Miss Grief and Other Stories (25 page)

“And what shall you do about your Sicily person?” said Margaret, not in the least, however, associating the remark, and knowing also that Beatrice would not associate it, with “Mr. Lovell” and his “memory” (it was quite well understood between them about “Mr. Lovell”).

“Of course I shall not answer.”

“And if he follows you?”

“He will hardly do that—now. Besides, he is going to America; he sails to-morrow. Our having been together in Sicily was quite by chance, of course; he knows that, and he knows also that I intend to pay, in every way, the strictest respect to Mr. Lovell's memory. That will be fully two years.”

“And then?”

“Oh, I never plan. If things do not assert themselves, they are not worth a plan.”

“You certainly are the most delightful little piece of common-sense I ever met,” said Margaret, laughing, and kissing her. “I wish you would give me a share of it! But come—it is late; we must go.”

As they went down the slope together towards the village
where their carriage was waiting, they looked not unlike the two seventeen-year-old school-girls of eight years before; Beatrice was smiling, and Margaret's darker face was lighted by the old animation which had always charmed her lovely but unanimated friend. It may here be remarked that the greatest intellectual excitements which Beatrice Lee had known had been when Margaret Stowe had let loose her imagination, and carried her friend up with her, as on strong wings, to those regions of fancy which she never attained alone; Beatrice had enjoyed it, wondered over it, and then had remained passive until the next time.

“Ah well—poor Sicily person!” said Margaret, as they took their places in the carriage. “I know just what you will do with him. You will write down his name in a memorandum-book, so as not to forget it; you will safely burn his poor letter, as you have safely burned so many others; and you will go gently on to Brittany without even taking the ashes!”

“Keep it for me!” said Mrs. Lovell, suddenly, drawing the letter from her pocket and placing it in Margaret's hand. “Yes,” she repeated, enjoying her idea and dwelling upon it, delighted to find that she possessed a little fancy of her own, after all, “keep it for me, and read it over once in a while. It is quite well written, and will do you good, because it is not one of your theories, but a fact. There is nothing disloyal in my giving it to you, because I always tell you everything, and this Sicily person has no claim for exemption in that regard. He has gone back to America, and you will not meet him. No—positively, I will not take it. You must keep it for me.”

“Very well,” said Margaret, amused by this little unexpected
flight. “But as I may go back to America also, I want to be quite sure where I stand. Did you happen to mention to this Sicily person my name, or anything about me?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Lovell, promptly. “We did not talk on such subjects, you know.”

“And he had no idea that you were to stop in Florence?”

“No; he supposed I was to take the steamer at Naples for Marseilles. You need not be so scrupulous; everything is quite safe.”

“And when shall I return the epistle?”

“When I ask for it,” said Mrs. Lovell, laughing.

The next morning she went northward to Venice.

TWO WEEKS LATER MISS STOWE
formed one of the company at a reception, or, rather, a musical party. She looked quite unlike the “Margaret” of Fiesole as she sat on a small, faded purple satin sofa, listening, rather frowningly, to the rippling movement that follows the march in Beethoven's sonata, opus twenty-six; she had never liked that rippling movement, she did not pretend to like it now. Her frown, however, was slight—merely a little line between her dark eyebrows; it gave her the appearance of attention rather than of disapprobation. The “Margaret” of Fiesole had looked like an animated, almost merry, young girl; the “Miss Stowe” of the reception appeared older than she really was, and her face wore an expression of proud reserve, which, although veiled by all the conventional graciousness required by society, was not on that account any the less apparent. She was richly dressed; but the general effect
of her attire was that of simplicity. She fanned herself slowly with a large fan, whose sticks were of carved amber, and the upper part of soft gray ostrich plumes, curled; closed or open, as she used it or as it lay beside her, this fan was an object of beauty. As the music ceased a lady came fluttering across the room, and, with a whispered “Permit me,” introduced a gentleman, whose name, in the hum of released conversation, Miss Stowe did not hear.

