CHAPTER XXV.
AS IN A DREAM.
“There is no place like Florence,” said Lady Despard, in her soft, languorous voice. “One gets tired of London, and Paris, and Venice! I always fancy, when I’m there, that I’m living somewhere in Regent’s Park, near the canal, you know; and, as for the country in England, you either get burned up by the heat or drowned by the rain. But Florence”—she paused, and sighed contentedly—“oh, it’s always delicious!”
She was lying in a hammock, swung between two laburnums, on the lawn in front of the Villa Rimini, and she addressed Doris, who sat on the ground, with an open book in her lap, but with her eyes fixed dreamilyon the exquisite view, which stretched out in an endless vista of grassy plains, and violet-tinted hills, over which the full moon was shedding its silvery light.
The soft evening breeze came to the two women, laden with flowers, as with an offering; there were flowers everywhere; in the long beds, starring the velvety lawns; on the banks, which ran along the limits of the garden; in huge jardinieres, on the terraces and balconies; on the plains, which lay like embroidered cloths beneath them, and over the hills, to which they lent color and perfume.
It was a land of fairies, a land of beauty, in which every breath of wind that blew carried with it the memory of music and song, of laughter and joyfulness. In a word, it was Florence in the height of her loveliness, crowned as a bride for her bridegroom the summer, and rejoicing in her splendor.
The Villa Rimini, with its numerous windows twinkling with the recently-lit candles, was one of the most beautiful of the many palatial residences in the “City of Flowers.” It had been a home of one of the ancient princes, and when Lady Despard had first seen, fancied and bought it, was nearly in ruins; but, with the immense wealth at her command, she had restored it, if not to quite its ancient splendor, at least to a semblance which came very near the original reality.
Marble corridors, vast saloons, with rare hangings and costly frescoes, statues which the Louvre would gladly have bidden for, antique fountains and priceless mosaics were all here as in the days when the princely owners were, indeed, a name and a power in the land.
And here she and Doris had been living a dreamy existence, a period of lotus-eating, for nearly a month.
There was the usual colony of English in Florence, of which the Villa Rimini was, by right of its splendor and the rank and wealth of Lady Despard, the center.
Her hospitality was limitless, and the Salon of the Princes, as the vast reception-room was called, was every afternoon the scene of a gathering which almost resembled a royal levee; while the widely-extending grounds were open to those fortunate individuals who had procured an introduction to the wealthy owner.
To the Villa Rimini came also the Florentine nobility; tall, grave-looking Italians, with their high-bred voices and polished manners, men whom Doris always pictured as wearing the silken hose and brocaded tunics of their forefathers in the old Florentine days, when men wore shoes almost as pointed as the swords which were always ready to leap from their scabbards with—or without—the slightest provocation.
Amidst these surroundings, Lady Despard held what might, with little exaggeration, be termed a court; but it might be said, to her credit, the admiration, the adoration she received did not turn her head, probably because she recognized the obvious fact that she shared her throne with the quiet-looking, soft-voiced girl who had come to her as a companion, and whom she had grown to regard and love as a friend.
Once, when the reception was over and the two women were alone, as they were this evening, she looked at Doris, laughingly, and said:
“Well, dear, tired of all the adulation and worship, or are you looking forward to to-morrow’s repetition? Seriously, my dear, I am beginning to be a little jealous; more than half the pretty speeches this afternoon were addressed to Miss Marlowe, and your bouquets were quite as numerous as mine. Beware of vanity, Doris!”
And Doris had looked up at her with the quiet smile, beneath which always lay an undercurrent of sadness, and shook her head, as she replied:
“The danger is all on your side, Lady Despard. You are the sun, I am merely the shadow. Some day some one will pluck the sun from its place, and the shadow will be desolate!”
But Lady Despard had laughed placidly.
