It was hard, we must allow, to see the shadow of a wintry sunset falling
upon a day that was to have been so bright, and to find himself just
where yesterday had left him, only with a sense of being drearily
balked, and defeated without an opportunity for struggle. So much had
been anticipated from these now vanished hours, that it seemed as if no
other day could bring back the same golden hopes.
In a case like this, it is doubtful whether Kenyon could have done a
much better thing than he actually did, by going to dine at the Cafe
Nuovo, and drinking a flask of Montefiascone; longing, the while, for a
beaker or two of Donatello's Sunshine. It would have been just the wine
to cure a lover's melancholy, by illuminating his heart with tender
light and warmth, and suggestions of undefined hopes, too ethereal for
his morbid humor to examine and reject them.
No decided improvement resulting from the draught of Montefiascone, he
went to the Teatro Argentino, and sat gloomily to see an Italian
comedy, which ought to have cheered him somewhat, being full of glancing
merriment, and effective over everybody's disabilities except his own.
The sculptor came out, however, before the close of the performance, as
disconsolate as he went in.
As he made his way through the complication of narrow streets, which
perplex that portion of the city, a carriage passed him. It was driven
rapidly, but not too fast for the light of a gas-lamp to flare upon a
face within--especially as it was bent forward, appearing to recognize
him, while a beckoning hand was protruded from the window. On his part,
Kenyon at once knew the face, and hastened to the carriage, which had
now stopped.
"Miriam! you in Rome?" he exclaimed "And your friends know nothing of
it?"
"Is all well with you?" she asked.
This inquiry, in the identical words which Donatello had so recently
addressed to him from beneath the penitent's mask, startled the
sculptor. Either the previous disquietude of his mind, or some tone in
Miriam's voice, or the unaccountableness of beholding her there at all,
made it seem ominous.
"All is well, I believe," answered he doubtfully. "I am aware of no
misfortune. Have you any to announce'?"
He looked still more earnestly at Miriam, and felt a dreamy uncertainty
whether it was really herself to whom he spoke. True; there were those
beautiful features, the contour of which he had studied too often, and
with a sculptor's accuracy of perception, to be in any doubt that it was
Miriam's identical face. But he was conscious of a change, the nature of
which he could not satisfactorily define; it might be merely her dress,
which, imperfect as the light was, he saw to be richer than the simple
garb that she had usually worn. The effect, he fancied, was partly owing
to a gem which she had on her bosom; not a diamond, but something that
glimmered with a clear, red lustre, like the stars in a southern sky.
Somehow or other, this colored light seemed an emanation of herself,
as if all that was passionate and glowing in her native disposition
had crystallized upon her breast, and were just now scintillating more
brilliantly than ever, in sympathy with some emotion of her heart.