An Accomplished Gentleman

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BY JULIAN STUEGIS AUTHOR OF ' JOHN-A-DREAMS ' " With all good grace to grace a gentleman " WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON MDCCCLXXIX All Rights reserved CHAPTEE I. " Now, by tbe salt wave of the Mediterranean, a sweet touch, a quick venew of wit ! snip, snap, quick and home : — " " Even there," said the Contessa Belrotoli, " there are human hearts." She was speaking of Paris, whence she had but just returned with spring to her Venetian palace. "That is so true," murmured her hostess Lady Lappin with her soft contem plative air. These two ladies were firm friends, and it was owing to the devotion of his wife to the Italian lady that Sir Eupert Lappin had become tenant of the first floor of the capacious Palazzo Belrotoli. Lady Lappin had declared again and again that she could not live out of Venice, and so far was her husband from desiring her death, that he had hastened to secure a per manent residence in that wonderful city.

He found it very dull, but he was wont to proclaim its historical interest with amazing persistence and amiability. "There's nothing like it, you know," he would say; "and when one thinks of all that has happened, you know." Beyond this he did not often venture, but would cough a little and smile, and feel encouraged by the vague grandeur of his ideas. As a practical man he was sure that, if he must live in Venice, it was well to be tenant of the finest rooms in the famous Palazzo Belrotoli, and he was glad to enjoy the friendship of the family. It is true that he paid a price which, whispered out of doors, set markets bridges and gondola-stations gesticulating with amazement ; but then the Signor Conte, who had sometimes found it hard to pay both his own and his wife's debts, had written him a letter adorned with the longest and softest superlatives.

This representative of an ancient Venetian family never came to Venice, and had it been in his power, would have sold to the rich Englishman his palace with all his titles of nobility thrown in — nay, the entire city and the kingdom of united Italy to boot. But though he went so far as to offer the whole mansion for a royal sum, the Countess his wife, who protested that she adored her Venetians and who was not indifferent to the pleasure of thwarting her hus band, commanded Sir Eupert to decline. Thus it happened that the Contessa Belrotoli returned to Venice with the spring, and on a pleasant after noon swept down from the second to the first floor of her palace, guest of her sympathetic English friend, and eager to enjoy one of those delightful tea-parties which seemed to celebrate the union of English comfort with Italian art.

Chapter II

" Though for myself alone I would not be ambitious hi my wish To wish myself much better ; yet for you 1 would be trebled twenty times myself, A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich." Out on the broad lagoon rests the fairest of fair islands, scarce large enough for all the wealth of trees and shiubs and flowers, free from all hedge and barrier, and boasting but two buildings. The one is a long roomy shed, wherein the good Swiss cows find warmth and shelter ; the other is an old weather-beaten dwelling of doubtful aspect, fort ress, convent, or fishermen's haunt, still looking askance over the green with an ancient air of mystery, though holding nothing stranger than Hugo Deane and his family. Mr Deane liked the old house partly for its appearance of distinction, partly because it was cheap and he could not bear B to be harassed by daily questions of expense, and partly because he thought it necessary to be close to Venice.

He might any day have to consult the archives for the furtherance of his great work. It had been long known to several literary persons that Mr Deane was at work on a history of Venice — a comprehensive history beginning with the first flight of fugitives who settled like sea-birds on the water, and ending with the final departure of the Austrian band from the Piazza di San Marco. Such a history political social and artistic would doubtless occupy a considerable period in the making. Meanwhile Mr Deane worked in a de lightful room into which the sun could be ad mitted at any hour of the day. There he might sit and let his eyes rest on the long leaves of oleander and on brighter bay; on the fair waters beyond ever changing and ever beautiful ; and far away on the Campanile of San Giorgio, which rising slender into the diviner air might likewise raise heavenward the author's thoughts.

But Hu^o Deane was not only a maker of history. He was himself a man with a history, as women were apt to guess ; and the facts therein recorded were safe from the attacks of the most learned and trucu lent critic. He went for them to his own memory, and not to dusty parchments. He had lived and loved ; and was now writing history. The chief events of his past life may be quickly enumer ated. He was the only son of poor but fashion able parents, and second cousin of the late Lord Cheepyre, who moreover had been always on the best of terms with the Deane family. At school the young Hugo had been in no way remarkable. He appeared to his companions a quiet, gentleman like fellow: he valued himself a little on his superior refinement. At Oxford he learned to value himself more highly on his judgment and taste.

