“I won’t deny that it will cost me severely; but, until we see her and know her, Charley, until we find out whether she may be one whose qualities will make our sacrifices easy – ”
“Would you accept this charge if she were perfectly portionless, and without a shilling in the world?”
“If she were Tom Leslie’s daughter, do you mean?”
“Ay, any one’s daughter?”
“To be sure I would, boy; and if I were only to consult my own feelings in the matter, I ‘d say that I ‘d prefer this alternative to the other.”
“Then I have no more to say,” said the son, as he walked away.
Within a month after this conversation, the little cottage was shut up, the garden wicket closed with a heavy padlock, and to any chance inquirer after its late residents, the answer returned was, that their present address was Place Vendôme, Paris.
“Tell me your company,” said the old adage; but, alas! the maxim had reference to other habits than our present-day ones. With what company now does not every man mix? Bishops discuss crime and punishment with ticket-of-leave men; fashionable exquisites visit the resorts of thieves; “swell people” go to hear madrigals at Covent Garden; and, as for the Ring, it is equally the table-land to peer and pickpocket. If, then, you would hazard a guess as to a man’s manners nowadays, ask not his company, but his whereabouts. Run your eye over the addresses of that twice-remanded insolvent, ranging from Norfolk Street, Strand, to Berkeley Square, with Boulogne-sur-Mer, St John’s Wood, Cadiz, the New Cut, Bermondsey, and the Edgware Road, in the interval, and say if you cannot, even out of such slight materials, sketch off his biography.
“The style is the man,” says the adage; and we might with as much truth say, “the street is the man.” In his locality is written his ways and means, his manners, his morals, his griefs, joys, and ambitions. We live in an age prolific in this lesson. Only cast a glance at the daily sacrifices of those who, to reside within the periphery of greatness, submit to a crushing rent and a comfortless abode.
Think of him who, to date his note “ – Street, Berkeley Square,” denies himself honest indulgence, all because the world has come to believe that certain spots are the “Regions of the Best,” and that they who live there must needs be that grand English ideal, – respectable.
Dear me, what unheard-of sacrifices does it demand of humble fortunes to be Respectable! what pinching and starving and saving! what self-denial and what striving! what cheerless little dinner-parties to other Respectables! what dyeing of black silks and storing of old ostrich feathers! And how and wherefore have we wandered off in this digression! Simply to say that Sir William Heathoote and his ward were living in a splendid quarter of Paris, and after that rambled into Germany, and thence to Como and down to Rome, very often delighted with their choice of residence, enjoying much that was enjoyable, but still – shall we own it? – never finding the exact place they seemed to want, nor exactly the people with whom they were willing to live in intimacy. They had been at Baden in the summer, at Como in the late autumn, at Rome in the winter, at Castellamare in the spring, – everywhere in its season, and yet somehow – And so they began to try that last resource of bored people, – places out of the season and places out of common resort, – and it was thus that they found themselves at Florence in June, and in Marlia in July.
CHAPTER III. TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE
About the same hour of the same evening which we have just chronicled, a group of persons sat under some spreading chestnut-trees beside a brawling little rivulet at the Bagni de Lucca. They were travellers, chance acquaintances thrown together by the accidents of the road, and entertained for each other those varied sentiments of like and dislike, those mingled distrusts, suspicions, and beliefs, which, however unconsciously to ourselves, are part of the education travelling impresses, and which, when long persevered in, make up that acute but not always amiable individual we call “an old traveller.”
