A Woman's Will Part 62

Chapter Sixteen

It was Genoa.

The end of all was at hand.

Rosina recollected the careless, callous manner with which in earlier, happier days she had spoken of this fated spot.

"Are you going home by the Southern Route?"

"Yes, we sail from Genoa;" or, "Do you leave at Naples?" "Oh, no, it's Monte Carlo this time, so we shall get off at Genoa."

Genoa!

Once she had thought its blue mountain ma.s.ses most sublimely beautiful, now anything with hollows and shadows reminded her of those two misery-circled eyes, and she was led to wonder afresh if he, or she, would ever recover.

It is always astonis.h.i.+ng how the port from which we sail partakes of our sailing sentiments. It's a "jolly good place" or a "dull old hole," just according to who is on the deck or who is on the dock. Handkerchiefs flutter gayly in the stolid face of Hoboken every day of the year, and many beside Marie Stuart have wept themselves out of sight of sunny France. It isn't the place that counts when the anchor goes down or up, it's the Who and the When; and in view of what has filled all the foregoing pages I trust that the reader will sympathize with Rosina and pardon my slang if I state that Genoa appeared to her upon this occasion very much more rocky than ever before.

Their arrival had not been auspicious, to begin with. The cab on its narrow way hotel-ward had collided energetically with another cab and had a wheel taken off. Jack was on the high side, and Rosina was only too anxious to have anything happen to her; but Ottillie, who had narrowly escaped being pitched out on her head, was quite perturbed, and feared that the accident was a bad omen for the voyage.

The following morning Rosina saw her cousin leave for the inevitable visit to Fratelli's, and when he was safely out of the way she put on a walking-suit, veiled herself thickly, and, taking a carriage, went all alone to that grand eastern sweep of boulevard whose panorama of sea and city is so beyond the language of any pen to portray. At the summit she dismissed the carriage, and rested there alone, leaning against the iron bal.u.s.trade, her eyes turned afar, her bosom riven by emotions as limitless as the horizon that lay before her. A sailing-vessel was spreading its wings for an Egyptian flight; in the port to her right the great white ocean liner was loading her cargo; overhead the gulls whirled, shrieking. But to all she was blind, deaf, unwitting.

For with the conversation upon the ridge-pole of the Milan Cathedral life had seemed to close for her. The finality of Jack's ruling had barred the future out of her present forever. There is no more unmitigated grief for a woman than to be chained to the consequences begotten of her own way, and to have her judgment taken seriously and acted upon, to the end that all possible chance of change is swept forever beyond the reach of her will.

She hung there against the cold iron and knew no tears, because her wretchedness had outstripped their solace.

Her reasons had reached the pa.s.s where they craved to be overruled, and no one was going to overrule them. She did not state the facts to herself in so many words, but she felt her helplessness and moaned her pain.

Oh, that pain! the pain of one who sees the light too late, who divines the sun only by the splendor of the glow which it has left behind. What memories they hold to torture everlastingly! What reveries they nurse from thence on evermore!

If only more had been said, or less! If only more had been denied, or granted! There is forever imprinted on the brain some one especial look which time can never dim--some special word whose burden nor sleep nor wake will lighten.

There, at her feet, the Isar rushed, and through the myriad murmur of its rapids his voice came back to her. "_Tout est fini_,--all is finished!" he had said, with that enveloping mist of melancholy in which his spirit shrouded itself so easily. And then a wax taper flashed before the blackness that sheathed her vision, and she looked in heart-quivering agony upon the dumb appeal of those great, brown eyes, with their shadows doubled by the torturing of the hour.

"He felt perhaps as I feel now," she thought, pressing her hand against her bosom; "I didn't know then--I didn't know!"

She turned to walk along the cliff.

"If I was sure," she told herself, "I think that I would--" but there she paused, shuddered violently, and left the phrase unfinished.

At luncheon Jack was uncommonly cheerful. He asked her if she didn't want to go to Nice and spend one of the two days before their departure.

She shook her head.

"But why don't you go?" she said; "you could just as well as not."

"I don't know but that I will," he replied; "only I hate to leave you here alone."

"Oh, I'll do very well," she a.s.sured him, smiling.

About four that afternoon he came into her room, where she was lying in a reclining-chair by the window, looking listlessly out and dreaming of Munich. He stood before her for a long time, contemplating her and the gown of lace and silk which foamed about her throat and arms, and then cascaded down to spread in billows on the floor.

"I declare," he said suddenly, "it seems wasteful somehow for you to dress like that just to sit here alone."

Her mouth curved a little.

"Is that a night-dress?" he inquired curiously.

"No, cousin, it's a tea-gown."

"Oh!"

He stood still beside her.

"They told me a funny thing at the steams.h.i.+p office this morning," he said, after a while; "the man says that there's never a steamer sails but that some one who has made their last payment down is obliged for some reason to stay behind."

"Do they give them back their money?" she asked, trying to appear interested.

"Yes; and they always fill the room either at Naples or Gibraltar."

And still he stood there.

"Why don't you sit down?" she asked at last.

"Where's Ottillie?" he said, without seeming to notice her question.

"I've sent her out to do some errands. Why, do you want anything done?"

"No;" he leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I do love you, Rosina," he added, half joking, half serious; "I wonder what sort of a show I'd have had if I'd tried--ever?"

She shrank from him with a quick breath.

"Oh, Jack, I beg of you, don't tease me these days."

He straightened up and laughed, taking out his watch.

"It's quarter after four," he said, reflecting. "The mail must be in; I'll see if there are any letters," and he went out.

She remained by the window, twirling the shade-ta.s.sel with her idle fingers, and seeing, not the rattle and clatter of Italian street-life, but the great s.p.a.ce of the Maximilian-Joseph Platz, with the doves pattering placidly over the white and black pattern of its pavement, and the Maximiliansstra.s.se stretching before her with the open arches of the Maximilianeum closing its long vista at the further end....

Quick steps in the hall broke in upon her day dream, and her cousin re-entered, an open letter in his hand and his face curiously drawn. He gave her one strange look and halted.

"What has happened?" she asked hastily and anxiously.

He went to the window and looked out, so that his back was turned towards her and his face concealed from her view.