CHAPTER XIV.

May in London, five years later. The weather was bad, and everyone said the season was a dull one. To Minna Hastings it did not much matter whether it was dull or bright. She had come to spend a fortnight in town with some friends; she had never been very fond of London. She had quitted her home with regret, and though not exactly longing to be back there, she was yet quite ready to return to it when the time should come for her to do so. This was, perhaps, ungrateful on her part, for there was no doubt that this year Minna had one morning wakened to find herself, in a small way, and amongst a certain set, famous.

The figure of the workman, which for three years had been standing finished in her studio at home, had been sent to one of the London galleries, accepted, well placed, and seen of all who visited that gallery. To Minna’s own surprise, it had proved an immense ‘take.’ Critics, alike with those who were not critics, had been fascinated with it. It had been reviewed, admired, talked about, till Minna was rather sorry she had sent it. It represented so much more to her than it ever could to those who saw it. Its strength and grace were praised--its originality, its boldness, its daring simplicity, and so forth. The most curious things were said about it. The artist, when she met with these lucubrations, rubbed her eyes, sometimes in vexation, sometimes in amusement, at the intentions which were attributed to her.

‘Mrs. Hastings has evidently,’ said one oracle, ‘made a profound study of the finest models of modern French sculpture, and the intention she seeks to convey in this masterly work is obvious.’

So obvious that, as obvious things often do, it escaped the knowledge of its author, who only said to herself, ‘Thank heaven they do not know the history of all that I put into it!’

Then came applications from sundry would-be buyers, known and unknown. Many hundreds of pounds might have been Minna’s had she been disposed to part with her work. But she could not do so. Feeling forbade it, and, luckily for her, circumstances allowed her to keep it.

She never had forgotten, never could forget, what had passed between her and Signor Giuseppe that evening when she had shown it to him, and had heard what he had to say about it--and about some other things.

She was persuaded with difficulty by her friends to go and look at it one morning. She knew not what shock came over her as her eyes encountered the figure of her own handiwork, to the finishing of which had gone so many thoughts, wishes, and aspirations. There he stood, confronting her as she placed herself before him, seeming to live and stand out from all the surrounding things. She met his patient, steady eyes, which asked her, ‘Do you know me in all this foreign crowd, so alien to me and to you? Do you not remember those still hours of solitude and striving in which you lived with me and made me what I am? When will you take me back to be with you again, since neither of us can be where we would--at home in Rome?’ A choking came in her throat as she thought of the shabby old studio--the hours of intense life, both of joy and of sorrow, and she turned abruptly away, while her friends walked round the figure, and exclaimed, and admired, and put the wonted questions to her, ‘Minna, how did you come to think of it? What put it into your head?’ ‘I could never have thought of such a thing if I had been crowned for it,’ and so on.

When the slight mist which covered her eyes had cleared from them, and she could see clearly again, she took time to look round, and found herself in a kind of little _tribuna_, round which, in an inner circle, as it were, were disposed statues and busts, while on the walls hung pictures. She glanced round, and began to examine the latter; she found herself almost in front of one which soon arrested her attention. It represented a corner of the great church of Santa Maria-sopra-Minerva at Rome, and one of the little episodes which one constantly sees occurring in Roman churches--one half of the episode, at least, is common enough. A young girl, accompanied by a servant, drops an alms into the hand of a beggar. The beggar is an old woman, whose withered countenance lights up as she glances into the face of the girl. Just behind the old woman is the figure of a young man, whose eyes are fixed with a passion of admiration and entreaty upon the girl’s face, which, sweet and calm and cold, smiles upon the old woman, and does not even see him. No possibility of mistaking the meaning in those eyes, nor the prayer for notice and love in the entire attitude and look. There was an emotional quality in this picture which went far to triumph over a good many faults of colour and execution.

As Minna looked at it, a strange feeling stole over her. The faces of the young man and the girl were not portraits, but there was in them a haunting likeness to two faces she had known, which likeness sent a thrill through her. Hastily turning over the leaves of her catalogue, she found the number and title of the picture, and a scarcely suppressed ‘Ah!’ broke from her lips.

