Night was just fading from the Alpine heights that girdle the quaint old town of Rivoli in the canton of Ticino. Two men, issuing from the entrance of a chalet perched like an eagle's nest on the jutting crag of a mountain far above the valley, paused to admire the grandeur of the scene. These persons were my uncle and myself, and we had risen at this early hour in order to witness that most beautiful of sights in Switzerland, sunrise. From the terrace of the chalet we watched the dim Alpine panorama gradually emerge from the shadowy reign of night. Silent and majestic from out the dark "sea of pines" the mountains arose to view, their icy peaks glittering with rosy-tinted hues in the soft, beautiful light that was now suffusing the sky.
 
"By Jove, what a glorious sight!" I exclaimed enthusiastically.
 
"Yes, for a poet or painter," replied my uncle, who, amid the loveliest scenery of Switzerland, sighed for the shady side of Pall Mall.
 
"That's a pretty little town down there," I continued, gazing at the spires of Rivoli. It lay at our feet in the valley beneath, so far down that it seemed like a toy city. "How the mountains seem to isolate it from the rest of the world! Rivoli? Rivoli?" I muttered. "I have never heard of the place before," [Pg 59]unconsciously telling a falsehood. "I suppose it's quite out of the track of the ordinary tourist?"
 
"Quite. We shall not see many specimens of that genus in the everlasting suit of grey tweed."
 
"What's that rough stone building to the right of us?" I said. "There! just by the cascade. A hermit's grotto?"
 
"Looks like it. A rather damp quarter for his saint-ship, eh? I suppose in this secluded part of Europe many hermits must have lived out their lonely days, and——"
 
He paused, stopped by the curious look on my face. "What is the matter, Frank?"
 
"Do you know that your last remark is singularly like an expression in George's letter of last Christmas?" and I repeated the passage, for every word of that epistle was engraved on my mind.
 
"Hum! so it is. A singular coincidence of language. 'Some secluded part of Europe,'" he added, quoting George's words. "It would be difficult to find a more secluded spot than Rivoli."
 
It was now August, and the object for which our tour had been undertaken—the removal of Daphne's grief—seemed to be accomplished. We had visited France, Spain and Italy. In the early days of our tour nothing could move her from the dull lethargy which had been her normal state since that ill-starred Christmas morning; but gradually, as week after week glided by, she began to take an interest, faint and languid enough at first, in the historic places through which we were passing, till at length she seemed to have become her old bright self once more. The colour had returned to her cheek and the smile to her lip. Whether this happier condition arose from a determination to forget her trouble and adapt herself to changed circumstances,[Pg 60] or whether it was due to the secret hope that George might yet return to her with his name cleared from the dark shadow resting on it, I could not decide; she never alluded to him, and on our part, my uncle and myself made it a point not to mention his name in her presence. She treated me with the same sweet familiar freedom as of old, so that I found it difficult to believe that for three years I had been exiled from her at Heidelberg.
 
During our tour I had never betrayed by word or by act the state of my feelings toward Daphne. Satisfied with the pleasure of daily companionship with her, I was quite content to bide my time patiently, and wait for some clear indication that George had passed—not from her memory, for that could never happen, but from her affections, before venturing to express for the second time the love I had never ceased to bear.
 
We had arrived at Rivoli only the preceding evening, and were staying at a chalet belonging to a Swiss gentleman who had let it to us for a month. He had left behind one member of his household to supplement our own servants—an agreeable, talkative old woman, who had received us with an effusive hospitality.
 
A light step now sounded on the terrace and Daphne's sweet voice greeted us.
 
"I shall not say good-morning, for you don't deserve it. Why didn't you call me earlier, papa, that I too might have seen the sun rise?"
 
Her father kissed her hands as though she were some princess.
 
"Because I knew you would be tired after the jolting of that horrible diligence yesterday," he said; "and so I let you rest. But you have no hat, and the mornings here are chilly."
 
[Pg 61]
 
I ran indoors, and returned with a heavy wrap which I drew round her head and neck.
 
"Well, Daphne," my uncle said, waving his hand towards the chalet, "what do you think of our home for the next month?"
 
"It is lovely," she said, moving backward from the house to survey it better. "Just the place to dream away a summer holiday in."
 
It was indeed as picturesque a structure as could be found on a day's march through Switzerland. It was composed of fir-wood painted red, and the pretty low gallery which ran completely round it, together with the projecting roof, was adorned with the richest carvings.
 
"I see," remarked my uncle, "that the piety of the architect has decorated the facade with Scriptural texts—a common custom about here, I have observed. All in Latin—from the Vulgate, I suppose. Now, Daphne, show us your scholarship by translating them. What does the word over the entrance mean?"
 
