CHAPTER XLI

I RETURN TO FLORENCE AND THE WORLD OF FASHION

Upon my arrival in the capital, my first care, after securing a lodging on the Lung' Arno, was to pay a visit to the Ghetto, where I had spent those happy three days with my newly wedded wife--if wife indeed she had been. I found the church, but not the priest; I found the old Jewess, Miriam, in whose house we had lodged. She made short work of my doubts.

"You are no more married to your Virginia than you are to me," she curtly said. "You are as little married as any young man of my acquaintance. Married, indeed! Why, that church hadn't had a Ma.s.s said in it to my knowledge for fifty years, except a black one now and again to oblige the jaded vicious; and as for your priest, 'tis true he was a priest once, but he had been degraded for a bad affair of robbery with violence and inhibited from his business--and, now I come to think on it, he was hanged outside the Bargello no earlier than last week."

I was aghast at this news, which, as it was delivered, I could hardly doubt. Virginia then had deceived me. I had trusted her in all things and she had played me false. Designing to do her honour, I had done her the greatest dishonour--but through her means. Blind fool that I was!

Playing the husband, complacently accepting her play of the wife as serious. O Heaven, and she had let me ruin her, and now was gone! I own that I was angry at being made the victim of a trick, indignant at having been forced into a thing which I should never have dreamed of doing. But when I turned severely to Miriam and accused her of being a party to the fraud, she laughed in my face, and put the case before me in a way which made me sing a tune in the minor. "Fiddlededee!" she retorted, her arms stuck out akimbo, "what in the world had I to do with your fooleries? 'Twas the girl arranged it all--and for reasons which do her more credit than YOU seem able to do her. I think she's a very good girl--a thousand times too good for you. If you find her again I shall be sorry for her--and I'll tell you this much, that I shan't help you."

She had me pleading after this; but it took two or three visits and very liberal treatment before she would condescend to tell me anything.

Finally, however, she gave it as her opinion that Fra Palamone, whom I had been so short-sighted as to dismiss, was more likely to know of her whereabouts than any one; and that I had better beware of the Marchese Semifonte, a man well known to her. She plainly told me that she thought next to nothing of my chances, and that the best thing I could do was to go back to England. "You don't understand our women, nor will you ever-- you and the likes of you," she said. "They have more sound sense in their little fingers than your nation in its collected Parliament. Do you imagine a girl like Virginia wants to be your lady? What on earth should she do in such a place? Lie on a couch and order menservants about? Oh, preposterous! What pleasures does Virginia know but those of bed and board and h.o.a.rd? She'll be merry in the first, and hearty at the second, and pa.s.sionate for filling the crock with gold pieces. But your manners would freeze the heart out of her; and if you have more guineas than you can spend, where's the joy of sweating to get 'em, or of hiding 'em under the flag-stones against a lean year? No, no, she knew better than you, and did better. A gentleman may play the beggar for a while, but sooner or later his own will have him--and what's Virginia to do then? Do you dare," she said sternly, "do you dare to blame her for what she has done? She has done incredibly well; and if you in all the rest of your life can prove a t.i.the of her n.o.bility, you will be a greater man than I have reason to believe you."

"I cannot blame her, Miriam," I said, "I love her too much. I shall never rest until I find her." The tears stood in my eyes--I was indeed humiliated; but my shame, though bitter, was not without fruit.

Shortly afterwards, in order to clear up the affairs of my inheritance, I presented myself before Sir John Macartney, the English Minister, at his weekly levee in the Palazzo C----. A bluff, soldierly man, of Irish birth and English opinions, he received me with particular civility, in which curiosity may perhaps have played its part. He deplored my loss of an excellent father, rejoiced in my gain of an excellent estate, hoped I should return to England, cry for King George, hunt the country, and keep a good head of game. He alluded, as delicately as he could, to religious differences. "I know very well that you're no turncoat, Mr.

Strelley," he said; "no, dammy, your house is inveterate for the Pope.

But your father was never a Stuart's man, and I hope you'll follow him there. You'll stand apart--'tis only natural--but, curse me, let us have no Jesuit rogues in our women's quarters--hey? No, no--you must uphold the Protestant succession, Mr. Strelley, like your father before you."

My reply, I fancy, somewhat sobered the heart of Sir John. I said that I preferred the Republican form of government as I had seen it in Venice and Lucca, and that I should certainly have nothing to question in the authority of King George, seeing that that authority had been conferred upon him by Parliament. I added that my plans were very uncertain, and did not at present include hunting the county of Oxford. "I have done much hunting since I have been in Italy," I said ruefully, "I have been as often quarry as huntsman. At present I am hunting for my----." But there I stopped. Wife I could not say--mistress I would not.

Sir John saved me the trouble. He was a man of the world.