‘The Two Mendicants--Hans Riemann.’

Fastened to the spot, she examined the picture with eager attention. Never had she imagined her cousin Hans to be possessed of such subtlety in expressing a graceful thought. It was he--it was Fulvia; not boldly and openly portrayed, but hinted at, indicated, shadowed forth, as it were. Patent to her, who was familiar with them both, and with their stories--a veiled mystery, not even a mystery--merely a delicate attractive picture to any outsider who knew nothing of the drama which underlay it all.

‘I knew it--I was certain of it!’ Minna said to herself, but quite beneath her breath. ‘I taxed him with it, and he turned it off. Why did he not speak out at the time? Oh, I would have helped him through everything. I would have become poor that he might have succeeded. If Fulvia had had a lover--one whom she loved, at that time--she might have been saved. She would have had a strength to resist which would have carried her through everything.... Hans, you fool! And how he has improved! I used to think his things rather finikin, I didn’t care for them--but this shows a perfectly enormous advance.’

‘What are you looking at?’ asked the loud, cheerful voice of one her friends, just at her elbow. ‘That! Oh, isn’t it odd that Mr. Riemann’s picture should have got put close to your piece of sculpture? It’s a pretty thing, very. Do you know, I said the other day that, according to the accepted rule in such things, and judging from the outside only, the picture ought to have been by the woman, and the statue by the man. The picture is so delicate, you know, and refined and emotional, and all that. (I hear he has sold it very well.) And the statue--well, you know, Minna, it has been praised for its brutality: in the French sense of the word, not the English.’

To all of which Minna made little rejoinder, except a faint smile. She did manage to murmur that the picture was very charming, and that Hans had made great progress during the last few years.

Then they moved on, laughing at Minna for not being more interested in the public view of her own work. They made the weary round of the gallery, and looked at all the most talked-of pictures, and at last went away to get lunch somewhere, and then to go and see some other show. All day long there dwelt in Minna’s mind the tender grace of that painting. She wondered who had bought it. She was longing to possess it herself. She felt unreasonably annoyed and vexed with the happy owner, whoever he or she might be. And when at night, wearied in brain and body with the empty whirl of the day, she placed her head upon her pillow, the scene again rose before her eyes: ‘The Two Mendicants’--the gracious figure, whose hand was relieving the one, and passing by the other, not even seeing him. Minna said within herself, ‘I’ll go again. I shall go and look at it as often as I can escape from them and get there alone.’

Her last thought was, ‘Shall I tell Beppo? I think not. He never speaks about it now, but I am sure the pain of that time has never been less in his soul than it was just when it happened. It would hurt him. No; I won’t say anything.’

She carried out her intention, and, under one pretext or another, managed several times to escape from her companions, slip alone into the gallery, thread her way through its rooms, and finally, with a sigh of pleasure and pain combined, seat herself before the picture, with her back to the statue, while she looked, wondered, and speculated.

Where was Fulvia? What had become of her? What had she grown into? Not one word had been heard of her since her marriage. She had never written to anyone at home--neither to her mother, nor to Giuseppe, nor to Minna herself. At the time of the marriage it had been Marchmont’s intention to take his bride first to London and Paris, and sooner or later to Australia, to ‘show’ her, in his own characteristic language, to his ‘people’ there, who were understood to be very rich, and given to admire sumptuous and beautiful things--such things as Fulvia would have every chance of becoming.

Whether he had carried out this programme Minna had never heard. She thought it probable; she thought it even possible that he might have settled in Australia, having discovered that he was a bigger man in Sydney or Melbourne than he would be in London or Paris. Of one thing only she was certain--that they had never revisited Rome.