"Over the entrance?" said Daphne, turning her eyes upon the carved porch. "'Reveniet;' that means 'He shall return.'"
 
Only one Latin word, and yet it had the power to make me tremble! During our Continental tour I had been continually haunted by the idea that in the next city or castle, or cathedral or palace, or ruin or theatre visited by us we should come face to face with George—an issue fraught with peril to my love enterprise. Though I was unable to assign any definite reason for it, this opinion had gained strength since our arrival at Rivoli.
 
He shall return!
 
Yes; there in letters of gold, that gleamed like fire in the rays of the morning sun, was the startling [Pg 62]answer to the one question forever haunting my mind. A white cloud floating upwards from the valley at this juncture cast a cold shadow over us, and gave me an eerie sensation, as if George himself in ghostly form were passing by.
 
"He shall return!" repeated my uncle, in a vein of pleasantry that jarred on Daphne's feelings. "And who is it that shall return?"
 
"O papa! how can you? You know it refers to the millennium. I declare you and Frank are quite like two pagans! I don't believe you have entered a church for the purpose of worship since we first set foot on the Continent."
 
"Frank and I never go to church in Catholic countries. It's our way of showing our Protestantism."
 
Daphne turned from her irreverent parent, and became absorbed in the contemplation of the scenery.
 
"What peak is that to the left, Frank?"
 
"That," I replied, "is the Silver Horn of the Jungfrau."
 
And I proceeded to deliver a topographical lecture, interwoven with graceful legends and poetic quotations, specially prepared for this occasion on the previous night, in order that I might shine in Daphne's eyes as a hero of knowledge. A sudden exclamation from her, however, put a period to my eloquence.
 
"Who is this coming up the mountain-path? I have been watching him for a long time."
 
Whoever the person was, he ascended the mountain with the freedom of one to whom the path was perfectly familiar, selecting his way among the mossy boulders and grass-hidden pools without a moment's hesitation, and springing from crag to crag with the agility of a chamois-hunter.
 
[Pg 63]
 
"'Excelsior' evidently is his motto," said I. "Longfellow's young man, perhaps, 'mid snow and ice.'"
 
"Minus the 'banner with the strange device,'" returned my uncle. "Hanged if it isn't Il Divino! How comes he to be here?"
 
It was indeed the divine one, looking in the picturesque costume he was wearing more handsome and romantic than ever. A sombrero was slouched with easy negligence over his broad white brow, and a long cloak dropped gracefully from his shoulders. He had all the air of a man who, conscious of his personal charms, is determined to make the best use of them.
 
The look of pleasure that mantled Daphne's face had so disturbing an effect on my spirits that it was as much as I could do to treat the artist with ordinary civility.
 
"Angelo," cried my uncle after the first greetings were over, "I'm delighted to see you! But tell us how you came to be here, for I thought that outside of Switzerland few beside myself knew of the existence of this secluded valley."
 
"Rivoli the Beautiful is my native place," replied Angelo. Why had not Fate fixed his nativity at the sixth cataract of the Nile?
 
"I thought you were an Italian," I remarked frigidly.
 
"My parents were both Italians," replied the artist, "but I was born in that cottage;" and he pointed far down the valley to a tenement on which Daphne gazed with interest, while I, staring in a different direction, tried to catch a glimpse of a steel-blue lake through a veil of floating mist. "I have no parents nor any relations left. My old nurse still lives; and I make a point of visiting Rivoli each year to breathe the mountain air, and to see that the old dame does not want."
 
[Pg 64]
 
"A very pious and proper proceeding on your part," I remarked.
 
This was meant for sarcasm, but it did not seem to disturb the artist in the least. The look of disapproval on Daphne's face did not tend to tranquillise my mind.
 
"I arrived here only last night," Angelo continued, "and, hearing that a lady and two Englishmen had taken up their residence at the Chalet Varina, I guessed at once from the description who they were. I determined to call in the morning to present my compliments to Miss Leslie and her father"—he omitted me from his congratulations—"and to ask her to accept these flowers."
 
And with a graceful bow he presented to her a beautiful bouquet. I thought Daphne quite ridiculous in her admiration of it.
 
"O, how pretty!" she cried. "Thank you very much, Mr. Vasari. I am so fond of flowers. Smell how sweet they are, Frank." And she actually held the odious gift close to my nostrils for my appreciation. "Aren't they sweet?"
 
"Very," I said drily.
 
"Aren't these violets lovely, papa?" she said, appealing to her father for the appreciation she had failed to elicit from me.
 
