25 Whatever’s Lost, It First Was Won
SIR VANE VALENTINE stands a little apart, and strokes his mustache, and looks cynical. What a fool the old grandmamma is, after all! And the fellow is so picturesque in that dark green working-blouse, with his four-and-twenty years, and old acquaintanceship too! Well! it is not a question in which he is going to interfere. He is not in love—let her take care of herself. She has promised, and will keep her promise—he knows her well enough for that. What does the rest signify?
The sittings begin. Sometimes la contessa comes, and plays propriety; sometimes Mrs. Tinker; sometimes grandmamma herself. There is nothing to alarm anybody; they seem on the verge of an open quarrel half the time, these two. Dolores is especially and perversely contradictory and disputatious. Monsieur Rene does not say much; he smiles in exasperating superiority at her perpetual fault-finding. But the sharpness, the acidity, is only surface-deep; la contessa, at least sees that. Even Mrs. Tinker has an inkling that the feud between them is not deadly—that it is not absolute hatred that flashes out of the blue eyes when they meet the brown.
“My pretty!” that good old person says, “what a handsome pair you two do make! Eh, my dearie, if it was only him, and not t’other one!” For Mrs. Tinker does not like “t’other one” does not approve of the coming alliance. “Eh, my maid, ’tis but ill always to mate May and December,” she says, with a dismal shake of her old head. Never in her life has she liked Sir Vane Valentine; never has she forgiven him for stepping into the place of her lost Master George; never has she swerved from her first affection. He is in love with old madame’s money, not with this sweetest maid under the sun, and she could find it in her leal old heart to hate him for it.
“Don’t ‘ee, my lovey! don’t ‘ee, dearie!” she has said, over and over again-” don’t ‘ee marry Sir Vane! He is no match for thee, my pretty; he is old enough to be thy father; and he is dour and dark, inside and out. Don’t ‘ee, my maid!—don’t ‘ee marry him!”
“I must, old lady,” Dolores answers, sighing; “it is kismet—it is written. Grandmamma wishes it; I must please grandmamma, you know. And I have promised—it is too late now. Sometimes——”
“Yes, my maid. Sometimes——”
“Sometimes,” dreamily, half to herself,” I have wished of late—I had not. If I had only waited another day even——”
“It was the day you promised like, you first met Mr. Reeney?” says, with artful artlessness, Mrs. Tinker.
And Dolores starts up from her dreams, flushing to the roots of her fair hair. “Hush, nurse! What am I saying? You must not talk of such things. It is wrong—wrong!” She lays her hand on her heart, beating wildly. “You must not say harsh things of Sir Vane. He is very good, and—and I have promised. It is too late now.” There is a pathetic ring in these last words; they end in a stifled sob, as she hurries from the room. But it is only that she is very tired, perhaps; she was up at a party, the largest she has yet attended, last night, and the weather—Lent is drawing near, and the weather grows oppressive. It is so oppressive, indeed, that she does not go out at all that day, although M. Rene Macdonald expects her, and la contessa, who is more than willing to do chaperon duty, drives up punctually for her. She has a headache, she says, and lies in her darkened room, and sends away grandmamma, under pretense of trying to sleep, and lets Tinker sit beside her instead, and bathe her hands and forehead with cologne. She does not go to the studio for a week, although the bust is nearly completed now, and only a few more sittings are required. Weeks have passed since that meeting on the hill-side, and madame is talking of quitting Rome immediately after Easter, and going to Florence. They have lingered, indeed, more on account of this work of art than anything else; and this last whim of Dolores is rather trying in consequence. It is not quite all whim, though. The girl really droops this warm spring weather, and all her bright, wild-rose color deserts her.
Grandmamma is very impatient for the completion of the work. To have this marble likeness of her darling will be such a comfort to her when Dolores is far away. It is not a bust, as was at first intended; the idea and the figure have grown, and the sittings have been mostly standings. It is called “At the Shrine.” It is a slender girl, with uplifted arms, hands filled with rose branches, head thrown back, face upraised, trying to reach and adorn a shrine of the Madonna. The pose is grace itself; every outline of the beautiful hands and arms, every curve of the slight, supple form, is there in the marble. The fair, youthful face, like a star, a flower, a rose is filled with a sweet seriousness of whispered prayer. Madame is charmed—is lavish of praise.
