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Page 50
It had not seemed to him that he then saw the present Barbara, but that
which she was to be; and this future Barbara had no special connection
with the present one, save to awaken an interest that caused him to be
watchful of her. He had always recognized the charm of her
personality,--her frank enthusiasms, and her rich reserve; the wide
outlook and wise judgment of things unusual in one so young. But now he
began to observe other more intimate qualities,--the wealth of affection
bestowed on Bettina and the distant home; her tender regard to the
feelings of those about her; her quick resentment of any injustice; her
sturdy self-reliance; her sweet, unspoiled, unselfish nature; and her
longing for knowledge and all good gifts.
Then came Howard's death, and he realized how deeply she was moved. A
new look came often into her eyes, which he noted; a new tone into her
voice, which he heard. And yet he felt that the experience had not
touched the depths of her being.
While they were on the way from Florence to Rome he had rejoiced every
time he heard her voice ringing with the old merry tones, which showed
that she had for the moment forgotten all sad thoughts. When he was
ostensibly talking to all, he was often really talking only to Barbara,
and watching the expression of her eyes; and he always listened to catch
her first words when any new experience came to their party. He was
really fast getting into a dangerous condition, this young man nearly
thirty years old, but was as unconscious of it as a child.
At Perugia came the night struggle caused by Malcom's words; the dream,
and the morning meeting with Barbara. When his hand touched hers as he
put into them the roses, he felt again for an instant the electric
thrill that ran through him on the birthday night, when he met that
wonderful look in her eyes. It brought a feeling of possession, as if it
were the hand of his Margaret which he had touched,--Margaret, who was
so soon to have been his wife when death claimed her.
He tried to account for it. He was jealous for the beloved dead whose
words, whose ways, whose face had reigned supreme over his heart for so
many years, when he caught himself dwelling on Barbara's words,
recalling her tricks of tone, her individual ways.
He set himself resolutely to the task of overcoming this singular
tendency of his thought; and oh! how the little blind (but all-seeing)
god of love had been laughing at Robert Sumner all through the days
since they reached Rome.
Instead of driving and walking about with the others, he had zealously
set himself the task of calling at the studios of all his artist
friends; had visited exhibitions; had gone hither and thither by
himself; and yet every time had hastened home, though he would not admit
it to his own consciousness, in order that he might know where Barbara
was, what she was doing, and how she was feeling. He had busied himself
in fitting up a sky-lighted room for a studio, where he resolved to
spend many morning hours, forgetting all else save his beloved
occupation; and the very first time he sat before his easel a sketch of
Barbara's face grew out of the canvas. The harder he tried to put her
from his thoughts, the less could he do so, and he grew restless and
unhappy.
Another cause of troubled, agitated feeling was his decision to return
to America and there make his home. In this he had not faltered, but it
oppressed him. He loved this Italy, with her soft skies, her fair,
smiling vineyards and bold mountain backgrounds, her romantic legends,
and, above all, her art-treasures. He had taken her as his
foster-mother. Her atmosphere stimulated him to work in those directions
his heart loved best. How would it be when he should be back again in
his native land? He had fought his battle; duty had told him to go
there; and when she had sounded the call, there could be no retreat for
him. But love and longing and memory and fear all harassed him. He had
as yet said nothing of this to his sister, but it weighed on him
continually. Taken all in all, Robert Sumner's life, which had been
keyed to so even a pitch, and to which all discord had been a stranger
for so many years, was sadly jarred and out of tune.
Of course Mrs. Douglas's keen sisterly eyes could not be blind to the
fact that something was troubling her brother. And it was such an
unusual thing to see signs of so prolonged disturbance in him that she
became anxious to know the cause. Still she could not speak of it first.
Intimate as they were, the inner feelings of each were very sacred to
the other, and she must wait until he should choose to reveal all to
her.
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