Part 24 (1/2)

”If she has appreciation enough to comprehend what I send her,” he thought, ”perhaps in the end she will have a different opinion about my 'kindness'!”

Soon afterwards he took leave. The next day he went to Paris.

II

The events of Raymond Noel's life, after he left Rome that spring, were various. Some were pleasant, some unpleasant; several were quite unexpected. Their combinations and results kept him from returning to Italy the following winter, and the winter after that he spent in Egypt.

When he again beheld the dome of St. Peter's he remembered that it lacked but a month of two full years since he had said good-bye to it; it was then April, and now it was March. He established himself in some pleasant rooms, looked about him, and then began to take up, one by one, the old threads of his Roman life--such, at least, as remained unbroken.

He found a good many. Threads do not break in Rome. He had once said himself that the air was so soft and historic that nothing broke there--not even hearts. But this was only one of his little speeches. In reality he did not believe much in the breaking of hearts; he had seen them stretch so!

It may be said with truth that Noel had not thought of Miss Macks for months. This was because he had had other things to think of. He had sent her the books from Paris, with an accompanying note, a charming little note--which gave no address for reply. Since then his mind had been otherwise occupied. But as he never entirely forgot anything that had once interested him, even although but slightly (this was in reality a system of his; it gave him many holds on life, and kept stored up a large supply of resources ready for use when wanted), he came, after a while, on the canvas of his Roman impressions, to the figure of Miss Macks. When he came to it he went to see her; that is, he went to the street of the Hyacinth.

Of course, she might not be there; a hundred things might have happened to her. He could have hunted up Horace Jackson; but, on the whole, he rather preferred to see the girl herself first--that is, if she was there. Mrs. Lawrence, the only person among his acquaintances who had known her, was not in Rome. Reaching the street of the Hyacinth, he interrogated the old woman who acted as portress at the lower door, keeping up at the same time a small commerce in fritters; yes, the Americans were still on the fourth floor. He ascended the dark stairway.

The confiding little ”Ettie” card was no longer upon the door. In its place was a small framed sign: ”Miss Macks' School.”

This told a story!

However, he rang. It was the same shrill, ill-tempered little bell, and when the door opened it was Miss Macks herself who opened it. She was much changed.

The parlor had been turned into a school-room--at present empty of pupils. But even as a school-room it was more attractive than it had been before. He took a seat, and spoke the usual phrases of a renewal of acquaintance with his accustomed ease and courtesy; Miss Macks responded briefly. She said that her mother was not very well; she herself quite well. No, they had not left Italy, nor indeed the neighborhood of Rome; they had been a while at Albano.

The expression of her face had greatly altered. The old direct, wide glance was gone; gone also what he had called her over-confidence; she looked much older. On the other hand, there was more grace in her bearing, more comprehension of life in her voice and eyes. She was dressed as plainly as before; but everything, including the arrangement of her hair, was in the prevalent style.

She did not speak of her school, and therefore he did not. But after a while he asked how the painting came on. Her face changed a little; but it was more in the direction of a greater calm than hesitation or emotion.

”I am not painting now,” she answered.

”You have given it up temporarily?”

”Permanently.”

”Ah--isn't that rather a pity?”

She looked at him, and a gleam of scorn filtered into the glance.

”You know it is not a pity,” she said.

He was a little disgusted at the scorn. Of course, the only ground for him to take was the ground upon which she stood when he last saw her; at that time she proposed to pa.s.s her life in painting, and it was but good manners for him to accept her intentions as she had presented them.

”I never a.s.sumed to be a judge, you know,” he answered. ”When I last had the pleasure of seeing you, painting was, you remember, your cherished occupation!”

”When you last had the pleasure of seeing me, Mr. Noel,” said Miss Macks, still with unmoved calm, ”I was a fool.”

Did she wish to go into the subject at length? Or was that merely an exclamation?

”When I last had the pleasure of seeing you, you were taking lessons of Mr. Jackson,” he said, to give a practical turn to the conversation. ”Is he still here? How is he?”

”He is very well, now. He is dead.”

(She was going to be dramatic then, in any case.)

He expressed his regret, and it was a sincere one; he had always liked and respected the honest, morose Englishman. He asked a question or two.

Miss Macks replied that he had died here in the street of the Hyacinth--in the next room. He had fallen ill during the autumn following Noel's departure, and when his illness grew serious, they--her mother and herself--had persuaded him to come to them. He had lived a month longer, and died peacefully on Christmas Eve.