Mrs.HudsonOf Roderick, meanwhile, Rowland saw nothing; but he immediately went to Mrs.Hudson and assured her that her son was in even exceptionally good health and spirits.After this he called again on the two ladies from Northampton, but, as Roderick's absence continued, he was able neither to furnish nor to obtain much comfort.
Miss Garland's apprehensive face seemed to him an image of his own state of mind.He was profoundly depressed;he felt that there was a storm in the air, and he wished it would come, without more delay, and perform its ravages.
On the afternoon of the third day he went into Saint Peter's, his frequent resort whenever the outer world was disagreeable.
From a heart-ache to a Roman rain there were few importunate pains the great church did not help him to forget.
He had wandered there for half an hour, when he came upon a short figure, lurking in the shadow of one of the great piers.
He saw it was that of an artist, hastily transferring to his sketch-book a memento of some fleeting variation in the scenery of the basilica; and in a moment he perceived that the artist was little Sam Singleton.
Singleton pocketed his sketch-book with a guilty air, as if it cost his modesty a pang to be detected in this greedy culture of opportunity.
Rowland always enjoyed meeting him; talking with him, in these days, was as good as a wayside gush of clear, cold water, on a long, hot walk.
There was, perhaps, no drinking-vessel, and you had to apply your lips to some simple natural conduit; but the result was always a sense of extreme moral refreshment.On this occasion he mentally blessed the ingenuous little artist, and heard presently with keen regret that he was to leave Rome on the morrow.Singleton had come to bid farewell to Saint Peter's, and he was gathering a few supreme memories.
He had earned a purse-full of money, and he was meaning to take a summer's holiday; going to Switzerland, to Germany, to Paris.
In the autumn he was to return home; his family--composed, as Rowland knew, of a father who was cashier in a bank and five unmarried sisters, one of whom gave lyceum-lectures on woman's rights, the whole resident at Buffalo, New York--had been writing him peremptory letters and appealing to him as a son, brother, and fellow-citizen.He would have been grateful for another year in Rome, but what must be must be, and he had laid up treasure which, in Buffalo, would seem infinite.
They talked some time; Rowland hoped they might meet in Switzerland, and take a walk or two together.Singleton seemed to feel that Buffalo had marked him for her own; he was afraid he should not see Rome again for many a year.
"So you expect to live at Buffalo?" Rowland asked sympathetically.
"Well, it will depend upon the views--upon the attitude--of my family,"Singleton replied."Oh, I think I shall get on; I think it can be done.
If I find it can be done, I shall really be quite proud of it; as an artist of course I mean, you know.Do you know I have some nine hundred sketches?
I shall live in my portfolio.And so long as one is not in Rome, pray what does it matter where one is? But how I shall envy all you Romans--you and Mr.Gloriani, and Mr.Hudson, especially!""Don't envy Hudson; he has nothing to envy."Singleton grinned at what he considered a harmless jest.
"Yes, he 's going to be the great man of our time!
And I say, Mr.Mallet, is n't it a mighty comfort that it 's we who have turned him out?""Between ourselves," said Rowland, "he has disappointed me."Singleton stared, open-mouthed."Dear me, what did you expect?""Truly," said Rowland to himself, "what did I expect?""I confess," cried Singleton, "I can't judge him rationally.
He fascinates me; he 's the sort of man one makes one's hero of.""Strictly speaking, he is not a hero," said Rowland.
Singleton looked intensely grave, and, with almost tearful eyes, "Is there anything amiss--anything out of the way, about him?"he timidly asked.Then, as Rowland hesitated to reply, he quickly added, "Please, if there is, don't tell me!
I want to know no evil of him, and I think I should hardly believe it.
In my memories of this Roman artist-life, he will be the central figure.
He will stand there in radiant relief, as beautiful and unspotted as one of his own statues!""Amen!" said Rowland, gravely.He remembered afresh that the sea is inhabited by big fishes and little, and that the latter often find their way down the throats of the former.Singleton was going to spend the afternoon in taking last looks at certain other places, and Rowland offered to join him on his sentimental circuit.
But as they were preparing to leave the church, he heard himself suddenly addressed from behind.Turning, he beheld a young woman whom he immediately recognized as Madame Grandoni's maid.
Her mistress was present, she said, and begged to confer with him before he departed.
This summons obliged Rowland to separate from Singleton, to whom he bade farewell.He followed the messenger, and presently found Madame Grandoni occupying a liberal area on the steps of the tribune, behind the great altar, where, spreading a shawl on the polished red marble, she had comfortably seated herself.
He expected that she had something especial to impart, and she lost no time in bringing forth her treasure.
"Don't shout very loud," she said, "remember that we are in church;there 's a limit to the noise one may make even in Saint Peter's.
Christina Light was married this morning to Prince Casamassima."Rowland did not shout at all; he gave a deep, short murmur:
"Married--this morning?"
"Married this morning, at seven o'clock, le plus tranquillement du monde, before three or four persons.The young couple left Rome an hour afterwards."For some moments this seemed to him really terrible; the dark little drama of which he had caught a glimpse had played itself out.
He had believed that Christina would resist; that she had succumbed was a proof that the pressure had been cruel.