“You have caught her very trick of expression when she is in church—or looking at a holy relic—or listening to the grand music of a mass. I can never thank you sufficiently, my dear M. Rene, for this treasure.”
“M. Rene has all the talents,” cries la contessa. “I think I like best our Dolores when she is a little mutinous—coquettish—what you will. Not with that look of the angels. She is everything there is of the most charming, but she is only a girl after all.”
She glances keenly at the silent artist. “How say you, M. Rene?” she demands, gayly; “is our Dolores most charming as an angel—a saint like this,” tapping the marble face with her fan, “or as we know her—a bewitching, alluring little coquette?”
“A coquette,” repeats grandmamma, not best pleased. “Dolores is never that. The child is a perfect baby where that fine art is concerned—who should know that better than you, contessa mia—past mistress as you are of the profession.”
But the little countess only laughs at the rebuke, still looking at the sculptor. “Signore Rene declines to commit himself. Well, he is very wise. You will have an exquisite likeness at least, madame, of our dearest Dolores when—by the by,” innocently, “when is it to be ?”
“In the autumn,” madame answers, absently, her glass still up examining critically the statue, “they will spend the winter in travel, and go to England in the spring. I shall remain in Rome, I think.” She sighs and drops her glass. “When will you send me my treasure, Mr. Macdonald?”
“In a very few weeks now, madame.” He answers gravely, but la contessa still keenly watching, is not much the wiser. He is always so grave, this austere young M. Rene; it becomes him, she thinks. One cannot figure him frivolous, or frittering his time away in foolish small talk and feeble platitudes. Silence is golden on such lips as his. But all the same he is hopelessly, irretrievably, despairingly in love with Dolores Valentine.
It chances—for the first time in all those months of meeting—that next day Miss Valentine and M. Rene find themselves alone, together, in the studio. Mrs. Tinker is there, it is true, in the flesh—in the spirit she is countless worlds away in the land of dreams. It is a very warm afternoon, there is that excuse for her. And the slumberous rustle of the leaves, the twitter of the birds, the heavy perfume of the flowers, outside the open window, are soporific in their tendencies. The sitting is almost over; Rene has chipped away in the drowsy stillness, without a word, Miss Valentine too is half asleep in the perfumed greenish hush. It is near the hour of Ave Maria, near the time to go. And there is to be but one more coming after this. “Only one more,” he says, aloud, as if in answer to her thought. “Can you realize that it is almost three months since we met there at the villa Ludovisi? When have months so flown before?” She sighs, and is silent. Yes, they have flown—life’s best days always do fly.
“You leave Rome soon?” Rene asks.
“Next week,” another sigh. “I suppose you stay on, Rene?”
“At my work—yes. I have all I can do. Snowball,” suddenly stopping in his chipping and looking at her full, “you are going to be married?” It is the first time the very first, that the subject has ever been alluded to. Sir Vane has been there many times, of course. And it is no secret, and la contessa has discussed it freely. Of course he knows, has always known, but no syllable has ever passed his lips before. His eyes, his voice, are stern now; she feels arraigned—guilty. Her head droops, her eyes fall before his.
“Yes, Rene.”
“To Sir Vane Valentine?”
“Yes.”
A pause. He works again; Mrs. Tinker sleeps. Slanting sunbeams quiver about them; Dolores droops a little in her chair.
“Do you remember,” he says presently, “the day we parted on Isle Perdrix? Do you remember our last walk—our last talk? I asked you then not to marry this man, and you——”
“Rene!”
“And you said you would not. Even then, you see, I was among the prophets. I felt it would come. Snowball,” suddenly again, in deepest, tersest tones, “why do you marry him?”
“Rene——”
“Why do you marry this man? You do not care for him; he cares nothing for you. There is the fortune yes. Is money everything, then? are you, too, mer cenary, Snowball?”