We are not about to present them all to our reader, and will only beg to introduce to his notice a few of the notabilities then present. Place aux dames! then; and, first of all, we beg attention to the dark-eyed, dark-haired, and very delicately featured woman, who, in half-mourning, and with a pretty but fantastically costumed girl beside her, is working at an embroidery-frame close to the river. She is a Mrs. Penthony Morris, the wife or the widow – both opinions prevail – of a Captain Penthony Morris, killed in a duel, or in India, or alive in the Marshalsea, or at Baden-Baden, as may be. She is striking-looking, admirably dressed, has a most beautiful foot, as you may see where it rests upon the rail of the chair placed in front of her, and is, altogether, what that very smartly dressed, much-beringed, and essenced young gentleman near her has already pronounced her, “a stunning fine woman.” He is a Mr. Mosely, one of those unhappy young Londoners whose family fame is ever destined to eclipse their own gentility, for he is immediately recognized, and drawlingly do men inquire some twenty times a day, “Ain’t he a son of Trip and Mosely’s, those fellows in Bond Street?” Unhappy Trip and Mosely! why have you rendered yourselves so great and illustrious? why have your tasteful devices in gauze, your “sacrifices” in challis, your “last new things in grenadine,” made such celebrity around you, that Tom Mosely, “out for his travels,” can no more escape the shop than if he were languishing at a customer over a “sweet article in white tarlatan”? In the two comfortable armchairs side by side sit two indubitable specimens, male and female, of the Anglo-Saxon family, – Mr. Morgan, that florid man, wiping his polished bald head, and that fat lady fanning with all her might. Are they not English? They are “out,” and, judging from their recorded experiences, only dying to be “in” again. “Such a set of cheating, lying, lazy set of rascals are these Italians! Independence, sir; don’t talk to me of that humbug! What they want is English travellers to fleece and English women to marry.” Near to these, at full length, on two chairs, one of which reclines against a tree at an angle of about forty degrees, sits our Yankee acquaintance, whom we may as well present by his name, Leonidas Shaver Quackinboss; he is smoking a “Virginian” about the size of a marshal’s bâton, and occasionally sipping at a “cobbler,” which with much pains he has compounded for his own drinking. Various others of different ranks and countries are scattered about, and in the centre of all, at a small table with a lamp, sits a short, burly figure, with a strange mixture of superciliousness and drollery in his face, as though there were a perpetual contest in his nature whether he would be impertinent or amusing. This was Mr. Gorman O’Shea, Member of Parliament for Inchabogue, and for three weeks a Lord of the Treasury when O’Connell was king.
Mr. O’Shea is fond of public speaking. He has a taste for proposing, or seconding, or returning thanks that verges on a passion, so that even in a private dinner with a friend he has been known to arise and address his own companion in a set speech, adorned with all the graces and flowers of post-prandial eloquence. Upon the present occasion he has been, to his great delight, deputed to read aloud to the company from that magic volume by which the Continent is expounded to Englishmen, and in whose pages they are instructed in everything, from passports to pictures, and drilled in all the mysteries of money, posting, police regulations, domes, dinners, and Divine service by a Clergyman of the Established Church. In a word, he is reciting John Murray.
To understand the drift of the present meeting, we ought to mention that, in the course of a conversation started that day at the table d’hote it was suggested that such of the company as felt disposed might make an excursion to Marlia to visit a celebrated villa there, whose gardens alone were amongst the great sights of Northern Italy. All had heard of this charming residence; views of it had been seen in every print-shop. It had its historical associations from a very early period. There were chambers where murders had been committed, conspiracies held, confederates poisoned. King and Kaiser had passed the night there; all of which were duly and faithfully chronicled in “John,” and impressively recited by Mr. Gorman O’Shea in the richest accents of his native Doric. “There you have it now,” said he, as he closed the volume; “and I will say, it has n’t its equal anywhere for galleries, terraces, carved architraves, stuccoed ceilings, and frescos, and all the other balderdash peculiar to these places.”
“Oh, Mr. O’Shea, what profanation!” interposed Mrs. Morris; “walls immortalized by Giotto and Cimabue!”
“Have n’t they got stunning names of their own?” broke in Quackinboss. “That’s one of the smallest dodges to secure fame. You must be something out of the common. There was a fellow up at Syracuse townland, Measles, North Carolina, and his name was Flay Harris; they called him Flea – ”
“That ceiling of the great hall was a work of Guido’s, you said?” inquired Mrs. Morris.
“A pupil of Guido’s, a certain Simone Affretti, who afterwards made the designs for the Twelve Apostles in the window of the chapter-room at Sienna,” read out Mr. O’Shea.
“Who can vouch for one word of all that, sir?” burst in Mr. Morgan, with a choleric warmth. “Who is to tell me, sir, that you did n’t write that, or Peter Noakes, or John Murray himself, if there be such a man.”
“I can vouch for the last,” said a pale, gentle-looking young fellow, who was arranging the flies in a fishing-book under a tree at a little distance. “If it will relieve you from any embarrassments on the score of belief, I can assist you so far.”
If there was a faint irony in this speech, the mild look of the speaker and his softened accents made it seem of the very faintest, and so even the bluff Mr. Morgan himself appeared to acknowledge.
“As you say so, Mr. Layton, I will consent to suppose there is such a man; not that the fact, in the slightest degree, touches my original proposition.”
“Certainly not, Tom,” chimed in Mrs. Morgan, in a thick voice, like one drowning.
“But if you doubt Guido, you may doubt Raphael, Titian, Michael Angelo,” burst in Mrs. Morris, with a holy terror in her voice.
“Well, ma’am, I’m capable of all that – and worse.”
