CHAPTER LI

SITTING BY HER SIDE AT LAST

How one can sleep, and sleep, and sleep at Como! And how perfectly you do rest! Every muscle relaxes. The mind sleeps. It seems to enter a paradise of repose and rest on a bed of roses till the body at noonday comes and calls back, wakes up, the mind. No wandering of the soul into the infernal regions. No dreams of death. No strife. Nothing but peace and repose.

The artist waited a long time for a fit hour to call the next day. At least it seemed to him a very, very long time. At [undecipherable] the little iron gate and began [undecipherable] steep steps that led to [undecipherable] beautiful woman. [undecipherable] he neared the house in the pines and ruins, and fearing he was too early and might reveal some haste and eagerness if he presented himself then, turned off to the left and took a walk through the two or three miles of little paths that wound over and through and about this rugged pine topped mountain with its lofty nose pushed into the middle of the lake.

He drew near the house once more. There was the sound of carriage wheels. He stopped in the dense foliage, till at length he heard the carriage drive away. He thought that it might be Annette about to drive out in the shadow of the mountain in the cool of the afternoon, and he would not think of detaining her a moment. Perhaps he was glad of an excuse to wait a few minutes longer. The truth is, this man had a great deal rather have climbed up a mountain all bristling with red tongued cannon and faced them and attempted to answer back their thunder, than advance upon this gem of his heart in her lovely, leafy hermitage. He stood back in the wood, a coward.

Then he stood out in the clearing, looked down the steep, corkscrew carriage road under the ruins and pines, and saw in the retreating carriage, Annette.

After that he advanced boldly enough, and came up to the cool shaded fountain before the house and spoke to the good natured block of chiselled midnight who stood there grinning as he advanced; and then he really felt that he had done a great deal and advanced his cause quite sufficiently for that day, and so, after talking with the black man about the big magnolia tree that stood there and the many beautiful plants and flowers familiar to the South, he went back to his hotel a very happy man. The old admiral, he found, was at this hotel.

The evening was dull enough. There was but one person in all the region of Como that he cared to see, and he dared not call on her after dark. In fact it was quite as much as he could accomplish in the daytime.

It is true there were boat races and fine rockets. And then there was a fine Italian band playing before nearly every hotel on the lake till there was a perfect discord of music, but these had not charms for Murietta. His mind had been strung to a higher note than any instrument there could reach.

He sauntered out alone, and as usual found his way to the old and humble parts of the place. A dark and narrow street it was, and it reached steeply up the hill, and was overarched in places by coverings reaching from one palace to another. This kept out the light of the large bright stars, and made it dark indeed. A great lamp hung here, and under this lamp was set a table, around which were grouped a party of Italian gamblers.

The little black eyed, threadbare doctor with the retreating moustache, whom we have seen in Rome, sat there on the edge of the crowd, looking now at the game and now at the passers-by.

Murietta saw this man and tried to escape unnoticed, but the black, restless eyes were too quick for him, and the little, nervous, black eyed Italian arose and followed.

The artist quickened his pace after slipping a knife up his sleeve, so as to be prepared for any emergency, and did not stop to turn around till he stood in a more wide and open street, where respectable Christian faces were more frequent.

The doctor was right upon his heels, and had his hat in his hand and his hand on his breast, and was bowing very humbly, even as he turned around.

"Every one comes to Como, signor, at this season, and I am delighted to meet you here, and trust we may be friends, or at least not enemies, for I am certain I can serve you."

"And how the devil do you propose to serve me?" savagely and contemptuously asked the artist.

"By not serving the admiral," answered the doctor sharply.

"Well, as to that, perhaps, you had as well remain with your honest old master. Don't betray him. Honour among thieves, you know. At all events, I have no use for you whatever; you have only to keep out of my way."

The artist turned on his heel as he spoke, and went on through the town by the great grey stone church that is for ever and ever clanging out of tune and out of time, as if determined that no one shall ever rest in Bellagio.

He gave no thought to this man further than to suppose he only wanted to get a few francs, which he did not care to give him. He certainly looked in want of money. And then beggars — beggars of all kinds — are so plentiful in Italy, that you soon learn to instinctively button up your pockets the moment you see a man approaching you.

Yet it was a little inconsistent that the old admiral should be shining in gold, like a pawnbroker's clerk, while his friend and fellow robber was so destitute and threadbare.

Putting all concern or care behind him, and thinking only of the lady on the little mountain of pines and ruins, the artist slept well, and awakened only when the long, light finger of the sun reached in and pointed to the Swiss clock on the mantel, which had just struck twelve.

At two o'clock he was walking alone among the pines and ruins, and waiting for the tardy hour of four to turn round, so that he should present himself at the throne of his queen.

Three! It seemed that four would never come. He walked and walked, time after time, every foot of the winding, pleasant way, around and over and through the hallowed mountain-top till weary enough. Then the noisy old grey stone church shouted out the hour, and in a little time the black man was leading him to her parlour.

