Olive in Italy Part 12

"Oh, signorina," he said, half crying, "the _alfieri_ and I wanted to give you these because you brought us good luck so that we won the Palio. I little thought--"

He stopped short, hesitating, and afraid to come nearer. He thought she looked like one of the stone angels that kneel on the sculptured tombs in the Campo Santo; her face seemed rough hewn in the harsh white glare of the electric light, so deep were the shadows under her eyes and the lines of pain about the praying lips. His heart ached with pity for her.

"Give them to me," she said, and he was allowed to come into the s.p.a.ce that the _carabiniere_ kept clear.

He thrust the bunch hurriedly into her hands, faltering, "_Dio vi benedica_."

"_Andatevi con Dio_," she replied, and then laid the pale flowers and the s.h.i.+mmering green crown of leaves down upon the still breast.

"Gemma, if ever I hurt you, forgive me now!"

It was raining heavily, and as the sheet grew damp it clung more closely to the body of the girl who lay there with arms outstretched and knees drawn up as though she were nailed to a cross.

The boy still lingered. "You will be drenched. Go into the house," he urged. Then, seeing he could not move her, he took off his velvet embroidered cloak and put it about her shoulders. A woman in the crowd came forward with a shawl for Carmela.

So the hours pa.s.sed.

BOOK II.--FLORENCE

CHAPTER I

October can be cold enough sometimes in the Val d'Arno when the snow falls on the Apennines, and the woods of Vallombrosa are sere, and Florence, the flower city, lies then at the mercy of the winds. Mamie Whittaker, who, in her own phrase, "hated to be blown about anyhow,"

had not been out all day. She lolled in an armchair before a crackling fire of olive wood in the room that she "lit with herself when alone,"

though scarcely in the Tennysonian sense. Hers was a vivid personality, and older women who disliked her called her flamboyant, and referred to an evident touch of the tar-brush that would make her socially impossible in America though it pa.s.sed unnoticed in Italy.

Her age was seventeen, and she dressed after Carmen to please herself, and read Gyp with the same intention. She was absorbed now in _Les Amoureux_, and had to be told twice that her cousin had come before she would look up.

"Miss Marvel? Show her in."

She rose and went forward to greet her relative, whom she had not seen for some years, and the two met at the door and kissed each other with enthusiasm.

"Edna! My! Well, you have not grown anyway. What a tiny thing! Come and sit down right here." She rang for tea while her visitor slowly and rather shyly divested herself of her sables and laid them on a side table. Edna Marvel was the elder of the two by three years, but she was so small that she seemed a mere child. Her sallow little face resembled that of a tired monkey, yet it had an elfin charm, and her hands were beautiful as carved toys of ivory made in the East for a king's son to play with. They might hold a man's heart perhaps, but Mamie did not notice them, her own allurements being of more obvious description.

She thought Edna was real homely, and her spirits rose accordingly.

"Where are you staying?"

"At the Bristol. Poppa guessed we would take a villa later on if we felt like it."

Mamie rang again. "Bring some more cakes, and tell Miss Agar to come and pour out the tea."

"Who is Miss Agar?"

"My companion, a sort of governess person. She takes me out walks, and sits by when my music-master comes, and so forth. She is new, and she won't do, but I may as well make her useful while she stays."

"Why won't she do?"

"Oh, she just won't. Momma don't like her much, and I'm not singing her praises."

Edna looked curiously at the slender girl in the black dress who came in and took her place at the table.

She said "Good afternoon" in her pleasant little voice.

The governess person seemed rather surprised that she should address her.

"Good afternoon," she replied. "Do you take milk and sugar?"

"Bring them round for us to help ourselves," dictated Mamie.

Olive only smiled as she repeated her question, but Edna was distressed at her cousin's rudeness, and her sensitive face was quite pink as she hurriedly declined sugar. She came to the table to fetch her cup, but Miss Whittaker waited for hers to be brought to her.

"How do you like this room, Edna? I had it fixed up for myself, and everything in it is mine." She looked complacently up at the hangings of primrose silk that hid the fifteenth century frescoes on the walls.

Her cousin hesitated. "I guess it must have cost some."

"Yes. The Marchese does not like it. He is so set on his worm-eaten old tapestries and carved chairs, and he wanted momma to refurnish the palace to match, but not she! Louis Quinze, she said, and Louis Quinze it is, more or less. I tell the Marchese that if he is so fond of the musty Middle Ages he ought to go about in armour himself by rights. But the old sinner is not really a bit romantic."

It occurred to Olive that the right kind of governess would utter a word in season. "It is not usual for young girls to refer to their stepfathers as you do," she said drily.

"Wait until you know mine better," Mamie answered unabashed. "Last night he said your complexion was miraculous. Next thing he'll try if it comes off. Are you coming to dinner to-night, Edna?"

"Yes, auntie asked us. The--the Prince will be here, won't he?"

Mamie looked down her nose. "Oh, yes," she said carelessly. "Your beau will come. People generally do when we ask them. The food is all right, and we have real good music afterwards sometimes. You know Avenel stays in Florence whiles because his brother has a Villa at Settignano. Well, momma guessed she would get him to play here for nothing once. Of course she was willing to pay any money for him really, but she just thought she would try it on. She asked him to dinner with a lot of other people, and made him take her in, though there were two Neapolitan dukes among the guests. The food was first-rate; she had told the cook to do his best, and she really thought the _entree_ would have made Vitellius sit up. It was perfect. Well, afterwards she asked Avenel to play, and he just smiled and said he could not. Why, she said, he gave a recital the day before for nothing, for a charity, and played the people's souls out of their bodies, made them act crazy, as he always does. Couldn't he play for friends.h.i.+p? No, he said, he couldn't just then because one must be filled with sorrow oneself before one can make others feel, and he inferred that he had no room even for regret. 'I play Chopin on a biscuit,' he said."

"He must be rather a pig," was Edna's comment.

"Not a bit of it. Momma said he really had not eaten much; in fact she had noticed that he left a bit of that lovely _entree_. Perhaps he is afraid of getting fat. Momma was real mad with him."

Olive's cheeks were flushed and her hands trembled as she arranged the cups on the tray. She was thankful for the shelter afforded by the great silver tea-pot. Mamie's back was turned to her, but Edna seemed desirous of including her in the conversation.

"Have you heard Avenel, Miss Agar?" she asked presently in her gentle, drawling way.

"No. Is he very famous? I have never heard of him as a pianist."

"Oh, his professional name is Meryon, of course. He is billed as that and known all the world over, though he only began to play in public three years ago when his wife left him. She was always a horrid woman, and she made him marry her when he was quite a boy, they say. They say he plays to forget things as other men take to drink. He has been twice to New York, and I know a girl who says he gave her a lock of his hair, but I don't believe her. It is dark brown, almost black, but I guess she cut it off a switch. He's not that kind."

Olive said nothing.

"You need not stay if you don't want to," Mamie said unceremoniously.

"Be ready to come down after dinner. I might want you to play my accompaniments."

"I can't think why you say she won't do," cried Edna when she was gone out of the room. "I call her perfectly sweet. Rather sad-looking, but just lovely."

Mamie sniffed. "Glad you admire her," she said.