What that “worse” was there is no saying, though possibly Mr. Mosely was trying to guess at it in the whisper he ventured to Mrs. Morris, and which made that lady smile incredulously.
“I now, sir, rise to put the original motion,” said O’Shea, assuming that parliamentary tone which scandal pretended he displayed everywhere but in the House; “is it the opinion of this committee that we should all go and visit the Villa Caprini?”
“Are we quite sure it is to be seen?” interposed Mr. Layton; “it may be occupied, and by persons who have no fancy to receive strangers.”
“The observation strikes me as singularly narrow and illiberal, sir,” burst in Morgan, with warmth. “Are we of the nineteenth century to be told that any man – I don’t care how he calls himself – has a vested right in the sight or inspection of objects devised and designed and completed centuries before he was born?”
“Well put, Tom, – remarkably well put,” smothered out Mrs. Morgan.
“Will you say, sir,” assumed he, thus cheered on to victory, – “will you say, sir, that if these objects – frescos, bas-reliefs, or whatever other name you give them – have the humanizing influence you assume for them, – which, by the way, I am quite ready to dispute at another opportunity with you or that other young gentleman yonder, whose simpering sneer would seem to disparage my sentiment – ”
“If you mean me, sir,” took up Mr. Mosely, “I was n’t so much as attending to one word you said.”
“No, Tom, certainly not,” burst in Mrs. Morgan, answering with energy some sudden ejaculated purpose of her wrathy spouse.
“I simply meant to say,” interposed Layton, mildly, “that such a visit as we propose might be objected to, or conceded in a way little agreeable to ourselves.”
“A well-written note, a gracefully worded request, which nobody could do better than Mr. Alfred Layton – ” began Mrs. Morris, when a dissenting gesture from that gentleman stopped her. “Or, perhaps,” continued she, “Mr. Gorman O’Shea would so far assist our project?”
“My motion is to appear at the bar of the house, – I mean at the gate-lodge, – sending in our names, with a polite inquiry to know if we may see the place,” said Mr. O’Shea.
“Well, stranger, I stand upon your platform,” chimed in Quackinboss; “I ‘m in no manner of ways ‘posted’ up in your Old World doings, but I ‘d say that you ‘ve fixed the question all straight.”
“Show-places are show-places; the people who take them know it,” blurted out Mr. Morgan. “Ay, and what’s more, they’re proud of it.”
“They are, Tom,” said his wife, authoritatively.
“If you ‘d give me one of them a present, for the living in it, I ‘d not take it No, sir, I ‘d not,” reiterated Morgan, with a fierce energy. “What is a man in such a case, sir, but a sort of appraiser, a kind of agent to show off his own furniture, telling you to remark that cornice, and not to forget that malachite chimney-piece?”
“Very civil of him, certainly,” said Layton, in his low, quiet voice, which at the same time seemed to quiver with a faint irony.
“No, sir, not civil, only boastful; mere purse-pride, nothing more.”
“Nothing, Tom, – absolutely nothing.”
“What’s before the house this evening, – the debate looks animated?” said a fine bright-eyed boy of about fourteen, who lounged carelessly on Layton’s shoulder as he came up.
“It was a little scheme to visit the Villa Caprini, my Lord,” said Mosely, not sorry to have the opportunity of addressing himself to a person of title.
“How jolly, eh, Alfred? What say you to the plan?” said the boy, merrily.
Layton answered something, but in a tone too low to be overheard.
“Oh, as to that,” replied the boy, quickly, “if he be an Englishman who lives there, surely some of us must know him.”
“The very remark I was about to make, my Lord,” smiled in Mrs. Morris.
“Well, then, we agree to go there; that ‘s the main thing,” said O’Shea. “Two carriages, I suppose, will hold us; and, as to the time, shall we say to-morrow?”
To-morrow was unanimously voted by the company, who now set themselves to plot the details of the expedition, amidst which not the least knotty was, who were to be the fellow-travellers with Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, a post of danger assuredly not sought for with any heroic intrepidity, while an equally eager intrigue was on foot about securing the presence of the young Marquis of Agincourt and his tutor, Mr. Layton. The ballot, however, routed all previous machinations, deciding that the young peer was to travel with the Morgans and Colonel Quackinboss, an announcement which no deference to the parties themselves could prevent being received with a blank disappointment, except by Mr. Layton, who simply said, —
“We shall take care to be in time, Mrs. Morgan.” And then, drawing his pupil’s arm within his own, strolled negligently away.