The same quiet welcome, that had no utterance in words. The same silent eloquence of the soul. The great eyes that understood you too well, and made you tremble for yourself, unless you felt something of manhood in your makeup, and felt your own integrity. All these were here.

The general had drifted out on his dreamy battle cloud, and now hung under the magnolia tree fast asleep in his hammock, with his half-finished cigar in his fingers.

The lady led the artist out on the balcony overlooking the two lakes, or rather, the two branches of the one lake, that lay almost together under them. The sun went down suddenly, as if he had lost his way, and fallen asleep in the Alps, and then they sat in the matchless twilight, that was made alone for lovers.

He was utterly silent. He was satisfied. He was grateful to God. He did not ask any more than this. He never had asked more than to sit before her. To see her untold and unutterable beauty, and to breathe the air wherein she moved.

"You will come again," said the mother. And he came again. Sometimes he found himself talking rapidly in his half a dozen visits in the fortnight of perfect days that followed, and then he would stop half frightened, and feeling very awkward, sit and look at the strangely beautiful lady before him, and listen to her few words so well chosen, so light and pure, and so exalted, with a devotion that only few upon earth can understand.

Murietta had never yet thought of marriage. That to him was a secondary matter. Marriage to him seemed a sort of selfishness. Yet he had determined, and often and often attempted to tell her how he had worshipped her, how he had first seen her in his dreams; how he had painted her. How he had first met her in society, and knew her at a glance. How he had followed her to Italy, to Naples, to Rome, to Como, to tell her the story of the flowers in her path, the picture, and yet could not summon: the courage to do so — not even to begin.

One evening, this last evening, she had spoken of the picture herself.

"There is a little story about this picture, you know, and I have waited for it and waited for it. You promised it to me, you remember; promised me the story and the picture at Como."

There was earnestness and pathos, a touch of entreaty in her voice and manner, as she leaned a little forward and said this to the artist, under the great stars of Italy, and over the twin lakes lying there under them like two lovers,— divided and undivided.

The artist was encouraged. Could it be possible that she, she the companion of princes, she the most matchless and magnificent of women in all the world, should or could care for him, his picture, or his story?

He arose, stood up before her; clasped his hands, looked away to the lakes to the right and the left, the many coloured lamps with the boats bearing lovers, weaving and winding and binding love knots over the breast of the beautiful water, but could not speak. His lips were as still as the fathomless lake below them, and his soul was as deep with love.

She put out her hand. It touched his clasped hands, and thrilled him with a sensation that was new to him and beautiful and holy.

He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips with his head bent low as if in devoutest worship.

Then dropping the hand gently, he lifted his eyes, and looking the lady in the face tried again to speak.

He could only say "good night," and with that he bowed low and was turning to pass through the saloon and out to the presence of the magnolia.

"And my picture?" asked the lady in a low voice, as he was about to disappear.

He returned to her and took her hand in both of his, and he bowed before her.

"Lady. lady! so exalted, as of an upper world. Tomorrow, tomorrow at this time I will bring you the picture of yourself. I will tell you the story of the picture and of the flowers in your path on the mountain of fire. And then you will despise me, and my story, and my picture; and you will put me away from you, and I will never see you any more in all the weary world."

"Murietta?"

There was balm and hope and healing in the utterance of his name, a gentleness, a half regret at his prophecy, which he dared believe meant much to him.

He said " Tomorrow," kissed her hand again and was gone.

Love, thou art blind indeed. Blind! Blindness is nothing to thy folly.

Tomorrow!

It was all true. In the folds of that day, the day that ever runs before, the mysterious tomorrow, with all its secrets held bound up in the sheaves for him, woodbine or flowers. Flowers or woodbine?

Could he wait? He heard the noisy clock in the old grey tower clang every hour of the night. He heard the hissing little steamers come and go with their loads of tourists, and people pass up and down all the time; but he thought only of the tomorrow, and what that day might bring. He was not over pleased: he was even sorry that this had been precipitated. He was perfectly certain that he should only be laughed at, and the beautiful delusion of his life destroyed.

As the sun rose up he took his picture from its place and began to arrange it for his lady. He had not closed his eyes. The tomorrow now was his. It was no longer tomorrow; it was now today,

"What will my lady say? Will she understand me? She has never [undecipherable] She has never gone on through [undecipherable] wide world alone as I have lived. She has never been crucified in soul, and made to fast and pray in the wilderness. Will she understand me? And if she understands me, will she not despise me?"

He paced the floor excitedly as he said this, and then he stopped and suddenly put up his hand to his brow.

"No! What has she said to me? What assurance have I that she cares a withered fig for me or mine? She has said nothing; done nothing. A thousand men may kiss her hand, or any lady's hand. A hundred men have worshipped her before. Has she slept last night? Nay, she has not watched and watched and waited for to-morrow as I have waited. Shall I be laughed at? No, I will pitch this picture into — Softly! I have promised to take it to her and tell her its history, and I will do it."