Miss Grief and Other Stories (28 page)

“You will find
so
many whom you knew last year here again as well as yourselves,” she said, enthusiastically. “We shall have some of our
charming
old reunions. Let me see—I think I can tell you.” And she ran over a list of names, among them that of “Mr. Morgan.”

“What, not the grandson of Adam?” said Miss Harrison.

“He is not
quite
so old as that, is he?” said Madame Ferri, laughing. “It is the one who dined with you several times last year, I believe—Mr. Trafford Morgan. I shall have great pleasure in telling him this very day that you are here.”

“Do you know whether he is to remain long?” said Miss Stowe, who had not before spoken.

“I am sorry to say he is not; Mr. Morgan is always an addition,
I think—don't you? But he told me only yesterday that he was going this week to—to Tarascon, I think he said.”

“Trieste and Tarascon—he selects the most extraordinary places!” said Miss Harrison. “The next time it will be Tartarus.”

Madame Ferri was overcome with mirth. “
Dear
Miss Harrison, you are
too
droll!
Isn't
she, dear Miss Stowe?”

“He probably chooses his names at random,” said Miss Stowe, with indifference.

The next day, at the Pitti, she met him. She was alone, and returned his salutation coldly. He was with some ladies who were standing near, looking at the “Madonna of the Chair.” He merely asked how Miss Harrison was, and said he should give himself the pleasure of coming to see her very soon; then he bowed and returned to his friends. Not long afterwards she saw them all leave the gallery together.

Half an hour later she was standing in front of one of Titian's portraits, when a voice close beside her said, “Ah! the young man in black. You are not admiring it?”

There had been almost a crowd in the gorgeous rooms that morning. She had stood elbow to elbow with so many persons that she no longer noticed them; Trafford Morgan had been able, therefore, to approach and stand beside her for several minutes without attracting her recognition. As he spoke she turned, and, in answer to his smile, gave an even slighter bow than before; it was hardly more than a movement of the eyelids. Two English girls, with large hats, sweet, shy eyes, and pink cheeks, who were standing close beside them, turned away towards the left for a minute to look at another picture.

“Do not treat me badly,” he said. “I need kindness. I am not very happy.”

“I can understand that,” she answered. Here the English girls came back again.

“I think you are wrong in admiring it,” he said, looking at the portrait; “it is a quite impossible picture. A youth with that small, delicate head and face could never have had those shoulders; they are the shoulders of quite another type of man. This is some boy whom Titian wished to flatter; but he was artist enough to try and hide the flattery by that overcoat. The face has no calm; you would not have admired it in life.”

“On the contrary, I should have admired it greatly,” replied Miss Stowe. “I should have adored it. I should have adored the eyes.”

“Surely there is nothing in them but a sort of pugnacity.”

“Whatever it is, it is delightful.”

The English girls now turned away towards the right.

“You are quite changed,” he said, looking at her.

“Yes, I think I am. I am much more agreeable. Every one will tell you so; even Madame Ferri, who is obliged to reconcile it with my having been always more agreeable than any one in the world, you know. I have become lighter. I am no longer heavy.”

“You mean you are no longer serious.”

“That is it. I used to be absurdly serious. But it is an age since we last met. You were going to Trieste, were you not? I hope you found it agreeable?”

“It is not an age; it is a year.”

“Oh, a great deal can happen in a year,” said Miss Stowe, turning away.

She was as richly dressed as ever, and not quite so plainly. Her hair was arranged in little rippling waves low down upon her forehead, which made her look, if not what might be called more worldly, at least more fashionable, since previously she had worn it arranged with a simplicity which was neither. Owing to this new arrangement of her hair, her eyes looked larger and darker.

He continued to walk beside her for some moments, and then, as she came upon a party of friends, he took leave.

In the evening he called upon Miss Harrison, and remained an hour. Miss Stowe was not at home. The next day he sent to Miss Harrison a beautiful basket of flowers.