CHAPTER IV. VISITORS
“I foretold all this,” said Charles Heathcote, peevishly, as a servant presented a number of visiting-cards with a polite request from the owners to be allowed to visit the villa and its gardens. “I often warned you of the infliction of inhabiting one of these celebrated places, which our inquisitive countrymen will see and their wives will write about.”
“Who are they, Charley?” said May, gayly. “Let us see if we may not know some of them.”
“Know them. Heaven forbid! Look at the equipages they have come in; only cast an eye at the two leathern conveniences now before the door, and say, is it likely that they contain any acquaintances of ours?”
“How hot they look, broiling down there! But who are they, Charley?”
“Mrs. Penthony Morris, – never heard of her; Mr. Algernon Mosely, – possibly the Bond Street man; Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Rice Morgan, of Plwmnwrar, – however that be pronounced; Mr. Layton and friend, – discreet friend, who will not figure by name; Mr. Gorman O’Shea, by all the powers! and, as I live, our Yankee again!”
“Not Quackinboss, surely?” broke in Sir William, good-humoredly.
“Yes. There he is: ‘U. S. A., Colonel Leonidas Shaver Quackinboss;’ and there’s the man, too, with his coat on his arm, on that coach-box.”
“I’ll certainly vote for my Transatlantic friend,” said the Baronet, “and consequently for any party of which he is a member.”
“As for me!” cried May, – “I ‘ve quite a curiosity to see him; not to say that it would be downright churlishness to refuse any of our countrymen the permission thus asked for.”
“Be it so. I only stipulate for not playing cicerone to our amiable visitors; and the more surely to escape such an indignity, I ‘m off till dinner.”
“Let Fenton wait on those gentlemen,” said the Baronet, “and go round with them through the house and the grounds. Order luncheon also to be ready.” There was a little, a very little, irritation, perhaps, in his voice, but May’s pleasant smile quickly dispelled the momentary chagrin, and his good-humored face was soon itself again.
If I have not trespassed upon my reader’s patience by minute descriptions of the characters I have introduced to him, it is in the expectation that their traits are such as, lying lightly on the surface, require little elucidation. Nor do I ask of him to bestow more attention to their features than he would upon those of travelling acquaintances with whom it is his fortune to journey in company for a brief space.
Strange enough, indeed, is that intimacy of travelling acquaintanceship – familiar without friendship, frank without being cordial. Curious pictures of life might be made from these groups thrown accidentally together in a steamboat or railroad, at the gay watering-place, or the little fishing-village in the bathing-season.
How free is all the intercourse of those who seem to have taken a vow with themselves never to meet each other again! With what humorous zest do they enjoy the oddities of this one, or the eccentricities of that, making up little knots and cliques, to be changed or dissolved within the day, and actually living on the eventualities of the hour, for their confidences! The contrasts that would repel in ordinary life, the disparities that would discourage, have actually invited intimacy; and people agree to associate, even familiarly, with those whom, in the recognized order of their daily existence, they would have as coldly repelled.
There was little to bind those together whom we have represented as seated under the chestnut-trees at the Bagni de Lucca. They entertained their suspicions and distrusts and misgivings of each other to a liberal extent; they wasted no charities in their estimate of each other; and wherever posed by a difficulty, they did not lend to the interpretation any undue amount of generosity; nay, they even went further, and argued from little peculiarities of dress, manner, and demeanor, to the whole antecedents of him they criticised, and took especial pains in their moments of confidence to declare that they had only met Mr. – for the first time at Ems, and never saw Mrs. – till they were overtaken by the snow-storm on the Splugen.
Such-like was the company who now, headed by the obsequious butler, strolled leisurely through the spacious saloons of the Villa Caprini.
Who is there, in this universal vagabondage, has not made one of such groups? Where is the man that has not strolled, “John Murray” in hand, along his Dresden, his Venice, or his Rome; staring at ceilings, and gazing ruefully at time-discolored frescos, – grieved to acknowledge to his own heart how little he could catch of a connoisseur’s enthusiasm or an antiquarian’s fervor, – wondering within himself wherefore he could not feel like that other man whose raptures he was reading, and with sore misgivings that some nice sense had been omitted in his nature? Wonderfully poignant and painful things are these little appeals to an inner consciousness. How far such sentiments were distributed amongst those who now lounged and stared through salon and gallery, we must leave to the reader’s own appreciation. They looked pleased, convinced, and astonished, and, be it confessed, “bored” in turn; they were called upon to admire much they did not care for, and wonder at many things which did not astonish them; they were often referred to histories which they had forgotten, if they ever knew them, and to names of whose celebrity they were ignorant; and it was with a most honest sense of relief they saw themselves reach the last room of the suite, where a few cabinet pictures and some rare carvings in ivory alone claimed their attention.
