Part 24 (1/2)
”And you are happy--contented; you are willing to pa.s.s the rest of your life here?”
”Yes, and no. I could never be satisfied to drop back into the old easy life. I have drunk too deeply of the strong, new wine of Los Angelos, to be content with the mellow vintage of the Abruzzi.”
”And yet there is fermentation of a strong, new wine here, in your wondrous Italy. All do not dream of the past; there are men and women who foretell a new existence to the land, now that the old shackles of tyranny and superst.i.tion are dropping from her cramped limbs.”
”Yes; but it is a volcanic soil. Everything is so sudden and so s.h.i.+fting. There will be changes, but it is the making over of an old garment after all. Liberty may sponge and cleanse herself a vesture, but the old stains and spots have eaten deep into the tri-color.”
”You will return then; you will not pa.s.s your life so far away from us?”
She smiled a little wearily and said, ”I think I shall never see America again. But I am, oh, so thankful to have known my home! I, who have lived a Venetian, shall die an American.”
”And yet--?”
”And yet I am glad to--do not be shocked, kind friend, if I say that I am glad to die in my own Venice where I was born. I have two selves.
One was born and nurtured here under the shadow of the silent palaces; the other sprang up full-grown among the madrone trees of San Rosario.
The two have warred and struggled _here_; their battle-ground has been my breast, and the new self conquered the old; but the victory will be short-lived.”
Galbraith looked at her intently. She had spoken a little wildly, as if her mind were clouded. She saw his look, and with a sigh smoothed the lines from her brow.
”I am a little mad, you think? Yes, yes. But I am so happy to see you.
You understand me, dear friend; and you understand him, a little. You will see him again, though perhaps I never shall. You will tell him--No, do not look so grieved. It is very likely that I shall get well.”
He lifted her pale hand and touched it to his lips, as a Catholic might kiss the cross.
”You will be well and strong again, my child. Do not speak so.”
”It may be, and yet I do not wish it. Life looks so hard and cold and lonely. I do not wish to live,--and yet I am so afraid to die.” She s.h.i.+vered, and Galbraith drew the gray cloak closer about her. ”If I could only fall quietly asleep, and wake to find this poor weak body left behind--but you remember that poor creature's death? It was so terrible--I can never forget it.”
”You must not think of it. What message was it that you wanted to send home?”
”It was to Graham. I can speak to you about him and to no one else.
You must tell him how thankful I am that I left my old home, my old life, and came to his country. Tell him that he has nothing to reproach himself with; that the only thing that has made my life worth living has been my love for him. Tell him to remember me tenderly and without regret; it should be a sweet memory without a shadow of bitterness.
Tell him--but what am I saying? You could never repeat it all even if you would. Give him this; it will tell him all; it is a token the trace of which he will find on my hand when we meet again, if souls retain aught of their old vesture in the twilight world.”
She seemed wandering again. From her slim finger she slipped the little ring which Galbraith took and kept.
”And Barbara, dear good Barbara. She is white with that spotless purity of a pa.s.sionless womanhood. Do you know, Mr. Galbraith, that dying people sometimes have a power of seeing into the future? Shall I tell you what face I see beside Barbara's in the bright coming years which I shall never know? It is that of a brave and loyal man,--a man whose love would make such a woman happy and complete. It is the face of the friend who has brought me great peace on this New Year's Day.”
The black gondola now floated at rest under the archway of the grim old palace. From beneath the sable hood Girolomo lifted the slender frame.
The old fellow's eyes filled with tears at the gentle words which his young mistress whispered to him as he carried her through the marble archway and up the long steep stairs.
”_Tanto ricca, tanto giovine, tanto bella, e bisogna che muore._”
Galbraith understood the words muttered by the old servant as he pa.s.sed him after having laid his burden at rest in the great chair. He understood, but he would not believe them. It could not be true.
It was late that night when the soft-footed nun who was Millicent's nurse laid her patient on her couch, with a gentle reproof for her wilfulness in being so wakeful.