“He understands
everything
about old pictures, and you
know
how ignorant
I
am!” said this lady, half closing her eyes, and shaking her ringleted head with an air of abnegation. “
I
have but
one
inspiration; there is room in me but for
one
. I bring him, therefore, to
you
, who have so many! We
all
know your love for the early masters—may I not say, the
earliest?
”

Madame Ferri was an American who had married a Florentine; she was now a little widow of fifty, with gray ringlets and emotions regarding music almost too ineffable to be expressed. I say “almost,” because she did, after all, express them, as her friends knew. She was a useful person in Florence because she indefatigably knew everybody—the English and Americans as well as the Florentines; and she spent her time industriously at work mingling these elements, whether they would or no. No one thanked her for this especially, or remembered it after it was done; if republics are ungrateful, even more so is a society whose component parts are transient, coming and departing day by day. But Madame Ferri herself appreciated the importance of her social combinations if no one else did; and, like many another chemist, lived on content in the consciousness of it.

“I know very little about old pictures,” said the stranger, with a slight smile, finding himself left alone beside Miss Stowe.

“And I—do not like them,” she replied.

“If, more than that, you dislike them, we shall have something to talk about. Dislike can generally express itself very well.”

“On the contrary, I think it is one of those feelings we do not express—but conceal.”

“You are thinking of persons, perhaps. I was speaking of things. Pictures are things.”

Miss Stowe felt herself slightly displeased; and the feeling was not lessened when, with a “Will you allow me?” the stranger took a seat at the end of her sofa, in the space left free by the gray silken sweep of her dress. There was in reality an abundance of room for him; other men were seated, and there was no chair near. Still, the sofa was a small one; the three Italians and two Frenchmen who had succeeded each other in the honor of standing beside her for eight or ten minutes' conversation had not thought of asking for the place so calmly taken by this new-comer. She looked at him as he began talking; he was quite unlike the three Italians and two Frenchmen. He was not ruddy enough for an Englishman of that complexion; he had a lethargic manner which was un-American. She decided, however, that he was, like herself, an American; but an American who had lived much abroad.

He was talking easily upon the various unimportant subjects in vogue at a “small party”; she replied in the same strain.

Margaret Stowe was not beautiful; “pretty” was the last word that could have been applied to her. Her features were
irregular; she had a well-shaped, well-poised head, and a quantity of dark hair which she wore closely braided in a low knot behind. She was tall, slender, and rather graceful; she had dark eyes. As has been said before, she was not beautiful; but within the past two years she had acquired, her friends thought, an air of what is called distinction. In reality this was but a deep indifference, combined with the wish at the same time to maintain her place unchanged in the society in which she moved. Indifference and good manners taken together, in a tall and graceful person, will generally give that air. Beatrice Lovell had not perceived this change in her friend, but on that day at Fiesole Miss Stowe had been simply the “Margaret” of old.

In accordance with what we have called her good manners, Miss Stowe now gave to the stranger beside her easy replies, several smiles, and a fair amount of intelligent attention. It was all he could have expected; but, being a man of observation, he perceived her indifference lying broadly underneath, like the white sand under a shallow river.

During the same week she met him at a dinner-party, and they had some conversation. Later he was one of the guests at a reception which she attended, and again they talked together awhile. She now mentioned him to her aunt, Miss Harrison, to whom she generally gave, every few days, a brief account of the little events in the circle to which they belonged. She had learned his name by this time; it was Morgan.

“I wonder if he is a grandson of old Adam Morgan,” said Miss Harrison, who was genealogical and reminiscent. “If he is, I should like to see him. Has he a Roman nose?”

“I think not,” said her niece, smiling.

“Well, describe him, then.”

“He is of medium height, neither slender nor stout; he is light, with rather peculiar eyes because they are so blue—a deep, dull blue, like old china; but they are not large, and he does not fully open them. He has a long, light mustache, no beard, and very closely cut hair.”

“He must be good-looking.”

“No; he is not, especially. He may be anywhere between thirty and forty; his hair in a cross-light shows a slight tinge of gray. He looks fatigued; he looks cynical. I should not be surprised if he were selfish. I do not like him.”