“Rene, listen——”
“Ah, what is there to say? I know—I know. Your grandmother wishes it—you owe her much-he wishes it; a fortune is at stake. Yes, I admit all that. But there is something else in marriage besides money; there is love. Where is the love here? There is love of riches; Sir Vane has that, I grant you. But are you to be so bought and sold, Snowball?”
Her answer is a sob; she covers her face with her hands. He leaves her nothing to say. Love! What is this rapture that fills her as she listens—fills her with ecstasy and agony at once? He throws down chisel and mallet, and comes and stands beside her, pale with all that is in his heart.
“Is it too late?” he asks. “Snowball, listen to me—look at me. My heart’s darling, don’t you know that I love you? How can I see you given to this man—so old, so cold, so mercenary, so unworthy, and not speak? I have no right—no, I am poor, a struggling artist; you are an heiress, but you are my Snowball too, whom I have loved always—always, always!”
“Always?” she repeats, and tries to laugh; “how can you say so? We have been quarreling all our lives.”
“Ah, there are quarrels and quarrels. I have loved you always. How can I stand by in silence and see you given to this loveless marriage—this unloving man? It is never too late, Snowball; draw back while there is yet time.”
“There is no time; it is too late. No one urged me, only I knew it would please them all. That very day of our first meeting, not an hour before you came upon me, I gave him my word.”
“One hour before—one hour too late!” he says, bitterly. “Well, perhaps there is a fate in these things. What hope could there be for me, at the best? Your grandmother would never have given you to me. If he were but worthy—if he but cared for you, you for him, ever so little, I would die before I would speak. I would have bidden God to bless you, and gone on my way, my secret in my heart, to the end. But it is because I know you will not be happy. Happy!” he starts up, and begins walking up and down, with flashing eyes; “you will be miserable! That man is capable of any baseness—of being brutal, even to you!”
“Rene, hush! You frighten me. You must not. Oh, how wrong all this is! Do not say another word! How can you make me—make me—” She covers her face again, and cries aloud.
“Forgive me!” he says. He is by her side in an instant, stricken with remorse. “You are right. I will say no more; I should not have spoken at all. But your happiness is so near to me—so dear! I would give my life to secure it. And after to-morrow we may meet no more. The thought of that has been maddening me all these weeks; the thought that so soon—so soon you will be that man’s wife, and gone out of my life forever! Fate deals hardly by some of us, Snowball.” There is silence for a little. He stands by her chair. Has the weeping ceased? The drooping face is hidden still; the loose bright hair veils it, and falls across his arms, as he leans lightly on her chair-back. “Snowball,” he says, “little friend, tell me this. I will ask no more, and it will be something—everything—in all the years without you that are to come. If I had been sooner that day on the hill-side—that fatal first day——”
He breaks off; he can see the quiver that goes through the bowed figure as he speaks, but man-like, he will not spare her. “Tell me,” he pleads, “one word only, it is so little—so little, Mon Dieu, and I lose so much——”
But the word does not come. There is a movement instead, a small cold hand slips into his, the slender, chilly fingers clasp his close. He is answered.
“Miss Dolores, my maid,” murmurs a sleepy voice, “is it nearly over? I’ve been dozin, a bit, I’m afeard, in the stillness like and the heat. There’s them evening bells; it must be time to be going.”
So Mrs. Tinker brings them back to the world, and out of their dangerous dream. Ave Maria is ringing from campanile and belfry, up against the purple Roman sky, and it is time to go home to grandmamma and dinner, and Sir Vane. It is very warm still, the air quivers with a sort of white after-glow, but the girl shivers as she rises. It is going straight out of paradise to—well, to a gray, grim, old-fashioned house, and gray, grim, old-fashioned people. But duty calls, and there is a silent hand-clasp, and she goes. The carriage is waiting outside the wide stone court, and they enter and are driven away. Long after they have gone, long after the workmen depart, long after Ave Maria ceases ringing, long after golden clusters come out, and burn in the purple, Rene Macdonald stands there, with folded arms, and stares out at the gemmed, flower-scented twilight with blank eyes that see nothing of the beauty, with blank mind that holds but one thought—a thought that keeps iterating itself over and over again with the dull persistence of such things, putting itself into words of its own volition, and ding-dinging through his brain. “One hour too late! One hour too late!”