“No, thank you, dear! I’ve been married once, and, as the boy said of the prickly pear, ‘No more for me, thank you!’ But yours is another case altogether, and I confess that I tremble every day lest you should come and tell me, with that mouselike little smile of yours, that one of these men is going to take you from me! Ah! what a pity it would be!—for we are so happy, you and I, dear! If girls could only know when they are well off! But they never do. It’s only when they haveresigned their liberty and given all their heart for about a quarter of some selfish man’s that they discover what a fraud matrimony is!”
And Doris had made no reply beyond the quiet, “mouselike smile,” and a little sigh, which was too low to reach her companion’s ear.
Not Lady Despard alone, but many another of the frequenters of the Villa Rimini, have wondered that this beautiful English girl should be so irresponsive to the admiration and attentions lavished upon her. Men of rank and position, for whom the matrons of society angled unceasingly, paid court to her, needing but a smile or word of encouragement to lay their titles at her feet; but the smile nor the word were never extended to them. As the Princess of Carthage, clad in the mystic veil, moved, like an unapproachable spirit, among the suitors at her father’s court, so Doris Marlowe lived, surrounded by a barrier of reserve which, vague and intangible as it was, served to keep the most ardent at arm’s length.
The past alone was to her reality; the present seemed like a dream; and often she sat beside Lady Despard, surrounded by a crowd of people laughing and talking, the voices died upon her ears, and she heard only the murmur of the brook in Barton meadows, mingling with the voice of the man who had won her heart and tossed it aside, shattered and broken forever.
Often she wondered whether he had married the Lady Grace—whose name, when first she had heard it on his lips, had sounded like a knell in her ears.
If stone walls do not a prison make, a crowd cannot destroy solitude, and Doris, in the midst of the brilliant throng which made the Villa Rimini its center, lived in a mental and spiritual solitude, on the threshold of which only two persons ever trod. One was Lady Despard, whom she loved, the other was—Percy Levant. She would have treated him as coldly as she did all the others, but it was impossible. He made it impossible by never giving her a chance of repulsing him. Since the evening he had come to Chester Gardens for the first time he had never paid her a single compliment, andfrom his lips alone she never received a single “pretty” speech.
Although he slept at the inn, he had a luxurious suite of apartments in the villa, and they met at almost every meal, and frequently during the day, but his manner to Doris was one of studious courtesy toned by a reserve which matched her own.
By the rest he was regarded as the most charming of men. The women secretly—some of them openly—adored him for his good looks, which were remarkable even in that land of handsome faces, and for the exquisite voice, which was always at their service. The men voted him a “good fellow,” and were warm in his praises. The reception from which he was absent always seemed lacking in its accustomed brightness, and no dance or outdoor excursion was complete without Mr. Percy Levant.
Perhaps the air of mystery which surrounded him increased the interest he awakened. Nobody knew anything about him, except that he was in Florence to study music, and, in some vague, unexplained way, to collect materials for a magnificent and unique music-room which Lady Despard intended building in one of her houses, and at some unfixed time in the dim future.
Of himself, and his own affairs and past history, he was as silent as Doris was of hers; and people who were at first inclined to be curious accepted his want of a past and were content to take him for what he was—a light-hearted waif floating like a bubble on the surface of society.
To the superficial frequenters of the Villa Rimini he did not seem to have a care and scarcely an object in life, excepting it were to play and sing at all times and seasons, whenever Lady Despard requested him.
But Doris was something more than a superficial observer, and often when, in the early morning or in the delicious gloaming, she was wandering dreamily through the flower-scented grounds, she would come across him pacing moodily beneath the trees, or lying on a bank, with his head resting on his hands, and his handsome face darkened by an expression which would havestartled his many friends who thought they knew him quite intimately.
At such times he would spring up, dispelling his moodiness instantly, and resume his usual manner; but the impression he had made remained with Doris.
