Part 15 (2/2)

”Where shall we go to-day, mamma?” she asked every morning.

One afternoon they were strolling through an orange grove on the outskirts of Sorrento. Under the trees the ground was ploughed and rough; low stone copings, from whose interstices innumerable violets swung, ran hither and thither, and the paths followed the copings. The fruit hung thickly on the trees. Above the high wall which surrounded the place loomed the campanile of an old church. While they were strolling the bells rang the Angelus, swinging far out against the blue.

Rod, who was of the party, was absent-minded; he looked a little at the trees, but said nothing, and after a while he became absent-bodied as well, for he fell behind the others, and pursued his meditations, whatever they were, in solitude.

”He is bothered about his Italians,” said Bartholomew; ”he has only secured twenty so far.”

Pierre joined f.a.n.n.y; he had not talked with her that afternoon, and he now came to fulfil the pleasant duty. Eva, who had been left with Mademoiselle, turned round, and walking rapidly across the ploughed ground, joined Rod, who was sitting on one of the low stone walls at some distance from the party. Mademoiselle followed her, putting on her gla.s.ses as she went, in order to see her way over the heaped ridges. She held up her skirts, and gave ineffectual little leaps, always landing in the wrong spot, and tumbling up hill, as Dallas called it. ”Blue,” he remarked, meditatively. Every one glanced in that direction, and it was perceived that the adjective described the hue of Mademoiselle's birdlike ankles.

”For shame!” said f.a.n.n.y.

But Dallas continued his observations. ”Do look across,” he said, after a while; ”it's too funny. The French woman evidently thinks that Rod should rise, or else that Eva should be seated also. But her pantomime pa.s.ses unheeded; neither Eva nor the backwoodsman is conscious of her existence.”

”Eva is so fond of standing,” explained f.a.n.n.y. ”I often say to her, 'Do sit down, child; it tires me to see you.' But Eva is never tired.”

Pierre, who had a spray of orange buds in his hand, pressed it to his lips, and waved it imperceptibly towards his betrothed. ”In everything she is perfect--perfect,” he murmured to the pretty mother.

”Rod doesn't in the least mean to be rude,” began Bartholomew.

”Oh, don't explain that importation of yours at this late day,”

interposed Dallas; ”it isn't necessary. He is accustomed to sitting on fences probably; he belongs to the era of the singing-school.”

This made f.a.n.n.y angry. For as to singing-schools, there had been a time--a remote time long ago--and Dallas knew it. She had smiled in answer to Pierre's murmured rapture; she now took his arm. To punish Dallas she turned her steps--on her plump little feet in their delicate kid boots--towards the still seated Rod, with the intention of asking him (for the fifth time) to dinner. This would not only exasperate Dallas, but it would please Bartholomew at the same stroke. Two birds, etc.

When they came up to the distant three, Mademoiselle glanced at Mrs.

Churchill anxiously. But in the presence of the mistress of the villa, Rod did at last lift his long length from the wall.

This seemed, however, to be because he supposed they were about to leave the grove. ”Is the walk over?” he said.

Pierre looked at Eva adoringly. He gave her the spray of orange buds.

IV

A week later f.a.n.n.y's daughter entered the bedroom which she shared with her mother.

From the girl's babyhood the mother had had her small white-curtained couch placed close beside her own. She could not have slept unless able at any moment to stretch out her hand and touch her sleeping child.

f.a.n.n.y was in the dressing-room; hearing Eva's step, she spoke. ”Do you want me, Eva?”

”Yes, please.”

f.a.n.n.y appeared, a vision of white arms, lace, and embroidery.

”I thought that Rosine would not be here yet,” said Eva. Rosine was their maid; her princ.i.p.al occupation was the elaborate arrangement of f.a.n.n.y's brown hair.

”No, she isn't there--if you mean in the dressing-room,” answered f.a.n.n.y, nodding her head towards the open door.

”I wanted to see you alone, mamma, for a moment. I wanted to tell you that I shall not marry Pierre.”

<script>