LITMIR.BIZ

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old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy’s back-bone and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away.

      “You are a clever woman,” said Mr. Emerson. “You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe—”

      He paused for a phrase.

      “Niente,” said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers.

      “I’m not sure she understands English,” suggested Lucy.

      In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett’s civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms.

      “That woman understands everything,” was Mr. Emerson’s reply. “But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?”

      “No,” cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. “I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door—it is too bad!—she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself.”

      “Why shouldn’t you?” said Mr. Emerson.

      “Yes, why shouldn’t you come by yourself?” said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time.

      “But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker.”

      “Baedeker?” said Mr. Emerson. “I’m glad it’s THAT you minded. It’s worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT’S worth minding.”

      Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her.

      “If you’ve no Baedeker,” said the son, “you’d better join us.” Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity.

      “Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience.”

      “My dear,” said the old man gently, “I think that you are repeating what you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure.”

      Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one’s temper as it is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before replying.

      “I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are.”

      The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt like a child in school who had answered a question rightly.

      The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of them rose the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to worship Giotto, not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of the spirit.

      “Remember,” he was saying, “the facts about this church of Santa Croce; how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in these frescoes—now, unhappily, ruined by restoration—is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!”

      “No!” exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church. “Remember nothing of the sort! Built by faith indeed! That simply means the workmen weren’t paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I see no truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much as I do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air balloon.”

      He was referring to the fresco of the “Ascension of St. John.” Inside, the lecturer’s voice faltered, as well it might. The audience shifted uneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought not to be with these men; but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious and so strange that she could not remember how to behave.

      “Now, did this happen, or didn’t it? Yes or no?”

      George replied:

      “It happened like this, if it happened at all. I would rather go up to heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I should like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do here.”

      “You will never go up,” said his father. “You and I, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear as surely as our work survives.”

      “Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all.”

      “Pardon me,” said a frigid voice. “The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer.”

      The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini—Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan.

      “Stop!” cried Mr. Emerson. “There’s plenty of room for us all. Stop!”

      The procession disappeared without a word.

      Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.

      “George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate.”

      George went into the next chapel and returned, saying “Perhaps he is. I don’t remember.”

      “Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It’s that Mr. Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn’t I better? Then perhaps he will come back.”

      “He will not come back,” said George.

      But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also.

      “My father has that effect on nearly everyone,” he informed her. “He will try to be kind.”

      “I hope we all try,” said she, smiling nervously.

      “Because we think it improves our characters. But he is kind to people because he loves them; and they find him out, and are offended, or frightened.”

      “How silly of them!” said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; “I think that a kind action done tactfully—”

      “Tact!”

      He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel. For a young man his face was rugged, and—until the shadows fell upon it—hard. Enshadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of acorns. Healthy and muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy that might only find solution in the night. The feeling soon passed; it was unlike

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