"Young blood!" he cried. "I envy you that. At your age, my dear sir, that too was my game." He took snuff, then said in an undertone, "I am not too old but I can feel for you, and not so young neither that I shall pretend more ignorance of your troubles than you could believe me to have. For reasons of your own, you chose not to seek my good offices when you were last in Florence, and it was not for me to thrust myself upon you. There was a lady, I believe--pooh, man, never blush for that; there is always a lady at your happy age. Well, I can give you news.

That lady is still here in Florence--a charming creature, Mr. Strelley!

Upon my soul, if I were younger by a decade--tut, tut! what am I saying?"

What was he saying, indeed! He was reminding me of one I desired extremely to forget; he was diverting my mind from another whom I must by all means remember. Honestly, I did not wish to see Donna Aurelia-- but Sir John must have out his news.

He told me that Donna Aurelia and her husband were established in Florence. Count Giraldi, said Sir John, had used his great authority with the Sovereign to obtain a fine position for the professor. Dr.

Lanfranchi had been made a Judge of the Court of Ca.s.sation, and had been in residence some six months or more. Fine as this position was, however, it was nothing, said Sir John, to the position of the judge's lady. "She's a leader of the mode, I can a.s.sure you," said he, "and any little difficulty you may have had in that quarter, you may be sure, will be none now. Count Giraldi will, no doubt, be enchanted to present you there. I recommend you to keep in with the count."

I felt that I could not love Count Giraldi any more. I told Sir John that my duties towards Donna Aurelia and her husband were of a peculiar kind, not to be a.s.sisted or made more difficult by Count Giraldi. "There was a moment," I added, "when his Excellency could have served me--when, having played the part of an honest man, I called for the help of one who had pretended himself my friend. He failed me then, I know not why; and he might fail me now. If you will pardon me for saying so, what I now have to do in the case of this lady--if there is anything for me to do--is by no means the business of his Excellency."

"I hope not, I hope not," said Sir John. "Go your own way--and count upon me, at least, in the pinch--if pinch there is to be. But remember this. Count Giraldi is the Chief Minister of this Government, and this Government is your host. Count Giraldi is therefore major-domo. Keep in with him, my dear sir, by all means, unless you desire (a) your conge, or (b) an extortionate bill for breakages and arrears. I need only mention the name of the Marchese Semifonte--no more on that head."

"No more indeed," says I, very short. "But as to Count Giraldi, I can a.s.sure you that I have no quarrel with his Excellency, who (idle rumours apart) has never, to my knowledge, impugned my honour."

"Why no," said Sir John, with a queer frown, "nor need he ever--so long as you clearly perceive wherein your honour lies."

"I do perceive it most clearly," I replied, "and believe that I have always perceived it since that fatal night when I forgot that I had any.

I am so sure of it now that I shall not hesitate for a moment. With your permission, sir, I shall set about it this very hour."

"What the devil are you going to do, my dear sir?" cried the Minister.

"I am going to leave Florence," I said, "so soon as ever I have done my present business."

Sir John puffed out his cheeks and let his relief escape in a volley.

"Poh! How you put me about," said he. "I thought you were for the count's throat. I thought--body of me, I know not what I thought. As for the doctor, you'll find him easy handling. The good man knows where his comforts are, and whence they come. Why, supposing that you had never gone into his wife's cupboard and stalked out of it again, would he at this day have been snug upon the bench, with house-room at the Villa San Giorgio?" Here was something strange.

"At the Villa San Giorgio?" I echoed with astonishment. "Is Donna Giulia then----?"

Sir John looked sly. "Donna Giulia," he said, "was a sensible woman. She knew very well the length of her shoe. Donna Giulia has joined her husband at Naples--a Court appointment and a good house. Dr. Lanfranchi occupies the Villa San Giorgio. Now do you see how the land lies?" I frowned and squared my chin. I think that I was disturbed because I did not then see how the land lay. I suspected, however, that Sir John knew more than he chose to tell me. I rose to take leave of him. There was something about me which he noticed.

"You are going to the doctor?" he said. "You will find him in court."

"I am going," I said, "to the Villa San Giorgio."

He showed his alarm by saying, "You may regret it; you may regret it all your life long."

"I shall regret that I ever lived if I do not go," said I. As I went out Sir John threw up his hands.

CHAPTER XLII

I STAND AT A CROSS-ROAD

I did not go immediately to the Villa San Giorgio; it was necessary that I should be clear why I was to go there at all. How did I stand with regard to Donna Aurelia--did I love her still, or was I cured of my wound? If I loved her, to go to her now were to play the criminal; if I did not, it might be to play the fool.

Because--if I did not love her, why was I going? That is easily answered. I was going because I suspected that all was not well with her. Why was Donna Giulia in retirement? Why was the villa at the disposition of the learned judge? Why was Sir John Macartney so guarded in his admissions, and why so desirous that I should not see Count Giraldi? Apart from my private grievance against that person, which, after all, was only based on surmise and the convictions of Virginia, I could see no possible reason why I should not meet him, but one. That was, that he was fallen a victim to Aurelia's charms. And to a certain extent I felt that I should be responsible for that misfortune, for if I had never loved her she had never been in Florence; and if she had never been in Florence, she had never seen this accomplished, scoffing, cynical Tuscan.