He could not conceal from himself that he was more quickly intelligent than his fellows, more keenly sensitive to elegance. He picked up a great many books of all sorts, perceived the tendency of each, and classified them readily. At this period of his life he wrote a good deal of verse, which never offended against good taste, and which he rarely could be induced to show. He cultivated sentiment up to a certain point ; indeed he cultivated all his powers, but no one in excess. An elderly politician whom he met at his father's house only expressed the general belief when he, as it were, pigeon-holed young Deane as a remarkably well-informed young man. So judicious a youth was bound to make a mark in the world ; the only question was as to the particular nature of the mark. He thought that he should probably be something out of the common ; and when he was abruptly called upon to choose a career, he shrank from so common place a proceeding.

All the other young men about him were choosing careers. He was sure that there ought to be a difference. He felt a distaste for the trickery of diplomacy and the clumsiness of blue-books. Besides he saw clearly that as a diplomatist he would be hampered by insufficient money. The same vulgar insufficiency would hinder him as a politician ; besides English politics were distressingly insular and far less interesting than Continental. He preferred the scientific examination of the International So ciety, the Papal Policy, the Neo - Catholic, the Neo - Pagan, the Panslavist, the Panteuton, the Panmelast. He turned coldly too from the noisy struggle of lawyers ; still more coldly from the eager competition of the city. He was aware that his mechanism was too unusually fine for the calculation of profit and loss.

Indeed he preserved through life a peculiar dislike of busi ness, and felt himself lowered for some time after looking at Ms private account. Hence, though he always shrank from extravagance, his affairs were always a little confused. He was somewhat vexed by his indulgent parents' suggestion of divers occupations which seemed to them fitting, and so took leave of them for a while, and went abroad with the vague expectation of further cul tivation. Once in foreign parts, he fully justi fied his course in his parents' eyes by wooing and winning an English girl young beautiful, and with a fair claim to be considered an heiress. He loved her with as much love as so well-balanced a character could possibly feel. She took him with en tire love and trust at his own value ; and she was very happy.

She was complete mistress of that sweet feminine logic, which says, " I love him : therefore he is right." Clear-sighted enough in her view of others, she saw him through a mist of tender tears greater than he was. She bowed before her Ahasuerus ; she believed in his glory, and could wait for his recognition by the world. She had a child - like faith in the history of Venice. On his side, he was never so ardent as in these first days of his married life. His wife inspired him with a feeling which was almost enthusiasm. He would not suffer himself to doubt the successful completion of his great work. It was time to be done with secret verse making, fragments of criticism, records of observation. He had read a hundred biographies, and was well aware of the normal course of emi nent literary men.

These chosen spirits at a certain moment bid a touching farewell to the licence of boyhood, to the fugitive pieces light offspring of gaiety of heart, and concentrate their feelings and their thoughts into one purpose. So Mr Deane, once happily married, set about the process of concentration, and placed before him self with due solemnity an end to which his labours should be directed. He needed blue skies to cheer him, bright sun to warm his blood : he hated dust and noise. What more natural than that he should choose for his life's work the history of Venice ? There was plenty of time, for he had concentrated his powers at an earlier age than most eminent men of letters. Life seemed long before him. And life seemed very long and fair to his beautiful young wife ; fairer still when her little daughter came to share her happiness.

And yet she died young. Her husband's studies led them to the monkish library of an obscure town, and kept them there too far into the summer. The pale delicate Hugo who very wisely kept close watch upon his health found that the place agreed with him amazingly, and never thought of asking about the strength of the young wife with the flushed brown face. She had always been well and strong ; and so she waited for him patiently, certain that the first change would put her right again. And so the change came. The fever came out of the fens at night, and she shivered at the touch. Per haps, as she lay dying, she saw more clearly the man whom she loved. It is certain that the most vivid among the earliest recollections of Cynthia Deane is the look of her mother, as she held her close and said, "My little daughter, you will be kind and good to the father, whatever happens."

She repeated "whatever happens" in a faint, sad voice ; and the little girl, looking at her with wondering eyes so like her own, lisped in answer that she would be very good to the padre. Then the beautiful young mother, whom the fever had left so weak, turned away her head to smile for the last time at the historian who was coming into the room. Mr Deane was amazed by the depth of his own grief. Unconsciously he had acquired a habit of leaning on his wife, of living with her life. He was thrown off his balance for a time. He could not bear the companionship of his little daughter, who looked so like her mother, but who asked support instead of giving it. In deed he never quite got over the feeling of annoy ance that the child was there in her mother's place. For a time he thought that his strength was de parted.