And, having seen him off his guard, as it were, she found herself, at odd times, thinking of him. He seemed as alone in the midst of the pleasure-seeking crowd as herself. From thinking of him in an indifferent, casual kind of way, she grew, all unconsciously, to entertain a vague sort of sympathy for him, which she would never have been capable of if he had lavished compliments upon her, as the rest did. She felt convinced that some shadow lay in his past, and that the ready jest and the fluent laugh only hid a wound which he was too proud to permit the world to gape at.
This was the first phase of their relation; the second began during the second week of their Florentine life. She became conscious that his presence at the villa contributed not only to the enjoyment of Lady Despard and the rest, but to hers!
In an indescribable way he seemed to know exactly what was wanted at any given moment, and to supply it, and his thoughtfulness, strangely enough, always appeared to save trouble to Doris.
From the first day of her coming to Lady Despard, she had undertaken the arrangement of the flowers in the various rooms, and she continued to do so in Florence as in London. The head gardener was accustomed to send up huge baskets of flowers each morning, which Doris would set out and arrange in the various vases and bowls. It was a long task, and one morning he had entered the salon and found her in the midst of it, looking rather pale and tired, for the room was hot and close with the almost overpowering perfume.
“That is a serious business,” he said, in his quiet fashion.
“Isn’t it?” she assented, with a smile.
He said nothing more, and passed out; but the next morning Doris found the flowers spread out on a table, under an awning, in a shady part of the terrace.
“Why, how thoughtful of the gardener!” she said to Lady Despard’s maid, who stood near.
“Oh, but it wasn’t the gardener, miss,” said the girl. “It was Mr. Percy who brought the table out here; he did it himself, and put the awning up.”
“It was very kind of him,” said Doris, and when he came in to breakfast she thanked him.
He bowed, slightly.
“It is cooler out there,” he said, simply, and turned to speak to Lady Despard at once.
A few evenings afterward a discussion arose respecting a book that had suddenly leaped into popular favor.
“What do you think of it, Miss Marlowe?” inquired an old Italian nobleman, whose breast sparkled with orders.
“I haven’t read it, count,” said Doris.
Instantly there was an inquiry for the book, but it appeared that no one possessed a copy.
“Oh, you must read it! I’ll send to London for a copy,” said the count.
An hour afterward some one wanted a song from Percy Levant, but he was nowhere to be found, but presently one of the young men, of whom there were always more than a sufficient quantity at the villa, came in with a:
“I say, Lady Despard, if Mr. Levant doesn’t mind, he’ll lose that jolly voice of his! I’ve just met him in the hall, wet through; it’s raining cats and dogs, you know! Can’t make out where on earth he’s been, don’t you know!”
A little later, Percy Levant sauntered into the room, and Doris saw him laughing and talking with one and another on his way to the piano, and she thought the lad must have been mistaken; but, when all had gone, and she was going upstairs, he came to her, with something in his hand.
“There is the book they were talking about,” he said. “I fancy it isn’t worth the fuss they are making about it.”
“Where did you get it?” said Doris.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I was lucky enough to find a copy in the town,” he replied.
“Then it was for that you went out and got wet!” sheexclaimed. “It was very kind, but—was it worth while, Mr. Levant?”
“I thought so, and think so still, but I may be mistaken,” he retorted, with his peculiar, half-cynical smile. “Good-night,” and he moved away, as if the incident were done with.
Gradually she began to realize that in any difficulty he was always at her side. A big picnic was to be arranged, and Lady Despard, who had got accustomed to leaving everything to Doris, had done so on this occasion, and Doris was up early in the morning to give the necessary orders. She found that all the preparations had been made. Mr. Percy Levant had interviewed the major domo, and the thing was done.
When Doris thanked him, he smiled, and courteously cut her short.
“I don’t deserve any thanks,” he said. “You see, my Italian is not so good as yours, and I was anxious to practice it with the major domo, that’s all. We are all moved by selfish motives, Miss Marlowe.”
“Not all,” said Doris. “Not Mr. Percy Levant.”
He started slightly, and fixed his brilliant eyes on her for a second; then, with a laugh, said:
“Yes, even Mr. Percy Levant.”
