The San Rosario Ranch
unlocks the tongue of the menial at last, and he informs the young man,
in excellent English, that the signorina has been ill ever since her
return from America, a month and more ago.
"She has been very ill; Girolomo says that she will die, and the Signor
Almsford himself fears the worst. She has not left her room once.
To-day being a _festa_, she has fancied to go out with Girolomo in the
gondola, and I am to help him carry her downstairs."
As he finished speaking, the man noticed that the visitor had grown very
pale, and now stood leaning against a marble pillar as if for support.
When he spoke again it was to send his card to Mr. Almsford. On being
admitted to an outer reception room he sank upon a chair, his face
hidden in his hands. Soon he was bidden to enter. The signorina had
learned of his arrival, and it was her pleasure to see him.
The young man passed through a long suite of stately rooms, scarcely
noticing the rich furnishing and decorations. Before a curtained
doorway he hesitated for a moment, but the servant, pushing aside the
heavy portiere, left him no choice but to enter. Before him, reclining
in a great chair, lay a figure which he had last seen full of health and
strength. From a pile of sea-green cushions smiled a face which he had
known when it was glorious with the freshness of youth. The color which
the red rose of love had brought to her cheek had faded now; she was
like a flower no longer, but a great white pearl shimmering through pale
waters. She smiled, and held out her hand to her countryman; and Maurice
Galbraith, bowing low over the small fingers, strove to hide his face
from the great hollow eyes which looked inquiringly into his own.
"I am so glad you have come. I do not even ask what has brought you, it
is so good to see some one from home."
It had become "home" to her now, the country which she had so long
repudiated. "Home" after a half year's residence; "home," though the
language spoken there was to her a foreign one. The meeting is not
without its tears, the pleasure not unmixed with pain. Eager questions
are asked, and faithfully answered. Millicent's visitor brings her
tidings and tender messages from far-off friends. He is rewarded for
his pains by a faint smile which glimmers over the pale features, rising
in the deep eyes and losing itself in the tender curves of the mouth.
Beside the couch stands a delicate bronze table wrought by no less
cunning a hand than Benvenuto's. A vase of flowers and a crystal bell
are here placed. The musical note of the bell now summons a domestic,
who bows at the order given, softly disappears, and soon re-enters,
bearing a salver on which are a plate of fruits and a bluish decanter,
with glasses of the dainty Venetian fashion. From the delicately
tendrilled flask Millicent pours a clear golden wine whose perfume
permeates the apartment. She fills both glasses, and, touching the edge
of hers to the rim of his, bids him drink to the health of the dear ones
at home. Galbraith stops the musical ring which the contact has drawn
from the tumbler by touching the edge with his finger in a mechanical
manner. It was one of the superstitions which had waned to a habit with
him.
"Why do you drown that sound of good cheer?"
"Because my grandmother told me when I was a little child that if a
glass rang itself out to silence, the sound was sure to prove a
death-knell."
"Listen, you can still hear mine faintly. It is a wonderful wine,
connoisseurs say, this Lacrymae Christi of ours. How different, is it
not, from the strong red wine of California that you gave us that
day,--do you remember?--when we feasted with you under the fig-tree."
"As different as you were to the rest of us gathered about the board
that day."
"And yet I would give all the wine that lies mellowing in the cellars of
the palace for one cup of your good Los Angelos vintage."
The wine seemed to spread through her frame like a flame. It brought a
flush to the pale cheeks and strength to the fragile body. She arose
and walked unsupported across the room to a dusky mirror. She wrapped
herself in a garment of silvery fur, and together they left the room fit
for the boudoir of a princess. At the doorway Girolomo awaited them.
Waving aside the domestic who stood ready to assist him, the strong
gondolier lifted the delicate figure and bore it unaided down the marble
stairs. He laid her light weight gently among the cushions of the
gondola, and assuming his oar with the incomparably graceful movement of
his guild, rowed the black-hooded craft down the Grand Canal. To the
young American, the awe and mystery of the place are not yet familiar;
and as the boat glides between the rows of mighty palaces, he wonders if
the strange scene is the fabric of his own dream.
But no; when he looks into the face of the woman lying amid the
cushions, he knows that it is all true, and that this shadowy figure is
more real to him than all the men and women he has ever known.
Presently they emerge into the broader waters of the lagoon, where lie
the fisher craft, with their many-colored sails spread to dry in the
afternoon breeze. The smooth green water is marked here and there with
the black mooring-piles, which throw a shadowy outline on the changeful
tide. To the American, bred in a land where Art is in its cradle, and
beauty exists in its more austere aspect alone, the glory of the
spectacle, the wondrous architecture, the wealth of color, are
intoxicating. The western sky glows with the first pale tints of the
sunset, against which a score of spires are darkly outlined. The air is
musical with soft, distant chimes, and the song of the gondoliers is
rhythmic to the motion of their oars. From the shore come cheerful
sounds of holiday folk; and now and then a _sandalo_ sweeps past them
with a freight of joyous pleasure-seekers. In one of these a group of
masqueraders are singing a gay love-ballad. Millicent hums the refrain
to herself, and answers pleasantly to the noisy greeting with which one
of the party hails them. A young girl, with the red-gold hair of her
people, turns and looks long into Millicent's face. She wears over her
broad shoulders a leopard-skin for warmth; while her head, with its
glorious crown of hair, has no other protection than the doubtful one of
a garland of roses. As she looks at Millicent, she takes the fragrant
wreath from her brow, and, with a graceful salutation, tosses it into
the gondola. In a moment the strong strokes of the two rowers carry the
_sandalo_ out of sight, and Galbraith lays the flowers in Millicent's
lap.