Then little by little his good sense re asserted itself. He had the best authority for believing that there was no cure like work. He found solace in notes and abstracts, in a dignified demeanour under sorrow. He was an interesting figure at this time. Deep black gave a greater air of distinction to the pale elegant head ; he was so sad so studious and so young. It is no wonder that many women felt the pathos of his situation, and petted his little motherless child. But he was sternly true to his work. It was terribly dull without the enthusiasm and belief which had supported him. He feared those moments, which seemed to grow more frequent, those moments in which he distrusted his powers ; he needed a trust ing presence on which to repose. He declared to himself that the little Cynthia cared more for her doll than her father : and indeed she was intensely devoted to that Italian doll with the bold beady eyes and the contadina's apron.

On one of his visits to England he carried the child to Cheap stowe, where the Dowager Lady Cheepyre kept house for her little son. Lady Cheepyre was de lighted with the little girl who lisped in Italian ; with the contadina doll and the contadina nurse who brought a picturesque element into the com monplace English park. From that time Cynthia passed a great part of her young life at Cheapstowe — a quiet happy life. One day, when she was staying there with her governess, she heard with amazement that her father was about to marry again. It had never occurred to her that it was possible for him to take another wife : but she accepted the fact quietly enough. Mr Deane had prepared himself to rebuke her for selfish disapproval ; when he heard of her calm acquiescence he blamed her for deficiency of feeling.

And yet he told himself that he was marry ing mainly for his child's sake. Mr Hugo Deane not only wished things to suit his convenience, but also would by no means forego the crowning luxury of self-sacrifice. When he bestowed his hand on the meek Miss Milvain, who attended him with sympathy and burnt her humble incense before his genius, he found the very prize which he wanted. and was not sorry that many ladies were sure that he was throwing himself away. "It is for our child," he murmured regarding tenderly the minia ture of his first wife, and he more than half believed it. So he raised a second and more faded Esther to the royal seat ; and betook himself with renewed zest to the history of Venice. Cynthia acquiesced in the marriage ; and when in process of time her little brother was born, her acquiescence was warmed into gladness.

Mariuccia the doll was deposed in favour of Master Fabian. Mrs Deane was obliged to be chary of her attentions to her pretty delicate-looking boy, because her husband was a little jealous of her devotion, which had become necessary for himself and for his work. She was a proud woman when on rare occasions he pressed her hand, and said, " You help me, Sara mia." He did not like the name Sarah as pro nounced in the English manner. "We must not spoil the boy," he said to her ; " we must learn to control our affections for his sake." The little Fabian was happy enough on his enchanted island. Old Eosa the wrinkled toothless but joyous old woman of the house sang to him in her high cracked voice, danced for him though her bones ached, and payed him the most extravagant com pliments. His nurse Vittoria, for all her laziness, would have gone through fire and water for her little prince.

He could get anything from his sister. All these women loved him dearly, and though he teased them from morning till night, he was fond of them. But he lavished his greatest affection on the little dog Cecco, who did not care a button about him. Cecco was undeniably super cilious, and spent most of his time in eluding his young master. " Cecco ! Cecco ! " cried Master Fabian tumbling out into the happy morning air, which set his bright light hair flying. Cecco, who was just round the corner, pricked an ear and trotted off silently with a very high action of his little silky paws. He was bent on a private inquiry into some vastly important matter. " Fabian ! little prince ! little bad one ! " cried the nurse Vittoria coming slowly in pursuit. Old Eosa seized the occasion for dropping work, and came nimbly out to help, or at least to talk.

She indulged freely in talk and expressive pantomime. Out of an open window came the sound of a piano sweetly and slowly played. " How she makes the music, the little daughter ! " exclaimed old Eosa cutting a caper to the sound. Vittoria nodded acquiescence and stopped to listen, straightway forgetting her pursuit. Cynthia, with her thoughts only half busy with her playing, was recalling old melodies and smiling to herself. The day was lovely and full of tender influences. Up in his spacious study Mr Hugo Deane laid down his pen and allowed some troubled lines to appear on his forehead. He would not complain ; but his wife, who was accustomed to read his face, laid aside her knitting and went softly down-stairs. " Cynthia, dear," she said, " your father is very busy. I think he is a little disturbed by the music.