On this particular morning Minna was at her post before the picture, and passing through her mind was the wonder where Hans could now be. The easy-going young fellow whom she had known in Rome at Casa Dietrich had made some way in the world as an artist, but chiefly as a painter of what seemed to Minna ‘prettiness.’ Even in this case she would have mistrusted her own judgment and thought her delight in the picture to be more the result of the associations it had for her mind than its own inherent merit, but the verdict on all sides was to the same effect as her own.

In a half-dream she sat, leaning back in the comfortable settee, and vaguely hearing the voices and footsteps of those who passed, but not heeding them, unless they stood before her and actually interrupted her view of the picture.

Voices behind her of two women--probably young women.

‘Oh, Ethel, this must be the statue that Tom was talking about. He said it was splendid. What is it called?’

Leaves of a catalogue were fluttered quickly over--then, in dulcet tones:

‘“In the sweat of thy brow. Roma, 18----” What on earth does it mean?’

‘A horrid, common working man, and nothing else. Well, I cannot understand what anyone can see to admire in that, I must say. Let’s see--artist’s name, Minna Hastings. A woman! Just fancy any lady deliberately setting to work and carving out the figure of a dirty half-naked man like that! What a queer creature she must be!’

Minna was interested, charmed. She did not move, but gazed steadily before her at the picture. Now the two speakers were immediately behind her. There was no crowd, and they could quite well see over her head.

‘Now just look what different things strike different people!’ said the more decided voice of the two. ‘Look at that picture--“The Two Mendicants.” I call it lovely. Isn’t that girl sweet? And the old woman--splendid! And the young man. Ethel’--in an excited whisper--‘he really has a look of--don’t you know? Those long eyes and that intense look--what Fräulein would call _schwärmerisch_. I do like it. Well, you see, that’s Rome, too. “In the church of Santa Maria-sopra-Minerva, Roma.” And the painter is a man--Hans Riemann, you see. Well, all one can say is that some men have much nicer tastes than some women.... Hadn’t we better go on to the next room, or we shall not get it all done before lunch?’

‘Oh yes! Come!’

They walked away. Minna, half turning her head, stole a look after them. A couple of fresh-looking, ‘nicely’-dressed, rather meaningless English girls. There are hundreds and thousands of them, gaily passing their opinions on everything that comes under their notice in the heavens above or in the earth beneath. Minna smiled to herself, and again became lost in contemplation of the picture.

The door into the small room in which she sat was behind her. For some time she was left in undisturbed solitude. Then there were footsteps behind her, of two persons. She paid no heed to them. They stopped--evidently in front of her work. There was a prolonged silence, till at last a man’s voice said, earnestly and softly:

‘Well, is it not what I told you? Did I do right to bring you?’

A woman’s voice in reply, which yet sounded almost as if the speaker spoke to herself, in a half-dream.

‘Yes; it is the same--Roma. Oh, I am very glad you brought me!’

She spoke Italian. For one moment Minna’s heart sprang with such a wild throb to her throat that she could neither move nor speak. Then it seemed to stop altogether; then went beating on again at five times its usual pace. It all took but a couple of seconds. She had recovered her power of speech and motion. She rose swiftly from her place, and turned towards the speakers, her face in a pale blaze of emotion.

It was true. There was no deception. That was Hans, older, handsomer, with his boyish tendency to lounge developed into the supple ease of a man of the world, but with--the words of the young lady who had been so pleased with his picture came into Minna’s mind almost grotesquely: ‘Those long eyes and that intense look’--the eyes and the look which are so difficult to read aright in man or woman--experience only can prove whether they mean a character weak, selfish, and sensuous, or earnest and passionately clinging in its loves and hates, hopes and fears. Whatsoever the look might betoken, the man was Hans; and that woman beside him, in the full splendour of youth and beauty, in the full pomp of the costliest simplicity of dress, with the bearing of a queen, and the utterly calm and self-possessed, rather cool aspect--that was Fulvia.

For a moment the three stood looking at each other, while their expressions changed half a dozen times. It was Minna who spoke first, in a voice which she could not force to be steady, tried she never so hard.