Twenty times a day she found him coming to her assistance, but always in the same way, always with the same unobtrusiveness, which was almost coldness, but which was very welcome to Doris, contrasted with the fervent, accentuated attention of the rest of the men.
This evening, as she sat beside the hammock, looking at the stars, which were beginning to peep out from the midst of the deep blue of the sky, and thinking of the past, she was conscious, in a half-troubled way, of recalling one of the innumerable services Percy Levant had rendered her, and she started when Lady Despard said, in her sleepy fashion:
“I wonder where Mr. Levant is? Has he gone to the hotel? I haven’t seen him all the evening. How one misses him, doesn’t one?”
“Yes,” said Doris. “That is our tribute to his amiability.”
Lady Despard laughed.
“He is quite the bright particular star of our group,” she said. “Some of our fair Florentine friends are almost mad about him. I shouldn’t wonder if he were caught and chained before we leave.”
“Yes?” said Doris.
Lady Despard leaned over the hammock and regarded her with a lazy smile.
“What a cold little ‘yes,’” she said. “I really believe you are the only woman here who doesn’t admire him.”
“But I do admire him,” said Doris, smiling in return. “I think he is the handsomest man I ever saw——” She stopped and picked up the book, for unnoticed by Lady Despard he had come up and stood beside the hammock.
“May one inquire the subject of Miss Marlowe’s encomium?” he asked, and he looked from one to the other with his usual smile, but Doris, glancing up at him, saw, or fancied she saw, the shadow of the darkness which she, and she alone, had discovered his face could wear.
“Oh, no one you know,” said Lady Despard. “May one ask where you have been all this long while?”
“All this long while! A few hours! What a testimony to one’s worth!” he said, as lightly as before, but his eyes, as they rested on Doris’ pensive face, were grave and intent. “I have been wandering in the woods, listening to the birds.”
“While we have been dying to listen to you,” said Lady Despard, with mock reproach. “We have missed you terribly, haven’t we, Doris?”
“Miss Marlowe is halting between truth and politeness,” he said, as Doris remained silent. “I will spare her a reply.”
“We’ve had no music to speak of,” said Lady Despard. “Won’t you sing us something now? Shall we go into the house?”
“No, no,” he said, almost abruptly. “Who would exchange this”—and he waved his hand—“for four walls? What shall I sing to you? Let me think.”
He thought for a moment, then he began to sing.
Doris never heard his voice, even in the crowded saloon, without feeling a thrill run through her, but to-night, although he sang in so low a tone that it seemedscarcely more than a whisper, the melody stirred her to her depths, and brought the tears to her eyes.
“That is beautiful,” said Lady Despard, with a little sigh. “We won’t spoil it by asking for another. Come, Doris, dear. Will you come in, Mr. Levant?”
“No, thanks,” he said, slowly. “I’ll say good-night now.”
He did not offer to shake hands, and the two ladies left him and went toward the house. As they were ascending the steps, Lady Despard stopped, and uttered an exclamation:
“Oh, my bracelet!”
“What is it? Have you lost it?” inquired Doris.
“Yes; I must have dropped it while I was in the hammock! I’ll go back——”
“No; I’ll go!” said Doris, and she ran back.
She had almost reached the spot where they had been sitting, when, with a start, she saw in the starlight, a man lying full length on the grass, with his face hidden on his arm. It was Percy Levant. He sprang up at the sound of her footsteps, and confronted her, and Doris saw that his face was pale and haggard, so different, indeed, to its usual bright and careless expression, that she felt a shock of distress and almost fear.
“Mr. Levant!” she said, falteringly; then she recovered herself. “I have come back for Lady Despard’s bracelet,” stooping down and looking about her, to give him time.
“It is here,” he said, picking it up.
“Thanks!” she said. “Good-night!”
“Wait! Will you wait a moment?” he asked, and his voice, usually so soft and musical, sounded hoarse and strained.
Doris stood, silent and downcast, and waited for him to go on.