“He knows we always keep the rooms full of them,” remarked Miss Stowe, rather disdainfully.

“All the same, I like the attention,” said Miss Harrison. And she sent him an invitation to dinner. She liked to have one guest.

He came. During the evening he asked Miss Stowe to sing. “I have lost my voice,” she answered.

“Yes,” said Miss Harrison, “it is really remarkable; Margaret, although she seems so well, has not been able to sing for months—indeed, for a full year. It is quite sad.”

“I am not sad about it, Aunt Ruth; I am relieved. I never sang well—I had not voice enough. There was really nothing in it but expression; and that was all pretence.”

“You are trying to make us think you very artificial,” said Morgan.

“I can make you think what I please, probably. I can follow several lines of conduct, one after the other, and make you believe them all.” She spoke lightly; her general tone was much lighter than formerly, as she herself had said.

“Do you ever walk in the Boboli Garden now?” he asked, later.

“Occasionally; but it is a dull place. And I do not walk as much as I did; I drive with my aunt.”

“Yes, Margaret has grown indolent,” said Miss Harrison; “and it seems to agree with her. She has more color than formerly; she looks well.”

“Wonderfully,” said Morgan. “But you are thinner than you were,” he added, turning towards her.

“And darker!” she answered, laughing. “Mr. Morgan does not admire arrangements in black and white, Aunt Ruth; do not embarrass him.” She wore that evening a white dress, unrelieved by any color.

“I see you are bent upon being unkind,” he said. It was supposed to be a society remark.

“Not the least in the world,” she answered, in the same tone.

He met her several times in company, and had short conversations with her. Then, one afternoon, he came upon her unexpectedly in the Cascine; she was strolling down the broad path alone.

“So you do walk sometimes, after all,” he said.

“Never. I am only strolling. I drove here with Aunt Ruth, but, as she came upon a party of American friends who are going to-morrow, I gave up my place, and they are driving
around together for a while, and no doubt settling the entire affairs of Westchester County.”

“I am glad she met them; I am glad to find you alone. I have something I wish much to say to you.”

“Such a beginning always frightens me. Pray postpone it.”

“On the contrary, I shall hasten it. I must make the most of this rare opportunity. Do you remember when you did me the honor, Miss Stowe, to make me the subject of an experiment?”

“You insist upon recalling that piece of folly?” she said, opening her parasol. Her tone was composed and indifferent.

“I recall it because I wish to base something upon it. I wish to ask you—to allow yourself to be passively the subject of an experiment on
my
part, an experiment of the same nature.”

She glanced at him; he half smiled. “Did you imagine, then, that mine was in earnest?” she said, with a fine, light scorn, light as air.

“I never imagine anything. Imaginations are useless.”

“Not so useless as experiments. Let yours go, and tell me rather what you found to like in—Trieste.”

“I suppose you know that I went to England?”

“I know nothing. But yes—I do know that you are going to—Tarascon.”

“I shall not go if you will permit what I have asked.”

“Isn't it rather suddenly planned?” she said, ironically. “You did not know we were coming.”

“Very suddenly. I have thought of it only since yesterday.”

They had strolled into a narrow path which led by one of those patches of underwood of which there are several in the Cascine—little bosky places carefully preserved in a tangled
wildness which is so pretty and amusing to American eyes, accustomed to the stretch of real forests.

“You don't know how I love these little patches,” said Miss Stowe. “There is such a good faith about them; they are charming.”

“You were always fond of nature, I remember. I used to tell you that art was better.”

“Ah! did you?” she said, her eyes following the flight of a bird.

“You have forgotten very completely in one year.”

“Yes, I think I have. I always forget, you know, what it is not agreeable to remember. But I must go back; Aunt Ruth will be waiting.” They turned.