"May the saints bless the child! 'T is the tribute of happiness and
beauty to grief and pain."
The air has grown chill with the down-dropping of the sun, and Girolomo,
unbidden, turns the gondola homeward. As they float past the familiar
places, Millicent looks long and steadily at the scenes which are so
dear to her. She shivers as the Bridge of Sighs looms dimly forth, and
smiles again at the familiar faces of the boatmen on the steps of the
_piazzetta_.
"I am so glad that you have seen me in the city of my birth; you can
understand me now as you could never have understood me over there.
Dear, dreamy Venice, where great vices and greater virtues have
flourished more grandly than anywhere else in the world! And now it is
all past, her glory and her pain; and knowing this, we make the best of
the pleasant things left to us. We steep ourselves in her rich beauty,
content with its perfection; we con over her mysterious legends, and
forget that other nations are living, striving, working, and making
their histories, while we are dreaming and playing our lives away. Your
great Saxon virtue, 'Truth,' is meaningless to us; we are content with
Beauty."
"And you are happy--contented; you are willing to pass the rest of your
life here?"
"Yes, and no. I could never be satisfied to drop back into the old easy
life. I have drunk too deeply of the strong, new wine of Los Angelos,
to be content with the mellow vintage of the Abruzzi."
"And yet there is fermentation of a strong, new wine here, in your
wondrous Italy. All do not dream of the past; there are men and women
who foretell a new existence to the land, now that the old shackles of
tyranny and superstition are dropping from her cramped limbs."
"Yes; but it is a volcanic soil. Everything is so sudden and so
shifting. There will be changes, but it is the making over of an old
garment after all. Liberty may sponge and cleanse herself a vesture,
but the old stains and spots have eaten deep into the tri-color."
"You will return then; you will not pass your life so far away from us?"
She smiled a little wearily and said, "I think I shall never see America
again. But I am, oh, so thankful to have known my home! I, who have
lived a Venetian, shall die an American."
"And yet--?"
"And yet I am glad to--do not be shocked, kind friend, if I say that I
am glad to die in my own Venice where I was born. I have two selves.
One was born and nurtured here under the shadow of the silent palaces;
the other sprang up full-grown among the madrone trees of San Rosario.
The two have warred and struggled _here_; their battle-ground has been
my breast, and the new self conquered the old; but the victory will be
short-lived."
Galbraith looked at her intently. She had spoken a little wildly, as if
her mind were clouded. She saw his look, and with a sigh smoothed the
lines from her brow.
"I am a little mad, you think? Yes, yes. But I am so happy to see you.
You understand me, dear friend; and you understand him, a little. You
will see him again, though perhaps I never shall. You will tell
him--No, do not look so grieved. It is very likely that I shall get
well."
He lifted her pale hand and touched it to his lips, as a Catholic might
kiss the cross.
"You will be well and strong again, my child. Do not speak so."
"It may be, and yet I do not wish it. Life looks so hard and cold and
lonely. I do not wish to live,--and yet I am so afraid to die." She
shivered, and Galbraith drew the gray cloak closer about her. "If I
could only fall quietly asleep, and wake to find this poor weak body
left behind--but you remember that poor creature's death? It was so
terrible--I can never forget it."
"You must not think of it. What message was it that you wanted to send
home?"
"It was to Graham. I can speak to you about him and to no one else.
You must tell him how thankful I am that I left my old home, my old
life, and came to his country. Tell him that he has nothing to reproach
himself with; that the only thing that has made my life worth living has
been my love for him. Tell him to remember me tenderly and without
regret; it should be a sweet memory without a shadow of bitterness.
Tell him--but what am I saying? You could never repeat it all even if
you would. Give him this; it will tell him all; it is a token the trace
of which he will find on my hand when we meet again, if souls retain
aught of their old vesture in the twilight world."
She seemed wandering again. From her slim finger she slipped the little
ring which Galbraith took and kept.
"And Barbara, dear good Barbara. She is white with that spotless purity
of a passionless womanhood. Do you know, Mr. Galbraith, that dying
people sometimes have a power of seeing into the future? Shall I tell
you what face I see beside Barbara's in the bright coming years which I
shall never know? It is that of a brave and loyal man,--a man whose
love would make such a woman happy and complete. It is the face of the
friend who has brought me great peace on this New Year's Day."
The black gondola now floated at rest under the archway of the grim old