in her ears night and day; she got no rest of them--but roseagain and again to put down the clever things they said, and so, almostbefore she knew it, her novel had grown into three fine English volumeswith inch-broad margins, half-inch spacings, large type and heavy paper.She was amazed to find how important her work had become.
Fortune favored her. She found a publisher who was ready to bring outher book at once; two sets of proofs were forwarded to her; these shecorrected with deep delight, returning one to her London publisher andsending one to America, where another publisher was ready to issue thework simultaneously with the English print.
It made its appearance under a pen-name in England--anonymously inAmerica. What curiosity it awakened may be judged by the instantaneoussuccess of the work in both countries: Tauchnitz at once added it to hisfascinating list; the French and German translators negotiated for theright to run it as a serial in Paris and Berlin journals. Considerablecuriosity was awakened concerning the identity of the authorship, andthe personal paragraphers made a thousand conjectures, all of whichhelped the sale of the novel immensely and amused Miss. Juno and herconfidants beyond expression.
All this was known to Clitheroe before he had reached the climax thatforced him to the wall. He had written to Miss. Juno; and he had calledher "Jack" as of old, but he felt and she realized that he felt that theconditions were changed. The atmosphere of the rose-garden was goneforever; the hopes and aspirations that were so easy and so airy then,had folded their wings like bruised butterflies or faded like theflowers. She resolved to wait until he had recovered his senses and thenperhaps he would come to Venice and to them--which in her estimationamounted to one and the same thing.
She wrote to him no more; he had not written her for weeks, save onlythe few lines of congratulation on the success of her novel, and tothank her for the author's copy she had sent him: the three-volumeLondon edition with a fond inscription on the flyleaf--a line in eachvolume. This was the end of all that.
Once more she wrote, but not to Clitheroe; she wrote to a friend she hadknown when she was in the far West, one who knew Paul well and wasalways eager for news of him.
The letter, or a part of it, ran as follows:
"Of course such weather as this is not to be shut out-of-doors; we feedon it; we drink it in; we bathe in it, body and soul. Ah, my friend,know a June in Venice before you die! Don't dare to die until you havebecome saturated with the aerial-aquatic beauty of this Divine Sea-City!
"Oh, I was about to tell you something when the charms of this Syrenmade me half-delirious and of course I forgot all else in life--I alwaysdo so. Well, as we leave in a few days for the delectable Dolonites, weare making our rounds of P. P. C.'s,--that we are revisiting every nookand corner in the lagoon so dear to us. We invariably do this; it is themost delicious leave-taking imaginable. If I were only Niobe I'd waterthese shores with tears--I'm sure I would; but you know I never weep; Inever did; I don't know how; there is not a drop of brine in my wholecomposition.
"Dear me! how I do rattle on--but you know my moods and will make dueallowance for what might strike the cold, unfeeling world as beinggarrulity.
"We had resolved to visit that most enchanting of all Italian shrines,San Francisco del Deserto. We had not been there for an age; you know itis rather a long pull over, and one waits for the most perfect hour whenone ventures upon the outskirts of the lagoon.
"Oh, the unspeakable loveliness of that perfect day! The mellowing hazethat veiled the water; the heavenly blue of the sea, a mirror of thesky, and floating in between the two, so that one could not be quitesure whether it slumbered in the lap of the sea or hung upon the bosomof the sky, that ideal summer island--San Francisco del Deserto.
"You know it is only a few acres in extent--not more than six, I fanc
y,and four-fifths of it are walled about with walls that stand knee-deepin sea-grasses. Along, and above it, are thrust the tapering tops ofthose highly decorative cypresses without which Italy would not beherself at all. There is such a monastery there--an ideal one, withcloister, and sundial, and marble-curbed well, and all that; at leastso I am told; we poor feminine creatures are not permitted to cross thethresholds of these Holy Houses. This reminds me of a remark I heardmade by a very clever woman who wished to have a glimpse of the interiorof that impossible Monte Casino on the mountain top between Rome andNaples. Of course she was refused admission; she turned upon the poorBenedictine, who was only obeying orders--it is a rule of the house, youknow--and said, 'Why do you refuse me admission to this shrine? Is itbecause I am of the same sex as the mother of your God?' But she didn'tget in for all that. Neither have I crossed the threshold of SanFrancisco del Deserto, but I have wandered upon the green in front ofthe little chapel; and sat under the trees in contemplation of the seaand wished--yes, really and truly wished--that I were a barefootedFranciscan friar with nothing to do but look picturesque in such aterrestrial paradise.
"What do you think happened when we were there the other day? Now atlast I am coming to it. We were all upon the Campo in front of thechapel--Violet, Eugene and I; the Angelus had just rung; it was the hourof all hours in one's lifetime; the deepening twilight--we had the moonto light us on our homeward way--the inexpressible loveliness of theatmosphere, the unutterable peace, the unspeakable serenity--the reposein nature--I cannot begin to express myself!
"Out of the chapel came the Father Superior. He knows us very well, forwe have often visited the island; he always offers us some refreshment,a cup of mass wine, or a dish of fruit, and so he did on this occasion.We were in no hurry to leave the shore and so accepted his invitation tobe seated under the trees while he ordered the repast.
"Presently he returned and was shortly followed by a young friar whom wehad never seen before; there are not many of them there--a dozenperhaps--and their faces are more or less familiar to us, for even wepoor women may kneel without the gratings in their little chapel, and sowe have learned to know the faces we have seen there in the choir. Butthis one was quite new to us and so striking; his eyes were ever raised;he offered us a dish of bread and olives, while the abbot poured ourwine, and the very moment we had served ourselves he quietly withdrew.
"I could think of but one thing--indeed we all thought of it at the samemoment--'tis Browning's--
"'What's become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip?'"
"You know the lines well enough. Why did we think of it?--because wewere all startled, so startled that the abbot who usually sees us to ourgondola, made his abrupt adieus, on some slight pretext, and the door ofthe monastery was bolted fast.
"Oh, me! How long it takes to tell a little tale--to be sure! We knewthat face, the face of the young friar; we knew the hand--it wasunmistakable; we have all agreed upon it and are ready to swear to it onour oaths! That novice was none other than Paul Clitheroe!"