‘Fulvia!’ she said. ‘Hans!’

‘Minna, by Jove!’ ejaculated Hans, recovering from his astonishment. ‘I never was more floored in my life, though why I should have been I’m sure I don’t know. It’s the most natural thing in the world for you to be here--just as it is for us. I have brought Mrs. Marchmont, you see, to show her an old acquaintance.’ He smiled and looked at Minna’s statue.

A great change had come over Fulvia’s face. She had grown very pale; her steady eyes wavered--one could almost have sworn that, for one moment, they were dim. While Hans was talking, she and Minna had clasped hands and were looking at one another. Minna was far past speaking. It was as if her own beloved child, long lost, had returned to her. Fulvia also seemed not to be possessed of much eloquence. A grave, sweet smile dawned upon her lips; in a low voice and with an accent of indescribable tenderness she said:

‘Signora carissima!’

It was the exact tone in which she had often spoken to Minna, when she had sat with her five years ago, in her little salon at Casa Dietrich, discussing the woeful future. As she spoke, with a swift, graceful gesture she lifted Minna’s hands to her lips, and kissed them, one after the other.

The elder woman was shaken to her innermost being. She felt that, if she spoke, tears would rush from her eyes and choke her voice. After a long time, ‘At last!’ she stammered out, and, unable to bear it any longer, she sat down hastily on the bench, and, still holding Fulvia’s hand, drew her to the space beside her.

‘Sometimes,’ she said, recovering breath, ‘the gods are good. Sometimes they send us what we want. They have been good to me to-day.’

‘Whether they have been good to me, I can hardly yet decide,’ said Hans in a melancholy voice. He was practically left out in the cold while this interview was going on. ‘Anyhow,’ he continued, ‘they have blessed me with sense enough to see that I had better retire while I can do so with self-respect, and leave you two to your conversation. But you will perhaps favour me with the merest indication as to what I am to do for you later. Shall I disappear altogether, and return no more? Shall I come back for you, Mrs. Marchmont, and take you home? Or, in short, I am at your orders, ladies, when once I know what those orders are.’

‘Poor Hans!’ said Minna, smiling, and looking at him more attentively. She was struck again with his altered appearance. She had not seen him now for more than three years, and had heard very little about him. He was, as she knew, about eight-and-twenty, but he looked considerably older. In some aspects he looked like eight-and-thirty. He had a dark, bronzed, richly-coloured face, grave, soft, dark-brown eyes, and a brown, pointed beard and moustache. The general aspect of his face was one of gravity--gravity, dignity, and poetical, artistic beauty. There was nothing left of his old, boyish manner, except its simplicity, for he had the great charm of simplicity.

All this Minna realized and saw, as, with one of her hands laid upon one of Fulvia’s, she looked up at him, and listened to what he said. She turned to Fulvia.

‘What do you wish, Fulvia? What can you do for me? I mean, how long can we be together? And is this the best place? I can take you to my room at my friends’ if you like, where we can be alone.’

‘I think this is as good a place as any,’ said Fulvia, who now spoke English, with but little foreign intonation. ‘We can then arrange how to meet again. You are very kind, Mr. Riemann. I don’t think there is anything you can do for me. I ordered my carriage to be here at one. It can come, and wait, or Mrs. Hastings and I can leave whenever we like. I shall see you again to-night, I suppose? Good-morning.’

With a gracious bow of her head she dismissed him. Minna called after him.

‘Hans, you will come and see me. I’m staying at the Montons’, where you have been many a time. I shall be there about a week longer. Send me a line, and I will be at home when you come.’

‘Very well,’ said he, without the faintest trace of ungraciousness--definable, at any rate. For all the suavity of his manner, Minna knew that he was annoyed at the meeting. She, however, cared nothing for that. She smiled upon him. He lifted his hat, and saying ‘A rivederci’ went slowly out of the room.

‘Now, Fulvia, tell me something about yourself,’ said Minna, looking at her companion and stroking her hand.