"Purple," replied her republican parent, who was accustomed to spell king with a small k, and people with a capital p, "is my aversion, being the colour and emblem of tyrants and kings."
 
"How absurd you are, papa!" returned she. "What is your favorite colour, Mr. Vasari?"
 
"That which sparkles on the cheek of Beauty," replied the idiot, with his eyes fixed on my cousin's face. And certainly no colour could be more beautiful than Daphne's sweet blush at that moment, and my jealousy[Pg 65] redoubled toward the person who had called it forth. "Do you understand the language of flowers, Miss Leslie?"
 
"Only a very little; do you, Frank?"
 
"Not I," I answered curtly. "I consider it an absurd study, if you wish for my opinion."
 
"You must permit me to teach you," said Angelo to Daphne, completely ignoring my remark.
 
"I shall be very glad to learn," was the reply.
 
I gasped for breath. The fellow was actually making love to her before my very eyes! The cool assurance with which he spoke and the graceful serenity with which he ignored my presence were quite maddening. Here was I, who had been Daphne's sole companion for five months, completely thrown into the shade by a foreigner who had been in her presence only as many minutes.
 
"And so Rivoli is your native place," said Daphne. "Why, of course, I have heard you say so many a time. How stupid of me to have forgotten! I remember now to have seen a sketch of it in your portfolio. How lucky, papa, that you hit on this spot! You must be familiar, Mr. Vasari, with every stream and crag and cascade about here—with every turn and wind of this valley; you must serve us now and then in the capacity of guide."
 
"I shall esteem it an honour to do so," he returned.
 
Matters were growing worse. The lamp that had so long illumined Daphne's path was now under a bushel.
 
"Look at those wreaths of silvery mist floating across the valley!" said she.
 
"'As if some angels in their upward flight
Had left their mantles floating in mid-air,'"
said I. I quoted this to show that there were other[Pg 66] poetic souls in existence besides Angelo; but my quotation was lost on Daphne.
 
"And what a lovely violet hue those distant mountains have!" she continued. "I wonder, Mr. Vasari, you never tried to transfer this scene to canvas."
 
"Canvas? Ah, that reminds me," said my uncle. "I have been very remiss in not complimenting you upon the success of your picture. We shall yet have the Pope requesting your aid in adorning the Vatican with painted frescoes. I understand that your 'Fall of C?sar' is the picture of Paris this season."
 
This allusion did not seem pleasing to the artist, for a peculiar expression darkened his face for a moment, like the transient sweeping of a shadow over a sunny landscape.
 
"It is true," he murmured, with real or simulant modesty, "that my picture has been very much admired. It was exhibited one day; the next, my name was in all the newspapers. Like Byron I woke up one morning to find myself famous. I have realized a considerable sum of money by exhibiting the picture, and as a consequence have become courted by people who discover virtues in me now they never perceived before."
 
"'Give me gold, and by that rule
Who will say I am a fool?'"
murmured my uncle. "Just so. Gold is a lamp that lights up virtues that without it are unseen."
 
I regret to say that I did not view Angelo with any more favour for his rising reputation as an artist, and Daphne's evident delight at his success added fresh fuel to my smouldering jealousy.
 
"What, Mr. Vasari! Have you painted a picture that is creating a sensation at Paris? Why did you[Pg 67] not tell of this before, papa? This is the first that Frank and I have heard of it."
 
It was, but it was far from being the last we were to hear of the artist's memorable masterpiece.
 
"Well, you see," my uncle replied apologetically, "I did not know it myself till last night, when I saw it in the Standard. You were asleep at the time, and I take it you didn't want me to call you out of bed to tell you of it."
 
At the mention of the word Standard, there appeared on the artist's face the same peculiar expression that I had previously noticed.
 
"Standard, Standard!" he muttered reflectively. "Why, that's the—" He stopped, and added abruptly, "Do you have the Standard sent to you?"
 
"It has been sent to me. Why?"
 
"O, nothing, nothing," replied Angelo; "nothing at all. It's a—a Conservative journal, and I know—at least, I believe—you're a Radical."
 
"A Radical. Noble profession!" responded my uncle.
 
"Yes; that's all it is—profession!" laughed Daphne, whose political ideals differed from those of her father.
 
"The Standard is not my paper, as you very well know," said my uncle, grandly ignoring his daughter's remark. "It's the butler's fault that it is here. I wrote telling him to forward to Rivoli a file of newspapers for June and July. As I forgot to specify what paper, the rascal has sent me the Standard."
 
"For, being a good old Tory," said Daphne, "he thought it well to administer an antidote to your Radicalism. I think his act deserves commendation."
 