“A ‘Virgin and Child,’ by Murillo,” said the guide.
“The ninth ‘Virgin and Child,’ by all that’s holy!” said Mr. O’Shea. “The ninth we have seen to-day!”
“The blue drapery, ladies and gentlemen,” continued the inexorable describer, “is particularly noticed. It is ‘glazed’ in a manner only known to Murillo.”
“I ‘m glad of it, and I hope the secret died with him,” cried Mr. Morgan. “It looks for all the world like a bathing-dress.”
“The child squints. Don’t he squint?” exclaimed Mosely.
“Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Morris. “Mr. Layton is quite shocked with your profane criticism.”
“I did not hear it, I assure you,” said that gentleman, as he arose from a long and close contemplation of a “St. John,” by Salvator.
“‘St. John preaching in the Wilderness!’” said Quackinboss; “too tame for my taste. He don’t seem to roll up his sleeves to the work, – does he?”
“It’s not stump-oratory, surely?” said Layton, with a quiet smile.
“Ain’t it, though! Well, stranger, I’m in a considerable unmixed error if it is not! You’d like to maintain that because a man does n’t rise up from a velvet cushion and lay his hand upon a grand railing, all carved with grotesque intricacies, all his sentiments must needs be commonplace and vulgar; but I ‘m here to tell you, sir, that you ‘d hear grander things, nobler things, and greater things from a moss-covered old tree-stump in a western pine-forest, by the mouth of a plain, hardy son of hard toil, than you’ve often listened to in what you call your place in Parliament Now, that’s a fact!”
There was that amount of energy in the way these words were uttered that seemed to say, if carried further, the discussion might become contentious.
Mr. Layton did not show any disposition to accept the gage of battle, but turned to seek for his pupil.
“You ‘re looking for the Marquis, Mr. Layton,” asked Mrs. Morris, “ain’t you? I think you’ll find him in the shrubberies, for he said all this only bored him, and he ‘d go and look for a cool spot to smoke his cigar.”
“That’s what it all comes to,” said Morgan, as soon as Layton had left the room; “that’s the whole of it! You pay a fellow – a ‘double first’ something or other from Oxford or Cambridge – five hundred a year to go abroad with your son, and all he teaches him is to choose a cheroot.”
“And smoke it, Tom,” chimed in Mrs. Morgan.
“There ain’t no harm in a weed, sir, I hope?” said Quackinboss. “The thinkers of this earth are most of ‘em smoking men. What do you say, sir, to Humboldt, Niebuhr, your own Bulwer, and all our people, from John C. Colhoun to Daniel Webster? When a man puts a cigar between his lips, he as good as says, ‘I ‘m a-reflecting, – I ‘m not in no ways to be broke in upon.’ It’s his own fault, sir, if he does n’t think, for he has in a manner shut the door to keep out intruders.”
“Filthy custom!” muttered Mr. Morgan, with a garbled sentence, in which the word “America” was half audible.
“What’s this he’s saying about eating, – this Italian fellow?” said Mr. Mosely, as a servant addressed him in a foreign language.
“It is a polite invitation to a luncheon,” said Mrs. Morris, modestly turning to her fellow-travellers for their decision.
“Do any of us know our host?” asked Mr. OShea. “He is a Sir William Heathcote.”
“There was a director of the Central Trunk line of that name, who failed for half a million sterling,” whispered Morgan; “should n’t wonder if it were he.”
“All the more certain to give us a jolly feed, if he be!” chuckled Mosely. “I vote we accept.”
“That of course,” said Mrs. Morris.
“Well, I know him, I reckon,” drawled out Quackinboss; “and I rayther suspect you owe this here politeness to my company. Yes, sir!” said he, half fiercely, to O’Shea, upon whose face a sort of incredulous smile was breaking, – “yes, sir!”
“Being our own countryman, sir, – an Englishman, – I suspect,” said Mr. Morgan, with warmth, “that the hospitality has been extended to us on wider grounds.”
“But why should we dispute about the matter at all?” mildly remarked Mrs. Morris. “Let us say yes, and be grateful.”
“There’s good sense in that,” chimed in Mosely, “and I second it.”
“Carried with unanimity,” said O’Shea, as, turning to the servant, he muttered something in broken French.
“Well, I’m sure, I never!” mumbled Quackinboss to himself; but what he meant, or to what new circumstance in his life’s experience he alluded, there is unhappily no explanation in this history; but he followed the rest with a drooping head and an air of half-melancholy resignation that was not by any means unusual with him.