Would you mind, dear ? " Cynthia nodded gravely, and closed the piano. She strolled out through the window and half closed her eyes as they met the delicious air. Surely it was the loveliest of Venetian springs. Her stepmother looked after her with her expression of distress intensified. " What a pity she does not think more of others ! " she muttered shaking her meek head. Then she went back to her lord with a sigh and a keen feeling of self-reproach. Mrs Deane was always ready to blame herself for matters entirely beyond her control. Even if a day did not fulfil its early promise of fine weather, this lady felt guilty and could not meet the eye of her Hugo, who was peculiarly sensitive to atmos pheric influences. " Cynthia never thinks of anybody but her self," said the historian fretfully, as his wife re joined him. Had her cousin Stephen Aylward been present, he would have said to himself with his ready mocking criticism, that Cynthia nevei thought at all.

Chapter III

" Yet I remember when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night Only for wantonness." Stephen Aylwaed came away from Lady Lappin's tea-party with a pleasant sense of success. His unusual warmth and flow of words had not been wasted. He had got his way, as he generally con trived to get it in his dealings with Mr Andrew Fernlyn ; and it was settled that Philip Lamond, friend and companion of his boyhood, was to be taught to paint and to be cured of his love-sickness by a single course of treatment. Stephen smiled a little, and called himself a fool for interfering in his friend's common experience. " Most people go through it like the measles," he said to himself. Mr Bonamy Playdell, who gave him a lift home ward in his gondola, had never been through it, though he was sentimental enough, especially after Lady Lappin's muffins.

He lay at his full length, which was not great, and in an attitude which only a tendency to corpulence prevented from being supremely graceful. " A wonderful woman," said Mr Playdell softly, waving his hand backward at the Palazzo Belro toli. " I could tell you a story," and his mouth curled with satisfaction. He had never been in love himself, but he warmed himself at other people's love affairs. He paused, and slightly smacked his lips. "Do you know about Tiri bomba and '59 ? " and Bonamy launched himself gently on his anecdote. Stephen, who knew the story, sat rather stiffly on his side of the gondola and regarded his com panion with an air of amusement and distress. He was vexed with himself for being so intensely amused with all these people, who were so kind to him. Bonamy moreover gave him peculiar shocks and almost disgusted him with ease.

Too much of the little gentleman's society, he some times thought, would drive him to African explora tion or Abyssinian lion-hunting. When the boat stopped lightly at his steps, the young man went quickly ashore, avoiding his com rade's fat hand while he thanked him for his kindness. Then, when the little gentleman had been wafted round the corner lazily waving his farewell, Stephen ran up-stairs to his big bare rooms at the top of the house. Big and bare they looked when the sunshine was not in them, but very neat. Stephen could not bear disorder. He was one of those rare men who are light-fingered and who never try to do two things at once. The common man, while his eyes follow his right hand, will with his left grope blindly on a crowded mantel piece and at the same time send his great foot sprawling to the rear in search of a footstool.

But Stephen Aylward was a man who would put down one thing before he touched the other; who dis liked all sprawling movements ; who held it no waste of time to put things straight ; who had even tucked in chintzes with no loss of manliness. The books in his room were in fair order. Everything was in its place, and an extraordinary cleanliness bore witness to the fact that the young Englishman was not ashamed to supplement the labours of the Italian housemaid. Even the tools of the painter, which are in their nature untidy, had an air of neatness. After a careful review of his surroundings, Stephen busied himself in making the sitting room more cheerful. He made a small fire of wood, more for the eye than for heat, though the nights were still rather cold. He cleared one of the tables and covered it with a clean but rough cloth, for to-night he had ordered a supper from the trat toria.

There is a magic in the word supper, in formal Bohemian fantastic. Friendship, love, wine, wit, folly ; and the cheaper the more distracting. A supper in Venice ! He sat still and waited. There was no light save the flicker of the fire. He sat still with his faint smile frequent on his lips, musing and remembering. He recalled the early days of his friendship for Philip Lamond, a thousand memories which came back with phantom pictures of old school-buildings and fair elm-trees, the sparkling of summer waters, and with old sweet perfumes more real than pictures. He smiled again at his first amazement at Philip's impulse and craze for confession. How often he had listened, while the other boy poured out all his hopes fears and thoughts, and assured him eagerly once more that he could not speak like that to any one but him.