“But if he should be the grandson of old Adam, I should have to invite him to dinner,” said Miss Harrison, reflectively. “I could not do less, I think.”

“I won't poison the soup. But Morgan is a common name, Aunt Ruth; this is the fourth Morgan I have met here this spring. There isn't one chance in a thousand that he belongs to the family you know.” She was smiling as she spoke, but did not explain her smile; she was thinking that “Morgan” was also the name signed to that letter locked in her writing-desk—a letter whose expressions she now knew quite well, having obeyed Mrs. Lovell's injunction to “read it over” more than once. They were ardent expressions; it might be said, indeed, that they were very ardent.

But now and then that one chance in a thousand, so often summarily dismissed, asserts its existence and appears upon the scene. It turned out in the present case that the stranger was the grandson of the old Adam Morgan whom Miss Harrison remembered. Miss Stowe, in the meantime, had continued to meet him; but now she was to meet him in a new
way—when he would be more upon her hands, as it were; for Miss Harrison invited him to dinner.

Miss Ruth Harrison was an invalid of nearly sixty years of age; she had been for ten years in Europe, but had only had her orphaned niece with her during the past eighteen months. She had a large fortune, and she gave Margaret every luxury; especially she liked to see her richly dressed. But it was quite well understood between them that the bulk of her wealth was to go to another relative in America who bore her family name. It was understood between them, but it was not understood outside. On the contrary, it was generally believed in Florence that Miss Stowe would inherit the whole. It is just possible that this belief may have had a remote influence in shaping the opinion which prevailed there—namely, that this young lady was “handsome” and “gracious,” when, in truth, she was neither. But Mr. Morgan, the new-comer, exhibited so far, at least, no disposition to fall in with this fiction. In his estimation Miss Stowe was a conventionally agreeable, inwardly indifferent young lady of twenty-six, who carried herself well, but was too ironical as well as too dark. He came to dinner. And did not change his opinion.

A few days after the dinner Miss Harrison invited her new acquaintance to drive; she was able to go out for an hour or two in the afternoon, and she had a luxurious carriage and fine horses. Miss Stowe did not accompany them; she went off by herself to walk in the Boboli Garden.

Miss Harrison returned in good-humor. “I like him,” she announced, as the maid removed her bonnet. “Yes, I think I may hope that the grandson of old Adam is not going to be a disappointment.”

“The grandson of Adam—I suppose his name is Adam also—is a fortunate person, Aunt Ruth, to have gained your liking so soon; you do not often take likings to strangers.”

“His name is not Adam,” pursued Miss Harrison, “and that is a pity; there is character as well as association in Adam. He has a family name—Trafford. His mother was a Miss Trafford, of Virginia, it seems.”

Miss Stowe was selecting flowers from a fragrant heap before her to fill the wide-mouthed vases which stood on the floor by her side; but now she stopped. “Trafford Morgan” was the name signed at the end of that letter! It must be he; it was not probable that there were two names of that special combination; it seemed a really remarkable chance. And evidently he had not gone to America, in spite of Mrs. Lovell's belief. She began to smile and almost to laugh, bending her head over a great soft purple heap of Florence lilies in order that her aunt might not observe it. But the large room was dusky, and Miss Harrison near-sighted; she observed nothing. The two ladies occupied an apartment in a house which, if it had not been so new, would have been called a “palace.” Although modern, the measurements had been after the old Florentine pattern, and the result was that the occupants moved about in rooms which could have contained entire, each one, a small American house. But they liked the vastness. After a moment Miss Stowe went on arranging her blossoms, but inwardly she was enjoying much entertainment; she was going over in her own mind the expressions of that letter, which now took on quite a new character, coming no longer from some formless stranger, but from a gentleman with whom she had spoken, a person she had met and would meet again. “I never should
have dreamed that he was capable of it,” she said to herself. “He has seemed indifferent,
blas
é
. But it places
me
in a nice position! Especially now that Aunt Ruth has taken a fancy to him. I must write to Beatrice immediately, and ask her to take back the stupid letter.” She wrote during the same evening.