“I will speak more plainly,” said Morgan. “I went to England during July last—that is, I followed Mrs. Lovell. She was in Devonshire. Quite recently I have learned that she has become engaged in—Devonshire, and is soon to be married there. I am naturally rather down about it. I am seeking some other interest. I should like to try your plan for a while, and build up an interest in—you.”

Miss Stowe's lip curled. “The plans are not alike,” she said. “Yours is badly contrived.
I
did not tell
you
beforehand what I was endeavoring to do!”

“I am obliged to tell you. You would have discovered it.”

“Discovered what a pretence it was? That is true. A woman can act a part better than a man.
You
did not discover! And what am I to do in this little comedy of yours?”

“Nothing. It is, in truth, nothing to you; you have told me that, even when you made a great effort towards that especial
object, it was impossible to get up the slightest interest in me. Do not take a violent dislike to me; that is all.”

“And if it is already taken?”

“I shall have to conquer that. What I meant was—do not take a fresh one.”

“There is nothing like precedent, and therefore I repeat your question: what if you should succeed—I mean as regards yourself?” she said, looking at him with a satirical expression.

“It is my earnest wish to succeed.”

“You do not add, as I did, that in case you do succeed you will of course never see me again, but that at least the miserable old feeling will be at rest?”

“I do not add it.”

“And at the conclusion, when it has failed, shall you tell me that the cause of failure was—the inevitable comparisons?”

“Beatrice is extremely lovely,” he replied, turning his head and gazing at the Arno, shining through an opening in the hedge. “I do not attempt to pretend, even to myself, that she is not the loveliest woman I ever knew.”

“Since you do not pretend it to yourself you will not pretend it to me.”

She spoke without interrogation; but he treated the words as a question. “Why should I?” he said. And then he was silent.

“There is Aunt Ruth,” said Miss Stowe; “I see the horses. She is probably wondering what has become of me.”

“You have not altogether denied me,” he said, just before they reached the carriage. “I assure you I will not be in the least importunate. Take a day or two to consider. After all, if there is no one upon whom it can really infringe (of course I
know you have admirers; I have even heard their names), why should you not find it even a little amusing?”

Miss Stowe turned towards him, and a peculiar expression came into her eyes as they met his. “I am not sure but that I shall find it so,” she answered. And then they joined Miss Harrison.

The day or two had passed. There had been no formal question asked, and no formal reply given; but as Miss Stowe had not absolutely forbidden it, the experiment may be said to have been begun. It was soon reported in Florence that Trafford Morgan was one of the suitors for the hand of the heiress; and, being a candidate, he was of course subjected to the searching light of Public Inquiry. Public Inquiry discovered that he was thirty-eight years of age; that he had but a small income; that he was indolent, indifferent, and cynical. Not being able to find any open vices, Public Inquiry considered that he was too
blasé
to have them; he had probably exhausted them all long before. All this Madame Ferri repeated to Miss Harrison, not because she was in the least opposed to Mr. Morgan, but simply as part of her general task as gatherer and disseminator.

“Trafford Morgan is not a saint, but he is well enough in his way,” replied Miss Harrison. “I am not at all sure that a saint would be agreeable in the family.”

Madame Ferri was much amused by this; but she carried away the impression also that Miss Harrison favored the suitor.

In the meantime nothing could be more quiet than the manner of the supposed suitor when he was with Miss Stowe. He now asked questions of her; when they went to the churches, he asked her impressions of the architecture;
when they visited the galleries, he asked her opinions of the pictures. He inquired what books she liked, and why she liked them; and sometimes he slowly repeated her replies.

This last habit annoyed her. “I wish you would not do that,” she said, with some irritation. “It is like being forced to look at one's self in a mirror.”

“I do it to analyze them,” he answered. “I am so dense, you know, it takes me a long time to understand. When you say, for instance, that Romola is not a natural character because her love for Tito ceases, I, who think that the unnatural part is that she should ever have loved him, naturally dwell upon the remark.”

“She would have continued to love him in life. Beauty is all powerful.”