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Page 25
The vigorous crying of the little boy as he rushed into his sister's
arms, evinced his safety, but there was a quiet about Malcom that was
terrifying.
He had succeeded in throwing the child beyond the reach of the car, but
had himself been struck by it, and consciousness was gone.
The little group, so happy a moment before, now hung over him in silent
fear and agony. Howard hastened back to get the carriage, and returned
to find Malcom slowly struggling to awaken, but when moved, he again
fainted; and so, lying in his uncle's arms, with his pale mother and
tearful Margery sitting in front, and the others, frightened and
sympathetic, hurrying behind, Malcom was brought home through the
wonderful sunset glow upon which not one bestowed a single thought.
Chapter VII.
A Startling Disclosure.
'_Tis even thus:
In that I live I love; because I love
I live: Whate'er is fountain to the one
Is fountain to the other._
--TENNYSON.
[Illustration: CLOISTER, MUSEUM OF SAN MARCO, FLORENCE.]
Many days of great distress followed. Everything else was forgotten in
the tense waiting. There were moments of half consciousness when
Malcom's only words were "All right, mother." It seemed as if even in
that second of plunging to save the child he yet thought of his mother,
and realized how she would feel his danger. But happily, as time wore
on, the jarred brain recovered from the severe shock it had received,
and gradually smiles took the place of anxious, questioning looks, and
merry voices were again heard, and the busy household life was resumed.
Although Malcom could not accompany them, the proposed visit to the old
monastery, San Marco, for study of Fra Angelico's paintings was made by
the others.
As they wandered through the long corridors, chapel, refectory, and the
many little cells, now vacant, from the walls of which look forth soft,
fair faces and still fresh, sweet colors laid there almost five hundred
years ago by the hand of the painter-monk, they talked of his devotion,
of his unselfish life and work; of his rejection of payment for his
painting, doing it unto God and not unto men. They talked of his
beginning all his work with prayer for inspiration, and how, in full
faith that his prayer had been answered, he absolutely refused to alter
a touch his brush had made; and of the old tradition that he never
painted Christ or the Virgin Mary save on his knees, nor a crucifixion
save through blinding tears; and their voices grew very quiet, and they
looked upon each fresco almost with reverence.
"Fra Angelico stood apart from the growth of art that was taking place
about him," said Mr. Sumner. "He neither affected it nor was affected by
it. We should call him to-day an 'ecstatic painter'--one who paints
visions; the Italians then called him 'Il Beato,' the blessed. There are
many other works by him,--although a great part, between forty and
fifty, are here. You remember the _Madonna and Child_ you saw in the
Uffizi Gallery the other day, on whose wide gold frame are painted those
angels with musical instruments that are reproduced so widely and sold
everywhere. You recognized them at once, I saw. Then, a few pictures
have been carried away and are in foreign art galleries, as I told you
the other day. During the last years of his life the Pope sent for him
to come to Rome, and there he painted frescoes on the walls of some
rooms in the Vatican Palace. From that city he went to Orvieto, a little
old city perched on the top of a hill on the way from Florence to Rome,
in whose cathedral he painted a noble _Christ_, with prophets, saints,
and angels. He died in Rome."
"And was he not buried here?" asked Barbara; "here in this lovely inner
court, where are the graves of so many monks?"
"No. He was buried in Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, a church close by the
Pantheon in Rome, and the Pope himself wrote his epitaph. But it is
indeed a great pity that he could not lie here, in the very midst of so
many of his works, and where he lived so long."
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