Beyond These Voices. M. E. Braddon
guest his tea. He looked colossal as he stood beside the small wicker tea-table, and the fragile figure of the girl sitting there, in her dark blue serge frock, a frock two years old, from a cheap tailor.
Lady Felicia had a convenient theory, that the intrinsic value of clothes hardly mattered. It was the putting on that was the consequence; and this philosophy, severely instilled into Vera's growing mind, had certainly resulted in an exquisite neatness that went some way to prove the truth of the theory.
In answer to friendly inquiries, Signor Provana told Lady Felicia that he was staying at the "Metropole," and might possibly take another week of quiet rest before he went back to Rome, where he was to spend the winter.
"Rome and London are my two counting-houses," he said; "and I have to divide my life between the two cities, with an occasional fortnight in New York, where I have offices, and an American partner."
"How you must hate London after Rome," said Vera.
"You know Rome?"
"Only in books—Byron—and Corinne."
"Corinne sounds very old-fashioned," Grannie apologised, "but Vera has been brought up by an old woman, and has had to put up with an old woman's books. Vera and I can just afford to live, but we can't afford to buy things we don't want."
Vera blushed hotly at this remark. She thought Grannie talked too much about her poverty. It seemed quite as bad form as if Signor Provana had expatiated upon his wealth.
Nothing could exceed Grannie's graciousness. Yes, of course, Provana was to call the child Vera. "Miss Davis" would be absurdly formal.
"Even if Davis were not such a horribly commonplace name," added Grannie, at which Vera protested that she had never been ashamed of her father's name.
"An utterly ridiculous name for a poet!" And then Grannie went on to lament that Signor Provana should think of going back to Rome in a week. "But in that case I hope you will be charitable, and take tea with me every afternoon."
She said "with me," not "with us"—ignoring the child.
Her hours were so long and so dull, she complained, and she loved conversation; to hear about, and talk about, everything that was going on in the world; the political and the social, the scientific and the literary world. Art, letters, everything interested her; and she had only such driblets of news as Dr. Wilmot could bring her.
"The man is fairly intelligent, but oh, so narrow," she complained.
"It will be an act of real benevolence if you will drop in at tea-time," urged Grannie, when Provana was taking leave.
He promised to be benevolent, to take tea with Grannie every afternoon, if so dull a person's company could give her any pleasure. He knew no one at San Marco, wanted to know no one. He had come there only to be near his daughter for a little while, just a short spell of thought and rest.
"If I had been a good Catholic, I should have gone into retreat at the nearest monastery," he said; "but my religion is too vague and shadowy for such discipline; so I just wander about among the woods and hills, and think, and remember."
The profound melancholy with which those words were spoken convinced Grannie that, although his sorrow was half a year old, it was still an absorbing grief, and that she must be prepared to take him seriously.
Vera felt a certain shyness about going to the spot where so many of her afternoons had been spent. Signor Provana might be there before her, and she would seem to intrude upon his sorrow. He had told them why he had come to San Marco. He must want to be alone with sad thoughts and cherished memories.
She took last year's dull walk on the parade, and met several of her hotel acquaintances, one of whom, no less a personage than Lady Jones, stopped to talk.
"I hear you had a visitor yesterday afternoon," she said; "the Italian millionaire. Miss Mason saw him leave the hotel after dark. He must have stopped with her ladyship quite a long time."
Lady Jones always talked of Grannie as her ladyship.
"I hope he has got over the loss of his daughter."
"In six months!" cried Vera. "How could you suppose such a thing!"
"Men's grief never lasts very long, not even a widower's," said Lady Jones; "and I've always noticed that the more a widower wants to throw himself into his wife's grave at the funeral, the sooner he begins to think about marrying again. And from the fuss Signor Provana made over his daughter, I should have expected six months would have been long enough to make him forget her."
"I don't think he is that kind of man," Vera said gravely, trying to move away; but Lady Jones detained her.
"What's your hurry?" she asked. "You must find it awfully dull walking alone every afternoon."
"I rather like being alone—if I can have a book," Vera answered, glancing at the little volume under her arm, and thinking how far the charm of solitude surpassed Lady Jones's conversation.
"Well, I'll walk a little way with you," said that lady, with exasperating patronage. "I don't like to see a young girl leading such a dull life. Why don't you never come down to the drawing-room of an evening?"
"I don't want to leave Grannie."
"You'd find us quite gay after your solitary salong. Two bridge tables, and besique, and sometimes even games, How, when, and where, and Consequences."
"I hate cards, and I like books better than society," Vera answered frankly.
"Well, you are an oddity. But you seem to have a high opinion of this Italian gentleman."
"No one could help liking Signor Provana after seeing him with his daughter—and I was a good deal with them."
"Yes, driving out with them on all the most expensive excursions. They quite took you up, didn't they? And it must have been very nice for you to go about in such a luxurious way after being cooped up with Gran'ma."
"They were very kind."
"He's a fine-looking man," said Lady Jones thoughtfully. "Not what anyone could call handsome; but a fine figure, and carries himself well. I suppose he has been in the Army. Most of these foreigners have to do a bit of soldiering in their young days."
They were at the end of the parade, and Vera stopped, and held out her hand to her insistent companion.
"Aren't you coming back?" asked Lady Jones.
"Not yet. I shall sit here and read for a little while."
"Don't you go and get a chill and make her ladyship angry with you. She won't like Dr. Wilmot's coming every day, or twice a day if he can find an excuse for it—as he did when I had my influenzer. But, of course, he knew I could afford to pay him. Well, O revore, dear," and the portly form that had been blocking out the western glow over the promontory of Bordighera slowly removed itself.
Vera was not destined to be alone that afternoon. She had not read three pages when a tall figure came between her and the light, and she rose hastily to acknowledge Signor Provana's greeting.
"It is too near sunset for you to be sitting there," he said. "Will you walk a little way with me—until five o'clock?"
Vera shut her book, and they walked on slowly and in silence to the gate of the cemetery, and still in silence till they stood by the white tomb.
There were flowers lying upon the slab, choice flowers, in their first freshness; and Vera thought that Provana had laid them there that afternoon.
They stood beside the tomb for some minutes, till the chapel clock struck the quarter before five, and no word was spoken till they were going back to the gate. Then Provana began to talk of his daughter, opening his heart to the girl she had loved.
He talked of her childhood, of her education, the bright, eager mind that made learning a delight, the keen interest in all that was most worthy to be admired, the innate appreciation of all that was best in literature and art, her love of music, and of the beautiful