"June and July," muttered Angelo. "What did you think of the critique on my picture?"
 
"Didn't know there was a critique on it. In fact,[Pg 68] I haven't read the papers yet. I was simply untying the parcel last night, when my eye was caught by a paragraph to the effect that 'Intending visitors to Paris should not fail to visit the Vasari Art Gallery, and view Vasari's magnificent production, "The Fall of C?sar," the great picture of the year, already visited by—' I forget how many thousand persons."
 
Angelo smiled.
 
"That is my agent's advertisement. Yes, the number of persons to see it has been enormous. You haven't read, then, the criticism on it in the issue of July 2nd?"
 
"That's a pleasure I have in store."
 
"Nor Mr. Willard?" he added, turning to me.
 
"Not yet. I may read it," I replied, as if the act would be one of magnificent condescension on my part, whereas, if the truth must be told, I was inwardly burning to peruse the article in question.
 
"A—ah!"
 
And the prolonging of this little syllable was marked by a decided tone of satisfaction.
 
"And have you really made a great name?" said Daphne, looking admiringly at the artist. "I am so glad! I always knew your efforts would meet with success. But tell me all about your picture. What is the subject?"
 
"The 'Fall of C?sar.' It represents the hero, as we may suppose him to have been a few minutes after his death, lying at the base of Pompey's statue. There are no other figures in the picture besides the two I have mentioned, C?sar and Pompey. Some columns in the background complete the scene. It is a very simple tableau, and no one has been more surprised than myself at the encomiums that have been lavished upon it."
 
"Did the work take you long?"
 
[Pg 69]
 
"The actual canvas-work—no; the elaboration of the idea which led to the work—yes; for it has been the outcome of a lifetime of thought." He spoke with all the air of an octogenarian. "I began the work about a year ago, a year this autumn, and finished it last—last Christmas," he hesitated at the word, as if reluctant to renew Daphne's sad memories, "and exhibited it at Paris in the beginning of spring."
 
"At Paris? We were at Paris in the beginning of spring. It is strange we should have missed you."
 
"When did you leave Paris?"
 
"March 31st—wasn't it, Frank?"
 
"Ah! we—" he stopped to change the plural pronoun to the singular, but, rapid as the correction was, it did not escape my notice—"I did not arrive in Paris till April 1st."
 
"The very day after we left. How odd! But why did you exhibit your picture in Paris, and not in London?"
 
"A prophet hath no honour in his own country," replied Angelo. "I think I may speak of England as my country, from the length of time I have lived in it. London has disappointed me so often that I resolved to try Paris this year. So I hired a gallery, and exhibited 'The Fall of C?sar,' with some other pictorial compositions of mine. The people of Paris seem more appreciative of my talent—if I may be pardoned for using the word—than the Londoners."
 
"I have always considered the French a superficial people," I interjected.
 
"Oh no, they are not," returned the artist quietly.
 
"Of course they are not? How can you say so?" said Daphne, defending the artist with more warmth than was pleasant to me. "We must see your picture, Mr. Vasari, when we come to Paris."
 
[Pg 70]
 
"I am afraid it is impossible for you to see it, Miss Leslie," he replied, "unless you are acquainted with the Baron de Argandarez, an old hidalgo of Aragon. He purchased it from me for a sum far surpassing my wildest expectations. It now adorns the walls of his ancestral castle, and I have no more to do with it."
 
"Oh, what a pity!" cried Daphne, in a tone of sincere regret. "I am disappointed. Why, it seems as if, after achieving a brilliant success, you are determined that your best friends shall not share in your triumph!"
 
"Yes," chimed in my uncle, "you are not very patriotic towards your adopted country, Angelo, in letting Spain carry off the great masterpiece. Now if you had let me see it, I might have exceeded the Baron's price."
 
"O papa, cannot you write to the Baron What's-his-name and offer him double the price he paid for it? Perhaps he might be induced to part with it."
 
"We'll see, little woman. It's your birthday in a month's time. How would you like it as a birthday gift?"
 
Daphne expressed her delight at the idea, and, turning to the artist, said:
 
"Haven't you any photograph or engraving of your picture to give us some notion of what it's like?"
 
Angelo shook his head.
 
"I would not permit any one to make an engraving. The engraver would but misrepresent my art. What engraving can ever realise the beauty, the finish, the colouring of an original oil painting?"
 
"I prefer engravings to oils," said I.
 
"Probably; but then you're not a judge of art, you see," replied Angelo coolly.
 
"I suppose your success has brought you many [Pg 71]orders for pictures?" said my uncle, interposing quickly in the interests of harmony.
 
"Very many. An English baronet has employed me to paint him a picture on any subject I choose, paying me half the price in advance."
 