So Stephen sat looking at the flame, mocking himself a little for the freshness of his feelings ; but his heart was very tender though he smiled, as he awaited his friend with the blighted hopes. At last the hopeless one arrived. c Stephen heard the boatman's cry as he turned out of the Grand Canal, a slight grating of the worn marble steps plainly audible in the still evening air, the moving of luggage, a well-known voice, a well-known step ; and there was Philip once more before him. They had never sworn eternal friendship, and they did not rush into each other's arms. " Well, old fellow ? " said Stephen rather shyly. Philip was but little hindered by insular shyness. "Well?" he asked in turn, as he wrung his friend's hand with almost painful intensity, and then, "Have you got anything for me to eat?"

This was reassuring. The new-comer looked remarkably well. There was no grey visible in his thick brown hair ; there was colour in his sunburnt cheeks; he looked stout and strong; and he was evidently hungry. The fire was stirred to greater brightness ; the burnished lamp was lit, a pair of extra candles were brought forth in honour of the guest. Then supper came, and Philip began to eat and drink and to laugh at his friend. "Neat housewife as ever," he said. Then he went back, as he was apt to do at a new meeting, to early days, revived old jokes and young laughter, summoned former friends each with some well-worn character istic anecdote, asked questions and did not wait for the answers. Philip had journeyed with all possible speed from England, and seemed to have shaken off his troubles by the way.

"Stephen, do you remember when I first knew you, a little prim-faced fastidious wretch ? Why I liked you will always remain a mystery." " I was somebody to pour confidences into," said Stephen, who disliked to be the subject of conver sation. "You were always nearly suffocated by your own plans and feelings." " I suppose I was like that then." " Then ! " exclaimed Stephen softly, and smiled. "I suppose I was rather a frantic animal. Do you remember " — and straightway he was launched once more on the flood of his young experiences. It was an intense pleasure to pour out once more all his thoughts and feelings to his chosen friend — the friend who had always charmed and irritated him by his reserve. He drank the light Italian wine, stirred the old log to sparks with his boot, and talked and laughed, forgetful of his broken heart.

Venice and friendship were enough for him that night. Without were crowding memories, innu merable possibilities, and all the beauties of the passing hour; within was the best friend in the world. His feelings were at last too much for mere speech, and his pleasant barytone came to his relief. As he sang the verse of an old song, he got up, strolled to the window, and opened it. His voice sank to silence before the witchery of the hour. The little balcony was high up in the air ; com mon crowded roofs and peaks and bits of wall and quaint flower -like chimneys were bathed in one wide moonlight — a fairy city amid mysterious shadows, born of air and water. Philip gave a great sigh, and as he sighed remembered his sorrow. He felt the need of love which had been denied him. He pitied himself that he must do without this good thing.

There were tears in his eyes as at last he turned from the window ; but he smiled as he saw that Stephen had fallen peace fully asleep with his feet outstretched to the wood fire. After a few days of close . companionship Stephen arrived at the conclusion that his friend was certainly more melancholy than he ought to be. To the world at large Mr Lamond had always seemed incapable of melancholy; but it might be more truly said that he was melancholy every other minute. Light and shade flicker and glimmer and melt to gether under a beech-tree in summer, but the whole effect is happy. But heretofore Philip had never been sorrowful. Now he seemed at times a victim of positive depression. Stephen looked at him for the accustomed burst of declamation, and some times looked in vain. It was almost alarming to see him sit still for more than ten minutes and do nothing.

He stared before him with his hands in his pockets and his under lip thrust out. Of course he made no secret of his feelings. He repeated to Stephen the story of his woes, which he had pre viously written at length. He launched fierce epigrams against coquetry. When his friend was sarcastic at the lady's expense, he defended her with excessive ardour. Stephen was pleased to be cynical about women. He sometimes briefly asserted that the sexes were naturally antagonistic. " They can't be themselves when men are about," he said. " She played a comedy with you, old man —they all do." " Nothing of the sort," said Philip hotly. A few moments passed and he himself burst forth in de nunciation. " Men are only natural with men, and women with women. Together they must play comedy — or tragedy. Just look at that tedious old comedy, Married Life.

The woman goes on contentedly playing it — it's her second nature. Even clever women don't see through it ; they are like children, and are happy making believe ; she permits herself for ever the same little tempers and disappointments, out of which she expects to be argued ; the same little exaggerations and mis representations, which she expects to be called upon to modify. She expects her husband to play this stale comedy daily, and to seem to believe in it. Pshaw ! He is sick of it." "And so," said Stephen, willing to humour him, " we have the common spectacle of charming child like wife and grumpy husband." "Pooh!" said Philip, shortly, "don't talk social essays. They are always stuff." " Well," said the other, calmly, " I am glad that you have escaped." " Escaped !" cried Philip, jumping up and strid ing about the room.