I was not ashamed to confess that I still thought Aurelia the most beautiful woman in the world, the most heavenly in conversation as in person the most superb. All the old glamour was upon me still. I knew that I should be a child at her knees the moment I set eyes upon her again; I knew that I should be imparadised, longing after impossible goodness, filled with impossible joys. But I knew also that I did not desire her. She was sacred, she was so little of the earth that as well might one hope to wed a seraph, all compact of fire, as she. I set by her, in my mind's eye, that pa.s.sionate Virginia--that faithful, clinging, serving mate of what I knew were my happiest days. Ah, my sweet, lovely, loving wife! Virginia's long kisses, Virginia's close arms, her beating bosom, her fury of love, the meekness, obedience, steadfastness into which it could all be changed at a mere lift of my brows--ah, nuptial love, wedded bliss, the joys of home and the hearth, English joys! Virginia meant all this and more to me. I swore to myself that without her I could not live, that to deserve her I would renounce the world, my patrimony, my country, and that not even a changed Aurelia--changed from Seraph to calling Siren--could keep me from her side.

But Aurelia--Aurelia Gualandi, that delicate flower of Siena, that youngest of the angels, that fount of poesy--what of her? What had she to say to such a certainty as this of mine? In my mind's eye I saw them stand together, she and Virginia, those two beautiful girls, Virginia a head the taller, proudly erect, with arms folded over her chest, and her dark brows forming a bar across her forehead. I saw her in white bodice and green petticoat, her arms and neck bare, her feet in old slippers, her black hair loosely coiled and stuck with a silver pin. I saw her hold herself aloof and dubious, proud and coldly chaste. "Call me and I come," she seemed to say to me between her shut lips, "Call me and I follow you over the world like a dog at your heels. Send me into infamy and I go; expect me to woo you there and I will die sooner. Yours, if you will have me; n.o.body's, anybody's, if you will not!" In my fancy I could hear her very words, see her steady eyes, her pure and moving lips.

And Aurelia--how did she stand there? I saw her too in my mind's eye; dazzlingly, provokingly, like a creature of pure light, with thrown-back head and parted lips, with jewels about her neck, as I had seen her in the theatre at Siena; and jewels also in her hair. Like a queen of beauty at a love-court, conscious of her power, loving it, proving it; she smiled, she shook her cloudy tresses, she demanded my worship as of right. "If I choose I shall call thee," she seemed to say, "and thee-- and thee--and thee again, to stand behind my chair, to kneel at my feet, to be my slave. And wilt thou deny me, Francis--or thou--or thou?"

Her soft eyes, how they peered and sparkled! Her soft lips, how they faltered between laugh and pout! "If I need him I can have him here," I heard her say. "I have but to thrill his name--to call Checho--Checho-- and he comes. Is it not so, Checho? Is it not so?"

Call you me, Virginia; call you me in turn, my girl! What said she now but, "Povera Virginia, che fara? Don Francesco non ti ama piu. Ebbene-- pazienza!" Virginia shrugged her proud shoulders and turned her grey eyes away. Virginia refused to plead, and was too proud to command.

So stood I, In my fancy, irresolute between these two, their battleground, the prize, it would seem, of one who now refused to fight for it, and of one already sure of victory. But this was very odd about the affair, that the stiffer Virginia grew, as I saw her there, the more indurate, the more ruggedly of the soil, declining battle, the more Aurelia shrank in my eyes, the less confident her call to me, the more frail her hold of my heart. Virginia stood apart like a rock and turned away her eyes from me. "Thou shalt seek me out of thine own will, Francis, for I will never come to thee again of mine!" But Aurelia's halo had slipped; her wings drooped lifeless, her glitter was dimmed.

Her appeal was now urgent; her arms called me as well as her voice; but I seemed to shrink from them, as if there were danger in her.

This very singular hallucination of mine decided me to go, for now I was curious. The strife, in which I had had so little to do, had been most vivid, the parties to it so real, that there were moments when I caught myself speaking aloud to one of my phantoms. That one was always Virginia; therefore I dared to go, knowing full well that she would now go with me.

And it was so. At six o'clock of an evening I went out of doors and turned my face towards the east. It was a mild evening as that on which I had seen Virginia for the first time in the wood, her f.a.ggot on her head. I seemed to see her now going bravely before me. So clearly did she show, I quickened my steps to overtake her; and again my heart beat, and again I thought of the nymphs and all the soft riot of the woodland scents and sounds. Strange! how the slim figure of the peasant-girl possessed me. I thought of her as I entered the grove of cypresses which led to the villa, and if my heart was in high trouble as I asked for Donna Aurelia, it was the surmise that I should again see Virginia fluttering among the trees that set my blood a-tingling.

But she left me there, as I waited in the saloon open to the shadowed garden; and I knew not whether I felt her the more certainly for her absence than for her former persistent company.