"And what subject have you chosen?" asked Daphne.
 
"'Modesta, the Christian Martyr,' is the title of my new work, but I am delayed somewhat by the want of a suitable model."
 
"'Fall of C?sar,' 'Christian Martyr,'" murmured my uncle. "You seem fond of death-scenes."
 
"Yes, I have discovered wherein my talent lies. My pencil is better adapted to illustrate repose than motion. Hitherto I have attempted to portray action, and failed. Now, still-life is my study."
 
"Well, I hope your next picture will become as famous as the last," said Daphne, "and that you will let us have a glimpse of it before parting with it."
 
"If you care to view a minor performance of mine," said Angelo, "visit the cathedral at Rivoli. It contains a Madonna painted by me while on a visit last year. It has given great satisfaction to the people here, if I may be permitted to sing my own praises. They have even said I was inspired by the saint. Perhaps I was," he added with a curious smile. "I should like you to view it, Miss Leslie, before you leave Rivoli, for a reason that will at once become apparent when you see it."
 
"A reason? What reason? Tell me now," said Daphne, turning her eyes upon him with a look of wonder.
 
"Not now. The Madonna will speak for me."
 
"You are talking in riddles. I shall visit the cathedral this very day, and discover your meaning for myself."
 
[Pg 72]
 
"You do me too much honour. You will receive a surprise—a pleasant one, let me trust."
 
Daphne's curiosity was raised to the highest point and she cried:
 
"You hear, papa? We must visit the cathedral this very morning, and solve Mr. Vasari's enigma."
 
"Very well," replied her father, rising. "I think I have solved it already, and, as I begin to feel hungry qualms 'neath the fourth button of my waistcoat, suppose you run indoors and see what progress is being made with breakfast. Angelo, you will join us, of course?"
 
Of course he would!
 
Our breakfast-room was a small prettily furnished apartment, whose latticed windows commanded a fine view of the mountains.
 
The fresh morning air had imparted a keen edge to my appetite, and nothing but the sense of Angelo's rivalry prevented me from doing full justice to the substantial fare that old Dame Ursula, the housekeeper, had spread before us. The look of admiration in the artist's dark eyes, his tender, respectful homage, spoke of a feeling for Daphne far stronger than friendship. He completely ignored me, and, for my part, I did not address any remark to him during the course of the breakfast. Intuitively we felt that we were rivals, between whom interchange of ideas was impossible. When, in reply to some question of my uncle's, I held forth at great length on German theology, he listened without saying a word. When he grew eloquent over the Old Masters and their works, I treated his tinsel verbiage with freezing silence. He exerted all his arts to please Daphne, and the colour of her cheek and the sparkle of her eye showed that if such attentions did[Pg 73] not inspire the sweet sentiments he desired, they were, on the other hand, not at all distasteful to her.
 
On the seat of one of the latticed windows lay a brown paper parcel, partly opened, containing the files of the Standard to which my uncle had alluded. Angelo cast frequent glances in this direction. I supposed he was burning to read to Daphne the eulogium on his picture, but as she seemed to have forgotten it, his vanity was not gratified.
 
After breakfast was over Daphne repeated her wish to visit the cathedral without delay, and ran off to change her dress for the journey. My uncle withdrew for a similar purpose, leaving me to entertain the artist. The entertainment I offered him was certainly not marked by variety, for it consisted simply of an unbroken silence—a silence that did not seem to disconcert him in the least. He occupied himself with the files of the Standard, turning them over with deft fingers, as if selecting a certain one from among the number.
 
"Looking for the critique, I suppose, in order to read what a great man he is," I thought. "What conceited asses these geniuses always are!" And I mentally congratulated myself that I was not a genius, a fact that I doubt not the reader has discovered long ere this.
 
Daphne and my uncle now reappeared.
 
"We are bound for the cathedral, I presume," said Angelo, assuming his sombrero and cloak with a graceful air. "Will Miss Leslie mind if I smoke a cigar? No? Thank you. And as I see no matches here, Mr. Leslie will perhaps not object if I tear off a small piece of this newspaper"—he did not wait for leave, however, but suited the action to the word—"to light it with."
 
[Pg 74]
 
"No matches?" repeated Daphne. "Here is a box on the mantelshelf."
 
"So there is. Hem! Curious I didn't see it! I have been looking everywhere for a match." I had not seen him so occupied. "No matter. This will serve my purpose equally well—or better," and with a peculiar smile he ignited the twisted piece of paper at the fire.
 
There was in his lighting of that cigar a curious air of triumph that puzzled me very much, and set me wondering as to its cause.